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

dining room to a wonderful walk-in pantry that would hold multiple sets of china and glassware—what a dream—and on to his klieg-lit master bath. I took notes as we strolled but not many. An overall impression is what I was after, and so far the house showed well, though a bit too pastel for Stew’s over-the-top personality. What it mainly needed was an infusion of color pops and some comfortable seating. And maybe some of Hammerjack’s rough-hewn prison furniture in the study.
    Finally we came to a set of closed double doors. “Show time,” Stew said. “I have to get the bride out of the sack.” He winked. “I don’t say that often.”
    “No, let’s not disturb her,” I whispered. “I’ve seen most of the rooms. The bedroom can wait for another time.”
    “No time like the present,” he said, opening the doors and barging in. He pressed a wall switch next to the door, sending floor-to-ceiling draperies swishing open, flooding the pink-hued room with sunshine.
    Sprawled on her back in the center of an ultra-king lay a naked blonde, her hair fanned across a pillow, her legs spread apart in open invitation. I wanted to leave and give her some privacy but, fascinated, I stood and stared as Stew strode over to the bed and grabbed a handful of sheet.
    “Look at that,” he said, gazing at the girl, whether in admiration or disapproval, I couldn’t tell. He draped the sheet over her and, bending down, shook her shoulder.
    “Come on, babe, rise and shine.”
    Connie Rae didn’t move.
    “Is everybody around here deaf?” he asked of no one in particular. He patted Connie Rae’s cheek, and no doubt would have patted more than that except for the designer looking on from the foot of the bed.
    Pale all of a sudden, he glanced up, stricken. His eyes wide, he said, “You know something? She’s cold. Ice cold. And she’s a funny color too. Kind of blue looking. I think she’s—”
    He never did finish what he started to say, for without any warning at all, he passed out, falling belly first, right on top of Connie Rae’s breasts.
    I screamed and ran out of the bedroom toward the great room. I’d left my tote there with the cell phone inside, and I needed the phone.
I
needed the phone.
    Teresa collided with me in the rotunda. “I heard a scream. What’s wrong?”
    “Stew. His wife. We have to call 9-1-1.”
    She grasped my arm, staying me. “Where are they?”
    “On their bed. Out cold, both of them.”
    She raced past me. I grabbed the phone out of my purse and chased after her. Not wasting another second, I pressed 9-1-1. “A medical emergency,” I said to the dispatcher. “At 595 Whiskey Lane.”
    “Is the person breathing?” In other words, dead or alive.
    “I don’t know for certain. But I don’t think so.”

Chapter Seven
    By the time I reached the master suite with the phone still glued to my ear, all three of them were on the bed, and Teresa was trying to peel Stew off Connie Rae’s supine form. On her knees on the mattress, she tugged at his arm and called to him. “Mr. Stew, Mr. Stew. Wake up. We need help. Wake up.”
    Without looking over at me—she’d obviously heard me come in—she said, “A glass of water. Hurry. In the bathroom.”
    I flung the phone on the bed and dashed into the bath, filled a water tumbler from the sink, and hurried back to press it into Teresa’s hand.
    She took the glass from me and, without a moment’s hesitation, flung the contents in Stew’s face...well, he
was
wearing a swimsuit. The cold splash roused him, and sputtering and gasping, he came to.
    “Oh my God,” he said. “She’s dead. My Connie Rae’s dead.”
    “Hello? Hello?”
    I grabbed my cell. “Sorry, I had to put the phone down.”
    “Any change in the patient?”
    I glanced across the bed. Stew and Teresa were both busy trying to coax Connie Rae back to life and, from what I could tell, not having much luck.
    “Her husband’s trying to revive her, but I don’t think she’s