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

James’s house.”
    A challenge. Okay. I raised my chin, but no point in trying to fling back my hair. I have the kind that doesn’t fling. My chin had to do double duty. “Why not, Kay?”
    My tone must have been super cool, for she flushed and reached across the table to give my hand a quick squeeze. “Sorry. I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”
    “Good. Because it sounded shitty.” Not a professional response but one straight from the heart.
    To her credit, Kay laughed just as a waiter with the bearing of an ambassador to Great Britain approached and placed menus in front of us. Before he said a thing, she waved him away with, “Just water for now.”
    She turned back to me. “Your reputation around town is marvelous. Several people at the club have been singing your praises.”
    Somewhat mollified, I picked up my menu. “I’m glad to hear that.”
    Our waiter returned with goblets of water and a basket of rolls. This time he hovered.
    “Give us a few more minutes,” Kay said, dismissing him.
    Obviously we weren’t going to eat anytime soon. But that was fine. All I really wanted was to hear the reason for this meeting.
    “What has me concerned, Deva, isn’t your lack of designing skill. It’s Stew Hawkins.”
    “Stew?” I leaned forward and forgot all about the menu. “Why is he the problem?”
    “You know we used to be married?”
    “Yes. James mentioned that.”
    “Our divorce—our whole marriage—was a nightmare.” She frowned but for a moment, only then her dark eyes took on a shine. “The ending settlement, however, was almost worth what I went through with that—”
    “Ladies, we have several specials today.” The ambassador had returned.
    “No recitals,” Kay declared, picking up the menu with an exasperated sigh. “I’ll have the grilled chicken Caesar, with a side of fresh fruit.”
    “Make that two,” I said.
    When we were alone again, she said, “As they say, all’s well that ends well. But the end isn’t in sight yet. Not completely. That bastard—” she finished the sentence this time, “—bought the house across from James.”
    “I know. James told me.”
    “Can you believe it? The nerve of him.” She plucked a roll out of the bread basket, buttered it and bit off a chunk.
    Having her ex living across the street sure hadn’t affected her appetite.
    “No need to worry,” I said. “I’ll be careful not to create parallel designs.”
    She stopped chewing and swallowed. “Parallel designs? What does that mean?”
    “One house copying the look of another.”
    As if swatting away flies, she waved a hand in the air. “I’m not worried about that. I intend never to step foot in Stew’s place. Do whatever you like. Make the interiors twins, for all I care.” She forgot about the bread and, leaning over the table, lowered her voice. “But you do have to promise me, Deva, that you will never talk to Stew about me, not even so much as mention my name.”
    “I assure you, I—”
    She raised a palm for silence. “And never, under any circumstances are you to tell him what James and I are doing or planning or saying. Nothing. Absolutely nothing.”
    Annoyance stiffening my spine, I sat up soldier straight. “I have no intention of doing any such thing,” I said, for emphasis leaving a little space between each word.
    “Excellent. Because he bought the house on Whiskey Lane for one reason only. To torment me.”
    Too irritated with the woman to simply agree, I said, “Isn’t that rather bizarre, Kay? I mean your divorce is final, and he remarried and all, though I will admit Connie Rae’s...Mrs. Hawkins’s death was an unexpected blow.”
    “He probably killed her,” Kay said smoothly, breaking off a piece of roll and popping it in her mouth.
    “That’s quite an accusation.” And this was quite a conversation. I was an interior designer, not a shrink. Or a homicide detective, though Rossi would laugh to hear me admit that.
    “You think so?” Kay