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 bergere 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 bergere 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 best 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.”
