Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Read Free Page A

“As of now, there’s no evidence of that.”
    She shrugged. “It’s what people are saying.”
    “People need to say less. False rumors are harmful.”
    Giving Rossi an uncertain nod, she walked into Chip’s room without responding.
    Rossi took my elbow and marched us toward the elevator faster than my sore muscles wanted to move.
    “Something happens people don’t understand and right away they form an opinion,” he said, his voice still gravelly from the smoke he’d inhaled. “A half-baked one,” he added. “No pun intended.”
    I groaned. “Hey, how about slowing down? I’ve got a stitch in my side.” I stopped to bend at the waist and catch my breath.
    He exhaled and jabbed the call button. “Sorry. I overreacted.” We stepped into the elevator. “Alone at last,” he said. He even smiled.
    At ground floor level, a little lightheaded, I made it outside to the hospital entrance and stood leaning on him. One of the retirees who volunteers at the hospital drove a courtesy golf cart up to the portico. “Want a ride to your car?”
    “Yes,” we said in unison. Our collective aches and pains had caught up with us. Grateful for the lift, we held hands and enjoyed the breezy jaunt to the far end of the crowded parking lot. In season, tourists packed Naples, and like all the locals, I looked forward to the quiet summer months when traffic was light, you could park anywhere and get a restaurant table without waiting. But this was April, and we still had a few months to go before our summer hiatus.
    Slow and stiff, I gingerly eased behind the wheel of the Audi.
    “Drop me off at the station?” Rossi asked as he settled into the passenger seat. “I’ll get a lift home.”
    “But you’re hurting too. You need to rest—”
    He shook his head. “I want to be there when they question the driver of that car.”
    “Okay.” I let out a sigh. From experience, I knew arguing with Rossi about his work would do no good. A few months earlier, when a Monet masterpiece had been stolen and two people killed for it, Rossi had pursued the case relentlessly, hardly stopping to eat or sleep until he’d caught the thief and murderer. This would be no different, and I had no right to expect that it would be.
    He rested a hand on my thigh, the one without the bruise. “I’ll be working late, so I won’t call you tonight. You need to sleep.”
    “You do too,” I said, pulling out of the parking lot without any more protests. This was what a detective’s life was like. Crazy schedules. Danger. Secrecy.
    I glanced across the passenger seat at Rossi’s resolute profile. With his jaw too sore to shave this morning, his chin bristled with a two-day stubble. He looked like an ad straight out of GQ. Or he would have if not for his virulent orange-and-brown Hawaiian.
    I couldn’t help but wonder what life would be like for a woman with a man like him. Never knowing from hour to hour if he was safe or in harm’s way.
    A car swerved out of a side street, barely missing my right fender. I stomped on the brakes.
    “Hey,” Rossi yelled out the window. “You driving or picking flowers?”
    His second blowup in the past ten minutes. “You’re worried,” I said.
    He nodded. “Two men are dead, Deva. We don’t know for sure what happened. Arson hasn’t been ruled out yet. And if it’s arson, it’s also murder.”
     
    Chapter Three
The next day, with the help of three aspirin, I managed to bend over long enough to shrug into a pair of green silk capris and matching cropped top. The aches soon subsided, but my bruises were in full bloom, including the sensational one on my upper thigh. Worse, my left cheek was purple, a shade as close to aubergine as human flesh can get, and my left eye sported a Technicolor shiner.
    Figuring everybody in town had read or heard about the explosion, I didn’t bother concealing the damage with makeup. Just getting dressed and driving downtown tapped my tiny reserve of energy.
    In Fern