I nearly dropped my glass. “You didn’t!”
“Damn right I did. I won’t act on the threat, of course, but Hammerjack doesn’t know that. Not for sure.” Halfway to the kitchen, he swiveled around to face me. “I’d do anything to keep you safe.”
Wow. The man of integrity had lied. For me. My elation at being loved so much quickly turned to guilt. Once more I’d caused a problem for Rossi, but this time I’d placed him on the horns of a moral dilemma, and that made me feel terrible.
His evaluation of Mike Hammerjack was most likely correct, but if I told him my phone conversation with Naomi tended to verify his findings, that would only disturb him all the more. So I’d keep what I learned to myself and be extremely wary around my Help-a-Con contact. Bottom line, I didn’t want to believe that when Mike crashed into the Audi, he meant to harm me. Or maybe even kill me.
Chapter Twenty-Five
My concern about Mike and his motives took a back seat the next day when James Stahlman dropped into the shop with Charlotte in tow. I’d just settled down behind my desk with a cushion under my sore knee when in he came.
To my delight, Charlotte wriggled out of his arms and scampered over to me, licking my ankles and woofing her head off.
“Are we friends?” I asked, picking her up. A lick on the cheek erased the question and most of my Tropic-Glo blush. I took that as a yes.
“I’m so glad we caught you in,” James said. “We’re on our way to Klaus and Hartmann to select a new suit for the wedding. While we’re in the neighborhood, I thought I’d better stop by and alert you.”
Uh-oh. “Alert me about what?” I put Charlotte down in case James’s answer caused me to tense up and grip her too tightly.
“Kay and I are tired of waiting.” Just like the guys in the state pen. “Last night we decided to stop all these postponements and set a date. It’s etched in stone, Deva,” he said, his voice stern of a sudden. “Two weeks from today.”
“Well, congratu—”
“We’re getting married in the house.”
“Your house? The one with painters swarming all over the inside?”
His pale eyes rounded. “What other house could I be referring to?”
His question required no response, but I gave him one anyway. A groan. “I can’t possibly have the house ready for a wedding. Not in two short weeks.”
“Of course you can, and you will. I insist.” He reached into the breast pocket of his double-breasted linen jacket, removed a check and laid it on my desk. “In anticipation of your objections,” he said with a smile. A smile of supreme confidence, as if he were convinced money solved all problems.
I sighed and then my peripheral vision spotted the amount on the check face. A hefty five figures. Well, money didn’t solve everything, but this money would help to swell the Rossi-Dunne building fund.
I picked up the check and, tapping it with a thumbnail, stared at James with what I hoped were steely eyes. “Say I agree to your time constraint. It will have to be with the understanding that every detail won’t be in place on your wedding day. The tradespeople and workrooms have other clients to consider, other orders to complete. All I can do, with or without this check—” which I was holding onto tightly, “—is my best.”
“That will more than suffice. I trust you completely,” James said. “Please send any further bills to my financial advisor. This is his address.” He placed a business card on my desk and then snapped his fingers at Charlotte. “Come here immediately, young lady.”
Woof!
“I insist.”
To her credit, Charlotte ignored him and kept right on sniffing the table skirts, especially the one topped with a display of aromatherapy candles. Then, bored with that, tail on high, and not letting James intimidate her for a second, she disappeared around the corner to explore the back storeroom. I felt like clapping. Or making her an honorary member of NOW.
As for me, I wasn’t quite so independent. I put James’s check in a desk drawer for safekeeping and stood, not without difficulty, to shake his hand. After which he chased Charlotte all over the place, finally managing to nab her in a corner. “Naughty girl,” he said, kissing her.
“One thing puzzles me, James,” I said as he was about to leave.
“Yes?”
“Since the house is undergoing a rehab, wouldn’t it be simpler for you and Kay to be married elsewhere?”
“Simpler yes, but not as satisfying.”
Ah! How could I have forgotten? Having the wedding at 590 directly across the street from 595 meant that they could marry and torment Stew Hawkins at one and the same time. Not nice. Not nice at all.
After James left, I took another peek at the check. It was real, all right, with a tidy Palmer Method signature and big clear numbers. I was no Naomi when it came to handwriting, but I sure did like what I saw, especially those numbers. So why did I feel as if I were aiding and abetting a crime? All I was doing was my job. Wasn’t I?
Chapter Twenty-Six
Whether or not James and Kay wanted some kind of revenge against Stew Hawkins, I convinced myself their private feud had nothing to do with me or my role as interior designer. Anyway that sounded good to my conscience.
So I tamped down my guilt, and as soon as Lee returned from the bank with a supply of petty cash, I left for the Stahlman house. My knee, hugged by an ace bandage, had slowed me down but not knocked me out. Which was a good thing. For no way could I let the windfall from James slip through my fingers.
At Whiskey Lane, two identical panel trucks sat in each driveway, and without checking I knew that true to his promise, Tom Kruse would have the same number of uniformed men working in each house. About to suggest we break that rule, I walked in to 590 feeling a tad foolish.
In the living room, the odor of wet paint permeated the air, an odor many people objected to but that I loved for the way it signaled fresh, new beginnings. Rocking to whatever his iPod was pumping into his ears, a lanky young guy was busy painting the ceiling. I caught his attention and pointed to my own ear. He removed the buds. “Is Tom around?” I asked.
“He was working in the master bedroom earlier.”
I found him there and greeted him with, “We have a problem.”
He rested his brush across the top of a paint can. “What’s wrong?”
“James and the bikini are getting married.”
“That’s a problem?” Tom shot me a grin. Ah, the power of a well-filled flag.
“The wedding’s in two weeks.”
“Umm-hmm.” He bent to pick up his brush.
“In this house.”
His jaw dropped and so did the brush. “Oh God, no.”
“My sentiments exactly.”
“Well, I’ll tell you right now, I can’t finish this job in two weeks.” He waved an arm at the dated wall covering. “Not with all that paper to be stripped off. No telling what’s underneath it. And some of the rooms need three coats of paint.”
“Okay, how about this? The bedrooms stay as is until after the ceremony. The kitchen too. That leaves the living and dining rooms, the foyer, den and library.”
“Even so...”
I pointed to his brush. Paint was dripping onto the floor. A first, I’d bet, for perfectionist Tom. He grabbed the brush with an oath. Another first.
“Suppose we hire a temporary crew?”
Tom shook his head. “No dice, Deva. That’s how you lose quality control. I’ve got a reputation to protect.”
“You’re right. So do I.” Back to Plan A. “How about taking your men out of 595 and putting them to work over here? Would that help?”
“It might. If we work through the weekend.” He pulled a rag out of his back pocket and wiped up the drips. “That means time and a half for the men.”
“I�
�d be willing to double their hourly rate providing they finish in twelve days. Mr. Stahlman gave us two weeks, but I’ll need at least two days to put the rooms back in order after you’re through.”
With Tom’s promise to do his valiant best to meet the timetable, I limped across the street. If Stew refused my request, I could kiss James’s check goodbye, and I really couldn’t afford to do that. Or to lose Stew as a client either.
My knee throbbing and my heart beating faster than normal, I rang Hawkins’s bell. The moment the chimes pealed, Teresa yanked open the door, her face falling at the sight of me. Without saying hello, she peered over my shoulder as if hoping someone else might be coming along the walk. “They’re late. They should be here by now.”
“Who?”
“The exterminators.”
Small critters were a problem in southwest Florida where everything, including la cucaracha, thrived in the heat and humidity. So the bug men, as exterminators were affectionately known, made regular calls at almost every building in town.
But this was different. In jeans, a washed-out T-shirt and no makeup, Teresa looked too scared to have had an encounter with a mere water bug or two.
“What’s the problem?” I asked.
“A snake.” She hissed out the word.
Another python? “Omigod. Where?”
“In my kitchen. Under the sink.” She shuddered. “I slammed the cabinet shut and trapped him inside. Nothing can make me go back out there.”
“I don’t blame you. Not a bit.” As she peered up and down the street, I glanced past her, into the living room. Tom’s crew was applying a coat of desert sand latex to the walls. Even partially finished, the room had taken on a masculine vibe that would suit Stew’s personality to a T.
“Is Mr. Hawkins at home by any chance? I need to speak to him,” I said.
Teresa shook her head, sending her ragged ponytail into a little dance. “No, he’s out of town. At a convention. Of all the times, just when we’re infested with snakes.”
“Oh, surely not.”
“What do you know? You didn’t see it.” She shivered. “I can’t stay here, I’m too afraid. But I don’t know what else to do. I have no other place to go.”
“Can you reach Stew?”
“Sí. I mean yes. He left a number in New York. I called him there. But he hasn’t called back.”
“I hope he does. I have a problem too.”
“Not like mine. Mine is worse.”
Arguable, but I never got to debate the subject with her, for an exterminator’s truck pulled onto the driveway, and two men in coveralls jumped out of the cab.
Teresa raced outside to embrace—I mean meet—them. As she was relating her woes, the living room phone rang. I did debate answering that—for a second or two—then made a dash for the receiver.
I was in luck. It was Stew.
“Who’s this?” he barked.
“It’s Deva Dunne.”
“What the hell’s wrong with Teresa? She sounded half nuts on the phone. Something about snakes.”
“Well, uh, she says the house is infested with them.”
“That’s crazy.”
“She doesn’t seem to think so. She’s out on the driveway right now, speaking to the exterminators.”
“Dammit, I leave for a few days and all hell breaks loose.”
“She’s scared, Stew. Afraid to stay here in the house. Says she has no place else to go.”
A sigh wove its way through the line followed by a long moment of silence. “Okay,” he said finally, “I’m glad you’re there, Deva. Do me a favor, will you? Stay with her while she packs some clothes. Buy her a one-way ticket to LaGuardia and give her some cab fare to my hotel. Put everything on my tab. And give the exterminators a key. Tell them to do whatever it takes. Then lock up the house.”
“What about the painters?”
“Oh for crying out loud, I forgot about them.” Another sigh. “Tell you what. Put a halt to all that decorating stuff until I get back. We have to get the house fumigated first. What good’s a fancy redo if my girlfriend...housekeeper...won’t spend a night in the place?”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Even with my gimpy knee, I happy-danced across the street to relate the good news to Tom. He flung down his brush—on a wad of yesterday’s newspaper—and wasted no time in hurrying over to 595 to inform his crew the game plan had changed, to put what they were doing on hold and transfer their equipment to 590.
Afraid to stay in the house with the snakes and the exterminators, Teresa waited outside while Tom and I went over the change in plans. Then I hurried back to 595 as fast as my knee allowed, and together Teresa and I packed a bag for her trip. That took a little longer than it should have. Afraid a snake lurked inside her walk-in closet, she refused to step foot in it. So I did the selecting, and she disapproved of half the things I brought out. Through trial and error we finally filled a carryon with two or three outfits and collected some underwear to toss in too. When she quietly balled up a new black teddy and stuffed it in a corner of the bag, I pretended not to see a thing. A pair of spike heels went in next, and we were finished.
Luckily Southwest had a late afternoon flight to New York with a few empty seats available—one of the advantages of Florida’s off season. We booked her on it, and I drove her to the Ft. Myers airport.
Once free of the house, Teresa morphed into a different woman. Actually the transformation began inside, right after Stew’s phone call. While I stood on snake guard, she changed out of the ratty T-shirt and jeans into a snug print dress and red heels, and spritzed herself with Opium. She was brushing out her hair as we got into the loaner, and most of the way to the airport kept busy putting on her face. Not easy in a moving car, though I did try to control fast stops and starts, especially while she was applying the mascara. Five coats.
A mile from the airport, she screwed on some dangly earrings then added an armload of bangle bracelets and a great big I-gotcha-smile.
I tore my attention from the road for a second to glance over at her. She looked as sunny as the day.
“There wasn’t any snake, was there?” I said.
She hesitated, but not for long. “No. But it’s your word against mine.”
“You need to get to New York so bad you cooked up a whole scheme?”
“Why not? I can’t leave Stew up there all by himself—or worse, not by himself. Look what happened when he went to Vegas without me.”
“You know something, Teresa? You missed your calling. You’re a fabulous actress.”
She shrugged off the compliment. “I’ve been acting my whole life. It was the only way out of my village.”
“I see.” And I did.
Her charade had been anything but honest, but she hadn’t committed a crime. At least I didn’t think so, and actually without intending to, she’d done me an enormous favor. For both reasons, I had no intention of tangling with her over this, but she didn’t have to know that.
“What happens if Stew finds out what you did?”
“He won’t unless you tell him.”
“I won’t say a word, but he’s a sharp guy. He may figure things out for himself.”
“Then he’ll be flattered. Besides, I’m going to make him very, very glad to have me there.”
Of that I had no doubt and dropped her off at the Southwest gate with something like a blessing though I couldn’t quite bring myself to say, “Have a wonderful time.” Maybe the thought of Connie Rae’s little purple notebook full of girlish confidences stopped me. One line especially kept playing over and over in my mind—the one in her round, childish scrawl saying her husband knew that without heart surgery she would die.
Anyway, after we waved goodbye, Teresa sashayed into the terminal, and I checked my watch. Da
rn it. One house problem under control and another waiting to be solved. But this upcoming one I was looking forward to. I had a date with Harlan Conway to plan the new house. But I’d never make it back to town in twenty minutes, and a late arrival would be sure to irritate The Great One.
Before airport security asked me to move, I made a quick call and left a message on Harlan’s voice mail, doubting if any excuse, however legitimate, would matter to his prickly ego.
Well, nothing I could do about that except drive the loaner five miles over the limit all the way back to town. Rossi would have had a fit had he known, but it did get me there only ten minutes late.
Two surprises awaited. Harlan wasn’t annoyed, and his office turned out to be quite spartan, a single room in the industrial park off Pine Ridge Road. In addition to a computer desk and a couple of filing cabinets, a large drafting table faced with a pair of upright chairs were the extent of the furnishings. Though initially surprised by the modesty, I forgot all about it when I glanced up at the walls. They were breathtaking. Against a taupe background, he had hung double-matted line drawings of his architectural achievements. There were several mega-mansions, a hospital, a bank, even a small museum. All had pride of place, and I was fascinated, studying first one and then the other.
He watched me, a smile playing about his lips. “You like what you see.” It wasn’t a question.
“It’s eye candy, Harlan. I do have one major concern though,” I said, sitting across from his drafting table to rest my knee.
“Yes?” One of his eyebrows lifted as if he couldn’t believe that, after viewing his work, I could have any serious concerns.
“What Rossi and I have in mind doesn’t begin to compare with any of these projects.” I waved my arms at his walls.
“Not a problem,” he said. “I understood that the night I saw your building lot. I fit in small projects like yours around my major clients. In fact I find the change of pace refreshing.”
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Page 12