Read Online The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Jean Harrington
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the most perfect physique I’d ever laid eyes on. No wonder I noticed. In a muscle shirt and shorts that revealed his tattoos and every toned line of his body, he’d be hard to miss.
I had my hand on the shop door handle—and probably my mouth hanging open—when he sprang forward. “Allow me, ma’am.”
I tore my gaze from his pecs long enough to murmur, “Thank you,” and walked inside. He followed me in, took one look at Lee and zoomed right over to her.
“I’m looking for a Mrs. Deva Dunne,” he said. “Are you the lady, by any chance?”
“No, sir, I’m not. She’s standing there beside you.”
He swiveled on those toned legs of his and treated me to an eye swipe. Head to toe. A tattooed Adonis with a shaved head, he was here for something other than interior design services or my name wasn’t Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne.
Using my Boston voice, the one I hauled out for occasions calling for cool and smooth, I said, “I’m Deva Dunne.”
“I’m Mike. Mike Hammerjack.”
My jaw fell open. This time no question about it. It unhinged. “Mr. Hammerjack from Florida State Prison?”
He grinned as if I had paid him a compliment. “You remembered. That’s nice, coming from a beautiful redhead.”
Really?
So who was the smoothie here?
I wasn’t anxious to make physical contact with this guy but good manners dictated that I extend my hand. So I did, holding it to the fire so to speak.
He tucked the manila envelope under his arm and took my hand in both of his, sandwiching it between his palms. “At last,” he said, gazing into my eyes with the intensity of a lover. I swear, a lover.
Perspiring, I slipped my fingers free and found what I hoped was my off-putting Back Bay tone. “How may I help you, Mr. Hammerjack?”
“Mike.”
I just nodded.
“I would love to hear you say my name.”
I cleared my throat and glanced over at Lee. She winked. That did it. “Let’s just get to the reason for this visit, Mr. Hammerjack.”
Unfazed, he handed me the manila envelope that had been pressed to his armpit. It was dry, thank God.
“This is the Help-a-Con information I wrote to you about. With pictures of the prison-made furniture. Price lists, too.” He cleared his throat. “I added Warden Finney’s private phone number. Cost me two packs of cigarettes, but it was worth it. Thought I might get you through to him faster, in case you had a question or something.”
“That was very considerate of you.”
“Not a problem. I hope you can use some of the stuff the boys made. It’s for a good cause.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll try. I have a project, possibly two, that may need office furniture. If the prison pieces are suitable, I don’t see why they wouldn’t work.”
“Terrific!” He grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down. This time I was aware of the calluses on his fingers.
Outside, a horn honked. Mike Hammerjack glanced out the window. “That’s Tony. I’d better go. He’s chomping at the bit.”
“You know Tony well?” I asked out of idle curiosity.
“Yeah, we go way back. He’s a good guy, I can tell you that. We went to high school together. Difference is, Tone stayed on the straight and narrow, know what I mean? He’s a great guy all right, even gave me a job. I’d rather work with wood, but that’s okay. I can lay tile with the best of them.”
He turned to leave then stopped as a thought hit him. “Hey, you want to see a piece of the prison furniture? Tony’s got one in the truck. It’ll give you an idea of the quality.”
I nodded. “Good idea.”
“Tony bought a table for his mother’s place. Like I said, he’s a good guy. A good snakeman too.”
“A good
what?
”
“Professional snake trapper. One of the best in the business. He ferrets out those wigglers like nobody else. Caught a fifteen footer opening day of the Python Challenge. The only snakeman who did.”
“I’m impressed.”
And horrified.
“So’s everybody else. I wish I’d been
I had my hand on the shop door handle—and probably my mouth hanging open—when he sprang forward. “Allow me, ma’am.”
I tore my gaze from his pecs long enough to murmur, “Thank you,” and walked inside. He followed me in, took one look at Lee and zoomed right over to her.
“I’m looking for a Mrs. Deva Dunne,” he said. “Are you the lady, by any chance?”
“No, sir, I’m not. She’s standing there beside you.”
He swiveled on those toned legs of his and treated me to an eye swipe. Head to toe. A tattooed Adonis with a shaved head, he was here for something other than interior design services or my name wasn’t Devalera Agnes Kennedy Dunne.
Using my Boston voice, the one I hauled out for occasions calling for cool and smooth, I said, “I’m Deva Dunne.”
“I’m Mike. Mike Hammerjack.”
My jaw fell open. This time no question about it. It unhinged. “Mr. Hammerjack from Florida State Prison?”
He grinned as if I had paid him a compliment. “You remembered. That’s nice, coming from a beautiful redhead.”
Really?
So who was the smoothie here?
I wasn’t anxious to make physical contact with this guy but good manners dictated that I extend my hand. So I did, holding it to the fire so to speak.
He tucked the manila envelope under his arm and took my hand in both of his, sandwiching it between his palms. “At last,” he said, gazing into my eyes with the intensity of a lover. I swear, a lover.
Perspiring, I slipped my fingers free and found what I hoped was my off-putting Back Bay tone. “How may I help you, Mr. Hammerjack?”
“Mike.”
I just nodded.
“I would love to hear you say my name.”
I cleared my throat and glanced over at Lee. She winked. That did it. “Let’s just get to the reason for this visit, Mr. Hammerjack.”
Unfazed, he handed me the manila envelope that had been pressed to his armpit. It was dry, thank God.
“This is the Help-a-Con information I wrote to you about. With pictures of the prison-made furniture. Price lists, too.” He cleared his throat. “I added Warden Finney’s private phone number. Cost me two packs of cigarettes, but it was worth it. Thought I might get you through to him faster, in case you had a question or something.”
“That was very considerate of you.”
“Not a problem. I hope you can use some of the stuff the boys made. It’s for a good cause.”
“Yes, I know. I’ll try. I have a project, possibly two, that may need office furniture. If the prison pieces are suitable, I don’t see why they wouldn’t work.”
“Terrific!” He grabbed my hand and pumped it up and down. This time I was aware of the calluses on his fingers.
Outside, a horn honked. Mike Hammerjack glanced out the window. “That’s Tony. I’d better go. He’s chomping at the bit.”
“You know Tony well?” I asked out of idle curiosity.
“Yeah, we go way back. He’s a good guy, I can tell you that. We went to high school together. Difference is, Tone stayed on the straight and narrow, know what I mean? He’s a great guy all right, even gave me a job. I’d rather work with wood, but that’s okay. I can lay tile with the best of them.”
He turned to leave then stopped as a thought hit him. “Hey, you want to see a piece of the prison furniture? Tony’s got one in the truck. It’ll give you an idea of the quality.”
I nodded. “Good idea.”
“Tony bought a table for his mother’s place. Like I said, he’s a good guy. A good snakeman too.”
“A good
what?
”
“Professional snake trapper. One of the best in the business. He ferrets out those wigglers like nobody else. Caught a fifteen footer opening day of the Python Challenge. The only snakeman who did.”
“I’m impressed.”
And horrified.
“So’s everybody else. I wish I’d been
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