Designed for Death (2 page)

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?”

I nodded, impressed. Most people didn’t have a clue about the origin of my weird first name.

“It’s spelled like it sounds,” he said into the phone. More listening, then, “Yes, she’ll be here. Unit 302.” Still visibly shaken, he hung up and gave me a rueful smile. Then he rubbed his fingers over his red-rimmed eyes and sank onto the sofa.

He was a new neighbor I hadn’t met before, but I knew he lived alone. Or at least without a woman. The sofa told me. No sane woman would have chosen such a gigantic monster. Or the huge oak coffee table. The size of a trampoline, it was covered with electronic toys and other pieces of masculine detritus: a TV remote, a DVD player, stereo controls, a stack of CDs, the
New York Times, Sports Illustrated,
an empty beer bottle with some fancy foreign label…

I leaned back into the leather cushions and closed my eyes, blocking out Simon’s bachelor pad and all its dingy browns. But it didn’t do any good. Like a phantom, Treasure’s pale, twisted body, abandoned without mercy in a cold porcelain tub, rose up beneath my lids. I shivered and opened my eyes. Fast.

“You all right?” Simon asked.

He’d been watching me and meant well, but there was no way he could know this was the second case of violent death I’d experienced in a few short months.

“I’ve already answered that question,” I said between clenched teeth, wishing I could control the shaking.

He shot me a worried glance. “You’re not going to pass out, are you?”

“Of course not.” But why were yellow dots spinning all over the walls?

“How about a glass of water? Or some coffee?”

Guilt overwhelmed me for snapping at him, but I just shook my head, wishing he’d suggest something stronger.

“I have some scotch.”

I hated scotch. “Make it a double.”

Simon hurried out to the kitchen and came back with a half-filled tumbler and handed it to me.

“Chivas,” he said. “Best sipping scotch around.”

“Wonderful.” I downed it in one gulp. For an evil-tasting fluid, it spread heavenly warmth all through me, and I could feel myself relax.

“None for you?” I leaned over to put the empty on the coffee table.

“Not now. I need to think straight. They’ll be here soon,” he said, pacing around.

As he added wear to the Berber, I kept my gaze riveted on him. He looked to be about forty, dark haired and rangy in well-tailored slacks and a blue oxford cloth shirt.

From a distance, getting closer by the second, I heard the siren call of the Naples police. When they roared onto the Surfside tarmac, Simon hurried out to the walkway.

Loud voices floated in through the open door, but I stayed put, a sloshed lump, waiting for the cops to find me.

In seconds, Simon returned, followed by an officer who shoved his big belly and his wide shoulders through the open doorway. He was so huge, at first I didn’t notice he had a partner behind him, a petite woman in a brown Naples P.D. uniform. She held a laptop and nervously tapped a pen on her thumbnail. She was packing a gun in the holster at her waist too. So maybe she wasn’t just a glorified secretary for the big guy. I sniffed.
You never know. Still a man’s world.

The big guy wasted no time. “I’m Batano. This here’s Hughes. You reported a homicide,” he said to Simon. It wasn’t a question.

Solemn and still a little pale, Simon nodded and pointed next door. “In there. The bathroom.”

“We’ll be back,” Batano said. “Don’t go anywhere.”

“No problemo.” I’d chugged half a pint of scotch and could barely move.

“You all right?” Simon eyed me warily. “Maybe I had a heavy hand with the Chivas.”

“I’m fine. Absolutely fine.”

He blew out a breath. “That’s what I was afraid of.”

The two cops had no sooner left than Dick Parker came rushing in, his tool belt banging against his thighs. “What’s this all about, Simon? They wouldn’t tell me a thing.”

In a matter-of-fact voice, as if murder were a daily event, Simon said, “The woman next door’s been killed.”

“Treasure?” Shock loosened all the muscles in Dick’s face. His jaw went slack, revealing the silver fillings in his molars.

“How?” he asked, his baritone no louder than a whisper.

“Her neck was snapped like a soda straw. Devalera found her.”

“Oh, God. That must have been hell, Deva.”

Dick came over and knelt by my chair. He wrapped his arms around me, pressing a screwdriver against my side, but I didn’t care. Dick was a touchy-feely kind of guy, and usually I kept him at arm’s length, but for once I welcomed his invasion of my private space. Either the Chivas had over-relaxed me, or I needed all the comforting I could get. Probably a little of both.

While he knelt there, hugging me with one hand and patting my back with the other, a shadow fell across the floor, and a drift of Obsession swirled around us. Dick’s wife, Marilyn, a sheer pareo tied over her blue bikini, hovered in the doorway.

Like a young lover, Dick leaped up and, tools clanking, rushed to her. My moment of comfort had ended, but I hadn’t expected it to last long, anyway.

“Honey, you shouldn’t be here,” he said, enfolding Marilyn in his arms.

She glanced over at me and frowned before looking up at him, letting her eyes ask the question.

“It’s Treasure, honey. Something’s happened to her. But you don’t need to get involved. Why don’t you go back to the pool? I’ll be down as soon as I can.”

I fought a stab of envy. That was what husbands were for. To comfort their wives in times of stress. Not the neighbor ladies. No wonder Marilyn had shot me a dark look.

Dick kissed her cheek. “Go now, honey. This is no place for you.”

She nodded, darted another frown my way and left.

For a happy instant, Jack’s face flooded my mind, looking as vibrant as when he was alive. A quirky grin lifted his lips, and he started to speak in the brogue I found more enchanting than love songs.

But I blinked, and he disappeared.

I struggled not to cry as Officer Batano strode back into Simon’s condo like he owned the place. “Homicide’s on the way. Detective Rossi will want to talk to all of you. No one leaves until he gets here.”

“We’re not going anywhere.” Simon looked over at me, the hint of a wry smile on his lips. “Why should we? We’re in paradise.”

Paradise? Where Treasure’s brutalized body had been flung in a tub like a dirty towel? Paradise, where I’d clung to another woman’s husband as if he’d offered me a lifeline? Paradise, where loneliness substituted for love?
Paradise?
I didn’t think so. No, I didn’t think so at all.

The scotch had worn off.

Chapter Three

“Mrs. Dunne, come with me, please.” Lieutenant Victor Rossi of the Naples P.D. beckoned with a finger then started down the hall.

Knees knocking but shoulders thrust back, I followed him to Simon’s bedroom, where the lieutenant had set up a makeshift interrogation room. I knew I’d have to relive the whole nightmare scene and dreaded it. Another senseless, violent death, another life snuffed out without warning. Nausea rose into my throat. I swallowed and tamped it down. But I couldn’t do a thing about the trembling in my hands.

Lieutenant Rossi closed the bedroom door. In a pink-flowered shirt, the tail hanging over his white pants, he looked like a fugitive from
Miami Vice.
The look was deceptive. Though only a few inches taller than my five six, he had muscular arms and seam-stretching shoulders. A shiver rode my spine. Pink shirt or no pink shirt, he scared me. If I hadn’t been sober a minute ago, I was now.

Lieutenant Rossi closed the door and stationed himself at the foot of the bed, legs wide, notebook in hand. I slumped on the edge of the worst-looking duvet cover in the world. Rust and brown stripes cross-hatched with orange.

“You live here in the Surfside Condominiums, correct?” he asked.

“On the first floor, Unit 104,” I said, plucking at a loose orange thread.

“Your name’s Devalera Dunne?”