Tom Kruse’s panel truck was parked on the Grandese’s brick drive when I arrived at the house the next morning. I unlocked the front door, turned off the alarm system and ushered him into the empty dining room.
“In here, Tom, the walls should look like a ripe mango. Just before it rots.”
He stared at me, his brow furrowed.
“It’s a color you can’t describe in one word.”
“Right,” he said, and then he laughed. “That’s a first, Deva. And I’ve been at this for thirty years.”
I rummaged through the canvas tote hanging from my shoulder. “There’s no single word for the shade I have in mind, but I brought a mango with me.”
“That’ll help,” he said, the edges of his eyes crinkling suspiciously.
I held the fruit in my palm. “See this soft spot over here? That’s the shade exactly.”
He plucked the mango from my hand and carried it to a window flooded with morning sunshine. “Okay, I see coral-tangerine with rose overtones underlain with a greenish-yellow. Not chrome yellow, more like daffodils in bloom.”
I slid the tote off my shoulder and dropped it on a work bench in the center of the dining room. “Very funny.”
“Sort of,” he admitted, breaking out into a laugh again. “But you used Putnam Ivory in the living room. That was easy, so I owe you one. Let me keep the fruit, okay? I’ll cut the coral with warm rose, add a dab of yellow to soften both and a drop or two, no more, of black for depth. How’s that sound?”
“Confusing. But you’re the mixologist.”
“I’ve been called worse,” he said, still smiling, obviously undaunted by coming up with a perfect, unnamable shade that at the moment existed only in my mind. And in the sky on that Zuber wallpaper. “Let me get the base mixes out of the truck and give me a few minutes. When I think I’m close, I’ll call you back for a look.”
While Tom went for the paint samples, I toured the house. With the living room redo now complete, Francesco had some of his antiques installed in place. In the quiet perfection of the room, they shone like the jewels they were. Especially the magnificent Townsend. In awe, I worshipped the desk, my breath catching in my throat, my hands behind my back in case I’d be tempted to touch it.
But finally, the lure was too strong. I had to caress the sweeping grain of that wood, just a little, a finger stroke or two. I reached out, the mahogany silk under my fingertips. Then the temptation took on a life of its own, and I ran a hand over the front panels. A brass key had been left protruding from a lock. What did the desk look like inside, were there cubbies and clever little drawers and small, fitted compartments? I had to know.
A single turn of the key and the panel doors opened. A mixture of dried rose petals and old potted ink came wafting out. I peeked inside and released a long, pent-up breath. The interior was a cabinetmaker’s marvel, with rows of fitted drawers and cunning miniature cabinets. What did they hold? Precious little somethings put away for safekeeping? Love letters? A vender’s bill from the eighteenth century? I opened a drawer. Empty. A second one. Empty. I pulled on the brass knob of a tiny little cabinet door and peered closer.
Made of clear glass with a metal screw top, the bottle was small, a vial really, and half filled with a clear liquid. An ordinary little container that could hold three or four ounces of fluid when full, no more, it was nothing special.
Then why secreted in the cubby of this magnificent desk as if it were an object of value? There was no label, no marking of any kind. Obviously the liquid wasn’t ink, and a perfume bottle would be far more elaborate.
I reached into the miniature cabinet and removed the container. The top twisted off easily enough. I raised the open neck to my nose and sniffed. Almonds.
Omigod
,
cyanide
.
Heart beating fast, I screwed the cap back on, replaced the vial and closed the desk. Poison wasn’t an illegal possession, but still Rossi needed to know about this. Before I could pull the cell out of my pocket, the chimes rang. Tom must have locked himself out. I hurried to let him in, but the front door was already half open.
Oh
no
. “Cookie, what a surprise.”
“I saw that little car of yours, so thought I’d stop by and say hello. I’m dying to see what you’re doing with the place.”
“Well, the project isn’t finished yet.”
“That’s all right, dear. I’ll just peek around and leave as quiet as a mouse. Don’t stop what you’re doing for me,” she said over a shoulder as she strolled toward the living room.
“Wait—”
“Deva, want to take a look at this color?” Tom called from the dining room.
“Be right there.”
He’d dabbed a twelve-inch swath on one of the walls.
“Close,” I said, peering at it carefully. “But a tad too coral. We want more richness, more sophistication. More mango.”
He didn’t even sigh. “Less coral. More sophistication. Got it.”
“Keep that mango spot in mind.”
“Right.” This time he did sigh.
Like a latter-day alchemist, he went back to his mixing, and I went searching for Cookie. She shouldn’t be running through the Grandese house in their absence. How did I know if they wanted her in here snooping and prying? For that was what she was doing.
As
I’d
been
doing
in
the
Townsend
. But that was different, wasn’t it? I was here on official business. I tamped down the spurt of guilt and found Cookie still prowling the living room.
“This is quite a change from Drexel’s concept,” she said. “Rather colorless, if you ask me.”
“A half-finished dress so to speak,” I said, damned if I’d justify my design decisions to her.
“Well, good luck pulling it all together.” She actually sniffed.
“Luck has nothing to do with it.” I was pissed enough to use my Boston voice. A bad sign. Cookie was getting to me, and I shouldn’t let that happen.
“Ta-ta,” she said, waggling her fingers. “Do tell the Grandeses I’ve been by. They’re living over the garage, you know. How quaint.”
If she knew that, why hadn’t she called on them there? I resolved to keep the doors locked whenever I worked on the property, and I’d tell Tom and the other contractors to do the same.
She’d no sooner left than on a hunch I hurried into the living room and unlocked the Townsend. I opened the tiny cabinet and looked inside.
The vial was gone.
The
nerve
of
her
!
I ran to the front door and yanked it open. Cookie was slowly strolling across Rum Row. “Cookie, I want to talk to you!”
Without even bothering to look out for traffic, I dashed across the street. Cool as glass, she turned to face me. “Yes?” One eyebrow lifted.
“What did you do with it?”
“Whatever do you mean?” She was a good actress, I’ll give her that. Not a glimmer of uncertainty crossed her face.
“The cyanide, Cookie. The cyanide. Where is it?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Have you lost your senses?” She flounced away and started up the paved walk to her front door.
In a moment of sheer bravado I said, “Stop right there, or I’ll call the police.”
She whirled around. “You’re insane.”
I pointed to her chinos. “Empty your pockets. Take everything out and put it on the walk.” I eyed her chest. Flat as a tortilla. No vial hidden there.
“I’ll do no such thing.”
I pulled the cell phone out of my skirt pocket and poised a finger over the keys. “Your choice.”
She glanced up and down the street. “I don’t want the police here. What will the neighbors think?”
“Precisely. So come on, Cookie,” I said, thinking a little pleading might go further than threats. “A man’s been murdered. We’re all scared.”
She heaved a sigh. “You’re creating a scene. Come around to the back where we won’t be seen.”
Armed with my cell phone, I followed her across the lawn to the rear garden, a lovely private oasis centered with a splashing fountain and a weathered stone statue of an angel in repose.
“This is beautiful,” I said, momentarily distracted by the surroundings.
“Yes, I designed the landscaping myself. The women in my family all have impeccable taste. Though we’ve never made a business out of practicing it.”
Don’t
bother
responding
, I told myself.
She’s
not
worth
the
effort
. I held out a hand. “Give it to me.”
She shook her head.
Index finger poised over the cell number pad, I raised the phone into her line of vision.
She held out for a long moment before the resolution in her steely jaw wavered. “Very well. Why not? If you tell anyone, it’ll be your word against mine.” She reached into her pants pocket. “May I remind you that my husband and I are pillars of society in this town?”
I dropped the phone into a pocket and held out a hand.
She placed the vial in my open palm but didn’t let go of it. “Satisfied now?”
I shook my head. “I’m not sure,” I said looking down at the perfectly manicured fingers still clutching the bottle. Though the sun shone through the glass, no fire ignited that rock on her finger. My glance traveled to her wrist. In the pitiless Florida sunshine, the fabulous tennis bracelet should have sparkled like a wrist full of stars. But it didn’t.
I slid the vial from under her clinging fingers and pocketed it. “What happened to your jewelry, Cookie?” A rude question, but under the circumstances, good manners had to topple.
She gasped and folded her right hand over her left, covering the ring from sight.
“Nothing’s wrong.”
“Your stones are glass,” I said in a not-so-wild guess. “You switched out the diamonds. Why?”
She sank onto a Chippendale bench and stared up at me with pleading in her eyes. In that instant my heart turned over with sympathy for this difficult snob of a woman. Something had gone awry in her life, something she felt powerless to correct. Something, I suspected, that might be connected to Donny’s murder.
I sank on the bench beside her. Keeping my voice soft as Rossi did during his interrogations, I asked again, “Why the fake stones?”
She held out her left hand and stared at the dull ring that sat so flat and lifeless on her finger. “It’s all Norm’s fault.”
I waited, hoping she’d go on. In the silence I sniffed the gardenia fragrance of the garden and watched a family of wrens splash in the fountain—and kept on waiting. Whether Cookie noticed anything other than the glass on her finger was doubtful.
Finally she said, “Norm’s a gambler. I’ve been covering up for him for years, but this time he’s gone too far. He’s borrowed from that horrible Francesco person. For the horses.” She balled her fists in her lap. “I hate them both.”
The day verged on summer heat, and we were warm sitting in the sun. Whatever the cause, Cookie’s face had turned the mango shade I wanted on those dining room walls.
“Now Francesco is demanding that the loan be repaid?” I asked, phrasing what I already knew as a question.
She nodded. “All of it, but Norm can’t repay him. To make up the difference, I’ve sold nearly everything. My jewelry, my mother’s, my grandmother’s. My silver service...it was a wedding gift from the governor of Massachusetts.” Her chin trembled. “Stock my father left me. Everything. I’m at the end of my tether. I have nothing more to sell. Except my Jaguar. It’s an XJ,” she added with a touch of her old arrogance. “Even the house is mortgaged.”
“Why did you let the situation deteriorate like this?”
She looked at me with something like pity in her eyes. “You’re not married, are you?”
“No.”
“Then I can’t expect you to understand. There are appearances. One’s public image. The vows one took. The Anglican bishop of Boston married us,” she said solemnly.
“The vows, yes, there are the vows.” I sighed, understanding better than she knew. The wedding vows I’d exchanged with Jack were until death do us part. No other reason on earth would ever have separated me from him. Yes, I certainly did understand. Poor little Cookie. Poor little formerly rich girl. “So what will you do?”
Her jaw took on that steely edge again. “For openers, if you ever tell anyone about this conversation, I will kill you. Second, I’m going to appeal to Mr. Grandese to forgive Norm’s loan. Divorce is not an option.” She shuddered. “We’d be the first in the family.”
“Suppose Francesco won’t listen?”
“Then I’ll threaten him.”
“With what?” It seemed to me her options in that direction were severely limited.
“The night of the murder, Bonita gave Norm the cyanide bottle to hide. Norm didn’t know what to do with it so he gave it to me. I stole out to the garage and hid it in the desk.”
