This isn’t like me!
Then she realized why staring at the light fixture so intrigued her. It had sparked something related in her mind. Something about the Night Prowler investigation. It was so strange, how the mind worked. She couldn’t quite get a grip on what was nibbling at the edges of her consciousness.
Something on the other side of the wall that the headboard was banging against crashed to the floor. Probably something in the closet that held the painting supplies Pearl seldom used or even looked at.
Decorators!
Yes, decorators!
Additional suspects. Stones unturned.
She lowered her legs. “Quinn!”
Startled, he straightened his arms and reared back, withdrawing from her. “Wha’s wrong…I hurt you?”
“Decorators, Quinn.”
“Huh?” He glanced around as if he’d been warned. His unruly hair was damp and mussed and a bead of perspiration dripped from his forehead onto her pillow. She heard it plop onto the taut linen. He drew in a deep breath and released it slowly, then peered down at her quizzically. “You did say decorators?”
She squirmed out from beneath him, which wasn’t difficult, the way they were both sweating. “Everyone who might have been given a key to enter the victims’ apartments in the times leading up to their deaths-supers, trusted neighbors, tradesmen like plumbers and electricians-have all been questioned by the police.”
“Including interior decorators.”
“Exactly. When people can afford a professional decorator, they often turn over the apartment to him and trust his judgment on everything.”
“Everything?”
“Yes. And they don’t want to be home while the work’s being done.”
“You know this?”
“Sure. Every woman knows this. Who wants to live with sawdust in their hair? And if the owner or tenant wants to give the decorator free rein, he usually gets a key to keep the entire time the job’s in progress.” Pearl was staring at Quinn, a bit surprised that he seemed dubious. “Something, no?”
“Something, maybe,” he said. “The murder apartments had been redecorated within the past few years-like a lot of apartments in Manhattan-and the decorators were given keys by their clients, like you said, but they’ve been cleared. They all had alibis that checked out.”
“But what about the tradesmen they hired? We talked to tradesmen hired by the building owners or supers, usually to make repairs. Interior decorators often subcontract out the painting, carpeting, whatever. They want things done right, so they like to use people they usually work with and can trust. Their people.”
Quinn sat up cross-legged on the bed. “I follow. Who might the decorators have given keys to without the clients even knowing about it?”
“Right. So, we might have more suspects. We talk to the decorators again and see if they gave apartment keys to any of the tradesmen they hired. If so, whoever they lent the keys to might have secretly had them duplicated.”
“So they could come and go as they pleased from then on,” Quinn said, “and learn all sorts of things about the occupants by looking through their desk and dresser drawers.”
“And searching their computer hard drives, especially if they figured out how to get online. Most people have their passwords written down someplace handy to the computer, in case they forget. Like they do with safe combinations.”
It made sense. Enough sense, anyway. Quinn stood up from the bed and used the heel of his hand to wipe perspiration from his eyes.
“Where you going?” Pearl asked.
“To take a shower. You and I are gonna get dressed and make some phone calls, set up appointments to talk to decorators.”
“You’re gonna leave me like this? Unfinished and unfulfilled?”
“You were the one thinking about work.”
She grinned. “This isn’t the NYPD way. This is ‘copus interruptus.’”
“Don’t worry, we’ll get back to it. Wanna take a shower with me?”
“You bet.”
She scooted down to the foot of the bed and stood up, wondering if they’d slip and fall and break something in the old claw-footed tub. “What do you think of that ceiling fixture?”
He glanced up. “Looks more like a glob of paint with a couple of dirty bulbs screwed into it.”
“So you’d replace it?”
“Yeah, definitely.”
“With what?”
“I dunno. Maybe I’d ask someone, or hire a…” He gave her a suspicious look, obviously wondering at what point she’d been thinking about light fixtures and decorators during the past half hour.
Pearl was afraid she might have hurt his feelings. Men were so vain when it came to that sort of thing. And she really, truly did not want to hurt Quinn.
If she had bruised his ego, she made it up to him under the shower.
52
Claire borrowed Maddy’s old Volvo and drove Jubal to LaGuardia for his flight to Chicago.
“Don’t think too much about me or the baby,” she told him as they walked toward the security area leading to the concourses. “Concentrate on the play.”
“That won’t be easy.” He was holding a black carry-on, which contained his laptop and a copy of the As Thy Love Thyself script. He sneaked a peek at his wristwatch, the way people do when they’re in a hurry.
“Good luck!” Claire said. Don’t go! Don’t leave!
Damn hormones!
He slung the carry-on’s thick strap over his shoulder and smiled at her, then kissed her, letting his lips linger. “Be careful driving home. Take the tunnel.”
“I always do. You be careful yourself. Love you.”
“Me, too.”
They kissed again, and then he was gone from her, striding toward the metal detector with the shortest line. He swerved to avoid a couple carrying an infant and trailing wheeled suitcases and a portable stroller laden with wadded blankets and a stuffed animal.
Us in less than a year.
Within a few minutes he was through security. He turned and waved to her, giving her another smile. Handsome actor. Colleague, lover, husband. She loved him so fiercely at that moment she was afraid she might break into sobs.
Goddamn hormones!
It’s worth it. It’s worth it.
The drive back to the apartment alone seemed to take forever. Then she spent another twenty minutes finding a parking space within two blocks of her building. Why Maddy even owned a car in Manhattan was beyond Claire.
To lend to needy friends-like me.
She wished she were thinking more clearly these days.
When she walked into the apartment, she immediately felt better. Balanced on the sofa back, where it would be clearly visible, was a large shrink-wrapped blueberry muffin from the nearby deli, the food that had become her vice during pregnancy. This one was particularly large, perhaps six inches across the top.
Jubal must have bought it earlier and stashed it, then sneaked it onto the sofa just before they left for LaGuardia. Yes, she’d walked out of the apartment first, and he’d followed with his luggage, then keyed the dead
