Designed for Death (22 page)

“But why? He was ready to kidnap her, for Pete’s sake. Why stop to ask a dumb question?”

The doctor’s mouth hinted at another smile. “Theoretically, widows and young girls have no men in their lives. At least none they’re sexually involved with.”

The cause of her humor wasn’t lost on me, but pretending not to notice, I said, “That still doesn’t add up. He wants the widow left alone and attempts to abduct a young girl. He’s concerned for one woman and tries to harm another.”

Dr. Cristall removed her glasses and massaged her eyes with a thumb and forefinger. It went on for about a month. Finally she said, “Suppose he likes this widow, likes the idea that she’s living alone. But she’s not encouraging him. He’s afraid to force a relationship, afraid she’ll refuse his overtures. He can’t risk that blow to his manhood. The girl? Say he stalked her. Knew she was young and vulnerable. Knew she waited every night for a ride. The storm gave him a perfect opportunity. She was alone… You know the rest.”

A silence fell between us.
Did
I know the rest? Though Dr. Cristall gave me reason to believe I wasn’t a fool after all, still I was more confused than relieved. “Say all of that’s true. What ties the two assaults together?”

“The murder might.” She held up that warning finger again. “Theory only. From what you’ve told me about those assaults, and given the fact that the murder victim had a transgender background, it’s possible the killer is homophobic. That could be the link you’re looking for.” She paused before adding, “It’s also possible no connection exists.”

I squirmed on my hard seat. “Say it does exist. What would that kind of man be like?”

She shrugged. “Outwardly he could be a man’s man. Macho. Muscular. Enjoys all the male trappings—sports, cars, guns. Or he could be less overtly masculine, giving off feminine vibes despite himself. Either way, such a man would be in denial, telling himself he wants a woman, but one he deems worthy. One he can place on a pedestal.”

I must have looked puzzled.

Dr. Cristall leaned forward, elbows on the desk. “In essence, a woman without a man in her life. One he admires for that fact alone.”

“I don’t get it.”

“An idealized, perfect being. An object, if you will.”

“Are you saying women are objects to him? That he doesn’t like them?”

“Possibly.”

“If he doesn’t like women, then what? He likes men?”

She shrugged. “Perhaps, but he wouldn’t necessarily know that, either. He may have repressed his true feelings for years. Something probably happened to bring them to the surface.” Without warning, the swivel screeched to a halt. “You said the murder victim was naked when you found her?”

Too startled to speak, I nodded.

“If the perpetrator discovered the surgical change during the sex act or after, or even before, that could be the trigger that set him off. We hate what we fear. Sexual involvement with someone he saw as essentially male would have brought him face-to-face with his deepest fear, his own sexual ambivalence. It’s entirely possible he acted on that fear and destroyed what he believed had tainted him.”

So far, working with very little detail, Doctor Cristall had pieced together a plausible profile of a disturbed man. Though scared, I was grateful for her insights. Only one puzzle piece was missing. “I don’t understand why the sex change wasn’t mentioned in the press.”

“Many reasons…the city not wanting negative publicity…Naples is touted as paradise…the police often conceal details only a perpetrator would know.” She picked up her glasses and put them on, her eyes behind the lenses narrowing in thought. “More importantly, you found the body. You are a widow. For those reasons, it’s possible there’s more than coincidence at work here, and that you are the widow the assailant mentioned. If so, he sees you as the woman who will save him from himself. Winning you will show the world he’s a normal man. Most likely the girl was a distraction, a botched attempt to prove that the night with…Treasure was an aberration. He must be feeling desperate to take such a risk. The façade of a lifetime may be crumbling.”

Dr. Cristall’s voice lost its dispassionate calm and took on an alarmed edge as she stood, signaling the end of my fifty-minute hour.

“Though I don’t wish to frighten you unduly, I advise you to go straight to the police, Mrs. Dunne. And don’t waste any time doing so. If your theory is correct, you could be the next victim.”

Chapter Twenty-One

But how could I go to the police? Rossi had said stay out of it. He’d meant what he said, and I believed him. Like it or not, I was on my own.

All the way home from Dr. Cristall’s, I went over the possible list of known suspects, excluding the anonymous crazies out there, concentrating on people who knew both Treasure and me. Friends. Neighbors. Potential lovers.

No stranger had spoken those warnings. The killer was close. Touching close. Someone who knew I’d been widowed. Here in Florida, I could count those people on one hand. So leaving out long shots, like the female bank manager who approved my mortgage loan, or the home insurance agent who was just a voice on the phone from Tampa, or the other voice who changed the address on my Visa card, the short list was very short.

Simon was on it. While I hated to go there, he did fit the homophobic profile. He’d thrown a king-sized hissy fit the night we were supposed to visit the Foxy Lady. Couldn’t bring himself to step foot in the place. But he had never met Treasure…or had he? When he first came to look at the condo? Or when he carried in his clothing? Or when the movers delivered his furniture? Without Treasure as witness, there was no way of telling. Still, his alibi had held up. According to Rossi, the morning of the murder Simon had left Tallahassee when he claimed he had. Unless someone covered for him when the police called. Cynthia, maybe? Wanting more from the settlement, had she lied for him? It was possible. Anything was possible.

And who gave off more machismo vibes than Dick, the Surfside Lothario? He might have slept with Treasure. He had a key. He could have surprised her at any time. If so, had he learned the truth about her and been outraged? Viewed her as an insult to his manhood? That fit the homophobic profile. Yet Dick had more women than he needed…didn’t he?

Neal, mild-mannered Neal, hadn’t been the least bit hesitant about visiting the Foxy Lady. He’d enjoyed himself, too. No homophobia there. Although having AudreyAnn and me riding shotgun might have put him at ease. Without us, would he have ventured into the Lady?

That left Chip, another mild-mannered guy. Still, I’d overheard enough fights from next door to know he had a temper. But why would he kill Treasure? AudreyAnn and Dick had been the ones having the affair. Wouldn’t he go after them?

Nor could I leave Fayette off the list. Betrayal and abandonment by the man he loved gave him a strong motive for murder. But he’d passed out when he learned Treasure was dead…and he’d given me the gun after his attack. I gripped the wheel as if it were the killer’s throat. Had he fainted for real or faked it? And had he actually been attacked? There was no way to prove either one. Nevertheless, he sure didn’t fit Dr. Cristall’s profile of a homophobic. Nor did his alter ego, Faye. So homophobia wouldn’t be a motive for him. But how about jealousy?

Hedda might also have been jealous of Treasure—for a different reason. He loved performing in his drag regalia, acting out like a woman. Had Treasure’s newfound femaleness sent Hedda into a jealous rage? A long shot, but who knew?

I heaved a sigh deep enough to fog up the car window. Analysis was getting me nowhere except frustrated and depressed. The only other male with knowledge of my personal life was Rossi. Now there was a name. Tires screeching, I took a right onto Harbour Drive. Too bad the curmudgeon was engaged.

Whoa.
I slowed down to only five over the speed limit. Where had that regret come from? Rossi was impossible, pigheaded and macho enough to top my list. Still, I had to admit something about him made my heart beat fast. Well, faster than normal. Anyway, he was taken, so my heart could go right back into hibernation.

I cruised into the Surfside parking lot, no closer to the truth than when I left. There was one difference, though. Scared before, I was terrified now.

The minute I got inside my condo, I unlocked the bottom drawer of my desk, took out the revolver and placed it on the desktop. I’d never handled a Cobra, but I’d shot pistols before, often. When I was a kid, my dad used to take me with him to the police firing range where he’d go to practice. I’d been a pretty good shot as a teen. Though I hadn’t fired a gun in years, I swiveled open the cylinder like a pro and inserted the three bullets in the chamber. Then, sliding the cylinder back in place, I secured the safety and dropped the Colt in my purse.

In Boston, carrying a concealed weapon without a permit constituted a felony. In Naples, the same law might apply. I’d take the risk and, if caught, take the punishment. Applying for a permit might alert Rossi. I wouldn’t put it past him to try and confiscate the gun for my own welfare or some other macho reason.

I was a woman alone. So be it. That didn’t mean I had to be a passive victim waiting for the axe to fall. The pistol empowered me, so much so I didn’t bother to check under the bed. Screw it. Let somebody stick his head out, I’d blow it off.

Tossing my silk slacks and blouse on the bed, I climbed into the Florida uniform—shorts, T-shirt and bare feet—made a cheese and tomato sandwich and grabbed a diet Coke out of the fridge. With the handbag slung over a shoulder, I went into the living room to watch TV.

“A storm’s brewing, everyone.”

“No kidding,” I said out loud to the TV.

“A category three on the cusp of becoming a category four, Carolyn is whipping her way through the Caribbean and is now pounding the island of Jamaica.

“Already a powerhouse, Carolyn is expected to intensify as she travels over open water and could reach Cuba by nightfall. However, there is a glimmer of hope for us, folks.” The weather guy pointed to a Doppler map. “If this high pressure system continues on its present course, the hurricane will spare us but clobber the Yucatan Peninsula. But, and this is a big
but,
if the high pressure system dissipates, Carolyn will be on a collision course for southwest Florida from the Keys to Tampa Bay.”

I took a swig of Coke. Category four meant downed power lines, uprooted trees, broken signs, smashed roofs and windows. What else?

The TV was eager to tell me.

“If Carolyn hits at high tide, there’s the added danger of coastal flooding. Voluntary evacuation is urged for anyone living near the coast. Remember, a category four is a killer.”

I snapped off the set. Another killer on the prowl. Terrific. I munched down the sandwich, trying to decide what to do. Evacuate or stay? The worst-case scenario would be getting stuck on I-75 in the midst of an exodus, sitting on the hood of my car with the wind howling overhead. On the other hand, did I want to stay here while a hurricane ripped the roofs off every house in town?

The phone rang. I grabbed it.

“Deva, let’s leave Naples until the storm’s over. I’ll get home by five. We can be out of here by five-thirty. Turn the hurricane into a…”

Simon stopped mid-sentence. I
knew
he was about to say “honeymoon.”

“The media exaggerates everything, Simon. Besides, we had hurricanes up north. I remember Hugo. Trees came down, and the electricity went out for a few days, but everybody survived.”

“This is different. Flooding’s a possibility, and Surfside’s only a few yards from the shore. Be sensible for once. Leave with me.”

For once?

My jaw tightened. “I’m staying, Simon.”

“That’s ridic—”

I hung up.
Don’t trust anyone. Not even your best friends.
Not even the friend who kisses like he invented it? Nope. Not even. If I could trust him as I’d trusted Jack, with my very soul, I’d gladly leave. But the trust just wasn’t there.

Scared to hit the road alone with a cat four on the way and scared to put my fate in any man’s hands, I sat curled up in the club chair, lonely and miserable. I had only myself and the .38 to rely on. They would have to do.

By six, I’d blazed a trail from the front windows overlooking Gulf Shore Boulevard to the lanai sliders overlooking the pool and the beach. Back and forth, back and forth, agitated, unable to rest, I watched the sky darken from azure to indigo. Since late afternoon, the palm trees had hung limp, their fronds exhausted arms dangling alongside their trunks. But no more. Clouds scudded across the horizon, and tendrils of breeze teased the trees into motion, causing them to sway as if warming up for a big performance.

A lightning flash split the sky, sending me scurrying away from the lanai. The lamps wavered, fluttered, but stayed on. Another flash followed by a deafening clap of thunder.

I dashed for the fridge and the comfort of butter pecan. Most of what was left in the carton had disappeared when the doorbell chimed.

Da da da DA.

Simon? He hadn’t left yet?
Carton in hand, I peeked out through the plantations.

Irma and Elsie stood outside, windblown and smiling. Dropping the carton on the coffee table, I flung open the door and, grabbing their hands, pulled them inside. “What on earth are you doing out in this weather?”

Irma laughed. “This is nothing, Deva. We’re Floridians. We grew up with hurricanes.”

“Omigod,” I said, sinking into a club chair, waving an arm at Nana’s sofa. “Have a seat.” I peered into the carton. “It’s all gone, but I have Cokes.”

“No thanks, we’re on our way home, but we’re so excited, we just had to stop by with this.” Irma reached into her oversized straw bag, took out a manila envelope and held it out. “For you.”

“This is my—”

“Contract!”

“Your mom said yes?”

“She did. It’s standard boilerplate. One year lease with an option to renew for three. It asks for a few references. The usual.”

This was better than ice cream. Thrilled, I felt like jumping up and down. “Fern Alley is perfect.” I caught my breath. “What are the terms?”