Read Online Designed for Death by Jean Harrington - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Harrington
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pressed Messages and heard Simon’s voice.
“Deva, sorry I blew up. It’s been a tough day. Can you forgive me? They tell me St. George and the Dragon is a great restaurant. Let’s reschedule. Please. I want you to design my condo. The sooner the better.”
So I’d been forgiven. Big deal. Simon could stuff St. George and his quasi date, too. But, no, that wasn’t smart, I thought, peering into the practically empty fridge, then slamming it shut in disgust. Business was business, and I needed the income. In the morning, I’d start some preliminary sketches for Simon’s condo. Turquoise and shades of brown were holding up as popular colors. Not my favorite combination, but in his unit they would work. Brighten up that huge Hershey Bar sofa. Make it look like a planned object, not just a poor choice. It was worth considering.
Exasperated, I blew out a breath. So was Rossi.
Chapter Eight
In the morning, I decided to sketch ideas for Simon’s condo out by the pool. I showered, slipped into my orange Speedo and tossed on a cover-up. No need to turn into Freckle City just to get a little air.
Before going outside, I skimmed through the Naples Daily. Treasure’s murder had been reduced to a half-inch item in the local section. Television ignored the story completely. For a fresh dose of violence, Channel 2 had turned to the weather. Amy, the first tropical storm of the season, swirled off the coast of Africa.
“Amy’s no threat to us yet, but we’ll be watching her,” the anchor promised.
I snapped off the set, slid open the dead bolt, reset it and strolled over to the pool. Marilyn Parker’s blue pareo waved from the back of a lounge chair. Quiet and shy, Dick’s wife seldom had much to say, and lately I’d kind of given up on our ever having girl talk. Hoping today would be different, I dropped my sketching supplies on a patio table and walked around to the front of Marilyn’s chair.
Whoa.
Red-eyed and red-nosed, she sat in the sun crying her heart out. Judging from the pile of damp tissues surrounding her, she’d been at it for quite some time.
“Marilyn, what’s wrong?” I asked, a dumb question for anyone living in Surfside these days.
“Nothing.” She blew into a well-used tissue, dropped it next to the others and stared straight ahead as if eyeball contact had never been invented.
I gestured at the mess on the chair. “Something must be.”
She plucked another tissue from the box by her side, wiped her nose and continued to stare out over the pool at the row of waving palms. All around us birds flitted from tree to tree, and pink hibiscus bloomed their heads off. The rich perfume of gardenias was so fabulous it should have been bottled.
“It’s too beautiful to be blue,” I said, and without waiting to be invited, sank onto the foot of her lounge.
Actually, Marilyn had a lot to cry about. If the murder made Surfside notorious, that could be the kiss of death to Dick’s plans for an upscale development. We unit owners might have something to worry about, too, but I buried the thought whenever it surfaced. Our priority had to be finding Treasure’s killer. In comparison, everything else seemed far less important, even the prospect of losing Jack’s insurance money—all I had in the world—most of which I’d sunk into 104.
“Don’t be discouraged.” I tried to sound cheerful. “By the time Dick remodels the rest of the units, the public will have forgotten what happened to Treasure.” Judging from today’s news coverage, that, sadly, could be true.
She blew her nose again.
“Besides,” I went on, “we’ll make the units so gorgeous, buyers will be lined up—”
“I don’t give a damn about the condos.” Marilyn’s voice was flat, her eyes dull.
“You don’t?”
“To hell with them.”
Damn? Hell? From Marilyn, who’d never let on she knew what either word meant. A spark of fire lighting her eyes, she bent her knees and leaned forward on the lounge. With
“Deva, sorry I blew up. It’s been a tough day. Can you forgive me? They tell me St. George and the Dragon is a great restaurant. Let’s reschedule. Please. I want you to design my condo. The sooner the better.”
So I’d been forgiven. Big deal. Simon could stuff St. George and his quasi date, too. But, no, that wasn’t smart, I thought, peering into the practically empty fridge, then slamming it shut in disgust. Business was business, and I needed the income. In the morning, I’d start some preliminary sketches for Simon’s condo. Turquoise and shades of brown were holding up as popular colors. Not my favorite combination, but in his unit they would work. Brighten up that huge Hershey Bar sofa. Make it look like a planned object, not just a poor choice. It was worth considering.
Exasperated, I blew out a breath. So was Rossi.
Chapter Eight
In the morning, I decided to sketch ideas for Simon’s condo out by the pool. I showered, slipped into my orange Speedo and tossed on a cover-up. No need to turn into Freckle City just to get a little air.
Before going outside, I skimmed through the Naples Daily. Treasure’s murder had been reduced to a half-inch item in the local section. Television ignored the story completely. For a fresh dose of violence, Channel 2 had turned to the weather. Amy, the first tropical storm of the season, swirled off the coast of Africa.
“Amy’s no threat to us yet, but we’ll be watching her,” the anchor promised.
I snapped off the set, slid open the dead bolt, reset it and strolled over to the pool. Marilyn Parker’s blue pareo waved from the back of a lounge chair. Quiet and shy, Dick’s wife seldom had much to say, and lately I’d kind of given up on our ever having girl talk. Hoping today would be different, I dropped my sketching supplies on a patio table and walked around to the front of Marilyn’s chair.
Whoa.
Red-eyed and red-nosed, she sat in the sun crying her heart out. Judging from the pile of damp tissues surrounding her, she’d been at it for quite some time.
“Marilyn, what’s wrong?” I asked, a dumb question for anyone living in Surfside these days.
“Nothing.” She blew into a well-used tissue, dropped it next to the others and stared straight ahead as if eyeball contact had never been invented.
I gestured at the mess on the chair. “Something must be.”
She plucked another tissue from the box by her side, wiped her nose and continued to stare out over the pool at the row of waving palms. All around us birds flitted from tree to tree, and pink hibiscus bloomed their heads off. The rich perfume of gardenias was so fabulous it should have been bottled.
“It’s too beautiful to be blue,” I said, and without waiting to be invited, sank onto the foot of her lounge.
Actually, Marilyn had a lot to cry about. If the murder made Surfside notorious, that could be the kiss of death to Dick’s plans for an upscale development. We unit owners might have something to worry about, too, but I buried the thought whenever it surfaced. Our priority had to be finding Treasure’s killer. In comparison, everything else seemed far less important, even the prospect of losing Jack’s insurance money—all I had in the world—most of which I’d sunk into 104.
“Don’t be discouraged.” I tried to sound cheerful. “By the time Dick remodels the rest of the units, the public will have forgotten what happened to Treasure.” Judging from today’s news coverage, that, sadly, could be true.
She blew her nose again.
“Besides,” I went on, “we’ll make the units so gorgeous, buyers will be lined up—”
“I don’t give a damn about the condos.” Marilyn’s voice was flat, her eyes dull.
“You don’t?”
“To hell with them.”
Damn? Hell? From Marilyn, who’d never let on she knew what either word meant. A spark of fire lighting her eyes, she bent her knees and leaned forward on the lounge. With
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