Rooms to Die For (7 page)

Chapter Thirteen

After a restless night with no call from Rossi saying whether or not he’d caught up with Raúl, I slept in the next morning. When I got to the shop an hour late, a handsome young god sat sprawled on the zebra settee. I couldn’t believe my eyes.

“Jamaica man? Is that you?”

“Designer lady!” Lee’s husband, Paulo St. James, leaped to his feet, picked me up and whirled me around the shop. Before setting me down, his artist’s gaze swept over me.

“Oh mon, red hair’s so riveting,” he said. “Especially with that bronze color you’re wearing. Promise you’ll have it on when I paint your portrait.”

While Paulo examined me, I examined him. No doubt about it, his art studies in Paris had matured him. Silver studs no longer mounted his ears, and he had shorn his dreadlocks. But more important, his boyish grace had given way to a man’s strength.

“You look wonderful,” I said. “Married life obviously agrees with you.”

“It’s heaven every day.”

A pang of envy sprang up in my soul. Ashamed, I squelched it before it could take root, and asked, “Where’s your wife this morning?”

“Lee went to the bank for some petty cash. And I waited here to see you.”

“Then let’s sit and chat for a while,” I said, making myself comfortable on a little gilt Chiavari chair—no easy feat given its thin padded seat and stiff back.

Paulo returned to the settee. “What you and the lieutenant did for us we can never repay,” he began.

“We don’t expect—”

He shook his head. “I don’t just mean the money. Lee and I are determined to repay that. I have several commissions already. Once they’re finished—plus the portrait of you I promised the lieutenant—the Von Hersch Gallery will give me a one-man show. I even have an agent who’s planning big things. So the money will come. What can’t be repaid is your goodwill. Sending Lee to me in Paris was...” he threw his hands in the air, “...beyond friendship. You gave us golden days, Deva. Memories for a lifetime.”

Tears dampened my eyes. “You’re making me cry.”

He laughed. “I don’t know why, but I always have that effect on beautiful women.”

I tamped down a smile. Paris had matured him, all right. We chatted away like old friends until a glance at my watch had me scrambling to my feet. “Sorry to rush off, but I have to leave. Do tell Lee I’ll be back before closing.” I bent over the settee and kissed him on the cheek. “So glad to have you both home again.”

He stood and caught me in a farewell bear hug. “When you see the lieutenant tell him Lee wants to show off her French cooking.”

“Will do,” I said, charmed and happy as I hurried out. I’d promised Imogene I’d drop by and check on the painters’ progress and make certain the lighting installer positioned the new fixtures correctly.

Like the last time, I parked behind the garage and ran up the stairs. Like the last time, Imogene opened the door on the first ring—in short shorts, tube top and stilettos.

“You have a new job?” I asked.

Her eyes clouded. “No. Why?”

“I thought maybe Hooters.”

“Noooo.” She glanced down at herself. “These shorts aren’t orange.”

“True, but—”

“Come see what the boys have done,” she said. “But we have to hurry. Harlan just called. He’s coming by in a half hour or so. We’re going deep sea fishing and...”

Her voice trailed off. No need to say more. To keep our secret, I had to be gone before he arrived.

Taking me by the arm, she drew me into the great room, now almost entirely white. Two men in overalls nodded and kept on with what they were doing—covering up the last electric-pink wall. Balanced on a ladder, Tony, the Breeze City installer, was trimming wires near a small hole in the ceiling.

“Hi, Mrs. Dunne. I’m capping off these babies. The dining area fixture’s damaged. I can’t install it today. But the other two are okay. I’ll get to them next.”

That meant another trip to the design mall to make a return, something I hadn’t planned on doing. “Not your fault, Tony. Just one of those things.”

He nodded and eyeballed Imogene. “Don’t fall off,” I said, trying not to smile.

For the life of me, I didn’t know how any of them could concentrate on what they were doing with Imogene strutting around like eye candy.

She sent a darting glance at the painters before whispering, “It’s all so white.”

“Not for long. We’ll soften it with color. Not pink though.”

“No,” she agreed, but her overly plucked eyebrows meshed together.

“What we do next depends on your budget. Suppose I tell you what I’d like to do, and if it’s too expensive, we’ll trim back.”

She nodded, a touching trust in her eyes.

“Let’s go for something an architect would like.”

“Yes!”

“You haven’t heard what I have in mind.”

“Whatever it is, I’m for it.”

“Well, if we can find some reclaimed cypress wood—it’s a protected species, you rarely find any that’s unused—”

“Right.”

“We’ll line the wall behind the stove with cypress and extend it out to the dining area. Give the interior a more rugged, masculine look. If we can’t find reclaimed cypress, teak will work.”

I pointed to the maroon couch with the pink fringe. “How about a canvas slipcover on the sofa? With some orange pillows for a color pop? And the black plastic beanbags really should go. Nobody over the age of twelve likes to climb in and out of them anyway.”

“Right.” She might be agreeing but her frown told me she was taking my ideas on sheer faith alone. A gutsy move, and once again, out of the blue, my respect for Imogene soared.

“We could replace the beanbags with a pair of armchairs in an orange-and-ivory stripe.”

“Right.”

Three rights in a row and no wrongs. I wanted to hug her.

“In the bedroom, we’ll continue the color scheme with a soft shade of peach on the walls. It’ll give your skin a glow. You’ll love it,” I said, trying not to wince when I glanced in at her purple bedroom with its satin coverlet in bordello pink.

“Whatever you say, Deva. Don’t worry about the money. I’m selling my jewelry. Most of it anyway. My ex could be mighty cheap about a lot of things, but he always liked me to wear a lot of bling.” She heaved a sigh, sending the tube top on a risky ride. “Not that he loved me or anything. He just liked showing me off. Sometimes I went out looking like a chandelier, I swear. But not anymore. With your help, I’ve toned things down. Like today. I never wore denim shorts before I met you, and look at me now.”

“To borrow your word, Imogene, ‘right.’ I mean wrong.”

Taking her by the hand, I drew her into the purple bedroom, closed the door and convinced her to change the tube top for a white cotton shirt, and the stilettos for a pair of flip-flops. With the shirt tucked in to the denim shorts to emphasize her tiny waist, and the sandals showing off her little pink toes, she still had more than enough star power to light up a room.

“You’re sure this looks all right?” she asked, frowning at her image in the full-length mirror, one flip-flopped foot tapping the floor. “You know what that old-timey actress used to say? I think her name was Mae West?”

“No, not really.”

She parked her hands on her admirably narrow hips. “It’s better to be looked over than to be overlooked.”

“You know what Polonius used to say?”

“Uh-uh.”

“‘To thine own self be true, and thou cans’t not then be false to any man.’”

She nodded as if she understood what I had just winged at her. “I agree with him, Deva. He’s right, whoever he is.”

Imogene was a sweet girl, and I felt ashamed of my smartass quotation. “If you’re having second thoughts about this do-over, we can stop now. No problem, I promise.”

Her chin quivered. “No, no, I didn’t mean—”

Oh God, I’d upset her. “If reinventing yourself is what you want, fine. Just remember we’re walking a narrow line here. So decide which look you’re going for, Ivy League or bawdy house.”

Her face dropped a couple of inches. “Does it have to be one or the other?”

She looked so crestfallen I said, “Probably. For what you have in mind, but the shorts are perfect.”

“Good. At least I did something right.” She reached for what looked like a quart-sized spray bottle of Britney Spear’s Fantasy Perfume.

Before she could spritz a single pulse point, the Wicked Witch of the West shook her head. “No more. Sensory overload what with the paint and all.”

“Oh, right.” She put the bottle back on the dresser with a sigh. “Harlan’s due here soon,” she said, hinting for me to leave.

“I’m going. I’ll return the fixture and replace it with another one. Just let me quickly measure the sofa, so my assistant can order some new fabric.”

* * *

A half hour later, I rode the glass elevator to the mall’s third floor. Clutching the box with the damaged fixture in my arms, I headed for Breeze City, curious to see if Raúl would be there. Pulse revving up a bit, I walked in and handed the box to Ted.

As he checked his inventory list to see if he had a replacement, I glanced past him to the open office door. “Could I speak to Mr. Lopez for a minute?”

Ted stopped writing and looked up. “Mr. and Mrs. Lopez are out for the day. I’m alone. But that’s okay. I like being in charge.”

“Well, when you see him, would you tell him I’ve changed my mind about the Sprague Mansion fan? Instead of white, I need one with mahogany panels. The largest size he can find.”

Whether Raúl would still be free and able to make good on his offer to supply fans for the Showhouse, I didn’t know. And I wouldn’t until Rossi called or stopped by my place. But I did know what I wanted to do with that obsolete kitchen. Puzzling it out had been another reason I hadn’t slept much last night, but lying awake had been productive. I woke up with a plan in mind, and first thing this morning, I’d sketched it out and faxed it to Kustom Kitchens. Tiny Forbes wasted no time in sending back his okay. So I was good to go. The only thing missing was the wherewithal to bring it to life. For that I’d have to do some pleading around town—not for me, for St. Martin’s homeless.

Armed with a good cause, I left Ted and strode along the balcony to the Spanish Galleria. I intended to begin my pleading there, but no luck. The shop was locked up tighter than a limousine in a ghetto.

In the Library, I’d about munched my way through a BLT when Hugo, Beatriz’s Galleria assistant, strolled in. A diminutive man in a black suit and silk T-shirt, his curly black mane falling untamed to his shoulders, he managed to look both elegant and funky at the same time.

He spied me and, wreathed in smiles, hurried over to my table. “May I join you,
amiga?
”

“Delighted,” I said as he settled on the wire ice-cream chair opposite me and picked up a menu. “I stopped by the shop earlier, but you were closed.”

“Ah,
sí.
Most unfortunate. I spent the morning with Beatriz at her home.” With something like irritation, he flung his menu onto the tabletop. “We argued. She wants to close the shop when her lease expires, but I say in José’s memory we need to stay open.” He shrugged. “There was no reasoning with her. She said she wanted to kill him herself for blackmailing his countryman.”

Without a doubt my mouth dropped open. “You knew?”

Uncertainty sprang into his eyes. It disappeared from one blink to the next, but no mistake, I had seen it in that instant. “Only since his death. Beatriz told me.”

Perhaps. I stood and plucked my tote off the chair arm. “Sorry to rush away, Hugo, but I’ve hardly stepped into my own shop the last several days. I need to get back. My love to Beatriz when you see her.”

He nodded and turned to Dan, who hovered, waiting for his order.

Before driving home, I stopped in at the ladies’ room. Like the entire mall, it was gorgeous, with marble floors and walls and a bank of pretty hand basins—each one decorated with flowers under glaze—violets, roses, peonies, camellias. A lovely, feminine touch.

I checked my hair in the mirror—frizzy, nothing new there—ducked into a stall and stiffened. What was that noise? Had the outer door to the restroom opened? Over the rush of water, I couldn’t be sure. Then a stall door clicked shut. Yes, someone had come in. Another stall opened and slammed. Another. Strange, no heels clicking on the tiled floor.

Bang.

I zipped up my pants and smoothed down my silk tee.

Bam.

The slamming had become louder. Whoever had entered the ladies room was on a hunt. For what? A forgotten package? A handbag? Or was she looking for someone?

Bam.

Whoever she was, she was no woman to tangle with, and a trickle of uneasiness inched down my spine. Isolated from the atrium’s foot traffic, the ladies’ restroom sat discreetly at the end of a short corridor. If a person yelled for help, chances were no one would hear. But who said I needed help?

Bam.

I needed help.

Plunging a hand into the tote, I fumbled for the cell. Like always, it had dropped to the bottom of the bag, under the car keys, the billfold, the sunglasses, the cosmetic kit...I groped around, but my fingers didn’t connect with a phone.

Bam.

Where was it? Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead. Oh no. After taking a call, I’d dropped the cell on the Audi passenger seat. Great. I couldn’t yell and be heard, and I couldn’t phone.

Well, I was probably overreacting anyway. I’d just stroll out of the stall like nothing could be wrong and make a beeline for the exit. That still left the little anteroom to get through—the sound buffer space that kept flushing noises from penetrating the mall’s hushed luxury.

Screwing up my courage, I put a shaky hand on the stall lock and glanced down. In the space under the door, hairy ankles rose out of white athletic socks and what looked like a pair of size-twelve sneakers.

“Pretty lady,” he whispered.

Oh God, Austin. I sank onto the toilet seat, gripping the tote to my chest as if it were a life vest, praying someone else would come in so I could scream for help.

“Pretty lady, I know you’re in there. So come out.” He pulled on the stall handle, rattling the door on its hinges.