The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Read Online Free

his mid-thirties. Caught staring, he forced out a smile and sent me a two-fingered salute. I returned it with a flourish and followed the yellow brick path up to the front door.
    As Stewart Hawkins had directed, I rang the bell, and then again, but no one answered.
    Ring the bell and walk in
, Hawkins had said, so I twisted the knob and opened the door. Calling “Hello,” I stepped into a foyer paved with Mexican tiles. Directly ahead lay the living room and, beyond, a screened-in terrace and pool. To the left ran a short corridor that probably led to a bedroom wing, and to the right an interesting architectural feature, a small rotunda with several doors opening onto...what? There had to be a kitchen somewhere, and a...
    “You the decorator?”
    I whirled around. Coming from the direction of the terrace, a fifty-something man strode toward me wearing a swimsuit, a cigar and nothing else. At least the swimsuit wasn’t skimpy. Thank God.
    Though he was of medium height, everything else about him was writ large, very large—belly, thighs, biceps, neck—everything.
    As he came closer, I backed up a step. “Mr. Hawkins?”
    “Of course. Who else hangs out around here?”
    Who else, indeed?
    “You didn’t answer the question,” he said. “You the decorator?”
    God, I hated the word
decorator.
“Yes, I’m Deva Dunne,” I said coolly.
    “Classy name.”
    “Really
?
” No one had ever told me that before, and I looked at him—well, at his hairy chest—with a freshly minted admiration. “Actually my first name is Devalera. After Eamon DeValera, my father’s political hero.”
    “That right? No wonder you shortened it.”
    “Exactly.”
    Cigar clamped in his teeth, he yanked a shirt off the back of a chair and slid into it, leaving it open and unbuttoned. I guess he didn’t want to obstruct my view of his chest hair.
    He upped his chin in the direction of the terrace. “I was just going for a dip, but it’ll wait. Unless you want to join me?”
    I gestured at my green skirt and cropped white jacket. “I’m not dressed for the occasion.”
    “Oh, yeah.” He grinned suddenly. “There’s always skinny-dipping.”
    “Well—”
    “Never mind. Some other time.” He rested the cigar on an ashtray, where it smoldered sullenly, and stuck out his hand. “Stewart Hawkins. Call me Stew.”
    I let him prove his machismo by crunching the bones in my fingers. After flexing my hand to restore the blood flow, I handed him a business card. “How may I help you, Mr....Stew?”
    “I bought this place a month ago. Before I met the little lady...the bride...so nothing’s been done in here. Except for some chairs and stuff that I already had, this is the way the previous owner left it. The bride and me both want to make some changes. I’ve got my ideas about what that means, and Connie Rae’s got hers.” He pointed a thick forefinger at me. “Your job is to figure out whose ideas are good and whose stink.”
    My turn to point a finger. One tipped with Tropical Tangerine nail polish and aimed straight at his nose. “Hold everything right there, Stew. I can’t get in the middle of a marital dispute.”
    He picked up his cigar, took a deep drag and exhaled a lung-clogging cloud of smoke.
    I coughed, a hint to put out the Tampa-Havana or the stogie or whatever that noxious thing was, but my cough meant nothing. He took another puff and said, “Of course, you can. You deal with couples all the time, so handling family disputes is part of your job description. I know that for a fact. So you got a choice here, take my offer or leave it. But before you leave it, let me tell you this.” He stepped forward, poking the air with his cigar and giving me a better view of his chest hair than I wanted. “I’m the one with the money. Not Connie Rae. Got that?”
    “You’re bribing me.”
    “Exactly. Now, you want a tour of the place?”
    “Will Mrs. Stew be joining us?”
    “Doubt it. She’s still in bed. Last I