Designed for Death, page 1
Designed for Death
By Jean Harrington
An Eye for Detail, a Nose for Trouble
Interior designer Deva Dunne’s latest project comes to a screeching halt when blood on the carpet leads her to the body of her client, an exotic dancer with a mysterious past. But the murdered woman is not the only resident of the posh beachfront condominium with secrets, and investigating officer Lieutenant Victor Rossi considers them all suspects.
Though wary of working in the killer’s midst, Deva continues decorating the unit for the new owner. When she stumbles upon clues that might help crack the case, she can’t resist doing a little digging of her own, despite Rossi’s orders to quit meddling. Now, she’s juggling the investigation, her career and sexy neighbor Simon Yaeger, who seems interested in more than her etchings.
Deva can’t help but be flattered by all the male attention—that is, until she realizes the killer has designs on her, too…
67,000 words
Dear Reader,
In 2012, we’re committed to bringing you an even wider variety of stories. With our January releases, we celebrate the diversity of the genres Carina Press has to offer. We’re publishing books across a variety of romance and non-romance genres, including mystery, cyberpunk, fantasy, male/male romance, paranormal romance, contemporary romance, science fiction, historical romance and more.
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Dedication
To Amy, Bob, Carolyn, Chris, Jack, Laura and Mary Lee who are all a part of this tale and a wonderful part of my life.
Acknowledgements
My gratitude to Attorney Carolyn Alden; David A. Lounsbury, Ph.D. Director, Institute for Forensic Excellence, Florida Gulf Coast University; Public Information Officer, Naples P.D.; first readers, critique partners and super motivators Linda Bilodeau, Susanne Devine and Sharon Yanish; gifted authors Linnea Sinclair and Tina Wainscott; the cyber critiquers of Lethaladies; the 2011 Emily Contest, which judged this entry a winner; the staff of Design Group West, whose visual creativity inspired many of the interior scenes. And of course to Carina Press Executive Editor Angela James, who saw a spark in this manuscript, and to my superb editor, Deborah Nemeth, who kept that spark alive. My sincerest thanks to each and every one of you.
Contents
Copyright
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
About the Author
Chapter One
I opened my condo door to a runway model in stiletto heels and a short little scrap of a dress that fit her like the peel on a banana.
“Hi, the name’s Treasure,” she said, holding out a hand to me, her pristine, fire-red nails tipped down. “Are you Deva Dunne?”
Mouth agape, I wrapped my fingers around hers then instantly let go and stuffed my hands in my pockets.
“Yes, I am.” I eyed her skirt. I like mine short, too, but this one barely covered the essentials. Barely being the operative word. “What can I do for you?”
She flashed a megawatt smile. “Dick sent me. I just bought Unit 301 on the top floor.”
Now everything fell into place, and I nodded. It was a miracle Dick Parker, the owner of the building, hadn’t given her a condo free. He loved women, though he’d lived a married man’s life for years.
“Dick told me you’re an interior designer,” she continued, “and, boy, do I need one.”
I cleared my throat, doing my best to blink out her dramatic appearance and concentrate on what she was saying. “Well, I am a designer, but I haven’t been working at it lately.”
“Oh?” Her star-quality smile dimmed. “Dick said you were redoing the Surfside condos he has up for sale.”
I shrugged and ran my tongue along my straight teeth. Four teenage years in braces had given me a smile like hers, right? “Just as a favor, to help him out.”
“He’s not paying you?” Her eyes swept wide open. “How terrible.”
Dick was up against it financially, but I didn’t think I should mention that. Or that shortly after moving in, I found out he planned to put pink flamingoes on the lawn. I told myself good taste was nothing more than educated timidity… Still, plastic birds. My God. The possibility that a flock of them might roost outside my windows had forced me to plunge back into my design role, which might have been a good thing. Until I healed from Jack’s death, I wouldn’t be fit to tackle a paying job. Though when the healing would begin, I had no idea. Maybe never. So for now at least, redoing Surfside Condominiums was keeping me sane.
Treasure peered over my shoulder, taking peeks at my foyer. I opened the door a bit more to make it easier for her.
“Would you like to come in?” I hadn’t had a single visitor since I’d moved to Naples three months earlier, and the silence was getting deafening.
“Jeez. I thought you’d never ask.”
I smiled and stepped aside. She strutted in, sank onto my couch and crossed her legs. The miniskirt rode up to the top of her thighs.
I pressed my lips together, sat on a club chair and kept my eyes north of her skirt hem. She pointed a finger at my Irish hunt board. “Old stuff like this is so cool, but it doesn’t add up to guy space.” She twirled a strand of long black hair around the same finger and eyed me inquisitively. “Any men in your life?”
I gulped and shook my head, sorry I’d invited her in. Questions about my love life were like drive-by bullets. I had no defense against them. Moisture welled under my lids. I clenched my jaw and jutted out my chin. No way would I let the tears flow. “Not anymore.”
“Oh, dear. Was it the Big D?”
Unable to speak, I nodded. Who was this woman, anyway? Asking me hurtful questions five minutes after we met.
“Divorce is hell,” she went on. “When I broke up with my significant other, I thought he’d commit suicide. But a girl’s gotta do what a girl’s gotta do.”
I cleared my throat. “I haven’t been divorced.”
“But you broke up—”
“My husband died. Eight months and five days ago.”
“Oh, I’m so sorry.” She sounded as if she really meant it.
“I am, too.” Sorrier than I could possibly express. Death was the real breakup from hell, but I would not, I would not cry.
She flicked a hand. “Honey, I’m sure you’ll find somebody else to love someday. A doll like you with curly red hair and big hazel eyes.”
All I wanted, all I had ever wanted, was Jack. But her face was brimming with sympathy, and though she’d probed my wound and drawn blood, she was trying to comfort me. I couldn’t hate her for that.
She looked around my peach and taupe living room. “You know, these peach walls are great with your coloring, but…” One of her long nails tapped her chin.
Snapping into designer mode, I added, “You wouldn’t be happy with this look. Your personality calls for something different.” I was relieved to change the subject. At least I was good at designing if not at holding on to the love of my life.
She laughed. “Yeah, different sounds about right. I sure am different.”
Intrigued, I pressed on. “So what do you have in mind?”
“You ready for this?” She leaned forward. “I want an Old Hollywood look. Glamorous, all white and ivory, with a few silver screen touches. Like any minute Bogart could step out of the bedroom.”
“Hollywood?” I hadn’t done anything remotely like a Tinseltown look before, and a spurt of interest welled up, catching me off guard. It had been months since a creative spark ignited my imagination. It felt good. Damn good. “Could be fun,” I admitted.
“Yeah. I want everything clean. You know, pure looking.” She hesitated a moment then blurted out, “You probably would never guess, but I used to be an exotic dancer.”
“No kidding? You don’t look it,” I lied. Actually, she looked flamboyant enough to set a stage on fire.
“Well, before I left showbiz for good, I changed my act. Got rid of the python I used to dance with.” She brushed a speck of dust off her low-cut top. “You know, classed things up. Now I want to forget that life. Start over with a brand-new look. All white. Clean, cold and fresh.”
“You don’t mean everywhere? On everything?”
“Yeah,
I tested the waters. “How about colored movie posters?”
She wrinkled her nose. “No.”
“Patterned accent rugs?”
“No.”
“Pastel throw pillows?” I was grasping at straws here.
“No.”
I resisted the urge to smile. “You’re one stubborn lady.”
She smoothed her skirt an inch closer to her knees. “So guys have told me.”
As an interior designer, I was part taste-setter, part psychologist and part color theorist. And according to the principles of color theory, what Treasure wanted was a return to innocence. Maybe even to virginity. I blew out a breath. No telling how far back that would go.
One thing for certain, her insistence on pure white was too extreme to be accidental. As we chatted over iced tea, she told me what she had in mind. “White walls and trim, the palest retro shag rug you can find, white silk couches. Ditto for the flowers. I like oleander. Orchids, too. Oh, and white candles on all the glass tables. What do you think?” she asked, noisily sucking up the last of her tea through a straw.
“It sounds overwhelming. On a hot, sunny day, the place will be blinding. And how many days in Florida aren’t sunny?”
“I don’t care how light it gets. That’s the look I’m after.”
Why not? Pleasing the client was the name of the game, and as Treasure revealed her plans for her new home, she looked so happy and excited I caved in then and there. Life ought to be happy, and if I could make hers sing in white, why resist for the sake of some design standard she wouldn’t give two cents for? Besides, with her showbiz looks, she’d be the focal point of every pale room.
“Okay, let’s go for it,” I said, plunging in. “Pure white will set you off beautifully. You’ll be the center of attention.” And not incidentally, I’d have a paying job for the first time in months, and a reason to get up in the morning.
“You’ve caught it, Deva! It’ll be like a movie set.” She swept her arms wide and treated me to a giant I’ve-just-been-discovered smile. “That’s my goal. To be a star for the rest of my life, and you’ll be the star maker. The Cecil B. DeMille of Surfside Condominiums.”
I sipped my tea and looked at Jack’s picture framed on the wall.
Hey, Jack, I’m going into showbiz.
What a hoot. I caught myself laughing for the first time all year. And this was August.
Chapter Two
With most of the rehab complete and the basics in place, Treasure was eager to move into Surfside. The morning before she took up residence, I did a final tour of her condo.
To keep the place from looking like a blizzard had hit it, I’d turned to textures. Satin pillows on chenille sofas, chevron-patterned fabric on the dining room chairs, loopy carpeting. Using contrast in place of color worked. Sleek and sophisticated, the monotone scheme delivered what Treasure had asked for. White.
I hoped she’d love and enjoy it. That was the whole point of interior design, after all.
I placed the white orchid I’d brought as a housewarming gift on the coffee table. The Florida sun, the biggest, brightest klieg light ever, poured into the living room, bouncing off walls and windows and glass tabletops, illuminating the place into a virtual movie set. Eyes aching from the glare, I went to close the shutters then stopped, frozen in my tracks.
What were those rust-colored spots doing on the new carpeting? They messed up my perfect room, and they sure hadn’t been there yesterday. I bent over for a closer look and straightened up fast. They looked like blood. What had happened? Had Treasure had an accident? Cut her foot, maybe?
“Treasure!” I called. No answer.
I’d have to find a cleaning cloth and try to rub out the spots. But first, I’d make sure Treasure wasn’t in the condo. I yanked the key out of the lock, dropped it in my shorts pocket and closed the front door.
Ignoring the knot in my stomach, I kept my eyes on the stains, following them out of the living room and down the narrow hall. The odor of fresh paint still lingered in the air. And something else. Something nasty. It made me want to retch.
I told myself to get a grip and tiptoed into the master suite. The king-sized bed, draped with bridal gown satin, glowed in the morning light, a shimmering invitation to lie down and be seduced. Exactly what Treasure had in mind.
“You home?” I called, but the way my pulse thudded in my ears, I couldn’t have heard an answer anyway. I rounded the bed, keeping my gaze focused on the carpet. Judging from the color, the spots were dry, though I refused to give them the touch test.
That had to be some cut on Treasure’s foot. I hoped she was all right. The stiletto sandals she loved didn’t offer her toes a bit of protection. And what about that odor? The farther in I went, the worse it became, as if someone had befouled himself.
I crept past the mirrored closets I’d chosen for their glamour. Goose bumps erupted on my skin, and an urge to turn around and run gripped me. But the stains continued, luring me on. A few blood drops shouldn’t make my hands shake and my pulse thunder, so why did I feel like I was in a scary movie? It had to be that odor. A plumbing problem, no doubt. I approached the bathroom door. Mirrored to match the closets, it threw back my image—a pale face with scared eyes, chewed-off lip gloss and frizzy red hair.
I swallowed and my hand trembled on the knob. I paused for a second, but waiting did no good. I had to know. I grabbed the knob and flung the door wide.
Omigod. I staggered back, searching for something, anything, to look at except the only sight that mattered—Treasure slumped naked in the bathtub, her neck bruised purple, her head flopping on her chest like a rag doll’s.
A scream pierced the air—my own? Yes. I lurched out of the bathroom, raced through the condo and threw open the front door. I catapulted out and slammed into something hard. Steel hands clamped onto my shoulders. A scream wedged in my throat, and I shoved, trying to pull free.
A man. Oh, God. The killer.
I thrashed, but his fingers bit deeper into my arms. I kicked and flailed, and he gave me a jerk. “For God’s sake, lady, what’s wrong?”
He pushed me from his chest, holding me at arm’s length. “What’s the matter?” Then he shook me. The jolt caught me midscream, and I looked into his eyes. They were full of questions. He really wanted to know. My terror eased, and the scream died away.
“Treasure’s gone,” I wailed. “Oh God, Treasure.”
My knees wobbled, and my legs turned to mush. I sagged in his arms. Without a word, he gently lowered me to the stone walkway that ran the length of the third floor landing.
“Treasure,” I moaned, leaning against the wrought iron railing, the ghastly bathtub scene floating before my eyes more real than the stranger crouched in front of me.
“You’ve been robbed?” He thrust his chin out, indicating the open door of 301. “In there?”
“Not robbed. Murdered.”
“What?” His startled glance swung back to me. “What do you mean?”
I pointed at Treasure’s door. “There’s a dead woman in there.” A sob tore from my throat.
“A dead woman?” After peering at Treasure’s open door for a moment, he disappeared inside, leaving me sprawled against the railing.
A floor below, the ear-shattering squeal of Dick Parker’s electric saw sliced the air. With all that noise, no wonder he hadn’t had rushed up to find out why I’d been yelling my head off.
Maybe I should have leaped to my feet and kept on running, but I couldn’t summon the energy to move. Besides, there wasn’t time. The man I’d rammed into returned looking as if he’d been struck with a plank.
“We need to call the police.” He closed the door to Treasure’s condo and opened the one next to it. His place? He bent down, pulling me up by both hands. Cold sweat coated his palms as he half led, half carried, me inside.
“Leave the door open,” I said.
He arched an eyebrow but did as I asked. After depositing me in an oversized brown leather chair, he dialed 911.
“I want to report a murder,” he said, his face ashen but his voice steady, almost detached. He gave his name, Simon Yaeger, and the address before asking me, “What’s your name?”
“Devalera Dunne.”
“Like the Irish politician?”
