room.
five
“N ICE PLACE,” HE TOLD her, looking around.
It was a nice place. The living area/studio was quite large, twenty by forty, with a small kitchen and island backing the far end and the balcony with the French doors to the left of the entry. Near the kitchenette area, she had her easel and oils set up beneath the skylight that was beginning to spill the brighter hues of the day into the room. She’d managed to keep the feeling of spaciousness and yet add warmth, toward the French doors she had her sofa grouping—French Provincial in keeping with the aura of the city—with a modern entertainment unit set into a handsome antique wardrobe casing. There were two bedrooms opening up from the living room on the far side of the door, one for her, and one for Katie when she was home. But Katie wasn’t home; thankfully, she was off on a college trek into the Amazon. A pre-med student, Katie was studying a genetic disease that was inherited by a particular tribe in the rain forest.
Katie, Ann thought with another stab of pain. If not just for herself and Jon, she had to prove him innocent for their daughter’s sake. Katie adored her father.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked.
“I’d rather like a cup of that coffee you were drinking,” he told her.
She pursed her lips together and walked to the kitchen area, digging the wine from the refrigerator and reaching into a pine cupboard for a wineglass. She hadn’t realized that he was right behind her until he reached past her.
For a water tumbler. He took the wine from her and poured it into his glass. “When in Rome...,” he murmured. “Cheers!”
He swallowed her blush chablis down as if it were water.
“Are you supposed to be drinking on duty?” she demanded.
“I’m not on duty.”
“So what are you doing—looking in my house for the murder weapon on your off hours?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. He poured more wine, then walked out past the small island counter, pausing by her easel. He didn’t ask permission, but cast back the sheet she’d had covering her most recent work. He let out a long whistle like an exhalation, studying the painting. She was nearly finished with it. It was a study of an old Cajun woman she bought flowers from down at Jackson Square each morning. The woman smiled; her warmth seemed to light her eyes. Her face was so weathered it was difficult to discern her racial makeup, but then, she might not have known her own racial makeup anyway, such was the wonder of New Orleans. She was aging, she was worn, she was beautiful within her soul. It was a good painting, Ann thought. One of her best. Nearly finished except for the background.
“I thought Jon Marcel had been working on Red Light Ladies ,” he said.
“He had.”
“Then—”
She ripped the sheet from his hands, recovering her painting. “This is mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
He might have said something then. A compliment might have been in order. But he didn’t offer one.
“Ah,” he said, sipping his wine more slowly now as he moved about the room. He shook his head.
“Spacious, nice, but feminine,” he said.
“Gee, I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry to me, but doesn’t Jon mind?”
“The room isn’t exactly filled with frills, and no, Jon doesn’t mind. Why should he?”
He shrugged. “It’s just that it’s...very much your room,” he said. “It even smells like your perfume.”
“It’s probably soap, since I just stepped from the shower. You could use some, you know.”
He arched a brow to her. “Maybe I am acquiring something of an unwashed, manly smell.”
“Maybe you simply need a shower.”
“Is that another invitation?”
“Yes, I’m inviting you to go home, Lieutenant, drink in your house, and bathe for your own well-being.”
He smiled again, looking around the room. He walked toward the sofa.
“Thinking of lifting the cushions to look for the knife?”
“Should I?”
“Knock yourself
five
“N ICE PLACE,” HE TOLD her, looking around.
It was a nice place. The living area/studio was quite large, twenty by forty, with a small kitchen and island backing the far end and the balcony with the French doors to the left of the entry. Near the kitchenette area, she had her easel and oils set up beneath the skylight that was beginning to spill the brighter hues of the day into the room. She’d managed to keep the feeling of spaciousness and yet add warmth, toward the French doors she had her sofa grouping—French Provincial in keeping with the aura of the city—with a modern entertainment unit set into a handsome antique wardrobe casing. There were two bedrooms opening up from the living room on the far side of the door, one for her, and one for Katie when she was home. But Katie wasn’t home; thankfully, she was off on a college trek into the Amazon. A pre-med student, Katie was studying a genetic disease that was inherited by a particular tribe in the rain forest.
Katie, Ann thought with another stab of pain. If not just for herself and Jon, she had to prove him innocent for their daughter’s sake. Katie adored her father.
“Would you like coffee?” she asked.
“I’d rather like a cup of that coffee you were drinking,” he told her.
She pursed her lips together and walked to the kitchen area, digging the wine from the refrigerator and reaching into a pine cupboard for a wineglass. She hadn’t realized that he was right behind her until he reached past her.
For a water tumbler. He took the wine from her and poured it into his glass. “When in Rome...,” he murmured. “Cheers!”
He swallowed her blush chablis down as if it were water.
“Are you supposed to be drinking on duty?” she demanded.
“I’m not on duty.”
“So what are you doing—looking in my house for the murder weapon on your off hours?”
“Yes,” he said flatly. He poured more wine, then walked out past the small island counter, pausing by her easel. He didn’t ask permission, but cast back the sheet she’d had covering her most recent work. He let out a long whistle like an exhalation, studying the painting. She was nearly finished with it. It was a study of an old Cajun woman she bought flowers from down at Jackson Square each morning. The woman smiled; her warmth seemed to light her eyes. Her face was so weathered it was difficult to discern her racial makeup, but then, she might not have known her own racial makeup anyway, such was the wonder of New Orleans. She was aging, she was worn, she was beautiful within her soul. It was a good painting, Ann thought. One of her best. Nearly finished except for the background.
“I thought Jon Marcel had been working on Red Light Ladies ,” he said.
“He had.”
“Then—”
She ripped the sheet from his hands, recovering her painting. “This is mine.”
“Yours?”
“Yes.”
He might have said something then. A compliment might have been in order. But he didn’t offer one.
“Ah,” he said, sipping his wine more slowly now as he moved about the room. He shook his head.
“Spacious, nice, but feminine,” he said.
“Gee, I’m so sorry.”
“You don’t need to be sorry to me, but doesn’t Jon mind?”
“The room isn’t exactly filled with frills, and no, Jon doesn’t mind. Why should he?”
He shrugged. “It’s just that it’s...very much your room,” he said. “It even smells like your perfume.”
“It’s probably soap, since I just stepped from the shower. You could use some, you know.”
He arched a brow to her. “Maybe I am acquiring something of an unwashed, manly smell.”
“Maybe you simply need a shower.”
“Is that another invitation?”
“Yes, I’m inviting you to go home, Lieutenant, drink in your house, and bathe for your own well-being.”
He smiled again, looking around the room. He walked toward the sofa.
“Thinking of lifting the cushions to look for the knife?”
“Should I?”
“Knock yourself
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