Rooms to Die For (3 page)

Chapter Five

“Lee St. James! You’re back!”

“Deva!”

We ran toward each other, hugging and kissing like long-lost sisters. The tears I’d been holding in since seeing José on the end of a rope leaked out, and I sank onto the zebra settee, wiping my eyes with a tissue. Lee settled on the gold Chiavari chair behind the bureau plat, her old station. She looked so right there, I had to smile despite everything.

“It’s as if you dropped out of the sky,” I said. Uh-oh, Freudian slip. I tossed her the tissue packet so she could mop up her own tears.

“The last thing I wanted was to scare you like that,” she said, swiping at her eyelids. “I just planned to pop in and say, ‘Surprise!’ I should have called before we left France, but the last few hours packing and all were such a rush...then when I came along the alley and saw the shop was closed, I thought why not open up like I used to do?” She hesitated. “Like I hope I can again.”

My eyes must have shone like beacons. “You’re here to stay?”

She nodded. “In our old apartment. Paulo has enough portrait commissions to keep him busy for the next two years. He’ll be traveling a bit to meet with his subjects, but I’ll be here. I’m planning to finish up my last two semesters at Florida Gulf Coast University at night and work here days. How does that sound?”

“Wonderful. It’ll be like old times.”

I’d missed Lee’s help in the shop, and I’d missed her friendship. What a thrill to have her back in Naples. In between customer drop-ins, we spent the afternoon playing verbal catch-up. Obviously fulfilled in her marriage, she radiated happiness. Leggy with long blond hair and true blue eyes, she must have been a sensation in Paris, but she was so shy and self-effacing, she probably hadn’t noticed heads turning her way. She never did, not even here in Naples.

Something—her stunning looks, perhaps—caused me to ask, “While you were in France, did Paulo have you model for a portrait?”

She blushed and nodded. “Yes, but I won’t let Paulo show that one to anybody. If my momma were alive she’d be so embarrassed.”

A nude. I laughed. “I’m sure it’s a stunner.”

“Well, y’all won’t ever know for sure,” she replied, her chin firming with determination. It was great having her back. Not only was she beautiful, she was a steel magnolia. The shop would be in good hands once again.

* * *

That evening I sat in my condo living room sipping a glass of merlot and waiting for Rossi. He hadn’t exactly moved in, but the guest room closet held a collection of Hawaiian shirts. And the guest bathroom, a collection of shaving supplies. On the other hand, the guest bed hadn’t been slept in once.

No telling when he’d arrive. As I’d learned some time ago, a detective’s hours were erratic. So were his phone calls. If caught up in a case, he’d call when he could, otherwise not at all, a fact of life I wasn’t happy about but tolerated. Either that or stop seeing Rossi, an option that would make both of us miserable. Why do that when we were happier together than apart? True, life with my late husband had been radically different. A history professor at BU, Jack’s schedule had been predictable, our daily lives calm. Jack had always been home on time...until that final day. But I pushed the memory aside, as I knew he would want me to do, and sipped my wine.

The merlot worked its magic, and I gradually relaxed after a roller coaster of a day. The room in the lamplight was...well...cozy. At least Rossi thought so, and that pleased me. Personally I liked my original peach-and-taupe color scheme better, but that was before I sold Jack’s Irish antiques. Though I’d loved Jack to distraction, a few months ago I realized the time had come to break with the past. Each graceful Irish piece had been a constant reminder of what had been and was no more. No wonder Rossi liked the new look better.

I’d painted the walls a creamy white, and the woodwork bright white. Pillows and an area rug in aqua and jade provided bursts of color. As a focal point, I’d bought a consignment store secretarial desk, matched its finish to the walls, then distressed it with burnt umber. And for a visual surprise, painted the inside aqua. Murano glass vases and bowls in jade filled the shelves, and a little battery-operated lamp on the drop-down shelf provided a spot of light. Although the desk had no heirloom potential, it made a bold statement. And the money from Jack’s antiques made a nice nest egg for a single woman struggling to establish a business.

A key turned in the lock. Rossi.

“Honey, I’m home.” He held out his arms, and I ran into them. He kissed me thoroughly but not as breathlessly as he had that morning. I moved back a little in his embrace. Fatigue rimmed his eyes. His aftershave had disappeared.

“A glass of wine?”

He nodded. “It’s been a long day.” He slumped into a club chair. “I’ll let you wait on me. How’s that for romance?”

I kissed him and said, “No problem.” In the kitchen I poured a glass of wine for him and another for myself.

“Cheers,” I said, handing him his drink. “For dinner I have two of your favorites.”

“Great.” His heavy eyes took on a shine. “Lasagne and fennel sausage?”

“Tofu and bean curd.”

He half choked on a swallow of wine. “Not funny, Deva.”

“Sorry, Rossi. I thought you needed cheering. Actually I have some Italian wedding soup, a shrimp salad, and a loaf of that crunchy sourdough bread you like so much”

“That’ll be fine.” Rossi took a deep swallow of the merlot. “The one who needs the cheering is Mrs. Vega. While I was questioning her, she became so distraught she had to be sedated.”

I nodded, my understanding complete. A few years ago when Jack died on that icy highway, I’d walked the same path. “Poor Beatriz. Did she say why she thinks José was murdered?”

He shook his head. “We don’t know what really happened. She was in no condition to talk about anything.”

“Not even to tell who she thinks did it?”

“No.” Rossi shrugged. “That wouldn’t matter so much if the security cameras had been working.”

“They weren’t?”

“Apparently not. The mall’s had problems with them off and on for the past month. Unfortunately, last night they were out. The retired cop who watches the monitors has no idea why.”

No wonder Rossi looked so done in. This wasn’t going to be an open-and-shut case after all.

Chapter Six

The next afternoon, while Lee kept the shop open, I drove back to the Naples Design Mall to select Imogene’s fans. And not incidentally to drop in at the Spanish Galleria, though from what Rossi had related, I doubted Beatriz would be there.

Aided by Ted Wolff, the sales clerk in Breeze City Fans and Lights, I chose five unadorned fans and arranged for delivery and installation. I also took snapshots of several plain white lighting fixtures for Imogene’s kitchen and dining area. With no crystals, no beads, no colors, they were a big departure from the swagged horrors she had hanging up now, so I’d show her the photos before purchasing anything. A dangerous decision in a way.

People hired me so they could avoid the agony of deciding. But Imogene was such a loose cannon taste-wise, ditching her ornate fixtures for simple ones might be a wrench for her. On the other hand, I mused as I rode the glass elevator to the mall’s third floor, she could be receptive to change. She trusted me yesterday and might again, depending on how her date with Harlan Conway had gone.

But all such frivolous thoughts disappeared when I stepped off the elevator onto the third floor balcony and peered over the railing to the marble-floored atrium fifty feet below. As clusters of shoppers strolled from shop to shop, Sandra held court at her visitors’ desk, and a designer I recognized sat on one of the white leather couches deep in conversation with a client. Nowhere did I see crime tape, an officer in uniform, or a body dangling from a rope. A normal day at the Naples Design Mall, though a mere thirty-six hours earlier a murderer had stalked its halls.

To my amazement, the door of the Galleria stood open, a needlepoint Enter sign suspended from the handle by moiré ribbons. Perfect.

Not knowing what to expect, I entered the quiet shop with my heart beating a little faster than usual. The Galleria displayed its wares—seventeenth—and eighteenth-century Castilian and Spanish Colonial furnishings—with a flair for showmanship. Every piece stood on a separate raised dais, making each parcel-gilt armchair, each marquetry commode, each engraved chest look as though it were a museum treasure. Best of all, in the center of the shop stood the star of the collection, a carved walnut altar from an Ursuline convent in Bogotá.

Through the opening to the back office, I saw a familiar head of silver hair bent over a ledger on the desk. I knocked on the open door frame, and Beatriz looked up, her face ravaged as never before. Her eyes filled when she saw me, and her chin trembled.

“Ah. Deva. Come in.”

I approached the desk slowly. “Beatriz, dear, how are you today?”

She shook her head. “Never have I been worse. And never will I be better. Not now, after what has happened.”

With a wave of her hand, she indicated the high-backed chair beside her desk.

I sat and studied her for a moment. Though sorrow etched her features, and tears glistened in her eyes, every hair in her elegant chignon was smoothed to perfection, and a necklace of turquoise gemstones enlivened her black silk dress. Despite her grief, her standards hadn’t slipped an inch. Even her usual poise had returned. She was far from the distraught, incoherent woman Rossi had described.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t stay with you yesterday,” I said. “The police asked me to leave the scene—”

“—of the crime,” she finished, her voice decisive. “It is just as well, my dear. I had what you call a meltdown. My anger at José overcame me. I went mad there for a while. The lieutenant, he held me like a baby until the medics came. I’m so ashamed.” She paused, out of words, on the brink of losing control once more.

“But why be angry at José? I agree he didn’t jump from the balcony. Somebody—”

“—killed him,” she finished again.

I moved to the edge of my chair. “I think so too.”

Her eyes widened. “Then you know?”

I shook my head. “All I know is José wouldn’t have used that blue stool for anything. Never mind to leap to his own death.”

“Ah. Then you know nothing.” She leaned against her chair’s tapestry back and closed her eyes. “But why should you? José kept his secret well.”

“What secret, Beatriz?”

Her eyes snapped open. “This morning I told that nice lieutenant everything I knew. You are my friend, so why shouldn’t you know too? But first lock the shop door, so no one will hear.”

I did as she asked, then hurried back and, pulse pounding, waited for her to go on.

Though we were alone, she dropped her voice to a whisper. “José was a blackmailer.”

“No!” I bolted upright in my seat. Sweet, soft-spoken José, the man of exquisite taste, a blackmailer?

“It was wrong to do so. Evil.” She hissed out the words. “But worse for Raúl Lopez to kill him.”

Whoa. Raúl Lopez owned Breeze City Fans and Lights. One shop owner a blackmailer, the other a killer? I couldn’t believe what this precise, elegant lady was revealing. Aghast, I stared at her as, dry-eyed and unblinking, she related her incredible tale.

“Last week I found an envelope in the safe. A letter from José to me. Not to be opened until after his death.” For an instant, her lips curled into a derisive smile. “What wife listens to nonsense like that? So I opened it...and now I believe José wanted me to know. I think the guilt weighed on his soul. He needed to share it, and who better to tell than me?” Fresh tears glittered in her eyes, but refusing to let them fall, she whisked them away with a finger.

Baffled, I asked, “Did the letter have anything to do with Lopez?”

Fifty something, lean as a tango dancer, Raúl Lopez was both a skilled salesman and a skilled electrician. In addition to his well-selected stock, he hired only licensed electricians like Ted Wolff as installers. For all of those reasons he had an excellent reputation in the design community. No wonder his business thrived.

“Lopez and José, they were countrymen...both from Cartagena, Colombia.”

“I’m confused, Beatriz. What are you getting at?”

“José learned something about Raúl. And now the police know. It’s no secret anymore. But—” she put a finger to her lips, “—the lieutenant said not to tell anyone. It might prejudice the case should charges be brought against Raúl.” She shrugged her narrow shoulders. “My husband is gone. Will charges bring him back?”

That Rossi would probably have a fit when he found out she’d confided in me, I didn’t bother to mention. To my knowledge, Beatriz wasn’t aware Rossi and I were seeing each other, and this wasn’t the time to tell her. She had enough to deal with, never mind having to worry about alienating the police. “I’ll tell Rossi we’ve talked. What you’ve told me will go no further than that.”

“Yes, Rossi, that’s his name. A fine man. A strong man, but—” she thrust her hands in the air, “where does he find those horrible shirts?”

“They’re everywhere, Beatriz. Everywhere.” I had to smile at her outrage. No matter what the circumstances, execrable taste was as inexcusable to Beatriz as it had been to José.

Though none of this outpouring was any of my business, I hoped she’d keep talking. What José knew had probably caused his death. And I’ll admit I was dying to know what that might be.

“How could my husband do such a thing? It was wrong, so...so, what is the word...tacky.”

Okay, now I had to know. Was it more than blackmail? “What did he do, Beatriz?”

She leaned over the desk and whispered again. “He hired a man, a private man.”

“Investigator? Private investigator?”

She nodded. “To learn all he could about Raúl. This man found out that he’s an illegal, a Colombian citizen with no passport. Without a passport how did he get to America? One way only. He paid drug lords. They sneaked him into the country like a bundle of contraband. All his documents are from the black market. But that is not the only reason he feared José.”

“No?”

Beatriz shook her head. “No. Raúl laughed when José told him he knew he was illegal. But he stopped laughing when José said he knew about the robbery.”

“What robbery?”

“In Cartagena. Raúl stole from his patron. Gold from a safe. That’s how he paid his passage. For that he could be deported. And with that, José frightened him.”

My head reeled. How could the man I knew—or believed I knew—be involved in such things? All I could think to ask was, “What made José suspicious?”

“Three years ago, his cousin came to visit and saw Raúl. Everyone in Cartagena thought rebels had killed him for the gold he stole. Even his
madre
did not know where he had gone. He just disappeared. When he saw José’s cousin, he pretended they were strangers to each other. Raúl had been a young man when he left, and the years had changed him. But José’s cousin recognized him anyway and swore he once knew him by a different name. That’s when my husband hired the investigator.”

Beatriz pointed to the open ledger. “The proof is here. Our sales were not enough. The money Raúl paid for silence helped keep our shop going.” A shadow of anger crept into her eyes. “José wanted me to have beautiful things and go to beautiful places. He became a blackmailer to make me happy. The fool,” she said, spitting out the words. “The fool.”

I slumped in my seat, stunned by Beatriz’s revelation. Raúl Lopez had a wife, a business, a successful life here in Florida. What would happen to him now that the police knew he was an illegal and wanted in his own country?

Worse, far worse, had he killed José to cover his tracks? Was Beatriz right about that? Had she nailed her husband’s killer? If so, Rossi should be relieved. Beatriz had handed him an open-and-shut case.