Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

“It means just the suspicion of collusion can prejudice the outcome.”

“That’s English?”

He put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Except for police business, I won’t be contacting you until the case is resolved. No dinner. No house redo. No nothing.”

“But that’s all it’s been. Nothing.” I’d only told one lie all day, and this wasn’t it.

He slammed a fist against his chest. “That cuts, Mrs. D.”

“You know it’s true.”

“So far.” His mouth tried for a smile but failed. “I also know a detective has to be above reproach. Like Caesar’s wife. See how much you made me forget?” His expression sobered. “I’m sorry to put off the redecorating. But it’s not forever. Now let’s get going. I’ve got work to do.”

I drove back to Rossi’s house and dropped him off so he could pick up his car, a dusty, dinged Mustang.

“That’s quite a vehicle,” I said, “for Mr. Clean.”

“Part of the disguise, Mrs. D.” He climbed out of the Audi, taking the scent of his aftershave with him. I would have asked what it was but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d been aware of it for the whole damn drive. Before closing the door, he leaned across the front seat. “Not to worry. For my social life, I have different wheels.”

Does he think I’m a snob? For some reason, that bothered me. It bothered me a lot. “I only mentioned your car because it doesn’t fit your squeaky-clean image. Besides, Jack always had dirty cars. I’m used to them. There’s something very liberating about tossing a banana peel on the backseat and leaving it there.”

“To rot? ”

“Precisely.” The shocked look on Rossi’s face made my day. “Ciao, ciao, bambino.”

I waved goodbye and laid rubber, the screech of the tires on his quiet street music to my ears. Halfway down the road, I eased my foot off the gas pedal. Maybe Rossi had been right earlier. I did have a childish streak. To make up for my outburst, I drove back to the shop five miles under the limit. I was disappointed not to be able to tackle his bedroom right away. I sure could use the business, but I was surprised to realize how much I’d miss seeing Rossi. He was growing on me. Like moss. I laughed and checked my watch. Two-thirty. If all had gone according to plan, Lee would be at the shop now.

On Fifth Avenue, I spied an in-season rarity, a parking space. I nosed into it, holding up a parade of traffic as I pulled in, pulled out, pulled in, pulled out, until, finally yanking on the wheel for the last time, I nestled that baby in place. Triumphant, I waved thanks to the row of waiting cars, locked up and crossed the street to Fern Alley.

Off Shoots, the junior clothing shop next door where we’d found Lee’s new dress, buzzed with customers. Good for Irma and Emma, the hard-working twins who owned it. Their ad for holiday dresses in the Naples Daily had attracted a lot of interest. A green strapless gown in their display window caught my eye. It would be perfect for New Year’s Eve, but I wasn’t going…and then I saw him. Dreadlocks. The handsome young guy who promised not to drop his empties in my planters. Why was he hanging out in front of the shop? Sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk with a clipboard on his lap?

He was so intent on what he was doing he didn’t hear me approach until I came alongside him. When he spotted me, he looked up and gave me a dazzling smile.

“Hey, design lady!”

“What are you doing crouched in front of my shop window? You’ll scare people away.”

“I’m drawing. Have a look.”

With a sigh of irritation, I peered over his shoulder and gasped in amazement. I couldn’t believe my eyes. His drawing was masterful. He had captured her. Lee Skimp. Her very essence, not just her beauty, lived on that page.

I glanced from the clipboard into the shop window where Lee sat near the entrance at a desk-an antique bureau plat actually-looking stunning in her new black clothes, her hair a shimmering curtain to her shoulders.

“It’s beautiful,” I told him, looking back at the clipboard.

“Yes, she is,” he said, glancing from the page to the window…his glance lingering there…then back to the page.

“Listen,” I said, hands on hips, “I can understand your fascination, but for the second time I have to tell you I’m running a business here. And it’s not a dating service.”

“What?” He glared up at me as if I were the encroacher. “I’m not trying to make out. I’m an artist . I specialize in portraits.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, right.” He scrambled to his feet. “This drawing is a study for an oil painting.”

“How do you know she wants you to paint her?”

His annoyance fled, replaced by something else. Uncertainty? “I don’t,” he said.

I peered at his sketch again. The lad had a talent that leaped off the page. Lee looked alive in his rendering, her gentleness, her serenity, her strength uncannily revealed in a few bold lines.

I waved at Lee inside the shop. She returned my greeting with an uncertain little waggle of her fingers.

“Have you two met?” I asked Dreadlocks.

He shook his head.

“Would you like to?”

That smile again. “Is the pope a Catholic?”

“Okay, wise guy, come on.” I had my hand on the door knob before I thought to ask, “What’s your name?”

“Paulo St. James. It’s Jamaican.”

“I’m Deva Dunne. It’s Irish.”

Clipboard in hand, he followed me into the shop. When the Yarmouthport sleigh bells stopped their jangling, I said, “Mr. Paulo St. James, this is Miss Lee Skimp.”

I think they both heard me, but I couldn’t be sure. I wonder if the moment you fall in love you’re aware of anything except the beat of your heart banging against your ribs?

Lee recovered first and, still seated behind the desk, she held out her hand. Paulo wiped a palm on his jeans before reaching across the desk to her. When they touched, I half expected to see a lightning bolt shoot across the shop, but no, he took her fingers gently, bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

So French. Or so Jamaican. Whichever. I was impressed.

And Lee? Well, Lee damn near fainted.

“I declare,” she said. “I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”

“You should have,” Paulo said. What he left unsaid would fill a volume.

I cleared my throat. Startled that I was still there, they both looked at me, wide eyed.

“Mr. St. James wants to paint your portrait, Lee,” I said. “Are you willing?”

She looked at me as if I were crazed for asking. “That’s a mighty fine compliment.”

“Then it’s yes?” Paulo asked.

She nodded, her heart in her eyes.

“I’ve made a preliminary sketch,” he said, holding up his work for her to see. “To establish the composition. I’ll refine it tonight and be back tomorrow with an easel and canvas.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, staring at the sketch as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “But I’m not here except for Wednesdays and Fridays.”

His face fell. “Wednesday’s good. I won’t bother you. I’ll be outside.” He pointed to the alley then swiveled his attention to me, a stricken expression on his face. “As long as Mrs. Dunne doesn’t object.”

“No, that’s fine.” I said. “Actually, an artist with an easel might bring people down the alley. And that might be very good for business.”

He nodded, his smile wide enough to include both Lee and me. “I’ll paint you through the window, Lee, like today. Seen through its gleam, you’ll be mysterious, unattainable. Like in…what’s that passage?…’through a glass darkly.’”