Designed for Death (10 page)

Around nine, I turned on the morning news and caught Joe Barton, Channel Two’s chief meteorologist, in the middle of a spiel.

“A high pressure system off the Carolina coast is keeping tropical storm Amy well out to sea. However, Bob, the second named storm of the season, has formed over the Eastern Antilles.” I snapped off the set. Let Joe take care of Bob. I had the silence of my condo to deal with. The phone hadn’t rung all morning. Not once. Not with Rossi telling me I had passed his test, or with Simon telling me I had flunked his.

Dressed in running shorts and an athletic top, I tied on my Nikes and locked up the condo. Before my jog, I’d see if AudreyAnn had been asked to have a blood test. Also, I was curious. Yesterday, in her teeny bikini, Marilyn proved she hadn’t been cut anywhere. The blood on the carpet couldn’t be hers. But what about AudreyAnn?

I rang the bell next door prepared to buzz it all day if necessary. But at the first ring I heard AudreyAnn call, “Chip, get that, will you? I’m not home.”

Who was she kidding? Her nasally whine carried through walls.

The door opened to a mouthwatering aroma and to a hairy-legged Chip in shorts and a chef’s apron that announced Coffee, tea or me?

Given a choice, I’d take the coffee.

“Hi, Chip. Smells wonderful. Basil?”

He nodded. “Lasagna for after Treasure’s funeral. I’ll freeze it until we know the date. Heard anything yet?”

“No, but she would have loved lasagna. Nothing girlish about her appetite.”

“I noticed. Invited her for dinner once. She nearly ate the tablecloth.”

We both laughed, remembering. Then I asked, “AudreyAnn in?”

“I don’t think she—”

I stretched my neck to peer inside. “I need to see her. It’s important.”

At about five foot ten and at least two hundred and fifty pounds, Chip effectively jammed the doorway. No way I’d get in unless he relented. I let my glance run from his super-sized sandals, up his utility-pole legs, to his belly, to the hair sprouting from the back of his meaty hands.

I guess he hadn’t been given the eye in a while. He flushed pink as a flamingo.

“Say, how did you get to be named Chip, anyway?” I asked.

“You can blame my father for that. I weighed thirteen pounds when I was born. He called me a chip off the old block. The name stuck.” The muscles in Chip’s usually placid face tensed visibly. “My real name’s Salvatore. My mom’s Italian.”

“No wonder you make a killer lasagna.”

He looked pleased but didn’t move an inch. I guess he didn’t dare defy AudreyAnn, and for some reason she didn’t want any visitors. Which made me all the more determined to see her.

Putting on a pleading expression, I begged, “I really have to talk to her, Chip. I know she’s in.”

He heaved a deep sigh. A knockout waft of garlic told me he’d been sampling the lasagna sauce.

“Why not?” He shrugged his massive shoulders. “She can’t sit alone forever. She’s out on the lanai.” Waving a wooden spoon like a baton, he stood aside to let me pass, calling over his shoulder, “Deva’s here.”

I didn’t need a second invitation and hurried out to the lanai. Still in her robe, looking tired and heavy-eyed, AudreyAnn sat on one of two matching lounge chairs I’d helped her select, her feet up on an ottoman, her legs covered with a shawl.

“You all right?” I asked, dripping saccharin on the words. “I haven’t seen you around since the day we found Treasure.”

She leaned over to tuck the shawl under her feet. “I’m fighting a cold.”

Her nose wasn’t red, and she wasn’t surrounded by tissues, juice or cough drops. Though she didn’t ask me to sit down, I did anyway, on the edge of the other lounge chair. “I had to have a blood test yesterday.”

“Oh? You sick?” She stayed real cool.

“No, I’m a murder suspect.” I paused for a moment then went straight for her jugular. “So are you.”

“Why me?” she asked, subzero. No shock. No outrage. Not even much curiosity.

Interesting.

Without answering, I leaned over and took the edge of the shawl between my fingers. Its texture was wonderful, soft and warm, yet practically weightless. Pashmina is like that. Pretending an interest in the material, I tightened my hold on the fabric and, not giving AudreyAnn a chance to react, I yanked, stripping away the shawl. Both her feet were bandaged.

“Hey!” she protested, diving for the Pashmina, but I shoved it behind my chair before she could grab it back.

“Cut your feet?” I asked.

“I have plantar warts.”

“Warts? A medical exam will settle that.” I stood and reached into my pocket.

Panic banished the dullness from her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Telephoning Lieutenant Rossi,” I said, my voice crisp with anger. “Someone bled a trail all over Treasure’s carpet. If you did, say so, or I’m making the call.”

She crossed her arms under her breasts, raising them eight to ten inches. Clearly, she was without a bra. When she wears one, everybody knows it. Even straight women stare at her in the street, but today, in the grip of gravity, she looked far less impressive. And about to cry. I felt a twinge of pity for her, but the stakes were too high to give in to it.

“I have no intention of screwing around over this, AudreyAnn. Did you cut your feet in Treasure’s condo?”

Her chin went sullen. “I never stepped foot in the place.”

I pulled out the phone.

“Deva!”

I glared at her, folded my arms under
my
chest—mere B’s that never got startled stares on the street—and waited.

She glanced inside for a second. “Close the sliders, would you? Chip doesn’t need to hear this.”

I thought he did, but to keep her talking I slid them shut.

“Sit down, please,” she said, making nice like the hostess at a tea party.

I did, holding the phone at the ready for the first sign of a lie.

“It’s true,” she said. “I went up to Treasure’s condo the evening before she died. But I didn’t kill her, I swear.”

“But you bled all over the place. That looks bad. Really bad. What were you doing up there? And how did you get in? You don’t have a key.”

Duh.
Lightning struck. I knew what she was going to tell me before she said a word. It took her a while, though. After a lot of sighing, a lot of looking out at the palms, she whispered, “I went up there to be with Dick.”

“Why?”

“You know why.” She said the words under her breath and risked a glance through the sliders at Chip slaving away at the stove.

“I don’t want to tell
you.
You tell me.” Irritated, I half rose off my seat.

“All right!” Her chin wobbled. “I’m in love with Dick.”

A big woman, firm from all her exercise—everywhere, that is, except for her chest—in this ruthless sunlight, she suddenly appeared vulnerable…and old.

“Continue.” That Dick was a married man with a beautiful wife was so obvious I didn’t bother to go there.

“We used to meet for…”

I helped her out. “Sex?”

She nodded. “It was wonderful. Every time.”

I held up an open palm, not giving a damn what my life line told her. “Spare me.”

“But—”

Now that the levee had been breached, she was intent on a full confession. But I was no priest. Just someone who wondered what in the world Dick could have been thinking. But, of course, thinking had nothing to do with it. More likely, AudreyAnn’s watermelon breasts did.

I pointed to the bandages. “Nothing you’ve told me so far explains
them.
”

She fished in her robe pocket for a Kleenex, pulled one out and blotted her wet eyes. I groaned. Not again. Lately, just about everybody I talked to burst into tears. Surfside practically had a lock on the tissue empire. What a paradise.

“That night, before Treasure was…” Sniff. “Dick said he wouldn’t meet me anymore. Not anywhere.” Another sniff. “Marilyn suspected something. We were finished.”

“The feet, AudreyAnn. The feet.”

“I went into the bathroom. I had just gotten redressed, you know, after…”

God, this was tacky. I was nauseated trying to follow the scenario in my mind.

“He told me while I was having a sip of water.” She stopped talking to pat her eyes and blow her nose. “I was so shocked, I dropped the glass on the tiles. It shattered. I must have stepped on some of the pieces, but I was so upset I didn’t feel a thing. I just wanted to get out of there.”

“I see.” But I didn’t. Not really. I was disgusted and, I’ll admit it, judgmental. I hated how she and Dick had chanced hurting Marilyn and Chip for a few cheap flings, but I managed to act as unruffled as if I heard crappy stories like this every day.

Still, there were questions she hadn’t answered. “Why did the blood trail end at the front door? There were no stains on the walkway. Nothing on the stairs.”

“Dick ran after me. He caught me at the door and gave me my sandals…and a kiss.” AudreyAnn began to sob in earnest.

Poor Chip. In the arguments I’d overheard, the big, loveable guy must have been asking her to explain those cuts. Like Marilyn, he probably suspected something. Lovers’ antennae were finely tuned to betrayal.

Though Chip was a gentle giant, what he might do if enraged by jealousy was anybody’s guess. I wouldn’t want to be in the crosshairs when his lovable Shrek morphed into the Incredible Hulk. But if he didn’t know how AudreyAnn cut herself that meant he didn’t know, for sure, she’d been meeting Dick. Besides, why would he kill Treasure? A jealous man would go after the lovers.

Hmm. What law said the killer had to be a man? Suppose Treasure found out they were meeting in her place and threatened to tell Chip? Would AudreyAnn have silenced her? The two women had been pretty well matched in physical strength. Though Treasure had been taller, AudreyAnn was more muscular. Or suppose Treasure had threatened to tell Marilyn? The finger would point at Dick.

Sighing, I stared at my Nikes. What a mess.

AudreyAnn sobbed quietly. I’ll give her that.

I punched Rossi’s number into my phone. “We’ll have to tell the lieutenant about this.”

“
No.
” She lowered the sodden tissue from the tip of her nose. “Please, no, Deva. Chip will find out, and I’m not ready to leave him. We share expenses, but he owns the condo. There’s no telling—”

I shook my head, letting the number ring, fighting my sympathy as she sat crumpled in front of me.

Through some miracle, Rossi picked up on the first ring.

“This is Deva Dunne, Lieutenant. One of my neighbors has something to tell you.”

I thrust the phone at AudreyAnn, who promptly dropped it on her lap, recovered it, then fumbled it up to her ear. After a halting start, she told him what he needed to know and, exhausted by the effort, her hand trembling, she held the phone out to me.

Rossi was still on the line. “Mrs. Dunne? Tell your neighbor I’ll be there in fifteen minutes.” As usual, he hung up before I could answer.

“He’s on his way,” I said. “And I’m off for my jog.”

She leaned her head on the chair back as if it were too heavy to hold up. “Chip’ll want me to move out now. See what you’ve done.”

Chapter Eleven

In Dorchester, Massachusetts, where I grew up, floral delivery meant one of two things: you were getting married, or you were dead.

So what a surprise when the chimes rang right after I returned from my run, and a delivery man from Gene’s Florist stood in the doorway holding a gorgeous arrangement of peach-colored roses with apricot hearts. Speared by a clear plastic arrow, a small white envelope hovered above the blossoms.

I placed the flowers on the coffee table, their color perfect with Ralph Lauren’s ripe peach walls. Someone had a good eye.

Plucking the envelope from the holder, I opened it and read,
I hope these roses never turn brown, and that you forgive me once again. Love, Simon.

Love?

A figure of speech, that was all. Forgive him? I was the one who was chagrined. Of course I forgave him. What harm in a kiss?
Right, Jack?
Even from a man who was too macho to go to a gay bar.

I dialed Simon’s number and told the answering machine “Thank you.”

Without bothering to change out of my running shorts and sweaty athletic top, I opened Treasure’s file, grabbed the extra key—the one I never told Rossi about—and headed upstairs. I hadn’t been in Treasure’s condo since the murder, and technically I’d be trespassing, but I couldn’t keep avoiding it, not with Dick the Prick eager to turn it into a sales model. “Add some color,” he’d said. “The sooner the better.” I knew he didn’t mean any major overhaul, just jolts of energy here and there, enough to temper the pale, Hollywood-in-the-Thirties look. The State of Florida wouldn’t care—at least that’s what I told myself.

All was quiet on the third floor; Simon must have gone to work. I let myself into 301 and stood inside the doorway for a moment as the memory of Treasure washed over me. The noon sun flooded the white living room with light, just the way she’d wanted it.

I forced myself to look down. Except for leaving a strong chemical odor, the cleaners had done an excellent job. Once again, the carpeting was a smooth, unsullied ivory, all traces of blood gone.

I closed the sheers over the lanai glass, muting the glare. Dick was right about the need for changes. As is, the condo was a one-woman show not a saleable middle-class getaway.

Clipboard in hand, I jotted some notes. Soft shades of pink and rose and cinnamon would be good for accessories, but the room lacked darker tones, too. Sales models worked better if colors were a bit masculine. That called for a few baritone notes in green to please any check-writing men who wandered in.

The condo’s major sales feature, the lanai, with its gorgeous gulf view, definitely needed romancing. A sole lounge chair sat in the middle of it, the white cushions hinting more at loneliness than innocence…like Treasure. Upscale patio furniture and outsized green ginger-jar planters were called for, but I’d consult with Dick on costs before ordering a thing.

In the kitchen Treasure had wanted “white as a snowball,” I’d add a little green as well. Green Spanish glass bottles. An enamel teapot to sit on the stovetop, silk herbs in terracotta pots, cookbooks.