rehash. Besides, after we went over the id, ego and superego aspects of Streetcar’s Stanley, Stella and Blanche, I’d show her the paint chips and the snapshots I took of some lighting fixtures. After that I’d head for home. The conversation I was dying to have was with Rossi. Would Raúl Lopez be indicted for José Vega’s murder, or was Beatriz’s accusation merely the fantasy of a grief-stricken widow?
Chapter Nine
After I left Fisherman’s Creek, the temptation to speed home nearly overwhelmed me. Twice I lurched to a stop on yellow. God, after lecturing Imogene on the hazards of running red lights, what a hypocrite I was. I eased up on the gas pedal and reached Surfside at dusk.
Light from my living room windows spilled out onto the walkway. I turned the key and hurried through the foyer. Even the miniature lamp on the living room desk and the chunky candles on the coffee table were lit. How nice. A cheery welcome home.
For once, the condo’s new redo didn’t shoot a pang of regret through me. Usually a momentary twinge struck me each time I realized anew that in a fit of despair I’d sold Jack’s Irish heirlooms and they were gone forever. But tonight the familiar sting didn’t surface at all. I dropped the tote on a club chair. “Anybody home?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Rossi called. “With my busy Italian fingers.”
“Are they only Italian in the kitchen? How about the bedroom?”
Rossi poked his head out of the kitchen archway and sent his eyebrows into a Groucho Marx look-alike. “You have a preference?”
“When I’m hungry, the kitchen. When I’m really hungry, the bedroom.”
I vamped my way over to him and lifted my face for a kiss. He started out slowly with a nibble, then, his arms tightening around me, he upped the ante, kissing me breathless until finally, gasping for air, I moved back a little in his embrace.
“Mmmmm. Italian fingers and Italian lips.”
“Yeah. Call me hot lips, and with these hands—” he waggled them in the air, “—I put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened the wine. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a glass.”
I strolled out of the kitchen. “I love coming home and finding you here,” I called over a shoulder.
“Why don’t we make it permanent then?” he asked, following me into the living room and handing me my drink. “I could move in. There’s plenty of room in that spare closet for my shirt collection.” When I didn’t answer, the humor disappeared from his face. “I guess not.”
“Can we talk about us another time? When the death of a friend isn’t crowding my heart?” I sank onto the couch, kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cushions.
“Of course. Sorry. My timing was off.”
I tried to ignore the irony in his voice as he settled into his favorite club chair across from me. He raised his glass. “Dare I say ‘to us’?”
“To us,” I said calmly, not rising to the bait. “Long may we wave.”
“But not in the breeze.” I laughed, and he joined in, the goodwill of a few moments ago warming this moment.
But he’d made his point. One of these days, he’d want an answer. But not tonight. With an inner sigh of relief, I knew he’d wait yet another little while.
“So how was your day?” he asked, changing the subject to what he probably thought was safer ground.
“Bizarre.” Leaving out my entanglement with Imogene, I told him about Austin. How he jogged silently into the mall every day, ordered his bottled water, and left without speaking again to anyone. Except for today. A strangely troubled man, he’d warned me that danger lurked on the third floor. How could he possibly know that?
Rossi listened as he always did without saying much, but nothing, however insignificant, ever escaped him. If he believed Austin could help with the investigation, he’d be sure to interview him. I had to smile. If he could sprint fast enough to catch him.
I sipped my wine. Chianti wasn’t my favorite, but
Chapter Nine
After I left Fisherman’s Creek, the temptation to speed home nearly overwhelmed me. Twice I lurched to a stop on yellow. God, after lecturing Imogene on the hazards of running red lights, what a hypocrite I was. I eased up on the gas pedal and reached Surfside at dusk.
Light from my living room windows spilled out onto the walkway. I turned the key and hurried through the foyer. Even the miniature lamp on the living room desk and the chunky candles on the coffee table were lit. How nice. A cheery welcome home.
For once, the condo’s new redo didn’t shoot a pang of regret through me. Usually a momentary twinge struck me each time I realized anew that in a fit of despair I’d sold Jack’s Irish heirlooms and they were gone forever. But tonight the familiar sting didn’t surface at all. I dropped the tote on a club chair. “Anybody home?”
“I’m in the kitchen,” Rossi called. “With my busy Italian fingers.”
“Are they only Italian in the kitchen? How about the bedroom?”
Rossi poked his head out of the kitchen archway and sent his eyebrows into a Groucho Marx look-alike. “You have a preference?”
“When I’m hungry, the kitchen. When I’m really hungry, the bedroom.”
I vamped my way over to him and lifted my face for a kiss. He started out slowly with a nibble, then, his arms tightening around me, he upped the ante, kissing me breathless until finally, gasping for air, I moved back a little in his embrace.
“Mmmmm. Italian fingers and Italian lips.”
“Yeah. Call me hot lips, and with these hands—” he waggled them in the air, “—I put a frozen pizza in the oven and opened the wine. Have a seat and I’ll bring you a glass.”
I strolled out of the kitchen. “I love coming home and finding you here,” I called over a shoulder.
“Why don’t we make it permanent then?” he asked, following me into the living room and handing me my drink. “I could move in. There’s plenty of room in that spare closet for my shirt collection.” When I didn’t answer, the humor disappeared from his face. “I guess not.”
“Can we talk about us another time? When the death of a friend isn’t crowding my heart?” I sank onto the couch, kicked off my heels and stretched out on the cushions.
“Of course. Sorry. My timing was off.”
I tried to ignore the irony in his voice as he settled into his favorite club chair across from me. He raised his glass. “Dare I say ‘to us’?”
“To us,” I said calmly, not rising to the bait. “Long may we wave.”
“But not in the breeze.” I laughed, and he joined in, the goodwill of a few moments ago warming this moment.
But he’d made his point. One of these days, he’d want an answer. But not tonight. With an inner sigh of relief, I knew he’d wait yet another little while.
“So how was your day?” he asked, changing the subject to what he probably thought was safer ground.
“Bizarre.” Leaving out my entanglement with Imogene, I told him about Austin. How he jogged silently into the mall every day, ordered his bottled water, and left without speaking again to anyone. Except for today. A strangely troubled man, he’d warned me that danger lurked on the third floor. How could he possibly know that?
Rossi listened as he always did without saying much, but nothing, however insignificant, ever escaped him. If he believed Austin could help with the investigation, he’d be sure to interview him. I had to smile. If he could sprint fast enough to catch him.
I sipped my wine. Chianti wasn’t my favorite, but
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