Rooms to Die For (18 page)

Chapter Thirty-Four

Anytime I went on a hunt for vintage accessories, Treasure Island, Naples’s biggest and oldest collectibles—antiques store, never let me down. It didn’t the next day, either, when I searched for cranberry glass, copper pots and a silver tea service. Within an hour, I found everything I needed, including a set of French apothecary jars with wonderful gold lettering and a ruffled fifties apron to drape over a counter. Those little touches would make the Showhouse kitchen look like a functioning, lived-in room.

The hunt finished, I drove to Deva Dunne Interiors, and together Lee and I polished the silver and copper until they gleamed. I’d already loaded the creamwear collection into the trunk, so, good to go, I headed for Sprague Mansion.

Arranging the final finishes was always the fun part of designing. As I’d envisioned, the cranberry goblets fit the shelves above the sink to perfection, and in the open shelves on either side, the soft luster of the creamwear offered a quiet contrast to the vivid glass. To my relief, the larger details that I’d been concerned might not be installed in time—the copper-toned pendant light and the shutter panels for the fridge—were in place as well.

The La Cornue hardly needed embellishment. Still, the most imposing of the copper pans, a big lidded kettle, added even more eye-catching bling to the beast. On the island, the silver service looked like a tea party waiting to happen. I draped the apron next to the silver, letting its long organdy ties float over the side as if dropped there by accident. Though originally created to dispense sacred bread and wine, the island, with its dark carved wood, looked as if it had been built just for this room. I hoped the exposure would help Beatriz find a buyer for it. Preferably a local church that would return it to a hallowed setting.

Only a few minutes were needed to arrange the rest of the objects and stash the empty bags and boxes in the cupboard under the sink. All that was missing was a delectable aroma. A roast, or a freshly baked pie would be perfect, but potpourri would have to do. Maybe in cinnamon and cloves, those warm, welcoming holiday aromas everyone loved.

As a final touch, I arranged three small tripods in a prominent place on the countertop and leaned ads for Kustom Kitchens, Breeze City and the Galleria against them. Then I fanned out their business cards in front of the ads. And on the theory that a little discreet advertising wasn’t out of line for Deva Dunne Interiors, I filled a small green glass dish with my own business cards and placed it on the island.

I was searching in the tote for my camera when footfalls clattered along the central hallway. Not for the first time I wished someone would put a carpet runner out there.

Camera in hand, I looked at the doorway, wanting to catch the initial expression on my visitor’s face. That would reveal a lot. After all, first impressions are truth tellers.

He stepped into the open doorway. “My, my,” was all he said. But that was enough.

Harlan Conway.
He likes it.
Before he could move another step, I snapped his picture. “For my design portfolio,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind.”

“Not at all, Deva,” he replied, strolling in and looking around, his trained eye not missing a single detail, yet not giving anything away. I waited for him to say more, wondering if he would admit he liked the concept even if the kitchen was a huge departure from his cutting-edge, postmodern specialty.

He wandered the room, spending time surveying the La Cornue—which it deserved—and finally said, “This doesn’t look a bit like what you did in Imogene’s place.” He allowed himself a snide smile. “So you sing more than one song?”

“Absolutely. And so do you. I’m sure you can do more than create boxes on stilts.”

Hey, I could fling cracks around too. His being short-listed for the Caldwell Prize didn’t have me intimidated for an instant. Neither did his perfect tan and flawless platinum hair. Not to mention his ivory linen slacks and moody blue shirt. Or the fact that he was drop-dead gorgeous.

My comment didn’t bother him though—which I also found mildly insulting. He just shrugged and said, “Not so you’d notice.”

Whatever that meant.

“How about another picture?” I asked.

“Sure.”

“In front of the stove would be good,” I said. “And another one next to the island.”

Like Annie Leibovitz on a shoot, I clicked away, but Harlan didn’t seem to mind. In fact I think he enjoyed the attention, standing where I directed, striking poses. The photographs would be great for my design portfolio, and I mustered some genuine gratitude for his cooperation.

Finally, pictures taken, I asked, “What brings you here today?”

“Lunch with Marian Stilwell. She’s thinking of adding a wing to her home. For the grandkids. While I was here, I thought I’d catch what the local talent had to offer.”

There went the spurt of gratitude, right down the drain. “Well, don’t pick up a disease from us or anything,” I said, as nasty as I could ever remember being. No, that wasn’t true—in kindergarten I had once been mean to a little girl named Veronica. She had a mother, and I had just lost mine, so I lashed out. I’ve always been ashamed of my behavior that day, but not this time. Harlan Conway was impossible, but what really pissed me off was that I knew he’d look like a
GQ
centerfold in those photographs.

Chapter Thirty-Five

At noon the next day, poised to leave for the mall, I said to Lee, “If you have time, you might look for Christmas items in some of those catalogs. We should start the holiday ordering this week.”

I grabbed the tote and the manila envelope of Harlan’s pictures. I was pretty sure Claudia and Oliver would find them of interest. In fact, as I’d suspected, Harlan looked so drop-dead handsome in most of the shots, he’d be a great asset to any glossy publication.

One hand on the door handle, I said, “If anyone calls looking for me, say I’m at a client meeting.”

“By anyone, do y’all mean the lieutenant?”

“Yes.”

“All right, but he’ll want to know where your meeting is. He worries about you.”

“He’ll worry more if he knows I’m at the mall, so just say a meeting. It isn’t exactly a lie. I do have a meeting.”

“I won’t let on, but it won’t be easy.”

On some level, I knew Lee didn’t approve of my deceiving Rossi, but I had to. I’d promised Oliver Kent I’d be there, and I hadn’t exactly promised Rossi I wouldn’t. Besides, on an average day, hundreds of people walked in and out of the place. Why not me?

* * *

A half hour early and telling myself I had a bona fide justification for the visit, I strolled over to the Library. I’d squeeze in a quick lunch before meeting with Claudia and Oliver. As I waited for Dan to bring me a BLT and a bottle of water, I slid the Showhouse photos of Harlan out of the envelope. My favorite was a shot of him in front of the island, smiling into the camera, his perfect teeth on full display. The one I took of him and Marian Stilwell before they left for lunch was good too. For the sake of Showhouse PR, it should probably be included in Claudia’s magazine. I took a second look at the one Marian took of Harlan and me standing companionably side by side, one of his arms draped as casually over my shoulder as the sleeve of a twinset. Marian must have said “Cheese!” for I was smiling.

Dan set my lunch down on the table. I laid the picture on top of the others and picked up a dainty sandwich wedge. For some reason, Dan had cut the BLT into triangles. He needn’t have bothered being so fancy. I was hungry and bit into it with gusto.

“Pretty lady.”

Mid-bite, I looked up and swallowed fast. “Austin! How are you?”

He didn’t answer, but stood by my table clutching an unopened bottle. “We have the same water,” he said, pointing to mine and holding his out in one hand so I could read the label.

“Yup. Exactly the same.”

“That’s nice,” he said.

“Very nice. How have you been?” Maybe this time he’d answer.

But his attention was riveted on the photograph of Harlan and me. He stared at it, mesmerized, then began shaking his head. Back and forth, back and forth, left to right, faster and faster.

“No. No. No,” he said, his voice rising with each repetition. People nearby looked over, their food forgotten.

“What’s the matter?” I asked him. “This time you have to answer me, Austin.”

“No. No. No!” He was shouting now.

Grabbing her purse, the woman at the next table rushed from the café. Dan poked his head out of the kitchen opening. “What’s going on out here?”

Dan didn’t get an answer either. Without another word, Austin fled the Library, loping toward the mall entrance as if the demons of hell were chasing him.

* * *

Thirty minutes later, seated on a faux leather chair in Oliver’s office, I wrenched my attention back to what he and Claudia were saying. What about a glossy magazine in four weeks, with a new issue to follow six months later? And what did I think about a monthly speaker series? One of the empty shops would make a charming lecture hall. If they started a series, they’d love me to give the first lecture.

Flattered by their confidence, I quickly agreed.

“What would you speak about?” Claudia asked. “So we can have some posters and flyers printed.”

I shrugged, then said off the top of my head, “What the colors in your rooms reveal about you. How does that sound?”

“Excellent!” Oliver declared. “Involve the audience emotionally. That’s always a good way to go.”

“I’m also planning to write a weekly column for the
Naples Daily News
,” Claudia said. “It’ll feature a different shop and a different designer each week. You’ll be the first person I’ll interview.”

Their ideas were all good, creative and fun, a terrific way to bring the Naples Design Mall to the public’s attention. But as interesting as all this was, my mind was elsewhere, and I could hardly wait for our meeting to end.

I was about to make an excuse and murmur that I had another appointment when Oliver cleared his throat. “Since you’ve been involved in everything that’s happened around here lately, Deva, we thought you should be front and center in our publicity campaign. That’s why we asked you to join us today. We have to do something to counteract the effect these...ah...incidents have—”

“Not incidents, Oliver, crimes.”

He had the good grace to flush. “Exactly. As I was saying, you’ve been involved—victimized, really—so we want you to be part of the solution.”

Solution? Any solution would involve an arrest and a trial in a court of law. Damage control was what Oliver really meant. And he had chosen me to be poster girl for his squeaky clean mall. The crime-free shopping mecca for all your design needs. So many people depended on the mall that I would hate to see it fail, but let’s be honest here—no way could two murders, a mugging and an armed assault be reduced to
incidents.

I stood. “It’s lovely to be included in all this, and I hope you’ll go ahead with your plans, but I’m afraid I won’t be back here until the culprit—or culprits—are found. Lieutenant Rossi’s orders.”

Feeling a little used, I marched square-shouldered from Oliver’s office. I couldn’t blame him for wanting some damage control, and the PR plans they’d run past me sounded wonderful, but unless the murders—and the assaults—were solved, no amount of happy publicity would save the Naples Design Mall. Despite the jaunty red carnation in his buttonhole, Oliver was running scared, and Rossi—well, he was running an investigation that so far hadn’t nailed anyone.

He needed some help, whether he knew it or not. I hurried out of the mall without stopping to chat with anyone, revved up the Audi and drove to 1900 Seventy-Fifth Terrace, the home of Austin and Elaine McCahey.

Chapter Thirty-Six

A modest tile-roofed bungalow, the house sat on a swath of neatly trimmed lawn. Orange bougainvillea blooming near the front door gave the property a shot of cheerful color.

So far, so good.

I pressed the bell. In moments, the door swung wide. At the sight of me, Elaine McCahey’s mouth fell open. “Mrs. Dunne, what a pleasant surprise! Come in. Come in.”

“Deva, please,” I said, stepping from the foyer, with its terra-cotta walls, into a vibrant-hued interior. Obviously Elaine wasn’t afraid of color. The living room walls pulsed with an intense lime green, and beyond, the open kitchen glowed sunflower yellow.

Though strong, the tones harmonized, each one melding pleasantly into the next. In bare feet, jeans and a loose white T-shirt, Elaine seemed far more relaxed than the tense, worried woman who had visited my shop. From that I guessed all was well with her son. I sure hoped so, as I sat on her poppy-colored couch with a manila envelope containing Harlan’s picture on my lap.

I glanced around. Elaine took pride in her home, and in her cooking, if the luscious aroma coming from her stove was any indication.

“You’re having chili tonight? Smells delicious.”

“It’s Austin’s favorite. You’re welcome to join us.”

“Thank you, but I can’t,” I said, and to get past the awkward moment, added, “Your home is lovely. You’ve handled the Southwestern theme very well.”

And she had with handwoven baskets and sturdy wooden candlesticks for accessories. In a niche on the wall, I spied an antique
santos
that looked as if it had come from a shop like the Spanish Galleria.

The only odd note in the room was the second club chair. A twin to the one Elaine occupied, it had been turned so that whoever sat in it would be facing the lime green wall.

She saw me eyeing it and said, “That’s Austin’s chair. Sometimes...” she paused, “...most times, he prefers sitting that way. That’s who he is.” She raised her hands then dropped them to her lap. “You have to pick your battles, and I stopped fighting this one years ago. It makes life easier.”

“Is he at home?” I asked.

“No, I’m sorry if you came to see him, but he won’t be back for another hour. One thing about Austin, you can set a watch by his comings and goings.”

“Actually I came to see you.”

She shifted her position, crossing one leg over the other, a flicker of tension creasing her forehead. “Really? Why, may I ask?”

“Because of this.” I slid the photograph of Harlan and me out of the envelope and handed it to her.

She glanced at it for a long moment before looking up. “This doesn’t do you justice, but other than that, I don’t understand.”

“Earlier today, at the café in the design mall, Austin saw this picture. The minute he did, he lost control.”

“Oh dear.” Alarm flooded Elaine’s face. “I hope he didn’t—”

“No, he didn’t do anything disruptive, just expressed some kind of extreme emotion. Almost like terror. But I can’t read him the way you do, so I was hoping you could shed some light on his reaction. It’s not an idle question, Elaine. Two people have been murdered in that mall recently, and I’ve been assaulted twice.”

Elaine paled to the color of her T-shirt. “Are you implying that Austin—”

“No, nothing like that. Please believe me. But I don’t know why he reacted so strongly to the photograph. The reason might be something the police should be informed of. And you’re the only one who can get him to talk.”

She studied the picture again, more intently this time.

“I can leave this photograph with you, if you like,” I said.

She nodded. “Very well. I’ll try, but he doesn’t always talk to me either.” As she stared at the picture, a little smile flirted with her lips. “You want my honest opinion?”

“Of course. That’s why I’m here.”

She tapped the photograph with a thumbnail. “I think when Austin saw the man’s arm around your shoulder, well, I think he resented it.” Her smile widened. “His reaction was nothing more than plain, old-fashioned jealousy.”

I looked across the cheerful room and into her smiling face. Was her interpretation correct, or was she terribly wrong? I simply didn’t know.