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

you put it, you think he might get married again? With you as his new bride?”
    She looked me straight in the eye. “That’s exactly how I see it.”
    To that I had no response. Her brass-plated nerve took my breath away. Plus her recklessness. If the autopsy showed Mrs. Connie Rae Hawkins was the victim of foul play, then Teresa had just revealed a perfect motive for murder.

Chapter Eleven
    At closing time I was at the computer logging in initial design ideas for the two Whiskey Lane houses when the Yarmouthport bells swung into their happy dance.
    I glanced at the door. “Rossi!” I leaped up from my chair and hurried over to him.
    He turned the lock in the shop door and took me in his arms right in front of the plate glass window. After kissing me breathless, he said, “I have a surprise for you. So get your purse and close up for the night. We need to leave while there’s still plenty of daylight.”
    “This time of year, the sun doesn’t set until about eight o’clock. So what on earth is your hurry?”
    “If I tell you, there’s no surprise.”
    “You know something? You sound like James Stahlman.”
    His hand on the light switch, Rossi frowned. “The guy whose wife disappeared a year ago? The accidental drowning?” His frown deepened. “Accidental until proven otherwise.”
    “He’s the one.”
    “You know him?”
    “We met the other day. He’s my other client on Whiskey Lane.”
    “Your
other
client? You mean you’ve taken on Stew Hawkins after I warned you to stay away from him?”
    “I hate to be crass, Rossi, but a ten-thousand-dollar retainer trumped your warning. The business needs the cash infusion. I simply can’t afford to turn him down. Besides, Stew hasn’t been accused of a crime, has he?”
    Rossi pressed the off switch for the overheads with more force than necessary. “No, I haven’t received the autopsy report yet. But Hawkins’s rep with women is pretty unsavory.”
    “He has a housekeeper.”
Boy
,
did he have a housekeeper.
“She’ll be there whenever I am. And except for the first one or two planning sessions, I’ll be meeting tradespeople on the property. I won’t be alone with him.”
    “Good. That’s something anyway. Now all I have to worry about is this other guy. This Stahlman.” Rossi held the door open for me. “You know his last wife’s disappearance is still an unsolved case, but are you aware his first wife died of an overdose?”
    “No.” I shook my head. “I never heard that.”
    “Well now you have. So don’t go swimming with the guy and don’t take any pills from him.”
    “Very funny, Rossi. For your information, he’s a consummate gentleman. Even served me tea, for Pete’s sake. From a silver pot.”
    Well, technically
I
had served him, but that was beside the point.
    I locked up and, tucking my arm in his, Rossi escorted me down Fern Alley to Fifth Avenue where he had parked his party wheels. Usually for everyday events like work or picking up a pizza and a bottle of Chianti, he drove his old, deliberately unwashed Mustang. Like his Hawaiian shirt theory, his dirty car theory aimed at disarming suspects into thinking he was an inept flatfoot. For special occasions though, like this apparently was, he rolled out his vintage Maserati. Sleek, silver and shined to the max, the car had been a gift from his late Uncle Beppe and Rossi loved it. No wonder. It was a special vehicle for a special guy and made me feel special too each time I slid onto the red leather passenger seat beside him. Like now.
    So he did have a big surprise in mind, and I was aware of a rising excitement. What could it be?
    We drove to his secret destination with the car windows open. Through some miracle of Mother Nature, humidity didn’t clog the air. Instead, a dry Gulf breeze with a hint of jasmine and oleander wafted over us and riffled my red Irish curls. But I had terminal frizzies anyway, and Rossi actually liked my hair on the wild side.
    I tried to