“I think we’re ready,” Rossi said, pulling my attention back inside.
Leaving out how bored she’d been with her marriage, but leaving in her death wish, Marilyn retold the tale of her disappearance, right down to the name of her rescuer. Showing little remorse for her husband’s suffering, she was deeply concerned that her lover be spared any blame. When she finished, Rossi turned off the tape recorder.
“Disappearing is not a crime, per se, as long as no actual harm was done. Faking one’s own death is another matter. However, if that wasn’t your original intent, the circumstances may be considered somewhat extenuating. I can’t guarantee that will be the finding, but from what you’ve told me, there’s at least a chance this might be deemed a private matter between husband and wife.”
“Oh good,” Marilyn said.
“With one caveat.” Rossi continued as if she hadn’t interrupted. “The element of deception in your disappearance. My guess is that the Collier County taxpayers will have to be reimbursed for man hours spent investigating the case. And almost certainly the Coast Guard will expect compensation for its search at sea. If these charges are met, that may be the end of the matter. Again, no guarantees, of course. While the resolution of the case is underway, you may want to contact your lawyer. In fact, I recommend you do so.”
Finished with his interview, he stood, pocketed the recorder and shook James’s hand. He didn’t take Marilyn’s or nod farewell in her direction. Though what Rossi was thinking was always hard to psych out, this time I guessed he’d made a value judgment. He didn’t quite care for a wife who, for an entire year, let her husband believe she was dead when the whole time she was alive and well. Not only that, she’d let him be ripped to shreds in the media.
Whatever he thought, without another word he turned on his heel and strode out of the kitchen. Marilyn cleared her throat, reached into her jeans pocket and withdrew a small slip of paper. “Here’s my lawyer’s number. And one where I can be reached.” Careful not to touch James’s hand, she placed it in front of him and stood. “I’ll get my gear out of the bedroom and be off.”
“Do you need a ride?” he asked.
My God, the man was unbelievable.
“No, thanks, my bike’s outside.” Halfway to the door, she swiveled around. “Any objection if I drop by mornings and use the pool?”
“Certainly not. I built it for you. Kay might object though.”
She laughed and gave her hair a toss. “Not a problem. I can handle Kay.”
James smiled, faintly, but still the edges of his lips did turn up. “You’re well matched.”
Ah, a flash of insight for James and for me. In that moment, we both understood that he liked tall, statuesque women with wills of iron.
Poor Jimmy.
Chapter Thirty
By noon, every scrap of wallpaper had been stripped off the public rooms of 590, which was a good thing. Condensation had been dripping down the inside of the windows all morning, and in the heat and humidity, even James’s putty-colored face took on a pink glow. Truth be told, southwest Florida in July wasn’t the best time to have an air-conditioning system fight a small army of hand-held steamers.
Tom’s crew swept up the debris then left for lunch break. A couple of the men settled outside on the top terrace step to eat their sandwiches and swap tales with Mike and Tony. A quick peek out the living room sliders showed Mike doing most of the talking and Tony looking bored as if he’d heard it all before.
After the soggy paper had been stuffed into plastic utility bags and the floors swept clean, Tom and I toured the rooms. Rid of its dated wall coverings and ho-hum chairs, the bare, stripped interior reminded me once again of the reasons why I loved my work—transforming drab houses into beautiful ones and, not incidentally, making the people who lived in them happy. Or happier. I heaved a sigh. After what transpired here today, I wondered if this would ever again be a happy household.
“The walls are in better shape than I thought,” Tom said, running a hand along the plaster. “I’ll have the boys finish prepping this afternoon, and we’ll start painting in the morning. It’ll take three coats, but even so, we should finish up early next week.” He glanced over his shoulder, and seeing we were alone, whispered, “That blonde. Is she the wife who disappeared?”
I nodded.
He let out a whistle. “It’ll take more than three coats of paint to fix that mess.”
“What mess?”
We both whirled around, as startled as if James had caught us doing something wrong. Well, in a way, he had. We were gossiping, pure and simple. Not a good thing ever, but especially bad at a time like this.
To cover my embarrassment—and my guilt—I quickly replied, “Tom was saying that when he’s through here, he has another challenging job waiting for him.”
James nodded, not bothering to ask anything about his own house, a subject that just a few hours ago had consumed him. As if he were a pricked balloon, all the air had whooshed out of his bubble, and I was sorry for his distress.
“I should get back to the shop,” I said.
James peeked at his watch. “Please don’t go, Deva. Kay’s due home for lunch any minute now, and I’d love to have you join us. If you can...” His voice trailed off.
He hadn’t said so, but I sensed that he needed me as a buffer, or for moral support...or perhaps to keep Kay’s anger in check when he broke the news of Marilyn’s return.
At the pleading in his brown puppy eyes, I didn’t have the heart to refuse. So, tough as two cream puffs, we waited for the Iron Lady in the kitchen, the one comfortable room left in the torn-up house.
In the silence—even Charlotte had wisely scooted into her cage for a midday nap—we listened for Kay’s arrival, and the minute a car door slammed, we both stiffened. As his fiancée’s stilettos clicked across the bare floors, the pink in James’s cheeks faded away.
Putty-faced again, he rose to greet her though he might have been wise to remain seated. Or better still, to stretch out flat on the breakfast nook bench.
With her long, leggy stride, Kay reached the kitchen quickly, pushed through the swinging door and careened to a stop when she saw me.
“Oh, you’re here too.” Obviously less than pleased, she rallied fast. “Well, I must say the painters have made wonderful progress. The house should be ready in plenty of time.”
For the wedding.
She held out her arms to James—a far cry for sure from the way Marilyn had greeted him. He hurried to embrace her and placed a discreet peck on her cheek. “You look lovely,” he murmured.
She did, in a black linen mini that showcased legs already highlighted by strappy spike heels. A lime-green bag tossed over a shoulder added a touch of colorful chic.
“But then, you are forever lovely,” James added, running his hands along her arms.
“You always say the most marvelous things, darling. No wonder I love you.”
She kissed him for real, and while they were enjoying it, I wished I were somewhere else, even outside talking about snakes with Mike and Tony.
The kiss ended, finally, and loosening his embrace a little, James cleared his throat. Here comes the bombshell.
“I wish I could say only wonderful things to you, darling, but that’s not always possible. Do come and sit down.”
Good move.
“You look positively grim, James. Is anything the matter?”
She suspects something.
I sat in a corner of the breakfast nook, quiet as dust, while he took her by the hand and led her to the table,
Once they were safely seated, he said, “There is something I have to tell you, darling.”
Alarm swept across Kay’s face. “Well, for God’s sake, Jimmy, out with it.”
He took a deep, bracing breath and expelled i
t slowly. “Marilyn didn’t drown after all. She’s come back. From the dead, so to speak.”
Kay gasped and half rose from her seat, then fell back onto it as if she didn’t trust her admittedly gorgeous legs to hold her.
James leaned across the table to retake her hands. “I have an appointment with my attorney at three today. I’m starting divorce proceedings immediately.”
Well, well. No histrionics, but no wasting time either. Chalk one up for James.
“I knew that bitch wasn’t dead.” Her face rage red, Kay yanked her fingers out from under James’s and sat up straight. “How dare she do this to us? Where has she been all this time?”
“It’s a long story that—”
“The nerve of her. Showing up just before our wedding.” Kay’s hand flew to her mouth. “Ooooh.” The realization had struck home, and she slumped against the back of the bench, stunned by the truth.
“Exactly,” James said, a sardonic smile playing with his lips. “She’s saving us from bigamy. Perhaps we should be grateful.”
“Grateful?” Kay leaped to her feet. “I could kill her!”
Chapter Thirty-One
So far I hadn’t said a thing. All I’d done was witness James’s kissing technique—which I have to admit was pretty darn good—and listened to Kay’s outburst. Not that I blamed her for feeling the way she did or anything. Still, when James said, “Don’t worry, dearest. We’ll work this out together,” I figured my career as a marriage counselor had ended before it began, so I eased off the breakfast nook bench.
As Kay slumped in her seat, I said, “If you’ll both excuse me.”
“Of course, Deva, thank you.” James’s earnest eyes telegraphed his gratitude, though he hadn’t needed my help after all.
I paused. “Just one question before I go?”
His attention focused on Kay, he nodded briefly, eager now for me to leave.
“In light of what’s happened, I assume there’s no necessity to rush to completion.”
A puzzled frown knitted his brows.
“The house?” I said.
“Oh. Yes. I mean no. No rush at all. Your original schedule will be fine.”
That was when Kay astonished me. She laid her head on the tabletop and burst into tears.
As James murmured words of comfort and stroked her hair, I escaped out the back way through the living room sliders. Relieved to be in the open, I took a deep breath that gave my nose a thrill. Edging the property, gardenia plants the size of small trees perfumed the air with a magical scent. I loved it and inhaled again.
Though the exterior of the house wasn’t something James had hired me to deal with, I was curious about those treacherous terrace stairs. The two painters were nowhere in sight, but Mike and Tony, on their hands and knees, were busy chipping away at the stone and didn’t notice my approach.
“Hi, Tony,” I said, bending over him for a closer look.
About to chisel out a tile, he missed it and hit his thumb instead. He dropped the chisel and jumped to his feet, waving his bonked thumb in the air. “Cripes, you scared the shit out of me. You can stop a guy’s heart sneaking up on him like that.”
I stepped back, out of reach of his flailing arm. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
“He’s been pretty jumpy lately,” Mike volunteered.
Tony shot him a why-don’t-you-shut-up-for-a-change look, and for once Mike took the hint and went back to his task.
Tony stood sucking his thumb. The gesture made him look like a pouting child, but I hoped he wasn’t badly injured. He needed those big, strong hands to make a living.
“Can you flex it?” I asked.
He took the finger out of his mouth and wiggled it up and down.
“Yeah, it’s all right,” he said, returning to his knees. Even the rubber knee pads he and Mike wore didn’t relieve all the pressure. Laying tiles and stone all day every day was hard work. The relentless summer sun beating down on them didn’t make it any easier. Neither did curious women.
Though I didn’t stay to ask any more questions, I did notice that the new stones they were installing had a rougher surface than the old ones. No doubt, the stairs would be much safer now.
Beads of perspiration had popped out on my forehead. It was hot as Hades out here, and the sun wasn’t helping my freckles any, but now that I’d gotten this far, I wanted to have a look at the pool behind the boxwood hedge. Avoiding the stairs, I started down the grassy slope.
Apparently not ready to give up talking, Mike called after me. “You’re looking good, Mrs. Dunne. Real good.” I half turned in time to catch him giving me an eye sweep. “Green’s your color all right. Glad to see the accident didn’t do any permanent damage.”
“Are you?” I challenged. “So is Lieutenant Rossi.” Let Mike chew on that for a while.
Undeterred, he said, “Any news for my boys at State?”
“You don’t give up, do you?”
He shook his head. “Nope. That’s not the road to success. At least not according to my philosophy. If you don’t keep whittling at the problems life hands you, they never go away. My grandfather always—”
“Your grandfather isn’t paying you,” Tony said. “I am. How about whittling on the chatter? That jibe with your philosophy?”
I’d gone halfway down the slope when Mike yelled, “Well, Mrs. Dunne, what about it?”
I swiveled around, and hands akimbo, shrew style, yelled back, “I should have two installations for you by next week. But if you bring up the subject again, the deal’s off.”
“Not a problem,” he yelled. He wiped the sweat off his forehead onto a tattooed arm and sent me a happy wave. As cheerful as if he were on vacation at St. Tropez, he acted as if he didn’t have a care in the world. Or an enemy. Maybe that accident in my driveway had been just that—an accident, not a deliberate attack.
Still, Naomi’s warning echoed in my mind. His writing shows a felon’s claw. Don’t trust him. He could be charming, she’d said, which made him doubly dangerous. I’d be wise to heed Rossi’s advice and have nothing further to do with Mike Hammerjack, but a promise was a promise. That and my own stubborn nature stood in the way of prudence.
I continued down the slope and stepped behind the boxwoods.
Oh my.
A competition-size pool lay in the sun, its classic rectangle filled with blue lapis lazuli water so inviting I wanted to take a skinny-dip dive right then and there. But Tony and Mike’s voices coming through the boxwoods quickly killed that impulse.
In the bottom of the pool, yellow tiles had been laid in the shape of five connected rings. A perfect practice pool for Marilyn, a former medal contender. Or a not-so-subtle reminder for her to keep on striving?
Whatever. Hidden back here, out of sight of the house and surrounded by a privacy hedge, the pool was a wonderful retreat for anyone and especially for a dedicated swimmer. Or it could be. James had obviously not spared any expense in building the pool but hadn’t spent much on anything else. Two forlorn-looking plastic lounge chairs offered the only seating.
Too bad. Some padded recliners sheltered with umbrellas, and a few ceramic jardinières would make the whole area more inviting. A little pool house at the far end of the property would be delightful for patio parties, or for reading, or napping, or any other leisure activity. But this was a pool built with a serious purpose in mind, not for fun.
I stood staring at the brilliant blue water. Why had Marilyn faked her own drowning? Had her life really been too burdensome to endure? Even if it had been, why pretend you were dead? She had chosen a cruel solution, even if James, as she claimed, had bored her to death.
Chapter Thirty-Two
That evening over dinner, I said, “You know something, Rossi, you’re a very interesting man.”
/> He’d finished his salad and moved the empty plate aside. Ready to start in on what he considered the good stuff, a slice of pepperoni pizza, he glanced over at me, a trifle surprised. “A compliment? What brought that on?”
“Why the surprise? It’s not like I never compliment you or anything.”
He stifled a smile. “True, but you don’t fling them around lightly. The last one I recall was in bed immediately after—”
“Those don’t count. That’s the heat of passion talking.”
This time he grinned ear to ear. “I’m disappointed to hear that. They’ve been some of your finest observations.”
“Well, there have been others too,” I retorted, hoping my face wasn’t flaming. Warm cheeks made my freckles pop. To buy a little time to think, I took a sip of wine. Ah! “Remember last winter when you wore a tie and a white dress shirt? I definitely told you how handsome you looked that night.”
“You really were saying I don’t wear a tie often enough.”
“Well, there is that, and also—”
He held up a hand for silence. “Wait! I remember another one. You once told me you liked standing beside me because we were on an even playing field. Eyeball to eyeball.”
“Right.”
“You were telling me I’m short.”
“No way. I meant exactly what I said. I like your height.”
“Or lack thereof. Now will you tell me something else?”
“Of course, anything.”
“What the hell’s this conversation all about anyway?” He washed down his pizza with a swig of Chianti and reached for another piece.
He was definitely finding his food more interesting than me. “Am I annoying you?” I asked, annoyed enough for two.
He looked up, mid-slice. “No, not at all. I’m curious. I really don’t get the point of this discussion.” He put down the pizza—rather reluctantly, I thought—and wiped his fingertips on his napkin. “So clue me in.”
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Page 14