Hoping I was doing the right thing, I said, “I love it. It brings out the pink in your toenail polish.”
Hope sprang into her eyes. “You think?”
“Would I lie?”
Imogene flopped down on the edge of the bed with a happy sigh and kicked off the spikes. “I’ll do everything you say. But I’ll still have to talk about the play. What’s
Streetcar Named Desire
all about anyway?”
“You’re in luck. I studied Tennessee Williams in my BU drama class. If you’ll get me an iced tea, I’ll tell you what I remember.”
She leaped up and padded into the kitchen. “God, you’re a gold mine, Deva. I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
You’d be yourself, I wanted to say. And that’s always the better way to go. But we’d already had that conversation—no need for a rehash. Besides, after we went over the id, ego and superego aspects of Streetcar’s Stanley, Stella and Blanche, I’d show her the paint chips and the snapshots I took of some lighting fixtures. After that I’d head for home. The conversation I was dying to have was with Rossi. Would Raúl Lopez be indicted for José Vega’s murder, or was Beatriz’s accusation merely the fantasy of a grief-stricken widow?
Chapter Nine
After I left Fisherman’s Creek, the temptation to speed home nearly overwhelmed me. Twice I lurched to a stop on yellow. God, after lecturing Imogene on the hazards of running red lights, what a hypocrite I was. I eased up on the gas pedal and reached Surfside at dusk.
Light from my living room windows spilled out onto the walkway. I turned the key and hurried through the foyer. Even the miniature lamp on the living room desk and the chunky candles on the coffee table were lit. How nice. A cheery welcome home.
For once, the condo’s new redo didn’t shoot a pang of regret through me. Usually a momentary twinge struck me each time I realized anew that in a fit of despair I’d sold Jack’s Irish heirlooms and they were gone forever. But tonight the familiar sting didn’t surface at all. I dropped the tote on a club chair. “Anybody home?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Rossi called. “With my busy Italian fingers.”
“Are they only Italian in the kitchen? How about the bedroom?”
Rossi poked his head out of the kitchen archway and sent his eyebrows into a Groucho Marx look-alike. “You have a preference?”
“When I’m hungry, the kitchen. When I’m really hungry, the bedroom.”
I vamped my way over to him and lifted my face for a kiss. He started out slowly with a nibble, then, his arms tightening around me, he upped the ante, kissing me breathless until finally, gasping for air, I moved back a little in his embrace.
“Mmmmm. Italian fingers and Italian lips.”
“Yeah. Call me hot lips, and with these hands—” he waggled them in the air, “—I put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened the wine. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a glass.”
I strolled out of the kitchen. “I love coming home and finding you here,” I called over a shoulder.
“Why don’t we make it permanent then?” he asked, following me into the living room and handing me my drink. “I could move in. There’s plenty of room in that spare closet for my shirt collection.” When I didn’t answer, the humor disappeared from his face. “I guess not.”
“Can we talk about us another time? When the death of a friend isn’t crowding my heart?” I sank onto the couch, kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cushions.
“Of course. Sorry. My timing was off.”
I tried to ignore the irony in his voice as he settled into his favorite club chair across from me. He raised his glass. “Dare I say ‘to us’?”
“To us,” I said calmly, not rising to the bait. “Long may we wave.”
“But not in the breeze.” I laughed, and he joined in, the goodwill of a few moments ago warming this moment.
But he’d made his point. One of these days, he’d want an answer. But not tonight. With an inner sigh of relief, I knew he’d wait yet another little while.
“So how was your day?” he asked, changing the subject to what he probably thought was safer ground.
“Bizarre.” Leaving out my entanglement with Imogene, I told him about Austin. How he jogged silently into the mall every day, ordered his bottled water, and left without speaking again to anyone. Except for today. A strangely troubled man, he’d warned me that danger lurked on the third floor. How could he possibly know that?
Rossi listened as he always did without saying much, but nothing, however insignificant, ever escaped him. If he believed Austin could help with the investigation, he’d be sure to interview him. I had to smile. If he could sprint fast enough to catch him.
I sipped my wine. Chianti wasn’t my favorite, but tonight I enjoyed the mellow glow it created. I held out my glass. “Another?”
He went out to the kitchen for the bottle, came back with it and poured us both a refill.
“Beatriz Vega told me you were in to see her this morning,” I said.
“Yes, quite a lady. Quite a story.”
“She told me all about Raúl Lopez. Do you believe her?”
He frowned and swirled the wine in his goblet. “Until and unless I can prove her wrong, I have no choice.”
“That’s one of those non-answers, Rossi. You sound like a politician.”
He grinned, displaying a flash of even white teeth. “A compliment?”
“So did you arrest Lopez?”
“No,” he said, clearly surprised by my question.
“No? Why not? According to Beatriz he’s an illegal who killed her husband.”
“At the moment neither of these accusations has been proven.”
“But—”
He held up a warning finger. It meant “Don’t go there.”
But I had to. “You know Beatriz wouldn’t lie.”
“That’s not the issue.”
“Then what is? I like Raúl. I’d hate to see him deported but—”
“Deported? You’re way ahead of me here. What makes you think he’ll be deported?”
“Beatriz’s testimony.”
He frowned and flung one leg over a knee. In Rossi body language that meant a lecture on police procedure was on the way.
“The problem with unregistered immigrants,” he began, “especially here in Florida, is that they’re necessary to the economy. No matter what you read or hear in the media. Without them, who would pick the crops, mow the golf courses, do the stoop labor Americans don’t want to do? Not only that, there’s the question of numbers. Rounding them all up would be virtually impossible.” He took a sip of wine. “So until criminal charges are filed, there’s usually no arrest.”
“Not even—”
“Not even if the police know he’s illegal. Now, if he’s arrested—not simply accused, arrested, especially for a serious crime—a detainer will be filed.”
“What’s a detainer?”
“A legal hold on a person. Once that happens, he’ll be tried and handed over to ICE for possible deportation proceedings.”
“Ice? English, Rossi, English.”
“Immigration and Custom Enforcement.” He shot me a grin. “You enjoying all this?”
I shook my head.
“Too bad. I’m just getting warmed up. There’s more. Should Lopez be arrested for a crime on this soil, he faces trial here. If he’s not arrested for a crime in the U.S. but the Colombian authorities are looking for him—”
“Yes?” I sat up straight. “Go on.”
“He’ll be extradited. Should that happen, he’ll have two options. Go quietly or fight extradition in our courts. Though that route’s rarely successful.”
I polished off my wine. “So forensics is examining José’s body for evidence of possible foul play. The Colombian government has been notified of Raúl’s presence in the U.S., and you’re awaiting a reply from Interpol regarding his status. In the meantime, he’s been warned not to leave town.”
“God, you’ll be a detective yet. You already know the devil’s in the details.” His eyes took on a shine. “And stretched out like that, with those showgirl legs on display and your hair flaming in the lamplight, you could get blood out of a stone. Even better, a confession out of any male suspect in the world. Me, for example. I’d tell you anything just to sit here looking at you. Drinking you in with the wine. Loving you with my eyes.”
“Only with your eyes?”
By way of reply, he put down his glass, got up and switched off the desk lamp. He hit the wall switch next but left the candles burning.
As he approached the couch, I held out my arms. I didn’t care what nationality his fingers were as long as he touched me with them.
Chapter Ten
After our closet purge, Imogene’s trust in me was stronger than ever. She had no trouble approving the lighting fixtures I’d photographed, and the next morning I returned to the design mall to order them. On the third floor balcony, the boxwood mission bells outside the Spanish Galleria guarded a dark, shuttered shop. No Beatriz in residence today, and I wondered if she were busy making arrangements for José’s funeral. But Breeze City, ablaze with lights, was open for business as usual.
A handful of customers strolled around the store, their necks craning upward as they peered at the overhead lighting displays. Ted Wolff, the same clerk I’d dealt with a few days earlier, greeted me with a smile.
“Hi, Mrs. Dunne, how are you today?”
“How are you?” I wanted to ask. Ted seemed remarkably untroubled. Didn’t he know about his boss’s legal problems? Actually, though, he might not have heard a thing. Not if Beatriz had confided only in the police. And so far no sensational publicity about José had hit the media, just a discreet death notice in the
Naples Daily News.
But the rumor mill usually churned 24/7, and I couldn’t believe it had shut down this time. Nevertheless Ted’s façade oozed calm.
I opened my cell phone and showed him the images of the fixtures I’d selected for Imogene’s home.
“Excellent choices,” he said, glancing at them. “You’re in good company with these. You know Harlan Conway? The architect who’s up for the Caldwell Prize? He bought the same fixtures for his place. The one that’s getting all the publicity.”
“That’s good to hear.” So unknowingly I had copycatted Mr. Conway. Hmm. Not necessarily a bad thing. When he saw his lights hanging in Imogene’s rooms, he’d be pleased. After all, imitation is the sincerest form of flattery.
“I’ve never met the man, just seen pictures of him,” I told Ted. “What’s he like in person?”
“Oh, I don’t know, tall and lanky. Kind of cool. Too bad the girl who works here is off today. She could tell you more. She helped him the last time he came in.” Ted laughed. “Said he was the handsomest man she ever laid eyes on.”
Uh-oh. Tall, lanky, cool, handsome and gifted. Maybe Imogene did need a little help after all.
Ted’s brow furrowed. “Yeah he’s quite a guy. Not many people know it, but we went to MIT together.”
“Really?” That caught my attention. A clerk-electrician with an MIT degree?
“Yeah, really. Then my father died, and I had to drop out senior year...but Harlan went on to grad school at Harvard. So now I’m working at Breeze City and he’s a big-time architect. But we stay in touch. Meet for drinks once in a while.”
As Ted completed the paperwork for the order, a low laugh and then a giggle came from the back room. Curious, I asked, “Is Mr. Lopez in today?”
“No, he’ll be out of the shop all day.”
Another giggle, louder this time. Sheer nosiness, nothing more, made me press on. “Is Mrs. Lopez in?”
Ted frowned and glanced back at the closed office door, his lips pressed together in a tight line. “Um, she’s in. But she said she didn’t want to be disturbed.”
I could have been wrong, but I read his expression as disapproval. He handed me a receipt, and we arranged an installation date for the following day.
“Painters will be working in my client’s house, but they’re not doing the ceilings, so your installer should have no problem,” I said, trying to tune out the low murmur of voices coming from the direction of the office. Then a muffled thump.
What was that? Had something been knocked to the floor?
“Fine. Our installer will be there at ten tomorrow,” Ted said. “With the lights.”
I got the impression he wanted me to leave. Strange. I was a repeat customer who always paid my bills on time. Was he being a good employee and covering up? Either for Raúl or his wife, Claudia, or both? One thing for sure, he wasn’t quite as calm as when I first walked into the shop.
Giving a mental shrug, I left, but on an impulse ducked into Ralph Lauren Homes next door. A chic young clerk in a Polo top and a black pencil skirt came right over. I asked for a book of paisley fabric samples and sat with it on my lap in a chair by the window, pretending to search for a selection. Actually I saw some lovely fabrics, but I was really after an eyeful of something else. A half hour and three sample books later—bingo!
Exiting Breeze City in his signature double-breasted, boutonniered suit was Oliver Kent, owner, manager and driving force behind the Naples Design Mall. An intriguing guy in his late forties, he had the alpha male’s confidence in his own allure. So much confidence that his receding hairline probably didn’t even bother him. Or if it did, he wouldn’t let on. As I watched—well, spied—he paused at the entrance of the shop and ran both hands through his hair, smoothing it over the gray at his temples. Well, maybe his hairline did bother him. He adjusted his tie, snapped his French cuffs and strode along the walkway with his usual swagger.
I leaned back in my seat and exhaled. Oliver hadn’t been in the front showroom of Breeze City when I placed my order with Ted, and no one had entered since I’d sat here in the Ralph Lauren window. That meant only one thing. Oliver had been in the office with Claudia Lopez. Nothing wrong with that. But what of the giggles, the laughter—the thump? Not sounds of a business transaction. And what of Ted’s growing unease?
I placed the sample book on the coffee table and stood. The clerk who had been hovering approached, but I had to disappoint her. Though I did promise to return as soon as I had a project calling for a paisley print.
I left the Lauren shop not sure of what my spying had accomplished. Distracted by my thoughts, I nearly bumped into Claudia Lopez as she hurried out of Breeze City, a Ferragamo bag slung casually over an arm.
A member of an old Florida family, thirty-something Claudia was that rare person: a native Neapolitan. She had grown up with horses, yachts and membership in Naples’s most prestigious private clubs. Also she was gorgeous—with the blond, tanned and toned good looks every man admires and every woman envies.
“Deva, how are you?” she gushed, smiling as if she didn’t have a worry in the world.
“Claudia, what a surprise. You working today?”
That threw her off guard for a moment. “Not exactly. I just had some...ah...office details to clean up.”
“Nice to see you,” I said in that bland voice women use on one another when they really don’t know what to say.
“You too.” Stunning in an aqua linen sheath, her hair rippling straight and shiny to her shoulders, she strolled beside me toward the elevator, her red Christian Louboutin heels clicking on the marble tiles, her Dior J’adore perfume wafting around us. The arrival bell dinged, and the steel elevator doors slid open. As we walked on, she flipped her hair over one shoulder. A mistake. On her neck in nuzzling position beneath her left ear, she sported a fresh hickey as red as the one I got the night of senior prom.