I hung up and forced my attention back onto the Rum Row project. Family tragedy or not, I suspected Francesco would want to see my concept ASAP.
For major projects like this one, I did floor plans to scale showing all major furniture placements. As soon as I completed Francesco’s project and was paid in full, I planned to purchase a new computer and use CAD—computer aided drafting—for big jobs. No more hand-rendered floor plans after this one.
Francesco had given me snapshots of his antiques, including the dimensions of each piece. I spread the photos out on my drafting table and began the selection.
I didn’t get too far. Usually I could ignore the foot traffic and distractions of the shop to concentrate on planning projects, but not today. As Lee greeted two customers searching for drapery fabric, I swiveled away from my project to stare unseeing at the opposite wall.
Say Donny’s death had been an accident and Francesco was the intended victim. Who at the party wanted him dead?
Norm Harkness would be my first pick. He had a powerful motive. Francesco had threatened him with exposure if he didn’t pay back the money he owed him, but from what I overheard, Norm wasn’t able to settle the debt.
What about Cookie? Would she actually kill an offensive neighbor when she could simply cut him dead? Or to be serious, what if she knew about Norm’s debt? If she did, would she commit murder for her man? Divorce was so much easier. I gave a mental shrug. Who knew?
Then there was Jewels. Caring for one baby, pregnant with another, surely she didn’t want her husband dead. Except, of course, that as his widow she’d inherit everything. An evil thought crept into my mind. Though she appeared to love little Frannie, was she harboring a bitter resentment against Francesco for having taken another lover?
As for sweet, grieving Bonita, no way would she murder anyone. She simply didn’t have the gravitas for such a violent deed...still, why was she eavesdropping on Francesco’s argument with Norm?
Phew.
I swiveled around to the desk, but the questions wouldn’t leave me alone. Chances were remote that Simon Yaeger’s search would turn up a long-lost owner for all those Grover Clevelands. So with Francesco out of the way, the half million plus would soon be Chip’s free and clear. Murders had been committed for a lot less. That left AudreyAnn. If she didn’t love Chip, her motive for staying with him was security, so her reason for wanting Francesco dead echoed Chip’s.
No. I paced around the display tables, searching for solutions, but I was fishing without a pole. Somehow, for either Chip or his squeeze to kill Donny in a fit of jealous rage made more sense than for them to kill Francesco for money he might not even attempt to claim.
That left only Rossi and me on my suspect list. Why would I want to kill a man who had given me carte blanche to work on a house I loved? As for Rossi, what possible motive would he have? Ridiculous to even consider him for the suspect list.
No, we were both in the clear. At least I hoped to God we were, and that the chief wouldn’t take Rossi off the case. For if anyone could solve it, he was the man.
Having succeeded in calming myself, I went back to the presentation boards. Definitely historic Putnam Ivory on the living room walls, classic white on the woodwork, and we’d retain the dark walnut-stained hardwood floors. They were in perfect condition. Altogether my plan would create a neutral envelope against which each Federal piece would be as prominent as a five-carat diamond in a Tiffany setting.
The furniture placement did present a design challenge, though. As you entered the living room, the far wall overlooking the pool was all glass. So placing the magnificent Townsend desk straight ahead as the focal point wouldn’t be feasible. I’d have to center it on the right wall and place the largest of the inlaid chests opposite. An oil painting over the chest would balance the visual weight of the Townsend...an oriental on the floor...the Zuber paper would give me more than enough color ideas for rugs.
I’d float twin sofas in ivory linen in the center of the room—one facing the pool and one with its back to it. Very sleek, very minimalist, very Juan Montoya. A coffee table in glass would visually disappear, not war with the antiques and yet be serviceable...unless Francesco wanted to use one of the blanket chests for that purpose. No, that wouldn’t be sophisticated enough. What if...
The Yarmouthport bells on the shop door jangled, interrupting my fragile concentration. I glanced up. A prince of prep in khaki pants, rep tie and striped shirt, and with a gait like an overgrown puppy, loped over to Lee. Could this be Cookie’s friend’s son? No. Even Cookie wouldn’t have the nerve to send him here when I’d refused to take him on as a client.
Oh, yes, she would.
I flung down my pen again. At the rate I was going, completing the presentation boards would take roughly the same time as finishing the Sistine Chapel.
“Mrs. Dunne handles the designing,” Lee said to him. “Right now she’s in the middle of a project. But if y’all want to look around for a moment, I’ll see if she’ll see you. Who shall I say is calling?”
He murmured something I didn’t catch and, reaching into his shirt pocket, removed a business card and handed it to her.
Well, well. He looked like a recent college grad, twenty-one or-two at the most. Lee put the card on my desk.
Nikhil Jamison
Licensed Broker
Harkness Investments, Inc.
Harkness? This lad worked for Norm? My interest in Cookie’s young friend suddenly shot to the ceiling.
Chapter Sixteen
Intrigued, I said, “I’ll be happy to speak to speak to Mr. Jamison, Lee.”
He heard me and crossed the shop to my drafting table with a few long-legged strides. “Mrs. Dunne, I’m Nikhil Jamison. Cookie Harness sent—”
“—you to me,” I finished, trying not to show my exasperation. And clearly failing. His smile faded. Contrite, I stood and extended my hand. This kid wasn’t responsible for Cookie’s arrogance. “Nikhil’s an unusual name,” I said, making nice, before sinking back onto my chair.
“I know. My parents honeymooned in Mumbai. Guess they used to call it Bombay. I came along nine months later.” He flushed a deep magenta and added, “I have to explain my name to everyone I meet.”
Ah, a kindred spirit. “Me too.”
He gave me a shy smile. “Yeah, I’ve heard of divas, but you’re my first Deva.”
“It’s really Devalera. My father wanted a boy and got me instead. He named me for his political hero, Eamon Devalera of Ireland. By the time I was six, I could recite Devalera’s whole history.”
Nikhil laughed, showing me a big, bright smile and a wealth of understanding.
“Why don’t you have a seat?” I indicated the gold Chiavari chair across from my desk.
He perched on the edge and ran a nervous hand through his tousled blond hair, rumpling it even more. How appealing. I liked him on the spot and guessed that like most twenty-something guys, he was uncomfortable in a design shop.
“How may I help you?” I asked.
He gulped in a lungful of air. “I...um...have this girlfriend,” he began.
“I’m not surprised to hear that,” I replied causing his cheeks to flush deep red again.
“She’s coming to Naples next month, after she graduates from Vanderbilt. We met there. I graduated last year...and I...I want to ask her to marry me, but...um...my apartment is such a dump that—”
“You’re afraid she’ll take one look, turn around and run away.”
“Something like that. The way the place is looking now, for sure she won’t want to stay.”
“If she’s in love, she will.”
He glanced down at his hands. “I can’t take that chance.”
With his pink cheeks, his shy smile and the sincerity that oozed from his every pore, I didn’t think he had a thing to worry about. But that wasn’t what he’d come to hear, so I asked, “Where do you live?”
“On Tenth Avenue. A rental in the Azalea Building.”
“I know the area well. Great location. Near all the action on Third Street South.”
“Yeah, it’s a cool spot. That’s why I’m leasing there.”
His apartment was in what I called the flower complex. Named for a different blossom, each building part of a cluster of two-story structures set inside a wide swath of grassy lawn. The units were modest but affordable and quiet.
“Tell me about your place. Start with the size and the number of rooms.”
“Roughly one thousand square feet. A bedroom.” Cute, he listed that first. “Living room, small kitchen, small bath. And a patio.”
“Appliances?”
“Oh sure. Pretty new.” He shrugged. “They all work, anyway.”
“How about furniture?”
“A bed.” Funny how that topped the list. “A queen size. A guitar. A couple of plastic lawn chairs. A flat screen TV on a stand. It was a graduation gift. That’s about all,” he said, his expression telegraphing that the dismal list meant I’d turn him down.
“Now for the sixty-four thousand dollar question. How much do you have to spend?”
“Fifteen hundred,” he said without hesitation. “For everything. I can’t go over that figure.”
As I studied him across the desk top, he paused, clearly torn about whether he should say more. He must have decided to go ahead for he added, “My trust fund doesn’t kick in until I’m twenty-five. So until then, I’m on a tight budget. My dad thinks being strapped builds character or something.”
He flushed yet again. An endearing habit, but I wondered how it would play out in the competitive world of investment counseling. Still, despite the boyish flush, he knew his fiscal limits and obviously had no intention of going over them.
“What was your major at Vanderbilt?” I asked, suddenly wanting to know.
“Economics with a business minor.”
“Ah, so that’s why you’re with Harkness Investments?”
He nodded. “The Harknesses are old family friends. Norm’s giving me a chance to prove myself, so to speak.”
“Sounds good,” I said, though after what I’d overheard at Chez Grandese, I wondered if working with Norm was good.
“It’s excellent training, and Norm is a great teacher except that—” On the edge of a verbal cliff, Nikhil skidded to a halt. “I’m not such a swift learner.”
I smiled. He hadn’t finished his original thought, but his cover-up had been lightening quick. Nikhil was a lot brighter than he let on and a lot less innocent than his frequent flushing indicated. I liked him. I liked him a lot.
I eased back in the ergonomic chair and swiveled for a moment before hitting him with the facts. “Fifteen hundred isn’t much to work with.”
“I know.”
“Out of that I take twenty percent off the top. So...” I leaned over the desk, “...that leaves twelve hundred to convert an empty, dated apartment into a...” My turn to skid to a halt.
“...love nest,” he finished with an outsized grin. “Can you do it?”
Yes, I did like this kid. And I liked the way he’d just challenged me.
“As they say in Harvard law school, ‘You bet your sweet patootie I can.’”
He laughed, didn’t flush, and said, “Done!”
I held up a palm. “But only with sweat equity.” I pointed a finger at him. “Yours.”
“I’m not afraid of hard work.”
“Good. You’re going to have a chance to prove it. So...when can I see your apartment?”
We set a viewing date for early the following Saturday morning. I confess the project intrigued me. One of the reasons I’d opened my own business, in addition to making money—no sense in being a hypocrite about that—was to help people with modest budgets create lovely environments. To make their lives better, more joyous—happier, I guess is what I mean. While that didn’t make me Sister Mary Deva of the Order of Heavenly Designs, it went a long way toward boosting my morale and giving me the feeling that my work was meaningful. Nikhil’s project was a variation on that theme. In his case I’d also be playing cupid. I loved the very idea.
While Lee wrapped a Steuben bowl for a customer needing a wedding gift, I rose and strolled toward the door with Nikhil. Before we reached it, the bells on the handle jangled, and Rossi stepped into the shop.
“What a nice surprise,” I said delighted to see him. He looked heavy eyed and harried like he hadn’t had much sleep. Or any at all.
“Nikhil Jamison,” I said, “this is Lieutenant Victor Rossi of the Naples Police Department.”
Nikhil shot a startled glance my way before reaching out to shake Rossi’s hand.
He seemed so taken aback, I explained, “The lieutenant is a friend of mine.”
“Oh, I see.”
Why was he so relieved? “Nikhil is an investment broker,” I told Rossi. “He’s with Norm Harkness’s firm.”
“Interesting field,” Rossi said. “For those who know what they’re doing. Afraid I don’t have that talent. Congratulations.”
Nikhil reddened at Rossi’s compliment. “I’m just learning the business. Norm took me in as a favor to my dad.”
“Is that right? Know each other, do they?”
Baggy eyed or not, Rossi segued right into detective mode, staying low key, non-threatening, letting the suspect talk until he revealed something significant.
Wait a minute. What suspect?
His ploy worked. Nikhil said, “Yes, the families go back a long way. Mrs. Harkness and my mother were roommates at Miss Porter’s. And her father and my grandfather were business partners for years.”
“Investment banking?” Rossi asked, offhand like he was only casually interested, only making polite conversation—the fox.
“No, jewelry manufacturing. Costume jewelry for the most part.”
Anyone who didn’t know Rossi well wouldn’t have noticed his whole body stiffen for an instant. A millisecond only, and though he quickly stifled his surprise, from his reaction in that one split second I knew he’d heard something revealing. But what?
“Are they still in business?” he asked, his voice disarmingly soft.
“No, they sold it a few years ago and retired. Foreign imports did them in.”
“The way of the world,” Rossi said with a shrug.
“Yes, well, I’d better get back to the office. Good to meet you, Lieutenant, Mrs. Dunne. See you on Saturday.”
“I’ll be there,” I said.
When Nikhil left, Rossi sent a quick glance Lee’s way. She was deep in conversation with the Steuben customer. “How’s Lee doing?” he asked quietly.
“What can I say? She’s lonely.”
“Do you think a one-way ticket to Paris and four thousand in cash would be enough to reunite those two?”
“Yes, I’m planning to—”
“Good.” He actually smiled. “I’ll get to the bank and take care of it but not today.”
“Wait up a bit, Rossi, I have an idea.”
“Tell me later, sweetheart, I have to run. I came in to tell you the coroner contacted me this morning. Donny was poisoned. Cyanide.”
“Murder?”
At my stupid question Rossi just shrugged. “Until proven otherwise.” His jaw tightened. “I want you to drop Grandese as a client.”
“You know I can’t do that.”
“Can’t or won’t?” He cocked an eyebrow. “For me?”
“Aw, Rossi, that’s not fair.”
“True, but I had to try one last time. Enter that house as little as possible, and above all, do not eat or drink anything while you’re there.”
“Fine. I won’t. But if there’s that much danger, what about Jewels and the baby? And Francesco? What about him? I’m convinced he was the intended victim. Nothing else makes sense.”
“Is that so?” Rossi treated me to a maddeningly superior grin. Which I guess I deserved. Me and my theories. “At the moment their welfare is out of my hands,” he said. “However, as soon as
I leave you, I’m heading for Rum Row to talk to them.”
“How about Chip and AudreyAnn and Bonita? What does this mean for them? Norm and Cookie too?”
“They’re all on my call list. See you sometime next week,” he said wryly, giving me a distracted little nothing of a kiss on the cheek.
“While we’re on the subject, why did you stiffen up when Nikhil was talking?”
He glanced down at himself. “Did you do that?”
Men.
Chapter Seventeen
Despite his flip parting comment, Rossi had looked harried when he left the shop. No wonder. He not only had a crime to solve, he had a career to protect—his own. Once again, the realization that I was responsible for our involvement in the case ate at me like acid.
Mea culpa.
Slumped next to me in the passenger seat, Lee kept sending anxious glances my way. She looked tense, poor thing. She hadn’t had any fun since arriving back in Naples, only work and sleep and longing for her love.
I returned her worried looks with a smile. The biggest, most dazzling I could muster. Even faked smiles are better than frowns, and she rewarded me with a timid one in return.
“What do you say we go out for dinner?” I asked. “My treat.”
A little light leaped into her eyes, but she said, “Yesterday y’all bought a barbequed chicken from the Publix deli. There’s a lot left.”
“Screw the chicken, Lee. Let’s shake our moody blues.”
She shook her head. “You sure are using colorful language,”
“Damn right. That’s why we have to get you back to Paulo before it rubs off.”
She smiled, and I pulled a U-ee and headed back into town.
“How about the Irish Pub, our old watering hole? The food’s far from gourmet, but the people watching is great, and they pour a mean glass of cheap white wine.”
She giggled. Music to my ears.
“Young lady, you’re going to be in Paris with your husband before you know it. Guaranteed.”
“Oh, Deva.” Lee heaved a sigh. “If only I could be.”
She could, if Rossi had anything to do with it. Unless I beat him to the punch, but first I had to carve out some time to get to Treasure Island Antiques. Then, not only would I surprise Lee, I’d knock the socks off Rossi with a little secret I had in mind. I was as sure of that as I was of my own name. It felt good to be sure of something for a change.
Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Page 11