Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

He glanced down at himself and grinned. “You like it, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He was sporting another Hawaiian number today. Green palm trees swaying in orange sunsets. Many trees, many sunsets.

“Do you own a suit jacket?” I asked. “You know, a blazer? In navy blue?”

“Yeah,” he said, his expression guarded.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do you ever wear it?”

He shook his head. “I’m saving it for my wedding.”

“Your wedding? You have a girlfriend this time?” Six months ago, he had me convinced he was engaged. Maybe this time he really was. I tamped down what felt strangely like a stab of disappointment but I wasn’t fast enough. His detective’s eyes flashed over me and his lips curved into a knowing smile.

“No, there’s no girlfriend, but I let women think there is. Otherwise they’re all over me.”

I felt like slapping him. “That remains the most egotistical thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugged and grinned again. “You never know, my M.O. could change.”

A rugged, dark-haired forty-something, he had apparently evaded every trap known to womankind. Why let his guard down now? To hit on me? How did he know I wasn’t the thief? Or the murderer?

“Want to take a look at my bedroom?” he asked, blowing my silent question out of the water.

Arms akimbo, shrew style, I said, “Rossi, you have the gall of ten men and the finesse of none. For five cents, I’d throw you out of here.”

Smiling, smirking actually, he waggled a finger under my nose. “Your imagination’s jumping ahead of the facts, Mrs. D.”

“Don’t give me that forensic mumbo-jumbo. I just heard you say-”

“You don’t decorate bedrooms?”

“Oh.” My face went from flushed to hot. I deserved his smirk. “I apologize. I’m not myself today.”

“I figured this would be a bad day for you.” He cleared his throat. “Wilma, that’s my cleaning lady, she’ll be at my place Friday morning. If you want to take a look, she’ll let you in.”

“I found a dead body yesterday. How do you know I’m not the killer?”

“Years of training, Mrs. D. Plus gut instinct.” That grin again. “Besides, you were out cold. No smoking gun in your hand, either.”

“My father was a Boston cop. He taught me something about police procedure. Aren’t you supposed to avoid personal contact with witnesses?”

He nodded. “What I’m suggesting isn’t personal. It’s business.”

“Oh? True.” For some reason I felt deflated.

Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “You want the job or not?”

Not only did I want it, I needed it. Swallowing my pride, I nodded. “What’s your favorite color?”

He shrugged. “I like ’em all.”

“I’ll take a look. Thank you.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and removed his notepad and pencil stub. Apparently, he didn’t go anywhere without them. After scribbling for a few seconds, he ripped off a sheet and handed it to me. “My address and phone number.”

I glanced at what he had written. This was his private number. Not the one at police headquarters.

I tapped the paper with a fingernail. “Privileged stuff here, Rossi. You can be reached day or night. Correct?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving myself wide open, Mrs. D. Remember, I’ve got a murder to solve. Don’t be calling me at all hours looking for a hot date.”

“Rossi, I-”

His expression sobered. “And don’t take any chances. Call 911 at the slightest suspicion of trouble.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

He shook his head. “I doubt the murderer has you in his sights, but it’s best to be careful. Gotta go. Don’t forget to come in and sign your witness statement.” His face relaxed into a smile. “When this is over, maybe we can try cruisin’ for burgers.”

“Is that an invitation or an order?”

“I never give orders to beautiful women.”

I stared at him tongue-tied. He winked and exited the shop, leaving me alone with the jangling sleigh bells. And my guilt. Somehow, Rossi had managed to press my buttons, and on this day of all days.

Not only that, he could be jeopardizing his job by hiring me. Why? A clever ploy to keep me close, to get to know me better, to see if I could be a killer and a thief? Or all of the above? Bottom line, I couldn’t believe a tough guy like Rossi cared a hoot about interior design. No, he had another motive. Me, myself and I? Was the reason as simple as that?

The sleigh bells were still jangling. I strode over to the door and ripped them off the knob. This Christmas season sure was murder.

At five, I closed the shop and drove to the NPD station where I signed my witness statement for a young female officer. Lieutenant Rossi was nowhere in sight, nor did I ask for him. Afterward, figuring that though the sleigh bells and the tree hadn’t lifted my mood, maybe a glass of wine would, I drove back to Fifth Avenue and dropped in at the Irish Pub.

I sat at one of the little metal tables on the terrace overlooking Sugden Square and soaked up the cool evening breeze. As their children scampered about, tourists in shorts and T-shirts leisurely strolled the open square. Tiny white lights encircled the palm trees, adding a note of festivity to the scene. In this peaceful place, it was hard to believe that only a few blocks away a world-class masterpiece had been snatched into oblivion and a woman shot to death.

A slim blonde server approached, pad and pen in hand. “Evening, ma’am. What would y’all like?” she asked in a lilting southern drawl.

I’d heard that soft southern drawl before and glanced up from the menu. “Lee Skimp, is that you?”

“Y’all know me?” A hand flew to her mouth. “The decorating lady.”

“I’ve been called worse things,” I said, laughing. “How are you?” A sweet girl, Lee had been instrumental in finding Treasure’s killer, and for that I’d be eternally grateful to her.

“I’m just fine,” she said, adding shyly, “I looked in your shop window the other day. It sure is pretty.”

While she spoke, she kept glancing over one shoulder then the other as if searching for someone.

“Is anything the matter, Lee?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t be telling a customer, but since you asked…it’s my daddy. I moved out a month ago and heard tell he’s been looking for me. If he finds me here, I don’t know what all will happen.”

“Anyone of legal age has the right to strike out on her own.”

“I’ll be twenty-one and a half come Friday.”

Of course. To serve liquor she’d have to be, though truth to tell, she hardly looked that old. More like a lovely waif with her long, shiny hair and big Loretta Lynn eyes.

“Then your father can’t force you back home against your will.”

“You haven’t met my daddy.” She attempted a smile. “You’re not here to listen to me yammer on. What all can I get you, Ms. Dunne?”

“Please call me Deva. And a glass of house chardonnay would be lovely.” I was on a budget. My palate would understand.

“Coming right up.”

As Lee hurried off to fill my order, I scanned the menu. I’d have a burger, the pub specialty, affordable and filling.

Maybe the man’s hurried gait was what caught my eye. And his wintry clothes. Amid the scantily clad tourists, his blue jeans, cowboy boots and flannel shirt were as exotic as a bikini on an Eskimo. He trotted around Sugden Square, darting with a jerky step between clusters of sightseers. A nervous squirrel on a hunt for nuts, he looked vaguely familiar somehow. Strange.

Lee came back with the wine and took my order.

“A burger, well done, no onions.”