Free Rooms to Die For by Jean Harrington Page B

I’d loan it to you for the duration of the show. A month or so?”
    I nodded, and he added, “We’ll strictly fake it. No hook up, no performance. These babies—” he leaned over to pick up the tarp and toss it back over the La Cornue, “—are installed by official factory reps only. So this’ll just be for showbiz. I figure it’ll upstage the rest of the kitchen. Be the starring attraction, so to speak. Then maybe you could get away with spending less on the rest of the room.” He paused, “Depending on what you have in mind, of course.”
    As I helped him cinch the straps back in place, he asked, “You have a plan?”
    “Not at the moment. I need to give it some thought. Once I do, I’ll sketch out my concept and fax it to you for approval. How’s that sound?”
    “Excellent.”
    Though Tiny didn’t say so, I knew he wanted to be sure of my ideas before he’d let his name be used in the credits. To earn the privilege of this world-class stove, I had to place it in a kitchen that would do it justice. And for under fifteen thousand. What a challenge.
    Before I could decide if Deva Dunne Interiors was up to the task, my cell began an insistent chirping. I rummaged in the tote, grabbing the phone on the fourth ring.
    “Don’t expect me tonight,” Rossi said. “Things are heating up. I don’t know when I can get away. So I’ll crash at my place.”
    Phone to my ear, I took a few steps away from Tiny. “Sounds serious.”
    “Could be.” He paused, weighing what he should and shouldn’t tell me, then finally took the plunge. “Forensics found alcohol in José Vega’s body.”
    “He didn’t drink. Teetotal all the way. I knew something was fishy!”
    Rossi huffed out a sigh. “There you go again, jumping to conclusions.”
    “But you just said—”
    “Maybe he fell off the wagon.”
    “Then there was no foul play.”
    “I didn’t say that either.”
    “Rossi, the problem with you is that you’re too conservative.”
    “Oh really?” Icicles dripped off the cell. “In religion, politics or sex?”
    “Not sex,” I whispered, glancing over my shoulder, hoping Tiny hadn’t heard me. But a quick glimpse of his face told me he had. I turned around and clutched the phone even closer. Where was that saw when a girl needed it?
    “What I meant was, you’re too conservative in your conclusions. Afraid to leap off the cliff, so to speak.”
    “Right. That about sums me up. Now if you’ll excuse me, Mrs. Dunne, I have to look for a Mr. Lopez. We’re having a little trouble locating him today.”
    Ah, so the police did suspect Raúl. “I can help you find him, you know.”
    “At the risk of repeating myself, there you go again.” He sounded beyond annoyed, but this was my turn to be annoyed.
    “I know where the suspect is, or at least where he was a half hour ago. But if you don’t want any insider information, I’ll hang up.”
    “Don’t you dare, or I’ll send a cruiser after you.”

Chapter Thirteen
    After a restless night with no call from Rossi saying whether or not he’d caught up with Raúl, I slept in the next morning. When I got to the shop an hour late, a handsome young god sat sprawled on the zebra settee. I couldn’t believe my eyes.
    “Jamaica man? Is that you?”
    “Designer lady!” Lee’s husband, Paulo St. James, leaped to his feet, picked me up and whirled me around the shop. Before setting me down, his artist’s gaze swept over me.
    “Oh mon, red hair’s so riveting,” he said. “Especially with that bronze color you’re wearing. Promise you’ll have it on when I paint your portrait.”
    While Paulo examined me, I examined him. No doubt about it, his art studies in Paris had matured him. Silver studs no longer mounted his ears, and he had shorn his dreadlocks. But more important, his boyish grace had given way to a man’s strength.
    “You look wonderful,” I said. “Married life obviously agrees with you.”
    “It’s heaven every day.”
    A pang of