Free Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) by Jean Harrington

would send a crew in immediately.
    After Tom left, I toured the house once more, admiring its potential, its grace, its proportions.
    I made some notes. For starters all the closets could use organizers. The overdone window treatments with their heavy cornices had to go, the floor tiles in the foyer replaced, probably with marble squares. On the plus side, the hardwood floors were in good shape, only needing to be cleaned and polished.
    Until I saw Francesco’s furnishings and learned his color preferences, I could do little more today. I’d wandered back to the kitchen, where I’d left my purse, when the doorbell rang, the chimes low and melodious.
    At the front entrance I peeked through the sidelights. Holding a covered plate in both hands, a fifty-something woman with the posture of an on-duty sentry stood outside on the slate landing,
    I opened the door. “Hello. I’m—”
    “My new neighbor. I’m so pleased to meet you at last. I’m Cookie Harkness. From across the way.” She held the plate with one hand and extended the other.
    Not wanting to offend her, I took her outstretched fingers. “I’m afraid I’m not—”
    “Oh, please. Don’t worry about not being ready to receive. I’m just a neighbor lady. May I?” she asked, one foot already inside the foyer.
    “Well, I—”
    Without giving me a chance to say more, she shook my hand, stepped inside and looked around at the empty, garish rooms.
    “Oh my. I’d forgotten how much Drexel loved color. No wonder, my dear, he was such a colorful man himself. Still is, I assume. Last we heard, he was living in the south of France. Aix, I believe, with his fourth or fifth true love. One does have trouble counting...anyway, for a man of his position he always lived modestly. Take this little place, for instance.”
    Over twelve thousand square feet under air conditioning little ? Not counting the terraces, the pool, the patios. I held up both hands palms out, the universal signal for Stop. To my amazement, she did. “Mrs. Harkness, I am not your new neighbor, though I’d love to be. I’m Devalera Dunne, Mr. and Mrs. Grandese’s interior designer.”
    Cookie’s smile disappeared, and the covered plate—brownies, I guessed—sagged in her hands. “Oh. You should have stopped me.”
    “I did,” I said, trying for a smile.
    “These are brownies,” she said, glancing at the plate. “My cook made them. It’s an old New England custom, welcoming the new neighbors, but...” She was clearly at a loss.
    “The refrigerator is still functioning. We could leave them there for the Grandeses and put a note on the kitchen island.”
    “Oh, a lovely solution. Let’s do that.”
    Clearly she had been in the house before. She strode out to the kitchen without making a single false turn. She wore what my Irish grandmother would have called the Holy Trinity—a Tiffany tank watch, pearls and Ferragamos. I guess Nana would have called Cookie’s startling tennis bracelet the Pope. Aside from her sensational jewelry and her shoes, everything else about her appearance was simplicity itself—smooth pageboy hair, face devoid of any trace of makeup, and a sleeveless blue cotton dress that stopped precisely at her knees.
    She stashed her brownies in a slightly musty-smelling Subzero fridge, and I scribbled a note, ripped it out of my notebook and propped it on the kitchen island.
    “Well, I’m disappointed not to have met the Grandeses. My husband has told me so much about Francesco, but—” she shrugged, “—that’s life, Miss, ah, Dunne. Your name’s Irish, isn’t it?”
    “Yes.”
    “Mother always employed Irish maids. Said they never stole a thing. Nipped a bit, perhaps, but one can live with that if the tippling doesn’t get out of hand.”
    “I wouldn’t know, Miss...”
    “Mrs.”
    “Oh, certainly. Mrs. But I’ve forgotten your first name. It reminded me of a bakery product as I recall.” I put a finger on my chin as if deep in thought. “Oh, now