Well, I couldn’t force Nikhil to make the call, but I gave him one of my cards with Rossi’s number on it anyway, and drove over to Barley’s Paints to choose some wall color. A flat latex in lime green with the creative name of Citrus Frappé spoke to me. Barley’s master mixer diluted the shade to a pastel wash for the living room and intensified it for that all-important bedroom wall.
To zap up the bland ivory kitchen, I’d have Nikhil apply masking tape to the walls in vertical stripes then run a roller of Citrus Frappé over them. Let the paint dry, strip off the tape and
voila
—stripes, style, panache. And no more money spent.
In the equally bland bathroom, a soft apricot shade sponged on above the tiles would make Melanie’s skin glow every time she looked in the mirror. Yup, I was a red-haired cupid all right—for another woman’s love life.
I added paper buckets, stirrers, brushes, paint tray, roller with extra pads, and a giant sponge to my purchases, pocketed the receipt, and loaded everything in the Audi’s trunk for the trip back to Nikhil’s place.
But I didn’t go in. Not with Rossi’s dusty Mustang parked at the curb in front of the building. So Nikhil had placed the call after all, and whatever he knew about Norm, Rossi must have thought was worth hearing ASAP.
I sat, staring at his car for a moment, wondering if he missed me, if he had slept last night, if he’d had anything to eat. All questions I’d given up the right to ask. I finally drove away, forcing myself to remember I
had
listened to Nana,
had
gotten up off the couch,
had
gone to work, and wouldn’t give in to self-pity or longing. Not if it killed me.
Rolling along the quiet Saturday morning streets, I gripped the wheel of the Audi as if I were in the Indy 500 and headed toward the Old Naples shopping district. Francesco wanted Hudson River oils, so I hit the big three galleries—Harmon-Meek, Sheldon, and DeBruyne’s. No luck.
Not in Hudson River oils, though at DeBruyne’s a stunning, drop-dead abstract took my breath away, literally stopping me in my tracks. Jagged bolts of purple, tangerine and vivid mango—yes, mango—thundered across a huge canvas. Here and there, narrow shards of gold glimmered in the light, the power of the composition alone holding their glitter in check. The tension between the two forces was electrifying. And perfect for that mango dining room. It generated so much energy, Francesco’s guests would be eating the tablecloth.
I stood in front of the canvas, tapping my toe, wondering if Francesco would agree to include one avant-garde piece in his antiques heaven. Totally unexpected, it would be a knockout. A little sweep of excitement flitted through me for the first time all week. Yes, it was true, work did help alleviate misery. Maybe if I kept busy enough, the days would peel away in a blur of activity.
“I’m fighting a tight schedule,” I said to the store manager. “Can you deliver the painting this afternoon? And send an art installer to hang it?” They absolutely could and would and understood the sale was subject to the owner’s approval. As for the Hudson River oils, they would contact dealers around the country and get back to me.
On Third Street South, I dropped in at Tommy Bahama’s for coconut shrimp and salad. Fortified by the food and the sunshine and the salty breeze wafting in from the Gulf, I plowed on...determined to stay busy...determined not to think about Rossi.
Francesco needed carpets. At least two to start—one for the living room and one for the dining room. That meant a visit to Arabian Sights, a shop always piled high with luscious orientals.
Zayd, the proprietor, greeted me with a bow so low his hair nearly mopped the floor. “Delighted to see you again, my darling,” he purred. “How may I help you?”
“Lovely to see you too,” I purred back. “What is your largest Heriz?”
His eyes flared wide at that, and leading me to a hip-high stack of carpets, he snapped his fingers. As if he were Aladdin and they were genies popping out of a bottle, a pair of young men with in-your-face muscles rushed over and folded back rug after rug for my inspection. This time I lucked out and found exactly what I had in mind. A rare fifteen by twenty-two Kashmar for the center of the living room and a lovely faded nineteenth century Heriz for the dining room.
“Can you deliver these today?” I asked Zayd.
“For you, my darling, all things are possible.” He reached out, seized my hand and kissed it.
I resisted the urge to wipe the wet spot on my jeans and managed a smile. “You never did that before.”
“Never before, my darling, did you buy a thirty thousand dollar Kashmar.”
I waggled the forefinger on my wet hand. “Subject to the owner’s approval.”
He raised his open palms toward the ceiling and shrugged. “But of course. Though how can he refuse gems such as these?”
“We’ll see, Zayd, we’ll see. Now I have a favor to ask.”
His jolly demeanor disappeared as fast as chicken wings at a Super Bowl party. He uttered a wary, “Yes?”
“To enhance the beauty of these ah...gems, when your men deliver the rugs, could they move some furniture for me?”
“Certainly, my darling.” He tried to conceal his relief with a quick smile. “That is no favor. That is part of Zayd’s white gloves service.”
“Thank you.” I scribbled Francesco’s address on the back of one of my cards and gave it to him. “Can you be there in two hours?”
“But of course.” He made a grab for my hand, but I yanked it back in the nick of time. “For you—”
“—my darling, anything,” I finished with a laugh and, reaching out, I took
his
hand and gave it a good sturdy Boston shake. No kiss. No wet spot.
After leaving Arabian Sights, I swung by the Azalea Building. The Mustang had disappeared, so this time I parked and went in. Nikhil had the living room pretty well taped up and ready for painting, but he kept mum about whatever he and Rossi had discussed.
“With luck one coat should cover well,” I told him, as he helped carry the supplies into his apartment.
“Fine,” he agreed but a look at his glum face told me wall paint wasn’t what he had on his mind. His discussion with Rossi probably was.
Though I felt sorry for his distress, the police needed to know what was going on at Harkness Investments. The leap from embezzlement to murder wasn’t a farfetched stretch of the imagination by any means. Not that I was ready to heap a murder rap on Norm, but somebody in the house that night had killed Donny, and Rossi needed to know everything about everybody who had been there.
Leaving Nikhil to his painting, I drove to Rum Row and punched in the security code to Francesco’s house. Shortly afterward, Zayd’s truck arrived and within an hour both rugs were laid, their size and elegant fading exactly what I’d hoped for. That done, I directed the men into the garage and had them move the inlaid mahogany table into the dining room, flanking it on opposite walls with a matched pair of Hepplewhite sideboards.
I was concentrating so hard on making sure not a wall or a piece of furniture was marred that I jumped a little when a soft voice said, “Deva.”
I whirled around. “Jewels! How nice to see you. You too, sweetie,” I said, stroking little Frannie’s cheek with a single finger. Snug on Jewels’s hip, his baby powder and milk aroma was so seductive I could have dabbed it behind my ears. “You’re getting big, you know that?” I asked him. He rewarded me by showing off two pearly white teeth.
Jewels, slim as ever, kissed him over and over. Hard to believe she was nearly five months pregnant.
Time to change the subject. “Well, what do you think so far?” I asked, waving my arms around the rooms.
“No comment,” she said and laughed.
“No, seriously, tell me. Your opinion’s important.”
“I don’t have one,” she said, wrinkling her nose. “Not about this old stuff.”
“Oh. Right.” She wasn’t just being compliant, she really didn’t care.
She shifted the baby to her other hip. “But Frannie can’t wait to have everything finished. He promised the pastor at St. Anne’s that as soon as the police find Donny’s killer, he’d have a church fundraiser here.”
“Really? I didn’t know Francesco was religious. He’s never mentioned it, not that—”
“He doesn’t like to talk about it. He’s shy that way. But he goes to Mass every morning. Don’t tell him I told you. He wants everybody to think he’s so tough, but he’s really a softy. Like you,” she murmured into the baby’s ear.
“My lips are sealed.”
“He prays for Donny. I pray for him too, but mostly for Frannie.” She lowered her voice though we were alone. “Someone tried to kill my husband, Deva, and I won’t have a moment’s rest until they find him.”
“Or her.”
Jewels shook her head. “No woman would do that,” she said. “We create life. We don’t kill it.”
Francesco a churchgoer and Jewels a philosopher? I would never have guessed. My knowledge of people had to be seriously flawed.
“We tried to reach you this morning,” Jewels said. “But we kept getting your voice mail.”
“Sorry about that. My shop’s been closed all day. I should give you my cell number.” Though if I did, Francesco would probably call day and night...maybe Jewels wouldn’t take me up on my offer.
But she nodded. “He’d like that. We’re leaving for Providence tomorrow.” Her face clouded over. “For Donny’s funeral. Before we go, Frannie wants to ask you something.”
“What’s that?”
She couldn’t wave her arms, so she tossed her head from left to right. “You know how he loves all this old stuff. Well—”
“Who loves all this old stuff?” boomed from the doorway. Francesco.
“You do,” Jewels and I said in unison. Then we both laughed.
“You girls wanna have a chuckle on me, that’s okay.” In a cloud of macho musk, he strode around examining the rugs. “They look terrific. I won’t ask how much they set me back. Surprise me with the bill.”
“Ready for another surprise?” I asked. A discreetly lettered DeBryne panel truck had driven onto the driveway. Stan, DeBruyne’s art installer, and Larry, his helper, slid a heavily padded rectangle out of the truck’s back doors and carried it carefully into the dining room. They unwrapped it, and as the padding fell away, my heartbeat quickened, and a long “Ooooh!” escaped from Jewels.
She loved it. Not a good sign.
Francesco blew out a breath. “This is Hudson River? Where’s the trees? Where’s the grass? Where’s the water?”
“Try to keep an open mind,” I said. “Think of the excitement this piece generates.”
“Excitement I save for the bedroom.” He waved a hand at the painting. “You’re killing me with this.”
My turn to blow out a breath. While the installers shifted from one foot to another, waiting for the verdict, Francesco stepped up to the oil and peered at the signature. “What’s the guy’s name?”
“Diego Pina,” Stan replied. “He’s not well known. Yet. But I predict he will be.”
Francesco spun around. “You got a crystal ball?”
Alarmed, Stan backed away from Francesco’s hairy hands.
“We have it on approval,” I said, forcing my voice to remain calm. “We can send it back.”
“I like it, Frannie,” Jewels said.
“Is that right?” Francesco spat out the words. “What did I tell you? When it comes to the house, no comments.”
“What am I, dumb or something?” No longer the passive little flower of a month ago, Jewels turned on her heel and stalked off with the baby in her arms.
“She’s pissed,” Francesco said to everybody and nobody in particular. He upped his chin at me. “You think this Diego guy’s got the goods?”
“No guarantees. But the painting’s a stunner.”
He heaved a sigh, sending a waft of garlic across the room. “Okay, hang it up,” he said to Stan. “Let’s see what we got. The mother of my kids likes it. For this,” he said, eying me and stabbing a forefinger at the oil, “you owe me one.”
“What do you want, Francesco?”
“I want you should stay in the house while I’m burying Donny.”
“
What
?”
He threw his arms wide, shrugging at the same time. “You said it yourself. I love all this stuff...except
that
.” The abstract. “I can’t leave the place alone for a whole week.”
“A
week
?”
“Yeah. Somebody has to be here to make sure everything’s safe. And what about the contractors? Who’s gonna let them in? I don’t want delays. As it is, building the kitchen’s taking longer than the pyramids.”
“Custom work takes time.”
As if he were swatting flies, he waved a hand at my words. “I know. I know.”
“I’d like to accommodate you, but I have a business to run. I can’t just hole up in your house for a week.” What nerve. Who did this guy think he was?
“No, no, no. Not days. Nights. You already got the entry code. You turn on the security system and you’re okay. Mornings you let in the workers and then you leave.” He arched an eyebrow. “That detective boyfriend of yours? Have him stay too. Though on second thought, maybe that’s not such a hot idea. He needs to concentrate on the job. So far he hasn’t nailed anybody for killing Donny. That’s taking longer than the kitchen. He doesn’t even know who sent us that goddamn dump truck.”
