The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design)

by Jean Harrington

  Eileen, in LaLa Land, slept on.

  “Will you help me get her to bed before James or somebody else finds her like this?” I asked.

  “Yes, of course, but she’s a sizable woman, and she’s out cold. How are we going to lift her?”

  “We need some old-fashioned smelling salts or something,” I said. “Anything, to bring her to. I wonder if...” I got up from the breakfast nook bench and hurried over to the sink. As I’d hoped, underneath with the other cleaning supplies was a bottle of ammonia.

  I opened it, inhaled and wished I hadn’t. That should do it. Bottle in hand, I went back to Eileen and rubbed her back. When she stirred and moaned a little, I held the opened bottle near her face. Nothing. Did the woman never inhale?

  I glanced back at Marilyn who was hovering nearby. “She might respond to your voice,” I said.

  Marilyn nodded and, leaning over Eileen, she shouted in her ear, “Eileen Bennett, this is Mrs. Stahlman. I insist you wake up immediately.”

  At the no-nonsense command, Eileen inhaled and came to with a start. I held the bottle under her nose, and with a shriek of protest, she bolted upright on her seat.

  I capped the ammonia and put it down. “Now!” I said. Marilyn grabbed Eileen’s arm and tugged her toward the end of the bench.

  “Whash goin’ on?”

  Once we had her precariously perched on the edge, I slid an arm around her waist, and Marilyn, on the other side, did the same.

  “One, two, three” and up she came. Sort of.

  Lord, she was heavy, dead weight really. Sagging between us she more or less stood, and together we all stumbled forward a few steps.

  “I’m gonna be sick.”

  Uh-oh. Across Eileen’s slumping body, Marilyn shot me a horrified look. Now what? If we let go, she’d plunge to the floor. Helpless, Marilyn and I stood frozen in the middle of the kitchen while Mount Vesuvius erupted, spewing lava all over the place, including my best black dress and the ocelot slides.

  This was definitely not part of my job description, but I hung in there, retching, as did Marilyn, until the spasms ceased, then we soldiered on down the narrow back hall into Eileen’s modest room.

  “Thash my bed,” she said. With a sigh of satisfaction, she lurched forward a step and fell onto the mattress.

  “She stinks,” Marilyn said with a laugh. “We all do.”

  “What do you say we strip off her uniform and wash her face and hands? She can shower when she comes to. And we can’t leave the kitchen reeking like that.”

  Marilyn wrinkled her nose at my suggestion. “Yuk,” she said, giving her shorts a hike. “But okay. You’re right. I’ll start out there, and you take care of Sleeping Beauty. No point in getting cleaned up ourselves until after we’ve dealt with the mess.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  “Yup.”

  With no further ado, Marilyn strode out of the bedroom and headed into a tough mission in besmirched shorts and vomity shit-kickers.

  Chapter Forty

  Sometimes women bonded at spas while they were being pampered with facials and massages or munching on body-sculpting food out by the pool. As for Marilyn and me, we bonded without any frills back in the breakfast nook of recent memory.

  Eileen was peacefully sleeping it off in her red lace bra and panties—who would have guessed? I had showered and, for the second day in a row, borrowed one of her uniforms. Then I bundled up the black dress and slides and threw them in the trash. After Marilyn showered, she put on an old flannel robe while her shorts and T-shirt whirled around in the washer.

  Needing an energy jolt, we sat sipping the rest of the coffee as the clock on the wall ticked peacefully and, in the distance, a radio belted out an old Elvis hit.

  “I wonder what made her break down like that?” Marilyn asked. “It’s so unlike her.”

  I shook my head. “I don’t know, but she did say something about leaving. That might explain it.”

  “Oh?” Marilyn was all ears.

  “Yeah, she said she’d be gone soon. I asked her why but she passed out before she could answer.”

  “I know one thing,” Marilyn said. “She’d rather die than leave James. He’s her life. He doesn’t see it of course.” She picked up her mug and took a sip. “He sees only what he wants to see. What suits him. And what suits him best is a woman of means.” She shrugged. “I guess I fit that description...and so did Kay. Poor Kay. She should be alive today, not lying on a slab in some morgue.”

  I hardly dared breathe. Did she suspect Kay had been murdered?

  She set down her mug so hard a little of the coffee slopped over the edge. “Bottom line, I don’t trust James...I mentioned that to the sexy lieutenant when he questioned me yesterday. What’s his name? Rossi?”

  I nodded. Sexy.

  “I told him to check out both Kay’s will and James’s. I think he played the same game with Kay that he tried on me—and on his first wife.”

  “Game?”

  Marilyn nodded. “He’s clever and so very polite and correct that you don’t suspect a thing. At least not at first. It’s an old con. I found that out a little late, but not too late, thank God.”

  “Marilyn, you’ve lost me.”

  Cradling her mug in both hands, she glanced across at me. Her eyes narrowed. “You don’t believe me, do you?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know what to think.”

  “Well, let me tell you how James worked his con on me. He began by saying he wanted to change his will. Leave everything he had to me—the woman he loved. Everything, got that? So if anything should happen to him, I’d be protected financially.

  “We were engaged at the time, and I was in love with him. Ha! What a mistake.

  “Anyway I swallowed the bait and said I wanted to do the same for him—in case anything happened to me. Oh, he protested very effectively, but I insisted. Wasn’t my love and concern as strong as his? I’d be hurt and insulted if he refused, etcetera, etcetera.”

  “If you were both sincere, I see no problem.”

  “If is the operative word. I married him, and the rest as they say is history. Or maybe not. When I found out he had the same arrangement with his first wife, I never trusted him the same way again. Like Kay, Number One died unexpectedly. OD’d on sleeping pills. There was gossip when it happened, but nothing was ever proven.”

  She looked up from the coffee, straight into my eyes. “The night...when I dove off the boat...he upped anchor and sailed off.” She let go of her mug and shoved it aside. “He left me to die. He wanted me to drown.”

  Wow. “Maybe he was sailing around, looking for you. Worried sick that he couldn’t find you in the dark. That something had happened...it’s understandable,” I finished somewhat lamely, my voice conveying anything but conviction.

  She shook her head so hard her hair whipped around her face. “No way. The only reason I come here to use the pool is to rub in the fact that I’m still alive. Still swimming.”

  “Did you tell the lieutenant about your suspicions?”

  “Yes, I told him everything.”

  And he told me nothing. I tried not to be hurt, but a lump rose into my throat. Rossi knew all this last night and had kept silent about it. That was the right thing to do, I told myself, the professional thing. My face flushed as I recalled nattering on about graphology. No wonder he hadn’t wanted to reveal any more about the case.

  “Anyway,” Marilyn was saying, “that moonlight swim was the best one of my life, even better than when I qualified for the U.S. team.”

  “You were rescued.”

  She smiled, remembering. “In more ways than one. Who knows? I may never have returned. There was no one left to miss me. Not really. My parents passed away several years ago, and I have no family. But when I read of Ja
mes’s engagement in the Palm Beach paper, I couldn’t let him trap another woman without trying to warn her.”

  “Did you?”

  “I tried. She wouldn’t listen. And now look at what’s happened.”

  I was stunned speechless, and that doesn’t happen very often. James a con man? A serial killer? Either Marilyn was paranoid or she had hit on the truth. My hot cheeks turned icy cold, and in my heart of hearts, I was glad Rossi knew all this—even if he hadn’t breathed a word of it to me.

  But Marilyn’s surprises weren’t at an end. “I don’t want to be a total hypocrite,” she added. “I came back for another reason too. My money. It’s a good thing I did. I thought since my death hadn’t been proven, and I was technically a missing person, James couldn’t touch my estate for several years. But I was mistaken. He had his lawyer working on a loophole in the law. By proving I had been exposed to a specific peril—drowning—he was about to have me declared legally dead. That meant my will could be probated and James would inherit my estate without further delay. He was only weeks away from doing exactly that when I...” her lip curled up, “...miraculously reappeared.”

  The swinging door to the dining room creaked open, startling both of us.

  James, with Charlotte in his arms, walked quietly into the kitchen, coming to a dead stop at the sight of Marilyn. His jaw hardened. “I’m unpleasantly surprised to see you here. You have permission to use the pool, but I don’t want you in the house. Please leave immediately.”

  “Can’t do it, Jimmy, not till my clothes are dry.”

  Deva to the rescue. “Eileen is ill. She’s has a bad stomach upset. We had to put her to bed and—”

  “She was sick all over us,” Marilyn said. “I think she’s down for the day. Nerves, no doubt. And you home for lunch, Jimmy. What a shame. Want me to make you a peanut butter sandwich?” A little smile flirted with her mouth. “I’ll cut off the crusts.”

  Without uttering a word, he turned on his heel and strode off as quietly as he had entered. The swinging door creaked behind him and bumped to a close.

  “Weren’t you a little rough on him, Marilyn?” I asked. “It’s possible he truly loved Kay. Not only her money. If so, he’s just suffered a tragic loss.”

  Marilyn slugged down the last of her coffee and slammed her mug on the tabletop. “He’s had a loss, no doubt about that, but not a financial one. I’d stake my life on it.”

  These days, on Whiskey Lane, those sure were dangerous odds.

  Chapter Forty-One

  “I have some news, but I warn you it isn’t good,” Rossi said as we were finishing dinner.

  My pulse revved up a notch. He was going to talk about his problems with the Hawkins case. “Whatever you say, I promise I won’t tell a soul.”

  He stared at me, puzzled. “It’s not exactly a secret.”

  “Public knowledge, so soon? That’s a surprise.” My enthusiasm dimmed a little. If everyone knew already, telling me wasn’t such a big deal. “Well, bad news or not, I’d like to hear it.”

  “Harlan Conway called me this morning.”

  “Harlan? What’s he got to do with Kay’s murder?”

  “Nothing. And let me remind you that no one has been arrested for the Hawkins woman’s death. In short, no one’s been accused of murder. At least not yet.”

  “But—”

  He pushed his empty dinner plate back from the edge of the table. “You did it again, Deva.”

  “I don’t mean to be a pain. I’m just concerned about—”

  A flash of humor flitted across his face. “What do you say we start this conversation over? First, dinner was delicious. I love leftover mac and cheese.”

  I’d let that one go by. It had been a long day.

  “Second, the news from Harlan—which is what I was referring to—is somewhat disappointing.”

  “Oh?” My revved-up pulse soared into alarm mode. The last couple of days had been so traumatic, I’d actually forgotten about the house. “What’s wrong?”

  “Harlan had some test holes bored to see how deep the foundation supports should go.”

  “And?”

  “There’s no hardpan for over forty feet.”

  “Which means?”

  “The foundation will be way over budget and take twice as long to build as estimated.”

  I sagged against the back of my chair. “But it can be done?”

  “Yes. With time and money.”

  “And while all this is going on, we don’t have a place to live.”

  “Correct.”

  For the short term, six months or so, renting a place wasn’t a problem, but Naples was a resort mecca, and rental properties were at a premium. We couldn’t afford to spend a hefty part of our construction money on expensive digs while we waited God knew how long for the house to be finished.

  I blew out a breath. “We’re in trouble.”

  He treated me to one of his dazzling white smiles. “On the same page at last.”

  “I’m serious, Rossi.”

  “I know.” He leaned across the table to take my hand and rub his thumb across my palm. “In the morning I’ll call a few realtors, and I’ll put out feelers at the station. Some of the boys may know of a few reasonable rentals.” He wiggled his thumb. “Don’t worry, sweetheart, we’ll work this out. Every problem has a solution.”

  True. Even if it was one you didn’t like. Rossi knew that full well; he was trying to reassure me, and I loved him for it. But bottom line, we needed an affordable place to stay for maybe a year or more, and we needed it within a few weeks. So I wouldn’t leave all the searching up to him. I’d simply have to find some time to go apartment hunting too.

  I squeezed his hand before getting up to remove the dinner dishes. “Your news surprised me,” I said. “I thought you were going to tell me something about the Hawkins case.” He arched a brow but didn’t nibble at the bait. “Anyway,” I continued, “just so you’ll know, I saw Marilyn Stahlman today. She told me all about her James theory.”

  “That right?”

  “Yup. She said she’d told you everything too.”

  “Whatever everything means. All I know is she had a lot to say. All of it unsubstantiated suspicions.”

  “Maybe, but have you checked out Kay’s will?”

  “Yes.” He held up a warning finger. “Don’t go jumping to conclusions now...she left everything to Stahlman.”

  I nearly dropped the plates. “Aha! Marilyn was right. I knew it.”

  “What did I just say? There’s nothing illegal about Kay Hawkins’s will.”

  “Perhaps not, but have you checked out James’s as well?”

  “No.”

  “No? Why not?”

  Rossi frowned. “I could take the Fifth here, but I’ll answer you just to end this discussion. There was no need. He told me what it contains. Kay was his sole beneficiary.”

  “Doesn’t that shoot off flares in your head?”

  “Not necessarily.” Rossi’s voice had gotten all clipped and terse. I was pushing and knew it, so I blew out a breath and stomped out to the kitchen carrying the dishes and feeling as low as a garage sale reject. I’d spent the past two days in a white nylon uniform five sizes too large, I’d just served leftovers for dinner, and my dream house—which at the moment was only a couple of bore holes in the ground—was already way over budget. Worse, my beloved fiancé wasn’t confiding in me, not fully anyway, even though I had been on what I was convinced was the murder scene from the get-go.

  In cargo shorts and bare feet, Rossi padded into the kitchen. I was rinsing the plates in the sink when he came up behind me and put a hand on my arm.

  “Deva, turn around,” he said. “Please.”

  The “please” did it. I whirled around and snugg
ed my arms around his waist. Resting my head on his chest, I inhaled his aftershave as if it were oxygen.

  “I want to ask you something,” he said.

  “Anything. Shoot.”

  “If I suggested that you and I make each other the beneficiaries of our wills, would you agree to do so?”

  I pulled away a little so I could look into his eyes. “Of course. I trust you completely.”

  “Ergo.”

  “Oh no, you don’t. You’re no James Stahlman.”

  “And just who and what is a James Stahlman? A con artist? A killer?”

  “According to his wife, yes.”

  “A wife who disappeared for an entire year, letting rumors and innuendo swirl around her husband. Her grieving husband, I might add. The same woman who after mysteriously disappearing, suddenly reappeared out of the blue.” His hands dropped down my back, way down. “Now I ask you, is the word of a woman like that to be believed without question?”

  “Naturally you have questions. That’s only logical.”

  “Thank you.” Just a trace of sarcasm colored his tone.

  But I wasn’t ready to concede yet. “I like her. She cleaned up after Eileen yesterday without hesitating a moment. Trust me, that wasn’t easy, and she did it willingly. You could at least consider the possibility that she’s a decent woman who’s telling the truth.”

  “I have considered it. I am still considering it, but so far I’ve found no evidence to support her theory. When I do—”

  “I’ll be the first to know.”

  “Absolutely not. And now what do you say we continue this conversation somewhere else? Like in bed.”

  “How can I carry on a conversation, Rossi? I can’t think straight with your hands all over me this way.”

  “Now that’s an interesting bit of news. So let me ask you something else.”

  Busy nibbling on his ear lobe, I just murmured, “Umm.”

  “If one part of you shuts down, does another part open up?”

  I bit his lobe. “That question’s not worthy of an answer, Detective. Is your interrogation technique slipping?”

  “Apparently,” he said with mock despair. “I need to lie down.”