Designed for Death (23 page)

“Eight dollars a square foot. Mom said the alley isn’t a good location for everyone, so she lowered the going rate. The added traffic will help Off Shoots too.”

“That’s more than fair.” I hugged the envelope to my chest like it held a Red Sox pitcher’s contract.

Their enthusiasm hadn’t waned since morning; neither had mine. This was a go. I knew it in my bones.

A sudden clap of thunder nearly rocked me out of my chair.

“The storm’s had me a little crazy, so I haven’t done any number crunching yet, but I will,” I promised. “Please thank your mom for the vote of confidence. I’ll get the contract back to her as soon as I can.”

A lightning flash lit up the room for an instant. I jumped to my feet. “Now you two get home to safety. Please.”

Irma laughed. “You ain’t seen nothin’ yet.” But they both stood and hugged me goodbye. They were in the foyer before I thought to ask, “Have you heard from Lieutenant Rossi?”

Shaking her head, Irma glanced quickly over at Elsie. “No, but we probably should call him.”

“Not we,
you,
” Elsie said tartly.

“Why?” I asked.

“It’s about that night at the Island Grill. I left something out of my report,” Irma said. “Nothing important, but…”

The uncertainty in her voice set off my alarm bells. “The lieutenant would say everything’s important. No matter how small.”

“Told you,” Elsie said with a smirk.

“The guy talking to Treasure that night? The shirt he had on wasn’t solid purple, like I said. Elsie reminded me it had purple flowers on a lighter purple background. A Hawaiian type shirt. The kind people wear with the tail out. Maybe it’s not important, but Elsie thinks it is.”

“I do, too,” I said. “You know what they claim—the devil’s in the details.” I kept my voice steady, not letting on that Irma’s correction had sent me into a tailspin. Only one guy I knew wore Hawaiian shirts wherever he went.

Rossi.

Chapter Twenty-Two

No, not Rossi. It couldn’t have been Rossi. The shirt thing was a coincidence, that’s all. As soon as this storm was over, I’d ask him about it. For sure, he’d tell me he didn’t even own a purple-on-purple shirt.

Even if he did, he wasn’t the only person in town who wore gaudy Hawaiian shirts. Although in tasteful, upscale Naples, I had to admit, the sightings were fairly rare.

I bolted the front door against the wind and rain, but though I tried, I couldn’t shut out my fear. On the night Treasure died, she’d been seen with a man in a bright Hawaiian shirt. Every instinct I possessed shrieked that it couldn’t have been Rossi. The mere idea that it might have been was so ridiculous I dismissed it immediately. But like a persistent infection, it kept returning.

“Don’t trust anybody,” he’d said.

“What about you?” I’d asked.

“Especially me. I’m a dangerous guy.”

I remember how he’d looked when he said that—he’d meant it.

But he was a cop. An arm of the law. A detective.

So what? Dad had known rogue cops up north. But I refused to believe Rossi had gone rogue. Not Rossi with his dour expression and the occasional big white smile that lit his dark face. Not Rossi whose eyes flashed over me, saying what he’d never put into words. Not Rossi, rough as tree bark, solid as steel.

No, not Rossi. The shirt thing was a coincidence, that’s all.

Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’d get to the bottom of this confusion, but not now, not tonight. Tonight I would savor the moment. My business was about to be launched!

I’d name it Deva Dunne, Designs to Die For.

Or maybe keep it simple and elegant. Deva Dunne Interiors.

Yes, that was the one. I needed to celebrate and eyeballed the empty Edy’s carton. Something else, then.

Wine. And a movie. No more weather news for a few hours. No more obsessing about Rossi. I just wanted to sit at peace and be happy.

As life insurance, before turning on the movie, I retrieved the Cobra from my purse, placed it on the coffee table next to the empty ice cream carton, hesitated, picked it up again and released the safety.

Bells shrilled all around me. On and on.
Ring. Ring. Ring.
Relentless as the hammers of hell, they refused to stop and let me sleep.
Ring. Ring. Ring, ring.

I flung off the Aran Island afghan and sat up, stiff-backed and sore, on the edge of Nana’s sofa. What was I doing here?

Oh.
The empty wine bottle staring at me from the coffee table answered that question. Maybe the ringing was inside my head, but no, the phone’s red signal was pulsing like a wild eye. I leaned over, grabbed the receiver and croaked out a hello.

“Deva, is that you?” Simon asked, a tremor of relief in his voice.

Who the heck else would it be? “Of course. What time is it?”

“Six a.m. Why didn’t you pick up? I thought something happened to you.”

Bitchy and headachy, I said, “Let me ask the questions, Simon. Where are you? Disney World?”

“Very funny. I’m in the Naples Community Hospital.”

That jolted me wide awake. Another friend in jeopardy? “What’s wrong?”

“One of our senior partners had a heart attack. His wife’s out of town. I promised her I wouldn’t leave him.”

The sharp stab of fear subsided, but for the instant it lasted, I learned more about myself than I wanted to know. “Will he be all right?”

“Well, he’s stabilized. They’re considering open heart surgery.”

I slumped back on the sofa with the phone to my ear. The ringing had been replaced by a low rustling like a thousand brooms scraping along a sidewalk. Forcing myself off the sofa, I stumbled to the window and raised one of the plantation slats. A peek into the early morning gloom revealed palm trees caught up in a frenzied soughing, their long fronds like a madwoman’s hair, pitching back and forth, rubbing against each other, flinging themselves at the sky, all control lost, insanity in every thrust.

I snapped the slat closed as Simon asked, “Are you watching TV?”

“No. I’ve been asleep.”

“Turn on national weather. It looks like Carolyn might hit at high tide. Around noon. If it does, Surfside will be flooded. The governor’s ordered mandatory evacuation for all coastal residents. Get out of there, Deva. Now.”

I hit the remote. The TV screen lit up with what wasn’t a pretty sight. “The roads are jammed, Simon. I’m watching I-75. Nothing’s moving. It’s gridlocked.”

His sigh came through the line, heavy as a lead weight, but to his credit he refrained from saying he’d warned me. “Then get upstairs, out of the wave surge, and don’t waste any time doing it. You’ll be safer there. You have a key for Treasure’s condo?”

“Not anymore.” Apprehension knotted in my stomach. “Dick changed the locks yesterday. I think he’s in Texas chasing Marilyn.”

“Good Lord, that explains it. When I couldn’t get you, I tried his number. No answer there, or at Chip’s place either.” Simon’s voice faded then returned in a rush. “They’re paging me. I have to go. I’ll phone again as soon as I can. Get upstairs, Deva. Neal might be home. Go there.”

The phone went dead, leaving me alone with the menacing rumble of the wind stroking the trees. Neal and I were probably the only ones left in the building. Should I go up to his condo?
Trust no one. Not even your closest friends.
That meant no, but with the storm blowing in at high tide and Surfside only a few hundred yards from the shore, I couldn’t stay here.

I huffed out a breath. Faithful Simon had called sounding gratifyingly worried, but what about Rossi?
Nada.
When I didn’t want him around, he appeared out of the blue. Now that a girl could use a savior, where was he? Probably hand-carrying his fiancée out of the danger zone. Oh well, as the saying goes, sex is thicker than water. Besides, Irma’s story about the shirt wouldn’t leave me alone. I was sure Rossi could explain everything but, until he did, I had no one to depend on except myself.

Temples throbbing, I tried to think what to do next. Emergency shelters had been set up around town. I could probably make it to one of the fire stations or to the high school gym the local news anchor had mentioned.

I looked around at my beloved Irish furniture. Along with my wedding band, it was my last visible link to Jack. The tall case clock, the chest of drawers, the dining table…everything. Floodwater would destroy it all.

No way could that happen. I jumped up from the sofa, hurried into my bedroom, slipped off the wrinkled shorts and tee and put on a sweat shirt, jeans and a pair of Nikes. Suited up, I went back to the living room to see what could be lifted out of harm’s way. My heart sank. Almost everything was too heavy to move. But not the small things.

The Belleek bowls, the brass candlesticks, the rose medallion porcelains could go in the top shelf of the kitchen cabinets. I took down the trays and odd-shaped casseroles I hardly ever used and filled the shelves with the antiques. Then I rolled up the small Orientals and stashed them on the top shelf of my bedroom closet, alongside the gray sweats and the sweaters from Boston.

So much for the accessories, but I looked at the nine-by-twelve Tabriz with something like despair. Having it drown in saltwater wasn’t an option, not as long as I had breath in my body. But I had to lift off the furniture before the rug could be moved.

Starting with the heaviest pieces, I pushed and pulled until everything—sofa, clock, chairs—cleared the rug, and I could roll it into a sausage.

Now what? A hundred percent wool, with over two hundred knots to the square inch, it weighed a ton. Darn it. Here’s where Rossi with his king-sized shoulders in one of those pineapple print shirts would come in handy. Or his purple one with the lavender background?
No. Don’t go there.

I huffed out an exasperated breath and, hands on hips, surveyed the situation. The dining room tabletop would be the safest place for the rug. That the water might reach ceiling height, or higher, I didn’t even dwell on. I had a more immediate concern—getting the rug just a few feet off the floor. Giving it at least a chance of surviving intact.

Okay, I’d use the old pyramid approach. Build a ramp. Moving fast, I flanked the dining room table with an end table, a club chair and, last in line, the low ottomans. I slipped the leather belt out of my jeans loops and cinched it around one end of the rolled-up rug. Then I grabbed the free end of the belt and tugged. Nothing. Again. Beads of sweat popped out on my forehead, but this time the rug slid a few feet across the floor.

With the belt over my shoulder, pulling and sweating, I hoisted the rug partly up onto the ottoman. From there up, up onto the club chair, where it hung like a boneless beast.

I sank to the floor, breathing hard.

Slam!

What was that? A freight train? Heart pounding, I leaped up and ran toward the sound.
Omigod.
A palm tree had blown down and smashed through the lanai screens, its fronds stroking the inner glass wall like a lecherous lover. I heaved a sigh. At least the trunk hadn’t been tall enough to shatter the sliders.

No time to waste. I raced back to the living room and grabbed the belt in both fists. Using every bit of muscle in my arms, I yanked the front end of the carpet off the chair onto the top of the dining room table. The back end now cleared both ottomans. I pushed them out of the way. Squatting behind the club chair, I shoved the rug with all my might. It rewarded me with a beautiful slide, fairly flying across the table’s polished surface. I vowed I’d use Minn Wax for the rest of my life.

Sighing with relief, I flopped into the chair, resting for a moment before piling the end tables, coffee table and lamps on top of the rug. If I could just get Nana’s sofa off the floor…but there was no way.

In the spare bedroom that doubled as an office, I pulled the book Jack had written, his crowning achievement,
An Irishman’s View of Western Civilization,
off the shelf. I put it on the desk, grabbed a file folder out of a drawer and filled it with documents—mortgage papers, insurance policies, bills, CDs, the Fern Alley contract—and put the folder on top of Jack’s book. I sealed everything in Ziplock bags, wrapped the bags in a towel and stashed the bundle up on the kitchen shelf with the porcelains. The picture of Jack smiling at me on our wedding day I removed from the silver frame and slid into my purse.

Now for my clothes. I tossed the Jimmy Choos, the two new resort outfits and a few other favorites on the top shelf of the bedroom closet then stretched out flat on the bed to recoup.

My efforts to save my possessions had been pathetic. More than likely, everything I loved would be destroyed. There was nothing I could do to prevent it, any more than I could have prevented Jack from skidding to his death on black ice.

As I lay there, the wind howled around the building like animals shrieking to get in. I covered my ears with my hands. The wind was as dangerous as black ice.

Drained of energy and badly in need of a boost, I dragged myself off the Sleep Number Mattress (#55 is my favorite), made a pot of Starbucks Verona and brought a steaming mug out to the living room. The weather report was bound to be scary, but this was no time for ignorance.

Small objects whipped past the windows, banging against the sides of the building, telling me that I’d waited too long to seek a shelter. I jabbed on the weather channel again.

“Unless Carolyn veers far to the south—and at this time, there is no indication that she will—coastal flooding is expected along the gulf from Florida to Louisiana. If you live in a low-lying area, we urge you to get to a higher elevation. Carolyn is a category four hurricane, everyone. Your life could be at stake.”

Three and a half hours to high tide and the full brunt of the storm. I treaded the living room, my Nikes slapping the bare floor, the wind filling my head with ugly sounds. And fear.

What if the lanai sliders gave way? Broken glass and debris and seawater would come pouring in. I could drown like a rat in a hole.

My pacing took on a fresh frenzy. There were empty apartments on the second and third floors. Any of them would do. But I might get trapped in one for days with no electricity, no food or water, nothing but the bare walls. That left either Simon’s condo or Treasure’s—now Dick’s—on the third floor or Neal’s on the second.