Chapter Forty-Six
“Drop your weapon.”
Rossi at last.
He stood, legs apart, in the kitchen doorway, his Glock aimed at Ted’s head.
“Don’t shoot, Rossi,” I yelled. “He’s not armed.”
Unflinching, Rossi stood his ground, kept his gun on his target but held his fire.
He trusted me.
That was the greatest gift he could possibly have given me. And in that moment I realized, down to my soul, that the time had come for me to trust him completely too.
Ted didn’t have the same faith in my word. He squeezed off a shot, a second one, and a third. Getting the message, finally, he flung the gun across the room with an oath. It hit the La Cornue with a smack, leaving a baseball-sized dent in the middle of the dry roast oven. Wait till Tiny Forbes saw that.
“Move away from him, Deva,” Rossi said.
As I stepped away from Beatriz, Ted reached out and, quick as a striking snake, he grabbed me around the waist. Holding me like a human shield, he said, “Go ahead. Shoot.”
“You’ll leave with her over my dead body.” Rossi calmly lowered his weapon.
Ted’s breath fanned the back of my neck, the rush of air on my skin damp and unpleasant. Rossi stepped into the room, his gun still lowered but at the ready.
Dragging me with him, Ted moved back a step.
Rossi moved forward.
Ted moved back.
Locked in their weird power dance, the two men didn’t hear the slight rustle of silk. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Beatriz inch along the floor, positioning herself directly behind Ted.
One more step was all we needed.
“Rossi, come and get me,” I yelled.
He charged forward and Ted jumped back, tripped over Beatriz stretched out behind him and plunged to the floor, taking me with him. The fall broke his hold, and I scrambled to my feet and rushed to Rossi’s open arms. Well, to one of them. He held the Glock in the other. In tandem, we strode across the room to where Ted, looking dazed, lay spread-eagled beside Beatriz.
“Get away from the little lady,” Rossi said, “before I blow you apart.”
Ted reached for the island and, leaning on it, pulled himself to his feet.
“I’ll take care of this guy and be right back,” Rossi said, marching Ted from the kitchen at gunpoint.
Outside Sprague Mansion, the sirens screeched to a halt. Thank God.
The medics.
Though it seemed like an hour since I called 9-1-1, only a few minutes had passed. Not too many, I prayed, and dropped down next to Beatriz.
“Help is here, Beatriz. Help is here. Open your eyes,” I pleaded. “Speak to me, mother to daughter. Please.”
Her eyes opened to slits then instantly closed, but her hand groped for mine. I seized it between my palms and held on tight. At my touch she rallied and, staring into space, said, “I was wrong not to go to the police. But I was frightened. So frightened.” Her voice, weak to begin with, faded to a whisper. I could hardly hear her and leaned closer, my ear to her cheek. “When Ted discovered where the drugs were hidden, he killed Hugo. I feared he would kill me too.” Her soft voice broke. “I should have let him.”
“No, Beatriz, no. Whatever you’ve done, Rossi will help you. I’ll help you too.”
“And what of my José?”
“What of him, Beatriz?”
But only a gentle sigh, a mere wisp of air, escaped her lips. Her lids drifted down, and though I begged and begged, they didn’t open again.
“Deva.” I felt a warm hand on my shoulder and glanced up.
“Oh, Rossi, she’s gone,” I murmured and burst into tears. He reached down and, lifting me up, held me against his chest while I soaked his shirt with my tears. “She was like a mother to me in so many ways,” I croaked out.
“Shh.” Holding me in the circle of his arms, he led me away from Beatriz’s body. Together we stumbled over to the La Cornue. I leaned against it, with Rossi’s arm around my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Deva. I know you were very fond of Mrs. Vega.”
“Very fond,” I said, sniffling. I needed a tissue. Leaving his side long enough to grab a handful of cocktail napkins off the island, I patted my cheeks dry and went back to nestle against him. “Ted killed Hugo.”
“Yes. I’m not surprised.”
I pulled out of his embrace a little so I could look up into his face. “You’re not surprised? You knew?”
He shook his head. “Suspected.”
“What made you suspicious?”
“The motherboard.”
“The what?”
“I’ll tell you all about it later. Now I have a question for you. How did you learn the truth about Hugo’s death?”
“A few minutes ago, just before she...just before...Beatriz told me.”
Voices and heavy footsteps pounded along the hall. A moment later two paramedics hurried in and rushed over to Beatriz. I forced myself to stay where I was and not hamper their effort.
“Go on,” Rossi urged gently.
“Hugo hid the drugs. Ted found out, forced him to confess and then shot him.” A thought occurred to me, and I stiffened in Rossi’s embrace. “I’ll bet he used Beatriz’s Taurus to do the dirty. I found the gun in her purse, and he saw me holding it. I could have sworn he recognized it. After all, Rossi, how many pink guns are in circulation?”
Rossi’s glance cut over to the medics. Their efforts to help Beatriz, though well-intentioned, were futile. Even I, the least medical person in the world, had recognized that instant when her spirit separated from her body. She was lost to us and had taken her secrets with her. Some of them anyway.
The older of the two medics, the one with the name
Joe
embroidered on his uniform pocket, stood and approached Rossi.
“Nothing we could do, Lieutenant. She was gone before we got here. We’ll take her in so the ME can examine her. He’ll get back to you with the cause of death.”
With a nod at me, Joe turned and together he and his partner lifted Beatriz onto a gurney, though feather that she was, one of them alone could easily have lifted her.
Then they covered her with a sheet and wheeled her away.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Once Beatriz was gone, Rossi took me by the hand and studied my face. “Your freckles are still showing. That means you’re stressed. So let’s find you a seat. Maybe in that Florida room across the hall. I saw some chairs in there.”
“No. I can’t leave here.”
“Why not?”
“I have to guard the kitchen.”
He looked at me with worry in his eyes as if the night’s events had unhinged me. Well, dammit, they had. “It’s all right, Deva,” he said in the coaxing tone usually reserved for the mentally ill. “You’ve been through a lot. Relax. You can give me a statement later when you feel up to it. Come on.” He cocked a finger, urging me to go with him.
I pointed to the La Cornue with a shaky hand. “Before we leave, lift the cover off that copper pot and look inside.”
“Are you serious?” Probably thought my brain had gone viral.
“Go ahead,” I urged.
He shrugged and, as if indulging a precocious child, did as I asked.
One glance inside the kettle and he uttered an oath. The same one Ted used earlier when he
didn’t
find any drugs. “What the hell is this?” he said, removing one of the bags.
“It’s probably cocaine.”
He reached in, lifted out the three other bags and cursed again.
“There’s some in the oven too,” I said. “The one that dry roasts.”
On the second try, he found the correct oven and, like a chef revealing his masterpiece, he removed the casserole dish loaded with drugs and set it on top of a burner.
“There’s more,” I told him. “Come on, I’ll show you.” My turn to crook a finger and lead the way. I hurried across the room on my ivory stilettos that were starting to kill and flung open the refrigerator doors. I indicated the chiller drawers. “In there. Ten bags.”
He yanked open the drawers, took one look and left the fridge ajar without touching anything.
“That’s not all,” I said.
One word only. “Where?”
“Under the sink. In a paper carryall. I filled it up.”
“You filled it up? I think I’m the one who needs a seat.” He waved a finger under my nose. “Don’t move.” He strode over to the sink cupboard, pulled out the carryall by the handles, and dumped its contents on top of the island.
He took his cell from a pocket. “Batano, I want you in here. Now.”
Repocketing the cell, he said, “If this stuff is what it looks like, it’s the biggest drug bust in Naples history. In southwest Florida history.” He paused, plainly agitated, the first time I’d ever seen the unflappable Victor Rossi well...flapped.
“Any more?” he asked.
I shook my head. “Not that I know of.”
He waved his arms around the room. “Where did you find all this?”
“In a secret compartment.”
He sighed. One of those sighs that rise up from the belly and echo in the air. “No more hide-and-seek games, Deva. Just tell it to me straight.”
A hand on his holster, Batano big-bellied his way in. Catching sight of the bags piled on the island, he let out a whistle. “What’s this?”
“What it looks like,” Rossi said. “Call Vice. Get them over here fast. Make sure Hughes stays with that Ted Wolff. I’ll be out to talk to him in a minute.”
Batano left, and Rossi turned his full attention to me. “Well?”
“It was hidden in here. All of it. Watch.” As he looked on, I rubbed the Madonna’s head, and the panel door swung open.
Rossi bent down to peer inside, then stood, looking none too happy. “You can explain everything to the vice squad when they get here. But what I want to know is why you didn’t tell me about this sooner.”
I’d expected this and met it head-on—with a little bit of phony defiance. “One simple reason. I didn’t want cops swarming all over Sprague Mansion wrecking opening night.”
“Suppose Wolff made his move earlier? How would O.K. Corral have gone down then?”
“I figured nothing would happen with so many people floating around.”
“That was a chance you shouldn’t have taken.”
I didn’t reply. He was absolutely right. I was perched on shaky moral ground, and it was crumbling fast. My only possible defense was that nothing had happened during Showhouse hours. But I wouldn’t bring up the obvious, not with Rossi’s scowl daring me to argue with him.
For once I shut up and in an uncomfortable silence we waited together for the narcotics team to arrive. I was about to break down and apologize for my stupidity, but never got the chance.
“Lieutenant.” Batano loomed in the doorway. “The chief wants you to call him ASAP.”
“I’ll go outside to make this one,” Rossi said, pressing on his cell as he strode from the room. “Stay with her, Batano.”
While Batano stood guard in the doorway, I kicked off my killer heels and slumped on the floor, letting the green taffeta mop up the footprints of a couple hundred people. The hell with it. Though I loved the dress and it had cost far more than I could afford, I’d never wear it again. I planned to strip and toss it in the trash the minute I got home. It would always remind me of Beatriz...Beatriz on the night she died. My little
madre.
I leaned against the island’s carved panel. “You have my back,” I told the Madonna, “but don’t worry about the dress. That doesn’t matter. Take care of Beatriz, please.”
Maybe I was losing it, having girl talk with the Virgin Mary, but somehow I felt comforted and sat without moving, an exhausted lump, for the narcs to find me. I was sending up another prayer when a pair of plainclothes officers barged into the kitchen. The first man slid to a stop when he saw the white bags piled on top of the island. Then he lamped me on the floor beside it.
“Mrs. Dunne?”
“Yes.”
He reached into a pocket, removed a leather-covered badge and held it out. “My name’s Nick. This is Mark.” Whether those were their real names or not didn’t matter.
Nick stared down at me. “You okay?”
“I guess so. We’ve had quite a party.”
He pointed at the bags. “I understand you found this substance.”
“That’s correct. Strictly by accident. It’s all over the place.”
“Mind showing us where?”
“Some on the stove. In the refrigerator. The chiller drawers.”
He nodded at Mark, and they moved in on the stash. Once they had the drugs secured in zippered leather bags, they began searching the kitchen with the thoroughness of long experience. I watched for a few minutes and then stood, not without difficulty, and said, “You’ll probably miss the hidden panel.”
After I popped open the island mechanism, Nick said, “Why don’t you find another seat? The lieutenant will be with you soon.”
He obviously wanted me out of their way, and besides, I could use a comfortable chair. In my gorgeous, nonfunctioning showroom, the lack of seating was a definite design flaw. But bar stools would have obscured the beauty of the altar and cluttered up all that wide open space. In its current state, the kitchen was an attractive shell that offered a tantalizing vision of how truly gorgeous—and functional—it could be. With more money, fifty to seventy-five thousand, lavished on it. Ah, well...
In bare feet, I padded across the hall to the Florida room. The bank of windows overlooking the Gulf were still open, and I stood in the dark letting the ocean air waft over me. Salty and cool, it carried a hint of winter and the sound of lapping water. Gentle unless storm-driven, the Gulf’s surf rarely pounded to shore. Tonight, its soft soughing rhythm was as soothing as a lullaby.
I breathed deeply of the air and, a trifle calmer, turned from the windows to snap on the wall switch. Islands of shaded lamp light chased away the shadows. The oversized chairs looked so inviting I sat in one, tucked my feet under my legs and leaned back.
I didn’t have long to wait. Though I couldn’t make out his words, a few minutes later, I heard Rossi speaking to the agents in the kitchen. The rest of the house was silent. Marian and the committee members had probably gone home. I wanted to leave too, go to Surfside, get under the comforter and block out the world and all its ugly realities.
No such luck. A few heavy footsteps and Rossi strode into the Florida room accompanied by Officer Hughes, her hand on Ted Wolff’s arm.
Rossi yanked a straight-backed wooden chair away from the wall. Hughes walked her prisoner over to it, and he sat, somewhat uncomfortably, with his hands cuffed behind his back. Hands on hips, holster only inches from her fingertips, Hughes stood at the ready behind him.
All business, Rossi nodded a greeting at me. “Mr. Wolff is here to tell us what he knows about tonight’s events...and what led up to them. Your role is to tell us if his story corroborates what you overheard. Understood?”
I nodded.
“Good.” Legs apart, shoulders back, Rossi assumed what I recognized as his interrogation posture. He looked implacable as stone. And as warm. “I’m going to read your Miranda rights,” he said to Ted. “That and your testimony will be recorded. Understood?”
Ted responded with a sullen, “Whatever.”
To my amazement, Rossi removed a handheld recorder from his jacket pocket and turned it on. Ah. No more notepad and pencil stub. He had gone high tech.
After reciting the vitals, he placed the recorder on the coffee table and said, “Ted Wolff, what do you know about the death of Hugo Navarre?”
“Nothing.”
“What do you know about the contraband drugs Mrs. Deva Dunne found in the kitchen island?”
Ted looked down at the scuffed toes of his shoes.
Silence.
“You hear the question?”
Ted’s head shot up, and he thrust out his chin. “I don’t know anything.”
“Who’s your supplier?”
More silence.
“Fine,” Rossi said, throwing his hands in the air. “You have nothing to say to me then I have nothing to say to you. No more questions. Officer Hughes, take Mr. Wolff in and book him. Murder one.”
He snatched the recorder off the coffee table and went to turn it off.
“Okay, okay,” Ted said. “I know about the drugs, but that’s all.”
Rossi returned the recorder to the table. “What do you mean that’s all? Where did they come from? Who supplied them?
“Hugo handled that end. He was the one with the connections. Not me. I just carried out his orders.”
“Oh?” was all Rossi said, in a voice that had the power to freeze ice. “So you know about the drugs, but nothing about Hugo Navarre’s death? Is that what you’re claiming?”
“Right. I had nothing to do with Hugo’s death.”
“Then why did Mrs. Vega tell Mrs. Dunne that you killed him?”
“She lied.”
“Why? She knew about the drugs too. Were you holding out on her?”
“I want a lawyer.”
“Absolutely. You’re allowed one call. As soon as we get you to the station.” Rossi turned his attention to me. “Does Mr. Wolff’s statement agree with what you overheard?”
I shook my head. “No.”
“Tell us what you heard, exactly?”
“He—”
Rossi interrupted. “Are you referring to Mr. Wolff?”
“Yes, I am. Mr. Wolff had a gun in his hand and was threatening to shoot me. When I said I didn’t think he’d pull the trigger, that he was bluffing, his exact response was, ‘You don’t believe me? Neither did Hugo. His mistake.’ A few minutes later...before...before she died...Beatriz told me that when the drugs went missing, Ted forced Hugo to tell him where he’d hidden them. Then he shot him. She was terrified she’d be his next victim.”
“She was lying,” Ted burst in. “She’s the one who killed Hugo.”
“After a lifetime of nonviolence, she kills a man in cold blood?” Rossi said. “A man she thought of as a son?”
Ted snorted. “That son stuff was an act. He was her meal ticket. Her way back to Colombia. She planned to live like a queen down there. Then her cut went missing. Hugo hid it on her. He’s the only one who knew about that altar.”
“So how did you find out?”
“Beatriz told me. She was on to Hugo.”
“What made her suspect Navarre?”
“She found a bag of the stuff in his bedroom and figured if he got his hands on that much, he knew about the rest. She forced the truth out of him. Then she shot him. She needed me to help her move the stuff.” Ted clenched his jaw as if daring anyone to contradict his story. “Simple as that.” Without moving his head, he glanced over at me out of the corner of his eyes. “Some sweet old lady, huh?”
I jumped off my chair. “No! You and Hugo killed José. And then you, not Beatriz, shot Hugo. She found that bag of cocaine after Hugo’s death, not before. She was packing up his things to send home and came across it. That’s when she put the pieces together.”
“That what she told you? Ha! She found that bag two days before she killed him.”
Fists clenched, I took a step closer to him. The liar. I wanted to leap at his throat.
“Easy, Mrs. Dunne,” Rossi said. “Easy.”
Heeding his warning, I fell back onto my seat, heart throbbing. For an instant, Ted’s story had made me crazy, but a moment later common sense flooded back and with it sanity returned. On her deathbed—the hard kitchen floor—Beatriz had confessed what she knew. In her final moments on earth, no longer afraid of anyone or anything, she had found her courage and told the truth. I’d testify to that in any court in the land.
Ted shifted in his seat. “Okay, I’m cooperating, right? How about taking off the cuffs? My arms are going dead.”
“Not a chance,” Rossi said. “We’re not through here yet. You ever heard of a Marcel Léger? The guy who broke into the Galleria, mugged Mrs. Dunne and Mrs. Vega?”
“Never heard of him.”
“That’s funny. He knows you.” Rossi shifted his weight, rising on the balls of his feet, then settling back into his wide-legged stance. “He said you killed José Vega. Would swear to it in a court of law.”
Ted lurched forward in his seat. “That’s a lie!”
Hughes put a restraining hand on his shoulder and reached for her holster, but he slumped back into his seat, shoulders sagging. “I never put a finger on Vega. Marcel’s lying.”
“Everybody but you, that it?” Rossi said.
Ted lowered his head, staring at the sisal rug as if fascinated with its texture.
“We’ve got you on assault with a deadly weapon,” Rossi said. “Attempted kidnapping. Drug trafficking. Want murder one added to the list?”