“Date?” I finished, laughing. “Not to worry. A guy I know wears Hawaiian shirts everywhere. Compared to that, peach-colored jeans are right out of GQ.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
The next morning I fumbled through my purse for the shop key while inside the store the phone buzzed like an incessant swarm of bees. I wrestled the door open, and without bothering to close it, dashed over and snatched up the phone on the tenth or twelfth ring. Somebody was in a tear to reach me. New business? A little breathless, I said, “Deva Dunne Interiors.”
“Good. Glad I caught you. This is the Second Time Around Thrift Store. Those items you bought a few days ago? We have to deliver them this morning. An unexpected shipment’s coming in, and we’re already jammed up.”
Uh-oh. “That’s not much notice for my client. He could use another day before—”
“The game’s changed. Sorry. We’ll be at the Azalea Building on Tenth in an hour.”
I hung up and called Nikhil. He answered on the first ring and shot a hurried “hello” into the line.
“Your furniture’s on its way,” I told him.
“Oh no, not now. I can’t wait around for a delivery. I have a job interview at Morgan Stanley.” He sounded both harried and delighted. “I need this job, Mrs. Dunne.”
As if I wasn’t aware of that. I tried not to sigh. “Want me to come over and let the movers in?”
“Gosh, that’d be great. I’ll leave the door unlocked. Nothing much to steal in here anyway. I better run. Have to put on a tie.”
I hung up and this time did sigh. Another Closed sign in the window of Deva Dunne Interiors. Not only was my personal life all screwed up, the business was sliding down the same slippery slope. Okay, Nikhil was in a bind. He needed me. Besides, what did one more morning matter?
The truck from Second Time Around arrived at his apartment shortly after I did. Putting everything else out of mind, I morphed into designer mode, zoning out my financial woes, my concern that Donny’s murderer was still on the loose—even my longing for Rossi—as I directed the movers in placing the furniture.
The three hundred dollar couch with the extra coral and lime green pillows looked awesome against the pastel walls. The two rattan side tables fit on either side with inches to spare. Taking up no visual space, a good thing in the small room, the glass-topped coffee table added a little gleam. Even better, it would hold a pizza box, a beer can and a remote plus the enameled coral and green bowl I’d bought as a housewarming gift.
A white wicker dresser went into the bedroom along with the nightstands. And in the center of the kitchen, I placed the round white pedestal table and two chairs with zingy coral seat covers.
From the Audi trunk I retrieved four brass lamps. At ten dollars each, the bases had been a steal. With fresh parchment shades they were more than good to go. The heftier two I placed on the living room end tables and lit them. Even in the daylight they cast a cheery glow over the room. So far Nikhil had no artwork to soften the walls, but a safe guess was that Melanie sitting on the sofa leaning into the pillows would provide all the softening he wanted.
In the bedroom, as a foil to the deep green accent wall, I added a king-sized duvet in white splashed with vivid green ferns. Tossed over Nikhil’s neatly made queen-sized bed, the duvet swept to the floor, a bit of boudoir drama I had a feeling he would love.
I set the other two lamps—lighter in feel—on the nightstands and turned them on as well. When Nikhil came back from his interview, for the first time he’d be walking into the semblance of a home. Leaving the lights on in the bedroom, I wandered out to the kitchen.
The movers had left black fingerprints on the shiny white table, a retro Saarenin look-alike. With showtime coming up, that wouldn’t do. There had to be a cleaning cloth or a paper towel around here somewhere. I rummaged through the largely empty cabinets but no luck.
Under the sink then. I opened the cabinet door, crouched in front of it and peered inside. Like most under sink spaces, not a pretty sight, full of plumbing elbows and cleaning supplies, and in this case, a trash can stuffed with empty deli bags and dead soldiers. I pushed the can to one side, revealing a collection of pan scrubbers, dishwasher soap, and tile cleaner. Nikhil had been busy. And then I saw it, way in the back, nearly out of reach. A small, square bottle. Shipping tape secured a white paper label to its side. In big, black letters, the word on the label read Cyanide, and under it a crudely drawn skull and crossbones.
Omigod. My knees gave way, and I fell onto my fanny in front of the sink. Another bottle of cyanide? Unbelievable. First in the Grandese house and now here. Why? And in the kitchen of all places? Grandma’s recipes, yes. Poison, no.
The more I stared at the bottle the less I could breathe. No matter how hard I inhaled, the air wouldn’t pump into my lungs. I hung my head between my knees and took shallow breaths. Ah better.
Why was I so upset anyway? If Nikhil had used the poison for an evil purpose, wouldn’t he have hidden it better? At least put it in a bag or something, not in a cupboard where anyone could look in and see it?
Furthermore, he hadn’t been in the house the night Donny was killed. As far as I knew he hadn’t met Francesco or Jewels, or AudreyAnn and Chip. Not Bonita, either. Of everyone who had been there that night, he was acquainted only with Rossi and me...and Norm and Cookie. Still, on the floor on my fanny, I hugged my knees and told myself to slow down, not jump to conclusions. Most important of all, Nikhil had probably never laid eyes on Donny. Having the same poison that killed him was simply a random coincidence.
I blew out a breath. Who was I kidding? That was as likely as seeing two pigs run down Fifth Avenue.
I closed the cabinet door, grabbed the leg of a chair and pulled myself to my feet. There had to be a reason for that hidden bottle. But what reason? Guilt? Not wanting to hyperventilate again, I tried to squelch the idea, but couldn’t. I kept going back to the same question. What was a nice guy like Nikhil doing with cyanide? I couldn’t get past it.
I dropped onto one of the kitchen chairs and sat staring at the fingerprints on the tabletop. Fifteen minutes passed as slowly as water dripping from a faucet. Another fifteen and I was sick and tired of staring at those dirty fingerprints. I rummaged in a utility drawer I hadn’t gotten to earlier and—success!—two vintage tea towels, probably family hand-me-downs. I wet one and washed off the tabletop then sat back down to play more of the waiting game.
All morning I’d been dying for a latte and maybe a chocolate-covered donut, but the sight of the poison had stripped away all hunger and thirst. Now I just wanted to ask Nikhil why he kept such a deadly secret in his cozy little love nest.
Worry about my closed-up shop had brought me to the brink of leaving when a key turned in the lock. I hurried out to the living room. Nickel strolled in, tie in hand, shirt collar unbuttoned. Two steps into the apartment, he stopped and glanced around. “Wow, the place looks great. I can’t believe it!”
He needed a chance to check things out before I hit him with my discovery, so I said, “Why don’t you take a peek at the bedroom?”
He walked in, eyeballed the fern-strewn bed and whistled. “Wait till Melanie sees this.”
I had to smile. His eyes shone with pleasure, and after all, that was what being a designer was about—making people happy. Or happier. “You worked hard for this effect.”
He shook his head. “No, the choices were yours, Mrs. Dunne. I just carried out orders.”
“It’s still pretty Spartan.” I waved at one of the walls. “Some artwork would enliven the look, but the budget didn’t—”
“Melanie can take care of that. She’s an art history major.” He tossed his tie on the bed, snatched it off with a laugh and hung it on the rack in the closet. “Thanks, Mrs. Dunne. Melanie’s going to love the place. Things are shaping up all around. I got the job.” He flushed and ran a hand through his hair in that signature gesture of his.
I was about to be a spoiler. Hating the necessit
y, I put it off with, “Congratulations, Nikhil. That’s wonderful news.”
“Yes,” he said. “You were right. What tipped the scales in my favor was speaking up about what I saw wrong at Harkness. My new boss said the industry needs integrity. How about that? Integrity.”
Whether I liked it or not, bubble-bursting time had arrived. I cleared my throat. “No question you’re an honest man, Nikhil, so if I ask you something, I know you’ll tell me the truth.”
“Sure.” My tone of voice must have been a giveaway. His eyes narrowed, wary all of a sudden.
“I found something. Under the sink. A bottle.”
“The cyanide,” he whispered.
“Yes. You want to tell me about it?”
He shook his head. “Not really but I will.”
“Let’s sit down, first. It’s been a long morning.”
He followed me out to the kitchen. “Nice,” he said at the sight of his new/old furniture. But he didn’t smile as he sank onto one of the chairs. I sat across the table facing him and waited.
“About three months ago when I took a few days off to visit my parents in Georgia, Norm asked if my dad had kept any of the chemicals from the business. Said squirrels had gotten into his attic and were racing around overhead, driving him nuts. He wanted to get rid of them.
“I was flattered that Norm thought I could help him. Guess I wanted to, well, suck up to the boss. Do him a favor. It was stupid of me, I realize that now. Anyway, I knew my dad kept some of the toxic stuff locked up in a shed out back. So I poured a few ounces of the cyanide into that bottle under the sink, and—”
“You gave the cyanide to Norm.”
“I did. He took what he wanted and returned what was left. What you saw. I haven’t known how to dispose of it safely, but I’ve got to get rid of it before Melanie gets here. She’ll freak out if she sees it.”
“Can’t blame her. Norm should have known better. Ever hear of Truly Nolan?”
“The exterminators?”
“Yes. The ones who drive around town in VW bugs with mouse ears on the roof.”
“I’ve seen them. It’s a cool type of PR.”
“Right. That’s who you call when you have squirrels in the attic.”
Nikhil’s flush and his happy demeanor fled. Only his rumpled hair remained the same. “I know. It was a dumb move. When I realized Norm was working the books that was bad enough, but then I heard about that Grandese guy being poisoned. I knew Norm had been in the house at the time, and well, I got scared.”
Pretending I had inside information, I acted on a hunch and asked, “Is that why you didn’t tell Lieutenant Rossi about the cyanide?”
Slump shouldered and morose on his cute little chair with the bright coral cushions, he nodded. “Word of this gets out, it’ll kill my folks. And what it’ll do to me and Melanie? I can’t even go there.” He raked his long fingers through his hair again, this time standing it on end. I wondered, briefly, how he’d look with a buzz cut.
“You can’t sit on this forever, Nikhil. The truth is bound to come out. Far better for it to come from you. Sooner rather than later.”
Hands clenched between his knees, he looked up. Were those tears glistening in his eyes? I wasn’t sure, but if so this was a new low for me. I’d made a grown man cry.
“Like I told you,” he said. “I got scared. I gave Norm the poison. If he used it to commit murder, I’m implicated, aren’t I?”
Chapter Twenty-Nine
With no answer to give Nikhil, I left his apartment troubled that I caused him distress on what should have been a happy day. A week or so earlier I would have called Rossi and asked him to resolve the situation. But not now. Too bad. Still, Nikhil had already proven he was capable of doing the right thing, and I was confident that after a little reflection he would again. Armed with that thought I went back to my neglected shop and spent the afternoon paying bills and chatting with a few tourists who stopped in looking for baubles to bring back home.
At five I closed up and drove to Surfside. I wanted a full hour to shower and do my hair and makeup with extra care.
Who was I kidding? What I really wanted was to be a knockout in purple jersey. For in my schizophrenic little heart, I was hoping Rossi would show up even if I couldn’t hold him. Then what?
Half-dressed, I sank onto the edge of my bed and the truth ripped into me. I had dismissed Rossi from my life. Whether for my reason or for his, I was no longer certain. But either way, playing games in purple dresses was ridiculous. The break had been clean and swift even if, as Rossi claimed, my motives were wrong. Whatever the reason, losing him hurt. It hurt like hell. Goodbyes bit into you with fangs of steel. When Jack died, they’d gouged deep. That had been enough for a lifetime. Now this...shredded again. But whose fault was that?
My shoulders slumped. Self-pity? Disgusted, I forced myself to sit up straight. I’d made a decision believing it was the right thing to do. So why this nagging doubt? For the simple reason that if I were wrong and Rossi really meant adoption was fine with him, then I’d made the worse mistake of my life.
Rays from the late afternoon sun shone through the bedroom sliders and fingered the purple fabric.
I stared at the dress and sighed. Now that I’d bought it, I might as well wear it. Besides, Rossi probably wouldn’t show anyway.
Wrong. He showed all right. And if I hoped to be the party knockout, I was wrong there too. He was the knockout. I couldn’t believe my eyes. Freshly shaven and barbered, he was a sartorial sensation in a navy blazer, tan slacks, starched white shirt and maroon-and-navy striped tie. No Hawaiians, not even the one he usually wore on weekends with the Flying Fortress zooming over Oahu. I hadn’t seen him as dressed up since Lee and Paulo’s wedding day. He was so drop-dead gorgeous, he took my breath away.
So did the drop-dead blonde on his arm. How dare she wear purple tonight? The bitch.
With this Mother Teresa thought pumping blood through my system, I stomped over to the bar without stopping to speak to him. Or her.
“Scotch,” I said to the bartender. “A double.” I hated the stuff but loved what it did to me.
The party wasn’t crowded or noisy yet, but it soon would be. To put everybody at ease, Chip had hired bartenders and a catering service, vowing he would stay out of the kitchen and go nowhere near the food or drink. Wise of him, but sad too. He was a masterful chef and needed to get back to his cooking without worrying that people were afraid to eat his food. Rossi needed to get back to work too. With the murder still unsolved, what was he doing out on a date anyway?
Glass in hand, I strolled over to congratulate the newlyweds. This was the first time I’d seen Chip at a party without his chef’s apron. Tonight he wore a white ruffled dress shirt and black pants. AudreyAnn dazzled in a strapless white wedding dress with a foot long train, smiling by her new husband’s side, a happy woman for once. It was good to see. I hugged them both without sloshing my drink and took a sip.
An expensive drift of musk and sandalwood floated around me. “So you still like scotch?” a deep voice asked. “I remember giving you some Dewars the day we met.”
“Hello, Simon,” I said turning around to face him. He drew in a quick breath. The neckline.
“You’re stunning,” he said. “Positively stunning. But then you always have been. Lieutenant Rossi is a lucky man.”
“He might agree with you,” I said, taking a gulp of my Dewars and trying not to shudder at the acrid taste. “We broke up.”
Though skilled at courtroom maneuvering, Simon couldn’t quite conceal the spark that leaped into his eyes.
I took another slug and didn’t shudder a bit. “May I ask you something, Simon?”
“Anything,” he said, struggling to keep his eyes higher than my neckline.
“Do you want to have children?”
In the act of swallowing, he choked a little and sputtered. “Not particularly.”
“Did you want any with Cynthia?”
�
��Never had a chance to find out. She told me she was a solo act, take it or leave it.”
“Really? You married her anyway?”
He studied the dregs in his glass. “Back then I was so enamored of her nothing else mattered.”
“Do you regret not having a family?”
“Not at all. I enjoy my freedom.” He glanced up, right into my eyes with no detour along the way. “Why the cross examination?”
I shrugged and glanced across the room, which was pretty crowded by now. Most of the people I didn’t know. The athletic looking types were probably Pilates instructors who worked with AudreyAnn, and I guessed some of the men were restaurateur friends of Chip’s. I searched through the throng for another glimpse of Rossi, finally spotting him in a corner, deep in conversation with the blonde. He looked like he was having the time of his life. He must have seen me come in—nothing ever escaped Rossi—but he’d made no attempt to speak to me. I guess we couldn’t even be friends.
One of the caterers circling the room with a tray of canapés approached Rossi and his date. Rossi took one look at the endive leaves topped with chutney and squash blossoms and shook his head. I had to smile. His favorite hors d’oeuvre was pepperoni pizza cut into bite-sized triangles. The blonde took one. Why would Rossi go out with somebody who liked squash blossoms? Obviously they had nothing in common.
“Well?” Simon asked. “You haven’t answered me. Why all the questions?”
I’d forgotten Simon was still standing there. “Oh, I don’t know. Curiosity I guess. Forgive me.”
“Always.” His resonant courtroom voice pulsed with warmth. His glance slid over me then jerked back up, a guilty little boy eyeing the cookie jar but not quite daring to reach out and grab one.
Whoever had designed this dress was diabolically clever. But was this my new career? Being a teaser? Causing reactions in men I had no interest in? The answer was so painful I chugged down the rest of the Dewars and plunked the empty glass on the bar top. I held out a hand. “Nice to talk to you, Simon, but I have to go.”
Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Page 20