Free Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) by Jean Harrington Page A

I remember. You’re Hostess Twinkie. No that’s not it. It’s Cookie! You’re Cookie. But your surname escapes me. Of an unusual ethnic origin, isn’t it? Do jog my memory, Miss...”
    “Harkness. Mrs . Norman Harkness.” Shoulders thrust back, chin up, neck stretched taut, she added, “Norm and I are Mayflower descendants.”
    “Oh really? My ancestors came over on a boat too.”
    Cookie’s already taut jaw froze at the chin line. “That’s hardly—”
    “Here nor there.” I figured I’d finish an interrupted sentence for once. I know, I know. After telling Rossi that the job was all important, here I was shooting myself in the foot. Alienating one of the very people Deva Dunne Interiors needed most.
    The problem was I had a terrible temper and certain types of behavior made me crazy. Snobbery being one. I was constitutionally unable to ignore it or laugh it off or deal with it rationally. Oh no. I had to retaliate, cut the snob’s ego down to size, so that my own ego came out on top. That was a terrible character flaw. I needed to work on ridding myself of it, to take the psychological highroad and remind myself snobbery was a form of insecurity.
    So maybe I should have felt sorry for Cookie-the-Snob Harkness. I was working on it as I walked her to the front door. But not too hard. It was too much fun wondering what she’d be like when she heard Francesco fracture the language. But as she waved goodbye with a “Ta-ta” and strolled across Rum Row, it occurred to me that all she might hear was the sound of his money.
    An instant diagnosis. Another flaw in my character—snap judgments. Though in interior design it could often help me quickly solve a problem, analyzing people was a different story. In that arena I had a long way to go. Except for Rossi. When it came to Rossi, my judgment was right on target.
    I wandered out to the kitchen for my purse. I’d lock up, go back to the shop and wait for Tom Kruse’s fax. From past experience, I knew he’d be pricy but fair and that Francesco would get a faultless job.
    Key at the ready, I opened the front door and stepped outside. To my amazement, a flotilla of vehicles clogged Rum Row. Immediately in front of the house, a moving van the size of the Queen Mary was easing to a stop. A familiar limo drove up behind it, and behind that a pale blue panel truck emblazoned with Bebe’s Boutique in bright pink lettering.
    Holy cow . Moving day.
    Donny opened the limo’s rear door and Francesco jumped out. Then Donny reached in to assist Jewels, who carried little Frannie in a baby pouch across her breast. She’d ditched the gladiator spikes for flat thongs which evened the playing field height-wise for Francesco.
    “Hey,” he shouted when he spied me in the doorway. “I’m glad you’re here. We’re moving in, and I want you to see my stuff.”
    Oh boy. The moment of truth. Keep an open mind , I told myself, no matter how bad his things may be . You can convince him to get rid of what’s impossible and work the so - sos into some kind of decent decorative scheme . If he won’t listen to reason , return the retainer and walk away scot - free .

I blew out a breath. That was the last thing I wanted to do.
    Two muscular men emerged from the cab of the truck, both hefty enough to give Donny pause.
    “This way, Phil,” Francesco yelled, and they lumbered up the driveway to the garage. “The king bed and the high-def TV go in the apartment upstairs. My man Donny’ll show you where. All the rest of the stuff goes here in the garage.”
    The two movers loped back to the truck to start unloading. Francesco turned to me. “You surprised we’re moving in so soon?”
    “A little. The house is far from ready.”
    “Yeah, I know, but things are working out good. My business on the East Coast can wait, so we decided to move in right away. A hotel’s no place for a baby. The dust we’ll be kicking up during the decorating won’t be good for Jewels or Frannie