Before Rossi could ask him a single question, James said, “I was at my divorce attorney’s office this morning. I put his name and number on the pad along with my own. He can verify my whereabouts.” He cast a lethal glance at Stew’s retreating back. “Should that be necessary.”
Eileen swore she’d been in the kitchen all morning, except for a few minutes serving coffee to Tom’s two painters. They, of course, had never left the living room, and Tom and I vouched for each other’s whereabouts the entire time we were here.
Rossi collected the statements and slid them into the manila envelope that Eileen had thoughtfully provided. “Was anyone else on the property today?”
Still stroking Charlotte nonstop, James nodded. “My...wife...Marilyn came in for a swim. That was several hours ago.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No. I didn’t see her. Eileen told me she’d stopped by.”
“When was this, Eileen?” Rossi asked.
“About eight o’clock,” she replied in a small, frightened voice, her hands wringing the life out of her uniform apron. “I remember because that’s when Mr. Stahlman has his coffee, and I had just brewed a fresh pot.”
“Did you talk to Mrs. Stahlman?”
Eileen nodded just once, in a scared, jackrabbit kind of way. I wondered what she was so frightened of.
“Yes,” she said, “Mrs. Stahlman said she wanted to go for a swim. She hadn’t been practicing much lately and was getting rusty. I offered her coffee, but she refused and went outside. I assumed she was going to the pool. She never came back in. So if she did have a swim, she must have left in a wet suit.” A puzzled frown wrinkled Eileen’s forehead. “Come to think of it, I didn’t hear her motorcycle start up. Usually you can hear it all over the neighborhood. I must have been busy in the laundry and didn’t pay attention.”
“When did Kay Hawkins go for a swim?”
Eileen bit her lip as she struggled to remember. “I really have no idea. She must have slipped out quietly. I don’t recall seeing her this morning.”
“Mr. Stahlman, do you know?”
James shook his head. “No. I only know she wanted to go for a swim. That was about eight-fifteen.” His voice faltered. “And then I kissed her goodbye.”
“Were there any other visitors today?”
“Just the tile men,” Eileen said. “They wanted to make sure the grout on the terrace stairs had dried properly.”
“When was this?”
“Oh, later. Around ten o’clock. I think Mrs. Stahlman had already left. They were working two houses down and stopped by during their break.”
“Were they here long?”
Eileen shook her head. “No, not long at all. I saw the rugged one, you know the one with the shaved head, leave a minute or so after they got here. And the other man, the tall thin one, followed him.” She flushed. “He waved goodbye, that’s how I remember.”
“Thank you,” Rossi said, and to James, “Do you have a number where your wife can be reached?”
James rose from his seat. “It’s on the desk in my study.”
Rossi whipped off the damp towel and laid it on the back of a deck chair. “I’ll get that number from you then I’ll be off. I’d like to have a word with the tile men—Tony and Mike I believe their names are—before they leave for the day.”
When he said Mike’s name, Rossi arched an eyebrow at me. He didn’t need to say another thing. Sometimes body language said more than words. And this was one of those times.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
After calling Lee and asking her to manage the shop alone for the rest of the afternoon, I went straight home. I tossed Eileen’s uniform, the shift and my under things in the washer and stepped into the shower, letting the warm spray ease away the tensions of the day. Kay was dead. Hard to believe. She’d been such a vital, energetic woman with a lifetime of living left to enjoy.
Something evil had happened to her. I was sure of it, and proof or no proof, my mind began playing with the nasty possibilities.
Teresa’s name popped up first. In love with Stew—or with what he could provide—she had a strong motive for wanting Kay out of the way. A shrewdy, Teresa would have recognized Stew’s infatuation with his former wife...if that was the reality of it. Who knew for certain? Kay had said they’d had a battling marriage. Yet this morning he’d sobbed inconsolably, cradling her body in his arms and then fighting over her with James.
In short, Stew had acted like a broken-hearted lover. Acted like? Was that it? Was he simply acting? After all, love and hate were two sides of the same coin. And Kay was about to marry his arch rival. For a jealous lover, that alone might be a motive for murder. The If-I-Can’t-Have-You-No-One-Else-Can Syndrome.
Perhaps. But according to that yardstick, bridegroom James was innocent. In love with Kay, too, and about to make her his own, he had no reason to kill her, at least none that I could think of.
I stepped out of the shower and toweled dry.
What about Marilyn? Maybe she hated having Kay replace her as Mrs. Stahlman. Technically, James was still her husband. Hmm. For an entire year, she’d let the whole world believe she was dead, and then on the brink of James’s remarriage, she’d returned just as abruptly as she had left. Strange. But since she had a lover, chances were she didn’t want James back. Certainly not enough to commit murder for him. On the other hand, I knew practically nothing about Marilyn...except that she had a mole on the left cheek of her butt. Halfway down.
I ran the towel over my hair, rubbing the curls until they rioted around my head. Black bra and panties, denim cutoffs and a loose BU T-shirt, and I was good to go. Actually I wouldn’t be going anywhere in this outfit and with this wild hair, but the casualness was comforting, kind of like what mac and cheese were to dinner.
Mac and cheese. That would be perfect for tonight. With a salad...
That left only Eileen unaccounted for, but she was hardly the violent type. Besides, she had no motive for killing Kay.
I took some romaine from the fridge and separated the leaves.
But suppose, just suppose, that behind Eileen’s placid exterior beat the heart of a passionate woman? If she were in love with her boss, she might have been tempted to bump off his fiancée and be the only female in the house. No. I shook my head. That was downright silly.
I dropped the romaine into a colander and ran cold water over it. Or as cold as tap water ever got in Florida in July.
Yes, silly. For openers, Eileen wouldn’t have the strength to strangle a fit woman like Kay.
The water dripped over the lettuce leaves and ran into the sink.
Or would she? Anger could give anyone abnormal strength. Look at how courtly, refined James had knocked hefty Stew right into the pool. Nobody would have believed that without seeing it. Much as I didn’t want to, I had to face the uncomfortable truth that my work was bringing me into daily contact with a host of possible murder suspects. To deny it would be foolish, and, suddenly scared, I left the lettuce to drip dry and hurried into the living room. I needed a security blanket—the Cobra pistol locked in the lower drawer of my desk. I retrieved it and dropped it in my tote where it fell to the bottom with a satisfying clunk.
Feeling calmer, I returned to the kitchen where, with a little rummaging, I found a box of elbow macaroni in the pantry and Nana Kennedy’s recipe for mac and cheese. It had been my favorite meal throughout childhood and beyond, though I hadn’t made it in years. Not since my husband Jack died.
I stared at the pot of water I’d just placed on the stove. Days had gone by since I last thought of Jack. Once he’d been my first thought each morning and my last each night. A spurt of sadness shot through me as the loss of him came rushing back with all the ferocity of new grief. Unlike Kay, Jack hadn’t died with bruises on his neck. He’d been killed
by an icy highway. The foul play had been Mother Nature’s, but he was gone just the same. I’d loved him and lost him.
Then, to my great joy, life had brought me a new love. And he’d be home soon. I shook off the sadness as I knew Jack would want me to, found a brick of cheddar cheese in the fridge and began cooking in earnest.
I was chopping the lettuce, so engrossed in my task I didn’t hear Rossi come in, and suddenly there he was, standing in the kitchen doorway with a big white Chiclets grin on his face and his arms open wide.
I hurried to him and was rewarded by a kiss with a beginning and no end—the kind that segued from one into another and another. When we finally parted, leaving barely enough room to slide a piece of paper between us, I said, “You’re still wearing your pool clothes. No time to get to Countryside and change?”
“No need. They dried on me. Florida in July. Nothing like it.” He sniffed the air. “Something smells terrific.”
“Yup. Comfort food. I thought I’d surprise you.”
If anything, his grin widened. “And I have a surprise for you.”
My heart skipped a beat. “The bruises on Kay’s neck didn’t mean a thing? She wasn’t murdered, after all?”
A cold silence chilled the air. “No. That’s not it.”
“That’s not what?”
“The surprise.” His voice didn’t warm things up a bit.
“Okay, I do want to hear the surprise, but first tell me about Kay. Was my theory correct? Was she murdered?”
He dropped his hands to his sides and gave me one of those long detective sighs he churned out whenever I prodded him for information. “If you must know, foul play is the probable cause.”
“Officially? Did the ME verify it?” Now that I had him talking—sort of—I’d keep him going. With Rossi you never knew when he’d clam up, a trait I found both exasperating and endearing. Exasperating.
“Yes. She was dead before she hit the pool. There wasn’t any water in her lungs. He’s citing strangulation as cause of death.”
Wow. I’d gone back to chopping lettuce, but stopped for a moment to digest what he’d just said. Believing the bruises meant bad news and knowing it for certain were two different things. Poor Kay. Like Connie Rae, she’d been a woman with so much to live for, and yet she’d come to an untimely end. A violent end. They both had.
The knife forgotten in my hand, I stiffened as the insight struck home. Connie Rae had been murdered too. Again I had no proof, nothing to go on. Just a sudden, soul-deep conviction that like Kay, someone’s hatred had killed her. But whose? And why?
No question about it, a murderer was on the loose, and chances were good it was someone I knew, someone I saw every day. So it was a good thing I had the Cobra stashed in my tote.
Rossi’s arm stole around me. “Deva, you okay? You kind of went pale just then.”
“Sorry.” I sagged against him for a moment. “The truth took my breath away, but I’m all right now.” The last thing Rossi would want to hear was one of my hunches, or that from now until this case was solved, I’d be packing. So I stood straight, inhaled and changed the subject. “Tell me your surprise.”
His grin returned, megawatt wide. “You’re about to gain a star boarder.”
“Meaning?”
“I sold my house.”
Uh-oh. “Omigod, so fast?”
“Yeah. I can’t get over it. The second couple who saw the place put down a deposit. Didn’t even argue price. Isn’t that great?”
“That’s absolutely wonderful.” I smooched him on the cheek before peering into the oven. The casserole was as bubbly as Mauna Loa. “Any idea when they plan to move in?”
“As soon as the ink dries on the sales agreement. They’re paying in cash. No mortgage. No bank involvement. Just an inspection, a title search and the sale goes right through.”
I cleared my throat. “We have a problem, Rossi.”
His happy grin disappeared. “What’s the matter? I thought you’d be pleased.”
“Oh, I am. But everything’s happened so fast, I haven’t had a chance to tell you my news. I have a surprise too.”
“Yeah?” His voice guarded, he waited for me to spring it on him.
“I sold the condo to Lee and Paulo. Guess when they’re planning to move in?”
“Don’t tell me next week or something.”
“Bingo!”
Chapter Thirty-Eight
We scarfed down the mac and cheese. It was every bit as delicious as I remembered, and Rossi, to my delight, had thirds. Thirds.
Too busy enjoying our dinner, we didn’t obsess over the fact that we’d soon be without a home. As Rossi pointed out, now we’d have more than sufficient construction money, and that was the important thing.
He leaned across the table to kiss me yet again. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll rent somewhere for a few months until our little dream palace is finished.”
He had showered and changed. Fresh shorts and a Hawaiian with a view of Diamond Head repeated all over his chest.
After the day’s juggernaut of events, we were finally beginning to relax when his cell phone rang. Darn it. Trouble. Too bad he hadn’t been wearing the cell when he jumped in the pool.
He listened, said a few words then closed the phone. “I won’t be watching that movie with you after all. Have to go.” He quickly changed into long pants and a gun. “Be back as soon as I can. Dinner was fantastic.”
A quick farewell kiss, the door closed behind him, and I was alone. Such was life with a homicide detective. I’d better get used to it. It wouldn’t change, ever. He’d keep on dashing off to work at all kinds of hours with a Glock strapped to his body, and coming home in the wee hours. But complaining was futile. Rossi had chosen a dangerous career, and despite knowing that full well, I had chosen Rossi.
With a resigned sigh, I got up from the table and brought the dirty dishes out to the kitchen. Even with all the uncertainty and danger, I wouldn’t ask for anything different. Rossi’s job fulfilled him, and he fulfilled me. My cup runneth over.
Without a moment’s hesitation, he had risked his own life today to save mine. I wanted to watch his back too, help him as best I could. My interference, as he called it, was my way of helping. My way of showing how much I loved him. Being the perceptive man that he was, he’d no doubt already figured that out. But no way in hell would he admit it, unless, say, in a moment of passion I forced the truth out of him. Or else. I had to smile. That probably would work, but it would mark a new low in the life of Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne.
I glanced at the kitchen clock. The movie would be on soon, and I hated missing the opening scenes. The table clear, the dishwasher stacked, I hurried out to the living room and switched on the lamps.
A manila envelope lay on a club chair. Rossi had left in such a rush he must have forgotten it. I picked it up, intending to put it on the desk, when my glance fell on his big bold handwriting. The Kay Hawkins Case.
Oh? I stood in the center of the living room, the envelope burning holes in my palms. I turned it over. Only a metal clasp held the flap closed. Would I or wouldn’t I?
While I’m used to devils—after all, they’re in the details of every project I tackle—this time a different kind of devil, demon curiosity, had me in its grip. Envelope in hand, pulse drumming out a guilty tango, I flopped down on the sofa and, forgetting all about a movie for one, I undid the clasp and slid out the contents.
The handwritten notes of everyone who had been at the Stahlman house that morning lay on my lap. The routine information—names, addresses, phone numbers—I perused quickly. The whereabouts of each person at the time Kay died were what captured my attention.
Naomi, my handwriting guru, would have a field day with the various ways these people wrote—left leaning, right leaning, la
rge script, one so tiny it looked like cursive in miniature, a few flamboyant capitals and...wait a minute. I stopped riffling through the pages. One of these writing samples might belong to the murderer. As Naomi had explained when I brought Mike’s letters to her, what a person wrote revealed the information he wanted known. How he wrote revealed his secret intent. I believed in the connection between handwriting and behavior but lacked the skill to get at the truth. I needed Naomi.
I checked my watch. Eight o’clock, still early. Rossi wouldn’t be back until God knew when. He might even be gone all night. No time like the present.
I tucked the pages back in the envelope and went in search of my cell phone where I’d stored Naomi’s phone number. If she were at home tonight and feeling well enough for a visitor, I’d ask if I could make a house call. With her expertise, no telling what she might uncover.
Her number rang three, four times.
“Come on, come on, come on,” I urged and finally, on the fifth ring, someone picked up.
“Hello.”
“Hi, this is Deva Dunne. May I speak to Naomi, please.”
“Oh. I guess you haven’t heard.” At the sound of the young woman’s lifeless voice, my heart sank. This wasn’t going to be good news. “My mom died yesterday.”
“No, I didn’t know. I’m so sorry.”
We spoke for a few minutes, and I learned that according to Naomi’s wishes, there would be no funeral. No final farewell...and, of course, no handwriting analysis in an attempt to nail a murderer.
Poor Naomi. I sat still for a long while with the manila envelope forgotten on my lap. Yet another woman had died an untimely death, but there was a measure of comfort in remembering that while Naomi was alive, she’d done a lot of good for a lot of people. How I wished she were still here to do a good deed once again.
The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Page 17