“Nobody,” Mike said.
I ran for the front entrance as fast as my high-heeled slides would allow and yanked the door open.
An EMS vehicle, lights flashing, rear doors open, was parked in front of 590.
Omigod. What now?
I dashed across the street. The front door of the Stahlman house stood ajar. I pushed it open and walked into the foyer. Low-pitched male voices and lighter female tones came from the direction of the master suite. The woman was most likely Eileen. So chances were she wasn’t the one needing emergency treatment. That left only James then, but what on earth had happened to him?
A nervous wreck, but not wanting to interrupt the medics, I paced the living room, trying to work off my tension. As I strode back and forth, heels clicking on the bare hardwood floor, it finally dawned on me that the room looked beautiful. Tom’s painters had done a wonderful job. Like a crisp bright day washed clean by rain, the empty room stood clean and bright waiting for its new furnishings, waiting to be enjoyed. I sighed, wondering what the odds were of that ever happening.
I wandered into the dining room. Yesterday when Marilyn and I were dealing with Eileen’s crisis, the men had finished the papering. I lit the crystal chandelier suspended from the center of the ceiling. In its light, the coral-toned wallpaper glowed soft and warm. At night, punctuated here and there with silvery birds of paradise, it would flatter every woman seated for dinner. Add James’s collection of silver hollowware and the room would be a...
Voices coming closer drew me back to the foyer. Eileen in her signature white uniform, her hair pulled back in its usual tidy bun, led the way. Behind her, the same medics I remembered from two days ago pushed a gurney toward the front door. Stretched out on top was none other than James, his face deathly white, his lips blue.
When Eileen saw me, a moment of confused surprise crossed her face.
“Mrs. Dunne? We didn’t expect you today. We have a problem. We...” Her voice trailed off.
“What happened?” I whispered.
“James...Mr. Stahlman has had—”
One of the medics nodded at me and said to Eileen, “We’re taking him to the Naples Community Hospital. If you go to the emergency room, they’ll direct you from there.”
“Is he...is he...” Eileen couldn’t bring herself to ask the question.
“We’ve stabilized him, ma’am. He’ll be in good hands.”
We followed the medics to the front door and watched as they wheeled James out to the waiting ambulance. I glanced across the street. Tony and Mike must have gone back to their demolition. The tile truck still sat in the driveway at 595, but they were nowhere in sight.
“I have to get to the hospital,” Eileen said, tears wetting her blue eyes. If anything happens to him...” Her voice broke, and she covered her face with her hands.
“You heard the medic, Eileen. James is in good hands. That sounds very positive to me.”
She nodded, found a tissue in her uniform pocket and dabbed at her eyes. “I owe you an apology for yesterday. I’m so sorry. And so ashamed.”
“You’ve been through a lot, Eileen. If you were upset, that’s understandable. Anybody would be.”
“I wasn’t upset, I was drunk.”
“Well...”
“It’s the truth.” Her chin quivering, she glanced over at me. “I don’t remember how much I said, but whatever it was, I hope you’ll ignore it.”
“Don’t worry about a thing, Eileen. My lips are sealed.”
“Oooh.” Her voice rose into a wail. “Then I did say too much.”
“No, no,” I said, hurrying to reassure her. “Only that you were leaving. So I’m glad to see you’re still here.”
“Leaving?” Her brow furrowed. “I would never leave James. He needs me.”
“Absolutely. He won’t want to come home to an empty house.”
“No.” Eileen’s soft, plump jaw hardened. “The minute that woman walked in this morning, I knew she meant trouble.”
“What woman?”
“Marilyn, of course. She gave James a heart attack.”
“But that’s not—”
“You should have heard her. It was awful. Do you know what she accused him of?”
I had a pretty good idea, but I shook my head.
“She told him he was a thief. That he wanted Kay dead so he could steal her money. Imagine, accusing James...Mr. Stahlman...of something like that.” Eileen sniffled, but her eyes were dry. “She didn’t even have the decency to wait for the ambulance to get here. The nerve of her. She’s a vicious woman.” Eileen straightened her shoulders. “A...a...bitch.”
I guess she found swearing tougher when she was sober.
She glanced out the front entrance, but the ambulance was long gone. “I have to follow them.”
Moving faster than I thought she could—chalk one up for sensible oxfords—she dashed through the house, returning with a tan leatherette purse slung across her body and a key chain in her hand.
“Will you lock up, Mrs. Dunne?” she asked. Without waiting for a reply she was out the door and on her way to the garage.
My “Certainly” drifted unheard on the warm summer air. Eileen had already disappeared around the front of the house.
A moment later a car roared to life, backed out of the driveway, braked, straightened, and with a screech that made my teeth clench, laid rubber halfway down Whiskey Lane.
Good grief. I hoped there wouldn’t be another death in the family, so to speak.
The family, such as it was, had had a full measure of sorrow...and now to think that James had been stricken. Was Eileen right? Had Marilyn’s accusation caused his collapse? If so, there had to be a reason. Outrage at the injustice of what she said, or guilt at its truth. Either way, James was fighting for his life, and at least one person in the world wanted him to survive. For her sake above all, I prayed he would too.
Alone in the house, I wandered out to the kitchen, every step echoing in the empty rooms. The kitchen was as neat as ever, all evidence of yesterday’s debauch erased as if it had never occurred.
I shot the bolt on the back door, the sharp noise in the silence of the house an eerie reminder that I was alone. A pang of unease slid through me. Despite its lovely potential, the house had been witness to strange happenings recently, including a murder. Goosebumps erupted on my skin; I suddenly needed to get out of there and fast.
Woof.
Charlotte’s rough little tongue licked my ankles. So I wasn’t alone after all.
“Hi, girlfriend,” I said, scooping her up. Glad to see her, I smooched the top of her head next to her red, white and blue bow. The bow was either a homage to the Fourth of July or part of a mother and daughter outfit. Since neither one was timely any longer, I plucked the bow from her topknot and kissed her again.
“You slept through all the excitement, didn’t you? James is gone, but don’t worry. He’ll be back to take you for a walk.”
Woof. Woof.
“Just not today, okay?”
Today? What about today? I couldn’t leave her alone to roam through the house unattended. And no telling when Eileen would return. A woman on a mission, she’d raced away with the urgency of a NASCAR driver. I didn’t think she’d be back anytime soon.
“What am I going to do with you?”
Bowless but beautiful even with her fuzzy white topknot held upright by a bare elastic band, Charlotte gazed at me with melting brown eyes. No, I couldn’t leave her alone.
“You want to come with me?”
No answer.
“You want to go for a ride?”
Woof. Woof! She wriggled in my arms to be put down and get going.
“Okay, let’s find your leash.”
Tail up, she hurried over to a wall rack that held a rainbow of leather leashes. Pink, blue, green, red, black, ocelot—ocelot?
I hitched her up to the feminine-looking pink one and let her pull me through the house to the front door. As she tu
gged on the leash impatient for an adventure, I locked up.
“Come on, we’re going to see the tile boys for a few minutes, and then we’re going to take a look at a blah family room. But no matter how bad it is, we have to be polite. Understood?”
No answer. Charlotte ignored my warning. Rightly so. She knew how to behave on social occasions. As long as she didn’t pee on the woman’s floor, we’d be fine.
Chapter Forty-Three
Located in Pelican Marsh, a North Naples gated community, the home of the blah family room turned out to be a faux Tuscan mini-mansion. The peach stucco façade, all turrets and angles, featured a baronial door set into a recessed entryway. To get to it, Charlotte and I had to pass between a row of sago palms and through a wrought iron gate, kind of like storming a castle. On the wall by the door, a gargoyle’s glowing mouth was the only thing remotely resembling a bell, so I pressed it.
No one answered. I pressed again, then again. Finally, a plump-cheeked woman in a purple leotard yanked open the door.
“Hi,” she said, gasping for a breath. “You must be Deva Dunne.”
“Yes, I am. Are you Dorothy Kindall?”
“In the flesh. Sorry to keep you waiting, but when I’m into my Jazzercise routine the world fades away.” She slapped a hand on one ample hip. “But not my flab. No matter what I do.” She sighed. “It’s a struggle.”
Woof!
Dorothy Kindall laughed. “For you too, sweetie? What’s your name?”
“This is Charlotte. I’m sorry, but I’m dog sitting and—”
“Oh, I love doggies. Bring her right in.”
“It’s paws on the floor, Charlotte,” I said, putting her down. “So be a good girl.”
Happy to sniff out a new place, she scampered ahead of me as I followed Dorothy through a mind-blowing great room in Madagascar red. New Guinea artifacts, mostly ebony nudes and spears, stood alongside oil paintings of Venice canals. A brass étagère held a riotous collection of Chihuly glass and...that’s when I screamed. A gorilla the size of King Kong loomed straight ahead. Even Charlotte skidded to a stop.
“Oh, don’t let old Maxwell scare you,” Dorothy said. “He’s stuffed. A souvenir from our safari in Kenya. Ever been there?”
“Not till today.”
Dorothy laughed. “I like you.” She gave Charlotte’s topknot a pat. “I like you too, sweetie. Here it is, girls, the family room. Tada!” She flung open double doors and gave us a sweeping view—of chaos.
Painted charcoal gray with a chrome-yellow stripe up near the ceiling, the family room was crammed with objects: a universal, a stationary bike, a treadmill, a rack of weights in various sizes and a sixty-inch flat-screen TV. Opposite the TV was a chrome-yellow sofa and a pair of fifties lava lamps that immediately fascinated Charlotte.
Woof!
I was beginning to question her taste in lamps when she abandoned them to play with a beach ball.
As I glanced around, Dorothy looked at me with expectation in her eyes.
I took a deep breath and sank onto the sofa. “Someone obviously took great pains to coordinate the colors in here. The yellow and charcoal carpeting goes well with the sofa,” I said, wondering how to press on from there.
A dimple appeared in Dorothy’s cheek. She nodded, pleased. “I put it all together, colors and everything. The problem is my husband hates this room.” The dimple disappeared. “Says he can’t relax in here, and our great room is too formal.”
Formal?
She raised her arms and waved them around. “So I need to do something. But what?” She plopped down next to me and lowered her voice. “Just between the two of us, I don’t really like charcoal all that much. It’s kind of blah, you know, but I thought George would find it restful.” A deep sigh. “He’s done nothing but complain.”
“Then our priority is to make George happy.”
The dimple made a cameo appearance. “You understand.”
“Of course I do. As my Nana Kennedy used to say, ‘If the husband is happy, the wife is happy too.’”
Dorothy leaned forward to give my hand a squeeze. “It’s so nice dealing with a married woman. I don’t need to explain what a husband can be like. You already know what I’m up against, Mrs. Dunne.”
“Deva, please,” I said, hoping she wouldn’t ask me any questions about my husband. To this very day, I found talking about Jack difficult...but she didn’t.
“So what would you suggest we do?” she asked.
We, a good sign for Deva Dunne Interiors. Time for a little show biz, a little psychology. I studied the room as if contemplating a difficult problem, although the answer was painfully obvious.
“Well, Mrs. Kindall...”
“Dorothy.”
“Yes, thank you. Well, Dorothy, the truth is, exercise equipment makes some people feel guilty. Instead of watching TV, they think they should be pounding away on the treadmill. Maybe that’s how George feels. When he comes home at the end of a long day, he’s tired and needs to sit down and well...relax. Not be faced with exercise equipment.”
She sighed. “That’s exactly what he told me.”
“Can you move the equipment somewhere else?”
She thought about it for a moment. “The master bedroom maybe. It’s large enough.”
I shook my head. “You’ll turn George into an insomniac.”
“We do have three guest bedrooms.”
“Is any not needed, or seldom used?”
“Let me see...there’s the Caribbean Room, the African Room and the Aztec Room... George has never been too crazy about the Aztec Room. That might do, though everything would have to be moved out first. What a shame. I have the most gorgeous Ecuadorian textiles in there...but for the sake of my marriage, I guess I don’t have much choice.”
“Sight unseen, the Aztec Room sounds perfect. As for this room, my instinct tells me that for George’s sake, we need to act fast.”
“The sooner the better. He was pretty cranky last night...didn’t even want to watch TV in here.”
“Then we need to have a renovation that’s simple and quick.”
Perching on the edge of the couch, Dorothy gave me her rapt attention.
“First we’ll hire a moving crew and have them switch out the exercise equipment. Next we’ll lighten the color of the walls but stay within the same palette. Soften it from charcoal to, let’s say, Whisper Gray. One coat should do it, and I can recommend an excellent painting contractor.” I pointed toward the ceiling. “We’ll keep the chrome stripe. It ties the decor together, and besides it’s out of eye range. I doubt George will find it a problem.
“So to sum up, we retain the sofa, the TV, your wonderful stainless steel bar...and to make George supremely happy, how about adding a lounger? One of those big ones in black leather.”
“The kind that looks like an ocean liner?” Dorothy asked.
“That’s exactly what I mean. Men love them. The Clive-Daniel showroom has a huge collection. I’m sure we can find one there and a roomy table to stand alongside it. One large enough to hold George’s remote, and a glass and maybe a snack.”
“Oh, I have a darling monkey table we can use.”
“A what?” I asked, my heart sinking a little, for I feared I knew what she meant.
“One of those small tables with a monkey dressed in a tuxedo holding up a tray.”
“I’ve seen them,” I said, smiling as if agreeing with her suggestion. “They’re very colorful and interesting.” I wasn’t lying, I told myself. They were colorful and interesting. And god-awful. “But rather too small for George’s needs, don’t you think?”
“Oh. Right.”
“And let’s change out the lava lamps too.”
“Are you sure?” I was beginning to think the dimple was gone for good.
“I really am. The way the oil in those see-through bases moves up and down probably makes George nervous.”
“I see.” She really didn’t, but she was being a good sport as h
er creation was verbally torn apart.
“The lamps would be perfect in your exercise room,” I said, offering her a consolation prize, wanting to see her smile. “You know, for energy.”
She grinned across at me. “Perfect. I can watch the oil move around in the bases while I’m on the treadmill. It’ll keep me going.”
Not knowing what else to do, I nodded. “A good choice for lamps in here would be—”
“This is so exciting I’ve forgotten my manners. Before we go on, may I offer you a cold drink? An iced tea, or a soda or something?”
“None for me, thanks, but Charlotte might enjoy a little water.”
“Oh certainly.” Dorothy jumped up and went over to the stainless steel sink nestled in the well-stocked bar. She filled a small bowl with water and placed it on the floor. As we looked on, Charlotte noisily lapped up her drink, splashing it around on the carpet in the process.
“She’s adorable,” Dorothy said.
“Yes, she is. She belongs to one of my clients. Unfortunately he had a heart attack this morning and in the confusion I’m afraid Charlotte was overlooked. I couldn’t leave her alone for the day, so here she is.”
“How thoughtful of you. You must be close to this client.”
“You could say that. When you design someone’s living space, sometimes you become almost like family.”
“That’s nice, so warm and caring. Families are the most important thing in life. That’s why I worry about George...and not just about him either. There’s my mother too.”
“Oh? Does she live here as well?”
“No, but I wish she did. We have a mother-in-law apartment all ready and waiting for her. That’s one of the reasons we bought this house, but she refuses to step foot in it.”
“Why?”
“Says it sets her teeth on edge.” Dorothy put a hand on each generous hip. “And to think I decorated that apartment just for her. When we finish in here, do you want to take a look at it?”
Chapter Forty-Four
“Rossi,” I said, hurrying to the door the instant he got home. “You’re not going to believe this.”
[M. by D. #5] The Design Is Murder Page 20