“May I help you?” a nurse asked in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. She stepped forward, wedging herself between me and the door, blocking my view. A name tag pinned to her collar read Nora Reynolds, R.N.
“Naples police,” Rossi said, using his official voice and showing her his badge. “We’re here to see Chip Salvatore.”
“He’s not allowed visitors,” she said, peering at the ID, then giving me the once-over. “And you are?”
“She’s with me.” Rossi’s stared at her, stern-faced. The nurse squared her shoulders and stared back. Rossi’s stare held. A flush whipped up her face, she faltered and stepped aside. “A minute or two.”
We thanked her and slipped into the room. At our approach, Chip’s eyes fluttered open for a second then closed.
“Deva,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse croak. “You okay?”
My heart swelled into my throat. “Oh, Chip. I’m fine, and you will be too.” Tears lurking behind my lids leaked out and ran down my cheeks. I flicked them away before he noticed, and gently touched the fingers of his left hand, the one without the IV. His skin felt cold and dry.
“What happened?” he asked. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”
“There was a gas leak,” Rossi said. “The propane truck exploded while they were filling your tanks. Luckily you were the last stop of the day. If the truck had been full, it would have been worse.”
With a noticeable effort, Chip turned his head to peer up at him. “I’ve been cooking with gas my whole life. Never happened before.”
“Somebody left a car running nearby. Or maybe tossed a cigarette. A spark caught. So far, that’s all we know, but we’re investigating it. So just rest now, buddy.”
Chip closed his eyes without answering then swept them open again. “How’s Tomas doing? And Enzo?”
“Tomas is in good hands,” Rossi answered, smooth as silk. “And Enzo’s fine. Just shook up is all. Save your strength. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
I gulped and stared down at Chip’s bruised face. Tomas, the sous chef, had been the one closest to the propane tank when it exploded. Thrown against an exposed pipe, he’d died instantly, his skull crushed like an eggshell. Chip had been in the meat locker at the time of the explosion. The steel doors saved him from the worst of the blast. But not the driver of the truck. Like Tomas, he hadn’t survived.
Tired out from the effort of talking, Chip dozed off. Rossi crooked a finger, and we tiptoed from the room. Outside, in the hall, the same nurse approached us. “I was just coming for you. He needs to sleep.”
Rossi nodded. “Thanks for letting us see him.”
“A terrible accident,” she said, her face full of sympathy and a bit of curiosity. She lowered her voice. “Rumor has it foul play was involved.”
Rossi stiffened. “As of now, there’s no evidence of that.”
She shrugged. “It’s what people are saying.”
“People need to say less. False rumors are harmful.”
Giving Rossi an uncertain nod, she walked into Chip’s room without responding.
Rossi took my elbow and marched us toward the elevator faster than my sore muscles wanted to move.
“Something happens people don’t understand and right away they form an opinion,” he said, his voice still gravelly from the smoke he’d inhaled. “A half-baked one,” he added. “No pun intended.”
I groaned. “Hey, how about slowing down? I’ve got a stitch in my side.” I stopped to bend at the waist and catch my breath.
He exhaled and jabbed the call button. “Sorry. I overreacted.” We stepped into the elevator. “Alone at last,” he said. He even smiled.
At ground floor level, a little lightheaded, I made it outside to the hospital entrance and stood leaning on him. One of the retirees who volunteers at the hospital drove a courtesy golf cart up to the portico. “Want a ride to your car?”
“Yes,” we said in unison. Our collective aches and pains had caught up with us. Grateful for the lift, we held hands and enjoyed the breezy jaunt to the far end of the crowded parking lot. In season, tourists packed Naples, and like all the locals, I looked forward to the quiet summer months when traffic was light, you could park anywhere and get a restaurant table without waiting. But this was April, and we still had a few months to go before our summer hiatus.
Slow and stiff, I gingerly eased behind the wheel of the Audi.
“Drop me off at the station?” Rossi asked as he settled into the passenger seat. “I’ll get a lift home.”
“But you’re hurting too. You need to rest—”
He shook his head. “I want to be there when they question the driver of that car.”
“Okay.” I let out a sigh. From experience, I knew arguing with Rossi about his work would do no good. A few months earlier, when a Monet masterpiece had been stolen and two people killed for it, Rossi had pursued the case relentlessly, hardly stopping to eat or sleep until he’d caught the thief and murderer. This would be no different, and I had no right to expect that it would be.
He rested a hand on my thigh, the one without the bruise. “I’ll be working late, so I won’t call you tonight. You need to sleep.”
“You do too,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot without any more protests. This was what a detective’s life was like. Crazy schedules. Danger. Secrecy.
I glanced across the passenger seat at Rossi’s resolute profile. With his jaw too sore to shave this morning, his chin bristled with a two-day stubble. He looked like an ad straight out of GQ. Or he would have if not for his virulent orange-and-brown Hawaiian.
I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like for a woman with a man like him. Never knowing from hour to hour if he was safe or in harm’s way.
A car swerved out of a side street, barely missing my right fender. I stomped on the brakes.
“Hey,” Rossi yelled out the window. “You driving or picking flowers?”
His second blowup in the past ten minutes. “You’re worried,” I said.
He nodded. “Two men are dead, Deva. We don’t know for sure what happened. Arson hasn’t been ruled out yet. And if it’s arson, it’s also murder.”
Chapter Three
The next day, with the help of three aspirin, I managed to bend over long enough to shrug into a pair of green silk capris and matching cropped top. The aches soon subsided, but my bruises were in full bloom, including the sensational one on my upper thigh. Worse, my left cheek was purple, a shade as close to aubergine as human flesh can get, and my left eye sported a Technicolor shiner.
Figuring everybody in town had read or heard about the explosion, I didn’t bother concealing the damage with makeup. Just getting dressed and driving downtown tapped my tiny reserve of energy.
In Fern Alley, a quaint little byway three blocks from the La Cucina disaster, my shop Deva Dunne Interiors still stood whole and intact. At the sight I didn’t know whether to blubber like a baby or whoop with joy. Somewhere deep inside I must have been scared the shop might not be there.
I walked past Off Shoots, the neighboring boutique, and as I gripped the handle of my Boston green door, an enormous sense of relief overwhelmed me. It was so intense my hands shook, and my heart rate skyrocketed.
Post-traumatic stress syndrome, I told myself, but no need to let what happened destroy everything. Despite the explosion and the tragic deaths it caused, through some kind of weird, wonderful luck, Rossi and I had survived. I glanced around my little domain—the shop was fine too. I took a deep breath, stashed my bag behind the sales desk and snapped on the overheads.
These morning moments when the shop sprang into life always pumped my adrenaline. Going into business had been one of the best decisions I ever made, and maybe, just maybe, after another year or two of solid sales, DDI would be an entrenched, successful enterprise. At least that was my goal.
I strolled the shop, tidying the displays, adding a few crystal pieces to the shelves, filling the Sheffield tray with cookies from
Fresh Market. The bunny-shaped treats were an homage to spring. Besides, they tasted delicious.
I placed the tray on one of the four skirted display tables. To keep things looking seasonal, I changed the skirts every few months. Crimson and gold for Christmas. Apricot for Halloween. Blue and white stripes for summer. This month they were hyacinth for Easter and spring.
As I fussed over the tables, it dawned on me that I was actually caressing everything, stroking each object, each piece of glass, each silk pillow, grateful that they hadn’t all gone up in a puff of smoke like Chip’s restaurant. Poor Chip. After work I’d stop by the hospital to see him.
Hoping for the first time ever that business would be slow today, I settled down with a sigh by the front window at the bureau plat I used as a desk. About then a black stretch limo purred down the alley and stopped outside my door.
A built guy with sofa-wide shoulders, in a gray chauffeur’s uniform, visor cap and all, sprang out of the driver’s seat. Snapping to attention like an aide-de-camp, he opened a rear door.
I put down the cookie I was about to bite into and watched, mouth agape, as a short, swarthy man emerged from the bowels of the limo, followed by a tall, striking brunette, clearly half his age and at least a foot taller. I popped the bunny in my mouth and bit off his tail.
The aide-de-camp lunged for the shop door and held it open. The man and the woman swept in.
“Oh, cute,” she said, looking around. She had a little girl’s voice and a big girl’s assets.
“Remember what I told you. No comments,” the man said. “I’ll do the talking.’”
She swept her mahogany-colored hair over one shoulder and shrugged like she didn’t care. “Okay, sweetie.”
He strode up to me and stuck out his hand. “Francesco Grandese.” He pointed to the girl. “This here’s my wife, Julieta. Jewels for short.”
She waggled a finger, the diamond flash setting off a light show that bounced around the shop.
I swallowed the bunny tail and put the rest of the cookie on one of my signature napkins, white paper monogrammed with DDI in Winthrop green.
Holding a hand flat out, duchess style, I said, “I’m Deva Dunne. How may I help you?”
Mr. Grandese seized my fingers in a sweaty palm and eyeballed my bruises. “You were in that explosion the other day.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the burned-out restaurant.
“Unfortunately, yes.”
His eyes narrowed as he studied me, checking out the damage. “I read about you in the papers. Otherwise I’d think your old man let you have it.”
I squared my shoulders and stood erect, back military straight. At five six plus stiletto heels I towered over him. “I beg your pardon.”
“Figure of speech is all,” he said casually, waving his hands in the air.
“Don’t worry about those bruises, honey. L’Oreal has a great cover-up product.” Jewels spoke like she really knew.
Her husband glanced at her sideways and frowned. “What did I tell you?”
“Oh, sorry.” She suddenly developed a passionate interest in a table display of Herend figurines.
“I don’t have time for no chitchat,” he said.
Oh no?
“I’d love to hear the name of that product, Mrs. Grandese,” I said in my best Boston accent.
“Oh, sure.” To give her credit, she didn’t look at her husband for a go-ahead before launching into a topic she obviously knew a lot about. “It’s called L’Oreal Concealer, and it works really well.”
“Does it come in different shades?” My pen poised over a notepad, I waited for her to go on.
“Yes, it does. I use bronze concealer, but you might need light contouring. Though if you get it too pale, it doesn’t cover. So go a shade darker than your usual foundation.”
“I don’t use foundation.”
Like a dermatologist in the making, she studied my skin. “No, you don’t need it. When you’re not beat up, that is.”
“Well, thanks, but I do have freckles.”
“Nothing wrong with freckles. They go with your red hair. Like ham and eggs or something.”
“That’s so sweet.”
“Girls—”
Girls. “Just a moment, Mr. Grandese.” I held up a palm. “Can you spell L’Oreal for me?” I asked Jewels. She did, painstakingly, starting and stopping several times. When I thought Francesco’s fuse was ready to hit the TNT, I put down the pen and gave him a megawatt smile.
“And now, sir, how may I help you?”
Deva Dunne Interiors needed all the business it could get, but I hated bullies and sometimes, as they say at Harvard Law School, a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.
“I just bought a house,” he said, plainly not sure whether or not he should be pissed.
“And?”
“I want it decorated. Top to bottom. Head to foot.”
Music to my ears. “Tell me about the house.” Judging from his behavior, I suspected he’d bought one of those bloated monstrosities that had sprung up around town lately, too large for the lot it sat on, pretentious and tasteless, crowding its neighbors like a gigantic toad on a small lily pad.
He shrugged his fleshy shoulders, straining the material of what looked like a custom-tailored suit. “What’s to tell? It’s on Rum Row.”
I nodded, pretending to be cool while my heart did flip-flops. Rum Row also known as Multimillionaire’s Row, was a winding, shade-filled street in Port Royal, Naples’s most affluent section. Built thirty or forty year ago, the houses there were low-pitched, elegant structures that exuded understated, old-money grace and charm.
I’d kill to design the interior of one of those babies and eyed Francesco carefully. Had I misjudged him? Was he really a wife beater and a thug or merely crass? I gave a mental shrug. I had no proof of either one, and besides, judging Francesco wasn’t my job. Interior design was, and dangling in front of my eyes like a luscious carrot was the chance to redecorate a whole, elegant house.
“An interesting proposition, Mr. Grandese,” I said.
“Call me Francesco. I’ll call you Deva, okay?”
“Of course.”
“So you want to take a look at the place?”
“I’d love to, ah, Francesco. But I’m curious. Why have you chosen Deva Dunne Interiors?”
“I didn’t choose you yet,” he said.
Chalk one up for Francesco. “True. Excuse me.”
He waved a hand, dismissing my apology. “It’s okay. I’ll answer you. Any broad...woman...who gets out of an exploding building alive and goes to work the next day has guts. I like that in a female.”
Ha!
“I also figure you started a business, so you know what you’re doing.” He glanced leisurely around. “I like the looks of your store. You got taste. Class. And that’s what I want.” He held up two fingers. “Taste and class.”
Emboldened, or maybe feeling she’d been quiet long enough, Jewels ventured, “I love these table skirts. I had a prom gown like that once. I like the bunny figurines too.”
Francesco pointed to them. “These guys, Jewels?”
Her eyes shining, she nodded, a little girl who senses a treat coming.
“We’ll take one in every color,” he said to me. Without attempting to lower his voice, he added, “Whatever else you do, don’t listen to Jewels. I don’t want her doing any decorating. She’s not a decorator. She is the decoration. You get my meaning?”
He’d wrecked his sweet gesture with an insult but, remaining cool, not letting him see what a prick I thought he was, I opened my appointment book. “I’m free after five.”
“No, too late. Let’s go now. Donny’s out there waiting.”
Get in a car with a total stranger whose chauffeur was built like Jesse Ventura?
“Sorry, Francesco,” I said. “My shop doesn’t close until five.”
He rubbed his jaw and frowned. “Too bad. I’m waiting on a call. It comes through, I’ll be heading
to the East Coast in a couple hours. Got business in South Beach. Maybe you didn’t understand me.” He let go of his jaw and pointed to the Herend collection. “I didn’t come here just for rabbits. I want a whole house redone.” He shrugged, straining the suit jacket again. “Like I told Jewels, I got no time to waste. So? You want to look at the job or not?”
I tapped my toe and frowned, pretending I had trouble deciding. The truth was he’d just won round two, but if I refused, I’d lose the job before I even landed it. I had to cut my losses—either cave or lose. So I caved. This time. But no way was I getting in that limo.
“Very well,” I said. “Since time is so tight for you, I’ll close up shop for a while.”
“Good. Now how much for the Herends?”
He knew the name of the porcelain maker? That was a surprise. “Give me a minute to wrap them for Mrs. Grandese, then I’ll add up the total.”
Jewels helped by carrying her favorites to the sales desk. I cocooned each one in tissue and placed them in one of my special DDI gift bags—white glossy stock with Winthrop green handles and monogram. Francesco paid me in cash and in no time at all we were good to go.
“I’ll follow you in my car,” I said, taking out my keys. “The address is?”
He opened his mouth as if to protest, but for some reason didn’t. “Two fifty Rum Row. We’ll be waiting.”
Why did that sound like a threat? I grabbed my purse and fished for the cell. I was probably being silly and a little jumpy from the explosion, but still I’d leave the address on Rossi’s voice mail.
Just in case.
Chapter Four
A half hour later I had fallen madly in love.
Francesco owned my dream house. One of those white-timbered James River designs from the Virginia Low Country. A gracious distance from the street, its slate roof shaded by giant live oaks draped with Spanish moss, the house nestled on its spacious lot like a baby in his mother’s arms.
Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Page 2