He looked up at her with love in his eyes. “You’re taking good care of me, sweetheart, not like me with Donny.”
“Don’t blame yourself. He’s in God’s hands now.”
“Thash right,” Norm agreed.
“You still here?” Francesco asked, peering over at him in the half dark. “Why don’t you go home? Take your wife with you.”
“Thash an insult.” Cookie struggled to her feet.
“Just leave,” Francesco said. “Party’s over.”
I blew out a breath. Despite his world class furniture, Francesco wasn’t going to be Mr. Popularity in the ’hood anytime soon.
“We’ll be going too,” Rossi said. “We’re sorry about what happened. Call me at the station if you need me. Anytime.”
Stretched out on the lounger, looking too used up to move, Francesco took a swig of his cognac. “Appreciate it, Lieutenant.”
I patted Francesco’s shoulder in farewell and gave Jewels a kiss on the cheek. “If there’s anything I can do...anything at all, let me know.”
“I will, Deva.” And climbing onto Francesco’s lap, she laid her head on his chest and snuggled against him.
As Rossi and I walked toward the kitchen, my heart beat a little faster than usual. No telling what shape Chip and AudreyAnn would be in.
Surprise! Peace reigned in the room...or at least quiet. No dish throwing. No shouting. No sobbing in angst. Not even any wheezing. Chip stood at the sink, scrubbing the ravioli kettle, while AudreyAnn stacked the dishwasher.
“You guys all right?” Rossi asked.
“We’re okay,” Chip answered, his voice noncommittal.
AudreyAnn continued to drop silverware into the dishwasher basket without saying anything.
“There for a while AudreyAnn had a meltdown,” Chip said, sending a guarded glance her way. “Her problem is she’s got a big heart. She loves everybody. Can’t stand seeing anyone in trouble.”
She shot me a wary-eyed look. Woman-to-woman we both understood each other. A year ago, when she had the affair with Dick Parker, the former owner of Surfside Condominiums, Chip concealed the truth from himself with the same statement. Almost word-for-word. Was he so much in love with her he consciously denied she was a serial cheater? Or so needy he refused to acknowledge the truth to himself? Poor Chip. Either way, I felt sorry for the guy and returned AudreyAnn’s suspicious stare with a shrug.
Ever the detective, Rossi asked, “So tell me, Chip, what exactly happened to Donny? I mean, how did it play out?”
“Nothing unusual. At least not at first.” Chip removed the kettle from the sink and wiped it with a towel. “He brought in a couple of dishes and stood by the island there scarfing down Francesco’s leftover shrimp. Next thing I know, boom, he’s on the floor. Isn’t that right, AudreyAnn?”
Wordless, but tearing up, she nodded.
“Just like that? No warning?” Rossi asked, disbelief in his tone.
“That’s right,” Chip said. “One minute he’s fine, enjoying the shrimp, the next minute he’s down. I guess heart attacks work that way.”
The discarded shrimp dishes still cluttered the island.
“You have any plastic wrap?” Rossi asked.
“Sure, in that drawer over there.”
Rossi opened the drawer, tore off a sheet of wrap and draped it over one of the shrimp dishes. The one without salsa stains. “If you don’t mind, I want to have this examined.”
AudreyAnn, big-eyed, stopped filling the dishwasher and stared at Rossi. “Poison?” she whispered.
Rossi shook his head. “Probably just some bad shrimp. E. coli can be toxic. Best to be sure.”
*
“You knew Donny was Francesco’s cousin, didn’t you?” I asked as soon as Rossi and I were alone in what he called his party car, a vintage BMW he kept as shiny as his badge.
“Yes.”
“And you don’t think E. coli killed him, do you?”
“I’m doubtful. It doesn’t work that fast.”
“Poison?”
“I hope to God not.” He spoke in that professional I-can’t-tell-you-anything tone I hated.
“But you think it is.”
He sighed. “Deva—”
“A lecture’s coming.”
He drove as he always did, staring straight ahead, no nonsense, no sideways glances, all attention on the road. “I’m a cop.” Well, he did pull his glance off the road for a nanosecond and swiveled it over to me. “There will be times when I can’t share information with you. That won’t mean I don’t trust you. It will mean I’d be violating security. Or placing you in danger. Or both. So bottom line, don’t ask. My silence in a police matter will never mean anything personal against you.”
I leaned toward him, straining against my seatbelt. “So you do think this is a police matter?”
Another sigh, louder this time. “You didn’t hear a thing I said.”
“I heard every word. But until this is a police matter, why can’t you answer me?”
I knew I had him. The logic in that was fabulous.
He shook his head and sighed. “All right, rather than argue, I’ll make an exception this one time.” A pause then, “According to what Chip saw, Donny went down fast. No warning. No chest pain. Just a sudden collapse. I’m not saying that doesn’t happen, but I want it checked out. The autopsy should clarify the cause of death. If there’s any trace of a foreign substance—”
“You mean poison?”
“—in the body or on the shrimp dish we took that will confirm—”
“—your suspicions.”
“Or disprove them. Satisfied now?” He turned right onto Gordon Drive.
I wasn’t ready to give up my bone. “That’s why you didn’t let Jewels give Donny CPR, isn’t it? Just in case there was poison residue on his lips.”
“Yes. Just in case.”
“But why would anyone want to kill Donny?”
“If someone did kill him, that’s what I’ll be paid to find out. If being the operative word. He had a long rap sheet plus some creepy pals. Maybe Francesco hired him to help straighten him out. Who knows? And now, Mrs. Dunne, home to bed?”
He definitely took his attention off the road that time.
All along Gordon Drive, night mist from the Gulf enveloped the car, wrapping us in a velvet cocoon redolent with sea salt and jasmine. Alone with Rossi and at peace for the first time in hours, I wanted the road never to end, the drive to go on forever, the moment to last an eternity
But reality intervened. “I need to get back to Surfside, Rossi. Lee’s been alone all evening, last night too. Sorry, but...” To take the sting from my words, I reached over to stroke his thigh. He grasped my fingers and drove with one hand on the wheel. A first. He was breaking his rules left and right tonight.
“I know Lee needs you. This situation won’t go on forever.”
“No,” I murmured, happy that he understood, stretching against the seat belt again to give him a big sloppy kiss on the cheek.
“It better not go on, or I’ll be turning into a gentleman caller.” He barked out a laugh. “Tomorrow let’s grab a bite after work. I want to discuss a plan I have for helping Lee.”
I relaxed the rest of the way home, and when we got to Surfside, Rossi released both seatbelts, took me in his arms and kissed me crazy.
By my front door, not wanting to say good-night, I leaned against the building’s stucco wall and flung my arms around his neck. He pressed into me. Hard. One more kiss then he dragged himself away. “Call you in the morning. Sleep well.”
He climbed into the BMW and drove off, his rear lights glowing like tiger eyes in the night. That was when it hit me, and waving my arms and shouting his name, I ran after the car. He didn’t hear me, and I stood on the tarmac watching his lights turn into pinpricks in the dark. All the trauma of the evening must have unhinged me. I’d forgotten to tell him I overheard Francesco threatening Norm. And so had Bonita. Also I wanted to share my theory
about what the threat might mean. Francesco was the one who was supposed to eat that shrimp. He was the one who should have died, not Donny.
That meant somebody murdered the wrong man. Could the killer be Norm Harkness?
Chapter Fifteen
Well, I shrugged, no point in remaining alone in the dark no matter how velvet the night. I’d go in and text Rossi my big news.
In the living room, the sofa lights and the TV were blazing away. The minute I stepped into the foyer, Lee leaped up, humming with excitement.
“If y’all hadn’t come in soon, I’d surely have broken into bits,” she said, whirling me around the living room.
Out of breath and dizzy, we collapsed on the sofa together.
“So tell me!”
“Paulo texted me an hour ago.”
“And?”
“And—” her eyes sparkled with blue fire, “—he has a commission, his first big break. I’m so thrilled! Some important man wants a portrait of his wife. A few more commissions like this one, and Paulo will have saved enough to send for me.” A little crease appeared on her forehead. “He likes Paris. Nobody there notices that he’s Jamaican. What he’s really saying is nobody cares if he’s black.” Her blue eyes flared wide. “Why should they? He’s so handsome. So kind. So gifted.” The little crease on her forehead deepened. “I’ll think of that and not about whether the woman he’s painting is beautiful...but she probably is. Why else would her husband want her portrait?”
“Why?” Insecurity, that bugaboo of lovers had obviously sunk its teeth into Lee. No wonder. She had set the man she adored free in Paris of all places. But mentioning that wouldn’t comfort her now, so I said, “Because he loves her with every fiber of his being. Because no other woman on earth exists for him. Because he wants her image on his wall, close to him, where he can gaze at her every day...even when she’s far away.”
I let my words shimmer around us until Lee smiled and said, “You’re what my gran used to call a wise woman. And I’ve been acting like a foolish one. My momma wouldn’t be proud. I’m so glad y’all got home before I fell asleep. I was just dying to share Paulo’s news.” She covered a yawn with a hand. “How was the party? Have a good time?”
“No, we didn’t. One of the men collapsed.”
Halfway through another yawn, she dropped her hand from her mouth. “Collapsed?”
“Died.”
“Oh no. Who was he?”
“Someone I hardly knew. Someone too young to die.”
My voice trailed off. In my heart of hearts I didn’t think Donny had expired from natural causes. Neither, I felt sure, did Rossi. He was probably at the forensic lab already, demanding the shrimp dish be examined immediately.
Lee stood and stretched. “I think I’ll turn in, Deva. The excitement about Paulo has me all tuckered out.”
I lay back on the sofa. “Good night, Lee. I’ll sit up for a while. I need to send Rossi a message. Then I’ll try to relax before going to bed. The whole night’s been...a nightmare. I couldn’t sleep right now.”
Lee turned off most of the condo lamps, and I lay slumped on the couch in the half glow, enjoying, as always, the soft sheen of my Irish furniture. Almost everything in the room had belonged to Jack’s Dublin family—the mahogany hunt board, the four-drawer chests, the brass candlesticks, the Sheffield silver, the drop leaf table and, anchoring everything, the inspiration for my peach and taupe color scheme, the Tabriz rug in those muted shades that take generations of wear to achieve. I loved every piece. Each one reminded me of the Jack I had lost. Each one not nearly as valuable as Francesco’s stunners, but still valuable enough.
Of course! I bolted upright on the couch. Something else I hadn’t thought of had hit me. I’d sell a piece of Jack’s furniture. Maybe two pieces. That would yield more than enough money to send Lee to Paris. Drawing in a deep breath, I fell back against the cushions. What a good idea. I could do this. Yes, I could.
But what could I bear to sell? I studied each piece with an eye to parting with it. One of the four-drawer chests maybe? No. Not a good idea to break up a pair. Both then? I heaved a sigh. Instead, how about the Tabriz? Or the rose medallion collection? Yes, definitely the porcelains. And also...well, I’d decide exactly what in the morning. Letting a few pieces go would solve at least one problem if not all the others. Especially not the Donny problem. For that I’d have to wait until Rossi contacted me.
*
“It was cyanide,” Rossi said when he rang the shop the next morning. “At least on the shrimp dish. The coroner’s exam will take more time, but I think there’s little doubt of the outcome.”
“What happens next?”
“We wait for the autopsy results. Until then, should anyone ask, Donny died from a sudden heart attack. Understood?”
“Absolutely.”
“Good,” he said, sounding relieved.
“Did you get my message?” I asked.
“Yes. Thanks. It’s an interesting tidbit. I’ll keep it in mind.”
Not a very satisfying response to my big revelation about Francesco and Norm, but he had warned me that when it came to his work not to expect much sharing. I didn’t like that but could live with it. I gave a mental shrug—as long as I was involved with Rossi I’d have to.
After we hung up, I mulled over what he’d told me. If the coroner pronounced Donny’s death a murder, wouldn’t the chef be the first suspect? The chef and the salad girl? The salad girl who’d wept over the body of her Donny, hugging him to her breasts, distraught and grief-stricken.
An act?
I flung down my pen, all interest in the Grandese presentation boards vanishing. AudreyAnn had left Chip for six long, mysterious months and then made a dramatic return to his ever-loving arms. Had she been living with Donny and been dumped? From her behavior at his death, they were far from strangers. Could she be a scornee still in love with the scorner?
If so, how did that implicate Chip? Had he killed Donny in a fit of jealous rage? Lovable, bumbling, Shrek-like Chip?
Hard to believe.
And what of helpful, sweet Bonita? A widow with sad eyes still grieving for her dead husband. Had she accepted Francesco’s help because she needed it, or because she wanted revenge? Moving in and out of the kitchen all evening, she’d had ample opportunity, and Donny would be her logical target. Though the Ferrari had belonged to Francesco, Donny had actually caused the spark that exploded and killed Tomas.
I shook my head at my own stupidity and picked up the pen again...Francesco was the intended victim, not Donny. So there went my revenge theory.
I stared up at the shop ceiling. Maybe I should change the white to a flattering pink wash. Hmm. Suppose someone slipped cyanide into the shrimp dish after it had been removed to the kitchen? Then Donny was the intended victim after all, and I was back to the Chip-AudreyAnn-Bonita theory of murder one.
I heaved a sigh so loud Lee looked up, startled, from the carton of Steuben bowls she was unpacking. Until the police received the coroner’s report, speculating was a waste of time. Though no doubt Rossi’s mind was already racing with possibilities. He’d probably even drawn up a list of suspects and motives. That the list would include me, I dwelt on briefly. That a list drawn up by someone else in Homicide would include both Rossi and me, I dwelt on far longer. My fault.
Rossi’s warning echoed in my brain. If I’d listened to him and refused to take on the Grandese project, neither of us would be in this mess today. To Rossi’s credit, he hadn’t mentioned that inescapable detail. But the guilt weighed on me nonetheless. Without question, we were both potential suspects, a fact he must have recognized the instant he suspected poison.
Rossi. I couldn’t help him with any concerns the chief might have, but his worry that Jack had a lock on my heart I could try to put to rest. One way was to go ahead and see my gynecologist. Find out whether I could have a child. Prove to Rossi that I wasn’t holding on to the past, using it as an excuse to cling to old memories.
>
I wasn’t, was I?
No. I dug the cell phone out of my purse and punched in my GYN’s number.
Dr. Elizabeth Enright couldn’t see me for two months. In case of emergency, her assistant would give me a referral. Was this an emergency? No. The truth had waited this long, it could wait a few weeks longer. Besides, now that Jack was gone, I had no plans for having a child in the near future—not with Rossi—not with anyone. I had a business to establish, a busy life, a full life. All I wanted from my doctor was the truth.
Actually I had talked myself into feeling a bit better when another call came in on the shop phone and blew my good mood south of the equator.
“For you, Deva. A Mrs. Cookie Chandler Harkness.” Lee covered the receiver with a hand. “She sounds mighty fancy.”
I wrinkled my nose and took the receiver, wondering what on earth she wanted. “Good morning, Cookie.”
“Miss Dunne.”
“Mrs., actually. But do call me Deva.”
“Oh. Of course. Terrible business last night. Terrible. But you already know what happened, and that’s not the reason I’m calling.”
“No? Then how may I help you?” I used my Back Bay Boston voice, which I enjoyed hauling out once in a while when the occasion warranted. Like now.
“Well you can’t help me, but I know a young man...his mother and I were roommates at Miss Porter’s ages ago...anyway, that’s neither here nor there. His name is Nikhil Jamison, and he needs help decorating his apartment. He doesn’t have much to spend so I told him about you. I know your services are cheap.”
Cheap? God, the woman set my teeth on edge.
“If you mean inexpensive, Cookie, what gave you that idea?”
“Well, you’re hardly Carlton Varney.” She laughed, a tinkling, glass-shattering laugh.
I wanted to kill her. “I’m sorry, Cookie, but I’m too busy to take on another client. Do express my regrets to your young man.”
“But that’s not—”
“I really must go. I’m late for an appointment. Ciao.” The nerve of that broad. I’ll give her cheap.
Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Page 10