Rooms to Die For (20 page)

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Morning, like so many in paradise, dawned golden with sunshine. I carried my coffee to the lanai and watched the palm trees sway to languorous life, their waving fronds a sensual sight that never failed to fascinate me. No question, Mother Nature’s house was in magnificent order, though mine had taken a decided turn for the worse.

Coffee finished, I tore myself from the view and poured the dregs down the kitchen sink. Then I dressed in an outfit Rossi always admired, a cheetah print skirt and black knit top. I slid my feet into black pointy-toed slides and walked into Deva Dunne Interiors with a smile on my face. I owed that much to Lee, and actually Rossi and I hadn’t broken up—our relationship at the moment was simply on hold. So while I sorted out my screwed-up emotions, I’d smile even if I had to fake it.

Lee helped. Bubbling with enthusiasm, she chatted happily about Paulo’s current portrait of two young brothers. “He’s painting them on Moorings Beach in the shade of the Australian pines. They’re wearing Hawaiian shirts and shorts, and guess what? The older boy’s shirt is just like one of Rossi’s, blue with rolling waves and a surfer riding the crest of a breaker.”

I tried not to sigh, and kept on smiling.

Two women came in to browse, and when Lee strolled over to greet them, I called the hospital to see how Austin was doing. Patient Information told me that except for immediate family, Mr. Austin McCahey was not allowed visitors. Poor Elaine—he wasn’t better then. Though I longed to help her, there was nothing I could do, and so far my “helping” had caused nothing but problems.

Lee had set a pile of catalogs on my desk earmarked with Christmas accessories for possible sale in the shop. Putting Rossi and the McCaheys and everything else but work out of mind, I leafed through the top catalog, impressed by Lee’s tasteful selections. The silver Mercury glass snowmen sparkled with joy. Ditto for the red Santas. These would all do, and I wrote down the order information.

She’d left a note in the second catalog.
What about these ceramic trees?
They’d be interesting on fireplace mantels.
True, but fireplaces were the exception rather than the rule in southwest Florida.

I put that suggestion aside and reached for another catalog when Lee said, “Deva, this gentleman would like a word with you.”

I marked my place on the page with a finger and looked up. Lee held out a business card.

Syd Cheyenne

The Violin Man

Tel:
239-555-2222

The same skinny bald man I remembered from the evening at Baywalk stood by the front door. Imogene’s fiancé.

I hurried over to him, hands extended. “Mr. Cheyenne, congratulations. Imogene told me the good news.”

Confusion flashed across his face, and in the next second he flushed rosy red. “I’m afraid you got the wrong guy.”

Me and my big mouth. “Oh, I’m sorry, I thought you were...I mean—”

“No need to apologize.” He glanced around the shop. “Great place you have here. Imogene talks about you a lot. You’re kind of a role model for her.”

“That’s quite a compliment, considering I don’t even sing.”

He gave me a sweet, slow smile. “She likes the way you talk. That kind of sings to her.”

Nice.

What brought Syd to Deva Dunne Interiors I didn’t know, but something told me it wasn’t an interior design project. Only one way to find out. “How may I help you, Mr. Cheyenne?”

“Syd, please.” He glanced over at several women who were circling the display tables. “Is there some place where we can talk privately?”

I nodded and motioned him toward my desk. Tucked away in its corner and partly obscured by a folding chinoiserie screen, it offered at least a modicum of privacy.

He took the Eames chair across from me.

“So what brings you here, Syd?” I asked after we were settled.

“Imogene’s marrying that stuffed shirt.”

“Harlan Conway?”

“Yeah, he’s the one. He zoomed over to her house the minute we got back from our tour. He was all over her, didn’t give her a chance to think straight.”

“You don’t approve?”

He shook his head. “I have no say. But he’s bad news for Imogene.”

“Why?” I asked, though I knew.

“He wants her to change, to be somebody she isn’t.” Syd’s brow furrowed. “I don’t get it. She’s perfect just the way she is.”

I could have sworn tears glazed his eyes, but I could have been wrong. He blinked and without a pause added, “Now she’s making changes to her house for him. You know those pillows you put around the place? She hid them in a closet. Same for the pink dishes and the bedspread. ‘Harlan doesn’t like pink’ she tells me. ‘So what, I say? You do. Don’t you count?’ And you know what damn near killed me?”

I shook my head.

“She said, ‘No, I don’t.’” Syd shifted on his seat as if looking for a more comfortable spot. I could have told him not to bother—the Eames chair was as comfortable as it gets—but I didn’t want to interrupt. “Now she’s all upset about a pink ottoman you ordered for her.”

“Yes?” I said, feeling an uh-oh coming on.

“She won’t give it house room. Said it would drive Harlan away.”

“I’m sorry, but the order can’t be cancelled. It’s a custom piece.”

“That’s why Imogene’s upset. She doesn’t want it now. So I’ll pay you and keep it on my boat until she’s ready for it. If she ever is.” He shrugged. “When the guys see it, I’ll be in for a lot of kidding, but what do I care?”

“I’m sorry about all this, Syd. I wish things were different too.”

“Not as much as I do.” Yes, that was tear glaze in his eyes. “So how much for the ottoman?” he asked.

“Wanting to buy it for her is a beautiful gesture,” I told him. So beautiful I wished I could simply give him the ottoman free of charge. But that wasn’t possible—not with the thousands I’d donated to the Showhouse kitchen. “Tell you what, I’ll sell you the ottoman at manufacturer’s cost. I don’t want to profit from this.”

“That’s real good of you.” He took a checkbook from his shirt pocket and, borrowing a pen from my desk, wrote out the amount in full. He was in love with Imogene, and she was throwing him away without a qualm. How foolish of her.

Syd left and I went back to the Christmas ordering, troubled but trying not to show it. The Yarmouthport bells on the shop door had been ringing off and on all morning. Each time I glanced up, hoping Rossi would be standing there, but no such luck. I hadn’t had a call from him either. No early morning wake-up. No invitation to lunch at noon. No nothing.

So whose fault was that? I squared my shoulders and walked around the shop all day with a pretend smile plastered on my face. One thing I knew, whether they did or not, Rossi and Syd had a lot in common. They were both fabulous men. So what the heck was the matter with Imogene and me, anyway?

Chapter Forty

For the next several days, Rossi kept a low profile. He didn’t stop by Surfside, nor did he call to ask me out for dinner, lunch, cocktails or coffee. He didn’t ask me for a single thing.

It was like living in a warped kind of ménage à trois—Deva Dunne Interiors, Lee and me. No sex, no fun, no intrigue. This emotional wasteland wasn’t what I’d bargained for when I stumbled in answering Rossi’s proposal. I loved the time we spent together. I loved it so much I didn’t want anything about it to change. But was clinging to something the surest way to lose it? In answer to my own question, I exhaled so loudly, Lee glanced over in alarm.

I smiled and said, “Just thinking.”

Anyway, with my personal life tanking, I had more time to devote to business. The careful attention Lee and I gave to our casual browsers resulted in higher shop sales, and in two new design clients, one who needed a bathroom redo and another who wanted furnishings for a family room addition. Nice, but not enough. I missed Rossi. So now I was the one with two options—cut him loose or call and ask to see him. After all, we hadn’t had a complete break. Had we? As the days dragged on, I desperately needed to know. So, screwing up my courage, I picked up the shop phone and called him, my pulse pounding in my throat.

To my relief, coward that I am, I got his voice mail, not the real deal.

“Rossi, it’s me. Just a reminder. The Showhouse opening is Thursday evening. Seven o’clock. I’d love for you to come. I’m going early to check out my kitchen redo, so if you can make it, I’ll plan to see you there, okay? Bye.”

I hung up wondering if he’d show up and how the situation at the Naples Design Mall was progressing. Or if it had at all. Perhaps Thursday night at the gala I’d hear something, for I expected quite a few shop owners would stop by Sprague Mansion to view the designs and see how their donations to the cause had been showcased. The opening would be a great meet-and-greet occasion for people in the industry, and despite all, I was looking forward to it.

Now as a woman’s thoughts usually did, mine turned to what to wear that night. I wanted something new and smashing, in a color that wouldn’t fight with the kitchen décor.

Off Shoots, the boutique next door, stayed open till nine. At five Lee left for the bank’s drop box with the day’s receipts, and I locked up and went dress shopping. When I walked in, the shop owners, Irma and Emma, the young, leggy twins with old-fashioned names and up-to-the-minute chic, greeted me like a long-lost sister.

After hugs and a few minutes of girl talk, I said, “I need a special dress for a special occasion. Something in green, I think.”

“A few holiday outfits came in already,” Irma said. “Let me check in back.”

She returned with three, one of which I loved on sight.

“Taffeta! I haven’t worn that since my senior prom.”

“This one’s not for teens,” Emma said, laughing. “It doesn’t show enough skin.”

It was a cocktail dress, with a high neck, sleeves that fit tight to the wrist, a bodice that fit tight to the waist, and a full skirt pouffing to a stop well above the knee. All in all, a sophisticated, sassy look without being revealing for what was, after all, a business event.

“What do you think?” Irma asked, dangling it in front of me like the proverbial carrot.

“Let’s give it a try.”

In the shop’s tiny dressing room, she helped me into the confection and handed me a pair of strappy gold stilettos to slide into. Stepping out of the cramped cubicle, I strolled over to the boutique’s three-way mirror.

“It was made for you,” Emma said, as I twisted and turned in front of the glass, trying not to look as pleased with the effect as I really was.

“Absolutely,” Irma said, beaming. “And it doesn’t need a single alteration.”

“I’ll take it, though I’m afraid to ask how much.”

“Always ten percent off for you, Deva.”

I was about to peek at the price tag when a woman hurrying past the Off Shoots window caught my eye.

“Be right back,” I said and, tags fluttering from a taffeta sleeve, I hurried outside.

“Elaine McCahey, is that you?”

She turned away from my shop door. “Oh, Deva, I thought you’d left for the day.” She paused. “That dress is sensational.”

“Thank you. My shop’s closed. I’m in Off Shoots. Come in with me. We can talk there. Come, come,” I urged as she hesitated.

She followed me inside, perching on a padded bench to wait while I stripped off the dress. Irma must have approached her, for their voices came through the louvered dressing room door.

“May I show you something from our fall line? I’m sure we carry your size.”

“No, thank you. My son is ill. I’m not interested in clothes,” Elaine replied in her soft, sweet voice.

I hurried into my skirt and top and came out with the dress on a hanger.

“Box or garment bag?” Emma asked.

“A bag would be perfect,” I said, and taking Elaine by the hand, I drew her over to a wall display of ice-cream-colored sweaters.

“How is he, Elaine?”

She shook her head. “Much the same. The doctors are stymied, really. They say it’s an emotional disturbance...well, I could have told them that.”

“Do they have any idea what caused it?”

“They suspect more than one cause. Sort of a firestorm of emotions.” She gave me a tired smile. “Anxiety is a complication of autism. So he could be overwhelmed by some recent experiences. I told them everything I know about his daily routine—his runs, his visits to the mall, and about his reaction to that picture of you he saw. They said something happened to trigger his reaction, but until he opens up, that’s all they can tell me.”

“Where is he now?”

“Still at Naples Community Hospital, but he’s being transferred to a rehab facility. We’re hoping drug therapy will relax him enough to bring him out of the rigid state he’s in.” She shrugged, her narrow shoulders looking far too burdened for their size. “Until then, I can’t take him home.”

“I’m so sorry, Elaine.” And I was. The woman had had a lifetime of heartache and now this. I hesitated to add to her burden, but felt I had to. “There is something else the doctors should know.”

Her eyes widened, and like her son, she stiffened, though only momentarily.

“When I first met Austin, he warned me to stay away from the third-floor level of the mall, that it was dangerous. And a few days later, he gave me a crushed boutonniere he said he found next to the stool.”

“Stool?”

“That the supposed suicide used to leap to his death. If his death really was a suicide.”

“You don’t think it was?”

“I never did think so.”

“Oh my.”

“Exactly. So let’s pray the doctors can release Austin from his demons. He needs to tell them what he saw.” I lowered my voice as two teenaged girls approached to look at the sweaters. “I’m convinced Austin knows who murdered José Vega.”

Chapter Forty-One

At Surfside, I hung the garment bag in my bedroom closet, climbed into my after-hours outfit—cutoffs and a BU tee—and without even waiting to pour a glass of pre-dinner wine, I went out to the secretarial and lit the small study lamp.

Yes, it was still there, the manila envelope Rossi gave me two weeks ago. The one whose photographs I’d slowly shown to Austin as he, that single time, sat across from me in the Library.

How carefully he’d studied the faces, taking his time, taking my request seriously. He’d looked at each picture in turn, searching first for the person who had assaulted me and then for someone he might have seen the night José was killed. Not one caused so much as an eye flicker, or a bated breath, or a tremor in his fingers. Yet when he saw the picture of Harlan and me together, he’d reacted violently. Why?

Either one of two reasons—jealousy at seeing me with another man, or Harlan’s image frightened him. Neither reason seemed logical. The first was too farfetched and the second not impossible but improbable. No one had seen Harlan anywhere near the mall the afternoon I was mugged, nor had anyone mentioned his being there during the day or the night José died. The possibility that he had hidden somewhere in the building until the wee hours with the express purpose of killing an old man just didn’t make sense to me. Though if Rossi had taught me one thing about investigation, it was to never dismiss the improbable as impossible.

I sighed, and with nothing to go on except curiosity, I slid the photographs from the envelope and spread them out on the desk. Maybe Austin hadn’t reacted to any of them for the simple reason that a picture of the culprit wasn’t included.

From one of the drawers, I removed a yellow legal pad and made a list of every person in every photograph. Then I studied the list carefully. Possibly a random purse snatcher had assaulted me in the parking lot, but an after-hours murderer might well be someone with connections to the mall and a reason to be there late at night.

Who among the mall regulars I knew was missing from the list? The name didn’t come to me at once. It took a while, as I searched my memory for possibilities and then, in one of those awful realizations, the truth struck a blow so strong I recoiled in my seat, the lamplight shimmering and swaying in front of my eyes.

My first instinct was to call Rossi and tell him about the omission I’d discovered. But with a hand on the desk phone, ready to punch in his number, I slowly cradled the receiver instead. Rossi had told me repeatedly to stay out of his cases. To do my own job and let him do his. This time, not without misgivings, I’d do as he had so often asked. For as upsetting as my realization might be, it offered no proof of any wrongdoing, and I had no desire to implicate anyone in a crime, especially someone I trusted.

However, convincing myself not to act required two glasses of pinot and a bad night’s sleep. In a dream—or was it a nightmare?—Rossi said I had no faith in the police.

“But I do,” I kept telling him, “I do.” And I kept telling myself that I meant it.