Free The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington Page B

regret? No sorrow?
    I cleared my throat before answering. “My schedule is slower in the summer, so that won’t be a problem, but ah, wouldn’t you prefer to wait until after the funeral?”
    He shook his head. “No funeral. Connie Rae’s family in Arkansas wants a funeral, that’s up to them. I can send her ashes. But there won’t be a funeral on this end.”
    So Teresa had been right. “I see,” I murmured.
    “No, you don’t. I can tell by your voice.” He cocked a finger, beckoning me forward. He led the way through the dining room and rotunda and into the great room. “The truth is, I hardly knew the kid. Married her on a spree...shouldn’t have happened.” A pause. “We were in Vegas. I was drunk. You do stupid things when you’re under the influence.”
    He’d have no argument from me there. But it still didn’t explain what had caused the death of an apparently healthy twenty-two-year-old girl. Much as I wanted to know, I didn’t have the nerve to ask. Turned out I didn’t have to.
    With his next breath, Stew blurted, “She had a bad heart condition. Real bad. Never told me a thing about it. So that’s how much I knew about her. Nothing, when you come right down to it.”
    I ventured a question. “Her heart failed? Is that how she died?”
    “Yeah, natural causes, the coroner said. Guess I should be glad they didn’t find something to hang on me. Especially after Kay...she’s my ex...got through bad-mouthing me to the cops. That was a while back, but the cops got memories like elephants. The slightest slip, they’ll nail me.”
    He shrugged. “What can I say? Life goes on. Come on in, have a seat. Teresa’ll make us some coffee, and you can show me what you brought.”
    So much for the grieving process. Poor little Connie Rae, whoever she was. With Teresa hovering in the background, pretending to be busy in the kitchen but listening to every word, I sat on the couch beside Stew so we could go over my schematics together.
    As I unzipped the portfolio, I glanced out at the back garden. The hibiscus were a riot of orange blooms, a color that would harmonize beautifully with the design plan I had in mind. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a man in coveralls pushing a loaded wheelbarrow toward the far end of the pool surround. Tony the tile guy back on the job. Since they were so tight, no doubt he knew his good friend Mike Hammerjack was a master forger, with two convictions for grand larceny under his belt.
    I’d almost emptied the portfolio when Mike himself rounded the corner of the house, boxes of tiles cradled in his buff arms. So I guess he’d been honest about one thing—Tony
had
hired him. Despite his love for snake hunting, Tony was a nice guy then, the type of man who helped out a friend in need.
    “Ah, here we go,” Stew said, pulling me back into the moment as Teresa, in red Capri pants and a flowered jersey top, placed steaming mugs on the coffee table. I guessed she’d probably ditched her shapeless white nylon uniforms for good, and who could blame her? No woman wants to look like she’s wearing a parachute.
    I rested my computer-generated CAD drawings and the color boards on the coffee table. “Shall we start with the overall philosophy?”
    “You’re the boss.” Stew settled back with his coffee.
    “All right.” I picked up the first drawing. “What I see for you is a masculine environment. One with big bones. In fact, you’re already moving in that direction with the Mexican tiles and the wooden shutters you’re planning to install. Those design elements establish a strong tone, and the tone is male. So let’s take advantage of what’s already been decided.”
Time for a little sugar.
“Besides, a masculine setting is a perfect fit for your personality.”
    He nodded. No argument there.
    “So no small statements. We’ll write large.”
    Stew took a sip of coffee then put down his mug. “I get the masculine drift,” he said, “but I’m not following