Designed for Death, page 11
“No more Foxy Lady, Deva. I mean it.”
“Don’t tell me what to do, Chip. I go where I want to go. Got that?”
The line went silent, then, “What’s the attraction, anyway? You’re not gay, are you?” From his suddenly bated breath, I could tell he really wanted to know.
“Chip, you’re such a—”
“You’re not, are you?”
“That’s none of your business.”
“Jeez, I never figured you for—”
“Oh, for God’s sake, Chip, cut it out.”
I slammed down the receiver but a moment later regretted it. Chip had actually sounded worried. And he did have reason to be upset with AudreyAnn. Last night must have added fuel to the fire. Maybe I’d been wrong to insist she join me, but I’d needed her along for moral support. Well, for support anyway. Still shivering, I tromped bare-legged to my bedroom and without a second’s hesitation yanked open the closet door. I surprised myself. My nerve must be returning. I hadn’t checked under my bed in the past twenty-four hours, either.
After a little searching, I found my favorite uglies, a pair of old gray sweats, rolled up on a shelf. In Boston they’d kept me warm on many a bitter cold run. They’d be perfect for this sullen misery of a day. I pulled them on, enjoying the familiar, soft fabric sliding over my skin. I finger-combed my hair, brushed my teeth and splashed water on my face. That ought to do it. No visitors would be venturing out in weather like this. I went back to the kitchen and downed a cup of coffee. Utilizing the energy spurt caffeine always gives me, I punched in Rossi’s cell phone number. He answered on the first ring.
Forgetting the frills, I plunged right in. No “Good afternoon, Lieutenant. How are you today, Lieutenant?” I knew how he was. Irascible. And clever. He’d outfoxed me into having a blood test I didn’t need, urged me to relive Jack’s death and coaxed me into spilling my guts about everybody I knew. But this time I had no choice. I had to tell him what Fayette had revealed—no holding back. My life could be at stake. “We need to talk, Lieutenant. I found out something last night. Something serious.”
A pause. “Then talk. This line is secure.”
Over the phone? It was impersonal, so cold, so not what I wanted to do that I hesitated.
A heavy, exhaled breath came wafting over the line. “I’m a busy man, Mrs. D. If you have something to tell me of relevance to the case, please do so or hang up.”
To think I’d thought this guy was hitting on me. Wrong.
“I went to the Foxy Lady last night.”
“Not a good idea.” His tone was as lethal as gunfire.
“Actually it was a good idea. I found out my life might be in danger.”
“I’ve been trying to hammer that home to you since the day your neighbor was killed.”
“This is different.” As if someone had stolen into the condo, I looked over my shoulder before continuing. “I learned that Fayette LaBelle, Treasure’s friend—”
“I know who LaBelle is.”
“…was assaulted in the club’s parking lot. At gunpoint. I think there could be a connection between the assault and the murder.”
“Oh, you do?” Ice dripped off his voice.
Condescending jerk. If I’d been a teen, I would’ve told him his attitude sucked. Fighting to keep my tone pleasant and conciliatory, instead of giving in to the urge to shriek like a banshee, I said, “I can’t be sure, of course, but the assailant told Fayette to stay away from the widow. I’m not the only widow in the world…it’s a long shot…but since Treasure knew me and now Fayette does, I thought you should know,” I finished lamely.
“I’ll check it out.” He didn’t have to say any more. I got the picture. My information was unimportant, my call annoying. His attitude did suck.
“Fayette hasn’t told anyone else about the assault,” I added. “If you can prevent him from learning I snitched on him, I’d appreciate it.” No answer. Irritated beyond belief, but keeping a smile in my voice to prevent a nasty retort from slipping out, I added, “We’re really good friends.” Let Rossi stew on that one.
The pause extended for a couple of weeks. “I’ll do my best to keep your secret,” he finally said. “From here on, stay away from that lounge. It’s not healthy. I thought I told you that already. Keep your doors locked.”
Click.
I put down the phone and stared at it for a moment. Rossi obviously considered my calls interference and kept them insultingly short. I hadn’t even had a chance to tell him about the gun. Well, I sure wasn’t going to call back. Besides, Fayette had wiped it clean. No clues there.
Irascible though he might be, Rossi was nothing if not thorough. He was probably speeding his way to the lounge right now, splashing through water up to his hub caps. One thing for certain, his mood had darkened since the night we went cruising for burgers.
Had Treasure’s murder delayed his Hawaiian honeymoon? He’d be a difficult husband, but his girlfriend must know that and love him anyway. He wasn’t a bad guy, just abrupt. Just abrasive. Just impossible.
Da da da DA.
A visitor in this monsoon? I peeked through the plantations and groaned. Simon again, in a yellow slicker with the hood up, his chinos wet to the knees.
Without opening the door, I yelled over the rattle of the storm. “Why are you out in this weather?”
“I had to go to work this morning,” he yelled back. “Had a court date.” Water poured off his hood, sluicing onto his shoulders. “I was worried about you last night. Where were you?”
“Go away,” I ordered. The nerve of these guys monitoring my every move.
“I’m cold. Got any coffee?”
“Have your wife make you coffee.”
“We need to talk.”
“About your condo, yes.”
“Do you always conduct business behind closed doors?”
A challenge. Telling myself I was a fool, nevertheless I rose to the bait, unlocked the door and let him in. A gust of wind whooshed in with him, so strong it took both of us to force the door closed. Some non-hurricane.
Simon shot the dead bolt, slamming it home with a thud, sealing us off from everyone and everything. Not good. My heart lurched into a South American dance I couldn’t name at that moment if my life depended upon it.
He must have caught a whiff of my fear. “The dead bolt’ll keep the wind from whipping the door open.”
If anything, my heart’s tempo increased. Either I was locked in with Treasure’s killer or with a married client who definitely was hitting on me. None too happy with either option, I snatched the cell phone from the coffee table and dialed Marilyn’s number. As soon as she answered, I said, “Deva here, Marilyn. Let’s cancel for today. I’ll call you back later. Simon Yaeger just came in.” I flipped the phone shut and put it down.
“Was that necessary?” Sarcasm dripped from Simon’s voice like the water off his slicker. He slipped out of his sodden loafers and draped the slicker over the Victorian coat rack in the foyer, where it made puddles on the tiles. “If I wanted to kill you, I would have done the dirty deed already.”
Scarily true, so I changed the subject. “Your pants are wet.” Damn. I regretted those words as soon as they left my mouth.
He looked down at his soaked chinos then up at me with a grin I wanted to wipe off his face. “I should take them off and let them dry in front of the fireplace.”
“I don’t have a fireplace,”
“I’m beginning to think that’s true.” His grin widened.
Refusing to be baited again, I did an about-face for the kitchen.
He followed in his stocking feet, leaned against the counter near the stove and sniffed the air. “My timing’s great. You just made coffee.”
I took a mug out of the cupboard and clunked it on the counter. “We’ll begin with your kitchen. Resurface the cabinets and countertops first. Replace the sink and faucet. Then retile the floor. Leave the paint for last. Once the kitchen’s in shape, we can start on the living room.”
I opened the refrigerator, took out a carton of low-fat cream and poured it into my favorite cow pitcher. I clunked that down, too, my every move an attempt to make him understand this was a business meeting, nothing more.
“Organize the work any way you wish,” Simon said, sounding exasperated. “I didn’t ring those confounded chimes of yours to talk about the condo.” He paused. “I want to talk about us.”
“Us?” To my disgust, my voice came out in a squeak. I swallowed. “There is no us.”
“There could be.” He ignored the mug at his elbow and, with a couple of steps, closed the space between us. Cupping his hands around my shoulders, he looked into my eyes with an intense gaze I’d encountered in only one other man in my life.
You, Jack.
I refused to melt. I wanted to stay angry with him, dammit. With my frizzy red hair and freckles, I could never measure up to that stunning brunette who wouldn’t be caught dead in old gray sweats. That stunning brunette who called herself Mrs. Yaeger.
“We’ll replace the countertops with granite. The color of the flecks will be important… Put in a double stainless sink and a Moen laboratory faucet. They’re a bit pricey, but they look sharp. The cabinet fronts just need a face lift, not a total re—”
“Do you know why I’m here, Deva? Here in Naples?” His grip on my shoulders tightened.
I shook my head. “Haven’t a clue.”
“Why I gave up an eight-thousand-square-foot house facing the gulf? A senior partnership in a major law firm? A Ferrari convertible?”
My mouth hanging open—I’m sure becomingly—I just stared at him.
“Do you?” he demanded.
I shook my head again.
“To live in a shabby condo no amount of rehabbing will make as gorgeous as the house I left? Or why I walked away from gold-plated—no, make that platinum-plated—clients to start over again with a new firm? And the Ferrari? Why, in the name of God, would a man leave a Ferrari? With red leather seats yet?”
“Is this a quiz?”
“No. I’m going to give you the answers.” His hands slid down my arms, stroking them, holding me close, leaving me no choice but to look up into his eyes. “To rebuild my life. To put distance between me and a woman who in thirty days…thirty…more…days…will be my ex-wife.”
“Oh.” So Simon was the dumper; she was the dumpee, not the other way around. Could I believe him?
His glance, as he looked at me, was warm. I wasn’t sure his knees were, though, in those wet pants. But the thought fled as he bent forward, bringing his lips kissing-close to mine. In self-defense, or stupidity, I wasn’t sure which, I wriggled out of his embrace and picked up the coffeepot. “Another cup?”
He paused. Clearly his mind wasn’t on coffee, but after a moment, he sat at the table, pointed to his full cup and shook his head.
I filled my own mug and sat across from him. “Tell me what happened to your marriage. If you want to,” I added hastily. I hoped he did. I was dying to hear what had gone wrong.
“It’s simple enough. Cynthia became bored.” He shrugged. “With me. With marriage. With life in general.” His smile before he sipped at his coffee was rueful. “I’ve come to realize there isn’t a man in the world who could satisfy her needs. They’re insatiable. For money, for kicks, for admiration. Unfortunately, I didn’t understand that soon enough. The packaging had me fooled.” He looked into his coffee as if he were peering down a bottomless well. “So I’m part of the failure.”
If his confession had revealed Cynthia’s flaws, it had done the same for his own. In that moment, I admired him totally. “Would you like some eggs?”
“As breakfast? Or an aphrodisiac?” He attempted to stifle a laugh. “I could use some breakfast.”
To hide my confusion, I bent down to take a Calphalon fry pan from the storage drawer under the oven. I plunked it on the stove top. “Scrambled? Or sunny side up?”
“Surprise me. It’ll be a unique experience. Cynthia wasn’t into breakfast.”
“Lunch,” I said after a glance at the wall clock. “It’s after one.” An omelet, I decided. “Ham and cheese okay?”
“Great. Cynthia wasn’t into lunch either.”
So I came out on top in the kitchen department. Terrific. “She’s very beautiful.” I stole a glance at him as I cracked eggs into a bowl.
With the mug halfway to his lips, he said, “I used to think so. I met her at a friend’s wedding. She outshone the bride. I couldn’t keep my eyes off her.”
I stopped beating the eggs and added a little milk. “Men are so visual.”
“’Fraid so.” He sent a lopsided smile my way.
“So why do they choose homely brown couches?”
“Obviously their visual filters are unreliable…in more ways than one. Now it’s your turn. Tell me about your husband. How did you meet?”
Someone else who wanted to know. I tossed a handful of ham cubes and Gruyere in with the eggs and gulped a lungful of air. I couldn’t go through life too wounded to talk about Jack, so with a sigh, I said, “We met when I was a junior in college…Boston University… I took his European history course. It was a requirement, and I expected to be bored, but that never happened. The minute he began to speak, I fell in love. He was tall and tweedy, always badly dressed, always witty. His eyes would take on a special shine when he lectured. He loved his subject and brought it to life…me, too.
“After a few weeks of sitting spellbound in the front row, I worked up the courage to ask him out for coffee. Oh, I had my excuse ready…something I didn’t understand about some battle or other…but he wasn’t fooled. I remember the exact way he refused me.
“‘Sure now, Kennedy’—he always called his female students by their last names…it kept them at an emotional distance, he told me later—well, anyway, he said, ‘Sure now, Kennedy, I’ll be happy to answer your questions, but I’ll not drink your coffee.’
“I started to protest, ‘But I thought—’
“‘I know what you thought. Haven’t I been reading those thoughts in your eyes all these weeks past?’
“I told him he was wrong, that he had some nerve. I wasted my breath.
“‘Kennedy,’ he said, ‘I never fraternize with my students. ’Tis my basic rule of behavior.’
“Naturally, I was embarrassed to death, but I pretended otherwise. ‘Oh really, Professor Dunne,’ I said. ‘Well here’s my rule. I never give up.’
“I remember scribbling my telephone number in my notebook, ripping out the page and handing it to him. Then I flounced out of the classroom, and for the rest of the semester, I sat in the back row and didn’t speak to him again. I didn’t take another course with him, either, and he didn’t call. I ached for a year and a half.”
Like a good listener, Simon hadn’t said a word as I ground out my tale and watched a pat of butter melt in the fry pan. I poured in the eggs and dropped two pieces of whole wheat bread in the toaster.
“The night I graduated, Dad called me to the phone. A Professor Jack Dunne wanted to speak to me. He invited me out for coffee, and the rest, as they say, is history.”
“A hard man.”
“A principled one.”
“He could have lost you in that year and a half.”
I shook my head. “No, we were meant to be. He told me he never had a moment’s doubt that we were destined for each other. I expected to love him for a lifetime, but—” the toast popped up, startling the tears out of my eyes, “—I lost him.”
In the next instant, Simon was behind me, his arms around my waist, his voice low in my ear. “Love is never lost, Deva. You keep finding it in the most unexpected places.”
He was trying to comfort me, and to please him, I nodded. But in sweats and no makeup, which meant countable freckles, my hair tossed any old which way, I didn’t compare to the perfectly turned out Cynthia who had strolled so elegantly to the elevator. I stared at the eggs as though they were a hit TV show. Come to think of it, a Prada handbag was all she’d carried, no luggage whatsoever. Bored? Cynthia? Ah. I turned to face him.
“So Cynthia got bored with your marriage?”
He nodded, instantly wary.
“Is she still upstairs?” Frost coated my voice.
He didn’t want to answer. I could see denial spring into his eyes, but he said, “The weather has her trapped. You want me to throw her out in this storm?”
“It wasn’t raining yesterday. Or last night.” I reached for my coffee, but it would have choked me, so I left it in the mug to chill.
“Deva, it’s over. She’s here to try and squeeze more out of the settlement, using every trick in the book, but enough’s enough. I’m finished with her and her demands.”
“She’s still in love with you?”
For some reason, he thought that was funny. Crinkles of humor started up around his eyes. “She’s in love with herself. And with what I provide. It’s finally dawned on her that the golden goose will stop—”
“Laying?”
The crinkles deepened. “That’s not exactly what I have in mind, but I think we’re on the same page.”
I wanted to believe him, to trust that the sincerity in his eyes and his voice was real, that he regretted his failed marriage, was ready to put it behind him, to walk away sadder but wiser. But I couldn’t, not as long as that woman was upstairs working her magic, purring her commands. Sleeping in his bed?
The omelet, its melted Gruyere studded with pink ham cubes, had cooked to golden perfection, ready to be folded and slid onto a platter. It smelled heavenly, reminding me I hadn’t eaten a thing since last night. Ignoring the growling of my stomach and Simon’s smile of anticipation, I yanked the pan off the stove, turned it upside down over the trash can and dumped out the whole production—eggs, ham, cheese and all.
With my hands on my hips, the empty fry pan thrust out like a weapon, I said, “Get your wife to cook your damned eggs. And get her to redo your condo. I quit! Now get out of my house. Right now. Out!” A demented musketeer, I waved the pan like a sword. “Get out!”
