Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Read Free

left of it. Not only was he sans eyebrows, his lashes were singed to stubs. The force of the explosion had thrown me clear of the flames, so I was still the proud owner of eyebrows and lashes, but I had some spectacular purple bruises, one the size of Rhode Island on my left thigh.
    We rode the elevator to the second floor in silence. I hadn’t had much sleep, and from the look of Rossi he hadn’t either. Somewhere around midnight, it had occurred to me that the explosion might not have been accidental after all. But if not, then what? A deliberate act of violence? That didn’t make sense. A big teddy bear like Chip didn’t have an enemy in the world. Who on earth would want to vandalize his brand new business? For that I had no answer, and head aching, body aching, I followed Rossi off the elevator and down the hospital corridor.
    Outside Chip’s room, a red No Visitors sign hung on the door. I pushed it open a few inches and peeked in. Chip lay flat on his back on a narrow hospital bed. A tube fed into one hand, and another snaked from his nose into an oxygen tank. I caught my breath at the sight of him lying there so lifeless, so—
    “May I help you?” a nurse asked in a crisp, no-nonsense tone. She stepped forward, wedging herself between me and the door, blocking my view. A name tag pinned to her collar read Nora Reynolds, R.N.
    “Naples police,” Rossi said, using his official voice and showing her his badge. “We’re here to see Chip Salvatore.”
    “He’s not allowed visitors,” she said, peering at the ID, then giving me the once-over. “And you are?”
    “She’s with me.” Rossi’s stared at her, stern-faced. The nurse squared her shoulders and stared back. Rossi’s stare held. A flush whipped up her face, she faltered and stepped aside. “A minute or two.”
    We thanked her and slipped into the room. At our approach, Chip’s eyes fluttered open for a second then closed.
    “Deva,” he whispered, his voice a hoarse croak. “You okay?”
    My heart swelled into my throat. “Oh, Chip. I’m fine, and you will be too.” Tears lurking behind my lids leaked out and ran down my cheeks. I flicked them away before he noticed, and gently touched the fingers of his left hand, the one without the IV. His skin felt cold and dry.
    “What happened?” he asked. “Nobody’s telling me anything.”
    “There was a gas leak,” Rossi said. “The propane truck exploded while they were filling your tanks. Luckily you were the last stop of the day. If the truck had been full, it would have been worse.”
    With a noticeable effort, Chip turned his head to peer up at him. “I’ve been cooking with gas my whole life. Never happened before.”
    “Somebody left a car running nearby. Or maybe tossed a cigarette. A spark caught. So far, that’s all we know, but we’re investigating it. So just rest now, buddy.”
    Chip closed his eyes without answering then swept them open again. “How’s Tomas doing? And Enzo?”
    “Tomas is in good hands,” Rossi answered, smooth as silk. “And Enzo’s fine. Just shook up is all. Save your strength. We’ll talk some more tomorrow.”
    I gulped and stared down at Chip’s bruised face. Tomas, the sous chef, had been the one closest to the propane tank when it exploded. Thrown against an exposed pipe, he’d died instantly, his skull crushed like an eggshell. Chip had been in the meat locker at the time of the explosion. The steel doors saved him from the worst of the blast. But not the driver of the truck. Like Tomas, he hadn’t survived.
    Tired out from the effort of talking, Chip dozed off. Rossi crooked a finger, and we tiptoed from the room. Outside, in the hall, the same nurse approached us. “I was just coming for you. He needs to sleep.”
    Rossi nodded. “Thanks for letting us see him.”
    “A terrible accident,” she said, her face full of sympathy and a bit of curiosity. She lowered her voice. “Rumor has it foul play was involved.”
    Rossi stiffened.