Designed for Death (4 page)

“You got it, Deva,” Chip assured me.

AudreyAnn remained mute, but at least she was intact. So why did I feel like slapping her?

Simon and I recrossed the lawn to my condo. I sniffed the evening air—a gorgeous mix of sea salt and gardenias. We closed my lanai sliders, blocking out the perfume but also the September heat and humidity.

In my nice, cool kitchen, Simon picked up our glasses and handed one to me. “Do I get to sit down?”

“Be my guest.” I gestured him toward the living room.

He strolled in, taking a seat in the center of my grandmother’s Victorian sofa. Jack and I made love on it once and at the critical moment fell off in a tangled heap. The memory made me smile.

“That smile’s good to see,” Simon said as I settled in the club chair opposite him. He raised his glass. “
L’chaim.
”

“To life—” My voice broke and the glass tipped. Wine splashed to the floor.

Simon caught my hand, taking the glass and placing it on the table. “Don’t,” he said, brushing that first tear from my cheek. “Don’t cry. It’s all right.”

I couldn’t stop. The tears poured out, running down my cheeks and neck and onto my chest. A few more minutes and I could enter a wet T-shirt contest, but I didn’t care. I wept for Treasure and for Jack. For AudreyAnn and Chip with their hateful, senseless anger. And for all the suffering people in the world I didn’t know and couldn’t help.

“Don’t.” Simon kept touching my cheek, brushing the tears aside. But there was no stopping the deluge, so he lifted me to my feet and held me in his arms while I wept all over him.

When I hit the sniffles stage, he loosened his embrace and eased me back onto the club chair. “Stay where you are.”

I rested my head on the chair back, closed my eyes and listened to him moving about the kitchen, opening the fridge, getting a towel, pouring wine.

It felt good to sit like a zombie and let a man take care of me.

Jack, there’s a killer loose and a stranger in my kitchen. But I’m not afraid. I know you’ll warn me if you need to…

“Deva.” I opened my eyes and glanced up. Simon looked worried. We hardly knew each other. Why should he care how I felt?

“I’m so ashamed,” I began.

He stopped my apology with a touch to my arm. “No. No need. Dick told me what happened to your husband. I’m sorry.”

I nodded without saying a word. I couldn’t face talking about Jack’s death again. Besides, my shirt was wet enough.

I took the fresh drink from his hand. His fingers were warm and firm and lingered on mine a fraction of a second longer than they needed to. Or maybe I thought they had. Maybe I even hoped they had.

Simon went back to the sofa, picked up his glass from the coffee table and glanced around the room. “You did a great job in here. It’s a West Indies look, right?”

A chance to change the subject.
“Very good. That’s interior design jargon.”

“I heard my wife use it.”

“Oh.” I stared into my glass so he couldn’t read my face. Of course he was married. Anyone that attractive… I tamped down a sudden stab of disappointment. I didn’t care that he was married, did I?

“My ex, I suppose I should say.”

I swallowed a mouthful of wine. “Tell me about her.”

He laughed, one of those dry laughs that get caught in your throat.

“About my wife? What’s to tell? She’s dead. At least to me.” He ran a hand through his hair as if talking about her disturbed him. I understood only too well—if for a different reason.

“I’m sorry it turned out badly,” I said, not sure I meant it.

He nodded and sipped his wine. I did the same, studying him as he glanced around at the Irish furniture that had been Jack’s mother’s.

He caught me staring but didn’t seem to mind. “I like your furniture.”

“Thanks, I do, too. Jack had it shipped from Dublin to Boston, and I loved it the minute I saw it. Almost all these pieces belonged to his family. The mahogany hunt board, the chest of drawers, the dining table, the tall case clock, the brass candlesticks. Even these scraps of Oriental rugs. Nearly everything.” I fought to keep my voice steady. “Having them keeps Jack closer to me.”

For a moment, Simon looked as though he wanted to ask a question, but he didn’t. “It’s homier here than my place. Brighter. Not all brown.”

Ah, an opening I couldn’t resist. “Brown’s good. Color theorists say it’s a sign of stability. And from the amount you have, you’re very, very stable. There’s your brown couch. Your brown rug. Your brown coffee table. Your CD towers—all three of them.” I eyed him over the rim of my glass. “Actually, your condo talks to me.”

He laughed. “I bet what it says ain’t good.”

“’Fraid not. It speaks Early Divorce.”

“Yeah. It’s a dump up there. Want to redo it for me?”

“Of course.” The words flew out of my mouth.

“I don’t know about peach walls, though.”

I stifled a smile. “We can do earth tones.”

His brow furrowed. “More brown? I think I have enough of that.”

Blame it on the day’s trauma, but a fit of giggles attacked me and refused to stop.

“The wine’s working,” he said.

“Yup. I feel great,” I said, voicing the unbelievable and rising out of the club chair with difficulty. “Time to eat. I have some shrimp and tomatoes. And a loaf of olive bread. I make dynamite coffee.”

“Sounds perfect.”

Feels perfect, I thought, cooking for a man again. If cooking was what you’d call it. We no sooner sat down at the kitchen table when the front doorbell pealed.

Da da da DA.

I padded out to the living and peeked through the shutter slats. Neal Tomson from 204 stood outside, his face ashen, his eyes darting about nervously. With Simon as backup, I risked opening the door.

“Deva,” Neal said, his voice breaking. “I just heard about Treasure. Dick told me you found her. He was too upset to say much more.” As if the killer might be listening, his voice dropped to a whisper. “What happened to her?”

A fastidious bachelor, Neal took great pride in his appearance. I’d never seen him in a polo shirt without an embroidered logo. Or in slacks without a crease sharp enough to slice your throat.

But today, his pants bagged at the knee and blood drops were splattered across his blue polo shirt. He held up a bandaged left hand. “I had to go to the emergency room. Puncture wound. A dumb accident, but I’ve never been any good with power tools.”

Chapter Five

The next day, the promise of a blood-orange sun lit the early morning sky. Cupping a freshly brewed mug of high-octane coffee, I took a seat on my lanai and watched the show begin. Gradually, the day brightened from amethyst to turquoise to azure, and I could make out the silhouettes of palm trees swaying like dancers in the breeze.

It was a spectacular performance, one Treasure would have loved. Just last week, we’d talked about Florida’s beautiful dawns. She told me that for years she hadn’t gotten up early enough to see the sun rise.

“Now that I’m retired, I get up early all the time. Once a month or so.”

I remember laughing.

“Want to know my stage name?” she’d asked.

“Absolutely.”

“Treasure Chest.”

My jaw dropped to my sandals. “No!”

“Yes!” She sat up straighter to show off her D-cup assets and grinned like a naughty little girl. “My real name’s Teresa Kozlowski. Try putting that up in lights. But when I turned thirty, I figured I’d made enough money, at least for a while. So I quit the stage. Now I’m just plain Treasure Kozlowski, computer whiz. Or I will be as soon as I finish my course at Edison Community College. What a riot, college classes. You been to college?”

I nodded and smiled at the memory. “I met my husband in college. At BU.”

“He sit next to you? I’ve got a cutie near me in Basic Comp. He can’t keep his eyes off me, but I don’t want to rob the cradle. I want a real man, you know, mature. Older than me and taller. Somebody like the new guy who’s moving in next door. I caught a glimpse of him when he came to look at the condo. He’s a hottie.”

“I like older men, too. My husband turned forty-three last year.”

“And you met him in
college?
” Disbelief sent her throaty voice soaring.

“He taught European history. With an Irish brogue that sounded like music. At least to me.” I forced down my tears. “I’ll never love anyone the way I loved Jack.”

“Honey,” Treasure said, leaning across my coffee table to clutch my hand, her eyes brimming with sympathy, “never say never. You’re a beautiful girl with a whole life ahead of you.”

“My life ended when Jack died.” I tried to flash a smile. “Besides, I’m not a girl, I’m thirty-two.”

“That’s nothing. Love’s out there waiting for you.” With a defiant toss of her head, she’d flipped her tail of black hair over a shoulder. “For me, too.”

Wrong.
And strange that she’d never mentioned any men from the past… Maybe the types she’d met just weren’t keepers.

Well, none of that mattered now.

With a sigh, I put the mug on the lanai table and stood. After a sleepless night, I welcomed the spurt of energy the jolt of caffeine shot through me. I’d get in my daily two-mile run and try to block out Treasure’s brutal death, Neal’s bloody shirt—even Simon’s arms holding me tight.

The lanai sliders next door opened, and I heard the murmur of voices. AudreyAnn and Chip again, but quieter today. I wondered what had caused their row yesterday, then told myself their personal life was none of my business.

Suited up in running shorts and top, I stretched on a sweatband, double-knotted my Nikes, checked the door locks and headed for Moorings Beach. Though it wasn’t yet seven o’clock, humidity clogged the air. I’d be running in pea soup.

I started out slow, pacing myself, letting my calves limber up. Before long, the familiar tempo set in and the demands of the jog took over. Hands fisted at chest level, elbows back, sweat trickling into the sweatband and between my shoulder blades, I picked up the pace, stretching those hamstrings, going for the gold.

With muscles pumping full throttle and lungs gulping salt air, my body soon broke out of its vise and I hit my stride. I had the beach to myself. Only the shrill cries of gulls and the swish of low tide broke the silence.

In no time, the sunshine-yellow Edgewater Beach Hotel loomed ahead on the left. As I passed it, lights beamed near the beachside pool and from a few of the windows. Some of the guests had to be early risers. But so far, there were no other signs of life. Most mornings I enjoyed playing Robinson Crusoe, but today the isolation made me uneasy, turning my skin clammy. Maybe the jog had been a mistake. No telling who might be peering from the hotel or crouching behind the sea grass ready to leap out and grab me by the throat.

Phew.
I slowed my pace, needing to catch more than my breath. My imagination was running faster than my feet. At the water’s edge, a flock of terns on little stick legs scampered before the low, lapping waves. In the distance, against the horizon, a white sail cut into the blue sky.
It must be great out there on the water, your catamaran racing with the wind…all troubles left behind on the shore.

In back of me, approaching fast, running shoes scrunched on sand.
He’s after me.
My heart kicking into overdrive, I whipped around to face my assailant.

“Dick Parker!” I yelled, coming to an abrupt stop. “What are you doing here? Following me? There’s a killer on the loose, for God’s sake. What a time to sneak up on somebody.” So what if I sounded like a shrew? He had it coming, scaring me like that.

Red faced, dripping sweat, he threw me one of his signature grins. “I thought it was you. I’d know your aah—”

Ass.

“—stride anywhere.”

“Don’t you ever give up? You’re a married man.”

“Ha!” He tossed his head, flinging sweat drops onto the sand. “It’s a compliment.”

I ignored him and started a power walk. While he panted beside me, I inhaled the sweet, salty air and let the tension drain away. A few people had come onto the beach laden with picnic hampers and chairs, ready to settle in for the day. I was glad to see them.

“Aren’t you talking to me?” Dick asked after a few moments of silence. He used his remorseful-little-boy voice, but I didn’t trust it. Or him.

“You scared me, is all. So what are you doing here so early? You don’t usually hit the beach until after work.”

“I didn’t sleep last night. Thought maybe a jog would pep me up.” He tried on the grin again, but it was a weak version of his old smile.

Still red faced and panting, he needed a break, so I slowed to a stroll. This rollercoaster fear had to stop, but when and how? For openers, no more jogging on a deserted beach. I’d switch to afternoons when there were more people around working on their tans. As for me, I’d get to redesign the White House before I’d ever get a tan. Yet here I was, living in southwest Florida with skin that turned freckles into a cottage industry. So much for trying to escape the reality of Jack’s death. Yesterday, in this beautiful, sun-drenched place, death had caught up to me with a vengeance.

“Yeah, I’m whipped all right.” Dick had dark smudges under his eyes, and he hadn’t bothered to shave. He scooped up a handful of broken shells only to let them fall, one by one, onto the sand. “This is a nightmare, Deva.”

“I know.”

“Have you read the
Daily News?
”

I watched the shells drop from his fingers. “No.”

“The story’s plastered all over the front page. There’s a picture of Treasure. Surfside’s mentioned. The address. My name. Your name.” He paused to give me a blue-eyed glance of sympathy. “They’re calling it murder.”

“What else could it be?”

“Yeah.” He peered out at the gulf. “Did she look bad?” I could tell he needed to know but dreaded hearing the answer.

Despite the heat, I shivered. “Only a madman could have twisted her neck like that.”

Dick flung the last shell into the water, stretched and swung his arms at a phantom sparring partner. His hard work at Surfside had left him with only a slight beer gut. Except for that and his heavy eyes, he looked good. He tossed me a wave. “So long, Deva. I’d better finish the run. I have a feeling this’ll be a busy day.”