Read Online Designed for Death by Jean Harrington - Free Book Online

You know, from the forties and fifties.”
    “Memorabilia.”
    “Yeah. Old license plates, sports posters, a couple or three photos of Marilyn Monroe.”
    “Sounds like fun.”

    At Mel’s an ample hostess, her dumpling hips swaying to music only she could hear, led us to a booth by the window where we could see traffic lights streaking along the Trail. As soon as a server approached us, Rossi ordered animal fat, sodium and a dose of chemicals. “Two burgers well done. Fries. Diet Cokes.”
    A regular take-charge kind of guy. When the server walked away, Rossi removed the notebook and stub from his shirt pocket and laid them on the table.
    “Not again.” I groaned.
    “Business before pleasure.”
    I glared across the booth at him. “You know something, Rossi, I realize you’re all business. What you don’t know is I am, too.” He was getting married, and I was avoiding romantic entanglements, so I couldn’t understand why my ego felt bruised by his attitude, or why my face got warm all of a sudden, even though the AC was set so low my bare arms had erupted into goose bumps.
    His dark eyes glittered as if he enjoyed getting a rise out of me. “Yeah, there’s a lot I don’t know about you.” He picked up his pencil.
    “That’s right,” I retorted, wishing I hadn’t agreed to cruise for burgers.
    “So fill me in. Tell me more about yourself. And about your husband. It’s got nothing to do with the case, I’m just curious. What did he do? What was he like? You know, the small stuff.”
    I drew in a quick, painful breath, then slowly let it leak out. After all the questions he’d asked about Jack the day of the murder, I hadn’t expected him to jump in with more. It hurt. It hurt like hell. No way were we having a casual conversation about my marriage. Not over burgers. Not over anything. My personal life was none of his damn business.
    I grabbed my handbag and slid out of the booth. “You want to know about Jack?” My voice had risen. The couple in the next booth looked up, fries forgotten. “I’ll tell you about Jack. When I was with him, all the lights in the world came on.”
    “And when he died, they went out,” Rossi finished.
    “That’s right! You don’t even come close to him.”
    He tossed a few bills on the table and got up. “You’re a hell of a woman, Mrs. Dunne. Come on. I’ll take you home.”
    “I’m calling a cab.”
    Abandoning all pretense of eating, the neighboring couple stared at us with their mouths hanging open. Rossi took out his badge and flashed it at them. “Your fries are getting cold,” he said, and taking me by the elbow, he march-stepped me out of Mel’s Diner.
    I could have protested, yelled that I was being abducted, screamed my head off, but I knew I had already overreacted. Outside, in the dark, sticky air, Rossi dropped my arm.
    “Sorry, Mrs. D. A big part of my job is probing old wounds. Sometimes no pain, no gain.” In the glare of passing headlights, his face looked grim and tired. He jerked his head toward the diner. “I’m sorry the pain in there was yours.” He held out a hand. “No more questions about your husband. Okay?”
    I took his outstretched hand. It was warm and firm. “Okay.”
    At his apology, all the fight went out of me, and I wished we’d stayed in Mel’s long enough to eat a burger. As we strolled over to Rossi’s car, I also wondered why he’d asked me about Jack but hadn’t said a word about his fiancée. I guess he figured she didn’t have anything to do with the case. But neither did Jack.

    On the ride home, we didn’t talk much. When we reached Surfside, he said, “I’ll come in and look around—just to be sure.” With an efficiency born of practice, he gave the condo a thorough, swift search before leaving with a terse “Lock this door.”
    As if I needed to be told. I kicked off the Jimmys, shot the dead bolt and went out to the kitchen to look for something to eat. The phone had developed a red tic. I