it.
“Gotcha!” I said, flipping him a grin.
To cover his confusion, I swear, he bent over and picked up a Deva Dunne Interiors shopping bag-glossy white stock with the logo and handles in deep Boston green. “A change of clothes,” he said, “for when you get sprung. Which should be later today, after the surgeon’s rounds.”
I could feel the grin melting off my face. “How did you get my clothes?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“You’ve been in my condo?”
His shrug sent hurricane winds whipping over Waikiki.
I blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s see what you brought.”
He placed the bag on the bed. With my good arm, I lifted out a lavender tank, a pair of hyacinth slacks, flat sandals and my makeup kit. I left the lacy bra and panties in the bag.
“Good choices?” he asked, back in control again. Despite his fatigue, his eyes sparkled.
“Have you been in my underwear drawers?”
“Let me put it this way, Mrs. D. I know you don’t wear cotton granny briefs. No padded bras either.”
“You checked. And I’ll bet you sniffed everything too. That’s disgusting. You know that, Rossi.”
He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Actually, I accompanied your assistant, Miss Skimp, to the condo. She made the selections while I waited in the living room.”
“You had a key?”
He sighed. “We can open any door in town. Remember that and keep your dead bolts on when you’re home.” He arched an eyebrow. “I know you don’t want any surprise visitors at midnight.”
If that was a question, I didn’t bother to answer it and glared at him instead.
“That’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’re feeling well enough, we need to talk seriously.”
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
This time, suppressing yet another grin-at least it looked suspiciously like one to me-he sat in the faux leather chair beside the bed. With the two fingers he always used for the job, he extracted a notebook and pencil stub from his shirt pocket and wasted no time getting down to business.
“Last night, you said you saw Merle Skimp in the alley right after the attack. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That alley’s pretty dark.”
“There was a flash of lightning. It was Merle, all right.”
“Did you see him throw the rock?”
“No. Right afterward. Then he disappeared.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d swear on a Bible.”
Rossi nodded and scribbled in the pad before looking up. “You realize it’s your word against his. The allegation will be tough to prove.”
“I understand, but what about-”
“Further vandalism?”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
Rossi cleared his throat and shifted on the leather chair. “We can’t rule that out, of course, but the probability is remote. Batano and I paid a call on Mr. Skimp last night. Batano scared the bejez-he warned Mr. Skimp we’d be watching him day and night from here on in. The police will increase patrols in the shop area also.” Rossi lowered his note pad. “That said, I want you to park your car on Fifth Avenue, not in the lot in back of the shop. And close up nights before dark. It’s doubtful Skimp would try anything in broad daylight. Above all, be careful. As I’ve told you before, call the minute you suspect something.”
I moved the injured arm back onto the mattress. “The lights were out. He must have thought the shop was empty.”
“A sneaky dude, all right, but you understand we can’t prosecute him. There’s no hard evidence he was the culprit.”
“I know. And for Lee’s sake I don’t want this to escalate. But there’s something else you need to know. I was about to call you at the station when Merle shattered the window.”
He gave me one of his skeptical here-she-goes-again looks. I ignored it and launched into what I’d learned about Morgan Jones and George Farragut, muffling my guilt as I did so. True, I was ratting on a client and his friend, but Maria’s silent form trumped my concern for them. I had to tell Rossi what I believed, however specious my theory might be. Either that or never sleep again.
He took notes with his scrap of a pencil before glancing up. “I’ll consider this a confidential lead. We’ll see where it takes us.” He pocketed the pad and pencil and stood, pushing the chair into a corner. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“So do I.”
“Not so fast.”
“What do you mean, not so fast? I have a business to run. One with a gaping hole in the window. God knows what’s happened to the inventory, and there were glass shards everywhere. I’ve got to get over there.”
If Rossi hadn’t been in the room, I’d have tossed the thin hospital blanket aside. But the short, blue-sprigged jonny hardly reached the top of my thighs.
Rossi paused in the doorway. “Not to worry. It’s all been taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
He walked back to the foot of the bed. “A disaster cleanup service came in last night. Got rid of the glass. Boarded the front window.” He glanced at his watch. “Lee Skimp should be over there now, letting in the glazier.”
“What glazier? What disaster cleanup service?”
“The ones I contacted.”
I sank back onto my pillow. “Were you up all night?”
“No,” he said. But standing there unshaven, in yesterday’s shirt, he sure looked like he’d just lied.
“When this case is over, Rossi…”
“Yeah?” he growled, his heavy eyes brightening.
“Mrs. Dunne,” a deep voice boomed from the open doorway, “I’m Dr. Lemoine.” A tanned man with the lean physique of a long-distance runner bounced into the room on the balls of his feet. “I operated on your arm last night.”
“Doctor, this is-” I began.
Rossi and the surgeon nodded at each other. “We met last night,” Rossi said. “And now I’m on my way. Before I leave, there’s one other thing, Mrs. D. When you’re released, your neighbors Chip and AudreyAnn will be here to take you home.”
He had my entire life arranged. Torn between gratitude and irritation, I watched him make a quick exit then concentrated on what Dr. Lemoine had to say: I should retain full use of my arm and have minimal to no scarring.
What irritation? Deep, heartfelt gratitude won out.
“You’re having Italian penicillin for lunch,” Chip announced on the way home.
“Which is?”
“Minestrone soup. My mother’s recipe. After you eat that, you’ll probably want a nap. When you wake up, it’s a filet mignon with Chanterelle mushrooms and roasted asparagus.” He glanced across the seat. “You need red meat for strength.”
I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d had beef for Christmas and a chunk of it still lingered in the fridge. “Chocolate tiramisu for dessert,” he added.
“I’ll go up a dress size, Chip.”
