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

by Jean Harrington

  “Did you?”

  “I tried. She wouldn’t listen. And now look at what’s happened.”

  I was stunned speechless, and that doesn’t happen very often. James a con man? A serial killer? Either Marilyn was paranoid or she had hit on the truth. My hot cheeks turned icy cold, and in my heart of hearts, I was glad Rossi knew all this—even if he hadn’t breathed a word of it to me.

  But Marilyn’s surprises weren’t at an end. “I don’t want to be a total hypocrite,” she added. “I came back for another reason too. My money. It’s a good thing I did. I thought since my death hadn’t been proven, and I was technically a missing person, James couldn’t touch my estate for several years. But I was mistaken. He had his lawyer working on a loophole in the law. By proving I had been exposed to a specific peril—drowning—he was about to have me declared legally dead. That meant my will could be probated and James would inherit my estate without further delay. He was only weeks away from doing exactly that when I...” her lip curled up, “...miraculously reappeared.”

  The swinging door to the dining room creaked open, startling both of us.

  James, with Charlotte in his arms, walked quietly into the kitchen, coming to a dead stop at the sight of Marilyn. His jaw hardened. “I’m unpleasantly surprised to see you here. You have permission to use the pool, but I don’t want you in the house. Please leave immediately.”

  “Can’t do it, Jimmy, not till my clothes are dry.”

  Deva to the rescue. “Eileen is ill. She’s has a bad stomach upset. We had to put her to bed and—”

  “She was sick all over us,” Marilyn said. “I think she’s down for the day. Nerves, no doubt. And you home for lunch, Jimmy. What a shame. Want me to make you a peanut butter sandwich?” A little smile flirted with her mouth. “I’ll cut off the crusts.”

  Without uttering a word, he turned on his heel and strode off as quietly as he had entered. The swinging door creaked behind him and bumped to a close.

  “Weren’t you a little rough on him, Marilyn?” I asked. “It’s possible he truly loved Kay. Not only her money. If so, he’s just suffered a tragic loss.”

  Marilyn slugged down the last of her coffee and slammed her mug on the tabletop. “He’s had a loss, no doubt about that, but not a financial one. I’d stake my life on it.”

  These days, on Whiskey Lane, those sure were dangerous odds.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “I have some news, but I warn you it isn’t good,” Rossi said as we were finishing dinner.

  My pulse revved up a notch. He was going to talk about his problems with the Hawkins case. “Whatever you say, I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  He stared at me, puzzled. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

  “Public knowledge, so soon? That’s a surprise.” My enthusiasm dimmed a little. If everyone knew already, telling me wasn’t such a big deal. “Well, bad news or not, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Harlan Conway called me this morning.”

  “Harlan? What’s he got to do with Kay’s murder?”

  “Nothing. And let me remind you that no one has been arrested for the Hawkins woman’s death. In short, no one’s been accused of murder. At least not yet.”

  “But—”

  He pushed his empty dinner plate back from the edge of the table. “You did it again, Deva.”

  “I don’t mean to be a pain. I’m just concerned about—”

  A flash of humor flitted across his face. “What do you say we start this conversation over? First, dinner was delicious. I love leftover mac and cheese.”

  I’d let that one go by. It had been a long day.

  “Second, the news from Harlan—which is what I was referring to—is somewhat disappointing.”

  “Oh?” My revved-up pulse soared into alarm mode. The last couple of days had been so traumatic, I’d actually forgotten about the house. “What’s wrong?”

  “Harlan had some test holes bored to see how deep the foundation supports should go.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no hardpan for over forty feet.”

  “Which means?”

  “The foundation will be way over budget and take twice as long to build as estimated.”

  I sagged against the back of my chair. “But it can be done?”

  “Yes. With time and money.”

  “And while all this is going on, we don’t have a place to live.”

  “Correct.”

  For the short term, six months or so, renting a place wasn’t a problem, but Naples was a resort mecca, and rental properties were at a premium. We couldn’t afford to spend a hefty part of our construction money on expensive digs while we waited God knew how long for the house to be finished.

  I blew out a breath. “We’re in trouble.”

  He treated me to one of his dazzling white smiles. “On the same page at last.”

  “I’m serious, Rossi.”

  “I know.” He leaned across the table to take my hand and rub his thumb across my palm. “In the morning I’ll call a few realtors, and I’ll put out feelers at the station. Some of the boys may know of a few reasonable rentals.” He wiggled his thumb. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll work this out. Every problem has a solution.”

  True. Even if it was one you didn’t like. Rossi knew that full well; he was trying to reassure me, and I loved him for it. But bottom line, we needed an affordable place to stay for maybe a year or more, and we needed it within a few weeks. So I wouldn’t leave all the searching up to him. I’d simply have to find some time to go apartment hunting too.

  I squeezed his hand before getting up to remove the dinner dishes. “Your news surprised me,” I said. “I thought you were going to tell me something about the Hawkins case.” He arched a brow but didn’t nibble at the bait. “Anyway,” I continued, “just so you’ll know, I saw Marilyn Stahlman today. She told me all about her James theory.”

  “That right?”

  “Yup. She said she’d told you everything too.”

  “Whatever everything means. All I know is she had a lot to say. All of it unsubstantiated suspicions.”

  “Maybe, but have you checked out Kay’s will?”

  “Yes.” He held up a warning finger. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions now...she left everything to Stahlman.”

  I nearly dropped the plates. “Aha! Marilyn was right. I knew it.”

  “What did I just say? There’s nothing illegal about Kay Hawkins’s will.”

  “Perhaps not, but have you checked out James’s as well?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not?”

  Rossi frowned. “I could take the Fifth here, but I’ll answer you just to end this discussion. There was no need. He told me what it contains. Kay was his sole beneficiary.”

  “Doesn’t that shoot off flares in your head?”

  “Not necessarily.” Rossi’s voice had gotten all clipped and terse. I was pushing and knew it, so I blew out a breath and stomped out to the kitchen carrying the dishes and feeling as low as a garage sale reject. I’d spent the past two days in a white nylon uniform five sizes too large, I’d just served leftovers for dinner, and my dream house—which at the moment was only a couple of bore holes in the ground—was already way over budget. Worse, my beloved fiancé wasn’t confiding in me, not fully anyway, even though I had been on what I was convinced was the murder scene from the get-go.

  In cargo shorts and bare feet, Rossi padded into the kitchen. I was rinsing the plates in the sink when he came up behind me and put a hand on my arm.

  “Deva, turn around,” he said. “Please.”

  The “please” did it. I whirled around and snugged my arms around his waist. Resting my head on his chest, I inhaled his aftershave as if it were oxygen.

  “I want to ask you something,” he said.

  “Anything. Shoot.”

  “If I suggested that you and I make each other the beneficiaries of our wills, would you agree to do so?”

>   I pulled away a little so I could look into his eyes. “Of course. I trust you completely.”

  “Ergo.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re no James Stahlman.”

  “And just who and what is a James Stahlman? A con artist? A killer?”

  “According to his wife, yes.”

  “A wife who disappeared for an entire year, letting rumors and innuendo swirl around her husband. Her grieving husband, I might add. The same woman who after mysteriously disappearing, suddenly reappeared out of the blue.” His hands dropped down my back, way down. “Now I ask you, is the word of a woman like that to be believed without question?”

  “Naturally you have questions. That’s only logical.”

  “Thank you.” Just a trace of sarcasm colored his tone.

  But I wasn’t ready to concede yet. “I like her. She cleaned up after Eileen yesterday without hesitating a moment. Trust me, that wasn’t easy, and she did it willingly. You could at least consider the possibility that she’s a decent woman who’s telling the truth.”

  “I have considered it. I am still considering it, but so far I’ve found no evidence to support her theory. When I do—”

  “I’ll be the first to know.”

  “Absolutely not. And now what do you say we continue this conversation somewhere else? Like in bed.”

  “How can I carry on a conversation, Rossi? I can’t think straight with your hands all over me this way.”

  “Now that’s an interesting bit of news. So let me ask you something else.”

  Busy nibbling on his ear lobe, I just murmured, “Umm.”

  “If one part of you shuts down, does another part open up?”

  I bit his lobe. “That question’s not worthy of an answer, Detective. Is your interrogation technique slipping?”

  “Apparently,” he said with mock despair. “I need to lie down.”

  And so I played a love game with Rossi and adored every moment of it. But my brain hadn’t shut down, not for a second. Whether it was true or not that James was a con man and possibly a murderer, I didn’t know. But Marilyn had planted seeds of suspicion in my mind and removed any lingering doubts I had that he was too polite to be real. Until now, I’d been hesitating about introducing prison-made furniture into his superficially flawless world, but no longer. The Help-a-Con Program needed a boost, so why not begin at the house of someone who might...might...be a con artist himself?

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The best-laid plans of mice and men often go belly up. No surprise there, and this time not even a hint of trouble. Actually, the morning was glorious, filled with sunshine and the scent of the sea. The breeze blew humid, of course, but that was no reason not to smile in a world that was so beautiful. Worry would do no good—it never did—and besides, I had work waiting and calls to make. Particularly one to Mike Hammerjack.

  At the door to the shop, our postal delivery woman handed me a stack of envelopes, probably all bills and ads, though on the top of the pile sat a lavender envelope addressed to me in a small, neat hand.

  I carried the mail inside, dropped it on my desk and picked up the letter. The postmark was too smudged to be legible, and there was no return address on the back. Hmm. Curious, I slit the envelope open and removed a sheet of lilac-scented paper written in the same neat handwriting as on the envelope.

  Dear Mrs. Dunne,

  Thank you so much for sending me the notebook of my beloved lost daughter, Connie Rae Hawkins. She was the dearest thing in my life and having her words to read over and over is a priceless gift. How sad that her new husband couldn’t get her to a heart surgeon in time to save her life. I know he intended to. He told me so himself...

  The rest of the words were a blur. In my hands, on this piece of lavender paper, was a written testimony that Stew had known about Connie Rae’s condition.

  When my initial shock ebbed, I read the letter a second time. Connie Rae’s mother sounded like a thoughtful, giving person. Despite her grief, she had reached out to thank me for a very pathetic little gift.

  Trying to remember everything Naomi had told me about graphology, I studied the handwriting. All I could see was sweetness in the rounded letters and sincerity in the lack of flourishes, and yes, sorrow in the droop of the final strokes. Though I’d be the first to admit my graphology skills were limited, I believed the woman was telling the truth about Stew. He’d known all along about his wife’s life-threatening condition and had denied knowing it both to the police and to me. The question was why?

  I slid the letter back in its envelope and placed it in my desk drawer for safekeeping. Straight ahead through the front window, a bougainvillea the color of heart’s blood cascaded over the facing wall. Basking in the sun’s warmth, full of life and energy, it lifted its petals to the sky. The sight made me want to weep.

  Kay’s death had been tragic, no question about that, but in the chaos that ensued, little Connie Rae had been all but forgotten. Though the shop was warm—I needed to turn down the air conditioning—a chill shot through me. Two women living mere yards apart had died within days of each other. And at one point in both their lives, Stew Hawkins had been their husband.

  Hmm. I jabbed the letter opener under the flap on one of the bills...so James wasn’t the only husband whose recent behavior raised questions. Maybe Rossi’s investigation should expand to include Stew. True, Connie Rae’s death had been declared the result of natural causes, but somehow Stew’s lie continued to raise hackles of doubt in my mind.

  I glanced at the electric bill—too high—and tossed it on the desk.

  Two women, two prime suspects, two unrelated deaths.

  I pitched the phone bill on top of the electric bill.

  Or were the deaths related in some way?

  The Yarmouthport bells jangled and, head spinning, I rose to greet Lee. Fresh and lovely in a snug blue top with a white accordion-pleated skirt fluttering around her legs, she was bubbling over with anticipation. “Only four more days till moving day, Deva.”

  “I know,” I said, smiling, trying to match her mood.

  As she stowed her bag behind the sales desk, she said, “Hasn’t everything worked out perfectly for us all? Paulo and I get to buy your beautiful condo. And until your dream house is finished, you and the lieutenant have his place to live in. Things couldn’t be better if we’d planned them this way.”

  “Right.” I loved seeing her happiness and knowing I’d played a small part in creating it. What did sleeping in my car matter compared to that? At least that was what I told myself. Not helping Rossi with the apartment hunt hadn’t helped the situation. And in fairness, I needed to. Trouble was, every day lately had been chewed up with one crisis after another. Well, today I’d make a point of checking out the listings in the Naples Daily News, and this afternoon I’d...

  Our first walk-in customer of the day rattled the bells on the door. Lee strolled over to greet her, and I hit the phone.

  First Mike Hammerjack. Then I’d confirm today’s meeting with the “blah” family room client, and after that call Rossi. No, on second thought I’d wait until we were together to tell him about the lavender letter. He had enough to deal with for now, what with the demands of his job and contacting realtors all over town.

  Mike’s phone rang and rang, but he didn’t pick up. Either he was too busy to answer or was having trouble fishing his cell out of the tight shorts he wore on the job.

  Finally, as I was about to hang up, a gruff, “Yeah,” barked across the line.

  “Mike, this is Deva Dunne.”

  “Hey, designer lady,” he said, his voice changing so much it was as if he’d handed his phone to somebody else.

  “I’m ready to place a furniture order and need a contact name and number at State.”

  “For you, anything,” he said, his voice dropping into a lower, sexier register. “I’ve got that info out in the truck.”

  A crash loud enough to jar my eardrum rocketed through the line. “Wh
at was that?”

  “That was Tony. We’re into demolition over here. Getting rid of the pink tile you wanted out. Look, can I call you back? I’ve gotta go.”

  Another crash and the phone went dead.

  Pink tile. That had to be Stew’s place.

  Twenty minutes later, I found the girly pink tiles in a shattered heap on the master bathroom floor and Tony and Mike covered in plaster dust.

  “Whoa!” Mike said when I walked in unannounced.

  “Did I startle you?” I asked.

  “My heart’s flipping over is all.”

  “Sorry. The housekeep...ah, Teresa...didn’t answer the doorbell.”

  “That’d be tough,” Mike said with a grin. “She’s in Puerto Rico.”

  My jaw dropped open. “For good?”

  “Nah. Mr. Hawkins said she went to show her family a rock. Whatever that means.”

  Mike sounded like he really didn’t know. I guess the education at State wasn’t too thorough.

  I looked around the torn-up room. “As long as you’re into demolition, you want to complete the job? Take out the vanity, the mirrors, the toilet, the tub? Everything down to the studs?”

  Seeing Tony’s question coming, I quickly said, “Add the extra cost to your total.”

  He glanced around the space, frowning. “The tub’s a problem. We’ll have to break it up to get it out of here. That’ll chew up another day.”

  “Whatever it takes, Tony.”

  He gave his jeans a hitch and nodded. “Okay. You’re the boss.”

  “Have the new tiles arrived?”

  “Yeah, they’re out in the truck.”

  “I’d like to take a look at them. Make sure they’re the warm sand color I ordered. I need to see that decorative frieze too...and how about that number, Mike?”

  “Come out to the truck and—”

  Mike got no further. The wail of a siren shattered the neighborhood’s calm. Louder and louder, the siren screeched along Whiskey Lane, then came to a halt right outside the house.

  “No one’s at home here, right?” I asked.