Rooms to Die For

by Jean Harrington

  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.

  Hoping I was doing the right thing, I said, “I love it. It brings out the pink in your toenail polish.”

  Hope sprang into her eyes. “You think?”

  “Would I lie?”

  Imogene flopped down on the edge of the bed with a happy sigh and kicked off the spikes. “I’ll do everything you say. But I’ll still have to talk about the play. What’s Streetcar Named Desire all about anyway?”

  “You’re in luck. I studied Tennessee Williams in my BU drama class. If you’ll get me an iced tea, I’ll tell you what I remember.”

  She leaped up and padded into the kitchen. “God, you’re a gold mine, Deva. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”

  You’d be yourself, I wanted to say. And that’s always the better way to go. But we’d already had that conversation—no need for a rehash. Besides, after we went over the id, ego and superego aspects of Streetcar’s Stanley, Stella and Blanche, I’d show her the paint chips and the snapshots I took of some lighting fixtures. After that I’d head for home. The conversation I was dying to have was with Rossi. Would Raúl Lopez be indicted for José Vega’s murder, or was Beatriz’s accusation merely the fantasy of a grief-stricken widow?

  Chapter Nine

  After I left Fisherman’s Creek, the temptation to speed home nearly overwhelmed me. Twice I lurched to a stop on yellow. God, after lecturing Imogene on the hazards of running red lights, what a hypocrite I was. I eased up on the gas pedal and reached Surfside at dusk.

  Light from my living room windows spilled out onto the walkway. I turned the key and hurried through the foyer. Even the miniature lamp on the living room desk and the chunky candles on the coffee table were lit. How nice. A cheery welcome home.

  For once, the condo’s new redo didn’t shoot a pang of regret through me. Usually a momentary twinge struck me each time I realized anew that in a fit of despair I’d sold Jack’s Irish heirlooms and they were gone forever. But tonight the familiar sting didn’t surface at all. I dropped the tote on a club chair. “Anybody home?”

  “I’m in the kitchen,” Rossi called. “With my busy Italian fingers.”

  “Are they on
ly Italian in the kitchen? How about the bedroom?”

  Rossi poked his head out of the kitchen archway and sent his eyebrows into a Groucho Marx look-alike. “You have a preference?”

  “When I’m hungry, the kitchen. When I’m really hungry, the bedroom.”

  I vamped my way over to him and lifted my face for a kiss. He started out slowly with a nibble, then, his arms tightening around me, he upped the ante, kissing me breathless until finally, gasping for air, I moved back a little in his embrace.

  “Mmmmm. Italian fingers and Italian lips.”

  “Yeah. Call me hot lips, and with these hands—” he waggled them in the air, “—I put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened the wine. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a glass.”

  I strolled out of the kitchen. “I love coming home and finding you here,” I called over a shoulder.

  “Why don’t we make it permanent then?” he asked, following me into the living room and handing me my drink. “I could move in. There’s plenty of room in that spare closet for my shirt collection.” When I didn’t answer, the humor disappeared from his face. “I guess not.”

  “Can we talk about us another time? When the death of a friend isn’t crowding my heart?” I sank onto the couch, kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cushions.

  “Of course. Sorry. My timing was off.”

  I tried to ignore the irony in his voice as he settled into his favorite club chair across from me. He raised his glass. “Dare I say ‘to us’?”

  “To us,” I said calmly, not rising to the bait. “Long may we wave.”

  “But not in the breeze.” I laughed, and he joined in, the goodwill of a few moments ago warming this moment.

  But he’d made his point. One of these days, he’d want an answer. But not tonight. With an inner sigh of relief, I knew he’d wait yet another little while.

  “So how was your day?” he asked, changing the subject to what he probably thought was safer ground.

  “Bizarre.” Leaving out my entanglement with Imogene, I told him about Austin. How he jogged silently into the mall every day, ordered his bottled water, and left without speaking again to anyone. Except for today. A strangely troubled man, he’d warned me that danger lurked on the third floor. How could he possibly know that?

  Rossi listened as he always did without saying much, but nothing, however insignificant, ever escaped him. If he believed Austin could help with the investigation, he’d be sure to interview him. I had to smile. If he could sprint fast enough to catch him.

  I sipped my wine. Chianti wasn’t my favorite, but tonight I enjoyed the mellow glow it created. I held out my glass. “Another?”

  He went out to the kitchen for the bottle, came back with it and poured us both a refill.

  “Beatriz Vega told me you were in to see her this morning,” I said.

  “Yes, quite a lady. Quite a story.”

  “She told me all about Raúl Lopez. Do you believe her?”

  He frowned and swirled the wine in his goblet. “Until and unless I can prove her wrong, I have no choice.”

  “That’s one of those non-answers, Rossi. You sound like a politician.”

  He grinned, displaying a flash of even white teeth. “A compliment?”

  “So did you arrest Lopez?”

  “No,” he said, clearly surprised by my question.

  “No? Why not? According to Beatriz he’s an illegal who killed her husband.”

  “At the moment neither of these accusations has been proven.”

  “But—”

  He held up a warning finger. It meant “Don’t go there.”

  But I had to. “You know Beatriz wouldn’t lie.”

  “That’s not the issue.”

  “Then what is? I like Raúl. I’d hate to see him deported but—”

  “Deported? You’re way ahead of me here. What makes you think he’ll be deported?”

  “Beatriz’s testimony.”

  He frowned and flung one leg over a knee. In Rossi body language that meant a lecture on police procedure was on the way.

  “The problem with unregistered immigrants,” he began, “especially here in Florida, is that they’re necessary to the economy. No matter what you read or hear in the media. Without them, who would pick the crops, mow the golf courses, do the stoop labor Americans don’t want to do? Not only that, there’s the question of numbers. Rounding them all up would be virtually impossible.” He took a sip of wine. “So until criminal charges are filed, there’s usually no arrest.”

  “Not even—”

  “Not even if the police know he’s illegal. Now, if he’s arrested—not simply accused, arrested, especially for a serious crime—a detainer will be filed.”

  “What’s a detainer?”

  “A legal hold on a person. Once that happens, he’ll be tried and handed over to ICE for possible deportation proceedings.”

  “Ice? English, Rossi, English.”

  “Immigration and Custom Enforcement.” He shot me a grin. “You enjoying all this?”

  I shook my head.

  “Too bad. I’m just getting warmed up. There’s more. Should Lopez be arrested for a crime on this soil, he faces trial here. If he’s not arrested for a crime in the U.S. but the Colombian authorities are looking for him—”

  “Yes?” I sat up straight. “Go on.”

  “He’ll be extradited. Should that happen, he’ll have two options. Go quietly or fight extradition in our courts. Though that route’s rarely successful.”

  I polished off my wine. “So forensics is examining José’s body for evidence of possible foul play. The Colombian government has been notified of Raúl’s presence in the U.S., and you’re awaiting a reply from Interpol regarding his status. In the meantime, he’s been warned not to leave town.”

  “God, you’ll be a detective yet. You already know the devil’s in the details.” His eyes took on a shine. “And stretched out like that, with those showgirl legs on display and your hair flaming in the lamplight, you could get blood out of a stone. Even better, a confession out of any male suspect in the world. Me, for example. I’d tell you anything just to sit here looking at you. Drinking you in with the wine. Loving you with my eyes.”

  “Only with your eyes?”

  By way of reply, he put down his glass, got up and switched off the desk lamp. He hit the wall switch next but left the candles burning.

  As he approached the couch, I held out my arms. I didn’t care what nationality his fingers were as long as he touched me with them.

  Chapter Ten

  After our closet purge, Imogene’s trust in me was stronger than ever. She had no trouble approving the lighting fixtures I’d photographed, and the next morning I returned to the design mall to order them. On the third floor balcony, the boxwood mission bells outside the Spanish Galleria guarded a dark, shuttered shop. No Beatriz in residence today, and I wondered if she were busy making arrangements for José’s funeral. But Breeze City, ablaze with lights, was open for business as usual.

  A handful of customers strolled around the store, their necks craning upward as they peered at the overhead lighting displays. Ted Wolff, the same clerk I’d dealt with a few days earlier, greeted me with a smile.

  “Hi, Mrs. Dunne, how are you today?”

  “How are you?” I wanted to ask. Ted seemed remarkably untroubled. Didn’t he know about his boss’s legal problems? Actually, though, he might not have heard a thing. Not if Beatriz had confided only in the police. And so far no sensational publicity about José had hit the media, just a discreet death notice in the Naples Daily News. But the rumor mill usually churned 24/7, and I couldn’t believe it had shut down this time. Nevertheless Ted’s façade oozed calm.

  I opened my cell phone and showed him the images of th
e fixtures I’d selected for Imogene’s home.

  “Excellent choices,” he said, glancing at them. “You’re in good company with these. You know Harlan Conway? The architect who’s up for the Caldwell Prize? He bought the same fixtures for his place. The one that’s getting all the publicity.”

  “That’s good to hear.” So unknowingly I had copycatted Mr. Conway. Hmm. Not necessarily a bad thing. When he saw his lights hanging in Imogene’s rooms, he’d be pleased. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.

  “I’ve never met the man, just seen pictures of him,” I told Ted. “What’s he like in person?”

  “Oh, I don’t know, tall and lanky. Kind of cool. Too bad the girl who works here is off today. She could tell you more. She helped him the last time he came in.” Ted laughed. “Said he was the handsomest man she ever laid eyes on.”

  Uh-oh. Tall, lanky, cool, handsome and gifted. Maybe Imogene did need a little help after all.

  Ted’s brow furrowed. “Yeah he’s quite a guy. Not many people know it, but we went to MIT together.”

  “Really?” That caught my attention. A clerk-electrician with an MIT degree?

  “Yeah, really. Then my father died, and I had to drop out senior year...but Harlan went on to grad school at Harvard. So now I’m working at Breeze City and he’s a big-time architect. But we stay in touch. Meet for drinks once in a while.”

  As Ted completed the paperwork for the order, a low laugh and then a giggle came from the back room. Curious, I asked, “Is Mr. Lopez in today?”

  “No, he’ll be out of the shop all day.”

  Another giggle, louder this time. Sheer nosiness, nothing more, made me press on. “Is Mrs. Lopez in?”

  Ted frowned and glanced back at the closed office door, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Um, she’s in. But she said she didn’t want to be disturbed.”