Killer Kitchens (Murders by Design) Read Online Free PDF Page A

soundness of my ideas? Right .
    “Francesco,” I said, “I’d love, love , to work on this house.”
    “I thought so.”
    So okay, he was a little lacking in the finesse department.
    “How soon can you get started?”
    Finesse wasn’t everything.
    “Tomorrow. I work with an excellent painting contractor. Once these walls are a base white—and that may take more than one coat—it will be easier to make other decisions.” I cleared my throat. “What we do, of course, depends on your budget. New bathrooms and a new kitchen will add considerably to the cost. And then there are furnishings and accessories.”
    “Money’s not a problem.”
    “No,” chirped Jewels, looking happy about it. Who could blame her?
    “I’ve already bought some stuff,” Francesco said.
    Uh - oh . “Stuff?”
    “Yeah. Everything’s in storage. I got pictures I can show you.”
    “Fine,” I lied. What on earth had he bought? Whatever it was, I’d probably have to work with it, or at worse, around it. My enthusiasm dimming a bit, I said, “I’ll have to let the painter in to measure the rooms and give me an estimate. In the meanwhile, I’ll draw up a layered proposal for what I believe needs to be done. For that, I—”
    “No layers,” Francesco said. “Give me the top estimate. Go for broke. Kitchen, baths, the works. I’ll break the costs down myself.”
    Before I could ask, he reached into his pocket and removed a key. “You’ll need this.”
    “As soon as I have the painter’s estimate, I’ll fax it to you.”
    Again, no need to ask, he reached into his jacket pocket, removed a business card with his thumb and a stubby forefinger and held it out to me.
    The third reach into a pocket produced a silver money clip, very plain, very Tiffany. He peeled off a thousand dollars in hundred dollar bills and gave them to me. “To get you started. Who travels with checks anymore?”
    “But you don’t know my hourly rate.”
    He flashed me a toothy grin. “Whatever it is, you’re worth it.”
    Men . Geesh . I thanked him and tucked the money in my purse.
    “Tell the painter guy not to waste any time. Call me when he’s done and have your proposal ready ASAP so I can see what you got in mind.” He snapped his fingers at Jewels. “Let’s go,” he said, heading for the door.
    She teetered after him, her high-pitched voice floating behind her. “Frannie, you’re letting her paint all the walls white? The house’ll look like a refrigerator.”
    “What did I tell you?” he said. “No comments.”
    I followed them out, locked up and drove back to Fern Alley. How I missed Lee St. James, my wonderful shop assistant. Six months ago, when she and her husband left for New York, I hadn’t had the heart to look for a replacement. Though I needed to and soon. Closing shop midday was poor policy, but I clung to the hope Lee would return to Naples after her husband finished his stint at the Art Students League.
    The painting contractor I gave all my business to, Tom Kruse—it sounded the same, but no, he wasn’t the Tom Cruise—answered on the first ring. “Good timing, Deva,” he said after I told him why I’d called. “I’m finishing up a job nearby, on Whiskey Lane. I’ll phone you tomorrow as soon as we’re through.”
    Good. I’d have something positive to tell Francesco. And maybe by tomorrow I’d feel up to staying in the Rum Road house long enough to do some in-depth planning for that top-of-the-line proposal he wanted.
    Now all I wanted was to sit still, not think, not move. I sat down at the bureau plat and lay my head on the top. I must have dozed off. When the antique Yarmouthport bells on the shop door jangled, I came to with a start.
    Jerking to attention, I sat up, pretending to be wide awake.
    “Hi, welcome,” I murmured sleepily.
    A slim young blonde in skin-tight jeans and a butterfly top hovered in the doorway. That hesitancy was familiar. Some people weren’t comfortable around interior