Rooms to Die For (24 page)

No answer.

“Naples is a tourist town. The taxpayers don’t like having their shiny image scuffed up with drug busts. They hate murder even more. You want a break? Now’s the time to get one.”

“I’ve got nothing more to say to you.”

Rossi stepped closer to Ted’s chair. “You want to stop talking, you’re within your rights. But I got more to say.” He grabbed a side chair, set it in front of Ted and straddled it. “The night José Vega took a leap off the mall balcony, the security cameras were down. Isn’t that right?”

A reluctant nod.

“Happened a couple of times in the previous month too. Correct?”

“I don’t remember. I don’t know anything about mall security.”

“No?”

“No.”

“Then why were your fingerprints all over the motherboard? The one that controls the video security system?”

“How do I know? Maybe I looked at it once. Out of curiosity.”

“Yeah, I can understand that. Electricity interests you. Nothing wrong with that. I heard you went to MIT. Majored in electrical engineering. Nearly finished too.” Rossi shook his head. “A shame you didn’t.”

“You’re telling me! I’m a damned sales clerk. An installer. I should be a professional, an eng—” As if realizing he had gone too far, Ted stopped. “I told you I want a lawyer.”

“We’ll see that you get one. Call Batano in here,” Rossi said to Hughes. “Then take Mr. Wolff to the station and book him. Murder one. After that, let him make his call.”

While Hughes hit her cell, I sat curled up in the easy chair, hardly daring to breathe. Never before had I seen Rossi interrogate anyone with so much veiled anger.

Only moments later, Batano, a no-nonsense frown on his face, strode into the Florida room. Hughes stepped forward and put a hand on Ted’s arm. “Let’s go.”

“Wait,” he said. “Wait.” Though the air wafting in from the shore carried a chill, beads of sweat stood out on his forehead. “I never laid a hand on Vega. It was Hugo. He killed him.”

“Why?”

“You have to ask?”

“Yeah, I do,” Rossi replied, deadpan.

“The drugs. What else? Hugo talked Vega into receiving shipments from Colombia. You know, hidden in the antiques? The Galleria was a money pit, and Vega was desperate. Then José got cold feet, wanted to go to the police, tell what he knew.” Ted tried to shrug his shoulders. Hard to do with your hands cuffed behind your back. “We couldn’t talk him out of it. So Hugo made a decision. He’d scare the old man. Put the fear of God into him. Make him keep his mouth shut.”

I didn’t dare interrupt what Ted was spewing, though I was dying to. And then he answered my unasked question.

“Hugo kept the wife out of it. She wouldn’t have gone for what he had in mind. He picked a night when she was home, when he and José were alone in the Galleria. After hours they shared a few drinks in the office. The old man fell asleep. All I did was dismantle the monitors to make the system look faulty. That’s all, I swear.”

Switching to an easy conversational tone, Rossi said, “Here’s the way I see it happening. When you took down the board, you made it possible for Hugo to kill Vega without any witnesses to the act. Then Hugo got greedy and hid the stuff in the altar. You forced him to tell you where it was and killed him.” His mouth curled up in what might have passed for a smile. “But Beatriz had a little surprise waiting for you. She loaned the altar to the Showhouse. That’s when you lost it and threatened to kill her if she didn’t get the goods back.”

“Lies, all lies.”

“Like I said, everyone but you.”

“I never put a finger on Vega. Never touched Navarre, either.”

“That’s for a jury to decide,” Rossi said. “And now one final question, Mr. Wolff.”

“Yeah.”

Rossi stood, and reaching down to the coffee table, he picked up the recorder and hit the off button with a flourish. “When you’re out to kill a man, who the hell ever said you had to touch him?”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Back at Surfside, with the green taffeta in the trash and the duvet up to my chin, I looked across at Rossi. In the boxers I gave him last Valentine’s Day, the ones printed all over with little red hearts, he was doing a fine job of decorating my bedroom. It wasn’t the hearts so much, it was his hard, rugged legs. What they lacked in length, they more than made up in pow appeal.

With a sigh of relief, I leaned back against the pillows. “So, Rossi, we did it again. We found the killers.”

Busy draping his best pair of chinos over my sage-green boudoir chair, he said, “It’s not over yet. Not completely. There are still loose ends to tie up. We don’t know the full extent of Wolff’s involvement in the drug smuggling. Or in the two deaths. Not yet. We haven’t finished with this Marcel character either. No telling where he might lead us once he learns Wolff is under arrest.” He tossed his shirt and tie over the pants and strode to the edge of the bed. “Furthermore, what’s this ‘we’ stuff?”

I tucked the duvet under my arms and sat up straighter. “You know I helped solve the case. If I hadn’t asked for the loan of the altar, I wouldn’t have found all those bags full of drugs. And if I hadn’t hidden them, Hugo might not have tipped his hand. Besides, you have to admit that right from the beginning, the minute I saw the blue stool, I knew José hadn’t committed suicide. Everything jelled after that.” I was playing for comic relief, either that or weep for my lost friends and the evil they knew, but Rossi was on to me, as always, and refused to rise to the bait.

A smug smile lifted his lips. “I stand corrected—if somewhat under-clothed at the moment—you’ve been an enormous help to me and to the entire Naples PD.”

I ignored his superior tone and played right along. “You’re correct, though, Rossi. There are loose ends. That hit on my head—what about that?”

“At this point,” he said, the banter leaving his tone, “I think we can safely assume it was a random mugging, and that Austin McCahey scared away the assailant.”

“Yes, Austin’s my friend, but he’s also another loose end. We haven’t settled his role in all of this.”

“His role was a minor one. It doesn’t factor in.”

“I’m not so sure. When I showed him your photographs of everyone with access to the mall’s third floor, that included a picture of Hugo. If Austin saw José’s murder take place, why didn’t he recognize Hugo from the photograph?”

“Has it occurred to you that he only saw the killer’s back?”

No, it hadn’t occurred to me, but I’d be darned if I’d admit it. “Strange, though, that he only reacted to the picture of Harlan and me.”

“Not so strange. Austin told you all he remembered about José’s killer was his nice shirt. In that picture with you, Harlan was wearing a white dress shirt. My guess is that the night of the killing, Hugo was also. And when Austin saw you standing with someone he thought was the killer, the idea of your being in danger sent him into a frenzy. So accept Mrs. McCahey’s suggestion. Austin’s a man, after all. Hidden in those emotional tangles are deep feelings, and you have inspired a good deal of them.”

I shook my head. “Flattering but unrealistic. After all that’s happened to him recently, I think he was simply overwhelmed by a flood of differing emotions.”

“That too. But you’re being very modest. An endearing trait, by the way.”

“That’s nice of you, Rossi, very nice. But there’s something else. The carnation Austin gave me. The one I showed you. All shriveled and everything. I think he found it at the scene of the crime. What about that?”

Rossi raised the edge of the duvet and slid in beside me. “I don’t think it has any special significance. From time to time, Mrs. Vega wore a flower pinned to her dress, and she was on that third floor every day. It could have been hers.”

“No, it wasn’t hers. It’s the same principle as the blue stool. José would never have given it house room. And Beatriz would never have worn a pink carnation. A carnation isn’t in the same league taste-wise as a hybrid rosebud or a miniature orchid.”

Rossi’s brow furrowed. “They’re all flowers, right?”

“Right. And wrong. Far more likely it dropped from Oliver Kent’s lapel.”

“That’s possible. It’s also possible Hugo placed it there deliberately. In case the hanging wasn’t ruled a suicide, he may have hoped to implicate Kent.”

“Either way, as you said, it no longer matters, though I’m glad Oliver turned out to be such a nice guy. And I’m glad Beatriz was mistaken about one thing—Raúl Lopez. Something else has been bothering me too. Those pictures you gave me to show Austin didn’t include one of Beatriz. Why not? She was a regular on that third floor. Does that mean she wasn’t a suspect?”

“Right. Not at first. I knew she hadn’t mugged you. She was in her shop when you were assaulted. And I knew she hadn’t killed her husband.” A little smile flirted with Rossi’s lips. “Remember Bob Butterworth?”

“The polygraph expert who quizzed me when my client’s Monet was stolen?”

“He’s the one. She passed his lie detector test with flying colors.”

“Why didn’t you tell me? You knew I was worried about her.”

“As a matter of fact, I was about to tell you, but then Hugo was killed and she was back under my radar screen. So I thought the less said the better. Her confession to you tonight changed everything.” He began caressing my bare shoulder, his touch light as a feather. “Your testimony’s going to be critical in convicting Wolff. I hope you understand that.”

Though I was determined not to tear up at the thought of Beatriz, I couldn’t help it, and hoping Rossi didn’t notice, I swiped a hand across my eyes. His hand moved slowly down my arm. “Of course I understand. I can’t wait to tell a jury what Beatriz told me. First José and then Hugo and then Ted—they all drew her into a death trap. She was the one who was truly blackmailed, not Raúl Lopez.”

I caught my breath. Rossi had found my thigh and was stroking it softly. He leaned in, changing the subject with one of those slow, drugging kisses I’d become addicted to.

I reached up to embrace him, and the duvet slipped to my waist.

“Oh, oh, a little duvet malfunction,” I said, covering up again.

Rossi smiled. “According to Freud, there’s no such thing. Accidents don’t just happen.” He cupped me under the duvet. “Everything has a rational explanation.”

I grasped his wrist, staying his exploring fingers. “According to Adler, curiosity is stronger than sex.”

Frowning, he stripped off the hearts and said, “I don’t remember reading that.”

As always seemed to happen, the phone rang at the worst possible time. Rossi groaned. “Better get it. It might be for me. I turned off my cell.”

“If I answer it, what’s the point in having your cell off?”

“Just get the phone, Deva,” he said, flopping back against the pillows.

I picked up.

“You’re not going to believe this,” a woman shrieked through the line.

“Imogene, is that you?”

“Yes, yes and yes! I have fabulous news for you.”

“I’m all ears.”

“I’m getting married! Isn’t that wonderful? And this time, it’s for real.”

“Is the lucky man a violinist?”

“He is! I finally realized I’ve loved Syd all along. Can you believe that? All this time.”

“Yes, I can. Sometimes we just don’t recognize what’s right in front of our eyes. Anyway, congratulations! I’m thrilled for you both.”

“And just so you’ll know. Guess what I’m sitting on even as we speak?”

“I’ll take a wild guess. A pink leather ottoman?”

“Exactly. Syd says it goes perfectly with the cypress wall. Isn’t that great?”

“Music to my ears, Imogene. I’d love to hear every detail, so why don’t you stop by the shop tomorrow, and we’ll have a longer chat? Right now I really should hang up.” I let the duvet slip again. “There’s a man here, and I’m dying to ask him a very important question.”

* * * * *

Help interior designer Deva Dunne solve more edge-of-your-seat mysteries in Jean Harrington’s Murders by Design series, available now!

Designed for Death

Interior designer Deva Dunne’s latest project comes to a screeching halt when blood on the carpet leads her to the body of her client, an exotic dancer with a mysterious past. But the murdered woman is not the only resident of the posh beachfront condominium with secrets, and investigating officer Lieutenant Victor Rossi considers them all suspects.

The Monet Murders

Interior decorator Deva Dunne never dreamed she’d see a Monet hanging on someone’s dining room wall. Then she snags a client with
two
Monet seascapes. Her thrill lasts until she finds one of the paintings missing, cut from its frame, and the cook shot dead...

Killer Kitchens

Deva’s boyfriend, police lieutenant Victor Rossi, has misgivings about her promising job—especially when he accompanies her to one of Francesco’s dinner parties. After Francesco returns a dish to the kitchen untasted, the chauffeur promptly scarfs it down and drops dead from cyanide poisoning.

Connect with us for info on our new releases,
access to exclusive offers and much more!

Visit
CarinaPress.com

We like you—why not like us on Facebook:
Facebook.com/CarinaPress

Follow us on Twitter:
Twitter.com/CarinaPress