Deadly Décor (A Caprice De Luca Mystery) (13 page)

Maybe it was when she exited the rental company and climbed into her car that she noted the white SUV with the tinted windows in the same parking lot. On the road again, she thought she spied it in her rearview mirror. But that was silly. There were a lot of white SUVs on the roads. She really didn’t think a whole lot about it, not then anyway.

Still . . . she had chills running up her arms that couldn’t be explained. Her Nana had always told her to pay attention to anything her body was trying to communicate to her. Caprice did most of the time, but this watched-over feeling was new.

Maybe she was just getting paranoid. Maybe investigating Bob’s murder was something she should leave to the police. After all, Grant, Seth, and her family all thought so. She’d had an experience with someone in an SUV when she was investigating the murder several weeks back.

Maybe it was just SUVs that spooked her . . . or tinted windows.

Brushing it all off as anxiety over Bella and Joe—or nervousness about the awards dinner or distraction because of the possibility she and Seth could be through before they’d hardly begun—she drove through the countryside outside of Kismet for about a half mile. She couldn’t help glancing in her rearview mirror.

Now she saw no one.

Yep, she’d watched too many suspense programs on TV.

However, when she arrived at the model home site, the property had a deserted feeling. She was supposed to meet the builder at 1 Drury Lane. Numbers 3 and 5 were in the construction process, but number 1 was under roof and almost complete. He’d said he’d be there at noon.

It was noon. She pulled her car into the gravel driveway and cut the engine. Taking her tablet computer with her—it had her presentation notes—she climbed out of her car and looked around.

Kismet was located in an area of Pennsylvania where rolling hills were the norm. From all angles of the development, green fields led into the distance. It really was a bucolic setting. These homes weren’t mansions, but they looked to be anywhere from three to five thousand square feet and were designed for families with upper middle incomes. She knew staging them would be her best advertisement for future work.

Walking around the side of the house, she did see a pickup truck parked out back. Maybe that belonged to Derrick Gastenaux. Possibly he was doing something inside and waiting for her.

She walked to the front door of the house. It was one of those overly expansive doors with a row of windows across the top. She turned the knob and found it unlocked.

Stepping inside, she was met by newly framed rooms and the smells of lumber and fresh drywall.

She called, “Mr. Gastenaux?”

There was a hollow echo, and she didn’t hear any response. Stairs in the foyer led up to the second floor. It never really entered her head to hesitate or to first go outside and call to see if the builder was out there. After all, he could be doing something upstairs.

After she climbed the stairs, she peered into one of the four huge bedrooms. The master suite was going to have a gigantic bath with a whirlpool tub and step-in shower. Wandering back through the bedroom, thinking about what she wanted to do next, she heard a noise downstairs. Maybe Gastenaux had seen her car and was ready to start their meeting.

She called out again, “Mr. Gastenaux, I’m up here.”

But no one answered.

Now she was getting those chills up and down her arms again. A sixth sense? Or just fear.

She supposed the best thing to do was to return downstairs, right?

But what if—

No what-ifs.

Taking her pepper-spray gun from her heavily macraméd purse—a girl never knew when she might need such a thing—she slipped her tablet under her arm with her purse and held the spray gun. Descending the steps slowly, she listened but didn’t hear a sound. Not right away. But then she heard the purr of an engine and the crunch of tires on gravel, and she hurried down the rest of the stairs.

The door was closed. Hadn’t she left it open? She hadn’t heard it bang shut.

Rushing to it, she opened it, and there was a white SUV surging down Drury Lane away from the model home development. Had someone followed her here?

If so, who? More important . . . why?

“You could have painted stripes on the piano,” Denise said as she nudged Caprice’s elbow on Sunday.

Guests had arrived at the Sumpter estate even before the official four o’clock open house began. Quite a property, the estate boasted a high security gate, a long driveway, and a sprawling floor plan. It had sunken rooms, modernized bathrooms featuring neutral-bowl sinks, a pool, and a pool house that was bigger than any studio apartment. Caprice and the estate’s owner, Colin Sumpter, had decided a Wild Kingdom theme would be perfect. Colin had told Denise, as well as Caprice, that he didn’t care what they did to the house as long as they sold it. The estate had once been his home base, but now that he was making more frequent trips abroad, he’d decided he’d rather own a villa in Tuscany.

“Stripes would have been over the top,” Caprice remarked, as one of the guests commented on the metalwork wall hanging that depicted a savannah with lions, as well as the low-slung, off-white sofa decorated with leopard-print pillows.

“You do over-the-top quite well. I really doubted you could pull this one off—the color scheme is almost theatrical.”

Caprice understood what Denise was saying. She’d used a palette of rich rusts, golds, black and white, and deep chocolate against an off-white background. There were black and white striped lampshades as well as caramel and chocolate colored, rich faux-fur throws. In the bedrooms, she’d mixed gold and brown brocade comforters with lighter tan fabrics that almost resembled burlap. After searching high and low online, she’d found unique pieces—for instance, the three-foot-long sleek panther statue that stood in the archway to the dining room like a sentinel. In alcoves and on shelves she’d employed pottery in various sizes in red and orange and black. Against a cream backdrop, they were well placed and uncluttered. The overall scheme made a statement that this house was indeed special.

Denise gestured to the wall near the stone fireplace.

“Just where did you get that sisal hanging? It looks as if you brought it in straight from Kenya.” The hanging portrayed a trio of elephants heading toward a water hole.

“You won’t believe it, but I found that in one of those little shops in Peddler’s Village.”

“In Lahaska?”

“Yep. I’ve had it in my storage shed for about a year.”

“Those lounge chairs you located for around the pool—patterned with vines entwined all over the cushions—are perfect. How do you get your ideas?”

“I don’t know. And that’s the fun of it. I see a wall and know what I want to put on it. I see a sofa and love seat and can envision the exact coffee table that should be there. Nana tells me not to think about it too much because that will upset the mystery of it. I believe she’s right.” She was having tea with Nana tomorrow afternoon and was looking forward to it. Maybe Nana would have insight into what had happened at the model home before Mr. Gastenaux arrived. Maybe she’d just agree that Caprice was paranoid.

“Speaking of mysteries . . .” The real estate agent’s expression became very serious. “I heard there wasn’t going to be a funeral for Bob Preston. Is that true?”

“He left instructions with his lawyer that he didn’t want anything at all. He was cremated, and I don’t have any idea what happened to his ashes. I guess they’ll be buried without a service.”

“How odd,” Denise said.

“Maybe not so odd. He didn’t have any family.”

Nikki suddenly waved to Caprice from the kitchen, and she looked a bit frantic. Nikki never looked frantic, not when she was catering anyway. With her brown, highlighted hair and her wide, golden-brown eyes, she was the pretty girl next door. For this bash she wore a black, short-sleeved Oxford shirt and black slacks that sort of matched the background. All the servers were dressed the same way.

Caprice excused herself from her conversation with Denise and went to Nikki, who grabbed her arm and led her to the quiet corner of a room that wasn’t occupied—yet. Soon they’d all be occupied with the crowd that seemed to be pouring in.

She said, “I have Jocelyn watching the boar paninis and the bison meatballs. Mom just called.”

Caprice reached into her flowing, calf-length skirt—leopard-print, of course—for her phone, but Nikki stayed her hand.

“No, she called me. She thought I wouldn’t be quite as busy as you.” She rolled her eyes. “Bella stopped in and she was pretty upset.”

“Bella told me she didn’t want to involve Mom and Dad.”

“I know, but I guess we weren’t available, so Mom’s the next best thing.”

“When I asked Bella about her and Joe’s first counseling session, she gave the impression it went okay.”

“Okay’s a relative term. Father Gregory listened to them both, had them listen to each other, and then made a suggestion.”

“Which was?”

“Every day they’re supposed to spend a half hour talking to each other and looking at each other straight in the eyes, while someone else watches the kids. He doesn’t want them to do it late at night when they’re both tired.”

“Okay,” Caprice said warily. “So what’s the problem?”

“Apparently Bella, Joe, and the kids, Mom and Dad all went to noon Mass. Then Mom and Dad took the kids home with them. Well . . . when Joe and Bella came to pick them up, there was a whole lot of static in the air. Bella was close to tears. Apparently Joe asked her if this baby is his!”

Caprice gasped and then realized if
she
was that shocked, she could only imagine how her sister felt.

“He thinks it’s Bob’s?”

“Your guess is as good as mine. But I don’t know how they’re ever going to get over this one. Father Gregory might have to call down a few saints. Don’t give me that look,” Nikki added. “I still pray to Saint Jude for anything impossible I want to do.”

Caprice almost smiled, but then she shook her head. “I don’t know how to help them.”

“I don’t think we can. But if the real story behind Bob’s murder came out, I think it might help. Maybe then Joe can see Bella was just looking for a little innocent attention. Who are the suspects?” Nikki asked.

“Jackie Fitz was Bob’s girlfriend. The way Bob flirted and dated, she could have a motive, even if it isn’t his coffee date with Bella.”

“You met with Jackie?”

“Briefly.”

“Does she seem the type?”

“I don’t know. We’ve got calculated murder on the one hand, or . . . a crime of passion on the other. Who knows what a woman’s capable of when she’s riled up enough, or a man for that matter? On the male side of the equation, we have Bob’s partner, Kent Osgood. I’d like to find out what happens to Bob’s side of the business now that he’s dead. From what I understand they haven’t been partners very long. And then there’s Danny Flannery. He had an argument with Bob before Bob was murdered. He’s sullen and defiant enough to get into a fistfight, but I can’t imagine him swinging a ball-peen hammer. My guess is the murder weapon was one of the tools lying around for the construction and remodeling at the center. The police confiscated some of Joe’s tools, but if they found blood on them and analyzed it, he would have been arrested by now.”

“Unless the labs are backed up.”

“I just don’t think it was Joe. I can’t believe that.”

Nikki shook her head, “I can’t either. You mentioned Danny Flannery. I know his mom, Sharla. She works at the Cupcake House. She’s blunt and honest, and I think if you talk to her, she’d probably tell you the truth.”

“About her own son?”

“She’s spoken to me now and then about his problems in school. He doesn’t get along with the other kids. She thinks it’s because he’s artistic, and that could be. Different doesn’t sell well.”

Caprice knew that firsthand. She’d gone to Catholic school, and she’d tried to be the good little girl who didn’t ask too many questions and took everything on faith. But she just wasn’t that type. The years she hadn’t had teachers who understood her curiosity were rough. Classmates who didn’t want to rock the boat didn’t like her. It wasn’t until she’d graduated from high school and gone to college that she realized her questions kept her excited about life. Her desire to search—for something better, something new, or something old—enlivened all of her experiences. She hung around with kids who liked her quirks, and she found being unique was not a bad thing. As an older sister, Nikki had seen that transformation in her and had applauded it. Nikki herself didn’t much like rules and regulations, so they could be a real pair. Maybe that’s why Bella had taken an overly traditional route for her life.

But now Caprice wasn’t so sure she was happy with it. “I’ll make sure I stop in at the Cupcake House tomorrow. Roz often buys their specials.”

All of a sudden, something in the house seemed different to Caprice. When she’d joined Nikki, there had been groups of house hunters conversing. Noise of one sort or another was generated from every room. But now there seemed to be a stark silence.

“Do you hear it?” she asked Nikki.

“Hear what? I don’t hear anything.”

“That’s exactly my point. Something must have happened or the house wouldn’t be so quiet. I can’t believe everybody would have left.”

“What if there’s another murder?”

“Don’t even think it.”

Caprice and Nikki rushed from the room toward the hall. They could see into the living room and to the foyer beyond. Everyone was standing still, the crowd all turned toward the door.

“I wonder if this is Denise’s famous client.”

As Caprice and Nikki approached the living room, chatter began again. But it was all chatter aimed at the individual who’d walked in with two men at his side. One, big and burly, looked like a bodyguard. He had a full beard and appeared tough enough to wrestle anybody to the ground. On the center figure’s other side stood a shorter man in a yellow linen jacket, white slacks, and a royal blue tie.
A manager maybe?
Caprice wondered, because she now recognized the man who had caused the fuss.

Ace Richland was a rock star from the eighties. He’d appeared on a reality show last year, and social media as well as an excellent publicist had given his career a huge upswing. Caprice had heard he’d planned a comeback tour. She recognized him because she liked his music and played his old stuff. Everything from “Gotta Keep Her Yours,” to “Zingy Chick” to “Swinging for a Future” and “Wrestling the World.” She could even sing some of the lyrics.

Denise must have been watching for him because she rushed over and shook his hand. She shook the hand of the man in the yellow jacket too, but not the big, burly guy’s. Then, scanning the crowd, she spotted Caprice. She asked the burly guy to make way for her, which he did.

Seconds later, Caprice stood before Ace Richland, staring at his spiked-brown hair, which was stiffer than some of the plants in her garden. His earring was at least two carats of sparkling diamond. He was dressed in designer jeans matched with a navy silk shirt that clung to a body that had seen a lot of workouts. Ace might be hitting fifty, but he’d kept himself in shape. Or else he’d gotten back in shape to go on that reality show, and it had paid off.

When Denise introduced Ace to Caprice, she felt herself blush a little. She couldn’t be star-struck, could she?

Ace was a tall, lean man, and there was a lot of power in his handshake. “It’s nice to meet you, Miss De Luca. Denise told me you came up with the theme for this staging.”

“I did. I just thought it seemed to fit. Many of the leopard spots and stripes can be removed, leaving a cream background for black leather furniture that would go well in anyone’s home. Accents are usually the start.”

When he released her hand, she looked up into his green eyes and said, “I read the reality show article. You related your experience in the jungle as you searched for a route out. You turned introspective about the experience.”

“Yes, I did. During that god-awful isolation, when I was crawling up trees to find food to survive, I decided if I ever got out of there, I’d plan a comeback tour.”

“I’d love a front-row seat,” she said, before she could filter her thoughts.

“You’re young to be familiar with my music.”

“I like all music. I’m familiar with the Beatles, Chad and Jeremy, Paul Revere and the Raiders. Your group kind of reminded me of them. Your harmonies. Your guitar skill.”

“Wow, you are a fan! I bet you might even know my real name.”

“I do. It’s Al Rizzo, and the reason I took an interest in it is because I’m Italian, too.”

“And cooking is everything?” he asked with a twinkle in his eye.

“I don’t know about everything, but it’s a lot. It brings our whole family together.”

“Mom makes me lasagna whenever I get home.”

Denise said, “Why don’t I show you around the property.”

“If you don’t mind, can Miss De Luca do it? If she arranged all this furniture in here, I’m sure she’s familiar with it too. I just have to decide if I like it. When we’re done and if I do, I’ll talk to you about price.”

Denise looked a little flustered, and Caprice wasn’t sure how to handle this. The real estate agent always took over at the showing, and this was the first time a client had asked her for a tour.

“I’m Ace’s manager,” the man in the yellow suit said, shaking Caprice’s hand. “Trent Jarvick here. I’ve spoken with Denise on the phone. Why don’t I get all the paperwork and statistics from her while Ace takes a look around.”

Ace looked over his shoulder. “Charlie can stay with you.”

“Ace . . .” Trent warned.

“No one’s going to assault me here. Look at this crowd. They’re in their Sunday best. They know I’m here, but the novelty will wear off. Come on, Miss De Luca, let’s take that tour.”

What choice did she have?

As they passed through the dining room, with its giant pedestal table, swivel rattan chairs, and six-foot hutch layered with colorful pottery and collector’s items, Ace asked, “Did you know I was coming?”

“Denise told me someone important was coming, but she didn’t tell me who.”

He thought about that as they walked. “You can call me Al or Ace. I answer to both.”

She laughed. “You can call me Caprice.”