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

teddy and laid it on top of a pile of sweaters.
    “That going to Connie Rae’s mother?” I asked.
    She looked up. “Everything is. Stew’s orders.”
    “Maybe you should leave out the teddy.”
    Teresa shook her head. “No, that wouldn’t be honest. Her mother should know what her daughter was like.”
    “She was a sick girl who died at twenty-two. Her mother must be heartbroken.” I held out a hand. “Let me take care of it.”
    For a minute, I thought she’d refuse, but after hesitating for a moment, she reluctantly plucked the teddy off the pile and slapped it onto my palm. I slipped it into the portfolio and made a mental note to tell Stew I had it. Who knows, maybe he could make good use of it again sometime. Anyway, while Teresa continued packing, I took some measurements, then studied my color chips. I needed a shade that would tie in with the main rooms, be masculine enough to suit Stew yet soft enough to create a relaxing atmosphere. Engrossed in my work, I forgot about Teresa until she came out of the walk-in closet with an armload of shoes and dumped them on the bed. One fell off and rolled under the pink dust ruffle.
    “Oh, for heaven sake,” she muttered, bending over to grope under the ruffle. “Where did that darn thing go?”
    The groping didn’t help, so she dropped to her knees and peered under the bed. That was all it took, one look, and she let out a wild scream—the kind that peels paint off walls—and scuttled backward on all fours. A safe distance from the bed, she leaped to her feet and yelled, “Get out of here. Run for your life.” Little more than a red blur, she disappeared down the hall.
    Her cries must have reached the men outside. Startled, they stood frozen for an instant, then Stew dashed from the pool and sprinted for the great room door.
    Whatever was hidden under the bed hadn’t hurt Teresa, just scared her. As she ran screaming through the house, my curiosity became stronger than my fear—or my common sense—and, heart pounding, I got down on my hands and knees, raised the dust ruffle and peered under the bed.
    A pair of slanted eyes looked straight into mine, a jaw gaped wide and a long tongue flickered out.
    “Argggh!”
    I leaped up, faster than Teresa had, I swear, and raced over to the French doors. I flung them open and yelled at the top of my lungs, “Tony, get in here fast!”

Chapter Sixteen
    Tony dropped his trowel, and with Mike hot on his tail, he rushed to the French doors.
    “Under the bed,” I whispered.
    He didn’t need any further instructions. Something in my voice must have told him everything he had to know. He knelt beside the bed, tossed the ruffle out of his way and, peering underneath the mattress, he reached for the snake.
    Slowly, without hurry, he grasped the creature as I stood, horrified, next to the open door, ready to beat a retreat if need be.
    With one hand behind the python’s head and one on its body, he pulled. And pulled and pulled. A cold sweat trickled down my back.
Was there no end to the thing?
    Finally, grunting with effort, he said, “Mike, give us a hand here. Take his head.”
    Mike knelt and grabbed the snake’s front end. Flat on his belly now, Tony reached farther in and said, “Okay, I got him good.” Together, they dragged the python out to the center of the room where it writhed in their hands, ready to wrap itself around one of them and squeeze....
    “This your fifteen footer?” Mike asked. “The one that escaped?”
    Tony flashed him a warning glance to shut up. But impervious to hints, Mike glanced over at me, his hands full of snake, and said, “Isn’t this guy something? You don’t see one like this very often. His skin’s worth big bucks. You know how many pairs of shoes he’ll make?”
    Hurried footsteps pounded along the hall. A moment later Stew hovered in the doorway. “Had to calm the housekeeper down. She was half nuts. What’s going...?” He took one look at the python stretching