Designed for Death (11 page)

The guest bath and bedroom had been given a coat of flat white and left at that. No problem there. Unfurnished, the bedroom looked spacious, a sales feature that wouldn’t cost Dick a cent.

Like last time I was in here, I tiptoed down the hall to the master suite, my heart catching at the sight of the bed shimmering in the light. Too bad it couldn’t talk; it would spew out a novel. Gingerly rounding the foot of the bed, I crept up to the closed bathroom door. For certain, history wouldn’t repeat itself, but my hand trembled on the knob just the same. I screwed up my courage before taking a chance and flinging the door wide.

The bathroom was immaculate. And empty. My heart settled back into its normal rhythm. Dick, or more likely a decontamination cleaning crew, had done a masterful job. The tub and tiles were spotless, the walls softly aglow with their five coats of Old World glaze.

Releasing a deep breath slowly, I kept my mind on business and away from murder. Okay. “Color,” Dick had said. I’d stack bright towels on the shelf next to the tub. Heap silk pillows on the bed, the glossier the better. But in what shade?

For inspiration, I opened one of the mirrored closets where Treasure’s negligees hung in a bright array. A luscious lavender peignoir caught my eye. I slipped it off the hanger and draped it across the bed. A snapshot I didn’t recall seeing, a handsome man in a Lucite frame, stood on the bed stand. I took it over to the window for a better look.

Dick didn’t have his facts straight. The guy in this picture looked so much like Treasure, he had to be her brother. Or at least a relative, a cousin or an uncle or… I took a deep breath. I needed it to push out the questions that had been troubling me since Faye’s visit to the clubroom.

Learning the identity of this man might put my suspicions to rest—or confirm them—but I didn’t have a clue as to how to get in touch with him.

Except for Faye, no one had come by Surfside making inquiries about Treasure. Or offering information. Or telling us about funeral plans. Strange.

Rossi might know if Treasure had any relatives, but if he did, he hadn’t said so. Strange, too, that a wily guy like Rossi hadn’t noticed AudreyAnn’s bandaged feet the day of the murder. I knew he’d questioned everyone in Surfside. In light of the blood trail, shouldn’t he have been suspicious about the shawl covering her legs? I shrugged the question away. He must have thought the blood came from Treasure or the killer…and that most likely the killer was a man…not one of the women in the building. Or else he wasn’t telling me everything.

I glanced down at the photo again. The smile was so like Treasure’s it broke my heart. Slipping the photograph out of the frame, I secured it to my clipboard. I owed it to Treasure to find out who this guy was, and the person most likely to know anything was Faye.

That meant just one thing. “Foxy Lady, here I come.”

My survey of 301 complete, I was on the walkway locking up when the door to Simon’s condo opened and a stunning brunette stepped out. At first glance, I thought,
It’s Treasure.
The woman was about the same age, tall and tanned, with long glossy hair and fashion-model cheekbones. But when she said “Hello” in a smooth, well-bred tone, with none of Treasure’s sassy warmth, the impression fled.

She wore a sleeveless black linen dress and high-heeled sandals. A strand of chunky pearls circled her throat, and a black grosgrain ribbon held her hair back from her face. Guaranteed, this woman had never danced with a live python. Neither had I, for that matter. But in comparison to her cool perfection, I sported damp underarms on my old BU T-shirt, a faded pair of athletic shorts and well-worn running shoes. Worse, after that jog in the sun earlier, I probably had cookie-sized freckles and hot-wired hair.

She held out a long, slim hand, the one with her “other” diamond on the ring finger. “I’m Cynthia Yaeger,” she said. “Simon’s wife.”

“Oh.” So much for peach-colored roses. Without even checking, I knew they had turned brown.

Cynthia let her glance slide over me. “And you are?”

“Devalera Dunne. Mr. Yaeger’s interior designer.”

“Really?” she said, puzzled amusement creasing her brow as her long-lashed eyes gave me a second sweep. “I didn’t realize Simon had employed a decorator.”

“Designer.”

“Is there a difference?”

“A decorator matches tea towels to draperies. A designer does not. Get it?”

“What a bizarre explanation.” With a final perusal of my outfit and a waggle of her diamond-studded fingers, Cynthia turned on her long patrician legs and strolled toward the elevator.

Ordinarily, I’m not the jealous type. Jealousy is an energy-eating waste of time that solves nothing and accomplishes nothing. I can’t be bothered with it. I suppose I can say that easily because Jack never gave me reason to be jealous. I was the One and Only. But those days were now officially over. Clutching the clipboard as if it were a life raft, I stomped down the stairs, letting my Nikes smack each step on the way. Just as I reached the second level, Neal Tomson sauntered along the walkway toting a bag of golf clubs.

“Hey, Deva! My new pillow ready?”

Oh, darn, with all that had been going on lately, I hadn’t given his ruined pillow a thought. “Sorry, Neal, I forgot to place the order. I’ll call it in today.”

“Good. My couch looks naked without it.”

Hardly. But it figured that Type-A Neal would think so. A big, happy-to-see-you smile had spread across his face. Maybe he’d like to go to the Foxy Lady with me. I didn’t want to go alone and had no other guy to ask. Mr. Married Man Simon had already refused. The lover boy twins, Chip and Dick, wouldn’t do, either. Rossi was out, as well; he had warned me away from the Lady.

“Neal, are you free tonight?” His eyes lit up, stabbing me with a needle of guilt for sending the wrong message. “I want to go to the Foxy Lady Lounge. You game?”

“You mean that joint on 951? The one that weird guy gave us the cards for?”

“That’s the one.”

“Absolutely! I’ve been wondering what it was like.”

“Ten o’clock, then. We’ll wait for the place to heat up.”

“Great. I’ll drive.”

“Thanks, Neal. I really appreciate it.”

“So do I,” he said, his gaze lingering on my sweaty BU logo. “You went there, huh?”

His smile was still in place as I nodded and turned to walk away. I was screwing up left and right. From the look on Neal’s face, he thought I really wanted to go out with him.

I tramped down the rest of the stairs. I had to get home and throw out the roses. But first I’d stop at AudreyAnn’s and tell her she had a date tonight. With Rossi’s warning echoing in my brain, I figured safety lay in numbers, so an extra person along wouldn’t hurt, but not another man. A woman. And AudreyAnn fit that bill to overflowing. Okay, she was a woman under suspicion of murder, but so was everyone in Surfside, and my female instinct told me she hadn’t killed Treasure any more than I had. If that made me naïve and overly trusting, so be it. Besides, she owed me one over that blood test, so she was going to the Foxy Lady even if she had to wear bedroom slippers.

Chapter Twelve

In the lounge’s unpaved parking lot, Neal’s headlights bounced off a colorful mix of rusted pickups and late-model sports cars. Straight ahead, on the roof of what looked like a concrete bunker, a blue neon sign flashed Foxy Lady into the night sky. The sign cast the only light for miles around except for a pair of high beams from another car pealing into the lot.

“Are we sure we want to do this?” AudreyAnn asked.

“We are,” I said, getting out of Neal’s BMW before he could change his mind and drive off.

Steamy air, hot and heavy as a sauna, clung to my skin and hair. It carried the odor of decaying vegetation, a reminder that the Everglades, the biggest swamp in the world, lay only a short distance to the east. Despite the heat, I shivered as we slammed the car doors and headed for the entrance to the Lady.

Neal had dressed for the occasion in a lavender French-cuffed shirt—the first French cuffs I’d seen since moving to southwest Florida—and black linen slacks. If he was disappointed by being out on a threesome, he hadn’t let on, and ever the gentleman, he took AudreyAnn by the elbow, helping her keep her balance as she limped to the door over the crushed shell drive. In tight white pants and a top studded with iridescent beads, she brightened up the night. With all that shimmer going on, I doubted anybody would spot her fluffy pink bedroom slippers. The shells must have been hell on her feet, but she didn’t complain. Actually she looked relieved and sounded it too, whispering in my ear that though Chip didn’t want her to move out, she was glad to get away from him for a while. Too bad. Chip was a good guy, but it didn’t look as though their relationship was going anywhere.

For the third night in a row, I wore the apricot shift and the Jimmy Choos. If this kept up, I’d have to do some serious clothes shopping. That meant a fulltime job…but how could I concentrate on a job search while Treasure’s killer hovered over us like an evil presence?

Neal held the door, and we entered a tiny anteroom with one blue bulb suspended from the ceiling. No wonder darkness blanketed the parking lot. Ahead, slivers of light surrounded yet another door. We fumbled our way toward it and pulled it open. A waft of cool air dense with cigarette smoke, aftershave and the hot, pounding rhythm of Nine Inch Nails slapped us in the face. The floor vibrated from the ear-jarring music. AudreyAnn’s feet had to be tingling.

I glanced back at Neal. His pupils, a deer’s caught in headlights, were dilated to the max. I turned around, reached for his hand and squeezed. He gave me a startled smile. I intended the squeeze to say “You’re not alone. We’re in this together.” But from his expression, I think he read it as “I want you, baby.”

Dropping Neal’s sweaty palm, I followed AudreyAnn through the door into the lounge. A big, hunky guy who looked like a cover model for an erotic magazine blocked our way. He had on leather shorts and a black bow tie. No shirt. Just a tie.

“Well, hi there,” he said, fingering a silver loop in his left lobe. “I wondered when you’d show.”

The strobe lights flitting around the room glanced off his Mr. Clean bald head. I squinted. He looked familiar. “Excuse me. Do I know you?”

He mimed a tragic face. “How could you forget? I’m Fayette. And you’re Treasure’s little friend.”

Ah!
“I’m five six, Faye.”

“Of course you are. It’s Fayette tonight, lovey.” His eyes swept past AudreyAnn’s iridescence without so much as a flicker and zeroed in on Neal. “You’ve brought your friend. How marvelous to see you again,” he said to Neal over the loud pulsing of “Bat Country.” In the semi dark, Neal moved in closer. This time, he reached for
my
hand, grasping it with what had to be his best golf grip. I grinned at him, but he didn’t smile back.

Faye…Fayette cocked his pinky. “Follow me. I keep a special table for special people.”

AudreyAnn limped over to me and seized my arm. “I shouldn’t have come.”

Fayette must have had sonar hearing. “Of course you should come, lovely. Every time. Just never fake it.”

I arched my eyebrows at AudreyAnn but, her face a blank, she pretended not to notice.

We wove our way through clusters of round, muffin-sized tables as the strobes—yellow, blue, pink, purple, red—lit up faces in the crowd. Fayette seated us at one of the muffins on the edge of the dance floor. “Be back later,” he said, “I can’t leave the front desk right now. Roy will be your server. Order whatever you want. It’s on me. Ta-ta.”

He winked at Neal and disappeared into the throng. A few moments later, a built blond with a bad permanent and a ring in his nose took our drink orders. We all asked for mai tais, though my two fellow travelers looked like they would have preferred vanilla slurpies at a Dairy Queen.

“An interesting concept,” I shouted over the booming.

“What is?” Neal yelled back.

“Designing with lights and music.” I looked around. From what I could tell, the walls were untreated cinder blocks.

The blond brought our drinks, and Neal took a quick gulp of his. AudreyAnn had a sip, but I just played with my paper umbrella and waited for Fayette to join us. I really wasn’t here to party, though the flashing lights and the booming music had already given me a party-sized headache.

We were just a few feet away from the stage, a curtainless platform opposite the entrance. To our left, banquettes stretched along the wall with a row of the miniature tables in front of them. The bar dominated the right wall, and, like any watering hole, this one was crowded with singles. All males, no doubt looking to hook up.

I folded the umbrella and took a sip. As if that were a cue, the strobe lights dimmed, the pounding ceased, and a deep male voice burst into the void.

“Ladies and gentlemen.” A drumroll, though I couldn’t see a drum. “At last, the moment we’ve all been waiting for.” Another roll. “Miss! Hedda! Lettuce!”

Like Vesuvius, the place erupted. Clapping, yelling, stamping, shouting exploded all around us. Neal looked so terrified, I thought he might jump onto my lap.

A DJ stationed in a booth above the dance floor doused the strobes then aimed a single white spot at stage left. The drumroll revved up again, and a beautiful woman stepped into that single pool of light. Tall, with a cascade of silver hair, her improbably long legs slicing through her silver gown’s thigh-high slit, she slowly, s…l…o…w…l…y, undulated to center stage, turned, flounced back to stage left. And disappeared.

The place went nuts.

After the screaming and table banging had gone on for a while, Hedda reappeared and again made the tantalizing journey to center stage. Grasping the mike with her slim, French-manicured fingers, she purred, “Now that I know you want me, I’ll stay for a while.”

More screaming and foot stomping. I snapped the umbrella in two, plunked two pieces of pineapple and a cherry on the napkin and took a swig.

“Who
is
that?” Neal asked.

I shrugged and looked across at AudreyAnn. She had drained her glass and was gawking at the stage, a forgotten pineapple chuck suspended between her fingers.