The Design Is Murder (Murders By Design) by Jean Harrington

the rest of it. You’re talking in decorator speak.”
    “Design speak.”
    Stew shrugged. “What’s the dif?”
    I sighed. “They’re mostly the same.” Something I’d never conceded before, but we had a lot to discuss, and you have to pick your battles. A semantic skirmish with Stew was the last thing I wanted.
    “What I see emerging is a desert palette,” I went on. “A warm Arizona sand tone on the walls.” I pointed to a paint swatch on the color board. “Distressed beams overhead. As for furniture, unstructured butter-soft couches and chairs in leather.” I handed him several leather samples to finger for texture. “These are colors that would work.”
Now for a little more sugar.
“We’ll make the seating large enough so a big guy like you will be comfortable.”
    “Yeah, I like that idea,” Stew said, nodding.
    I sent him a smile. “I was hoping you would. Some hand-loomed textiles for visual warmth and a few area rugs to soften things underfoot.” I gave him several catalog photographs to look over. “I’ve marked the pages with possibilities.”
    He’d listened intently so far, but no point in barraging him with detail on our first run-through. “That’s it for openers. If we nail the basics, we can move on from there to accessories. The room jewelry—lamps, pillows, artwork.”
    “Excellent. I like your plan. Only thing—you didn’t mention the bedroom. The master where Connie Rae...”
    I nodded. “Yes?”
    “I want you to start in there. Today if possible. Change everything. I mean everything. That includes getting rid of all her stuff. Once it’s boxed up, I’ll mail it to Arkansas. Otherwise Teresa and I can’t...otherwise, I’ll never get a good night’s sleep in there again.”
    “I’ll be happy to start in your bedroom, but most people like to begin with the public rooms.”
    “Yeah. Well, I’m not most people.” He gulped the rest of his coffee and stood. “I trust your ideas, so do what you want in the bedroom. Just make it look different. Get rid of the pink. Now if you ladies—” a slight nod to Teresa, “—will excuse me, I have to see what Tony’s up to.”
    Left alone with Teresa, I repacked the portfolio, picked it up and said, “Well, let’s have a look at the master suite, shall we?”
    She stopped her fake task at the sink, dried her hands and led me through the house to Stew’s bedroom. Unlike the day Connie Rae died, this time the draperies over the French doors were parted. In the bright afternoon light, the room was relentlessly pink, its focal point a king-sized bed in French provincial, all white curves and gold edging.
    With the insight of a rocket scientist, I said, “Stew didn’t choose that bed, did he?”
    Teresa chuckled. “No, it was in the house when he bought it. The rest of the things in here were also. Not the clothes, of course. Those were hers.”
    “Hers?” I asked just to make Teresa say the name.
    “That Connie Rae’s.”
    “Oh, I see.” I pointed to the cardboard boxes on top of the satin bedspread. “You’re packing up Connie Rae’s things?”
    “Yes, as I was asked to do,” Teresa replied with a prim sniff.
    As you were dying to do
.
    “Well, don’t let me hold you up,” I said, glancing around. “I really can’t make changes in here until it’s cleaned out. Do you think Mr. Hawkins would switch to another bedroom while the renovation’s going on?”
    She held up a skimpy black lace teddy that was more lurid holes than fabric. Three holes in particular. “Look at this. What decent woman would—”
    “Well, what do you think?”
    “It’s a disgrace, that’s what I think.”
    “I mean about Stew moving into another bedroom temporarily.” I glanced out the French doors. He was standing in the blazing sun, discussing tile repairs with Tony and Mike.
    “Oh not a problem. He’s already decided to sleep across the hall. I brought his clothes to a guest room this morning.” She folded the black lace