Designed for Death (21 page)

I think.

Key at the ready, I unlocked the Audi, jumped in and jammed down the locks. Like a teenage hotshot, I peeled out of the garage, wheels squealing, and drove home, glancing through the rearview mirror most of the way. Nearly at Surfside, with no gray-haired guy on my tail, I relaxed, forcing away the fear of muggers and murderers to concentrate on my future. For now, happiness was beyond my grasp, but a business of my own not might be. I gulped a lungful of car-cooled air. Could I do it? The startup costs would be heavy.

Still, the condo mortgage was my only outstanding loan. Once Dick had the whole building renovated, my investment should double in value. The Audi, only a year old, ran like a jewel. My home was completely furnished, largely thanks to Jack’s mom. I ate little—most of the time. But then there were the utilities, car insurance… Luckily I was the beneficiary of Jack’s health insurance policy from BU.

Itching to get at the calculator to estimate setup expenses, I pressed on the gas pedal, making good time until a sobering thought hit me, and I slowed to a virtual crawl.

The day before, in the clubroom, Elsie had said, “Anybody can walk into the shop.”

If I rented on Fern Alley, no telling who might pop in. A potential client. A casual shopper. A murderer. Rossi’s warning to keep my doors locked wouldn’t help me run a successful business.

He simply had to solve the case. Soon. Lately, I’d been seeing a killer under every bed, a threat in every gray-haired man. What a way to live…what a way to die, the life choked out of your body, your neck twisted and lolling on your chest… Oh God, I had to stop thinking like this. I snapped on the radio.

“This one’s a monster, folks. Keep your eye on it. Better still, listen to the governor’s warning and lay in supplies. At least three days’ worth of bottled water and nonperishable food. Make sure your prescription medications are filled. Likewise your gas tank. We expect Tropical Storm Carolyn to be updated to hurricane status within the hour. Now headed for the Cayman Islands, Carolyn’s over warm water and picking up speed. By this time tomorrow, she’ll be off the coast of Jamaica, which expects a direct hit. From there the storm could—”

I pushed the off button. Maybe the storm wouldn’t strike Florida’s west coast at all. According to a Calusa Indian legend, Marco Island and Naples were sacred to the gods. Violent storms seldom struck here. As if it agreed, the day was flawless, bathed in sun, the bougainvillea and hibiscus splashing the lawns with scarlet and pink, the palm trees swaying like fan dancers. Off in the distance, at the end of Harbour Drive, the sky met the sea in a seamless joining of blue. All of it, every bit, convincing me that despite what had happened, I did live in paradise.

A package from Fabrics International had been left outside my front door. The replacement pillow I’d ordered for Neal. Inside, I had a call waiting. “Deva, it’s Dick. I’m living in 301 at the moment. Don’t want you bustin’ in on me when I’m in the raw. Ha-ha. Just so you’ll know, Marilyn’s on her way to Texas, but I’m goin’ after her. Talk to you when we return.”
Click.

We.
He had confidence, I’d give him that. But with a hurricane and a murderer both on the loose, what a time to abandon Surfside. My fears flooding back in full force, I dropped onto a kitchen chair. To hell with the Calusa Indians. And to hell with Rossi, telling me to watch my back and in the same breath ordering me to stay out of the case.

How could I? Then again, how could I not? I didn’t know a damned thing about criminal behavior. I was an interior designer, not a homicide detective. No wonder Rossi resented what he called my meddling. Still, I couldn’t let go. The murderer could be anyone. A stranger. Someone I never met. Would never know. So why was I convinced I
did
know him? That he was close to home. Frighteningly close. Female instinct? A no-brainer, but the only answer I could come up with. The problem was I had no one to talk to. No one objective who would listen to my fears…and my theories. Not the Surfsiders, not Rossi, not anybody.

I felt so alone. If only I could call on Jack, ask his advice, listen to the warmth in his voice telling me to hang in there, all would be well. But we’d said our goodbyes, and I’d honor that. If it killed me.

What I needed was a confidant who would keep our discussion private…like a confession…and, I hoped, tell me I wasn’t hysterical…someone who knew something about antisocial behavior.

But who?
Who?

Chapter Twenty

Ah! I leaped up and ran to the bedroom for my purse. I dumped everything on the bed, snatched up the phone and scrolled through Contacts until I came to Dr. J. Phillips.
Jesse.

Midday. Midsummer. Good timing. He wouldn’t be in class now, most likely in his study working on yet another psychology text. Pulse throbbing, I pressed in his number, hoping he wasn’t traveling or at a conference somewhere out of touch.

A woman picked up on the third ring. Strange. Jesse lived alone.

My pulse quieted when she said “Phillips’ residence.”

“May I speak to Dr. Phillips, please?”

“Sorry, he’s resting at the moment.”

At noon? Dynamic Jesse?

“My name is Deva Dunne and this is?”

“Nurse Ryan.”

I drew in a quick breath. “Jesse’s ill?”

“He has been, but he’s better now. Shall I tell him you called?”

His heart again. It must be his heart.
“My late husband was a friend and colleague of Dr. Phillips at BU. If at all possible may I speak to him for a minute or two? It’s important.”

A pause then, “Very well. I’ll see if he’s awake.”

If Jesse had a breath in his body, once he heard my name, I knew he’d talk to me. For years, like father and son, he and Jack had met for breakfast every Saturday morning. It was their special time to laugh and to be serious, to delve into history and philosophy and psychology. And most likely to tell a few raucous tales. When Jack died, Jesse had been devastated too. We had both loved Jack.

A few moments later a reedy voice said, “Deva, what a delightful surprise. How
are
you?”

“Good, Jesse, truthfully. How are
you?
”

“Coming along, coming along. This last attack was a doozy but I’m still here.” His voice lowered. “Something tells me this isn’t a casual call.”

“Can’t I ever fool you, Jess?”

“Nope. What’s wrong?”

I knew Jesse was unflappable, so I plunged right in. “A neighbor was murdered last week. I found her. Some things about the case are bothering me and I need to talk to a person I can trust. Someone like you who understands motivation.”

A long sigh came through the line. “If I were a well man, Deva, I’d fly down to see you immediately, but my traveling days are over, I’m afraid.” He drew in a ragged breath. “What I can do is recommend someone in your neck of the woods, a former student of mine. Dr. Laura Cristall. She’s an excellent therapist. I’ll have Nurse Ryan find her number and I’ll give the good doctor a call. She won’t refuse me. I’ll ask her to contact you directly.”

“Wonderful, thank you so much, Jess.”

“I wish I could do more. So much more. Goodbye my dear.”

Though I held the phone closer to my ear, I heard nothing else. He had quietly hung up.

Fifteen minutes later the phone rang. I grabbed it on the first ring. When I gave my name, a cool female voice said, “I’m Dr. Laura Cristall’s assistant. I understand you need an emergency appointment.”

“Yes, I do.” I must have sounded desperate. She fit me in that afternoon. I guess the “someone’s trying to kill me” was what did it.

Dr. Cristall turned out to be a big-boned woman of forty-something with a thick braid of brown hair wrapped around her head like a tiara. Despite her soft voice and flowered silk dress, she shook my hand with a stevedore’s grip before waving me to a seat facing her desk. Then she eased behind it onto a swivel chair the size of a Buick.

“Dr. Phillips said it was urgent that I see you.” She peered at me through her horn-rims. “So what brings you here today, Mrs. Dunne?”

I stared at her, openmouthed. Didn’t she know? Hadn’t Jesse told her? Oh, of course. I relaxed into a sigh. Rule one of the counseling game: I did the talking. She did the listening.

“Murder, Dr. Cristall. Murder.”

Her eyes behind the thick lenses widened. “Go on.”

“You’ve read about Treasure Kozlowski, the woman who was found a week ago with her neck broken? Naked. In a bathtub. At the Surfside Condominiums on Gulf Shore?”

Dr. Cristall leaned forward. “I’ve read the newspaper reports. Why does that bring you here?”

“I found the body.”

“Ah.” She sank back in her chair and set it swiveling.

“I have a theory no one will listen to.” I leaned over her desk. “I believe there’s a possibility the killer and a man who attempted two separate assaults are one and the same.”

“What makes you think so?” she asked dryly, the cultivated indifference slipping, for a second, from her face.

“Several things. What the attacker said to the assault victims, for one. I wrote them down for you.”

I opened my purse and removed a slip of paper. On it I had scrawled
Stay away from the widow
and
Do you have a boyfriend?
I slid the paper across the desk. They were such pitiful little statements, I felt a pang of embarrassment at bringing them to her as if they had some kind of significance. But, anxious for her help, I sat without speaking as she picked up the sheet and read what I’d written.

A moment only and she glanced up. “There’s not much here to go on.”

The probe of her all-knowing eyes made me uneasy. Face flushing, I nodded. “That’s why I didn’t go to the police.”

“Fill me in, Mrs. Dunne.” Hands folded on her stomach, she waited for me to go on.

I sat still for a moment, gathering my thoughts. “After Treasure’s death, I went to see a friend of hers, a Fayette LaBelle. Fayette told me the truth about Treasure.”

“The truth?”

I nodded, anxious to continue, to get it all out. “Treasure had a transgender operation. Fayette knew him as Thomas Kozlowski.”

As if she heard similar stories every day of the week, Dr. Cristall murmured a serene “I see.”

“Fayette also told me he’d been mugged the night before outside his…ah…place of business. Luckily he knew Tae Kwon Do and knocked the gun out of his assailant’s hand. But not before he heard, ‘Stay away from the widow.’” God, I hated admitting it, but I had to. “I’m a widow, Doctor.”

Her eyes behind the lenses widened a bit, but other than that her expression didn’t change. “You think you’re the widow he meant?”

“I do.”

“Interesting.” She picked up the slip of paper. “What of this second statement? ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’”

“That was said to a young girl, a Lee Skimp. Shortly after the attack on Fayette, she was nearly abducted outside of Kmart. A routine police patrol saved her.”

Giving in to a sudden urge to move around, I got up from my chair to pace the Oriental rug, a gorgeous late nineteenth century Hebriz. The room, done in soothing shades of green, with live ficus trees near the windows, had obviously been designed to provide a calming atmosphere. Green walls are often used in the rooms of mental patients, but the décor’s psychology sure wasn’t working on me today. Even if I
was
nuts.

I paced back to the desk and, palms on the top, bent over, invading Dr. Cristall’s space. She didn’t flinch. “Maybe I’m a fool. Maybe there is no pattern or connection. So why do I think there is?”

“I can’t answer that.”

“No, of course not.” I collapsed back into the stiff leather chair. “There’s one other possible link, Doctor. The night Treasure died, she was seen talking to a man wearing sunglasses. At midnight. Fayette didn’t get a good look at his attacker, but Lee Skimp said her abductor had them on too, on a dark night with heavy rain. And both victims mentioned the mugger’s deep voice.”

Even to my own ears, the story sounded moronic, but it was all I had to go on, stupid or not.

Dr. Cristall tented her fingers and peered at me over them. Her expression, her body language, her voice all remained soothing and calm, as she said, “You do understand, Mrs. Dunne, that I’m seeing you today as a personal favor to Dr. Phillips?”

“Of course.”

“Do you also understand that your request is highly irregular? If I’m hearing you correctly, you’re asking me to give you a professional analysis of an unsubstantiated theory. A theory containing little to no concrete information. And based on this less than ideal information, you want me to provide the psychological profile of a killer. To go out on a limb, in other words.”

I sucked in a deep breath.
Do or die.
“Exactly.”

A smile flirted with her lips, but she suppressed it before it broke free.

“You’re an honest woman, Mrs. Dunne. So—” she tossed a pencil onto the desk blotter and leaned back in the swivel, “—based on that and on Dr. Phillip’s glowing opinion of you, I’ll give it a try.” She held up a warning finger. “Don’t hold me to a thing. What I say will be strictly speculation.”

The tight band around my chest eased. “I can’t ask for more.”

Though her eyes remained skeptical, she gave me a brief nod. “You want a marker that points to a similarity among the events you described.”

“Yes. Something I can take to the police and not be laughed out of the station. Or locked up.”

She turned her attention to the slip of paper. “The first statement was spoken to a male, but it concerns a woman, a widow.”

Right, doc,
I wanted to say, but kept quiet and let her mind play with the possibilities.

“The second statement is directed at a woman.” As if something had just occurred to her, Dr. Cristall glanced up quickly. “What did she look like?”

“Hardly a woman. A girl, really. Pretty. Thin and frail. Pale blond hair.”

“A widow and a young girl.” Knitting her brows together, Dr. Cristall frowned and rode the swivel for a few moments before saying, “When the assailant asked, ‘Do you have a boyfriend?’ that might not have been an idle question. He may really have wanted to know.”