Designed for Death, page 7
“The lab’s in the Collier Government Center. Corner of Airport and 41 East.”
“I’m hanging up.”
“If you do, I’ll issue a warrant.”
“I have one thing to say to that, Rossi. Shove your warrant.”
I hung up, my hands shaking so bad it took three tries before I got the receiver onto the cradle. Wrapping my legs around the stool so I wouldn’t fall off, I told myself I had nothing to worry about, the blood wasn’t mine. But the message didn’t get to my hands. They hovered in the air, trembling like a pair of hummingbirds.
I’m scared, Jack. Suppose they take a blood sample and mess up? Peg me for the killer?
Then common sense kicked in. Mistakes like that only happened in thriller movies. Besides, I had no intention of having the test. I eased off the stool and went in the bedroom to strip off my swimsuit.
Tossing the Speedo on the bed, I padded into the bathroom and stared at my worried-looking face in the mirror. What if Marilyn’s mystery woman had been meeting Dick in Treasure’s empty condo? As property manager, he kept a lockbox with a key to every unit. Marilyn said this time he’d gone too far. Maybe she meant the opposite—too close. Right in his own backyard, right in Surfside. And what if the blood drops had been left by that woman? Or by Dick?
Feeling a tad like Lady Macbeth, I showered yet again, toweled dry and opted for a pair of moss-green slacks, a matching silk shirt and high-heeled slides. A little gel settled my hair, and a little lip gloss and blush brightened my pale face. I topped things off with a spritz of Chanel.
Da da da DA.
I peeked through the shutter slats. Rossi stood outside, smoldering in the sun. I could pretend I wasn’t home, but why bother? I opened the door and stood blocking the entrance. No way was I letting him barge in like he had every right to.
“What a surprise, Lieutenant.”
“Mrs. Dunne, you shouldn’t have done that.”
“Done what?”
He owl-eyed me without answering. “I’ll drive you there.”
“Where?”
“Look, I don’t want to play this game. We’re trying to eliminate you as a suspect, not incriminate you.”
“How do I know that?”
“Because I’m telling you. So either you go quietly or we turn this into World War Three.”
“You mean you don’t have a warrant.”
“I’m counting on your cooperation.”
“Ha! We’ll see what my lawyer says about that.”
He stared at me for a moment, as if weighing something in his mind, then said, “The blood on the carpet came from a woman.” Before I could blurt out a question, he added, “Someone other than the victim.”
“Oh. My. God. A woman killed Treasure?”
“I didn’t say that.”
My voice collapsed into a whisper. “Do you think I killed her?”
“If the blood’s not yours, you’ve got nothing to worry about.”
“Of course it’s not mine.”
“The lab’s open till four.”
I could feel the heat drain from my face. That always makes my freckles stand out like polka dots. They must have told him I was scared stiff.
“Get your bag,” he ordered. “I’ll drive you there.”
Scared or not, I found his cocksure attitude tough to take. “Am I under arrest?”
He shook his head. “No. The test is routine procedure.”
“Then I’ll drive myself.” I sounded defiant, but at the sight of Rossi’s smile, I knew he had won this round.
As he turned on his heel and stalked off, one of his signature Hawaiian shirts—yellow palm fronds today—flapping over his pants, the living room phone came alive. I snatched it up.
“Do I get a second chance?”
No preamble, no name, as if Simon knew I’d be sure to recognize him right off, which I did. Unlike last night, today his deep, resonant voice held something extra, a hint of humor. I liked that. I liked it a lot. Jack always had a note of mischief lurking in his voice. It was a delightful quality. I missed it, and right now I sure could use a laugh.
My knees wobbled a bit. In case they gave way, I plunked down on the edge of the sofa.
“Who is this?” I asked.
“The guy with the ugly condo.”
“Oh, it’s not so bad. You already have two important essentials.”
“I do?” He sounded disappointed.
“Yes. A place to put your drink down and your feet up.”
He rewarded me with a chuckle. “The place looks like a motel room. We need to work on it.”
The we wasn’t lost on me. Or the reference to a motel room. “I’ve sketched some ideas for you to look at.”
“Great. Just what I hoped you’d say. St. George at seven?”
True, I liked his voice, but Rossi’s warning popped up out of the blue. Don’t trust anyone. Planning to drive to the Foxy Lady with Simon last night had been foolhardy, a mistake I wouldn’t repeat.
I let a pregnant pause linger before saying, “St. George is fine. I’ll meet you there at seven.”
For the second time in one day, I hung up first. A good feeling, the power position. But the elation didn’t last long. Who was I kidding? I had to get to the Government Center and let a vampire suck out a vial of my blood.
Chapter Nine
“Were you afraid to drive with me?” Simon asked.
Seated across from him at one of St. George’s intimate little tables, I pinned him with a wide-eyed, I-don’t-know-what-you-mean stare. “No. I go to business meetings alone.”
His conspiratorial smile signaled he could keep up the charade that this wasn’t a date or drop it. But I wasn’t ready to concede a thing.
I rested my portfolio and purse next to my chair and glanced around the dimly lit room. Recessed lights picked out marine antiques artfully set against teak paneling—ships’ figureheads, wheels, compasses, binnacles—still, St. George was one dark restaurant, so reminiscent of Boston on a frigid night, I shivered.
“Quite the atmosphere,” I said as our server, a middle-aged woman in no-nonsense black slacks and starched white shirt, left after taking our drink orders, a Ketel One martini for Simon, a house Chardonnay for me.
“Well, it’s dark, anyway.” He laughed.
The tiny oil lamp in the center of the table cast interesting shadows onto his face, sculpting its planes, emphasizing his cheekbones. He caught me staring at him and pushed the lamp closer to me. My turn to cast interesting shadows across the table. I hoped my face was up to it.
“Tell me something,” he said, scrutinizing me in the lamp light.
I eyed him warily. Someone else who wanted to know all about Jack? “If I can. What do you want to know?”
“The story of your life.”
I laughed. “As lines go, that one rates an A plus.”
This was supposed to be a business meeting. I was about to bring that up when our drinks came. We clinked, and he said, “I mean it. Tell me about yourself. Why interior design, for instance?”
I gave a mental shrug. Okay, he’d asked and I’d be talking business after all. Sort of.
Between sips I said, “My mother died when I was eight years old. I think my career started then, trying to make my father happy. He was a cop, one of Boston’s finest. My grandmother lived next door to us in Dorchester and taught me how to cook for him. Simple things at first. Scrambled eggs, pancakes, grilled cheese sandwiches.”
“You must have been an adorable little girl. All that curly red hair and those…”
I narrowed my eyes to slits. “Those what? Freckles?”
“What I said was you must have been adorable.” He leaned over the table, his dark eyes gleaming. “You still are.”
“Slick, Simon, very slick.” I pretended to frown, but comments about my freckles were nothing new. I’d been fielding them forever. “I must remember you’re an attorney.”
“Is that so? Well, in my lawyerly magnanimity, I’ll overlook the slur.” He took a sip of his martini. “Go on, I’m listening.”
His eyes focused on me as if there were no one else in the room. The attention made me self-conscious, and I hesitated.
“Go on,” he prodded.
“You’re sure? I don’t want to bore you or anything.”
“You couldn’t if you tried.” Another great line. He smiled and cocked an eyebrow.
I wasn’t comfortable talking about myself this way, but he looked like he wanted to know what I had to say. Either he really did, or this was an Oscar performance.
“Anyway,” I continued, “before Dad got home from work, I’d pick up my toys and fold the Globe by his chair, bring in flowers from the yard, put them in jelly jars. You know, kid stuff, anything to see him smile.”
“Sounds sad.”
“At first, but gradually we both healed, and making a home for my dad became second nature to me.”
Simon reached across the table to take my hands. At his warm touch, my pulse revved into overdrive. Good lord, we were only holding hands. Was I really that needy?
I slipped my fingers out from under his and took a steadying sip of wine. “At BU I majored in art history and, for a lark, took an interior design course. I loved it. The way politics and the media and social upheavals influence how we live fascinated me. Take Empire furniture, for example.”
“Okay.” His expression told me he could take it or leave it but that he was interested in me.
“All those symbols of ancient Egypt you see in Empire design? Napoleon used them to reinforce his power. The asp, the imperial bees, the pharaoh chairs, even women’s thin, body-clinging dresses. On an everyday level, they kept people aware that his empire was as great as any in history.” Napoleon must have been fascinating; Simon’s eyes never left my lips as I spoke.
“Or take the 1930s. Why did abstract art explode on the world scene? Because western civilization was in chaos. Makes sense, doesn’t it? Anyway, when I understood that interior design didn’t exist in a vacuum, I was hooked. Still am.” I twirled the stem of my glass. “It all began making pancakes for my dad.” I pushed the oil lamp closer to him. “Your turn.”
“I think we both grew up trying to please our fathers.” He stared into his drink as if his whole childhood floated in it. “My dad was an attorney. From the time I was a kid, I knew I’d be a lawyer one day. That’s all the old boy ever had in mind for me. Anything else would have sent him into frenzy. For a while at Vanderbilt, I toyed with the idea of switching to medicine. Even took a few premed courses. To spite him, I guess. I got over that fast.” He flashed a sheepish smile. “I don’t tell everyone this but…I hate the sight of blood.”
“Me, too.”
“No. I mean I really hate the sight of blood. Faint dead away.”
“Good thing I don’t… I had a blood test this afternoon.”
He reared back in his seat, eyes widening. “Is there a problem? Are you ill?”
“Yes and no. I’m being eliminated as a suspect.”
Simon snorted. “You? A suspect? That’s ridiculous. The police are following standard procedure, that’s all. You found the body. It’s logical they’d start with you. Once they know the blood on the carpet’s not yours, they’ll test the other residents in the building. I could be next.”
No, most likely Marilyn or AudreyAnn would be next. But I couldn’t tell him that. Rossi had spoken to me in confidence, and now, much as I disliked the idea, I needed to get back to him with Marilyn’s bombshell about Dick’s mystery woman. As for AudreyAnn, I didn’t think her fights with Chip warranted repeating.
Our server, pencil and pad in hand, returned to take our orders. Another note taker. They were everywhere. I asked for grilled snapper and a green salad. Simon ordered the same. No rare steaks oozing blood onto the plates for either of us.
“I’m looking forward to seeing your sketches,” Simon said as soon as we were alone again.
“You won’t be able to. Not in here.” We could have used a flashlight to read the menus. I had to smile. St. George was dark enough to qualify as a trysting spot, but the tables all around us had filled up with elderly retirees. What a hoot! I loved the place. Why not a seductive décor for old married lovers?
Ah, Jack.
“After dinner, why don’t you bring the sketches to my place? Do a walk-through at the same time.” Hoisting his eyebrows into a question, Simon leaned back in his chair and let the suggestion float in the air between us.
Trust no one, Rossi had said. I knew I shouldn’t. But Simon hated the sight of blood, hadn’t even ordered one of St. George’s famous Delmonicos. That had to count for something. Murderers didn’t faint at the sight of blood, did they? Besides, I wanted him to see the sketches.
“All right.” I reached into my purse. “I’ll call Lieutenant Rossi. Postpone tonight’s meeting.” We had no meeting scheduled, but telling Rossi I was with Simon would be an insurance policy of sorts.
I dialed Rossi’s number. When a canned voice answered, I apologized for forgetting I had an appointment at Simon Yaeger’s condo. “Can we reschedule, Lieutenant?” I asked, hanging up fast but leaving the phone on.
I glanced over at Simon. Busy fishing the olive out of his martini glass, he seemed not to have noticed I’d been talking to an answering machine. Or had he?
He polished off his drink. A killer smile played about his lips. “Don’t worry, Deva,” he said. “You have nothing to fear. I’ve never strangled a woman in my life.”
Simon snapped on his living room lamps, sending pools of light cascading over the brown carpet, the brown couch, the brown chairs, the brown coffee table. I half expected a UPS delivery man to jump out of the woodwork.
I stifled a sigh.
He must have caught my expression. “Earth tones,” he said with a laugh.
He strolled through the condo, flipping on lights. I followed him from room to room. The hideous duvet still covered his bed. Both bathrooms were papered in a Disney fish print, the kitchen in dancing tea cups. Where the brown rug left off, chipped beige tiles took over. I had my work cut out for me.
While Simon brewed a pot of Starbucks Special Blend, I swept the coffee table clutter to one side, opened my portfolio and removed a rendering of the living room, a long view from the foyer out to the lanai. Then, tensing as though I had another blood test to pass, I waited on the couch for Simon’s opinion.
He came in with two steaming mugs, sat beside me and put the mugs on the far edge of the coffee table out of harm’s way.
I handed him the first drawing. He smiled. “How did you know blue’s my favorite color?”
“It’s turquoise, actually.”
“Oh, right. I like it.” He pointed with an index finger. “Is that this couch? We’re keeping it?”
We. “If you like. I try to work around the client’s possessions. Designers don’t always sweep like Grant through Richmond.”
“Thoughtful. The floor-to-ceiling shutters are great. And you’ve got pillows in here and fake trees.” He studied the drawing some more. “What about the flooring?”
“White tiles would be ideal, but I wasn’t sure how far you wanted to go.”
He put down the sketch and smiled. “All the way.”
Instantly, my cheeks heated up, dammit. I hate when that happens. It turns my freckles Technicolor.
If he noticed, he didn’t let on. “What about the master bedroom?”
“What about it?”
“Well, I thought we were going to redo the whole condo.”
“Oh. Right. The bedroom.” I picked up another rendering. What was wrong with me, anyway?
In the master suite, I’d saturated the wall behind the king-sized bed with a deeper version of the living room’s turquoise. The other three walls were white, with white plantation shutters at the windows.
“I thought you’d prefer not to fuss with draperies, and that duvet? It really should go. A muted plaid would be good in there, in the right shades.”
He ignored his coffee and hung onto my every word. Encouraged, I picked up another sketch. “For the kitchen, a clean look.”
This one sparkled with brand new appliances, a white-tiled floor and a backsplash studded here and there with a random turquoise tile. The granite countertops shone with flecks of the same shade.
Simon nodded his approval. “Good. Big improvement.”
“I thought railroad tiles in the bathrooms. They’re sleek and modern in a retro way. They’ll add variety. Not the same old, same old. We can decide on the bathroom wall treatments later, but I think they should be—”
“Stop talking,” he said.
Startled, I dropped the sketch on the coffee table and glanced over at him.
“Do whatever you want to the condo. Your ideas are wonderful. All of them. But no more now.” He leaned in closer and made a little hook with his index finger. “Come here.”
His finger beckoned me, but I didn’t move a muscle. Fascinated and suddenly frightened, I sat without blinking—a mongoose mesmerized by a cobra. I should have expected this. I wasn’t a thirty-two-year-old virgin. But all I could do was sit there, until without warning, as if he couldn’t wait another instant, he bent forward and grasped my shoulders. His hands had the same iron grip I remembered from the day Treasure died.
“I want to kiss you,” he murmured. “I’ve wanted to for days.”
I kept my eyes open. Like a movie close-up, his face filled my sight, coming nearer and nearer until he blurred into a pair of soft, warm lips. Gentle at first, his mouth hardened, his arms tightened around me. His lips parted, the tip of his tongue insisting on mine until I succumbed and opened to him.
For a moment, giving in, I sank into his embrace, drowning in sensations I’d thought were over forever. In the next moment, I freaked. Like a scared schoolgirl, I wrenched free of his arms, grabbed my purse and jumped up.
I flew out of the condo in a panic and raced down the stairs, helter-skelter. Out of breath and panting, I didn’t stop until I was safely locked behind my own door and could suck in a ragged breath.
