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

by Jean Harrington

  Feeling calmer, I returned to the kitchen where, with a little rummaging, I found a box of elbow macaroni in the pantry and Nana Kennedy’s recipe for mac and cheese. It had been my favorite meal throughout childhood and beyond, though I hadn’t made it in years. Not since my husband Jack died.

  I stared at the pot of water I’d just placed on the stove. Days had gone by since I last thought of Jack. Once he’d been my first thought each morning and my last each night. A spurt of sadness shot through me as the loss of him came rushing back with all the ferocity of new grief. Unlike Kay, Jack hadn’t died with bruises on his neck. He’d been killed by an icy highway. The foul play had been Mother Nature’s, but he was gone just the same. I’d loved him and lost him.

  Then, to my great joy, life had brought me a new love. And he’d be home soon. I shook off the sadness as I knew Jack would want me to, found a brick of cheddar cheese in the fridge and began cooking in earnest.

  I was chopping the lettuce, so engrossed in my task I didn’t hear Rossi come in, and suddenly there he was, standing in the kitchen doorway with a big white Chiclets grin on his face and his arms open wide.

  I hurried to him and was rewarded by a kiss with a beginning and no end—the kind that segued from one into another and another. When we finally parted, leaving barely enough room to slide a piece of paper between us, I said, “You’re still wearing your pool clothes. No time to get to Countryside and change?”

  “No need. They dried on me. Florida in July. Nothing like it.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells terrific.”

  “Yup. Comfort food. I thought I’d surprise you.”

  If anything, his grin widened. “And I have a surprise for you.”

  My heart skipped a beat. “The bruises on Kay’s neck didn’t mean a thing? She wasn’t murdered, after all?”

  A cold silence chilled the air. “No. That’s not it.”

  “That’s not what?”

  “The surprise.” His voice didn’t warm things up a bit.

  “Okay, I do want to hear the surprise, but first tell me about Kay. Was my theory correct? Was she murdered?”

  He dropped his hands to his sides and gave me one of those long detective sighs he churned out whenever I prodded him for information. “If you must know, foul play is the probable cause.”

  “Officially? Did the ME verify it?” Now that I had him talking—sort of—I’d keep him going. With Rossi you never knew when he’d clam up, a trait I found both exasperating and endearing. Exasperating.

  “Yes. She was dead before she hit the pool. There wasn’t any water in her lungs. He’s citing strangulation as cause of death.”

  Wow. I’d gone back to chopping lettuce, but stopped for a moment to digest what he’d just said. Believing the bruises meant bad news and knowing it for certain were two different things. Poor Kay. Like Connie Rae, she’d been a woman with so much to live for, and yet she’d come to an untimely end. A violent end. They both had.

  The knife forgotten in my hand, I stiffened as the insight struck home. Connie Rae had been murdered too. Again I had no proof, nothing to go on. Just a sudden, soul-deep conviction that like Kay, someone’s hatred had killed her. But whose? And why?

  No question about it, a murderer was on the loose, and chances were good it was someone I knew, someone I saw every day. So it was a good thing I had the Cobra stashed in my tote.

  Rossi’s arm stole around me. “Deva, you okay? You kind of went pale just then.”

  “Sorry.” I sagged against him for a moment. “The truth took my breath away, but I’m all right now.” The last thing Rossi would want to hear was one of my hunches, or that from now until this case was solved, I’d be packing. So I stood straight, inhaled and changed the subject. “Tell me your surprise.”

  His grin returned, megawatt wide. “You’re about to gain a star boarder.”

  “Meaning?”

  “I sold my house.”

  Uh-oh. “Omigod, so fast?”

  “Yeah. I can’t get over it. The second couple who saw the place put down a deposit. Didn’t even argue price. Isn’t that great?”

  “That’s absolutely wonderful.” I smooched him on the cheek before peering into the oven. The casserole was as bubbly as Mauna Loa. “Any idea when they plan to move in?”

  “As soon as the ink dries on the sales agreement. They’re paying in cash. No mortgage. No bank involvement. Just an inspection, a title search and the sale goes right through.”

  I cleared my throat. “We have a problem, Rossi.”

  His happy grin disappeared. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased.”

  “Oh, I am. But everything’s happened so fast, I haven’t had a chance to tell you my news. I have a surprise too.”

  “Yeah?” His voice guarded, he waited for me to spring it on him.

  “I sold the condo to Lee and Paulo. Guess when they’re planning to move in?”

  “Don’t tell me next week or something.”

  “Bingo!”

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  We scarfed down the mac and cheese. It was every bit as delicious as I remembered, and Rossi, to my delight, had thirds. Thirds.

  Too busy enjoying our dinner, we didn’t obsess over the fact that we’d soon be without a home. As Rossi pointed out, now we’d have more than sufficient construction money, and that was the important thing.

  He leaned across the table to kiss me yet again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll rent somewhere for a few months until our little dream palace is finished.”

  He had showered and changed. Fresh shorts and a Hawaiian with a view of Diamond Head repeated all over his chest.

  After the day’s juggernaut of events, we were finally beginning to relax when his cell phone rang. Darn it. Trouble. Too bad he hadn’t been wearing the cell when he jumped in the pool.

  He listened, said a few words then closed the phone. “I won’t be watching that movie with you after all. Have to go.” He quickly changed into long pants and a gun. “Be back as soon as I can. Dinner was fantastic.”

  A quick farewell kiss, the door closed behind him, and I was alone. Such was life with a homicide detective. I’d better get used to it. It wouldn’t change, ever. He’d keep on dashing off to work at all kinds of hours with a Glock strapped to his body, and coming home in the wee hours. But complaining was futile. Rossi had chosen a dangerous career, and despite knowing that full well, I had chosen Rossi.

  With a resigned sigh, I got up from the table and brought the dirty dishes out to the kitchen. Even with all the uncertainty and danger, I wouldn’t ask for anything different. Rossi’s job fulfilled him, and he fulfilled me. My cup runneth over.

  Without a moment’s hesitation, he had risked his own life today to save mine. I wanted to watch his back too, help him as best I could. My interference, as he called it, was my way of helping. My way of showing how much I loved him. Being the perceptive man that he was, he’d no doubt already figured that out. But no way in hell would he admit it, unless, say, in a moment of passion I forced the truth out of him. Or else. I had to smile. That probably would work, but it would mark a new low in the life of Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne.

  I glanced at the kitchen clock. The movie would be on soon, and I hated missing the opening scenes. The table clear, the dishwasher stacked, I hurried out to the living room and switched on the lamps.

  A manila envelope lay on a club chair. Rossi had left in such a rush he must have forgotten it. I picked it up, intending to put it on the desk, when my glance fell on his big bold handwriting. The Kay Hawkins Case.

  Oh? I stood in the center of the living room, the envelope burning holes in my palms. I turned it over. Only a metal clasp held the flap closed. Would I or wouldn’t I?

  While I’m used to devils—after all, they’re in the details of every project I tackle—this time a different kind of devil, demon curiosity, had me in its grip. Envelope in hand, pulse drumming out a guilty tango, I flopped down on the sofa and,
forgetting all about a movie for one, I undid the clasp and slid out the contents.

  The handwritten notes of everyone who had been at the Stahlman house that morning lay on my lap. The routine information—names, addresses, phone numbers—I perused quickly. The whereabouts of each person at the time Kay died were what captured my attention.

  Naomi, my handwriting guru, would have a field day with the various ways these people wrote—left leaning, right leaning, large script, one so tiny it looked like cursive in miniature, a few flamboyant capitals and...wait a minute. I stopped riffling through the pages. One of these writing samples might belong to the murderer. As Naomi had explained when I brought Mike’s letters to her, what a person wrote revealed the information he wanted known. How he wrote revealed his secret intent. I believed in the connection between handwriting and behavior but lacked the skill to get at the truth. I needed Naomi.

  I checked my watch. Eight o’clock, still early. Rossi wouldn’t be back until God knew when. He might even be gone all night. No time like the present.

  I tucked the pages back in the envelope and went in search of my cell phone where I’d stored Naomi’s phone number. If she were at home tonight and feeling well enough for a visitor, I’d ask if I could make a house call. With her expertise, no telling what she might uncover.

  Her number rang three, four times.

  “Come on, come on, come on,” I urged and finally, on the fifth ring, someone picked up.

  “Hello.”

  “Hi, this is Deva Dunne. May I speak to Naomi, please.”

  “Oh. I guess you haven’t heard.” At the sound of the young woman’s lifeless voice, my heart sank. This wasn’t going to be good news. “My mom died yesterday.”

  “No, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”

  We spoke for a few minutes, and I learned that according to Naomi’s wishes, there would be no funeral. No final farewell...and, of course, no handwriting analysis in an attempt to nail a murderer.

  Poor Naomi. I sat still for a long while with the manila envelope forgotten on my lap. Yet another woman had died an untimely death, but there was a measure of comfort in remembering that while Naomi was alive, she’d done a lot of good for a lot of people. How I wished she were still here to do a good deed once again.

  Now what? For sure, there were other handwriting analysts to be had, and with the resources of the Naples P.D. at his disposal, Rossi could undoubtedly find an expert graphologist somewhere. Providing, of course, he could be convinced to do so. If I suggested it, he’d probably think I was interfering again.

  Well, I was... I sighed and slid the papers out of the envelope.

  Naomi had told me about the writing differences between a truth-teller and a liar. What had she said? Think. Think.

  Not knowing where to start, I flipped through the sheets. Rossi had had a busy afternoon. He’d gotten statements from Mike and Tony. And even one from Marilyn Stahlman. With my testimony and Tom’s that made eleven in all.

  I put the statements from the two painters and Tom’s and mine back into the envelope—that left seven samples to consider.

  Outside a dog’s bark echoed in the quiet night. I smiled a little, thinking of Charlotte. Knowing something was wrong this morning, the tiny ball of fluff had tried to alert the household. I’d probably surprised her popping out of the sliders as I’d done. I stared past the pools of lamplight into the shadows. Something bothered me, but I couldn’t put a finger on what it might be.

  The dog barked again. Maybe he’d found a squirrel or a mouse to chase, or a passing car. Charlotte had been barking for James. Or Eileen. Not for me. Or the painters. Or Tom.

  Tom. I bolted upright on the couch. He’d met me outside of 590 this morning. I’d never asked if he’d strolled around the property before I arrived. If he had, he might have encountered Kay in the bikini that had so entranced him the other day...but he hadn’t said a word about seeing her. Not a word. Still, that didn’t mean he hadn’t.

  Slowly, reluctantly, I removed his statement from the envelope and added it to the others.

  Most familiar with Mike’s writing, I’d begin with his. Wiping my damp palms on my T-shirt, I held his page under the lamplight, conscious suddenly of the danger that a graphology novice like me could falsely interpret what I saw—or believed I saw.

  The only alternative was not to even try, and that would yield nothing. So I took a deep breath and plunged into what Mike had written. Despite the tension beading on my forehead, I exhaled a long, relieved sigh when I finished reading his report. He hadn’t changed a bit since Naomi examined his prison letters. His signature was as flamboyant as ever, full of self-important swirls and flourishes, the rest of his writing small and crabbed. And there in a downstroke was the felon’s claw again. Yup, Mike would lie like a rug and embezzle his grandmother out of food stamps, but I saw no signs of violence in his hand. No clubbed t bars, no dots looking like arrows over the i’s, no stabbed ovals. He was a con man, not a killer.

  I let the paper drop to my lap. Naomi’s input had colored my thinking and skewed my observations. What about the other statements, the handwriting she hadn’t seen?

  Without her help, I had to figure out what these loops and lines and squiggles meant over and above what they actually said. I stared at the sheaf of papers. No way could I decipher their secrets. I didn’t have the knowledge and no one and nothing to turn to for help. Not tonight anyway. And that was all the time I had. The statements were part of a police investigation. Rossi would be sure to look for them when he returned. If I were going to accomplish anything, it had to be now, but I had nothing to work with. Not a single tool.

  And then, in a rush of adrenaline, I remembered. The book Naomi had given me. Of course! I’d put it in the guest room bookcase and then forgotten about it. Egads.

  I leaped up and ran to the guest room. The bookcase was mostly filled with design texts I’d saved from BU, trade magazines and some glossy coffee table volumes. Where was it? Ah, there. Nestled between the iconic Ralph Lauren Homes and Mario Buattas’s Fifty Years of American Interior Decoration lay M. N. Bunker’s The Science of Determining Personality by Graphoanalysis. Rossi would no doubt scoff at the word science, but I grabbed the book, a legal pad and pen, and hurried back to the living room.

  Sitting on the sofa, I carefully compared each witness sample—one word, one line, one page at a time—with examples from Bunker’s book. I was looking for signs of aberrant behavior and trying hard not to rush to judgment, or to be inventive and see what simply wasn’t there to be seen.

  I began with the men’s handwriting, and found a lot of quirky stuff: tiny, uptight printing indicating anxiety; the left-hand slant of an introvert; the retraced upper loops of a cautious perfectionist; words with the unreadable middle zones that signaled unhappiness; and the high-flying t bars of a dreamer. In short, many fascinating traits, but nothing that revealed the potential for murder.

  Hmm. Perhaps I wasn’t concentrating on the right strokes. Since Kay’s death appeared to be a crime of passion, maybe I should concentrate on the lower loops, the erogenous zone Naomi had called them.

  I picked up a page. Stew’s y’s and g’s swooped down then looped vigorously up to the base line. No surprise at seeing his healthy libido. James wasn’t outdone in that department either. That was a bit of a surprise, though it shouldn’t have been. After all, he’d been about to embark on his third trip down the aisle. Tony’s y’s and g’s were simply straight lines. Well, he did live with his mother, so not much of a sex life there. Tom and Mike’s looked normal too, nothing deviant or weird that I could see.

  Now for the women. While I didn’t think a woman had killed Kay, on the theory that you never know until you know, I separated out their statements from the men’s and took a good, hard look at their erogenous zones. Nothing. Nothing. Nothing. And then I got to Eileen’s.

  Omigod. Who would have believed it? The paper slid out of my hands and fluttered to the floor.

 
“Deva, what are you doing?”

  His voice startled me so, I screamed. When my heartbeat went back to something less South American, I said, “Rossi, for Pete’s sake. Why did you sneak in like that?”

  “I didn’t sneak in. I was trying to be quiet. I thought you might be asleep.” He pointed to the papers scattered around me. “Are those what I think they are?”

  Before I could answer, he stooped and picked up Eileen’s statement, then began collecting the others.

  “Rossi, I’ve just discovered something.”

  “No. I’ve just discovered something. You’re interfering again.”

  “But this is important. It might have a bearing on the case.”

  He stuffed the papers into the envelope and placed it on the desk. “Let’s turn in. We’ve both had a long day.”

  “But something’s there in Eileen’s handwriting.”

  “Deva, I appreciate your attempt to help. My right hand to God. But are you a skilled graphologist?”

  “No, but—”

  “It takes years to develop that skill. Years. Are you listening?”

  I nodded.

  “So not to be unkind but whatever you found is an amateur’s insight, not a professional’s. Got that?”

  Another nod.

  “I believe in graphology,” he said. I tried to speak, but he held up a palm for silence. “The chief believes in graphology. And if he so decides, these writing samples may...may...be faxed to Miami to a professional analyst. Got that?”

  When I didn’t answer, he added, “No pun intended, but are we on the same page here?”