I didn’t get any answers to my questions that night, though Rossi called to say hello and to tell me to keep the deadbolts on and the cell phone next to my bed.
“Then you think whoever killed the Cardozas killed George too?”
“That has not yet been determined. I’m just telling you to be careful.”
“You’re scaring me,” I said.
“Good. Stay scared. Scared doesn’t take chances. I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”
He hung up. That was midnight, and by nine the next morning, when I left for work, I’d heard nothing else from him.
“Deva, wait up!”
As I hurried toward the Surfside carport, I glanced over a shoulder, though I hardly needed to. I’d know that deep, lustrous voice anywhere.
Tall, tanned and handsome, in a charcoal gray Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt and silver striped tie, Simon came striding across the Surfside parking lot looking like every woman’s dream guy. Why not mine? Truth be told, I was afraid of him. George had been a problem to him and now George was dead. And I was “the Dunne woman” as if I were a person he had met once or twice on a bus or something. Also because I was intrigued with a short guy who wore garish Hawaiian shirts with the tails out. Go figure.
“It’s good to see you,” Simon said, a smile lighting his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“Sorry, Simon, but business has been terrible. I haven’t had time to think of anything else.” I was lying through my teeth. Multitasking was every designer’s middle name. But I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was definitely not an option.
“You’ve heard about Farragut?” he asked.
“Yes, it was all over the news last night. And on the front page this morning.”
“Nice guy. Very capable. A shame.”
“I know, scary.”
“Sounds like you need a diversion. After all this bad news, I could use one too. How about tonight? I have some Pinot Grigio. A Michael Bublé CD. We can order Chinese takeout. Your favorite, Beef Szechwan.”
Though I hated to kill his hopeful-looking smile, I shook my head. I should tell him I was interested in someone else, but couldn’t. Besides, Rossi and weren’t actually dating. At least not officially. He had said he cared for me and worried about me, and I didn’t figure him for a liar, but caring and worrying weren’t commitments, were they? Besides, if I said a single word, Simon would want to know who the lucky guy was. I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Rossi knew I wasn’t implicated in the crimes, but he had to contend with that line in the sand the chief had drawn. Any outing of our…ah…relationship would have to come from him.
I rolled back my shirt cuff and glanced at my watch. “I’d love to chat, Simon, but I’m late for an appointment with a plumbing supplier.”
He nodded as if I’d just said something interesting.
“Then I’m meeting an art installer at Morgan Jones’s new house. It’s quite the showplace, or will be when it’s finished. Have you seen it?”
He shook his head. “No reason I should. I hardly know the guy. He’s a friend of George Farragut’s not mine.”
True or false? I wanted to believe Simon, but the thought of how he’d had me deliver that Hermès briefcase to Morgan’s house rose like a specter between us. My trust in him destroyed, I pretended not to see the hurt in his eyes, said goodbye and hurried over to the Audi. After stalling out a couple times, the engine roared to life, and I drove off leaving Simon on the tarmac watching me go.
Choosing some ornate powder room fixtures at Bears’ Plumbing Supply only took a few minutes. Selections made, I tossed my tote and handbag in the Audi’s backseat, got behind the wheel and switched on the engine. Or tried to. It didn’t even turn over. Whether the battery had conked out or something more insidious had happened, I couldn’t tell. Tire kicking summed up the extent of my mechanic skills.
Now I’d have to contact Tom at Art Installations and reschedule. I climbed out of the car and stood tapping a foot on the tarmac as I thought things over. Pretty much a one-man operation, Tom had set aside several hours for the Jones project. I knew he needed the business and hated to waste his time over a no-show.
Instead of canceling, I could leave my car in the Bears’ lot for now and call a cab. Consider the fare a business write-off.
I went back inside the showroom to tell Bears Plumbing about my problem. They surprised me, big time. Said they’d drop me off at Morgan’s house, would call a garage, and if my car could be fixed in the next couple of hours, they would deliver it to the same address. Making a mental note to give Bears all my future business, I went outside and kicked the tires anyway. You never know.
When I was dropped off at the Jones house, Tom’s pickup wasn’t waiting in the driveway. Strange. I rechecked my schedule. Yeah, Tom and I were on for today. The traffic must have held him up.
I coded my way into the house. The lacquered foyer, a lapis lazuli jewel box, positively glowed in the midday sun, exactly the effect I’d been after. I wandered into the great room where the odor of drying paint lingered in the air. The whisper of blue on the walls was as subtle as a baby’s breath-not my first choice, but a good foil, actually, to the abstract art-especially the blue-inspired Rosenquist.
I left my bags on a kitchen counter and checked my watch. Tom was a half hour late. Very unlike him. Maybe being dropped off out here hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Restless and getting a tad more nervous by the minute, I wandered through the downstairs rooms, making notes and verifying a few measurements. A bit bored, I wandered upstairs. If Tom didn’t show in the next half hour, I’d call him and find out what happened.
At the top of the stairs, the master suite, an empty shell, stood waiting for the satin bed Morgan had demanded.
Hmm. I let my imagination play with the finished room and all its sexy details. Would Rossi like a similar bedroom? We could add color, soften the lighting, buy some satin sheets. But somehow I could hear his gravelly voice telling me such frills didn’t matter. The important thing…
What was that? Had I heard something? Yes. A man’s voice. It couldn’t be Tom. He didn’t have a key to the house. I stood still, listening. Ah, I recognized Morgan’s cool tone and then another voice. A woman’s.
Uh-oh, there was no car parked in the drive. Having me suddenly burst out of the bedroom like a Jack-in-the-box would be an unpleasant surprise. Well, no avoiding it. The sooner they knew I was upstairs, the better.
I took a step toward the open bedroom doorway. Then I heard her, loud and clear, the only woman I knew with a Hungarian accent. Ilona.
What was she doing here? And then it hit me. Oh God, could Morgan be her new man? The one she had left Trevor for? Like a movie camera on fast forward, my mind raced with possibilities. Of course, that was why she was here. This was no casual house tour. She was checking out her soon-to-be home. Nothing else made sense.
Paralyzed with indecision, I stood in the center of the room, listening to her heels click on the marble staircase. For certain, they’d come in here. Right where Morgan planned to make love the instant he had his new satin bed. Right where I was standing. Egads. Without thinking, acting on pure instinct, I hurried into the walk-in closet and silently closed the shuttered door. A dumb move, actually. To a woman like Ilona, clothes closets were as vital as air. She’d want to see if it were big enough. For sure, it wouldn’t be.
Damn. But at this point, what choice did I have? They’d reached the room. It was too late now to pretend I hadn’t heard them.
“Darling,” Morgan said, his voice throbbing. “Here it is.”
They strolled in, along with a drift of Ilona’s Opium perfume, their footsteps loud on the room’s concrete sub-flooring. The plush, wall-to-wall carpeting wasn’t due for installation until next week.
“Now imagine our bed on that wall, between the sconces,” he said.
“An ultra king?” she asked.
“Of course, what else? It will be our private playpen. Luscious and soft. As you are, darling.”
Resisting the urge to gag, I peeked through the door slats. Morgan had taken Ilona in his arms and stood nuzzling her neck. Finally, with what looked like reluctance from behind the slats, her hands reached up and, encircling his back, she clung to him as he embraced her.
After a month or so, he lifted his head from her throat.
“If only we had a bed,” he murmured. “If only…” His voice broke, whether from passion or a head cold, I couldn’t tell.
“But we do not,” Ilona replied.
Damn, Hungarian women were so practical.
“We can improvise. There must be something.”
“Nem.”
Ha! Morgan had just heard the first of many nems.
“I want our joining to be perfect for you,” Ilona added, softening the blow, so to speak.
A sigh. The sound of a kiss. Then, “Very well, darling. I’ve waited this long. I’ll wait a little longer. Counting each day, each hour.”
“And I count minutes, Morgan.”
“Darling!”
“No more kisses now. We must talk. Like I tell you yesterday, I am worried. I think Deva suspect something.”
“Let her. She’s under suspicion herself. You were wise to give her the new code to your house…it draws her in. I’m just glad she didn’t decide to use it the day I-”
Ilona covered his mouth with a diamond-studded hand. “No, no say out loud. You did what you had to do. But I must tell you, Morgan, Maria was big shock, but not like Jesus. When I return from Hungary and find him dead, I almost faint. That was not part of plan.”
“No darling, it wasn’t. But he caught me tacking the oil in place. I had to kill him.”
Hardly daring to breathe, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I kept peering through the shuttered closet door.
“I have question,” she said.
Holding her at arm’s length, he looked down into her eyes. “Yes?” Was I imagining it, or did he sound wary?
“Last night, the news say George Farragut is dead. Shot. Do you know of this, Morgan?”
“Of course I know of this. The airwaves have been filled with it. Poor devil.”
“That is not what I ask. Do you know of this?” She stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.
His hands fell by his sides. “Are you asking if I killed him?”
She stayed out of reach of his hands and nodded, just once, briefly.
“George knew. Or maybe I should say, he suspected.”
“How is that possible?” For the first time since I’d met her, Ilona’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper.
“We were drinking together one night. I alluded to a theft. He was a smart man, he surmised.”
“What this mean, surmise?”
“Guessed.”
It wasn’t easy, peeking through the slats, but still I’d take a vow that Ilona’s face went ashen white. “You killed him for a guess?”
“I had to. He could have gone to the police. I had no choice. For you, I have broken all my oaths. The ones I vowed to keep. But nothing matters except possessing you. I’ll be faithful to you forever.”
Under different circumstances I might have snorted in disbelief, but not this time. That was a serial killer out there, and I had no desire to be his next victim.
“If only I had a pillow or something to lay you on,” he murmured. “I’d prove how much I worship you. I know I promised to wait, but I haven’t the strength. I need you now.”
“Nem, not like this. So sordid.”
Poor Morgan. He had trashed his life and killed three people all for a “No.”
But he didn’t give up easily. I should have known. “Wait a moment, darling,” he said, his voice rising with anticipation, “I’ll check in the closet. There might be a blanket in there or something, anything, to put down on that hard floor.”
Uh-oh. A cold sweat broke out all over my skin.
He yanked open the double closet doors. At the sight of me, he went rigid as stone and stood staring into my eyes, a brushed pewter knob in each hand.
“You heard,” he said, drawing in a ragged breath then blowing it out fast, right into my face.
“Jaj Istenem!” Ilona gasped, peering over his shoulder at me.
Without looking back, as cool as if being overheard confessing to murder were an everyday occurrence, he said, “Don’t worry about a thing, darling. I’ll take care of this.”
He let go of the knob and those strong surgeon’s hands came up, fingers flexed, ready to press into my carotids. Or crush my larynx.
I backed up a step. “Stay away from me, Morgan.”
“I can’t let you leave.”
“I can’t let you stop me.”
He smiled in derision. The derision reached his eyes. The smile did not. “How are you going to prevent that?”
There had to be a way. I took another step back. And another. I hit the closet wall.
He reached for my neck. I swiveled my head, bobbing from side to side so he couldn’t get a grip. What else could I do? What else? His hands shot out and grasped me. At his touch on my flesh, my adrenaline shot to the sky. With an impulse of its own, my knee came up. Smack. Right into his groin.
Morgan let out a shrill scream and dropped his hands to his crotch.
As he bent over, clutching himself, I darted past him. Ilona stood wringing her hands in the center of the empty bedroom.
“No sex today, Ilona,” I told her as I rushed out of the closet. “You’re off the hook.”
“Deva, where you go? We must talk.”
“Nem,” I said, sprinting along the upper hallway. “Nem!”
I dashed down the broad staircase and raced through the empty rooms to the foyer.
Behind me, Ilona’s heels kept up a mad pace. “Deva, wait. Wait.”
As I fumbled at the entrance lock, she caught up with me, bosom heaving, perfect hair flying out of control.
I glanced at her hands. She had no weapon in them and none hidden in those tights and brights she wore, either. Unarmed, she was no threat. But I had to get out of there before Morgan caught up with me.
“I did nothing, Deva. Nothing. You must believe. The painting, it is mine. I have papers to prove.”
“Excellent.” How did this damn door lock work? “Save them for the jury.”
She grasped my arm with a slender hand, her cerise-tipped nails digging into my flesh. “Morgan, he kill. I never harm nobody. I can prove.”
The deadbolt shot back. I twisted the knob and flung the door so hard it sent a giant crack spider-webbing across the foyer’s lacquered wall. So much for a great paint job. Heavy footsteps sounded on the marble stairs. I sent a harried glance over my shoulder. Limping along the stairway, Morgan was moving as fast as he could.
“Hold her, Ilona,” he yelled. “Don’t let her go.”
“I no can,” Ilona cried, as I pried off her hand and raced away.
Once outside, I gulped a lungful of air before stooping to yank off my shoes. I’d run faster in bare feet. The spike heels I’d use as weapons if need be.
Above all, I couldn’t let Morgan reach me. Pulse pounding, heart going like a mariachi band, I raced down the stone steps and along the drive. No way would Ilona catch up to me in backless slides and skintight capris. All my years of jogging were about to pay off. Shoulders back, fists at chest level, the stilettos facing out like daggers, I soon broke into a sweat in the hot, hazy atmosphere. Too bad the houses were so spread out, each one nestled like a huge jewel in its own acre or so of lush gardens. My best bet would be to pound on the first door I came to. Or flag down a passing motorist.
A car. I glanced back. A blue Maserati was careening along the quiet road, aiming its long, sleek nose directly at me. Morgan. And gaining fast.