Rooms to Die For

by Jean Harrington

“Come on. Hurry up. Let’s see what you got.”

  With the gun inches from my face, I knew he meant business. So I stood and yanked off the scarf, not really caring if my hair looked like shit. I undid the top button of my shirt.

  “Faster. Speed it up.”

  “I do better with music.” Why let him know how scared I was?

  “Forget the comedy act. Get on with it.”

  For some stupid reason, I was glad I’d worn my lilac bra and matching panties today. When I was down to them and nothing else, he whistled, then, grabbing my arm, whirled me around. “Okay. Get dressed.” He turned to Beatriz. “You next, grandma.”

  “Shoot me. I will not disrobe for you.”

  “Yeah, you will.”

  He strode over to her and slapped her across the cheek. His fingers left red welts on her skin.

  Tears flooded her eyes, but her chin came up. “Pig.”

  “Do what he asks, and he’ll leave you alone. Right?” I asked him.

  He shrugged. “Could be.”

  “Beatriz, this is not the time,” I said, my unspoken words hanging in the air. Defiance would come later, when we had a fighting chance.

  She nodded and released the clasp on her jet beads. They clattered to the desk. She unzipped her silk dress and stepped out of it. Thin as a shadow in her black slip, she could have no bags of drugs concealed about her person. The guy knew that. This whole stripping scene was about intimidation, not drugs. I wanted to slug him for trying to humiliate us this way.

  “Turn around,” he ordered. Beatriz did, her head held high.

  “Okay, put that rag back on.”

  “It’s a Dior,” she retorted, slipping into her dress.

  “Yeah?” He used the gun like a pointer. “We’ll look in that other room. We know the shipment’s not in your house. The boys searched it.”

  A ragged intake of breath escaped Beatriz’s throat. She waved a trembling arm around the disheveled office. “You did this to my house?”

  He gave her a snarky smile. “A little more.” He shrugged his backpack off his shoulders and tossed it to me. “Put the bag of stuff in here.”

  Fingers shaking, I did as he asked. He grabbed the pack out of my hands and upped his chin at the outer room. “Okay, go ahead of me. Go on. Both of you. Move. Any sounds, I shoot. Understood?”

  We nodded and, prodded by the Glock, I took Beatriz’s arm and helped her out to the display room. With the blinds drawn, even the arc lights in the ceiling didn’t dispel the feeling that we were in an isolated hacienda in the middle of nowhere.

  He dropped his backpack on a chair and said, “Start looking. All those drawers and jugs and those wooden boxes—turn them upside down. Be quick.” He aimed the gun at an exquisite writing desk. “Get those old books out of there. Shake them open.”

  Nada. Our search turned up nothing. Wherever Hugo had hidden the drugs, he hadn’t picked the Spanish Galleria. But our intruder wasn’t satisfied. Still brandishing his weapon, he reached into his pants’ pocket and removed a Swiss army knife. Using his teeth, he opened the blade for action. It glittered in the overheads. At the sight, Beatriz whimpered.

  Knife in one hand, gun in the other, he approached us. With fingers trembling like hummingbirds, Beatriz clung to me.

  “You shoot off that cannon, the whole mall will be in here,” I said, a marshmallow trying to act tough.

  “Quiet,” he ordered, and walking up to a settee from the palace of Mexico’s Maximilian I, he bent over and plunged the knife into the original nineteenth-century upholstery, slashing it over and over. The horsehair stuffing, as dry and brittle as hay, spurted out onto the showroom floor.

  Beatriz gasped. “Madre de Dios, are you loco? That’s a national treasure,”

  He ignored her and plunged the knife into yet another place in the upholstery. It caught on the stuffing, and as he struggled to wrench it free, Beatriz let go of my arm with a bloodcurdling scream. Shrieking like a jungle cat, her face purple with rage, she flung herself on his back. Her sudden attack caught him off balance. He fell to his knees with Beatriz’s matchstick arms clamped around his neck, her anger giving her the ferocity of a leopard on a kill.

  The Glock in one hand, he raised his arms and tried to fling Beatriz away. No dice. She hung on, bonded to him like superglue.

  Opportunity only knocks once.

  As he struggled to get rid of the wildcat on his back, I leaped for the knife stuck in the upholstery. He must have loosened it. With a few hard tugs, I pulled it free, and while the Glock was still aimed at the ceiling, I plunged the knife into his gun hand. With a howl of pain, he dropped his weapon and, reaching up, flung Beatriz off his back like a sack of meal. She slid along the floor, coming to a stop in front of a heavy wooden chest, a cómoda.

  I kicked the knife across the floor and dove for the gun. Grabbing it, I aimed at his head. Blood running down his arm, he cradled his injured hand in his good one and took a step toward me, fury flaming in his eyes.

  “Try,” I said. “I’d like that.”

  “Shoot, Deva, shoot,” Beatriz urged from the floor. She was on a roll, no doubt about it.

  I stared into his eyes. “You want me to shoot?”

  No answer. And no neighbor rushing in to help either. “Beatriz, go into the office and call 9-1-1,” I said.

  Leaning on the cómoda, she pulled herself to her feet, wisely giving our visitor a wide berth. As she hurried past me, I noticed the sleeves of her silk dress were ripped from their armholes. That was probably a first for Beatriz, and for once I knew she didn’t give a damn.

  Inch by inch, our visitor was closing the distance between us. I guess he thought I was stupid. “Take another step and I’ll take out a kneecap.”

  “Fat chance. You’re not that good.”

  “See that wall switch by your ear?” Before he could turn to check it out, I shot the toggle off the switch.

  He stood still as a hunk of stone.

  I was too disgusted with this guy to bother telling him my father was one of Boston’s finest. I grew up target practicing with him on weekends. But I did ask a question.

  “Why did you kill Navarre?”

  “Me?” He actually looked astonished. “I didn’t kill anybody. I figured the old broad did. For the shipment.” He shrugged. “Why would I kill him? It don’t make sense.”

  I didn’t know if it did or didn’t. He could do his explaining to the cops, more specifically to Rossi. With a sigh, I realized I’d have to do the same thing.

  Rossi wouldn’t be pleased with my story either.

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  After a few minutes that seemed like an hour, four Naples PD officers, followed by the mall’s elderly security guard, stormed the Galleria, weapons at the ready. Their timing couldn’t have been better. My arm holding the Glock had begun to tire. I lowered it gratefully and handed the weapon to Officer Batano. He took it from me without the slightest change in his deadpan expression and said, “You can explain this to the lieutenant.”

  In her ripped dress, the tiara of braids loose around her shoulders, Beatriz had fire in her eyes. “He’s the one. That one there,” she said to the cops with obvious relish. “The bandido my friend captured.” No more a sad old lady, she had morphed into a virago.

  “The bandido that we captured, Beatriz,” I said. “Without you, it wouldn’t have happened.”

  “Sí,” she agreed, the triumph on her face practically wiping out her wrinkles. Her finger steady as a rock, she pointed to our captive. “He cut a treasure to ribbons. The settee is irreplaceable, and now look at it. All for drugs. He refused to believe we knew nothing about such things. Except for the bag of cocaine.”

  “The bag of what?” Batano asked.

  Uh-oh.

  “In his backpack.
Over there on the chair.”

  “Search it,” Batano ordered. Officer Hughes stepped forward, went through the pack and retrieved the plastic bag.

  “The old lady gave it to me,” our intruder said.

  “Liar!” Beatriz shouted.

  “Is that true?” Batano asked her. “You give it to him?”

  “No. He stole it off my desk.”

  Oh, boy. Wait till Rossi hears this one.

  “Get his stats and read him his rights,” Batano said to Hughes. “Then get him some first aid.” He cocked a finger at Beatriz and me. “Now if you’ll come into your office, Mrs. Vega—you too, Mrs. Dunne—we’ll see that the lieutenant is notified.”

  We stepped over the piles of records on the office floor, plucked our personal belongings off the desktop, replaced them in our purses, and took the same chairs we’d been sitting on when the intruder burst in on us.

  The mall security guard trailed after Batano like a chaperone on a school outing. He rarely emerged from the TV monitor room. I guess his philosophy was if nothing appeared on his screens, then nothing was wrong. I had a feeling that was about to change. The security cameras didn’t reach inside the individual shops, a loophole the shop owners would want plugged now that they had proof the current system didn’t keep them safe.

  Worse, when the monitors were down, as they had been the night José was killed—and several other nights the previous month—the main areas weren’t patrolled either. The problem must have been corrected though; the monitors hadn’t conked out once since José died.

  Anyway, while Batano quizzed Beatriz, I sat waiting for the sound of Rossi’s voice.

  He came in silently, nodding at Batano’s update, not saying a word, listening. Then he went over to Beatriz and took her hand. “Mrs. Vega, are you well?”

  “I am excellent, Lieutenant, thanks to Deva.” Her tone left no doubt she meant what she said.

  He let go of her hand and turned to me, giving me a hooded eye sweep. “You’re pale,” he said. “Are you all right?”

  “Yes. I’m fine, but Beatriz is giving me too much credit.” I smiled at him, hoping he’d smile back. No such luck. “We were a team.”

  He took the notepad and pencil stub out of his shirt pocket. “Please begin at the beginning. You first, Mrs. Vega.”

  He quizzed us for over an hour. We told him everything we knew, which on my side wasn’t much. When we were finished, he said, “Thank you. You’ve both been very cooperative. And brave.” He swiveled his attention to me. “Officer Hughes will escort you to your car.”

  “That won’t be—”

  His arched eyebrow challenged me to go on. I shut up.

  He turned back to Beatriz. “Mrs. Vega, Officer Batano and I will drive you home and make sure your house is secure. While this incident is under investigation, we’ll post a guard on your property. So rest assured your safety is our concern.”

  “You think there’s danger for me?” she asked.

  “I don’t know. If drugs are involved, there might be.”

  We all left the Galleria together. Officer Hughes stood guard at the shop’s entrance, but the other officers and our intruder were gone. “After you see Mrs. Dunne to her car, follow us to Mrs. Vega’s home,” Rossi said to Hughes.

  Beatriz locked up and hugged me goodbye. I was hoping Rossi would take me aside and say he’d be by later, but with only a curt dip of his head, he took Beatriz’s elbow and walked her toward the elevator.

  “Let’s go, Officer,” I said to Hughes.

  “Yes, ma’am,” she said. One thing I’d learned about Hughes: she never stepped out of her professional role. Probably wore her gun on dates. Over her cocktail dress.

  She watched as I unlocked the Audi and got in. “Have a good day,” she said, standing there legs apart, one hand on her holster.

  “I already have,” I replied, but she didn’t break out with even a scintilla of a smile. Probably didn’t understand gallows humor. Whatever.

  So with Hughes watching, I pressed the door locks, buckled up and started the Audi. As I drove through the parking lot, I realized Hughes wasn’t the only one checking on my movements. Two vehicles away, I spotted Austin crouched beside an SUV. What was he doing there, hiding so close to my car? I’d been in the mall for hours. Had he waited all afternoon for me to come out? If so, how strange.

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Rossi didn’t call that evening, nor did I expect him to. He had a druggie intruder to interrogate and two murders to solve. Though I longed to see him and explain all over again why I had gone to the mall despite his warning, one look in my bathroom mirror—horrors—convinced me it was just as well he hadn’t come by.

  In the morning, I had an appointment with the surgeon and expected him to remove the stitches. High time. It wasn’t close enough to Halloween to walk around looking like a fright mask. Something needed to be done about that, and I flipped through my cell menu until I found a certain number.

  The next day, feeling ten pounds lighter without the stitches in my scalp, I made a beeline for the Day of Beauty Spa and put myself in the hands of a gal named Patty.

  “The works,” I said. “Mani, pedi, facial, massage, shampoo—two shampoos—haircut and let’s go all out—makeup too.”

  I brought an apricot sundress and high-heeled sandals along in a garment bag. And when Patty and pals got through with me, I left the salon clad in the sundress, a drift of Prada’s Candy Perfume—I couldn’t eat it but at least I could spritz it behind my ears—and a highly elevated sense of self-esteem.

  I got to the shop just before closing time. Lee sent my ego into the stratosphere with one word. “Wow!”

  “Thank you, I needed that. You positively don’t, but I want to give you an early Christmas present anyway. A session at the Naples Day of Beauty Spa.”

  Lee was that rare woman, lithe and slim, except where it was better not to be, a natural blonde who could pose for a magazine cover without needing to be airbrushed into perfection. “A spa makes you feel wonderful,” I tempted.

  “But then we’d have to close the shop for a day.”

  A pang of remorse lowered me onto the zebra settee across from her bureau plat. “It’s true I’ve been gone a lot lately. I don’t know what I’d do without you, Lee.”

  She gave me one of her gentle smiles, the kind that must turn Paulo to mush. “Y’all look like you’re about to cry and wreck your makeup.”

  “No way! So okay, we’ll save your spa visit for when I’m spending more time here, but that probably won’t be until after the mall murders are solved. And they will be solved. They have to be. In the meanwhile, I’d like you to have more say in decision making, especially in ordering goods for the shop. How does that sound to you?”

  She sat perched on the edge of her seat, listening to every word, her interest urging me on.

  “At first we’ll go through the catalogs together. As you gain experience, you can do more of the ordering. And if you have any ideas for change or innovation, let me know. Someday, Lee, after you get your degree and have more design experience, I’m hoping you’ll come into the business as a partner.” One look at the somber expression on her face and I faltered. “Only if you want to, of course.”

  “I’d love it. It’s my secret dream but...” her voice quavered, “...I don’t know if I’ll ever get my degree.”

  Stunned, I asked, “Why not? I know how hard you’ve been working and—”

  “I’ve been struggling with my assignment all week, but nothing’s coming together, and it’s driving me crazy.” She stopped speaking to swipe a hand across her eyes. Except for the time Paulo was sent to Paris to study while she stayed behind in Naples, I’d rarely seen Lee so upset.

  “Is the assignment something I can help you with?” I asked.

 
“Y’all are so busy. I can’t bother you with classwork.”

  “We’re friends, aren’t we, Lee?

  Eyes brimming, she nodded.

  “When a friend turns to you for help, that’s an honor not a bother. So...do you have your schoolwork with you?”

  “I do!” She reached down and lifted a canvas design portfolio onto the bureau plat. I locked the front door and together we poured over her drawings.

  “Y’all are going to laugh at this, but we’re working on a showhouse.”

  I did laugh. “Really? Which room is yours?”

  “The game room. The problem is fitting in a big old pool table. It takes up so much space. And look at this.” She picked up a sheet of paper and handed it to me. “Everything on this list has to be included without looking crowded.” She flung down her pencil and pulled a sheaf of drawings out of the portfolio. “Not a single one of these is right. Every one does look crowded.”

  I studied her renderings. One or two were close to a solution, but not quite.

  “The pool table is definitely a white elephant.” I tapped her page. “You’ve centered it. Why not move it to one end of the room? Just be sure to leave enough space around it for the players to use cue sticks.”

  “But the assignment says the table has to be the focal point.”

  “It still will be. A focal point is what attracts the most attention. No rule dictates a certain placement for that.”

  A smile lit her face. “No, come to think of it, there isn’t any such rule at all. I created my own problem.” With one hand, she made a quick pass at her eyes and flicked away a final tear. “Thank you so much. Paulo will be pleased too. He’s been trying to help me, but he’s an artist, not an interior designer.”

  “How is Paulo, by the way? I haven’t seen him since he painted that kitchen and saved my life.”

  “He’s just fine. Working hard on his latest commission. You should see it. He’s so gifted.”

  “I know. He has many gifts. And you’re one of them.”

  She laughed, but I meant it.

  “Paulo’s probably waiting for you even as we speak.” I stood and picked up my straw bag. “I’m hoping you both can join me at the Showhouse opening next week. Everybody who made a contribution is invited. String orchestra, open bar, hors d’oeuvres.”