The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) Read Online Free PDF Page A

responding.”
    Stew looked up. “Tell them to hurry.”
    The dispatcher must have heard him. “Someone will be there within three minutes,” she said.
    “Help’s on the way,” I said to Stew, but he wasn’t listening. Teresa had straddled Connie Rae and started CPR.
    “I’ll wait outside for the ambulance,” I said, and hurried from the bedroom, but not before Stew whispered to Teresa. “I’m dead meat after this. The cops’ll say I killed her.”
    Why would he think that?
Without waiting to ask, I dashed out to the front lawn. True to the dispatcher’s promise, in a minute or so, an ambulance roared along quiet Whiskey Lane. I flagged it down, thanked the dispatcher and hung up.
    “This way,” I said, leading the two paramedics into the master bedroom with its pink satin-topped bed and deep-piled shag rug. Teresa climbed off the bed, and together we helped Stew stumble out of the room.
    After spending several frantic minutes trying to revive Connie Rae, the medics pronounced her dead. As was standard procedure in a case of unexpected death, they remained on the premises and notified the police.
    While we waited, Teresa served Stew his coffee, which he raised to his lips with a shaking hand. “I can’t believe this,” he kept muttering. “I can’t believe it. Poor Connie Rae. Poor little rich girl.” At that he snorted and sent coffee spray spewing across his chest. Absent-mindedly, he wiped it off with a palm and sat staring, coffee forgotten, out to the pool where Tony, ignoring all the drama, was still on his hands and knees working the tiles.
    Car doors slammed, and Stew stiffened in his easy chair. “They’re here. Oh God.”
    Teresa hurried to the front door. A moment later two Naples Police Department officers strode into the great room. Some things never change, and once again big, beefy Sergeant Batano accompanied by his partner, petite, no-nonsense Officer Hughes were the first responders.
    They’d been first on the scene last fall when I found the body of my old friend, José Vega. But from their behavior today, you’d think they had never clamped eyes on me before now. A curt nod of Batano’s crew-cut head was his only greeting. And as for Hughes, no change there either. She was the same pretty poker face. I returned Batano’s stingy nod and let it go at that. For once I decided to keep quiet until I was asked to speak. Not exactly a new thing for me, but not easy either.
    After telling us to remain where we were, they followed the medics into the master suite. When they returned a few minutes later, Batano stood, legs apart, in front of Stew’s chair. It forced the bereaved husband—always a person of interest in a spouse’s unexpected death—to look up at him, deliberately creating an uneven playing field, so to speak.
    In between sips of his now lukewarm coffee, the pale, shaken bridegroom gave his initial testimony. “My wife’s name is...was...Connie Rae Freitas Hawkins.”
    “How old was she?”
    “Twenty-two.”
    “Her place of employment?”
    A brief, humorless laugh. “Bartender at the Port Royal Club. That’s how we met.”
    “How long were you married?”
    “Three weeks.” Stew’s voice broke. “Three great weeks.”
    “What do you think happened to her?”
    “I don’t know. I just found her like that.” As he spoke, his hand shook so badly that what was left of his coffee slopped over the rim of the cup.
    “Had she been sick?”
    Stew shook his head. “Not to my knowledge. You saw her body. She look sick to you?”
    As he answered Batano’s questions, irritation began to intensify Stew’s natural testiness, but though he didn’t know it yet, he had only begun to fight. Wait till Rossi interrogated him. It could go on for hours. Poor Stew. His grief seemed genuine, but then I’d been wrong about people before.
    “That’ll do it for now,” Batano finally said to him. He pointed out to the pool where Tony stood surveying his work. “Get him in