The Monet Murders

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Rossi lived in East Naples, in Countryside, a gated community with a security system that rivaled the Kremlin’s. When I finally got through the guard check at the entrance gate, I drove along a curvy street lined with mailboxes and well-groomed lawns. A single-story stucco like its neighbors, Rossi’s house had curb appeal-new-looking beige paint, Mexican tile roof, shrubs trimmed to within an inch of their lives, walks swept clean of even so much as a fallen leaf.

I sat in the Audi staring at the property for a while. Not bad. I resisted the thought that Rossi had tidied it up just for me. Still, the possibility that he might have made me smile. Why, I had no idea. At least none I was willing to admit to. Now for the interior and a peek into Rossi’s psyche, if not into his underwear drawers.

I climbed out of the car, walked up the brick path to the front entrance and rang the bell-a no-nonsense buzzer. The door flew open.

“Lieutenant! You’re supposed to be at work.” I eyed him suspiciously. Had he lied to me about Wilma, his cleaning lady? Was this a trap? I sighed and walked in anyway, telling myself every man in the world didn’t find me irresistible. In fact, most didn’t, and Rossi was probably in that vast number.

“I worked all night,” he said. “Just came home to grab a shower.” He looked so heavy-eyed and fatigued I believed him.

“I can come back later. You have more important things to do than-”

“No, no. Life goes on even during police investigations. Come in. Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.” He waved me inside with a wide swipe of his right arm.

“If you’re sure. We can make it fast.”

“Not to hurry, Mrs. D. I have time.”

I walked through the small, bland foyer into a living room that was a virtual sea of light beige. Walls, furniture, rug, lamps. Straight ahead, open glass sliders led to a pool sparkling in the morning sunlight, its vivid aquamarine a jolt of visual relief. The only one. I glanced around. Not only was everything beige, everything was immaculate. Not a newspaper, a coffee cup, a discarded slipper or a wilted flower anywhere.

“Your cleaning lady just leave?” I asked.

“No, I told Wilma to skip this week.”

“It’s this clean after a whole week?”

“Two weeks.” He let his glance roam over me and changed the subject. “No dress today?”

“You don’t like slacks?”

“Yeah, I do. They’re a good tradeoff.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No legs, but-”

– ass. “Don’t go there, Rossi.”

“No.” He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw. “I was definitely out of line with that one. See what you do to me, Mrs. D?”

He did look distracted. He must have the murder on his mind. Not to mention the Monet. No doubt he needed to get back to work as soon as possible. I didn’t want to waste his time. “Where’s your bedroom?” I asked.

He broke out into one of his big white Chiclets grins. “Now you’re talking.” He cocked an index finger and beckoned me down a short hallway with a closed door at the end.

“You first,” I said. No way would I walk ahead of him while he checked me out.

“No flies on your tail, Mrs. D.”

“Lovely expression,” I muttered and followed him down the hall. Telling myself not to be ridiculous, I squelched a sudden spurt of tension. I had surveyed men’s bedrooms before, many of them. And without another woman present. What made this different? Rossi’s attitude? Or Rossi himself?

He opened his bedroom door. Like the living room, it was textbook perfect. The king-sized bed could pass military inspection. Not a single object studded the sleek Art Deco dresser. The matching bedside tables each held a pottery lamp and nothing else. Nowhere did I see an alarm clock, a loving cup, a watch winder, or heaven forbid, a dirty sock flung into a corner. And not a single girlfriend’s picture.

“You live here?” I asked, deadpan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a neat freak, Rossi.”

“That’s good, right?” His brows collided. For the first time since I’d known him, I had him worried. It was such a good feeling, I increased the pressure.

“Do you ever sit on the bed?”

“After it’s made? No. Why?”

I didn’t answer. Let him stew. “May I see your closet?”

“Sure.” He opened a set of shutter doors and snapped on the closet light.

I walked in to a store’s worth of Hawaiian shirts. I recognized a couple-that pink one and the green one with the orange sunsets. Like a rainbow, he had them arranged according to the spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet.

“Rossi.” I turned around so fast, I bumped into him. As I moved back a step, the sleeve of a jacket brushed my arm. Navy blue. So he did have one. The cramped space, or maybe Rossi’s proximity, was making me claustrophobic. “I want to get out of the closet.”

“Yeah, you don’t belong in one.”

That grin again. He turned everything into-

“So what do you think?” he asked when we were back in the bedroom.

“California Closets could learn from you, Rossi, but as for the rest, may I be honest?”

“That’s what I prefer.”

“A house is not a crime scene. Fingerprints are okay. Ditto for used coffee cups and magazines. Even an empty pizza box isn’t a felony. It’s like you’ve got invisible yellow tape everywhere, cordoning everything off. Why don’t you let down the police barriers in your mind? Loosen things up? Get some pizzazz, some fun, some excitement in here.”

“Excitement I get on the job. Fun I don’t get from furniture.”

“Okay, I got carried away. Your home is commendably…ah…clean. Make that immaculate. But it lacks color and accessories.”

“Accessories?”

From his puzzled tone, I wondered if he’d ever heard the word.

“Yes, for starters, the big three. Plants. Pillows. Pictures.” I waved my arms around the room. “I like beige walls. I like beige furniture. I like beige rugs. I like beige coverlets. I like beige-”

He raised a hand, palm out. “Enough already. Barley’s Paints had a sale. I stocked up, that’s all. Then I matched everything. It was easier than figuring out what colors I should pick.”

I eyed his shirt. Turquoise today with yellow hibiscus blossoms. “You don’t have that trouble with your wardrobe.”

“I don’t look at what I’m wearing. You do.”

“Good point. So…to get back to why I’m here. What do you want from me?” Wrong question. I knew it the instant the words left my lips and ignited one of his grins. So why had I said them? Freudian slip? Maybe Rossi attracted me more than I let on-even to myself.

The claustrophobia rushed back. I hurried out of the bedroom and marched down the hall ahead of him. Let him check my butt if he wanted to.

In the living room, I sank onto the couch and glanced around. “You could use a little help out here as well. In fact, I suggest we start here, not in the bedroom.”

Damn. There was that grin again.

“Maybe I should just leave,” I said, picking up my handbag.

“No, no. Don’t go. I want to hear your ideas. I mean it.” He slid onto a beige lounger opposite the couch, leaning back like he intended to listen. Or judging from the look of his heavy eyes, fall asleep.

I put the handbag down and swallowed my pride once again. Right now, I couldn’t afford to walk away from any job that came my way. “I’ll take some measurements. Make some notes. If you have no objection, I’ll photograph your interiors. Then, I’ll submit a proposal and layer it to give you several options. We take it from