Designed for Death (25 page)

For a moment, I didn’t comprehend what I held. Then the realization hit me like a hammer blow. It was a man’s shirt. A man’s Hawaiian shirt with deep purple flowers on a bright lavender background. Who had put it there? Rolled it into a ball, hidden it from sight?

There could only be one logical answer. Dick.

I dropped the shirt on the countertop and stared at my ashen face in the mirror.

“Dick wore it to the Island Grill the night Treasure was killed.”

My image shook her head. “You’re jumping to conclusions. You don’t know if he was there. Besides, this isn’t the only purple shirt in the world.

“He’s been cheating on his wife for years. He was having trysts in this very condo, for God’s sake.

“Philandering’s one thing. Murder’s another.

I nodded. “True, this may mean nothing, but I’ve got to tell Rossi about it.”

Rossi.

My image in the mirror smiled. “I knew he wasn’t a rogue cop.”

As I balled up the shirt and replaced it in the cabinet, another thought struck, bringing a chill to the stifling little room.
The murderer always returns to the scene of the crime.

“But you don’t know if Dick’s the murderer,” I whispered.

Right. I didn’t know if he was in Texas, either. Maybe he was here, after all. In Naples. In this building. In this condo. On the other side of this wall.

I blew out a breath and put an ear to the bathroom door. Not the slightest sound came through, not even the stirring of the wind.

Tense and motionless, I listened while sweat beaded on my forehead and trickled between my shoulder blades. How long had the room been this stifling? Claustrophobia clamped its iron arms around my chest. Though I took deeper and deeper breaths, the air had thinned like it always does on a mountaintop.

Lungs gasping for every breath, I took the .38 from my purse and checked the cylinder. Three bullets were seated in the chamber ready to go. I clicked the cylinder closed and, with both arms outstretched, held the gun steady, aiming at the woman in the mirror. Steely eyed, she stared back without flinching.

Something my father had said about police training rang in my ears.
Forget about what cops do on TV. Never give up your weapon. The minute you do, you’re dead.

The Deva in the mirror nodded. “I’ll remember that.”

I slung my purse over a shoulder, twisted the bathroom lock and opened the door. Both hands on the gun, I swept the red-smeared room. Empty as a tomb. The air out here was sultry, but more oxygenated than the stuffy bathroom. I sucked it in gratefully.

Without turning my back on the mirrored closets, I eased past them, making for the bedroom door. I flung it wide and stepped into the hall. Arms extended, sweeping the gun left to right, I crept along the wall to the living room, the eerie silence more frightening than any wail of the wind.

At the condo’s front door I paused, unwilling to stay locked in, yet terrified of what lay ahead. Curiosity won out over fear. Clutching the .38 in one hand, I eased the door open with the other and dared a peek outside.

I couldn’t believe it—radiant sunshine everywhere, and air that smelled like new-washed linen. I slammed the door behind me, lowered the gun to my side and peered over the railing. No deep flooding. The water only looked ankle deep, thank God. My condo must be okay, but poor Gulf Shore Boulevard was in shambles. The row of sabal palms that only hours ago had lined the boulevard with mathematical precision lay toppled, their shallow root balls clawing at the sky, their trunks sprawled across the road. Fronds and branches floated on what had been pristine lawns. Across from Surfside, the roof of the Tropicana Club had been lifted like a poorly fitting wig, its broken tiles no doubt lying hidden in the water pooling around the base of the building.

Up and down the street, smashed windows, wrecked cars, broken roofs—debris scattered everywhere. For sure, paradise had been through hell, but the storm was over now. Time to get in touch with Rossi.

I glanced back at 301. The door remained closed. Dick must be in Texas, after all. I let out a deep breath, dropped the revolver in my purse and headed for the stairs and the first available phone. I stepped carefully, taking my time, crunching on broken branches and glass as I went, holding onto the railing with one hand, my purse with the other.

On the second floor landing, I paused to look around. Was I the only person alive in the world? Not a car moved through that standing water, no one walked about, not even a cat or a dog.

Across the flooded, debris-littered street, a door to the Tropicana Club opened. A gray-haired man emerged onto the top step of the entrance portico. He looked familiar. I shaded my eyes with a hand… Silver hair, long legs in rumpled chinos, a cigarette dangling between his fingers. The high rubber boots were different, but otherwise wasn’t he the same man I saw on the beach several days in a row and then on Fifth Avenue?

I squinted for a better look.
Yes.
The exact same man. Was he stalking me? Crouched behind the railing, I took out the gun, watching as he waded over to the curb to a black van sitting in water up to its hubcaps. He peered into the passenger side window. While I huddled there, staring across the road, a condo door opened behind me. I nearly jumped out of my skin. Neal stepped onto the landing and spotted me right away.

“Deva, what are you doing here?”

“Shhh.”

Too late. The gray-haired guy looked up and started across the street on the run. “Mrs. Dunne, wait a minute,” he called.

He knows my name.

Purse banging against my hip, I ran to Neal, grabbed him by the hand and yanked him inside his condo. “Lock the door. Hurry. That man’s after me. He’s in on it.”

“In on what?” Neal asked. “And why are you running around in the middle of a hurricane with a gun in your hand?”

I slammed the door and bolted it. “The hurricane’s over.” I dropped the Cobra in my purse.

He shook his head. “We’re in the eye. A few minutes of calm, then it starts all over again.”

My shoulder slumped, sending the bag crashing to the floor. “Oh God, we’re trapped.”

“We’ll be all right, Deva,” he said, his voice soft and reassuring. He picked up my purse and handed it to me.

“What about flooding?”

“There’s some, but the storm hit before high tide.” His face took on a knowing smile. “There’s bound to be water in the first floor condos, though. So you can kiss your Oriental rugs good-bye.”

What a nasty thing to say. Neal must be upset; he knew I loved that Tabriz. I put a finger to my lips. “Shhhh. Listen.”

He stared at me as if I were insane but did as I asked. In the stillness that followed, we stood like statues until he couldn’t take it any longer.

“What are we supposed to be listening for?”

“Footsteps. Shh.”

“Nobody’s coming. The backside of the storm’s going to kick in any minute.”

As if it heard him, the wind slammed against the windows, rattling the glass in their frames. Like my condo, Neal’s had no storm shutters—a major omission in my design plans—and through his lanai sliders, I could see the ragged fronds of the tortured palms begin a crazed rocking.

Neal pointed to them. “See. The eye’s passed over us. We’re back into it again.”

“Do you have a phone, Neal? I need to call Lieutenant Rossi.”

“Now?”

“Right now.”

“In the middle of a hurricane?
Why?
”

“I found something that may lead to Treasure’s killer. I have to tell Rossi. And that man across the street? He’s been following me. If he rings the bell, don’t let him in. No matter what.”

“No, I won’t.” Neal’s brows knitted together. “But what have you found that’s so important?”

I shook my head. I wanted to tell Rossi first. “I need to talk to the police.”

He shrugged. “Okay. Have it your way. But how did you find it? Whatever it is?”

“By accident.”

“You think it’s proof?”

“I’m not sure. That’s why I need to talk to the police.”

Rain lashed by the wind struck at the lanai windows. The brilliant blue light of moments ago vanished as completely as if it had never existed.

“Come sit down,” Neal said. “You’re not yourself, Deva. You’ve had a shock.” Gently, he drew me through the foyer into the living room. “You’re safe with me.”

“Nobody’s safe. Not with a killer on the loose.”

He patted my shoulder. “Why won’t you tell me what you found? For heaven’s sake, Deva, we’re friends.”

True. Besides, what harm would it do? I had to trust somebody or go mad. “It’s a shirt that belongs to Dick Parker.”

“A shirt? That’s your proof?” He reared back, wincing a little as he shifted position. “That doesn’t make sense.”

“Yes, it does. The night Treasure was killed, she was seen talking to a man in a purple flowered shirt. I found one in Dick’s place. It fits the description.”

Neal’s jaw sagged. “She was seen talking to him? But who—”

“I can’t explain now, Neal. I need the phone.”

He waved a hand at the kitchen. “Help yourself, but I don’t think it’s working.”

I hurried out to try it. He was right. No dial tone. “The line’s dead.” I replaced the receiver. “Do you have a cell phone?” I called.

“It’s not working, either. The phone towers must be down.”

In the living room, I dropped onto the sofa with a sigh and closed my eyes. A moment later the couch cushions sank a bit as Neal nestled close to me and draped a hand over my shoulders.

“Better now?” he murmured.

I wasn’t, but I nodded. Palm fronds scratched the lanai glass. My eyes snapped open in alarm. The fronds must have been ripped off their trunks. There were no trees up this high. “Do you think we should get away from the windows? Get into a, you know, a safe room?”

“Don’t be afraid,” Neal said. “I won’t let anything happen to you.”

His breath brushed my cheek. It smelled faintly, pleasantly, of wintergreen. Remembering our “date” at the Foxy Lady, and the false vibes he’d picked up, I shifted over a bit, putting an inch or two between our thighs.

He moved in, closing the tiny gap between us and pressing his leg against mine. “I’ve dreamed of this moment. Now it’s here at last.”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Neal’s black eyes, round and shiny as buttons, bore into mine. The arm he’d draped over me tightened. As he stroked my shoulder, I caught another drift of minty breath. He was way too close for comfort. My comfort, anyway. I wanted to pull away, sit in another seat, put a distance between us. That would offend him, but I had to get out of reach of those insistent fingers.

“Ah, Neal, may I…ah…use your bathroom?”

His grip on my shoulder didn’t loosen. “Of course,” he said, moving a hand to my thigh.

Uh-oh. Not good. Not good at all. Coming in here was a mistake. I should have stayed put upstairs.

The hand on my thigh moved, stroking upward from my knee. “Your jeans are in the way,” he whispered in my ear.

I glanced at him, alarmed. His mouth was curled up, ready to break into a smile. A dimple I’d never noticed before pitted his left cheek.

I grabbed his wrist and lifted his hand off my leg. “The bathroom, Neal, the bathroom.”

“I’ll show you the way.” His smiled broadened, as if he knew something amusing. Something I didn’t know. What was that all about?

“No need.” Not waiting to grab my bag, I leaped off the couch and escaped into the guest bathroom. It adjoined the second bedroom, the one we’d painted British Red and turned into an office.

In the guest bath, hands shaking, I slowly sipped a glass of water. I was stalling for time. Something about Neal’s humor—and those stroking fingers—had me frightened. He’d never acted this way before. Never. A cold knot formed in my stomach. I put down the glass before I dropped it. Another minute or two and he’d be knocking on the door, looking for me. I couldn’t hide out any longer. Drawing in a shuddering gulp of air, heart pounding, I threw back my shoulders and exited the bathroom.

He was standing outside the door, waiting.
Listening?

“Neal! You startled me.”

He frowned. “I didn’t mean to. I want you to see my bedroom is all.”

“Oh?”

I’d seen his bedroom. Designed it, for heaven’s sake. Chose the wall color, the duvet, the area rugs, the draperies, the throw pillows, the lamps. I didn’t need to see his bedroom.

“It’s a surprise.”

I didn’t need a surprise, either.

He took my hand, and for the first time I knew the strength in his fingers as they laced through mine. I couldn’t have pulled away if I wanted to. And boy, did I want to. Holding me close to his side, he marched me toward the master suite.

“You’re going to love this,” he said.

My gut told me I wouldn’t.

In the hall, we passed the signed photographs of famous players Neal had collected over the years—Ernie Els, Tiger Woods, Phil Michelson. They were all action shots, bodies arched, muscles straining, arms raised with clubs poised in midair. If only I could get my hands on a club…

“Ready?” he asked at the closed bedroom door.

Dick had asked the same thing outside his paint-smeared bedroom. Yogi Berra had it right.
Déjà vu
did happen all over again. I sighed and nodded, hoping this time the surprise would be “yippee!” not “omigod!”

He flung the door wide.

“Omigod!”

Gone were the Williamsburg green walls, the Thai silk pillows, the tailored draperies. I stepped, mouth agape, into a violet cave that made me want to vomit.

I spun around, trying to take in all the changes—the lavender walls and sheer pink curtains, the ruffled boudoir lamps with their flesh-colored bulbs, the heart-shaped pillows on the lavender-draped bed, the pink velour chaise.
From Whittier’s Showroom.

The smile on Neal’s face said,
“I knew you’d love it.”

I wanted to gag.

“You didn’t like our original concept?” I asked. A concept that had been vigorously masculine. He’d replaced it with this new look, and it was wrong, hideously, blatantly wrong. But I’d seen tasteless rooms before. Why should this one make me uneasy? The fact that his taste wasn’t impeccable, after all? Exactly. If I had that wrong, what else had I missed?