Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design)

by Jean Harrington

  “I believe you can,” I said, trying not to smile, “but suppose the Grandeses sue you for libel? Besides, even if they don’t, your story will expose Norm.”

  “Unless the money hemorrhaging stops immediately, he’ll be exposed anyway. I have nothing...or everything...to lose.” She stood and smoothed her pants over her slim hips. “Talking about all this helped, but remember number one on my to-do list. If you repeat what I’ve just said, I’ll kill you. Now if you’ll excuse me.” She stood and back ramrod straight walked over to a patio door and disappeared inside, leaving me alone on the garden bench.

  She’d kill me? Despite the heat of the day, a shiver raced over my skin. No, that would never happen. I forced the stab of alarm down and leaped up. Good grief, what was I thinking? Enough sleuthing for the moment. Tom was still back at the Grandeses mixing mango paint. I rushed across the street and found him dabbing on a fifth version of the shade. No need. The fourth try was perfect—warm and subtle, vivid and discreet. Mango and yet not; tangerine and yet not. Too complex to define, it was, in short, perfection.

  “This one, Tom. You’ve nailed it.”

  “Excellent. That means we can finish this room in a couple of days and then you can send in the floor polisher. Next we’ll start on the children’s bedrooms.”

  “Wonderful. You’re ahead of schedule.”

  To tie the neutral-colored public rooms together, I planned to introduce mango and tangerine accessories in the living room. Pillows on those Montoya couches would do that. For sheer sassiness, maybe one or two in a tiger print velvet. But pillows could wait. Right now I had a call to make. If Cookie thought she had me intimidated, she thought wrong. In Dorchester, Massachusetts where I’m from, we don’t kowtow to threats—

  The front door chimes shattered my concentration. Somebody had come calling. Cookie again? Well at least I’d had the presence of mind to relock the door and reset the alarm. Heeding Rossi’s warning, at the front entrance I peered through the side lights before opening the door.

  No telling who—Bonita?

  I turned off the security alarm and opened the door. “This is a surprise, Bonita. I didn’t think you were working here any more.”

  “I’m not, Señora Dunne. I work for Mrs. Harkness now.”

  “You do?”

  “Sí. Mr. Grandese pays better. But she talks to me more. Woman-to-woman.”

  I’ll bet she did. Probably pumping her for everything she knew about the Grandeses. I hoped Bonita would end up getting paid for her efforts, but didn’t bring up that sticky subject.

  “Does Mr. Grandese know you’re working for the Harnesses now?”

  “He knows or not, what do I care? Here, this is for him.” She held out a glossy red gift bag stuffed with festive-looking purple tissue. “It is for his baby boy. His son.”

  “From you? How lovely.”

  “No. Not from me. Why would I give gifts to his baby? His baby has a father. My son, my little Tomas, he has no father. And who is to blame for that? That Donny. That Grandese bastardo. Here, take.” She thrust the gift bag into my hands. Fairly heavy, it sagged a little under the contents’ weight.

  “I don’t understand, Bonita. If this isn’t from you, who is it from?”

  She shrugged. “I don’t know. A man came to my house early this morning. A stranger. He said give this to Mr. Grandese for his little son. So I bring.”

  “What did this man look like?”

  “A man like any other.”

  “Young, old, fat, thin?”

  “In his thirty years I would say. Big shoulders. Black hair. Well dressed. In my neighborhood we don’t often see such nice clothes.”

  Could she be lying? I looked down at the gift then up into Bonita’s dark eyes. “A man was killed in this house. This might not be safe.”

  She nodded. “Is safe. Mrs. Harkness opened it. She too was worried. Said it might be a...how she say...a practical joke. I see it. Is a funny gift for a niño but is safe.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Sí.”

  I gave the bag back to her. “Then open it. Here on the doorstep.”

  I had to give Cookie credit for guts. Or foolishness. In her place I would have called the local bomb squad, never mind examining the contents of this thing. Who knew, maybe she had a death wish.

  “I tell you is safe,” Bonita insisted.

  “Go on, open it.” I had no intention of bringing this mysterious package anywhere near little Frannie without knowing what it held.

  Bonita put the bag on the stone entrance slab, bent down and lifted the gift out of its tissue paper cocoon.

  “Oh, my!” was all I could think of to say.

  “You think Mr. Grandese will like this?” she asked.

  “No. Mr. Grandese will not like this, but he has to see it.”

  “Sí. He’s a good man. I want to hate him for what happened, but I cannot. That Donny, him I hate.”

  “Be careful what you say, Bonita. You don’t want to be accused of...anything.”

  “I am not afraid. Mrs. Harkness she told me in your country you need proof to accuse. Is that not true?”

  “Yes, but—”

  “So let your country prove I poisoned that Donny. Let them prove.”

  With the dignity of a duchess, Bonita turned on her heel and strode across Rum Row, leaving me holding the bag.

  Literally.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  As soon as Bonita disappeared inside the Harkness house, I dug the cell phone out of my tote and punched in Francesco’s number. Jewels picked up on the first ring.

  “Baby sleeping?” I asked.

  “Almost. Francesco’s rocking him now.”

  “Sorry to disturb him, but I have a baby gift here for you.”

  She related the message to her husband then said, “Frannie said to come up. He’s putting the baby down now.”

  “Fine. Be right over.” Leaving Tom and his crew working in the dining room, I grabbed the gift bag, reset the door locks and climbed the outside stairs to the apartment over the garage.

  No attempt had been made to make it attractive. It was what it was, a convenient pad with a king-sized bed and a baby crib in a corner of the single bedroom. In the main room a couple of lounge chairs faced a flat-screen TV. Baby bottles and jars and cereal boxes littered the miniscule kitchen galley. No Federalist furniture anywhere in sight.

  Francesco saw me glancing around and said, “Yeah, it’s a dump all right. See why I want your guys on the job? We gotta get outta here before I go nuts.”

  “Oh, it’s not so bad.” Jewels quietly closed the bedroom door. “The baby should sleep for a couple of hours.”

  “Thank God. Kids are killers, you know that?” Francesco slumped onto one of the loungers and raised the foot rest.

  “I wouldn’t know.” I held the bag out to him. “Here’s your baby gift.”

  “Oh Frannie loves packages,” Jewels said. A sweet girl.

  He took the bag.

  “Before you open it you should know that—”

  “Hey, this was swell of you, Deva. We didn’t expect no presents.”

  “It’s not from me,” I began, but too late.

  He’d already ripped the tissue apart and, reaching in, pulled out a toy truck with a shiny aluminum grille, black headlights and a chrome yellow body. A small piece of paper had been taped to the body of the truck with the word Propane inked on in black.

  “What the hell.” He reached in again and yanked out a fistful of play money. Some of the fake currency fluttered from his fingers and fell to the floor. Every one was a replica of a thousand dollar bill.

  Sitting up straight, Francesco dumped everything out of the gift bag. A card had been tucked into the tissue layers. He stuck a blunt fingertip under the envelope flap and ripped it open. A moment only and he turned white as the undershirt he was wearing.

  “Somebody’s after my kid.”

  “What does the card say?” Jewels hurried over
to take it from his shaky hand and read aloud, “‘Enjoy your boy for as long as it lasts.’ Oh my God, they’re going to kill our baby.”

  As quietly as she’d closed the bedroom door, she crumpled to the floor in a dead faint, her head barely missing the edge of the kitchen counter.

  Faster than I would have thought possible, Francesco leaped from his lounger and rushed over to her. “Come on, Jewels. Come on,” he pleaded, crouching over her body, patting her hands, her cheeks. “Get some water from the sink over there,” he said to me. “I’ll splash her up. That might do it.”

  I ran to fill a glass with tap water and gave it to him. A few drops on her face and Jewels’s eyes fluttered open. “Frannie? Is everything all right?”

  “Yeah, sweetheart, everything’s fine. Some asshole having fun is all. But we’ll get him. Don’t worry, we’ll get him.” He helped Jewels sit up, propping her against the kitchen cabinets. “You really love my kid,” he said to her, awe in his voice. “Me too. I love him too.”

  Still kneeling beside her, he looked up at me. “Deva, call that lieutenant. Tell him to get over here fast.”

  I rang Rossi’s number and quickly explained what had just happened.

  “I’ll see you in a few minutes,” he said.

  “No, I can’t wait. I have an appointment. But before you hang up, there’s something else you should know.” While Francesco tended to Jewels, I stepped outside and told him about Cookie Harkness and the cyanide.

  After I finished giving him the clue of the century, all he said was, “Deva, I am not pleased.”

  “God, Rossi, you sound like a grouchy parent. I’ve just handed you a fantastic lead.”

  A sigh heaved it way through the line. “What you’ve given me is a headache.”

  “But—”

  “The veiled threat to the Grandese child bears looking into, but possessing cyanide is not against the law.”

  “Not even when a person is murdered with it in the same house?”

  “Not even. Unless we can prove that a person with access to the house used the poison for an evil purpose. Furthermore, are you certain of the contents of that vial? Or that Mrs. Harkness told you the truth?”

  “Well, no.”

  Another sigh. “Keep the bottle in a safe place until I can get it from you and have some tests run.”

  “I put it in my purse. It’ll be safe enough there. So this is a breakthrough.”

  “No, your word against Mrs. Harkness’s is a stalemate. I have told you repeatedly to stay out of this. You’re not listening.”

  “Not obeying, you mean, like some medieval housewife.”

  “No, like a modern, intelligent woman who knows her own limits.”

  A silence echoed through the line. Not even a sigh this time. He was right, of course. “I apologize.”

  “Accepted. Is there anything else you want to tell me?”

  “That’s about all. Oh, one other thing. Cookie said if I told anybody about our conversation she’d kill me.”

  “Deva, I—”

  “Have to go. Sorry I can’t wait here for you, but my appointment’s in a half hour.”

  I hung up quickly without telling him who I was meeting. He didn’t have to know everything. After all he had his secrets, and I had the right to a few of my own.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  An hour later, wrapped in a hospital gown, all thoughts of Francesco and Jewels and little Frannie fled my mind as I perched on the edge of Dr. Elizabeth Enright’s examining table.

  “When was your last internal exam?” she asked.

  “A few years ago, before my husband’s death. Since he died, I haven’t had one.” My voice trailed off.

  “Are you aware that one ovary never developed?”

  “Yes, but I was told that wouldn’t be a problem.”

  She nodded. “Alone, no. But unfortunately it’s not the only problem. From what I’m able to determine, the second ovary may be compromised as well. Without more tests I can’t be certain, but—”

  I took in a quick breath of antiseptic-laced air.

  She quickly added, “There are no signs of malignancy or tumors. Simply a somewhat undeveloped organ. Was that never explained to you?”

  I gripped the padded edges of the table. “Years ago, before I was married, I remember something being said about it. At the time, I didn’t take the news seriously. Babies were far from my thoughts then. In later exams, the subject wasn’t an issue.”

  “That’s unfortunate, be—”

  Unable to hold back, I burst out with, “Doctor, will I ever be able to have children?”

  Her eyes, large and gray and fringed with paintbrush-thick lashes, took on a sympathetic sheen. “All things are possible, of course. I’ve seen women with reproductive organs similar to yours who did...on a few rare occasions...become pregnant and carry to term.” She shook her head. “But realistically speaking, the odds are greatly against that outcome.”

  “Would hormone treatments help?” The desperation in my voice was clear even to me. The sympathy in Dr. Enright’s eyes deepened.

  “In my view I’m afraid the answer is no, but you might want to get a second opinion. In fact, I encourage you to do so.”

  I clutched the opening of the gown, nodding as if I agreed. A reflex action. I was staving off the blow she’d just dealt me. “It sounds like children aren’t in my future.”

  Leaving the portable table that held her laptop, she came over to rest a hand on my shoulder, a gesture intended as a comfort, but wasn’t. “Many people consider adoption a viable alternative.”

  “Yes, there is that possibility...but one other question, Doctor. I asked to have my late husband’s medical records faxed to you. Have you received them?” Though the air conditioning was set low enough to make me shiver, my hands were sweaty. I wiped them on the wraparound gown.

  “Let me check.”

  Dr. Enright left the examining room, closing the door behind her. I stared out the window at a sweeping view of a manmade lake and beyond to a stand of scrub pines that reminded me of Cape Cod. Jack and I had honeymooned in a beach cottage on Falmouth Bay. A month of utter magic. When I hadn’t become pregnant then, I should have known...I shivered in my thin clinical gown.

  “Here they are.” Dr. Enright returned with a folder full of printouts and sat back behind her computer table. “What in your husband’s history do you wish to know?”

  “I wasn’t getting pregnant, so he had a fertility test a few years ago. Can you tell me the results?”

  She looked up, her heavy lashes sweeping wide open, her surprise telling me I should already know the answer. But without further questioning, she poured over the sheets, flipping back several pages. “Ah, yes...your husband consulted the Ranier Group at Mass General. They’re considered the best in this field.” She looked impressed and read on for another minute before glancing up again. “He had no fertility issues at all. His testosterone was in the high range. He would have had no problem fathering—oh...” She took one look at my expression and snapped the folder closed. “You didn’t know? You believed he was sterile?”

  “He lied,” I whispered, my voice as cold as my skin.

  She stood and quickly closed the space between us. “Are you all right?”

  After two double whammies, no, I wasn’t all right. “I’m fine,” I said, fighting back tears.

  She placed a hand on my shoulder. “You have every right to be upset. Don’t hold it in. This is a women-for-women practice. We’re not ashamed of tears in here.” Her voice gentled to a murmur. “You have my permission.”

  Too numb to weep, I said, “Jack should have told me the truth. I deserved to know. He pretended our infertility was all his fault.”

  “Fault isn’t the word,” she chided softly.

  “He didn’t trust me with the truth. That’s what it comes down to.”

  “Mrs. Dunne.” Dr. Enright stood in front of the examining table where I was still perched precariously. �
��From what I’ve read in this report and from what you’ve told me, your husband’s lie, as you call it, was an act of love. He was protecting you from a devastating realization.”

  “He had no right to do that.”

  “He obviously thought he did. Mrs. Dunne...?”

  At the question in her voice, I glanced up from my fists clenching and unclenching in my lap.

  “Your husband is no longer with us. Questioning his motives is fruitless. To dwell on the past will do no good. Look to the future.”

  She meant well. But she didn’t understand.

  “I trusted him completely. I believed he never lied to me. Not once. Not about anything.”

  She rose from the stool and extended her hand. We shook like two businesswomen settling a contract. “I’m sorry I wasn’t able to tell you what you wanted to hear. If you ever want to come in just to talk, my door will always be open. Now I’ll go and let you get dressed.”

  She left and, like a robot, I mindlessly pulled on my bra and panties, then shrugged into the outfit that Rossi liked best on me—a pencil skirt and matching tee in a tawny bronze silk. He said the color looked great with my hair. He loved me in skirts. And why with my legs did I ever wear slacks anyway?

  Rossi. What would he think about all this? Would he tell me again that he didn’t care? That it didn’t matter? Could I believe him if he did? Could I believe any man?

  I clasped on the chunky, faux gold necklace and slid into my Jimmy Choos. My one and only pair of Jimmy’s, they were holding up well. As if that mattered. As if anything mattered.

  Lower than the price on a markdown sale, I drove home. Inside the condo, I kicked off my heels, slumped on the living room sofa and dialed Treasure Island Antiques. A woman answered, and I asked to speak to Randy. A fifty-something Englishman with a Cockney accent and a sharp eye for a deal, he’d adore taking the Irish furniture off my hands. The sooner that happened, the better. I wanted to get rid of it all. Every damn piece. Not out of consideration for Rossi, not to finance a trip to Hawaii. To get every vestige of Jack out of my life. He’d lived a lie and betrayed me day by day for years. I’d never forgive him for that. Never.