The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington Read Free Book Online

relieved when the Yarmouthport bells on the shop door jangled.
    A woman who looked strangely familiar stepped in and gave me a radiant oh-there-you-are-again smile. Had we met before? I got up from behind my desk to greet her and realized—no, she couldn’t be—yes, she was—Teresa in the flesh and looking spectacular.
    Fluffed-out Big Hair cascaded past her shoulders, and red-tipped nails matched her movie star lipstick. Hugging her curves, a mini sheath careened to a stop just above her knees, and platform stilettos added inches to her height. At her throat a rhinestone leaf sparkled like a Broadway sign at midnight. Va va va voom! A filled up Brassy de Bra in the exuberant flesh. So long, white nylon uniform and sensible oxfords.
    “Teresa,” I said, extending a hand as I strolled toward her. “Is this really you?”
    She laughed, pleased, I think, at my confusion. “Yes. This is me all right.”
    “You’re not deaf, are you?”
    She shook her head. “No. I never was.”
    “Then why pretend to be?”
    “Oh, it’s a game Stew and I...I mean Mr. Stew and I play.”
    “Really?”
    At my question, or maybe my quizzical tone, the confidence a tight skirt and stilettos can give a girl wavered for an instant. An instant only, then her mouth turned down at the corners. Way down. “I pretended to be deaf when Stew...Mr. Stew was married to that Kay woman.”
    That Kay woman.
I recognized female animus when I heard it. Teresa clearly hadn’t liked Kay.
    “I don’t understand,” I said.
    “They fought so much, shouting matches night after night...oh, it was awful...so I began acting as if I couldn’t hear a thing. It made life easier for all of us. Mr. Stew—” she got it right that time, “—liked me for pretending and kind of made a joke out of it.”
    The stilettos must have been killing her. She shifted from one foot to the other then back again as she dug around in her shoulder bag. “I have something for you. From him.”
    She rummaged in the purse a while longer, searching for whatever it was. “I can never find a thing in this bag.”
    Two women could bond over that alone.
    “I know the feeling. Do come and sit down.”
    She teetered after me and perched on the Eames chair in front of my desk. After a few more seconds of poking, she produced a white envelope and handed it across to me.
    “For you. A retainer from Mr. Stew. He wants you to work on his house, but not until this, this...
mess
is over.”
    “Mess?” I asked, knowing full well what she meant. Who
was
this woman, really?
    She nodded. ‘Yes, his new wife’s death. The police are questioning him, acting as if he caused it. He can’t sleep. He can’t eat. Not even when I cook him his favorites. It’s not fair.”
    I tossed the pewter letter opener onto my desktop. “A woman is dead, Teresa. A very young woman. The police want to find out why. For that they have to get at the truth.”
    “The truth?” She actually scoffed. “The truth is Stew should never have married that bimbo in the first place.”
    Stew.
Interesting. The word
Mr.
was apparently a frill she’d decided to abandon.
    While she looked on, I slit open the envelope she’d given me and gasped. Sight unseen, without even hearing a single one of my design ideas, Stew had sent me a check for ten thousand dollars. What a show of confidence. Frankly I was thrilled and wrote him a receipt on the spot.
    “Please give this to Mr. Hawkins with my thanks,” I said, handing it to Teresa. “I’ll be awaiting his call after the funeral is over and he’s recovered from his grief.”
    “I don’t think there’ll be a funeral. Stew needs to forget all this and get on with his life.” She dropped the receipt into her bag and stood, smoothing the mini over her thighs.
    Hmm. Where did she come off displaying an attitude like that? I didn’t like it. I didn’t like it one bit and indulged in something I despised, a nasty female barb.
    “When Stew gets on with his life, as