There could only be one answer. For what they had seen. For what they knew. But what had they seen? What did they know?
My hands trembled. I couldn’t control them and clenched them together in my lap. It didn’t help. The cell phone suspended from Batano’s hip holster shrilled, and I flinched. He answered the caller with a series of yes and no then stashed the phone back in its holster. “The lieutenant’s on his way,” he said.
The lieutenant. I prayed he meant Rossi.
“High time.” Trevor upped his chin at his wife. “Make some coffee, Ilona.”
“Me?” Ilona pointed a French-manicured fingertip at her chest. “I no make coffee. You want coffee, darling, you make.”
“I don’t know where the hell the pot is.”
Ilona shrugged. “Nobody does,” she said. “Not now.”
Trevor grunted, a sound so deep he must have dredged it up from his belly. “As soon as Homicide gets here, they’ll question the ass off us, and I’ve been up all night. I need some goddamn coffee. Find the pot. Make yourself useful.”
Stiff-backed, Ilona began a fruitless rattling of the cypress wood drawers and cupboards. Pen poised above the clipboard, Batano looked over at Trevor. “While we wait, I’ll take some information. Your full name, sir.”
“I thought I told you that already,” Trevor said.
“Ah, I find!” Ilona announced. Triumphant, she held up a gleaming stainless steel Cuisinart Coffeemaker. “It has another piece.” She put the pot on the counter and lifted out the heating element. “There. That is all of it.”
“Well?” Trevor asked.
“Well what, darling?” Ilona gazed at him, a puzzled expression on her lovely face. She was dumb as a fox, but Trevor bought it.
“Jeez, you really don’t know, do you? Give me a minute here, officer.”
Trevor elbowed Ilona out of the way, marched over to the Sub-Zero refrigerator and yanked it open. He removed a bag of Starbucks Medium Blend, plunked it on the shelf and untwisted the tie.
“Shit. Whole beans. Where’s the grinder, Ilona?”
“I want to leave,” she said to Batano. “To sit in living room.”
“We’ll wait here until Homicide arrives. Have a seat, Mrs. Alexander.” He gestured to a stool.
As Batano questioned Trevor, Ilona glided to the stool beside me, sat and crossed her legs. Not an ounce of her admirable derriere oozed over the seat cushion. I gave myself a mental slap on the knuckles. As if, at a time like this, the shape of her ass was important. Trained to notice details…like the tacks in Jesus’s dead hand…I couldn’t turn off the habit when it didn’t matter. An occupational hazard.
Maybe doing something helpful would calm my nerves. “I’ll make coffee, Trevor. I remember seeing where Maria kept the grinder.”
He shot me a look-half gratitude, half exasperation.
My knees wobbled when I stood, but they held, and while Batano jotted down the Alexanders’ answers to his questions, I went through the motions-grinding the beans, measuring the water, turning on the coffeemaker.
With every move, I was conscious I had stepped into Maria’s shoes, carrying out the wishes of a demanding man. And when I found the mugs and silverware and arranged them on the island with sugar and cream, and, finally, poured Trevor his coffee, I became Jesus in that moment…silently serving…I only hoped to God I wouldn’t end up sharing his fate. Or Maria’s.
Voices from the garage broke into the kitchen’s moody atmosphere. “Stay here everybody,” Batano said. “I’ll be right back.” He left for the garage, leaving the kitchen door open. The smell of death wafted in, competing with the Medium Blend. Or was it my imagination? The Alexanders said nothing about it, appeared not to notice.
I went back to the stool, wrapping my legs around it so I wouldn’t fall off, and took shallow breaths. Ilona sat sipping coffee, examining her perfect manicure, still refusing to make eye contact. Why couldn’t she bear to look at me? Did she think I was the killer? And would everybody else in town think the same? Even Rossi? I’d know in a minute. His gravelly voice poured in through the open door. And then he was there in the kitchen, a cell phone pressed to an ear, issuing orders that sounded all too familiar.
“Yeah, the forensic team, ASAP, and notify the ME. You got the address? I’ll be here for a while.”
He ended the call and strode into the center of the kitchen as if he, not Trevor, owned it. But my heart, which had leaped up at the sound of his voice, sank to my wobbly knees. Like Ilona, he didn’t make eye contact with me, merely inclined his head. I was a stranger, a witness to murder, nothing more. My disappointment told me I had expected something other than an official interrogation from him-something warmer and more personal. Far more personal. I forced down my dismay to concentrate on what he was saying.
“Mr. and Mrs. Alexander. Mrs. Dunne. We meet again under unfortunate circumstances.” With his thumb and forefinger, Rossi reached into the pocket of his shirt-yellow plumeria blossoms on a navy background today-and extracted a notepad and pencil stub. “We’ll start at the beginning.” He spread his legs wide in what I had come to recognize as his note-taking stance. “Who found the victim?”
“I did,” I answered, my voice breaking like a brittle twig. I’d used those same words before and for the exact same reason. The trembling returned, sweeping through my body, shaking me like a palm frond in the wind.
“Grab her,” Rossi shouted to Trevor who stood beside me. Startled, Trevor dropped his mug so fast the Medium Blend sloshed onto the island’s marble top. His arm shot out and held me in place.
Hazily, through a fog of emotion, I saw Rossi rush to the garage door. “Hughes,” he called. A hand on her holster, she hurried to the kitchen. “Accompany Mrs. Dunne into the living room and stay with her. She needs to lie down.”
“But I also wish-” Ilona protested.
“We’ll begin questioning with you, Mrs. Alexander,” Rossi said, his eyes swiveling away from me to Ilona. “Describe what you saw when you first arrived home.”
“But-”
That was all I heard as I left the room with Officer Hughes’s surprisingly hard-muscled arm wrapped around my waist.
* * *
Like an artist’s model-but fully clothed-I lay on Ilona’s yellow brocade sofa. Rossi had pulled up a delicate French bergère and sat facing me. The interrogation had gone on for quite a while. I had related everything I could recall about what I’d found in the garage and what I had seen and heard in Trevor’s study.
“Will this take much longer, Lieutenant?” I finally asked. “I’ve told you all I know.”
His voice noncommittal, his attitude still all cop, he said, “One last question, Mrs. D. How much time would you say elapsed between when you saw the body and when the Alexanders came in?”
“Several seconds. A minute at the most.”
“Anything else you want to add to your story? Any detail, however small, that you can recall?”
“Nothing.” My skirt had slid up my thighs. I smoothed it down with a damp palm. “May I remind you, Lieutenant, that noting details is part of my business.”
Rossi nodded, flicked a glance at my legs and put his notepad back in his shirt pocket. Ditto for the pencil stub. “That’s it, then, Mrs. D.”
I sat up straight. “There is one more thing.”
Instantly alert, he said, “Yes?”
“I didn’t do it.”
He exhaled as if he’d just heard stale news. “I have no reason not to believe you, Mrs. D. But you do have an uncanny knack-”
“-for being in the wrong place at the wrong time.”
“Exactly.”
He stood, moved the bergère back to its original position on the pastel Hebriz, his face as impassive and noncommittal as stone. I swung my legs over the side of the sofa and got to my feet. The room tilted for an instant then righted. I slipped into my Jimmy’s, tugged my white silk skirt into position and settled the taupe sweater over my hips. Rossi did his be
st not to let on that he noticed, but as I said, details are my stock in trade. I saw how his hooded eyes followed my every move. I suppressed a smile. So he wasn’t all cop, after all.
We were alone in the Alexanders’ living room, the house eerily quiet, just as it had been earlier when I coded my way in.
“Where is everyone?” I asked.
“Forensics is in the garage. The Alexanders have gone to bed.”
Was that a smile lifting his lips? It looked like one, but with Rossi, it was hard to tell.
“If you’ve recovered from your shock, I’ll have Officer Hughes drive you home,” he said.
Something in his tone irritated me. Okay, seeing Jesus lying in a pool of dried blood had unnerved me. I’ll admit that. Still, I wasn’t some damned basket case who needed to be hand-driven to her front door.
“I’m perfectly capable of driving myself, Lieutenant. Don’t worry about providing me with an escort service. Worry about solving the crime.”
At my sarcasm, Rossi’s dark eyes took on a glitter that I couldn’t read. But I’ve never been good at body language. Paint, furniture and fabric is what I really understand.
I glanced around the room. For the life of me, I couldn’t remember where I’d left my bag. “All I need are my keys.”
“I think you need more than that, Mrs. D. Come on. Come.” He waggled his hand, beckoning me. Though he was no Pied Piper, I followed him out of the living room into the kitchen anyway. My bag awaited me on the marble-topped island. One of the cops must have put it there.
“Give me your keys,” Rossi said. I was about to refuse when he beat me to it. “I insist.”
I could have fought him but didn’t. It would take too much energy. Energy I didn’t have at the moment. “Here.”
I dropped them into his outstretched palm. For an instant only, my fingers brushed his skin. He didn’t try to take my hand or hold it but turned away with a curt, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”
Telling myself his coldness didn’t matter, I slumped on a kitchen stool until he returned with Officer Hughes in tow.
“Officer Hughes will drive you home,” Rossi said.
“First I need to empty my trunk.”
“Not a problem. We’ll exit through the front door.” The events of the past few months had taught me quite a bit about police procedure. I knew the garage was out of bounds.
Squad cars, a hearse and the forensics rolling lab-a retro-fitted panel truck that I remembered seeing a month ago-thronged the driveway, boxing in my car.
“Have Batano help you clear out her trunk, then drive across the lawn,” Rossi told Officer Hughes. “I don’t want the guys inside disturbed.”
“Yes, sir.”
After carrying out Rossi’s orders, Hughes slid behind the wheel of the Audi, and I got in on the passenger side. At the entrance to the property, Batano stood guard, waving curiosity seekers away, keeping chaos at a distance.
“You have the address?” Rossi asked Hughes, as if I weren’t sitting there perfectly capable of giving her directions myself. The nerve of him.
“Surfside Club on Gulf Shore.”
“That’s it.” He turned to Batano. “Hughes will need a ride back.”
Batano gave Rossi a noncommittal nod and, striding out to the middle of Gordon Drive, held up traffic long enough for Officer Hughes to gun the Audi across the grass and pull out onto the road. I wondered if the tires left tracks in the pristine lawn, but dismissed the thought as soon as it flared up. What difference did it make?
“Buckle up, Mrs. Dunne,” Officer Hughes said and then drove silently all the way to Surfside. I laid my head back on the tan leather cushions, happy, actually, not to have to fight the traffic. At the height of the tourist season, the Naples roads were as congested as clogged arteries.
At Surfside, she parked in my assigned parking slot in the carport, and we both piled out of the car. Officer Hughes snapped the locks and handed me my keys. So she planned to walk me to my door. Fine. Police procedure? I shrugged and trudged across the parking lot, tired and depressed. Today Rossi and I had been total strangers. Though he said he believed my story, the easy camaraderie we shared the night he brought pizza and grocery store flowers had completely disappeared.
At my door, I inserted the key in the lock and extended a hand. “Thanks for the lift, officer.”
Instead of taking my hand, Officer Hughes reached into her hip holster and removed her service pistol. “Open up and step aside, please.”
“You’ve got to be kidding.” I pointed to the gun. “What’s that all about?”
“Lieutenant’s orders. I’m to make sure your house is secure. Wait outside here till I return.”
Egads . I leaned against the stucco wall and stood in the fading sun. It didn’t take long before Officer Hughes was back, tucking her gun into its holster.
“You check under the bed?” I asked.
No smile. “Your house is secure, Mrs. Dunne. Have a good evening.”
She strode off to the waiting squad car. “Hey,” I called after her, “thanks for checking.”
If she heard me, she didn’t turn around to wave. Resigned, I just shrugged. I’d struck out all day long. But Jesus, Jesus had struck out big time.
Chapter Nineteen
The short winter day had lowered into dusk. I kicked off my heels and peeled out of my sweater and skirt, replacing them with a Florida uniform-white T-shirt and denim cutoffs.
Too demoralized to eat or drink a thing, too world weary to even snap on the evening news, I flopped on one of the club chairs and stared at the living room wall. As the gloom gathered around me, I gave myself a halfhearted pep talk.
So what if Rossi had treated me like a piece of wood all day? A consummate professional, he had concentrated on his job, and, without question, that was the right thing to do. I was annoyed with myself for letting his clinical attitude bother me. What I needed to do was suck up my disappointment and believe that once the case was solved, he would come after me like gang busters, no holds barred, and love the breath right out of my body. Easier said than done. The day’s trauma and the loneliness I’d been holding at bay for a year overwhelmed me, and I heaved out a sigh that echoed in the quiet room. I might have sat like that for hours, not moving a muscle if the doorbell hadn’t chimed.
Da da da DA.
Whoever it was could damn well go away. I wasn’t in the mood for drop-in company. I wasn’t in the mood for anything.
Da da da DA. Da da da DA.
“Open up. Police.”
Rossi. What did he want?
“Open up! Police.”
I gripped the chair arms. Maybe this wasn’t a social call at all. Maybe Rossi was here on official business. The man was a homicide detective. I had just found a murder victim.
My breath caught in my throat. Only one way to find out what he wanted. Slowly, as if my bones might be mush when put to the test, I got to my feet and dragged out to the foyer.
Da da da DA.
For some reason, he couldn’t wait for me to open up, and I tensed for a moment. Then my Irish flared. I was innocent, for Pete’s sake. Why act like I was approaching the gallows? Straightening my shoulders, I held my head high and flung the door open.
Ready to press the bell again, Rossi’s finger hovered in the air before he lowered his hand to his side. Some part of my mind registered that he looked harassed and irritable, not surprising in light of what he’d had to deal with today, but I was too irritable myself to cut him any slack.
“Why are you here, Lieutenant? It was my impression the interrogation was over,” I said, damned if I’d let him get past the foyer.
He waved his hand forward, impatiently nudging me back into the living room. To put a few inches between us, I retreated a step. That was all the edge he needed. Slamming the door behind him, he shot the bolt and strode past me into the living room.
Hands on hips, I followed him in. “I don’t remember inviting you. I have nothing more
to say to the police.”
“Well, I have a few things to say to you.” With a couple of strides, he covered the distance between us, pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. “It could have been you on that garage floor. The thought’s had me crazy all day. You could have walked in on the killer. Caught him in the act. Then what?”
Too stunned to protest, I nestled against Rossi’s chest, inhaling aftershave and a faint trace of something else. Male pheromones? Whatever it was, I liked it. I liked it a lot and didn’t even try to pull out of his embrace. This was what I’d been wanting him to do for a month. What I’d been longing for. My irritation melted like icicles in April.
“I could have lost you before we ever…”
This was all so unbelievable. A hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. I wanted to hear more. Had to hear more.
“So sorry,” he whispered into my hair.
“For what?”
“For what you found last month. For what you found today. For everything that makes you unhappy.”
I tried loosening his embrace so I could see his face, but as I tensed in his arms, he held me even tighter.
“Let me go, Rossi. I want to look at you.”
He relaxed his arms a bit. I drew back, still in the circle of his embrace, and glanced up at him. This was no joke. He was utterly serious.
“And I’m sorry for something else-for not being here to keep you safe all these weeks.”
“But, the chief-”
He lowered his mouth to mine and, unthinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I opened to him and slipped my tongue between his lips. He growled and seized me so close he sealed us together from thigh to hip to chest, his mouth hardening, pressing, his tongue teasing, his breathing labored and quick, as was mine. Why were we breathless? We hadn’t climbed any mountains, had we? No, not yet. But somewhere in my fevered brain, I knew the Matterhorn loomed ahead.
The Monet Murders Page 16