Free Rooms to Die For by Jean Harrington

thought Raúl was a threat to public safety, he’d have locked him up, wouldn’t he?
    No, that wasn’t my problem. I’d been set up, that was my problem. I got the room no one else would touch. Not even the top businesses in town. A struggling one-woman operation, and I’d been given the kitchen. Some honor. A rundown, worn-out room that hadn’t had a thing cooked or cooled in it for the past thirty years. I grasped the wheel as if it were a killer’s throat.
    What I should do was bow out. Call Marian Stilwell in the morning and, using my best Boston voice, tell her I was terribly sorry, but business constraints, and my very, very demanding client list meant I simply couldn’t devote enough time to the Showhouse. And of course I wouldn’t want to tackle a project so important and not be able to do my very best. Blah. Blah. Blah.
    I screeched to a halt at a red light. When had that been installed? Ten minutes ago? Telling myself to relax, I loosened my grip on the wheel and blew out a breath. If I bowed out I knew, knew , I’d be hearing Nana Dunne’s voice echoing in my brain, telling me no woman in the family had ever been a quitter—to thumb my nose at the bastards who stuck me with an impossible job and make it possible. But how? How? I didn’t have the deep pockets to transform that dinosaur kitchen into a knockout.
    The light changed and traffic surged forward. To raise the most money it could for St. Martin’s Homeless Shelter, the Showhouse would open soon to take advantage of tourist season. St. Martin’s had a new building project in the planning stage, one that could care for twice as many people as its current facility, but it needed funding before construction could begin.
    If I walked away from that disaster of a kitchen, I’d be walking away from people in need. How could I do that and live with myself? Or with Nana’s voice? After all, I could hear her say, everybody deserved a home. I had to at least try. And I had to smile as I changed directions and headed for one of my favorite vendors, Kustom Kitchens, on Mercantile Way. Irish guilt was a powerful instrument.
    * * *
    A giant of a man, Tiny Forbes ran the oldest kitchen remodeling business in Naples, and one of the best. If anybody could help me, it would be Tiny. Six-six at least, with a girth so formidable he had trouble finding belts to fit and had given up on them years ago. Today he had on his usual white starched shirt, open at the throat, chinos—in God only knew what size—and a pair of red suspenders.
    His face split into a grin when he saw me. “Hey, favorite lady.”
    “Tiny, I need you,” I said.
    “Sorry, doll. I’d love it too but my wife would kill me if she found out.”
    “This is serious, Tiny. I’ve got a problem.” I parked my tote on his sales counter and sank onto a utility stool in front of it. “I’m one of the designers for the Sprague Mansion Showhouse.”
    “That’s a problem? I say good for you. Excellent exposure.”
    “That’s what I’m afraid of.”
    Tiny snapped one of his suspender straps, something he did regularly. A nervous habit I think he’d picked up when he stopped smoking. Whatever the reason, I don’t know how his chest stood up to the strain.
    “Being chosen is an honor,” he insisted. “Designers come in here all the time who’d kill for a chance like that. Do you know how many people will see your name, get a glimpse of your style, want to—”
    I held up my hands, palms out. “I’ve been given the kitchen.”
    “Oh, God. In that old dungeon.” As the weight of what I’d said hit home, he slumped onto a stool behind the counter, the stress causing it to creak ominously. “So you’re here to talk business. I’m disappointed. I thought I was the draw.”
    “You are, darlin’. I need your advice. How much can I do with ten thousand...maybe fifteen tops? To be honest, I can’t even afford that much, and I know it’s only about ten percent of what’s called for, but