Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Read Free Page B

Alley, a quaint little byway three blocks from the La Cucina disaster, my shop Deva Dunne Interiors still stood whole and intact. At the sight I didn’t know whether to blubber like a baby or whoop with joy. Somewhere deep inside I must have been scared the shop might not be there.
    I walked past Off Shoots, the neighboring boutique, and as I gripped the handle of my Boston green door, an enormous sense of relief overwhelmed me. It was so intense my hands shook, and my heart rate skyrocketed.
    Post-traumatic stress syndrome, I told myself, but no need to let what happened destroy everything. Despite the explosion and the tragic deaths it caused, through some kind of weird, wonderful luck, Rossi and I had survived. I glanced around my little domain—the shop was fine too. I took a deep breath, stashed my bag behind the sales desk and snapped on the overheads.
    These morning moments when the shop sprang into life always pumped my adrenaline. Going into business had been one of the best decisions I ever made, and maybe, just maybe, after another year or two of solid sales, DDI would be an entrenched, successful enterprise. At least that was my goal.
    I strolled the shop, tidying the displays, adding a few crystal pieces to the shelves, filling the Sheffield tray with cookies from Fresh Market. The bunny-shaped treats were an homage to spring. Besides, they tasted delicious.
    I placed the tray on one of the four skirted display tables. To keep things looking seasonal, I changed the skirts every few months. Crimson and gold for Christmas. Apricot for Halloween. Blue and white stripes for summer. This month they were hyacinth for Easter and spring.
    As I fussed over the tables, it dawned on me that I was actually caressing everything, stroking each object, each piece of glass, each silk pillow, grateful that they hadn’t all gone up in a puff of smoke like Chip’s restaurant. Poor Chip. After work I’d stop by the hospital to see him.
    Hoping for the first time ever that business would be slow today, I settled down with a sigh by the front window at the bureau plat I used as a desk. About then a black stretch limo purred down the alley and stopped outside my door.
    A built guy with sofa-wide shoulders, in a gray chauffeur’s uniform, visor cap and all, sprang out of the driver’s seat. Snapping to attention like an aide-de-camp, he opened a rear door.
    I put down the cookie I was about to bite into and watched, mouth agape, as a short, swarthy man emerged from the bowels of the limo, followed by a tall, striking brunette, clearly half his age and at least a foot taller. I popped the bunny in my mouth and bit off his tail.
    The aide-de-camp lunged for the shop door and held it open. The man and the woman swept in.
    “Oh, cute,” she said, looking around. She had a little girl’s voice and a big girl’s assets.
    “Remember what I told you. No comments,” the man said. “I’ll do the talking.’”
    She swept her mahogany-colored hair over one shoulder and shrugged like she didn’t care. “Okay, sweetie.”
    He strode up to me and stuck out his hand. “Francesco Grandese.” He pointed to the girl. “This here’s my wife, Julieta. Jewels for short.”
    She waggled a finger, the diamond flash setting off a light show that bounced around the shop.
    I swallowed the bunny tail and put the rest of the cookie on one of my signature napkins, white paper monogrammed with DDI in Winthrop green.
    Holding a hand flat out, duchess style, I said, “I’m Deva Dunne. How may I help you?”
    Mr. Grandese seized my fingers in a sweaty palm and eyeballed my bruises. “You were in that explosion the other day.” He tipped his chin in the direction of the burned-out restaurant.
    “Unfortunately, yes.”
    His eyes narrowed as he studied me, checking out the damage. “I read about you in the papers. Otherwise I’d think your old man let you have it.”
    I squared my shoulders and stood erect, back military straight. At five six