Designed for Death (7 page)

He laughed. “Brown, of course.”

I knew he didn’t mean it. Still, even if he did, it might not be a bad thing, indicating stability as it did and a yearning for roots. Nothing wrong with roots, except I wasn’t ready to grow any.

At home, I called the Foxy Lady to see if they served burgers or something along with the beers and margaritas they’d be sure to have, but their answering machine picked up. The Lady wouldn’t come alive until well after dark. I hung up and dialed the number on Lieutenant Rossi’s card. No luck there, either, so I left a message on his voice mail. Then I searched for an outfit I could wear to a gay bar. No slacks. Why be out-girlied by fake girls?

Over the past two days, I’d perfected my technique for opening closed doors. Grab the knob, yank it back and take a deep breath. Next, look in, hoping an axe murderer wouldn’t leap out, weapon in hand. But only my skimpy wardrobe stared back at me, and slowly, one beat at a time, my heart dropped back to its normal rhythm.

When I left Boston, vowing never to return to the cold, I gave away my winter clothes. Not much else remained. A sleeveless apricot shift was the best of the lot, its neckline low enough to be interesting, high enough to be safe. Usually I wore it with beige sling-back pumps—my one and only pair of Jimmy Choos—and a long gold chain with a Celtic cross that nestled in my cleavage. Since Jack died, I’d lost so much weight the shift would be loose, but that was good for a business meeting. To make it officially business, I’d bring along a clipboard and a pen.

Da da da DA.

Eight o’clock on the nose. Simon must be the punctual type. A virtue, I guess. Jack had run on what he called Irish time—you get there when you get there. After a while I found it endearing. Go figure. I flung open the door.

“Lieutenant Rossi!”

He’d shaved since our last meeting, probably showered, slapped on a musky cologne, and definitely changed his clothes. This time, his Hawaiian shirt bloomed with purple hibiscus.

“When did you go to Honolulu?” I asked as he followed me inside.

He glanced down at his shirt, then over at me without a change in expression. “Never been there. Saving it for my honeymoon.”

“You’re getting married?”

He nodded, noncommittal as usual. So the lieutenant had a personal life. That shouldn’t have come as a surprise, but somehow, I’d expected the Iron Man to be more, well,
robotic.
It would be interesting to meet his female counterpart…very interesting.

“Did you get my message?” I asked.

“The one about Fayette LaBelle?”

“Fayette? So that’s her name?”

“His.” The lieutenant stood in the foyer, notebook in hand, his rugged face unreadable. “You had something to tell me?”

“If you have Faye’s real name, you already know.”

He shrugged. “Maybe not.”

“You want to sit down?”

“Thanks.” In the living room, he sank into a club chair with a sigh of relief. “It’s been a long day.” He wasn’t too tired to let those hooded eyes glance over me, with an extra second spent on the Jimmy Choos. “You going someplace?”

“A business meeting,” I said, annoyed.

“Who with?” He raised his pencil stub over the notebook.

“Write that down under none-of-your-business.”

He looked up, nostrils flaring. “So what’s your message?”

“Faye and Treasure were roommates. For years.”

“That’s it?”

I nodded. “I thought you should know.”

He snapped the notebook shut and stood. “As I said, it’s been a long day. Thanks for the tip, but it would be better if—”

Da da da DA.

Under Rossi’s scrutiny, this time I looked through the peephole before opening the door to Simon. He’d changed his clothes, too, and some kind of pricey cologne floated in with him. In a linen jacket, a soft blue silk sport shirt, crisp chinos and tasseled loafers, he looked gorgeous.

Next to him, Rossi was a flower garden in need of pruning. The two men nodded, wary as a couple of new dogs on the block.

“Detective.” Simon moved to my side of the room.

Rossi watched him in silence.

“Case going well?” Simon asked.

“It’s going.”

Simon turned his attention to me. “Ready?”

“I sure am. Foxy Lady, here we come. It’s a bit of a drive, but—”

His hand on the door knob, Simon stiffened. “The Foxy Lady? That
gay
bar?”

I picked up the clipboard and my purse. “Yes. Faye LaBelle’s place.”

He let go of the door and turned to me, his face rigid. “I have no intention of going there.”

“Why not?” I didn’t even try to keep the disappointment out of my voice. “Our agreement was I pick the place.”

“Not this one,” he said, his jaw so tight he could hardly spit out the words. “I insist on going somewhere else.”

“Oh, is that right?” I challenged, hands on hips, shrew style. “And I insist on the Foxy Lady.”

“Where’s that famous taste you’re so proud of? I’m not spending our first date in a gay bar.”

“What date? This is a business meeting”

“It was. Not anymore,” he said, storming out and slamming the door behind him.

Rossi chuckled.

I whirled around to face him. “He never mentioned anything about a date.”

“Right.” The suspicion of a smile hovered around his mouth. “I agree with Si—”

“I don’t want to hear it.” I lifted my chin, daring him to go on.

“You’re in enough danger without looking for more.”

“A bar full of people isn’t exactly a dark alley.”

“Fayette’s a suspect. You must know that.”

“He loved Treasure. What motive would he have?”

Rossi gave me another one of those shrugs. He might be wearing a flowered shirt, but those powerful shoulders made it look like a military uniform. “I don’t know. Until this is over, don’t trust anyone.”

“Not even you?”

The grin he had been holding back broke free and spread all over his face. “Especially me. I’m a dangerous guy.” Did I imagine it, or was Lieutenant Rossi hitting on me? Before I could decide, he tucked his notebook in his shirt pocket. “I’ve got something of yours. Be right back.”

A minute later, he returned with a plastic bag from Publix Market. I looked inside. Neal’s pillow minus a small square cut out of the silk.

“The lab kept the blood sample.” He looked crestfallen.

“It didn’t match anything, did it?” I tried to keep the satisfaction out of my voice.

He hesitated, then loosened up enough to say, “No, and that’s all I can tell you.” He eyed the apricot shift and the Jimmy Choos. “Why waste the dress? Want to cruise for burgers?”

Did I? I was hungry, and if I couldn’t trust the homicide detective on the case, who could I trust? Besides, he was engaged to be married. This would be another business trip.

“Why not?” I tossed the pillow onto a chair, picked up my purse and headed for the door.

I felt safe in the car with Rossi. He drove an old Mustang with both hands on the wheel, eyes straight ahead. He didn’t talk much. Not like Jack, who’d considered driving and chatting a single activity.

“Buckle up” was all Rossi said before pulling out of the parking lot onto Gulf Shore Boulevard. We maneuvered up to Harbour Drive then took a left on Tamiami Trail, Naples’s Main Street.

Rossi took his eyes off the road for a second to glance over at me. “Been to Mel’s Diner? They make a killer burger.”

“No, I haven’t.” Why tell him as a general rule I avoid greasy spoons? I love fast food but, true to its name, it runs straight to my hips.

“I think you’ll like it. The décor—” he pronounced it
day-core,
“—is kind of interesting. They’ve got old stuff hanging on the walls. You know, from the forties and fifties.”

“Memorabilia.”

“Yeah. Old license plates, sports posters, a couple or three photos of Marilyn Monroe.”

“Sounds like fun.”

At Mel’s an ample hostess, her dumpling hips swaying to music only she could hear, led us to a booth by the window where we could see traffic lights streaking along the Trail. As soon as a server approached us, Rossi ordered animal fat, sodium and a dose of chemicals. “Two burgers well done. Fries. Diet Cokes.”

A regular take-charge kind of guy. When the server walked away, Rossi removed the notebook and stub from his shirt pocket and laid them on the table.

“Not again.” I groaned.

“Business before pleasure.”

I glared across the booth at him. “You know something, Rossi, I realize you’re all business. What you don’t know is I am, too.” He was getting married, and I was avoiding romantic entanglements, so I couldn’t understand why my ego felt bruised by his attitude, or why my face got warm all of a sudden, even though the AC was set so low my bare arms had erupted into goose bumps.

His dark eyes glittered as if he enjoyed getting a rise out of me. “Yeah, there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” He picked up his pencil.

“That’s right,” I retorted, wishing I hadn’t agreed to cruise for burgers.

“So fill me in. Tell me more about yourself. And about your husband. It’s got nothing to do with the case, I’m just curious. What did he do? What was he like? You know, the small stuff.”

I drew in a quick, painful breath, then slowly let it leak out. After all the questions he’d asked about Jack the day of the murder, I hadn’t expected him to jump in with more. It hurt. It hurt like hell. No way were we having a casual conversation about my marriage. Not over burgers. Not over anything. My personal life was none of his damn business.

I grabbed my handbag and slid out of the booth. “You want to know about Jack?” My voice had risen. The couple in the next booth looked up, fries forgotten. “I’ll tell you about Jack. When I was with him, all the lights in the world came on.”

“And when he died, they went out,” Rossi finished.

“That’s right! You don’t even come close to him.”

He tossed a few bills on the table and got up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Mrs. Dunne. Come on. I’ll take you home.”

“I’m calling a cab.”

Abandoning all pretense of eating, the neighboring couple stared at us with their mouths hanging open. Rossi took out his badge and flashed it at them. “Your fries are getting cold,” he said, and taking me by the elbow, he march-stepped me out of Mel’s Diner.

I could have protested, yelled that I was being abducted, screamed my head off, but I knew I had already overreacted. Outside, in the dark, sticky air, Rossi dropped my arm.

“Sorry, Mrs. D. A big part of my job is probing old wounds. Sometimes no pain, no gain.” In the glare of passing headlights, his face looked grim and tired. He jerked his head toward the diner. “I’m sorry the pain in there was yours.” He held out a hand. “No more questions about your husband. Okay?”

I took his outstretched hand. It was warm and firm. “Okay.”

At his apology, all the fight went out of me, and I wished we’d stayed in Mel’s long enough to eat a burger. As we strolled over to Rossi’s car, I also wondered why he’d asked me about Jack but hadn’t said a word about his fiancée. I guess he figured she didn’t have anything to do with the case. But neither did Jack.

On the ride home, we didn’t talk much. When we reached Surfside, he said, “I’ll come in and look around—just to be sure.” With an efficiency born of practice, he gave the condo a thorough, swift search before leaving with a terse “Lock this door.”

As if I needed to be told. I kicked off the Jimmys, shot the dead bolt and went out to the kitchen to look for something to eat. The phone had developed a red tic. I pressed Messages and heard Simon’s voice.

“Deva, sorry I blew up. It’s been a tough day. Can you forgive me? They tell me St. George and the Dragon is a great restaurant. Let’s reschedule. Please. I want you to design my condo. The sooner the better.”

So I’d been forgiven. Big deal. Simon could stuff St. George and his quasi date, too. But, no, that wasn’t smart, I thought, peering into the practically empty fridge, then slamming it shut in disgust. Business was business, and I needed the income. In the morning, I’d start some preliminary sketches for Simon’s condo. Turquoise and shades of brown were holding up as popular colors. Not my favorite combination, but in his unit they would work. Brighten up that huge Hershey Bar sofa. Make it look like a planned object, not just a poor choice. It was worth considering.

Exasperated, I blew out a breath. So was Rossi.

Chapter Eight

In the morning, I decided to sketch ideas for Simon’s condo out by the pool. I showered, slipped into my orange Speedo and tossed on a cover-up. No need to turn into Freckle City just to get a little air.

Before going outside, I skimmed through the
Naples Daily.
Treasure’s murder had been reduced to a half-inch item in the local section. Television ignored the story completely. For a fresh dose of violence, Channel 2 had turned to the weather. Amy, the first tropical storm of the season, swirled off the coast of Africa.

“Amy’s no threat to us yet, but we’ll be watching her,” the anchor promised.

I snapped off the set, slid open the dead bolt, reset it and strolled over to the pool. Marilyn Parker’s blue pareo waved from the back of a lounge chair. Quiet and shy, Dick’s wife seldom had much to say, and lately I’d kind of given up on our ever having girl talk. Hoping today would be different, I dropped my sketching supplies on a patio table and walked around to the front of Marilyn’s chair.

Whoa.

Red-eyed and red-nosed, she sat in the sun crying her heart out. Judging from the pile of damp tissues surrounding her, she’d been at it for quite some time.

“Marilyn, what’s wrong?” I asked, a dumb question for anyone living in Surfside these days.

“Nothing.” She blew into a well-used tissue, dropped it next to the others and stared straight ahead as if eyeball contact had never been invented.

I gestured at the mess on the chair. “Something must be.”

She plucked another tissue from the box by her side, wiped her nose and continued to stare out over the pool at the row of waving palms. All around us birds flitted from tree to tree, and pink hibiscus bloomed their heads off. The rich perfume of gardenias was so fabulous it should have been bottled.