Decorated to Death (8 page)

“Just call me Vinny and I’ll call you Jean,” announced the stocky man with the shaved head. His brown eyes squinted in a futile effort to block the smoke produced by the cigarette that dangled from the side of his turned-down mouth.

I’d taken what I thought would be an opportunity to go one-on-one with the bodyguard when I followed him out to the redwood deck. Being the only other smoker among the guests, the likelihood was practically nil that anyone would join us in the designated smoking area. But before I could stick my nose in his business, I found myself outmaneuvered.

“Word has it, Jean, that you’re a talented interior designer. I understand your daughter, Lieutenant Cusak’s wife, is a junior partner in Designer Jeans, the decorating service you operate out of your place here on Blueberry Lane.”

The man’s rapid-fire delivery, along with his knowledge of me and mine, caught me by surprise. It wasn’t easy but I made an effort not to let it show, although the same could not be said of my growing irritation.

“Maybe you and your daughter should consider yourselves lucky that the cottage job fell through.”

“Oh really? Would you care to explain that to me, chum?” I shot back, taking advantage of a pause in the so far one-sided conversation. The pause occurred when the bodyguard stopped talking long enough to take a deep drag on his cigarette.

“Sure, no problem. Old places like that cottage can be hazardous to your health. Look what happened to Dona Deville.”

Not sure if I’d just been warned or threatened, I was determined not to let the beefy bozo think that he had frightened me. “Hey, chum, like they say, nobody lives forever.”

“Yeah, so I hear. I also hear that you fancy yourself to be a detective of sorts. Take it from me, Jean, stick to decorating. Not only is it healthier but it pays better, too.”

The man’s smile was about as sincere as the overused, seldom-meant “have a nice day” tagline.

More angry than frightened, I decided it was time to find out if Mr. Salerno could take as well as he gave. I proceeded to hit him with what I hoped were probing questions. To my frustration, he ignored most of them and the few he didn’t, he answered with about as much candor as the Nixon White House displayed during the dark days of Watergate.

Ask a stupid question and you get a stupid answer, which is what happened when I pressed the bodyguard for his alibi.

“My alibi? No problem,” said the cagey guy. Finished with his cigarette, he quickly lit another. “My horoscope said that I should watch for signs of change so Saturday morning I got in my car and went looking for them.”

“You don’t say! Was that before or after the dog ate your homework? You’re going to have to do better than that, if not with me, then with the people in there,” I replied, jabbing my thumb in the direction of the dining room, “and certainly with the police.” If the last part of my comment bothered him, he hid it well.

In the end, about all I did learn was that he, Salerno, had been hired by Dona as Ellie’s bodyguard shortly after the death of Dona’s elderly aunt. When Ruffy insisted on driving Ellie to Seville, minus the bodyguard, Dona gave the okay with the stipulation that Salerno was to be at the Birdwell house no later than eight o’clock Friday night. According to him, Ruffy’s purpose for being alone with Ellie was to enlist her aid in convincing Dona to sell off some property that was jointly owned by Ruffy and his former wife.

I felt much of the information I’d gleaned from my conversation with the chain-smoking bodyguard was, both literally and figuratively, more smoke than substance. But I was firmly convinced that “Just call me Vinny” and the early-morning cell phone talker were one and the same.

Perhaps, I said to myself, my old friend Horatio Bordeaux would like to take a crack at getting the lowdown for me on the secretive Vincent Salerno. Horatio (a former CIA agent and retired professor of science) and I had become good friends when he hired Designer Jeans to transform his inefficient, drab home office into a cheery, modern, handicapped-accessible workplace. Suffering from diabetes, the rotund, wheelchair-bound widower started his own business on the web. His specialty is locating hard-to-find people, places, and things, including information, which is why I added his name to my growing lists of “must see” people.

I left the bodyguard in a cloud of his own making, stubbed out my cigarette in a nearby sand-filled coffee can, and returned to the dining room. The once-bountiful buffet had been reduced to a few scraps and crumbs in the relatively short time I’d been out on the deck. Even the commercial-size coffee urn had been emptied.

Back among the less-than-grieving entourage, I came to the conclusion that when Hilly Murrow filed her report on the group’s reaction to Dona Deville’s murder, the newshound must have been on something stronger than baby aspirin. Either that or Maxine Roberts was one heck of a public relations person. My inherited Irish intuition told me that most likely, it was the latter rather than the former.

After helping Sally clean up the mess from the breakfast buffet, I returned to Kettle Cottage and the little Kees with the insatiable appetite.

“Listen, you bossy little ball of fur, lunch in this house isn’t served until noon. You have to wait,” I said to Pesty, who had dramatically draped herself over her empty food dish. “Go ahead and pout, but it won’t do you any good.”

Ignoring the dog, I fixed a cup of instant coffee, opened a package of snickerdoodles, and settled down at the kitchen table. I wanted—make that needed—a bit of time to relax and collect my thoughts before heading to the hospital for my afternoon visit with Charlie.

Despite Pesty’s insistence that it was time for her lunch, I managed to concentrate long enough to review Vincent Salerno’s alibi. The man didn’t have a sense of humor, at least not that I’d noticed, so why the convoluted alibi? The more I thought about it, the more I was convinced that the bodyguard had deliberately presented me with a puzzle within a puzzle. Did he really expect me to believe that he was following his horoscope and spent the time during which Dona was murdered looking for signs of change?

I put the alibi matter on hold and turned my thoughts to which member of the entourage had the best motive and, as Marsha Gooding so aptly put it, was stupid enought to kill the goose that laid the golden eggs.

“What Maxine said about killing out of fear or love, and what Goody said about killing out of hate, certainly gives me some food for thought,” I said aloud, forgetting that Pesty was on the alert for certain trigger words such as eat, treat, and food. Upon hearing the word “food” the spoiled pooch positioned herself in front of me and began stamping her paws, something I’ve learned to recognize as her “chow now” dance. I’ve also learned to ignore it, but since a Pesty with a full tummy would, most likely, settle down for a nap, I gave in.

While Pesty dozed under the kitchen table, I composed a list of suspects along with possible motives for the murder:

Since I’d drawn a blank with Salerno’s possible motive for the murder, I thought again about contacting Horatio Bordeaux to make arrangements for a complete background check on the bodyguard but decided to wait until Monday. The most important thing I wanted to do at that moment was to visit Charlie.

I had the keys to the van in my hand and was headed for the kitchen’s Dutch door when the phone rang. Thinking it might be Charlie calling, I dropped everything and ran for the phone. Being that it was Sunday, I didn’t bother with the usual Designer Jeans greeting, something which apparently flustered the caller.

“Is this Designer Jeans?” demanded the female voice with a barely perceptible Spanish accent. “Is that you, Jean?”

“Yes, Martha, it’s me. Don’t tell me that Charlie has been giving you a hard time already,” I said, remembering his R-rated description of the breakfast tray’s contents. As a rule, my husband is the most charming of fellows, that is unless he’s hungry, tired, or incapacitated in any way, shape, or form.

“I didn’t realize that his therapy would be starting so soon. There’s nothing wrong, is there? I mean with Charlie?”

“No, no, no. I was in to see him after breakfast this morning and we hit it off like two old amigos. I know he appreciated the back rub and sponge bath I gave him. He called me an angel sent from heaven. He is so charming. You are a lucky woman to have such a man.”

Relieved that my husband was doing fine, I sank down into the nearest chair and shakily lit a cigarette. “Yes, I am and he’s a prince all right. But surely you didn’t call me just to chat about Charlie’s charm. If you’re worried about my part of our bargain, I can honestly say that I’ve been working on it almost the entire morning.”

I was about to fill her in on “Breakfast with the Suspects” when Martha hit me with the news that the medical examiner, Dr. Loo, confirmed the police chief’s belief that Dona Deville had been strangled to death sometime between seven thirty and nine thirty Saturday morning. While Loo’s confirmation didn’t surprise me, what Martha had to say next most certainly did.

“Dr. Loo told Rollie the marks on the victim’s throat were made by the stethoscope found at the crime scene,” said Martha. “I pray you will solve this murder before my Rollie does something foolish. I fear he’s going to arrest the wrong person.” The anxiety in Martha Stevens’s voice was palpable.

Without mentioning the name, we both suspected that the wrong person in this case was Dr. Peter Parker. But you could never be sure about these things. It would take more investigating.

“I must go now, Jean, or I will be late for church. When mass is over, I will light a candle and ask the Virgin Mary to help you with your investigation.”

“Thanks,” I said, then added, “and would you do the same with Saint Jude? That way, we’ll cover all the bases. Besides, I need all the help I can get.” It was nice not having to explain my request further. Martha, a devout Catholic, was well aware that Saint Jude is the patron saint of hopeless causes.

Before leaving for my visit with Charlie, and with a truly heavy heart, I added the young doctor’s name to my list of suspects along with the possible motive of revenge for the death of his anorexic fiancée. Considering Dr. Loo’s findings, I probably should have told Martha to light every candle in the church and then some.

Charlie was lucky in that he didn’t have to share his hospital room with another patient. The empty bed provided the extra seating needed for a small contingent of my husband’s golf cronies. The foursome, along with Denny England, were supposedly visiting their good buddy, Charlie. Personally, I don’t consider watching a televised rerun of last year’s Masters Tournament (in virtual silence, mind you) visiting, but then I’m not a “real golfer.”

“Mind if I play through?” I joked as I made my way over to Charlie’s bedside. My attempt at humor was met by a string of shushing sounds. Not wanting to start off on a sour note, I smiled through gritted teeth, patted the top of Charlie’s head, and dutifully sat down in the chair vacated by the gentlemanly Denny England.

After sitting through what seemed like a jillion shots of a jillion golfers at the tee, in the fairway, and on the green, I was resigned to the fact that Charlie and I were not going to have an in-depth conversation. While I had been prepared to give my husband an abridged version of Dona’s murder that minimized my involvement in the aftermath, I wasn’t prepared to do so in front of an audience of golf devotees. When a temporary halt in the action (an oxymoron in my opinion) was called, I bid adieu to Charlie and the golf gang and headed for the nearest exit, a cigarette, and some needed female company.

A couple of hours and phone calls later, I was sitting in Milano’s sharing an extra-large, thin-crust Italian sausage pizza and a pitcher of fresh-squeezed lemonade with JR and Mary. For the time being, I put all thoughts of murder and mayhem out of my mind. Instead, I made a conscious effort to enjoy the meal, my companions, and the sunny side of the street.

“Matt finally took some time off. He and the twins went to Indianapolis to see a movie,” JR said between bites of the delicious pizza. “Afterward, they’re going to Pufferbelly’s in the Circle Centre Mall. Ever since the twins ate there last fall, it’s become their favorite downtown Indy restaurant. I’d love to see the look on Matt’s face when his dinner arrives on a toy train.”

“My stars, I swear no matter how old they are, all men are little boys at heart,” Mary remarked as she poured herself a second glass of lemonade. “Watch, one visit to Pufferbelly’s and he’ll probably want a set of trains for his birthday.”

“Oh great, that’s just what I don’t need—a fourth child.” As soon as the words had popped out of her mouth, JR blushed and began to sputter before falling silent. For a moment or two even Mary was speechless.

Reaching across the table, I gave my daughter’s hand an understanding pat. “I was wondering when you were going to say something about it. How far? About three months?”

JR smiled. “You got it. Why do I have this feeling that you’re not exactly surprised? What tipped you off?”

“Let’s just say that you can fool all the people some of the time but you can never fool your mother.” I didn’t see any reason to bring up my medicine cabinet discovery.

“Well, this isn’t exactly how I planned on breaking the news. Matt and I haven’t even told the twins yet. Until we do, I’m afraid that mum’s the word.”

“Whoa, wait just a minute,” cried Mary, waving her hands in the air, “am I right in thinking that you two are talking about what I think you’re talking about? Or am I talking about something entirely different than what you two are talking about?”

“Hey, Aunt Mary, if it’s a girl, I’ll name her after you, that is if you can repeat verbatim what you just said.” JR’s infectious giggle spread over the three of us like sauce on a pizza pie.

We were trying to compose ourselves when Angela, the restaurant’s hostess, swept past our table as she led a young couple to a secluded corner where a table had been set for two. Although it was late in the afternoon, there was plenty of sunshine everywhere except in Milano’s dining room.

The room’s decor was basic 1970s Mediterranean with cherubic wall murals, rich velvety fabrics, heavily carved dark wood furniture, and overly ornate light fixtures with thick, colored-glass panels. The fixtures bathed the room and its occupants in a soft, romantic, candle-like glow. In spite of the dimness, I recognized the young Dr. Peter Parker and his date, Ellie Halsted.

Mary and JR also recognized the young doctor but were at a loss when it came to Ellie Halsted. They listened while I explained who she was and how I’d come to meet her and the rest of the Deville party.

I should have left it at that, but my ego got in the way of my good sense. I continued to babble on until Mary and JR knew as much about my investigation as I did. The only thing I left out was Martha Stevens’s name and the details of our bargain. JR was the first to react.

“Thank God Matt has other fish to fry,” she said, alluding to his involvement in an unrelated investigation, “otherwise I hate to think what he would do. At the very least, Mom, he’d put your name on his persona non grata list.”

“My stars, is that legal? After all, your mother is a citizen of the United States,” cried Mary, her voice crackling with concern.

“Don’t worry about it, Mar. If I solve the case, I’m sure Matt will forgive me like he has in the past.” I didn’t bother to explain to Mary that I wasn’t in danger of being bounced out of the country. In a way, Mary’s interpretation of the phrase was pretty much on the money. I’m sure when the alleged Mafia big shot Lucky Luciano was deported by the feds, he felt like an outcast even though he ended up in the land of his birth.

“Okay, now comes the big question,” I said, trying to look and sound more confident than needy. “Anybody here interested in helping a certain designing woman with an investigation that is in dire need of a makeover? If the answer is yes, the said designer will spring for dessert. Rumor has it that today they have Mama Milano’s homemade baklava.”

Faster than you can say Sam Spade, private investigator, Mary and JR were devouring huge portions of the melt-in-your-mouth nut-and-honey Mediterranean pastry. Meanwhile, Peter Parker and Ellie Halsted were enjoying the bottle of Chianti that Papa Milano delivered to their table with my compliments. My little wine investment paid off just as I’d hoped it would.

By the time the late-afternoon sun began to make way for the evening stars, we were sharing a large carafe of Milano’s special-blend coffee and our table with Peter Parker and Ellie Halsted.