[M. by D. #5] The Design Is Murder

by Jean Harrington

  We asked for a booth. As we were being seated, Rossi told the waiter we needed some time before ordering and slid in beside me. Across from us, Harlan unrolled the renderings he had downloaded and laid them out flat.

  A single glance at the first one and my breath caught in my throat. He had captured it perfectly—my dream of a house.

  A rectangle on stilts, its narrow side with high windows faced the street, its opposite side all glass, ending in a V-shaped teakwood deck that jutted over the water like the prow of a ship. With its tin roof, board-and-batten siding and Bermuda shutters tilting over the windows, it was exactly what I’d hoped for—an inspired combination of both the old and new Floridas. I loved it on sight.

  “Brilliant! A marvelous use of the space.”

  I felt like high fiving or jumping up and down until Harlan said, “You doubted I could pull off a simple design like this?”

  “No, I never doubted your ability for an instant.”

  “That’s why you’re here,” Rossi said, his voice gravelly with more than mere irritation.

  I squeezed his knee under the table, a signal not to piss off the genius. “I was concerned though, Harlan, that your dreams and mine might not be the same.” I tapped the drawing. “But in this we’ve come together in a perfect union.”

  “So to speak,” Rossi added wryly. This time he squeezed my knee.

  “I’m glad you’re both pleased.” Harlan flipped the sheet to the next drawing. “Shall we have a look at the inside?”

  “Can’t wait.”

  Flanking the deck and open to the water view, a high-ceilinged great room dominated the interior. Behind it was a good-sized kitchen and ample area for dining. Two bedrooms, each with its own bath, he’d positioned farther back, on the side facing the rear lawn and driveway.

  Harlan pointed to the deck. “Assuming you’ll spend a good deal of time out here, I made it quite sizable. Notice how the point of the V is open to the sun, and the area adjoining the great room is roofed over for shade.” He glanced across at me. “With your red hair and complexion—” freckles, “—I knew you’d want some shade.”

  “Good thinking.” Rossi had forgotten his irritation and was studying the renderings with rapt attention. That he liked what he saw, I hadn’t a doubt and knew I wouldn’t have to squeeze his knee again anytime soon.

  “For a hint of that old Florida reference you asked for, I see heart of pine floors and bead-board ceilings,” Harlan said. “Their traditional look could be offset by the latest in kitchen and bath installations.” He paused to throw me a bone. “That’s where your...ah...expertise can come in.”

  “Yes, selecting the interior details will be my great pleasure. There are a few changes I’d like to make to the closets and some of the window placements, but overall, I’m delighted.” I extended a hand across the tabletop. “My thanks to you, Harlan, for this wonderful vision. Rossi and I will be very happy living in it.”

  Harlan cleared his throat and nodded, though very slightly—he was obviously used to having his work praised—and flipped the sheet to show us a lateral elevation.

  Happy with the plans, Rossi took a business card out of his pocket, scrawled his home address on the back and slid it across the table. “Send the bill to this address.”

  All was good. Better than good. Actually wonderful. Imagine, someone with Harlan’s prickly personality creating so much joy. But he had. And we soon brought some joy to the hovering waiter by ordering a celebratory lunch.

  After chicken quesadillas and iced tea, Harlan left for another appointment. Alone with Rossi, I snuggled up to him in the booth. “I’m so happy,” I said.

  He gave me a quick kiss. “Nothing could please me more. That’s what I live for. Seeing how thrilled you were with the plans, I know you’ll want to start building as soon as possible. So it’s a good thing I put my house on the market this morning.”

  I nearly choked on the last of my iced tea. “What!”

  He nodded. “No need to waste time. The realtor told me she thinks the house will sell fast. So as soon as it does, I’ll be looking for a place to stay.” He sent me an easy smile. “Any idea where I can bunk for a while?”

  “No. I mean yes, but—”

  He checked his watch and jumped up. “Sorry to run off on you, sweetheart, but I have to go. I’m late. The chief’s waiting for me. We’ll talk about the house later, okay?”

  “But—”

  “I’ll call you as soon as I can.”

  He gave me a quick, distracted kiss and made a beeline for the exit. And the waiter? Well, the waiter rushed over to the booth and handed me the bill.

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Back at the shop, Lee was busy helping a client look for drapery fabric. I sent her a thumb and forefinger circle, indicating all was well—a little white lie—or maybe not so little. That was what I’d find out when I had a chance to talk with Rossi about our housing situation. Regardless, I’d promised Lee the condo and as far as I was concerned that was a sacred vow.

  Needing to complete a search for the Hawkins house accessories, I went straight to the computer. My vision called for rugged Western-styled pieces but not cowboy clichés.

  I was just getting into it when the shop phone rang. Lee usually answered, but she’d gone to the restroom. “We’re back,” a gravelly voice announced.

  “Stew Hawkins?”

  “The same. I told you to yank the guys out of here and lock up, but let’s get the show on the road again.”

  “I’ll have the crew there tomorrow morning,” I said. “First thing.”

  “Sounds good. Not too early though, okay? My fiancée might want to sleep in. Me too.”

  “Fiancée? Wow! May I ask who the ah...lucky woman is?”

  A short bark of a laugh burst through the line. “Who else? Teresa, of course. Bought her a rock in the diamond district. Figured I might as well. The price was right.”

  “Well, congratulations. Have you set a date yet?”

  “No, no. No date,” he said hastily. “I’m taking it one step at a time. Just keeping the household peaceful at the moment, you know what I mean.”

  “I see.” Interesting.

  I hung up wondering if he really intended to marry Teresa or was playing a waiting game—give her a ring and keep her dangling forever. Or until she gave up. If so, he was underestimating her. Badly.

  * * *

  The next day, Whiskey Lane went back to its new normal—two trucks, two crews, two houses undergoing renovation.

  In my seasonal favorite, the mustard-yellow shift, I stopped in at the Hawkins place first. Teresa met me at the front door wearing red silk pajamas and The Ring. She waggled her left hand in front of my eyes.

  “It’s gorgeous,” I said, meaning it.

  Big, with baguettes, the center diamond sparkled all right but no more so than Teresa’s big white grin. If I had doubts that Stew would actually marry her, she obviously didn’t. I gave a mental shrug. I could be entirely wrong, and for Teresa’s sake if for no other reason, I hoped I was.

  Taking me by the arm, she drew me inside. “I told you I’d make him happy,” she whispered. “And—”

  “You did.”

  “Did what?” a deep voice asked.

  “Researched some furniture for you,” I said, whirling around to face Stew, who had stomped out of the bedroom wing in bare feet and a red silk robe that was an exact match to Teresa’s pj’s.

  “Oh, Stew, you’re wearing your new robe. I love it on you,” she gushed. “Don’t you, Deva?”

  “Absolutely. Stew, you’re enough to stop a car.”

  “Humph.”

  “I bought it at Macy’s,” Teresa said. “The real one on 34th Street. Isn’t he handsome? Red’s your color, Stew.”

  “Don’t get carried away. I couldn’t find another damn thing in the suitcase.” He sniffed the air. “How about some of that coffee? Vacation’s over. I have to get back to the plant.”

  “Coming ri
ght up,” Teresa said. A dutiful fiancée or a dutiful housekeeper, I couldn’t tell which, she hurried out to the kitchen after Stew.

  I strolled into the living room and sniffed the air. The odor of fresh paint mingled with the coffee. A painter was already at work finishing up where he left off a few days ago. “Have you seen Tom?” I asked.

  Without missing a stroke, he said, “He’s setting up in the master bedroom.”

  The Snake Room.

  Stop that, I told myself. There are no snakes in there. Not anymore.

  “Desert sunset on the walls, Joe,” Tom was saying as I walked in. “Classic white in semi on the woodwork and flat on the ceiling. When Pete’s finished in the other room, he’ll be in to help you.”

  With the situation at 595 under control, Tom and I crossed Whiskey Lane and rang the bell at 590. My pulse rate tangoed a bit as we waited for someone to open the door. But I needn’t have worried. Eileen, in her white uniform, her hair tucked into its usual neat bun, let us in. All was calm.

  In the living room, Tom’s painters were applying the third coat of latex to the walls. That should do it. Even with two coats, the room looked fresh and bright.

  Eileen went into the kitchen, returning with coffee and dainty homemade pastries for the men.

  Nice.

  James, Kay and even Marilyn were nowhere in sight.

  “Is Mr. Stahlman at home?” I asked.

  “No, ma’am,” Eileen replied. “He’s at a meeting with his attorney. He should be back soon though. Said he wouldn’t be gone long.”

  I knew he hadn’t taken his constant companion with him, for Miss Charlotte was outside in the rear garden, whimpering and barking and carrying on like an agitated tiger. She wasn’t usually so noisy. Something had her all excited.

  “Charlotte sure is having fun out there.”

  Busy pouring coffee, Eileen nodded.

  Curious, I strolled over to the living room sliders and glanced outside. Tail wagging furiously, Charlotte scampered halfway up the slope, barking like a junkyard dog. Then, tail still wagging, she dashed back down and disappeared around the boxwood hedge.

  Intrigued, I watched her performance a few more times. She was filled with energy today. The little devil. With James gone, the chance to misbehave must have been irresistible.

  Woof, woof!

  There she came again, running up the slope. I opened the sliders and stepped out into sunshine perfumed with gardenias.

  “Come on, Charlotte, come on!”

  She stopped, woofed a few more times and scooted away.

  I tried temptation. “Be a good girl, and I’ll take you for a walk.”

  But even that magic word didn’t bring her running to me, eager for a stroll. Guess she knew it wasn’t time for her cocktail dog walk. “Oh come on, Charlotte,” I urged. “Be a sport. It’s five o’clock somewhere.”

  She peeked out, barked, then disappeared behind the boxwood. God only knew what she was getting into back there. She’d probably found a squirrel or a dead bird and didn’t want to leave it. For James’s sake, I’d better make sure she was all right.

  I hurried down the new terrace steps. Tony and Mike had done a super job. The rough-hewn stones had much more traction than the slick ones they’d replaced. Snakeman or not, Tony’s name was one I intended to add to my growing list of good business contacts.

  “Charlotte,” I called from the bottom of the slope. “Where are you? Be nice. Say hello.”

  Woof. She scampered over, licked my ankles and let me pat her head. But when I bent down to pick her up, Miss Queen-of-the-Cuddle dashed out of reach and darted behind the hedge.

  “You want to show me what you found? That it? Okay, but I hope it isn’t gruesome.” Feeling slightly apprehensive about encountering a mangled bird or something, I chased after her.

  At the far end of the enclosure, the pool sparkled, beautiful and blue in the morning sunshine, and there she was by the deep end, her front paws on the very edge of the tiled apron.

  Heavens, could she swim? If anything happened to Charlotte, James would die. A good thing I’d come to investigate.

  For fear she’d run away, or worse, fall in, I didn’t approach any nearer.

  “Come on. Come on, girl,” I coaxed.

  No dice. She ignored me and stood her ground, her gaze riveted on the water.

  What was so fascinating?

  Curious, I stepped in closer and looked down into the pool. A scream ripped out of my throat. Then another. And another.

  Submerged in eight feet of water, a woman was floating facedown, the stars on her bikini pointing to the bottom of the pool, the stripes to the sky.

  Coming on the run, Tom reached me in no time, followed by an ashen-faced Eileen.

  “It’s Kay Hawkins,” I said. “Call 9-l-l. Hurry.”

  Tom felt his pockets. “I don’t have my cell with me.”

  Eileen grabbed Charlotte and ran up the slope toward the house. I kicked off my shoes, dove down and grasped Kay’s lifeless body. When I raised her to the pool’s edge, Tom grasped her under the shoulders, and together we lifted her out of the water and laid her on the tiled apron, her cold cheek pressed to the concrete.

  “We have to resuscitate her,” I said, but one look at Tom told me he was ready to pass out. Okay, I’d do it. Hiking the sodden shift up to my thighs, I straddled Kay and pressed on her back with both hands. Again and again, I pressed and let up. Pressed and let up. But she didn’t move, or sigh, or flutter an eyelash.

  Distraught, I asked, “Tom, can you do CPR?”

  He shook his head, obviously alarmed at the suggestion.

  I never had, either, but I’d seen it done. What was keeping the EMS?

  “Help me turn her over. I’m going to try.”

  We rolled Kay onto her back, and kneeling beside her, I squeezed her cheeks until her lips parted. My face against hers, I blew air from my lungs into her mouth. I lifted off and breathed again. Off and on. Off and on. Over and over, I tried until a firm hand touched my back.

  “That’s enough, ma’am,” someone said. “We’ll take it from here.”

  The rescue squad. I hadn’t even heard them arrive. With a sense of utter failure, I huddled by the pool in my wet dress while they struggled over Kay.

  After a handful of minutes that felt like a lifetime, the medic said, “Sorry, ma’am. We did our best, but there was no pulse or heartbeat. She was gone before we got here.”

  I nodded and glanced over at Kay lying there so beautiful and cold in her stunning flag bikini. Then for the first time, I noticed the bruises on her neck.

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  The living room sliders slammed open, and heavy footfalls pounded down the stone stairs.

  “Where is she?” Stew yelled. “Where is she?” He careened around the hedge, took one look at Kay and howled, “Omigod, noooooh!”

  With a few long strides, he reached her and fell to his knees beside her. Big and strong and tough as nails—and as gentle as a mother with a child—he lifted her lifeless form to his chest and held her against him. Sobbing, he rocked her back and forth, keening in a hopeless, frenzied rhythm.

  “I’m so sorry, Stew,” I said.

  Caught in a web of anguish, he didn’t respond.

  “Don’t leave me, Kay. Don’t leave me. There’s never been anyone but you. There never will be. Never.” He brushed her wet hair back from her forehead and kissed her cheek. “Say something, sweetheart. Talk to me. Say something. Anything. Give me hell like you used to. I miss that. I miss you. Please. I’m begging here, Kay. I’m begging.”

  Shivering in my wet clothes despite the relentless sun, I wanted to run from the scene or at least cover my ears and block out Stew’s pain, but at that moment, I didn’t have the energy to move a muscle.

  More footsteps sounded on the terrace stairs, and the two medics reappeared with a gurney. The older of the two, the one with Matt embroidered on his shirt pocket, approached Stew.

  “You
can let go now, sir. We’ll take care of her.”

  But Stew wasn’t ready to relinquish Kay’s body. Tears running down his face, he glanced up at Matt with dead eyes. “I’m her husband. Who the hell are you?”

  “I’m part of the EMS team, sir. You can give her to us now.”

  Stew shook his head, sending tears flying off his face. “No, I can’t.” He clutched Kay tighter. “She’s mine, not yours.” He upped his chin. “Not his, either. She was never his.”

  She was never whose?

  Startled, the medics and I swiveled around to see who Stew was glaring at. James Stahlman stood inside the hedge by the pool’s shallow end, his face a rigid mask of disbelief. As though cast in stone, he remained motionless, staring in shock at what lay before him.

  “What happened?” he asked Matt in a small whisper of a voice.

  “It looks like a drowning, sir. We’ve notified the police. Are you Mr. Stahlman?”

  James nodded.

  “Can you identify the deceased?”

  “Yes, she’s my fiancée, Kay Hawkins.” Spitting out “Hawkins” like an epithet, he pointed a trembling finger at Stew. “I want that man’s hands off her body, and I want him off my property.”

  Matt swiveled his attention to Stew. “You heard the gentleman. Under the circumstances, would you please comply?”

  “Gentleman, hah! He’s just a stiff in a pair of linen pants. She’s my wife, and I’m not letting her go. Not for the likes of him,” he sneered. “She used to laugh at you, you know that, Stahlman? Said you were the most boring guy she ever met. Used to joke about what you’d be like in bed.”

  As if he’d been struck, James shrank back against the shrubbery but didn’t reply. He wouldn’t, not to a vulgar jibe like that, but he paled, alarmingly so. Matt glanced over at the other medic, Bill, according to his pocket. “A chair for the man. Quick.”

  James waved Bill off with an impatient flick of his wrist and strode over to where Stew sat cradling Kay’s body. “Let her go,” he said quietly.

  “Like hell. I’m taking her with me. You’ve got no claim on her.”