Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

He broke out into one of his big white Chiclets grins. “Now you’re talking.” He cocked an index finger and beckoned me down a short hallway with a closed door at the end.

“You first,” I said. No way would I walk ahead of him while he checked me out.

“No flies on your tail, Mrs. D.”

“Lovely expression,” I muttered and followed him down the hall. Telling myself not to be ridiculous, I squelched a sudden spurt of tension. I had surveyed men’s bedrooms before, many of them. And without another woman present. What made this different? Rossi’s attitude? Or Rossi himself?

He opened his bedroom door. Like the living room, it was textbook perfect. The king-sized bed could pass military inspection. Not a single object studded the sleek Art Deco dresser. The matching bedside tables each held a pottery lamp and nothing else. Nowhere did I see an alarm clock, a loving cup, a watch winder, or heaven forbid, a dirty sock flung into a corner. And not a single girlfriend’s picture.

“You live here?” I asked, deadpan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a neat freak, Rossi.”

“That’s good, right?” His brows collided. For the first time since I’d known him, I had him worried. It was such a good feeling, I increased the pressure.

“Do you ever sit on the bed?”

“After it’s made? No. Why?”

I didn’t answer. Let him stew. “May I see your closet?”

“Sure.” He opened a set of shutter doors and snapped on the closet light.

I walked in to a store’s worth of Hawaiian shirts. I recognized a couple-that pink one and the green one with the orange sunsets. Like a rainbow, he had them arranged according to the spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet.

“Rossi.” I turned around so fast, I bumped into him. As I moved back a step, the sleeve of a jacket brushed my arm. Navy blue. So he did have one. The cramped space, or maybe Rossi’s proximity, was making me claustrophobic. “I want to get out of the closet.”

“Yeah, you don’t belong in one.”

That grin again. He turned everything into-

“So what do you think?” he asked when we were back in the bedroom.

“California Closets could learn from you, Rossi, but as for the rest, may I be honest?”

“That’s what I prefer.”

“A house is not a crime scene. Fingerprints are okay. Ditto for used coffee cups and magazines. Even an empty pizza box isn’t a felony. It’s like you’ve got invisible yellow tape everywhere, cordoning everything off. Why don’t you let down the police barriers in your mind? Loosen things up? Get some pizzazz, some fun, some excitement in here.”

“Excitement I get on the job. Fun I don’t get from furniture.”

“Okay, I got carried away. Your home is commendably…ah…clean. Make that immaculate. But it lacks color and accessories.”

“Accessories?”

From his puzzled tone, I wondered if he’d ever heard the word.

“Yes, for starters, the big three. Plants. Pillows. Pictures.” I waved my arms around the room. “I like beige walls. I like beige furniture. I like beige rugs. I like beige coverlets. I like beige-”

He raised a hand, palm out. “Enough already. Barley’s Paints had a sale. I stocked up, that’s all. Then I matched everything. It was easier than figuring out what colors I should pick.”

I eyed his shirt. Turquoise today with yellow hibiscus blossoms. “You don’t have that trouble with your wardrobe.”

“I don’t look at what I’m wearing. You do.”

“Good point. So…to get back to why I’m here. What do you want from me?” Wrong question. I knew it the instant the words left my lips and ignited one of his grins. So why had I said them? Freudian slip? Maybe Rossi attracted me more than I let on-even to myself.

The claustrophobia rushed back. I hurried out of the bedroom and marched down the hall ahead of him. Let him check my butt if he wanted to.

In the living room, I sank onto the couch and glanced around. “You could use a little help out here as well. In fact, I suggest we start here, not in the bedroom.”

Damn. There was that grin again.

“Maybe I should just leave,” I said, picking up my handbag.

“No, no. Don’t go. I want to hear your ideas. I mean it.” He slid onto a beige lounger opposite the couch, leaning back like he intended to listen. Or judging from the look of his heavy eyes, fall asleep.

I put the handbag down and swallowed my pride once again. Right now, I couldn’t afford to walk away from any job that came my way. “I’ll take some measurements. Make some notes. If you have no objection, I’ll photograph your interiors. Then, I’ll submit a proposal and layer it to give you several options. We take it from there.”

“Sounds good.”

I was removing the tape measure from my bag when he said, “Will you wait up a minute with that, Mrs. D? There’s something I have to tell you first.”

No grin. No humor. No innuendo.

A band tightened around my chest.

He leaned forward, focused and intense, all signs of sleep deprivation gone. “The Alexanders’ insurance company wants the FBI involved.”

“Understandable, considering the value of the missing Monet.”

“Correct, if not exactly flattering to our local boys in brown.” He blew out a breath. “I hope you also find this understandable-you’ve been asked to have a polygraph test.”

My jaw went slack. “As in lie detector?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t kill Maria. I didn’t steal the painting, either.”

“I know that. You know that. Now the insurance company and the chief need to know. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We want to eliminate you as a possible suspect. Not incriminate you.”

“Oh really? How comforting. Are these tests foolproof?”

He glanced away from me to study a nonexistent spot on his wall. Body language doesn’t lie. The answer was no.

“I refuse.”

“Thwarting a police request isn’t smart. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He sounded so morally superior I wanted to fling the measuring tape at him. “Well, you’re not me. You’re not under suspicion, either.”

“How you feel is only natural, but-”

“Is that why you’re here today? Instead of Wilma? To tell me this?”

“Partly. I knew you’d be upset.”

“Now you’re a shrink as well as a detective.” I grabbed my bag and leaped to my feet.

He leaned back in his chair, maddeningly a man at ease in his own home. “You’re not alone.”

Halfway to the door, I turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone who knew the entry code is to be tested. For starters, you. The gardener. Jesus Cardoza. And the Alexanders.”

“The Alexanders? That’s ridiculous. They were in Europe at the time.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me but didn’t respond.

“Okay, not ridiculous, but farfetched.” I stomped back to the couch and sat on one of the arms, defying it to break off. “When?”

“What’s the matter with today?”

Rossi called ahead for an appointment. Then, insisting I was too nervous to get behind the wheel, he drove my Audi to the Florida Polygraph Services office on Airport Road. We made good time along the Tamiami Trail but with minimal small talk. I really was too nervous for that.

Bob Butterworth, the polygraph analyst, met us at the reception desk. He topped six-three, carried at least a hundred extra pounds, and was dressed in black from head to foot. His Darth Vader look didn’t make me feel any easier.

“I’ll be waiting outside, Mrs. D.” Rossi took out his cell phone as he headed for the front door. Before it swung closed behind him, I heard him say, “Yeah, I’ll be in as soon as we’re finished here.”