Designed for Death (18 page)

Fayette’s sunglasses had slipped down on his nose. He pushed them up and said, “I’ll go with her. She’d want that.”

“Very well, sir. Before I release the restraint, please hold onto this cord. You’ll feel a strong pull. Don’t let go until you’re ready. If your arms should tire, tell me and I’ll spell you.”

“Darling, I have pecs like Arnold. Need I say more?” Fayette raised his sunglasses and treated George to an eyelash flutter.

“No. No, of course not, sir,” George sputtered. “Are we ready, then?”

“I’ll never be ready, darling. But let’s begin anyway.”

“Very good, sir.”

George untied Treasure and we all stepped back. Carefully, as if he did hold a treasure in his hands, Fayette clung to the short cord dangling like an umbilical from the end of the balloon and slowly, majestically, strode toward the water.

Like a Pied Piper, he soon collected a crowd. Little kids with pails and shovels, teenagers trailing towels and plugged into iPods, adult curiosity seekers in bikinis and trunks, and the official mourners, of course, kicking off our sneakers and sandals as we approached the surf’s edge. All in all, we were quite a throng. To think I’d worried Treasure would go to her final rest unnoticed and unmourned.

Ankle-deep in gulf water, Fayette stopped and, ignoring his pants’ sodden cuffs, turned to face us. We all stood quietly, even the curiosity seekers. The little kids stopped giggling; the teens with the iPods removed their earbuds.

Fayette cleared his throat. “We’re here today to honor Treasure Kozlowski, who used to live with me and now lives alone in this balloon.” With his free hand, he reached up and gave the balloon a love pat. “I chose red for her. Not green, or blue, or yellow, but red. Red’s the color of passion. The color of fun and excitement and fire engines, and lollipops.” He paused, deciding, I guess, he wouldn’t pursue that thought. “It’s the color of life. And Treasure, my beloved friend—” he choked a little on the word
friend,
“—was full to the brim with life. I’m holding her now, in the only way I can, and I hate to let her go.”

He glanced skyward. The wind had picked up, pummeling the balloon like a sparring partner. “Look at her! See what I mean? Even now, she’s anxious to get away, ready for the next adventure.”

I looked around at the mourners and the merely curious gathered around us. No one spoke a word. Like a church at midnight, the beach had fallen silent, except for the soft lapping of the waves and the distant hum of a boat engine.

Hedda threw back her head and, singing into the silence, sent her contralto floating in the air with the gulls. “Amazing Grace, how great Thou art…”

When Hedda’s last note faded away, calmly, like a mother bird releasing a fledgling from the nest, Fayette let go of the cord. The red balloon, freed from all constraints, took off, a bright globe soaring into the sky.

“Aaaaaah.” The gasp left all our throats in a united sigh of farewell. Without hesitation, the balloon shot straight up, buoyed by the offshore breeze and, I like to think, by Treasure’s eager spirit hurrying toward a new excitement. For sure, her last show on earth had been a smash hit.

I murmured, “Say hello to Jack, Treasure.”

Standing across from me on the damp sand, Marilyn tipped her head back and raised a hand to her forehead, shielding her eyes from the glare. As she did, a gold bracelet slid along her tanned arm. Suspended from one of the links, a tiny ruby heart glittered in the sun.

Uh-oh.

I darted a quick glance at AudreyAnn. Had she seen it?

Yes, indeed. Her jaw, her mouth, her shoulders, her halter top all sagged. Poor AudreyAnn. At any moment now, she’d burst into tears. Well, this
was
a funeral. If she did weep, no one except Dick and me would guess the real reason.

As the balloon soared out of sight, becoming a pinprick in the vast blue sky, then…nothing, Dick said to nobody in particular, “I need a drink after this one. Come on, everybody, back to Surfside. We’ve got a party waitin’.”

Both Dick and Chip, with Marilyn and AudreyAnn following them, hurried off the beach, heading back to the clubroom to put the lasagna in the oven. As I watched, the two women chatted up a storm, so intent on their conversation, they fell way behind the men. If I were Jimmy the Greek, I’d lay odds AudreyAnn was staking claim to that bracelet.

His sunglasses riding the top of his head, his face hidden in his hands, Fayette collapsed on the sand.

“Fayette. Hey, buddy,” I said bending over him. “That was beautiful. You did a wonderful job.”

He raised his head and tried to smile. “I called him Treasure. That’s what he would have wanted. But I loved him as Tom.”

I squeezed Fayette’s shoulder. It was as hard as his knees. “He had to be true to himself.”

“Even if he couldn’t be to me.”

I had no answer for that and fell back on my grandmother’s solution for every sorrow. Food. “Chip’s lasagna has homemade pasta and his mother’s secret meatball recipe. Buffalo mozzarella. The works.” I upped the temptation. “He’s serving antipasto. Garlic bread. Chianti to wash it down.” No response.” I gave Fayette’s shoulder another squeeze. “Will Hedda and Roy join us?”

I must have struck a chord. He nodded and stood, sliding the Ray-Bans down over his eyes, slipping on his loafers. “But of course, lovey. Wait till you see the cake I brought. You’ll love it. It’s in my trunk on dry ice. Come on.”

Together, we strolled off the beach and headed for the parking lot. Simon looked over at us and frowned. So did Neal, who was standing by his side. From that night at the Lady, Neal had obviously formed a negative opinion of Fayette. But Simon hadn’t even met him, and still he was looking like a bad day in July…or a boyfriend with prior rights. Ignoring the two of them, I hurried to keep up with Fayette’s long-legged stride.

In the parking lot Lieutenant Rossi was still leaning on the Mustang. As I glanced across the tarmac at him, he caught my look and nodded, his hooded eyes flickering over me. Police procedure or something else? Whatever. Truth was I liked the way his eyes scrutinized me. I liked it very much, though considering the circumstances, it was totally inappropriate. I guess that’s what happens when you wear shorts and a T-shirt to a funeral.

Fayette strode over to his Camaro and popped the trunk. Inside, sitting on a liner of dry ice, was a white sheet cake the size of a bedspread with Rest in Peace piped on in blue. The center, the place of honor, held a ten-by-fourteen-inch photo image in vanilla crème of Tommy Kozlowski.

“It’s the picture I found next to his bed. How did they do that?”

“Modern technology, darling. It’s hit the bakeries.” Fayette gazed at the image fondly. “Isn’t he gorgeous? No wonder I was mad about him.”

Hedda and Roy had joined us and they both nodded, all of them looking like they could burst into tears at any second.

“I thought Treasure’s identity was going to be kept secret,” I said. “Nobody at Surfside knows the truth except for me. And him.” I upped my chin at Lieutenant Rossi.

“The funeral’s over. Treasure’s gone. Tommy’s the one I’ll remember.” Fayette sounded bitter, but I guess he had reason to be. He closed the trunk and glanced over at Rossi. “That lieutenant over there,” he whispered. “He hasn’t taken his eyes off me since I got here. You notice that?”

On some level I had, but during the ceremony I’d pushed Rossi to the back burner of my consciousness and kept him there.

“He’s been snapping pictures, too. He wants a picture all he has to do is ask. In drag or out. The same for Hedda. The same for Roy.” They nodded in agreement.

“Was he snapping you guys only?” I asked.

“No. Everybody,” Hedda said. “Like he was looking for the murderer in the crowd.”

I’d heard that murderers often attend the funeral of a victim. A creepy thought. One that might be absolutely, frighteningly true.

“Serving’s my karma, dearest,” Roy said, tying on a chef’s apron and shooing me out of the clubroom kitchen. “I’ll help Chip in here. Go enjoy. If you can,” he added quickly, no doubt remembering the solemnity of the occasion.

Chip had set the tables with red-and-white checkered cloths and green napkins, the colors of the Italian flag happily at war with the yellow walls. I tried not to look down at the spattered carpeting when I took a seat beside Simon and sipped at a plastic glass of Chianti.

Simon held a cold can of Bud, savoring it slowly, sending curious glances across the room to where Fayette sat chatting up a storm with Neal, who looked as though he was caught in a trap.

“That big guy over there?” Simon asked.

“Treasure’s former roommate?”

“Yeah?” Simon’s brow furrowed. “Is he…?”

“Yes, he is.”

“Strange then that he and Treasure were roommates.”

I stood and tugged on his hand. “Come on, I’ll introduce you and ask him to bring in the cake. That’ll explain everything.”

Simon refused to budge out of his chair. “An introduction isn’t necessary. Furthermore, what’s cake got to do with anything?”

“Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you’re homophobic.”

After enough tugging, he finally yielded, but we’d only taken a couple of steps in Fayette’s direction when the door to the clubroom opened and Dick rushed in, his face red and sweaty. He wove through the crowded room to get to me. Keeping his voice low, he whispered in my ear, “I need you, Deva. Bad.”

I let go of Simon’s hand. “What’s the matter?”

“You gotta see it to believe it. Come on. Not you,” he snarled at Simon, who was moving along beside me.

“She’s not leaving without me,” Simon said in a carrying voice.

The festivities lurched to a hush. I looked over my shoulder. Everybody was staring at us. “A private joke,” I said, forcing a chuckle. “No problem.”

I took Dick’s arm. “Where are we going?”

“Treasure’s condo. I went up to see the changes you made. Oh my God.”

“I’ll be in 301,” I said to Simon. “Please wait here. Don’t cause a scene. I’ll be fine.” Of course I’d be fine. A room full of people was watching Dick and me leave.

“If you’re not back in ten minutes, I’m coming after you,” Simon said.

“She’ll be okay,” Dick said. “She’ll be with me.”

“Ten minutes.”

The clubroom door closed behind us. Dick hurried over to the elevator and stabbed number three with a forefinger.

“Wait’ll you see this,” he said.

“See
what?
”

“A maniac’s on the loose.”

I clapped a hand to my face. “No! Has someone else has been killed?”

“No, not that.” We rode up, and as soon as the elevator whooshed open, he sprinted the length of the walkway to the entrance of 301. He had it unlocked before I reached it. I peeked in, not knowing what to expect. To my relief, the living and dining rooms were intact, the carpeting flawless, the new silk arrangements and pillows and candles adding little islands of color here and there.

So far so good.
I stepped inside and, nerves frayed thin, followed Dick down the narrow hall to the master suite.

“Ready?” he asked at the bedroom door.

“Just open it, Dick.”

He flung the door wide and I gasped, inhaling a deep breath of pure, unadulterated shock.

“Omigod! I can’t believe it.”

“What did I tell you?” Dick said, his voice devoid of all emotion except profound disgust.

Everything in the room, the walls, the floor, the bed, the dressers, the mirrored closets—everything—was drenched in red paint. Huge splotches of it dripped and clung to every surface, as if the paint had been flung with vicious intent, out of an open can.

“Who?” was all I managed to ask.

“Somebody who hates me.” Dick said.

“Or who hated Treasure.”

“Yeah. That, too.”

I sniffed the air. The odor of fresh paint lingered in the room, an odor some people dislike, but to me one that usually carries with it the exciting scent of a new beginning. Not this time. I peered closer at one of the splattered walls. “I’ve used this color recently.”

“I thought it looked familiar.”

“It’s Benjamin Moore’s British Red. We used it in Neal’s study, remember? But he wouldn’t have done this. Not Neal.”

“Who knows? Somebody did.”

“But
who?
”

“I don’t know, but this latex finish dries in a couple of hours or less. And it’s almost dry now. So it happened maybe an hour ago.” He sat on the paint-smeared bedspread and waved his hands, encompassing a room that looked like a Jackson Pollack painting gone mad. “Who hates me enough for this, Deva?”

He looked so defeated that, hoping to comfort him, I sank onto a dry spot next to him. “Somebody who has a key?”

He looked at me like I’d just invented the light bulb. “Yeah, that’s it. Who does?” He held up a hand and counted off on his fingers. “You. Me. The cops. AudreyAnn.”

“Not anymore, Dick. She gave me hers, remember.”

“Oh. Yeah.” He fell back on the mattress, turning the back of his head British Red. Of course, if I’d made a spare key, AudreyAnn might have, as well. Also, she’d left the beach right after the ceremony. Plenty of time to go into the clubroom office, find the gallon can of paint and do her mischief…but I’d keep that suspicion to myself. That’s all it was—a suspicion.

Dick stretched out on his back as if he were awaiting surgery, though, in a way, he’d already undergone the knife. “That spot dry?” I asked.

“Who cares? I won’t be able to put the condo on the market until I clean up this mess. Red, of all colors. It’ll take three coats to cover. All the furniture’s shot, the carpet, everything.”

I nodded, but he didn’t notice. He had his eyes closed, blocking out the ugly sight.

“You going to call Lieutenant Rossi and let him know what’s happened in here?” I asked.

Dick jerked upright on the bed. “Hell, no. I don’t want this to get around. Let him work on the murder.” His glance dropped away from my face. “God, she’s one passionate woman.”

“Who is?”

“AudreyAnn, who else? Somehow she got her hands on another key.”

Admiration tinged with regret colored his voice. If Dick wanted to believe he was the object of passionate revenge, I wasn’t about to persuade him otherwise.