“Look at this.” He waved his arms at a bank of windows overlooking the pool. “No privacy at all.”
Through the wall of glass, I could see the man from the panel truck busy on his hands and knees, chipping away at some loose pool tiles.
“Every time I throw an arm around the bride, Tony’s in on it,” Stew said.
So that was Tony I’d spoken to in the driveway.
“And me a shutter manufacturer. It doesn’t seem right, you know what I mean?”
“You run a shutter business?”
“Yeah. Florida Shutters. Couples come in, and nine times out of ten they each want something different. That’s how I know you settle marital disputes. Me too. It’s part of the game. Too bad I couldn’t solve some of my own.”
He dropped the spent stogie in the sink and ran a little water over it. Lovely.
He looked up quickly, caught my frown and ignored it. “You’ve done business with us. I checked the books.”
“Yes, several times. Your product is excellent.”
“That’s the other reason I called you. One local business should help another.”
“You’re hardly local, Stew.” I knew Florida Shutters shipped all over the southeast, and possibly beyond. If Stew was the CEO and driving force behind the company, he was undoubtedly a wealthy man. Having Deva Dunne Interiors lumped together with him gave me a momentary high, but I came back to reality fast. “Strange we never met before now.”
“I leave most local floor sales to my staff. Spend my time out back in the plant. I’m a hands-on kind of guy.”
“I can see that,” I said, eyeing his beefy fingers, each one sprouting a little crop of black hair. “I take it you’ll want shutters on all these windows.”
“You got that right. On every damned one.”
I dropped my tote on a chair, picked up the clipboard and made some notes. The scope of the room already had my creative juices flowing. “Do you mind if I photograph the interiors as we go through? For reference?”
He nodded. “Do what you have to.”
I turned to get a shot of the kitchen corner and gasped. Where had she come from?
A short, voluptuous woman in a white nylon uniform stood rinsing the sink, a pained expression on her face. See, I wanted to say to Stew. I’m not the only one who’s disgusted. But of course, I did no such thing.
“Oh, hey, Deva, this here’s Teresa. The best chef Puerto Rico ever produced. Isn’t that right, Teresa?”
Teresa smiled and nodded but said nothing.
“She makes the best paella you ever tasted. Only thing is she’s deaf as a post. Can’t hear much at all.” He flexed his fingers. “Good thing I got talented hands.”
My jaw must have sagged, for he chuckled and said, “I’m talking about signing. Watch me.”
With a series of gestures that even an orangutan could interpret—puckering his lips, twisting his wrist back and forth as if pouring something into his mouth, and then blowing out short puffs of air over an imaginary cup, he told Teresa he wanted a drink. A hot drink.
“Coffee, Mr. Stew?” she asked, her voice loud and clear.
Triumphant, Stew turned to me. “See! Works every time.”
It was obvious that Teresa was toying with his need to believe she couldn’t hear a thing. A weird little game to play, if nothing else.
Stew didn’t give me any time to dwell on the matter. “Come on. While she makes the coffee, I’ll show you the rest of the place.”
We toured every room, from the formal dining room to a wonderful walk-in pantry that would hold multiple sets of china and glassware—what a dream—and on to his klieg-lit master bath. I took notes as we strolled but not many. An overall impression is what I was after, and so far the house showed well, though a bit too pastel for Stew’s over-the-top personality. What it mainly needed was an infusion of color pops and some comfortable seating. And maybe some of Hammerjack’s rough-hewn prison furniture in the study.
Finally we came to a set of closed double doors. “Show time,” Stew said. “I have to get the bride out of the sack.” He winked. “I don’t say that often.”
“No, let’s not disturb her,” I whispered. “I’ve seen most of the rooms. The bedroom can wait for another time.”
“No time like the present,” he said, opening the doors and barging in. He pressed a wall switch next to the door, sending floor-to-ceiling draperies swishing open, flooding the pink-hued room with sunshine.
Sprawled on her back in the center of an ultra-king lay a naked blonde, her hair fanned across a pillow, her legs spread apart in open invitation. I wanted to leave and give her some privacy but, fascinated, I stood and stared as Stew strode over to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet.
“Look at that,” he said, gazing at the girl, whether in admiration or disapproval, I couldn’t tell. He draped the sheet over her and, bending down, shook her shoulder.
“Come on, babe, rise and shine.”
Connie Rae didn’t move.
“Is everybody around here deaf?” he asked of no one in particular. He patted Connie Rae’s cheek, and no doubt would have patted more than that except for the designer looking on from the foot of the bed.
Pale all of a sudden, he glanced up, stricken. His eyes wide, he said, “You know something? She’s cold. Ice cold. And she’s a funny color too. Kind of blue looking. I think she’s—”
He never did finish what he started to say, for without any warning at all, he passed out, falling belly first, right on top of Connie Rae’s breasts.
I screamed and ran out of the bedroom toward the great room. I’d left my tote there with the cell phone inside, and I needed the phone. I needed the phone.
Teresa collided with me in the rotunda. “I heard a scream. What’s wrong?”
“Stew. His wife. We have to call 9-1-1.”
She grasped my arm, staying me. “Where are they?”
“On their bed. Out cold, both of them.”
She raced past me. I grabbed the phone out of my purse and chased after her. Not wasting another second, I pressed 9-1-1. “A medical emergency,” I said to the dispatcher. “At 595 Whiskey Lane.”
“Is the person breathing?” In other words, dead or alive.
“I don’t know for certain. But I don’t think so.”
Chapter Seven
By the time I reached the master suite with the phone still glued to my ear, all three of them were on the bed, and Teresa was trying to peel Stew off Connie Rae’s supine form. On her knees on the mattress, she tugged at his arm and called to him. “Mr. Stew, Mr. Stew. Wake up. We need help. Wake up.”
Without looking over at me—she’d obviously heard me come in—she said, “A glass of water. Hurry. In the bathroom.”
I flung the phone on the bed and dashed into the bath, filled a water tumbler from the sink, and hurried back to press it into Teresa’s hand.
She took the glass from me and, without a moment’s hesitation, flung the contents in Stew’s face...well, he was wearing a swimsuit. The cold splash roused him, and sputtering and gasping, he came to.
“Oh my God,” he said. “She’s dead. My Connie Rae’s dead.”
“Hello? Hello?”
I grabbed my cell. “Sorry, I had to put the phone down.”
“Any change in the patient?”
I glanced across the bed. Stew and Teresa were both busy trying to coax Connie Rae back to life and, from what I could tell, not having much luck.
“Her husband’s trying to revive her, but I don’t think she’s responding.”
Stew looked up. “Tell them to hurry.”
The dispatcher must have heard him. “Someone will be there within three minutes,” she said.
“Help’s on the way,” I said to Stew, but he wa
sn’t listening. Teresa had straddled Connie Rae and started CPR.
“I’ll wait outside for the ambulance,” I said, and hurried from the bedroom, but not before Stew whispered to Teresa. “I’m dead meat after this. The cops’ll say I killed her.”
Why would he think that? Without waiting to ask, I dashed out to the front lawn. True to the dispatcher’s promise, in a minute or so, an ambulance roared along quiet Whiskey Lane. I flagged it down, thanked the dispatcher and hung up.
“This way,” I said, leading the two paramedics into the master bedroom with its pink satin-topped bed and deep-piled shag rug. Teresa climbed off the bed, and together we helped Stew stumble out of the room.
After spending several frantic minutes trying to revive Connie Rae, the medics pronounced her dead. As was standard procedure in a case of unexpected death, they remained on the premises and notified the police.
While we waited, Teresa served Stew his coffee, which he raised to his lips with a shaking hand. “I can’t believe this,” he kept muttering. “I can’t believe it. Poor Connie Rae. Poor little rich girl.” At that he snorted and sent coffee spray spewing across his chest. Absent-mindedly, he wiped it off with a palm and sat staring, coffee forgotten, out to the pool where Tony, ignoring all the drama, was still on his hands and knees working the tiles.
Car doors slammed, and Stew stiffened in his easy chair. “They’re here. Oh God.”
Teresa hurried to the front door. A moment later two Naples Police Department officers strode into the great room. Some things never change, and once again big, beefy Sergeant Batano accompanied by his partner, petite, no-nonsense Officer Hughes were the first responders.
They’d been first on the scene last fall when I found the body of my old friend, José Vega. But from their behavior today, you’d think they had never clamped eyes on me before now. A curt nod of Batano’s crew-cut head was his only greeting. And as for Hughes, no change there either. She was the same pretty poker face. I returned Batano’s stingy nod and let it go at that. For once I decided to keep quiet until I was asked to speak. Not exactly a new thing for me, but not easy either.
After telling us to remain where we were, they followed the medics into the master suite. When they returned a few minutes later, Batano stood, legs apart, in front of Stew’s chair. It forced the bereaved husband—always a person of interest in a spouse’s unexpected death—to look up at him, deliberately creating an uneven playing field, so to speak.
In between sips of his now lukewarm coffee, the pale, shaken bridegroom gave his initial testimony. “My wife’s name is...was...Connie Rae Freitas Hawkins.”
“How old was she?”
“Twenty-two.”
“Her place of employment?”
A brief, humorless laugh. “Bartender at the Port Royal Club. That’s how we met.”
“How long were you married?”
“Three weeks.” Stew’s voice broke. “Three great weeks.”
“What do you think happened to her?”
“I don’t know. I just found her like that.” As he spoke, his hand shook so badly that what was left of his coffee slopped over the rim of the cup.
“Had she been sick?”
Stew shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. You saw her body. She look sick to you?”
As he answered Batano’s questions, irritation began to intensify Stew’s natural testiness, but though he didn’t know it yet, he had only begun to fight. Wait till Rossi interrogated him. It could go on for hours. Poor Stew. His grief seemed genuine, but then I’d been wrong about people before.
“That’ll do it for now,” Batano finally said to him. He pointed out to the pool where Tony stood surveying his work. “Get him in here,” he said to Hughes. “I have to call Lieutenant Rossi.”
While Hughes went outside to fetch Tony, Batano hauled out his cell phone and with fingers poised over the pad, said, “You can be assured, Mr. Hawkins, that your wife’s death will be thoroughly investigated. The county coroner and a homicide detective will be here shortly.”
Stew let out a soft groan and slumped back in his chair. Even his chest hair drooped.
Chapter Eight
That evening, too agitated to sit, Rossi paced my living room. A study in frustration, he waved his arms in the air as he wove a path back and forth in front of me.
“I could not believe, I absolutely could not believe you were there in that room when I walked in.”
“After what happened, you know I couldn’t leave, and besides Stew wanted me there.”
That stopped him dead in his tracks. “Oh? Stew, is it? How long have you known this guy? His wife dies suddenly under mysterious circumstances, you’re on the scene and now you’re calling him Stew like you’re old friends.”
“Are you jealous, Rossi?”
“Jealous? Jealous! I’m worried, for God’s sake. Worried. About you.”
I patted the sofa cushion. “Come sit beside me, please. I don’t like to see you so upset.”
He heaved one of those sighs that start deep in the belly, but after a few more passes on the carpet, he sank down next to me and placed a hand on my thigh. “My intention is not to be difficult.”
“Or juvenile,” I added, trying to inject a little humor into the evening.
“That either, but you do have a penchant for being on a crime scene before the police, before the medics, before the coroner, and—”
“Before you.”
“Bingo!”
“It’s simply coincidence. Every time.”
“Say I buy that,” he said, stroking my knee, my thigh, my arm. “That doesn’t mean I like what I bought. This Hawkins character, for instance, is nobody you want to get too close to. We’ve been checking into his background, and so far what I’ve read I don’t like.”
I sat up straighter. “What?”
“Okay, for your own safety, I’ll tell you this. He has a record of domestic violence.”
I drew in a shocked breath. “Against Connie Rae? They were only married three weeks ago.”
“No, against his former wife, Kay Hawkins. On several occasions in the past couple of years she called the station for help. Said she was afraid of him. He was drinking and out of control. One report states that the officer found her with a black eye.”
“He beat her?”
“That time she said she’d gotten up at night and walked into an open closet door.” He shrugged. “Who knows?” His hand on my knee tightened. “But I do know you need to stay clear of this guy.”
I slumped back against the cushions. “Not to worry. He called me this morning, said he and his bride wanted to redecorate their house, but after this, I doubt I’ll hear from him again. Poor little Connie Rae. I wonder why she married him.”
“I can think of a few million reasons,” Rossi said sounding cynical and looking irritated. “Only twenty-two years old, and Hawkins is fifty if he’s a day.”
“A May and December romance I guess.”
“Or maybe a beauty and the beast romance, but in fairness to all, that remains to be seen. In the meantime, please be careful.”
“I will. Though tomorrow I’m due back on Whiskey Lane. I have an appointment at 590, the house directly across the street from Stew’s. But I won’t go near 595. I promise.”
“Good.” Leaning in closer, he treated me to one of his famous smiles and to what was morphing into a really beautiful, soothing, sexy massage.
* * *
The moment I rang the chimes at 590 Whiskey Lane, James Stahlman, with Charlotte in tow, opened the front door of his stately two-story house.
“Deva! Come in,” he said. “Do come in.”
“Happy to.” I held out a hand. “Thank you for allowing me to reschedule.”
His well-manicured fingers briefly touc
hed mine. “Not a problem.”
He had dressed down this time, in linen shorts and a starched white shirt. He struck me as older and more nervous than I remembered. On the other hand, Charlotte looked exactly the same, frisky and relaxed, the pink bow still riding the crest of her topknot.
Curious as to what I’d find, I entered the foyer and glanced around. Spacious but nondescript rooms opened off both sides of a central hall, and at the end of the hall James ushered me into a glass-walled living room that extended across the back of the house. A typical Florida layout would feature a pool outside that rear glass wall, but from the look of the terrace and garden area, there wasn’t one. Strange. James’s last wife had been a champion swimmer. She’d have wanted a pool, wouldn’t she?
“I’ve arranged for tea,” he said, stroking Charlotte as if her life depended on it. “But first I thought you’d like a tour.”
“Yes, by all means.”
“Though before we tour, we must talk. So please sit down.”
No question about it, James was tense. If he kept patting Charlotte so vigorously, she soon wouldn’t have a topknot left to love.
He waited politely until I took a seat on a living room wing chair before sitting across from me with Charlotte on his lap. He’d been right about the interior needing a redo. One quick look around the room revealed that it was stuck in a time warp. Somewhere in the late eighties. That faded blue wallpaper would have to—
“Imagine how I felt,” he began, his voice throbbing with emotion. “Just imagine. I’ve never been so shocked in my life.”
“I’m not following you, James.”
“I’m referring to the circus that went on across the lane yesterday. You were there. You know all about it. Although possibly not everything.”
In his distress, he dumped Charlotte onto the floor. “Go play, sweetheart,” he ordered in a tone I doubt sweetheart was accustomed to.
“I know Mrs. Hawkins passed away at a tragically young age.”
“Mrs. Hawkins!” James actually snorted. “My fiancée is Mrs. Hawkins. At least for the time being.”
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Page 3