Read Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The Online

Authors: Krista Davis

Tags: #Murder, #Winston; Sophie (Fictitious Character), #Mystery & Detective, #Fiction, #Women Sleuths, #General, #Dwellings

Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The (22 page)

BOOK: Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The
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Very softly, as though she was afraid of the answer, Nina asked, “Any word about Tara’s killer?”
Humphrey spoke confidentially. “They collected a few dozen of those cordless nailing machines from the vendors. Including the ones Natasha was promoting.”
TWENTY-THREE
From “ THE GOOD LIFE” :
Dear Sophie,
 
I love and need the storage provided by the built-in wall unit in my bedroom. But it looks just awful. I would rip it out and replace it if the cost weren’t prohibitive. Any suggestions?
 
—Despairing in Destin
 
Dear Despairing,
 
Paint the wall unit and install a soft fabric or wallpaper that matches your decor on the rear wall of all the openings to unify it. If you have a modern decor, consider painting the back a bright contrasting color to show off your belongings.
 
—Sophie
“And,” said Humphrey, “Posey was caught trying to sneak a cordless nailer out of the convention hall late this afternoon.”
“Posey!” That surprised me. “I thought she was close to Tara.” Or had she put on an act for me? “That must have been quite a scene.” I could imagine feisty Posey protesting.
“She had no choice but to turn it over to them.”
“How soon will they know if they have the murder weapon?” I asked.
Humphrey savored a forkful of risotto. “They’re all in a complete tizzy because the cops are used to working with ballistics tests for guns, and there are technical issues about whether the same tests will work on nail guns.”
“Seems like they would,” opined Francie. “There must be marks on the nails like there would be on bullets, so that they can be matched up to the machine that shot them.”
Nina and Humphrey stared at Francie, who looked at them with an innocent expression. “I watch the news. I read mysteries. You don’t get to be my age without learning a few things.”
Nervous Nina ate like a lumberjack. I swiftly steered the conversation to Humphrey’s love life and invited Francie and Nina to join us for dinner the next evening, when Beth would be present. Humphrey’s face flamed at the mention of it.
Dessert proved to be a huge success, and even Nina loosened up when she dipped the outer cake part of the lava cake into the liquid chocolate that oozed from the middle. Or maybe the wine began to relax her.
In spite of the fact that Nina probably outweighed Humphrey and undoubtedly could pack more of a punch, she talked him into sleeping on the family room sofa overnight, buying my safety in numbers argument. While Nina and I tackled the dishes, Humphrey walked Francie home. On his return, Nina insisted on a quick nightcap, no doubt to quell her fear of the killer, but we all turned in early.
We woke to the annoying
beep
. . .
beep
. . .
beep
of an enormous truck backing near Mordecai’s detached garage to deliver a Dumpster. It was barely light outside. Construction people started early. Snow was blowing, and after spending days in the spring atmosphere of Rooms and Blooms, I felt as though winter had returned. I threw on a cozy purple turtleneck and a pair of jeans with an elastic waist that were tight anyway. I knew I shouldn’t have indulged in the chocolate lava cake last night. Even worse, the cold, dreary day had me thinking French toast for breakfast.
I hurried downstairs, Mochie scampering ahead of me, and found Humphrey in the kitchen, a blanket wrapped around his shoulders.
“How does this coffee machine work?” he asked.
I shooed him away, and coffee brewed in minutes. Humphrey soon clutched a mug, and I whisked eggs for French toast even though I knew I had gained three pounds just thinking about it.
Nina, Hank, and Emmaline joined us as I tossed frozen blueberries into a pot, added a little water and a splash of orange liqueur, and let it come to a boil.
“That truck was annoying enough to wake the dead,” Nina grumbled. “I hope we won’t have too many more mornings like this.”
The blustery weather turned into a mini blizzard. Since I was already dressed, I clasped a leash on Emmaline and took her out to do her business. Wind whipped my hair, but I didn’t dare let the little escape artist loose in my backyard. Even though it was fenced, if there was a tiny chink, I felt certain she would find it and wriggle through.
Emmaline didn’t care for the weather much, and we returned to the house in minutes. After dredging thick slices of bread through beaten eggs spiced with cinnamon, I placed them on the griddle, turned the berries to a simmer, and looked forward to a hot breakfast.
Mochie and Emmaline feasted on leftover pork chops, and in spite of the weather, Hank sang at the top of his little lungs.
While we ate, Nina talked Humphrey into accompanying her to her house while she changed clothes. I felt sorry for her and scrounged around until I located the Taser that Mars had given me months ago. She clung to it like I’d handed her a life preserver.
I filled a huge carafe with coffee, packed some cups, and headed for Mordecai’s house. I dodged Natasha’s TV crew in the foyer and peeked at the chaos in the kitchen from the family room doorway.
Ted and Mike calmly removed kitchen counters, but Natasha scurried around like a dizzy rodent. On the other hand, Beth, who’d seemed so uncomfortable the day before, watched quietly behind the cameramen, handing everyone what they needed before they asked for it, like she had a special radar.
Behind me someone sniffed the air. “Do you smell smoke?” asked Bernie.
“Maybe it’s coming from the kitchen?”
He poured coffee for us from the carafe I had brought. “Smells like someone built a fire last night.”
“It’s probably coming in from outside. I imagine a lot of people have fires going in this weather.”
He sniffed again. “So what’s next, boss?”
I forced myself to pay attention to the room I had to decorate. “A sofa, I suppose. A big cushy one, with matching ottomans, so two or more people could comfortably lounge while watching a movie on TV.”
“Works for me,” said Bernie. “And where do we obtain such a lovely sofa?”
I puffed air into my cheeks and exhaled slowly because I didn’t have an answer.
“On loan, darling.” Bedelia had paused at the door for dramatic effect. She waltzed into the room and held her hand out to Bernie for kisses. “Surely you don’t think designers can afford all those marvelous antiques they use? They borrow everything from dealers—like on consignment, but it’s really a loan. You stick a little card on it saying where it can be bought and return it in perfect condition.”
“Only one problem, I’m not a designer.”
She chuckled. “Sweetheart, we read your column every day in Florida. There’s not a dealer around who wouldn’t lend you whatever you want.”
I wasn’t so sure about that, but it was worth a shot.
Speaking in a husky voice, like Mae West, Bedelia said to Bernie, “Come upstairs and see me sometime, big boy.”
Bernie just laughed, but I was beginning to see what Francie found so annoying about her. I was immediately ashamed for that thought since she’d told me how to furnish the room at no cost.
Posey barged into the family room, fingering her key. “Are they all here?” She looked into the kitchen. “Where’s Nolan?”
“I haven’t seen him yet.”
“I suppose the unbelievably wealthy get to sleep late.” She whipped out her cell phone and dialed. “Oh, and now they’re not answering their phone, either.” She tucked her cell into her pocket. “I knew this would happen. He has no consideration for anyone.”
She stomped into the foyer, and I could hear her demanding, “
Where
is Nolan?”
I explained to Bernie about the keys and why she needed Nolan, but before I could finish, I heard Posey shriek, “No!”
Her dark eyes huge, she dragged a hapless man into the family room. “You won’t believe this. Tell her about Nolan!”
He wore a work shirt that bore the DuPont Fine Antiques logo, and held up his hands in protest.
I thought Posey probably intimidated him. “What’s going on?”
The man looked at Posey as though he didn’t dare take his eyes off her lest she attack him. “Mr. DuPont was mugged last night. He’s in the hospital. Mrs. DuPont called this morning and told us what to bring over here for the living room.”
“Mugged? In Old Town?” I asked. No one was ever mugged in Old Town.
“In his own backyard. They have a detached garage, and someone hit him over the head when he was walking to the house. Mrs. DuPont found him.”
“Will he be okay?” asked Bernie.
The man shrugged. “I hope so. Mrs. DuPont wants to shut down the antiques shop, and if she does, I’ll be out of a job.”
Posey turned to me, holding out her hands. “Now what? What if he dies and no one can find the key? The rest of us spend our lives wondering what Mordecai left us?”
I didn’t have any answers for her. But I did note that she cared so little about Nolan’s well-being that she wasn’t a bit concerned about his condition. All Posey could think about was opening the wall unit.
Bernie looked from Posey to the wall unit. “Show me the locks.”
Posey pursed her mouth in displeasure. “It won’t help.” Nevertheless, she flipped them open.
“Don’t you suppose Mordecai built in a back door?” asked Bernie.
Posey’s eyebrows shot up. “You mean another access?”
“He had to,” said Bernie. “One person couldn’t turn all five keys simultaneously by himself.”
I felt a complete fool. Bernie was right. Unless Mordecai had help or never tested his wall, there must be another way to open it.
Bernie walked back and forth, examining the wall unit. “There has to be a main latch, something that will release all the locks at once.” Beginning on one end, he opened each drawer and cabinet, and worked his way to the other end until they were all open. He ran his fingers over his chin as if deep in thought.
Bernie released a cry and lunged at a cabinet. He placed his head and one arm inside and reached up.
A
clunk
resounded through the room and an unpleasant odor tinged the air.
Bernie stepped back. “Did anything move?”
I shook my head.
“The mechanics are behind those bookshelves. See how it’s shallower than the rest?”
Now that he’d pointed it out, it seemed so obvious. “But how does it open?”
Bernie grasped the middle section and rolled it effortlessly straight into the room, exposing a dark doorway. Only a few feet back, a gilded icon gleamed as though it hung midair.
Posey applauded. “A Russian icon. That’s the treasure!”
Bernie ventured forward first. “We need a flashlight.”
He stepped through the doorway. “Forget the light,” he called. “Old Mordecai thought of everything.” He flicked on a weak overhead light and said, “Sophie, you’d better call Wolf.”
Naturally, I did the illogical thing and stepped through the doorway into what was really only a stair landing. Freezing air accosted me, and I shivered. To my left, a narrow staircase led downward. Near the bottom of the stairs, no doubt the source of the unpleasant odor, lay Kurt.
TWENTY-FOUR
From
“Ask Natasha”
:
Dear Natasha,
 
While other husbands are at sporting events, mine goes to auctions and collects paintings. I was thrilled at first, but now the house is overflowing. I can’t stand being in our living room anymore because it’s so full of artwork I don’t know where to look. Though most pieces are gorgeous, it’s such a clutter that none stand out.
 
—Embarrassment of Riches in Goldsboro
 
Dear Embarrassment,
 
Consider yourself lucky to have such a discerning spouse. Select the longest corridor in your house and install track lighting on the ceiling. Hang paintings in a straight horizontal line at eye level on both sides and train a spotlight on each painting to highlight it.
 
—Natasha
BOOK: Diva 03 _ Diva Paints the Town, The
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