no one had come by Surfside making inquiries about Treasure. Or offering information. Or telling us about funeral plans. Strange.
Rossi might know if Treasure had any relatives, but if he did, he hadn’t said so. Strange, too, that a wily guy like Rossi hadn’t noticed AudreyAnn’s bandaged feet the day of the murder. I knew he’d questioned everyone in Surfside. In light of the blood trail, shouldn’t he have been suspicious about the shawl covering her legs? I shrugged the question away. He must have thought the blood came from Treasure or the killer…and that most likely the killer was a man…not one of the women in the building. Or else he wasn’t telling me everything.
I glanced down at the photo again. The smile was so like Treasure’s it broke my heart. Slipping the photograph out of the frame, I secured it to my clipboard. I owed it to Treasure to find out who this guy was, and the person most likely to know anything was Faye.
That meant just one thing. “Foxy Lady, here I come.”
My survey of 301 complete, I was on the walkway locking up when the door to Simon’s condo opened and a stunning brunette stepped out. At first glance, I thought, It’s Treasure. The woman was about the same age, tall and tanned, with long glossy hair and fashion-model cheekbones. But when she said “Hello” in a smooth, well-bred tone, with none of Treasure’s sassy warmth, the impression fled.
She wore a sleeveless black linen dress and high-heeled sandals. A strand of chunky pearls circled her throat, and a black grosgrain ribbon held her hair back from her face. Guaranteed, this woman had never danced with a live python. Neither had I, for that matter. But in comparison to her cool perfection, I sported damp underarms on my old BU T-shirt, a faded pair of athletic shorts and well-worn running shoes. Worse, after that jog in the sun earlier, I probably had cookie-sized freckles and hot-wired hair.
She held out a long, slim hand, the one with her “other” diamond on the ring finger. “I’m Cynthia Yaeger,” she said. “Simon’s wife.”
“Oh.” So much for peach-colored roses. Without even checking, I knew they had turned brown.
Cynthia let her glance slide over me. “And you are?”
“Devalera Dunne. Mr. Yaeger’s interior designer.”
“Really?” she said, puzzled amusement creasing her brow as her long-lashed eyes gave me a second sweep. “I didn’t realize Simon had employed a decorator.”
“Designer.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A decorator matches tea towels to draperies. A designer does not. Get it?”
“What a bizarre explanation.” With a final perusal of my outfit and a waggle of her diamond-studded fingers, Cynthia turned on her long patrician legs and strolled toward the elevator.
Ordinarily, I’m not the jealous type. Jealousy is an energy-eating waste of time that solves nothing and accomplishes nothing. I can’t be bothered with it. I suppose I can say that easily because Jack never gave me reason to be jealous. I was the One and Only. But those days were now officially over. Clutching the clipboard as if it were a life raft, I stomped down the stairs, letting my Nikes smack each step on the way. Just as I reached the second level, Neal Tomson sauntered along the walkway toting a bag of golf clubs.
“Hey, Deva! My new pillow ready?”
Oh, darn, with all that had been going on lately, I hadn’t given his ruined pillow a thought. “Sorry, Neal, I forgot to place the order. I’ll call it in today.”
“Good. My couch looks naked without it.”
Hardly. But it figured that Type-A Neal would think so. A big, happy-to-see-you smile had spread across his face. Maybe he’d like to go to the Foxy Lady with me. I didn’t want to go alone and had no other guy to ask. Mr. Married Man Simon had already refused. The lover boy twins, Chip and Dick, wouldn’t do, either. Rossi was out, as well; he had warned me away from the Lady.
“Neal, are you free tonight?”
Rossi might know if Treasure had any relatives, but if he did, he hadn’t said so. Strange, too, that a wily guy like Rossi hadn’t noticed AudreyAnn’s bandaged feet the day of the murder. I knew he’d questioned everyone in Surfside. In light of the blood trail, shouldn’t he have been suspicious about the shawl covering her legs? I shrugged the question away. He must have thought the blood came from Treasure or the killer…and that most likely the killer was a man…not one of the women in the building. Or else he wasn’t telling me everything.
I glanced down at the photo again. The smile was so like Treasure’s it broke my heart. Slipping the photograph out of the frame, I secured it to my clipboard. I owed it to Treasure to find out who this guy was, and the person most likely to know anything was Faye.
That meant just one thing. “Foxy Lady, here I come.”
My survey of 301 complete, I was on the walkway locking up when the door to Simon’s condo opened and a stunning brunette stepped out. At first glance, I thought, It’s Treasure. The woman was about the same age, tall and tanned, with long glossy hair and fashion-model cheekbones. But when she said “Hello” in a smooth, well-bred tone, with none of Treasure’s sassy warmth, the impression fled.
She wore a sleeveless black linen dress and high-heeled sandals. A strand of chunky pearls circled her throat, and a black grosgrain ribbon held her hair back from her face. Guaranteed, this woman had never danced with a live python. Neither had I, for that matter. But in comparison to her cool perfection, I sported damp underarms on my old BU T-shirt, a faded pair of athletic shorts and well-worn running shoes. Worse, after that jog in the sun earlier, I probably had cookie-sized freckles and hot-wired hair.
She held out a long, slim hand, the one with her “other” diamond on the ring finger. “I’m Cynthia Yaeger,” she said. “Simon’s wife.”
“Oh.” So much for peach-colored roses. Without even checking, I knew they had turned brown.
Cynthia let her glance slide over me. “And you are?”
“Devalera Dunne. Mr. Yaeger’s interior designer.”
“Really?” she said, puzzled amusement creasing her brow as her long-lashed eyes gave me a second sweep. “I didn’t realize Simon had employed a decorator.”
“Designer.”
“Is there a difference?”
“A decorator matches tea towels to draperies. A designer does not. Get it?”
“What a bizarre explanation.” With a final perusal of my outfit and a waggle of her diamond-studded fingers, Cynthia turned on her long patrician legs and strolled toward the elevator.
Ordinarily, I’m not the jealous type. Jealousy is an energy-eating waste of time that solves nothing and accomplishes nothing. I can’t be bothered with it. I suppose I can say that easily because Jack never gave me reason to be jealous. I was the One and Only. But those days were now officially over. Clutching the clipboard as if it were a life raft, I stomped down the stairs, letting my Nikes smack each step on the way. Just as I reached the second level, Neal Tomson sauntered along the walkway toting a bag of golf clubs.
“Hey, Deva! My new pillow ready?”
Oh, darn, with all that had been going on lately, I hadn’t given his ruined pillow a thought. “Sorry, Neal, I forgot to place the order. I’ll call it in today.”
“Good. My couch looks naked without it.”
Hardly. But it figured that Type-A Neal would think so. A big, happy-to-see-you smile had spread across his face. Maybe he’d like to go to the Foxy Lady with me. I didn’t want to go alone and had no other guy to ask. Mr. Married Man Simon had already refused. The lover boy twins, Chip and Dick, wouldn’t do, either. Rossi was out, as well; he had warned me away from the Lady.
“Neal, are you free tonight?”
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