Designed for Death (20 page)

He reached into his pocket for the stub and the notebook. Some things never change. “I understand you paid a visit to Kmart recently. Talked to a Miss Skimp.”

“So you talked to her, too. Excellent. I think there might be a connection between—”

“Not excellent,” he snapped. “You’re interfering in my handling of this case. I want it stopped. Immediately.”

“But—”

“Immediately. You’re complicating my work. Also you’re placing yourself in harm’s way. Stay out of it, Mrs. D. Keep your dead bolts on. Do your decorating.” He allowed himself a smile. The insufferable prick. “Start in here. Leave investigating to the police who are trained to do so. If I have to repeat this warning, I’ll issue a citation.”

I stood, brushed off my shorts and ignored his quick-eyed glance at my legs. “There are two young women in the next room who were with Treasure the night she was murdered.”

Stiff-backed, I headed for the door. Before I reached it, he said, “Just a minute.” I turned to face him. Up close, he had luminous Italian eyes. Funny, I hadn’t noticed that before. “Send them in and come back with them.”

Though still fuming, I went out, returning a minute later with Irma and Elsie in tow. We went through the usual introductions, Rossi wrote down their names and addresses, then took notes while they related their story. When they finished, he turned to me. “They leave out anything they told you?”

I shook my head. “Nothing.”

He flipped the notebook closed and stashed it and the stub in his shirt pocket. “Now I’m going to ask all three of you ladies—” he sent a scorching glance my way, “—to wait here for a minute. I’ll be right back.”

As soon as the door closed behind him, Elsie wailed, “What did we get into?”

“Buck up,” Irma ordered. “We’re doing the right thing. What we should have done last week.”

“I’m scared.”

Irma upped her chin. “I’m not.”

“Suppose the murderer finds out we talked to the police and comes after us?”

“Oh, for gosh sakes,” Irma said.

“Anybody can walk into the shop. You never know.”

“The shop?” I asked, hoping to change the subject.

Irma nodded. “Off Shoots. It’s our mother’s shop, really. But she’s so busy with the main store, Hand Picked, that she turned Off Shoots over to us. It’s kind of a spin-off. She sells resort clothes in misses sizes. We sell junior sizes. You know, for the younger crowd. She’s hoping her steady customers will send their daughters to us. But it’s the slow season now, so it’s hard to tell.” She fished in her handbag, found a business card and handed it to me. “Come and see us anytime.”

According to the card, they were located in Fern Alley. A via off Fifth Avenue South, Naples’s version of Rodeo Drive.

I looked up from the card. “A via?”

“Right. It’s just an alley, really, but Mom thought if we called it a via like the little shop-lined paths off Worth Avenue in Palm Beach, it would sound…well, upscale. We need more foot traffic, though. If someone would lease the shop next door that would help. Trouble is, it’s small for a retail store, so…”

Rossi returned carrying a manila envelope. He went over to the desk, swept aside some of the loose nails and screw bits and took out a sheaf of photographs. Giving his attention to Irma and Emma, he said, “I’ll show you these one at a time. If you see anyone who looks even vaguely like someone you saw that night let me know. And Mrs. D, if you see anyone in the crowd who might have visited Surfside in the past few weeks, point him out.”

One at a time, he fed us the snapshots he’d taken at the beachside funeral. He’d snapped both the mourners and the merely curious who had been lured by the red balloon. One by one, we handed them back to him. No luck.

Rossi held up his hands, palms out, and shrugged. “We tried. Thank you, ladies. You’re free to leave. Should I need to get in touch with you, I will. I appreciate your cooperation.”

Obviously relieved, the girls hurried out of the room. As I went to follow them, Rossi said, “I mean it. Stay out of the case. No more prying. And watch your back. Don’t trust anyone. Not even your closest friends.”

Chapter Nineteen

Not even my best friends? Too late, Rossi. I’ve already lost my best friends. Both of them. Now you want me to view everyone else I know as a potential killer? What kind of life is that?

None. No wonder I hated to open my eyes the next morning. I knew what I’d see, another glorious day. Florida spewed them out like popcorn. For the first time since I moved to Naples, the weather failed to lift my spirits.

Never had I been so utterly alone, with no one in the whole world to turn to. No one to trust. Even Jack had deserted me. We hadn’t talked in days… I flung an arm over my eyes as if that would block out the bitter, blinding truth. Jack and I didn’t talk. I mouthed words and told myself he listened. If he were alive, we
would
talk. We’d go back and forth, making music like a cello and a violin. But Jack was dead. Gone from me forever.

I lowered my arm and faced into the sun. I’d been playing head games, convincing myself Jack and I were in touch, that we’d never let go of each other. But in that devastating morning sunlight, the lie hit me with the force of a body blow. I was alone. I’d been talking to a dead man…a dead lover…for months.

But my mind wouldn’t stop playing tricks, and once more Jack’s voice whispered in my ear.
Sure and the truth is I am dead, darlin’. I’m dead as a doornail. Let me go, Deva. Let me go.

Somehow I knew this would be the last time I’d hear Jack’s brogue echoing in my mind. No matter how much it hurt, I’d obey his request. It was the only thing left that I could do for him.

Disgusted with the tears leaking down my face, I swatted them off my cheeks and hauled out of bed. To help work off the brutal depression, I went for a slow-paced, halfhearted jog, reminding myself this was a run in paradise, and how many people get to do that? Not many this morning, anyway. Except for a gray-haired man smoking a cigarette under the Australian pines and an elderly couple out for a slow stroll, I had the beach to myself. The isolation probably wasn’t safe, but I dragged up and down the shoreline a few times before plodding home, not the least bit energized by my efforts.

Back at the condo, I aimed for the freezer and Edy’s Butter Pecan. Grabbing a spoon, I downed a pint right out of the carton before sanity took hold. Okay, that was lunch. So what if it was only 9:00 a.m.?

I shoved the container back in the freezer, locked the front door and hurried over to the clubroom to help clean up. Chip had the chairs stacked upside down on the tabletops and the vacuum cleaner going full blast. I swung the door wide open and left it that way to air out yesterday’s stale cooking and alcohol odors. And as a safety valve.
Don’t trust anybody.

“Need any help?” I shouted over the Hoover’s din. “Kitchen duty?”

“It’s all done, Deva,” Chip yelled. “Got here early. Thanks anyhow.” He pushed the Hoover after a few rogue crumbs. “Great party,” he said, staring at the floor as though he were afraid if he looked up he’d find me shaking my head.

“Wonderful. The lasagna was out of this world.”

He glanced up at that and beamed, then fogged it with a frown. “Yeah. So’s Treasure. Wonder if that lieutenant’s made any progress?”

I shrugged. “He’s not saying much.”

Chip swooped the machine’s nose under a table. “I’ll be glad when the case is solved. AudreyAnn’s home, crying her eyes out. She’s scared.” He shut off the vacuum and wrapped the cord around the upright, his expression tight and serious. “I know how it happened, Deva.”

“How what happened?”

“How she cut herself.”

“Oh. Yeah. Pretty bad gashes.” So AudreyAnn had told him about her little fling with Dick? I guess I had misjudged her.

“That’s what comes of trying to do a good deed.”

“You’ve lost me, Chip.”

“Well you know, going up there to help Dick put things to rights and dropping that glass and cutting herself. The problem with AudreyAnn is her heart’s too big.”

Her heart.

I blew out a breath. Chip had packed himself in the best kind of bubble wrap in the world. Self-deception. His words said he didn’t know a thing, but his tight expression said he did. Poor Chip. The truth must be too painful to acknowledge. Not wanting to be the one to prick his bubbles, I changed the subject. “It looks great in here. And you made yesterday as happy a day as it could be.”

His face relaxed and he grinned, soaking up the praise like a desert flower soaking up rain.

Giving in to an impulse straight out of the blue, I asked, “When I get married, will you cater my wedding?”

Had I actually said that? Unbelievable. But I was glad I did.

Chip’s grin switched from bright to high beams. “Absolutely! You got anybody in mind?”

“Not yet. But you’ll be the first to know. So we can plan the menu.”

“The wedding dinner’ll be on me.”

“Wonderful.”

Chip’s chattiness had to mean he’d forgiven me for taking his girlfriend to the Lady. But that wasn’t why my mood, which had been lower than a Chinese coffee table, suddenly soared. Talking about getting married again was what did it. I hadn’t shuddered or run away from the possibility, but actually joked about it. That had to be a giant step toward healing. Deep in my heart, I knew that was what Jack would want for me.

As for Chip’s question…did I have someone in mind? No. But life had given me Jack. It might offer me a second chance some day. Energized at last, I showered, dressed with care and headed downtown. I had scouting to do.

Fern Alley was easy to find once you knew where to look, opposite the Irish Pub on Fifth Avenue South and diagonally across from the Island Grill where Treasure spent her last night on earth. Hoping for a glimpse of the bar, I peered into the Grill through the plastic curtains that shrouded the terrace during off hours. All I saw was an empty expanse of teak. Without any happy hour revelers, the place looked lonely and abandoned. I shivered and, dashing in front of a Jaguar XK, jaywalked across Fifth Avenue.

Long and narrow, lined with the windowless sides of concrete office buildings, the alley extended from Fifth over to Sixth. Outside Off Shoots Boutique, tubs of pink impatiens and lavender spiced the air with their perfume. Against the facing concrete wall, a young liana vine wove its way up a latticework trellis.

On both sides of the boutique’s emerald-green door, large plate-glass windows featured mannequins in pink and white resort clothes—capris, knit tops, cotton sweaters. The single wide window of the adjacent store had a For Lease sign propped against the glass. I cupped my hands around my eyes and peered inside, but the interior was too dark to see much.

I turned back to Off Shoots, walking in to the tinkle of a warning bell tied to the handle. Irma looked up and rushed over, exclaiming, “Deva!”

“Yup, that’s my name,” I said, warmed by her welcome, if taken a little aback by her hug and kiss. I patted her on the shoulder and disengaged so I could look around. Feminine Laura Ashley prints brightened the chairs and a flattering pale pink wash covered the walls. Clearly, someone with sound marketing skills had put the shop together. “It’s charming in here.”

“Thanks, but what brings you out so early?” Irma asked.

“Two things. Clothes—”

“Oh good. That’s what we’re here for.”

“A peek at the space next door?”

“You’re interested?” Irma’s voice rose into a squeak.

“I might be. How about a look?”

“Sure! Elsie’s in back unpacking a new shipment. I’ll have her come out front so I can take you over there.”

Irma’s eagerness told me two things—she’d like having me as a neighbor, and there had been little interest in the empty shop. No wonder. Fern Alley wasn’t a good location for a merchant depending on foot traffic. But foot traffic wasn’t what kept an interior design business going. Word of mouth did, and the reputation of the designer in the community. Both of which took time to build. So the rent had to be affordable, or I’d be in and out of business before my name caught on.

Yet the minute I followed Irma through the emerald door, I fell in love with the empty shop. Not large, about fifteen feet wide by thirty deep, with shiny hardwood floors and clean white walls, it was a blank canvas just waiting for a design hand to stroke it to life.

“There’s a small storage room in back,” Irma said, showing the way, “and a lavatory.” She twisted the bolt on the back door. It opened onto a parking lot that led out to Sixth Avenue. “You have five assigned parking spaces. Deliveries come in this way, too.”

It was all so perfect, I had to fight not to jump up and down. “Any restrictions on redoing the interior? Paint? Shelving? Lighting fixtures?”

Irma shook her head. “None I can think of.” Her eyes shone with excitement. “I hope you’ll take it, Deva. That would be so wonderful.”

“I think so, too, but everything hangs on the price. I’m on a tight budget.”

“Let me speak to my mom. She owns the building, so she’s the decider. But I’ll tell her I really, really want to lease to you.”

Blonde and slim, wearing a big, sunny smile and a sunny yellow Lilly shirt and shorts, she radiated warmth. I loved her enthusiasm. Maybe her mother would, too, and the shop would be doable for me. I hoped so.

“Come back to Off Shoots and give me your phone number. She’ll call you,” Irma said, taking the For Lease sign out of the window, as if, as far as she was concerned, it was a done deal.

After giving Irma my phone number, I tried on every other garment in the store, finally deciding on a coffee-colored linen sundress and shocking pink capris with a lime green pullover. At last, the apricot shift could take a rest.

Another quick hug from Irma, and I left for Fifth Avenue ready to burst into song. But my excitement drained away an instant later. A tall, gray-haired man lounging in front of Wayne’s Gourmet Foods looked like the man I’d seen on the beach earlier that morning. Or did he? He ducked inside the store so I couldn’t be sure. Had he been tailing me, or was I paranoid? I wasn’t sure about either one. Shivering in the hot sun, I jaywalked across Fifth Avenue again, wishing I had parked on the crowded street, not in the secluded garage behind the Island Grill. Though I kept looking over my shoulder, he didn’t follow me.