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

by Jean Harrington

  “No way! I’m not leaving with you.” I struggled to get away from Stew’s pants, but Tony’s fingernails cutting into my throat kept me from moving.

  “You’re leaving, all right. Count on it. You know too much.”

  He jerked a couple of silk ties off Stew’s rack. “Tie her hands and feet together and gag her. I’ll get the mutt. She goes too.” Giving his cargoes another hitch, he stomped out of the closet.

  “Are you okay, Mrs. Dunne?” Mike asked in a whisper as soon as we were alone.

  I shook my head, too terrified to speak. But Charlotte wasn’t scared. As Tony rounded the bed determined to grab her, she leaped, a bundle of fury, and sank her teeth into his hairy calf. He howled and limped around the room, careening into the hall as he tried to shake her off. No dice. Charlotte was pissed.

  I grabbed Mike’s shirtfront. “Call the police. Tell them what he did.”

  Mike’s face stiffened. “I’m an ex-con. I can’t go to the cops with that.”

  “Ow, ow, ow! Mike! Mike!”

  “You want to be up for murder one?”

  He stared at me—without speaking for once—his worried expression telling me he’d had the same thought.

  “Help me get out of here before he changes his mind. I know the truth. I’m your insurance policy.”

  He hesitated, for a split second only. “I’ll get him in the bathroom and shut the door. You can run down the hall.”

  “Hammerjack! She’s killing me.”

  “Take it easy,” Mike yelled. “I’m tying up the woman, like you said. Besides, the mutt’s real small.”

  Poor Charlotte, she wasn’t getting any respect lately. I slumped against Stew’s pants, my heart pounding against my ribs.

  Woof, woof wooff!

  Charlotte had let go.

  “Look at my leg, will you? It’s bleeding like a pig. I ought to wring her neck.”

  What! Halfway out of the closet, I was ready to pounce on Tony myself when Mike said, “Nah, don’t bother. We’ll find some stuff in the bathroom to put on it.”

  “Yeah. The mutt could have rabies or something.”

  Rabies. As if Princess Charlotte, the darling of her vet’s office, would have rabies. I wanted to shout, “What’s a little rabies to a tough guy like you?” But I didn’t, and when Charlotte, drunk with triumph, ran into the closet looking for me, I picked her up. “Good girl,” I whispered into her ear, “but now be quiet, okay?”

  I needn’t have worried. Battle fatigue had taken its toll. Worn out, she cuddled in my arms and closed her eyes.

  I wished my heartbeat and pulse would slow down, but nothing doing. Like out of control trip hammers, they kept pounding away. No wonder. I was trapped in a house with a double murderer, dependent for escape on the word of an ex-con who, on top of everything else, wrote with a felon’s claw. I gulped a deep breath of air and exhaled slowly. It didn’t do a bit of good. No way would my heartbeat go back to normal until I got out of there. Holding onto Charlotte, I tiptoed over to the bedroom door and opened it a sliver. The bathroom door was closed.

  “Ouch, that stings,” Tony yelled.

  “The wuss,” I said to Charlotte who didn’t open her eyes to reply. I slipped off my heels and, hugging Charlotte tight, I ran barefoot down the hall, grabbed my tote off the sofa and fled out the front entrance.

  In my rush to escape, I didn’t bother to close the door carefully. A gust of wind caught it and banged it shut.

  So much for leaving unannounced. I glanced up at the sky. No wonder the door had slammed. Rain clouds had replaced the sun, and a sudden chill in the air had sent the palm fronds into a frenzy. We were in for one of Florida’s violent summer showers.

  I yanked my keys out of the bag, unlocked the Audi and hurried Charlotte into the backseat. No sooner had I slipped behind the wheel and reset the locks when the front door opened and the two men burst out onto the lawn.

  Tony ran over to my car and rapped on the passenger side window. “Open up!”

  Was he crazy?

  “I didn’t mean it,” he said. “I won’t hurt you.”

  “That’s right,” I replied, inserting the key in the ignition.

  “Keep your mouth shut. Or else.”

  “Or else what, you creep?”

  I turned on the engine.

  “Let her be, Tone.”

  “No. She’ll blab. I can tell. Why didn’t you tie her up, asshole?”

  Tony reached into one of the side pockets of his cargos and pulled out a hammer. Startled, I went to shove the car into reverse but not in time.

  With one powerful blow, he smashed open the passenger side window and snatched at the lock. He jerked the door open and, flinging the hammer aside, reached in and grabbed me, ripping the sleeve out of my shirt and raking his nails along my arm.

  I screamed and stomped on the gas, backing down the driveway so fast the open door knocked him to the ground. An instant only and he was up and running toward his truck. At the end of the drive, I jammed on the brakes, shook the glass shards off the tote and dumped its contents on the passenger seat. I grabbed the Cobra, released the safety and stepped out of the Audi. The truck’s rear lights flared on. I took careful aim, shot out one back tire, aimed again and shot out the other one.

  “Whoa!” Mike yelled as the tires sagged onto their metal rims.

  Tony came leaping out of the truck and ran around to check out his wheels. I jumped back in the car. He might have a gun. I rocketed out to the street in reverse, braked, slammed into drive and sped around the corner. Only then did I glance out the rearview mirror. No need to speed. Tony might have one spare tire in the trunk, but not two. He’d have to come after me on foot through the now-pelting rain.

  On the next street, I spotted a driveway that wrapped around the side of the house. I pulled into it, parking in back where I couldn’t be seen from the street. Leaving the motor running, I fumbled among my things strewn over the wet passenger seat, grabbed the cell and glanced around at Charlotte.

  Recognizing a crisis for what it was, she lay quietly stretched out on the backseat with her head on her paws, studying me with her big brown eyes.

  “Girlfriend, you sure know how to sic a guy. Now it’s my turn,” I told her as I punched in 9-1-1.

  Chapter Forty-Eight

  The Audi’s intoxicating new car aroma wafted around us as Rossi and I sat side-by-side enjoying the view of our future home. Which right now was only a series of pylons sticking out of the earth. Beyond them lay the water and the peach glow of the sun as it slowly descended into the Gulf.

  Though tired, I hadn’t felt so relaxed in days, and leaning back on the tan leather headrest, I murmured, “I’m so glad the killer’s been arrested, and the whole thing’s all over.”

  “Your celebration’s a little premature, sweetheart,” Rossi said. “Nothing’s over. It’s only just begun. There’s a trial to get through, and it’s going to be your word against Tony’s.”

  “I know.”

  His glance scoured me. “You know too much for your own safety.”

  “Don’t be mad, Rossi. I’m sorry that I was in the wrong place at the—”

  “I suppose you’re going to say right time.”

  I nodded.

  He took my hand and stroked my palm with his thumb. “I’m not mad, but I have been scared sick—for you. When the call came in, I was already on my way over there and hoping to God you weren’t involved.” He heaved a sigh.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “No need to apologize. I love you, and I can’t stand the thought of anything happening to you.”

  “The feeling is mutual, Rossi. So think of how I feel when you leave for work every day with that Glock strapped to your body.”

  “I’ve been trained for this kind of work. You have not.”

  “Well, let’s look on the bright side,” I said, anxious to change the subject. “Justice has prevailed. The murderer of two women has been arrested, and—”

  �
��Now our job is to make that arrest stick.” Our job, that’s a first. “You’ll be up against a tough cross examination in court. Tony’s lawyer will use every trick in the book to discredit your testimony.” He peered at me with those dark, silky eyes. “That said, I think your word will prevail. You’ll have Hammerjack’s testimony as backup. Though it’s anybody’s guess how a jury will react to the word of an ex-con.”

  “Doesn’t it count that Mike was sitting on Tony when Batano got there?”

  “Of course it does.” A smile lifted Rossi’s lips. “Sitting on the killer and trying to get his cell phone out of his pocket at the same time. He never did get to the phone. I guess he isn’t a multitasker.”

  “No wonder. His pants are so tight I don’t know how he ever squeezes in a phone.”

  “Oh?” Rossi arched a brow. “You’ve noticed.”

  “To steal your line, I’m in love, I’m not dead.”

  He wrapped his arms around me and pulled me close. “Thank God.”

  “There’s also that wallet I found. And the missing button.”

  “Sorry to be a spoiler, Deva, but as evidence, the button’s of questionable value.”

  “Why questionable? I’m sure it came off Tony’s cargo shorts.”

  “Probably, but no telling whether he lost it the day Mrs. Hawkins was killed or earlier. He and Hammerjack were working on the property for several days. Still I suspect the prosecution will point it out to the jury. More important is the way Tony bashed in the window of your old car. Uncontrolled anger like that is lethal when you’re fighting a murder rap.”

  The setting sun finally completed its descent and disappeared below the horizon. A faint orange afterglow lingered in the sky. Then that too faded and we were left sitting in our car in the dark like a couple of teenaged lovers. Rossi, a firm believer in carpe diem, seized me in a searing kiss. Then his lips blazed a trail along my neck. When he reached my earlobe, I said, “Will you stop nibbling for a moment and tell me something?”

  “Umm.”

  “The day my call came in? Why were you on your way to Whiskey Lane?”

  “Okay,” he said with a groan. “I guess you won’t be at peace until all your questions are answered.”

  “Correct.”

  “Remember the handwritten statements I took the morning Kay Hawkins died? The graphologist in Miami targeted Tony.”

  I sat up straight, my fatigue forgotten. “Oh, really?” I had examined those samples and hadn’t noticed anything incriminating in Tony’s handwriting. “What did she see?”

  “She said the left side of the page represents the past, the right side the future. The normal tendency is to leave a space on the left—as if the writer were pulling away from the past—and to write close to the edge on the right side—as if eager for the future. Tony’s handwriting reversed that normal tendency.”

  “Proving?”

  “His obsession with the past.”

  “That’s it?”

  “That’s it.”

  I slumped against the seat back. “I missed that completely.”

  “Don’t beat yourself up. You’d have to be a pro to notice such a minor point. As things turned out, it was irrelevant anyway. Thanks to you, we already had his confession. When we showed him that picture of Connie Rae Freitas, he broke down. Blubbered like a baby.”

  “I’m glad I helped. For a while there I sure was headed down the wrong road. I thought Stew had something to do with Connie Rae’s death, but all the while he was innocent.”

  “Your thinking wasn’t so off base. When a spouse dies unexpectedly, the survivor is often a person of interest.”

  “But why did Stew lie like that? If he hadn’t denied knowing about her heart condition, I wouldn’t have suspected a thing.”

  “My guess is his priors for domestic violence had him nervous. He was probably afraid he’d be accused of killing her.”

  “That makes sense, but to think I also believed James might have killed Kay. Just like Marilyn said, for her money. Courtly, courteous James who adored Kay and loves Charlotte too. Treats her like a queen. I’m glad they’re back together again. He needs his doggie. He needs Eileen too, but he certainly doesn’t need Marilyn. I wonder where she’s off to this time.”

  Rossi shrugged. “We’ll leave that up to the Coast Guard.” His hand found my knee. Then my thigh. “Maybe we should get a room.”

  “We have a room. An orange, purple and green one.”

  “When the lights go out, the colors don’t matter.”

  “Ha! I can see them in the dark.”

  “I can’t see a thing in the dark. Lucky I have fingers.”

  Concentrating on the case wasn’t easy, but I managed to say, “Mike Hammerjack will likely go to prison, right?”

  “With his record, I doubt he’ll get off scot-free. He aided and abetted a murderer. He might not have known about the python in time to save Connie Rae, but if he’d told the truth in the first place, Kay might be alive today. On the other hand, he did apprehend Tony and helped you live to tell the tale. No doubt his attorney will plead to the court for leniency.”

  “Whatever happens, I’m going ahead with the Help-a-Con Program. It’s a good cause, and the furniture is great for the price. And you know something else? The day he rammed my car with Tony’s truck? I really think he told the truth. It was an accident. Anyway, my knee’s fine now, and I’m more than willing to give him the benefit of the doubt.”

  In the dark, I couldn’t read Rossi’s expression, but he didn’t protest as he put the car in gear.

  I closed my eyes while we drove toward our rental apartment in Pelican Marsh. “I hope Lee and Paulo are enjoying their first night in Surfside. I sent them flowers, and I’ll be happy to design a nursery, but I haven’t done a thing about it yet.”

  “Not to worry. You have how long...five more months to plan.”

  He was trying to be comforting, and I loved him for it. Lately so much had come rushing at me I hadn’t had time to concentrate on what was most important in life—the people I loved. There was such a thing as being too busy. Starting tomorrow, I intended...without warning, Rossi pulled off Tamiami Trail onto the lighted parking lot of a strip mall.

  “What on—”

  He switched off the ignition and turned to me. “As soon as the house is finished, I want us to set a wedding date. I was going to save this till then, but the suspense is killing me. I can’t wait any longer.” He leaned across the front seat and reached into the glove compartment. He withdrew a sheet of paper, unfolded it and held it out. “For you. My wedding vows.”

  “Really? I haven’t written mine yet, Rossi. I didn’t have ti—”

  “Shh. Just read.”

  I glanced at the paper he’d placed in my hands. It was covered in big bold handwriting with long, enthusiastic t bars and fabulous, sexy lower loops. I read it all, and then again, as tears formed in my eyes.

  To my bride, Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne,

  I vow to love and honor you. To cherish and protect you.

  To adore you body and soul for the rest of our days on earth.

  However long that may be, however rocky or smooth our path in life, you are now, and always will be, my beloved partner in crime.

  This I swear to you,

  Victor Giuseppe Rossi

  * * * * *

  Help interior designer Deva Dunne solve more

  edge-of-your-seat mysteries in Jean Harrington’s

  Murders by Design series, available now!

  Designed for Death

  Interior designer Deva Dunne’s latest project comes to a screeching halt when blood on the carpet leads her to the body of her client, an exotic dancer with a mysterious past. But the murdered woman is not the only resident of the posh beachfront condominium with secrets, and investigating officer Lieutenant Victor Rossi considers them all suspects.

  The Monet Murders

  Interior decorator Deva Dunne never dreamed she’d see a Monet hanging
on someone’s dining room wall. Then she snags a client with two Monet seascapes. Her thrill lasts until she finds one of the paintings missing, cut from its frame, and the cook shot dead...

  Killer Kitchens

  Deva’s boyfriend, police lieutenant Victor Rossi, has misgivings about her promising job—especially when he accompanies her to one of Francesco’s dinner parties. After Francesco returns a dish to the kitchen untasted, the chauffeur promptly scarfs it down and drops dead from cyanide poisoning.

  Rooms to Die For

  Interior designer Deva Dunne finds more than fabulous furnishings on her trip to the design mall; she and her client come upon the body of one of Deva’s favorite shop owners, swinging from the atrium railing. It looks like suicide, but Deva feels sure that the purveyor of Florida’s finest antiques would never leap to his death from a tacky blue stool.

  Deva’s boyfriend, studly and stoic police lieutenant Victor Rossi, looks into it, but there’s not much to go on. He’s focusing on their future these days, and he wishes Deva would steer clear of danger.

  But everyone around Deva seems to be keeping secrets, and she’s getting some strange reactions to the designs she’s doing for a big charity event. When she experiences a mysterious attack, she knows she’s at the center of something huge—and if she doesn’t outwit this killer fast, her only future will be six feet under.

  Connect with us for info on our new releases,

  access to exclusive offers and much more!

  Visit CarinaPress.com

  We like you—why not like us on Facebook:

  Facebook.com/CarinaPress

  Follow us on Twitter: Twitter.com/CarinaPress

  About the Author

  Jean Harrington lives in Naples, Florida, with her husband, John. No cat, no dog, no children anymore. After seventeen years of teaching English literature at Becker College in Worcester, Massachusetts, she now spends her days—and some nights—writing the Murders by Design mystery series for Carina Press. Along with Deva Dunne, her amateur sleuth, Jean is having great fun wallowing knee-deep in fictional dead bodies.