Rooms to Die For (4 page)

Chapter Seven

As drained of energy as a dead battery, I left Beatriz to her ledger and her memories and rode the elevator down to the atrium. Her bitter “I’ve learned to hate love” echoed in my mind like a mantra gone mad.

José had broken her heart, leaving her with only beautiful objects for solace. And objects weren’t enough, not nearly enough. Not for anybody. More than anything else, we all needed love in our lives. Yet only after losing one’s love did its irreplaceable value shine forth. Beatriz knew that all too well. And so, I had to admit, did I. Jack had vowed to love me forever—”or until death do us part”—and he had, oh he had, but then death
did
part us.

A woman with a Ralph Lauren tote filled with pillows bumped into me and murmured, “Sorry.” I was glad she wasn’t carrying a bag full of frying pans.

I moved out of the line of foot traffic and pretended an interest in a furniture display window for a few moments while I tamped down my sad memories. Then I shook my head and moved on. Needing a pep infusion, I went to the Library for an espresso before driving back to the shop.

The lunch rush had ended and a midafternoon lull had settled over the cafe. I gave my order to Dan the counter boy and sat at one of the small round tables to wait.

I didn’t see the man at first, not until he dropped some change on the counter, sending coins bouncing onto the floor. A quarter rolled over to my table and stopped next to my foot. He bent over to pick it up.

Though oddly dressed for a design mall customer in running clothes and sneakers, his face unshaven, he looked somewhat familiar.
Of course.

“Hey,” I blurted. “I know you. We met yesterday morning. On the lawn outside the mall. Remember?”

Clutching the quarter in his fist, he gazed at me with bugged-out eyes as if he were seeing a ghost. He backed up a step. Then another. Was he afraid of me? What a weird reaction to a friendly greeting.

“I hope you’re feeling better today,” I said.

He shook his head.

“No? Sorry to hear that. But you’re out jogging anyway?”

He nodded. Couldn’t the man speak?

“For a while there yesterday you looked like you were in some kind of trouble. Then you leaped up and ran away before the medics could help you.”

He took a tentative step closer. “You helped me.”

So he did speak.

“Well, I tried to, but I couldn’t do much except call 9-1-1.”

“You were nice to me.” He took another step forward and smiled. Trapped between the table and the wall, I felt a stab of panic. Who was this strange man?

“You’re pretty,” he said. “Pretty red hair too. I don’t know many pretty ladies. You’re the only one.”

Where was my espresso?

The man stretched out a hand. A scream rose into my throat, but I swallowed it as he laid the quarter on the tabletop. “A present for you.”

“Oh. Thank you. That’s lovely.” I cleared my throat. “What’s your name?”

“Austin. My name’s Austin. You helped me. Now I’ll help you.”

Palms out, I waved my hands back and forth in front of my face. “Thanks, Austin, but the quarter is more than enough. I’m fine, really.”

He looked left, right, then over his shoulder, but we were alone. Dan had to be busy in the kitchen. Austin leaned over the table. I tried not to flinch. “Don’t go upstairs,” he whispered. “The third floor. Stay away from there.”

A heavenly hazelnut aroma wafted in the air. “Here’s your espresso,” Dan said, his deep voice booming in the quiet cafe.

Like a gazelle startled by a jungle cry, Austin stiffened for an instant and then took off, running out of the Library and racing along the atrium toward the bronze entrance doors. Seconds later they opened and slammed shut with a bang that echoed throughout the building.

Phew. “Who is that man?” I asked as Dan placed the frothy glass on the table in front of me.

He shrugged. “I have no idea. He comes in every day. Orders a bottle of water and gulps it down standing up. He’s in here five minutes, tops, then takes off running. The management would like to get rid of him, but he doesn’t cause any trouble. Just comes and goes without talking to anybody.

“Once, though, I went into the men’s room and found him there. Nearly scared me to death. He didn’t say a word, just did his thing and took off without speaking.”

“Does he ever go into any of the shops?”

“Not that I know of. But he’s creepy enough to do anything. Looks like he spent the last twenty years in an attic. Never leaves a tip either. How normal is that?”

Dan sauntered back to the kitchen, and I sipped the espresso slowly, letting its warmth chase away the chill that had invaded my spirit. Austin had spoken to me. Not casual chitchat either. He’d warned me about danger on the mall’s third floor. I smiled. He’d even left me a tip. As I sat enjoying the luscious coffee, I wondered if someone as strange and unworldly as Austin could possibly know anything about José’s death.

Chapter Eight

“You were right, Deva. I’m so glad I trusted you.”

I switched the shop phone from one ear to the other. “Right about what, Imogene?”

“My new look. The black dress and all. No bling. No glitz. Harlan loved it. He said I never looked lovelier. Can you believe that? Those were his exact words. And I thought I looked so plain.”

“You couldn’t look plain if you tried.”

“Thanks, but you know what I mean.” Her voice dropped to a spy-in-a-telephone booth whisper. “We have to talk.”

“That would be good. Let me see when I’m free.” Flipping through my appointment book with one hand, I held the phone with the other. “I’m glad you called. Your fans will be installed tomorrow morning, and I have photographs of some light fixtures I think would work. Also some paint samples. How’s Thursday sound?”

A sigh echoed through the line. “I can’t wait till Thursday. You have to come over today. Wear a wig or a hat or something, and don’t park in the driveway. Pull onto the yard next to the garage. Out of sight.”

“Why?”

“I’ll tell you when you get here. Hurry, Deva. I need you.” The phone went dead.

My curiosity piqued to the max, I shook my head and hung up. I’d had some colorful clients in the past, but on the color chart, Imogene was Day-Glo.

Lee, busy with a customer searching the sample books for drapery fabric, glanced over when I retrieved my bag from under the sales counter. She murmured something to the woman and came over to me. “Y’all leaving?”

“Yes. A client has an emergency.” I stood, smoothed the string-colored mini over my thighs and picked up the bag—an outsized tote in orange canvas.

“If I’m not back by five, lock up, okay? And just so you’ll know, I’m thrilled you’re back, Lee. I love our shop talk and the girl talk, too. Not to mention that without you here the Closed sign would have been in the window all day.”

She laughed and went back to her customer who was about to settle on a floral chintz. While they discussed her choice, I slipped out the back service entrance and climbed into the Audi for the half-hour drive to East Naples’s Fisherman’s Creek area.

Thank God for Lee. I’d meant what I said. Without her the doors to Deva Dunne Interiors would be closed more often than they were open. Here I was out of the shop again today, and most of yesterday I’d spent at the design mall. Since then I hadn’t been able to shake off that strange encounter with Austin, especially his parting warning. I gave a mental shrug. It might mean nothing at all, but I’d make a point of telling Rossi about it the next time I saw him. I hoped that would be tonight.

A boater’s paradise, the Creek was actually an estuary that fed into the Gulf of Mexico. On both sides of its bank, a medley of fishing boats and pleasure craft filled the narrow mooring slips. Behind them, houses in a hodgepodge of styles, sizes and prices gave the area a funky, offbeat look. “A beer is fine” look. “Just don’t spill any on my Maserati” look.

I wasn’t surprised that the devil-may-care atmosphere of Fisherman’s Creek suited Imogene to a T. That it also suited Ivy Leager Harlan Conway did surprise me, and I wondered which of the houses was his. Not the apricot stucco with the terracotta mushrooms sprouting on its sparse lawn, not the Tara re-creation, and surely not the faux Tuscan villa. More likely the glass-walled rectangular structure floating like a boathouse over the estuary water.

I pulled up on the far side of Imogene’s property and parked on the gravel. The lattice-sided garage pretty much concealed the Audi from view. Her house, a featureless box, except for its Pepto-Bismol paint job, was the last one on the street—an unpaved, two-lane road—and raised, like most new construction, on stilts. The theory being that, in a storm, tidal water would pass harmlessly underneath.

I climbed out of the car and took a deep breath of salt-laden air. A faint odor of fish mingled in the breeze. The tide must be low. My instructions were to wear a hat or a wig, but what was I doing, breaking and entering? My head bare, I sprinted up the stairs and pressed the bell. The door opened on the first ring, and Imogene yanked me inside.

“I thought you’d never get here,” she said.

“I ran a red light hurrying over,” I lied.

“Just one? When you knew I had to see you.”

“You can kill somebody running red lights.”

As if brushing away gnats, she waved an impatient hand in the air. “And you’re not wearing a hat.”

Okay, time to get out the big guns. I slung the tote over a shoulder and, arms akimbo, shrew style, let loose. “When I was starting my business, Imogene, I had the pay scale of a janitor and the schedule of a hooker. But even then...even then...I wasn’t anybody’s slave. Understood?”

She stared at me with wide, incredulous blue eyes. “I can’t believe you’re talking to me that way. When I’m so desperate.” She covered her face with her hands and, sinking into a black plastic beanbag chair, cried as if her heart were breaking.

Oh God, I’d been too hard on her. I tossed the tote on the magenta-colored sofa with pink fringe and slumped down beside it. “What’s the problem, Imogene? Tell me, please.”

Shoulders heaving, sobs shuddering in and out of her mouth, she struggled to gain control. At least she looked as if she were struggling. In the nick of time I remembered that Imogene was a performer. B. J. (Before Jimmy) she’d earned her living as a lounge act, so how much of the weeping was histrionics and how much grief? Seventy-five/twenty-five? Maybe eighty/twenty?

I was prepared to cross my legs and steel my heart until she calmed down, but when she couldn’t catch her breath, I rummaged in the tote for a packet of tissues and pressed some into her hands.

“Blow,” I said. “You’re all clogged up. How can you tell me what’s wrong if you can’t breathe?”

She blew her cute retroussé nose and, dropping the damp tissue on the floor, gazed at me with tragic eyes.

A pang of guilt assailed me. This woman was in distress, and I’d been treating her anguish lightly. Ashamed, I moved to the edge of the couch and bent over the beanbag.

“So tell me. What’s troubling you?” I kept my voice to a soothing murmur. “What’s the emergency?”

She sniffed and picked up the sodden tissue.

“Here’s a dry one,” I said, forking over a handful.

She took them with a grateful little smile. Had she lost a parent? A sibling? Was she ill? Something serious was going on. But what?

“How can I help if you won’t tell me what’s wrong?” I kept my voice kitten soft.

“I’m going to lose him.”

“Who?” Though I knew.

“Harlan. Who else? He’s the only man in the world.”

Debatable, but I understood where she was coming from. As a thought struck me, I straightened up on the couch. Back stiff as a plank, I asked, “Is he...is he dying?”

“What?” That did it, stopping her tears and bringing a smile to those voluptuous Nefertiti lips. “Not from the way he performed...acted last night.”

“Look, I’m a busy woman. If you have something to tell me, please get to it so we can move on to sexy stuff like lighting fixtures.”

“Don’t get mad. I mean it, I’m desperate.”

“Why is that?” Even to my own ears my voice sounded irritated.

“Because last night everything about me was fake. And I can’t keep on faking without help.”

“Are you talking about cup size again?” I shook my head. “Don’t worry about it. There isn’t a bra in the United States that isn’t padded.”

“No, not that.”

“You wore a Spanx under the black dress?”

“What’s a Spanx?”

“Okay, you didn’t.” I shrugged. “You have to get specific here.” I glanced at my watch. “I hate to be crass, but I do charge by the hour.”

“Like a shrink.”

“Exactly.”

“I’m happy to pay you, Deva, if you’ll to do what you did yesterday. Make me over into someone Harlan will admire. Like he did last night.”

I sighed. “Please. You wore a black dress. No big deal. You don’t need me for that. Besides, I’m an interior designer, not a personal shopper.”

She stared at me without blinking. I could see she wasn’t getting my point.

“Well, I’m not a personal shopper for clothes anyway. For furniture, yes. Accessories, ceiling fans, lighting fixtures, paint. Not clothes,” I repeated, hoping she’d take the hint, but she shook her head.

“I won’t get it right. I know I won’t. He’s taking me to a play at the Sugden Theater tonight.
A
Streetcar Named Desire.
I have to look plain. And afterwards I’ll have to discuss the play too.” Her voice rose into a wail. No question, Imogene was scared. “If I don’t shape up, I’ll lose the love of my life. If that happens, I’ll die.”

No you won’t, I wanted to say. You’ll just wish you had.

“Let me ask you something, Imogene. Does the fact that I’m parked out of sight behind your garage have anything to do with all this?”

She nodded. “He can’t know.”

“Know what?”

“That you’re making me over. Changing my image. I definitely don’t want him to know about that. Or that you’re redecorating the house.”

“I haven’t agreed to a makeover. Only to help you redecorate.”

Darn it. Imogene had me so aggravated, I said I decorated houses, for Pete sake. What I actually do is design them. Or redesign them. I don’t redecorate them any more than a dress designer redecorates clothing. I deal in concepts, not embellishments. At least not primarily.

“Besides, what makes you think you need a new image?” I asked. “The one you have is fine. It’s you. That’s what will keep Harlan coming back, the real you. Not some surface makeover. That’s the wrong approach. It’s dishonest.”

Imogene scrambled out of the beanbag and stood in front of me in black short shorts, spike heels and a red tube top, her eyes blazing. “You’re full of it, Deva. Who are you kidding? You take shitty-looking houses and make them over all the time. For people who don’t know a damn thing about one period or another. People who can’t even pick out a wall color.

“But when guests walk in, do they say, ‘Oh, I have lousy taste? My decorator did over the whole place. Left up to me this would look like a complete dump. Or a Frisco whorehouse?’ No! They do not. Most of the time your name isn’t even mentioned. They pretend the makeover is their own when all they did was pay for it. What’s so honest about that?”

Out of breath, red in the face, she stood there panting, mad as hell.

“You’re right,” I said, meaning it. “Absolutely right.”

“I am?” As fast as helium whooshing from a balloon, her anger fled, leaving her on the verge of tears again.

For the first time since we met, Imogene had my total respect. She was fighting for the man of her dreams, and who could blame her for that?

“Yes, you’re right, except for one thing. I’m not a fashion consultant. Go to Saks. Or even Dillard’s, for heaven sake. Put yourself in the hands of an experienced salesperson.”

She shook her head. “No. I have a closet stuffed with clothes I got talked into buying. I don’t want anyone selling me things. Can I go to a salesperson and say ‘I’m in love with Harlan Conway—make me over for him’? No, I can’t, and you know it. You’re the only one who can help me.” Her chin quivered. “Please.”

I heaved a second sigh. Giving in meant getting involved with something I wasn’t trained to do, and God only knew what the outcome would be, but somehow I didn’t have the heart to refuse. Imogene’s request was so humble, so self-effacing, so needy.

Leaving the tote on the couch, I stood. “Let’s take a look at what you have.”

* * *

Imogene snapped on the overhead light in her walk-in closet and stood watching as I examined her wardrobe. From her anxious breathing, you’d think she was on trial for her life. I guess on some level, she thought she was. I combed through just about everything, then, trying to tread softly, I said, “Well, you might consider getting rid of the jeans with the rhinestones on the fanny pockets and the blingy, sequined tops. And that pleather skirt really should go. But you have a lot of keepers here.”

“I do?” she said, clearly amazed. Poor Imogene. What good was a fabulous image if you had no confidence in it? I was beginning to believe she needed propping up more than she needed a makeover.

“Sure. You don’t want to get rid of all the colorful, fun stuff. It suits you. You just want to tone things down a bit. And loosen them up.” I pointed to a peachy lace shift. “I love the see-through sleeves on this. And of course the black halter dress is great.” A pink silk mini caught my eye. “This would be terrific with those spiky beige sandals. So that makes three good dating outfits. All you need are a few low-key pieces to fill in, you know, for more casual times.

“Tell you what. Go to J. Crew over at the Waterside Shops. Buy a couple of skirts, and before you leave the store, ask the salesperson if they’re too tight. If they are go up a size, and get a couple of tops—without any stones or beads.”

“You like the plain ones better?”

I nodded. “For what you have in mind, yes. And a pair of jeans from there would work well. Straight-cut legs are best. After that, you’ll be good to go.”

“All except for jewelry. Harlan said he loves pearls. And I have some.”

“Good. Pearls would be lovely on that pink silk.”

She hurried out of the closet, and I followed her into the bedroom. From a jewelry box on her dresser, she removed a string of faux pearls and dropped them over her head. They hung down to her knees.

“Kind of long,” I said.

“Oh, I knot them.” She did. The knot hovered around her belly button.

I shook my head. “Still too long. I’d leave them off.” I peered into a tangle of chains and earrings. “How about this?” I lifted out an intricately carved piece of jade suspended from a slender silver chain.

“Oh, I forgot about that. A fiddler I sing with once in a while gave it to me.”

“This would go well with the dress and with the ankle bracelet too.”

She looked up, tense of a sudden. “I was going to ask you about that. Is it too much?”

Truth be told, the ankle bracelet was adorable on her. Definitely not a Harvard Yard look, but enough was enough. Either this guy liked Imogene for all her wonderful qualities, or she’d be better off without him.