Halfway to the door, I turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Everyone who knew the entry code is to be tested. For starters, you. The gardener. Jesus Cardoza. And the Alexanders.”
“The Alexanders? That’s ridiculous. They were in Europe at the time.”
He cocked an eyebrow at me but didn’t respond.
“Okay, not ridiculous, but farfetched.” I stomped back to the couch and sat on one of the arms, defying it to break off. “When?”
“What’s the matter with today?”
Chapter Five
Rossi called ahead for an appointment. Then, insisting I was too nervous to get behind the wheel, he drove my Audi to the Florida Polygraph Services office on Airport Road. We made good time along the Tamiami Trail but with minimal small talk. I really was too nervous for that.
Bob Butterworth, the polygraph analyst, met us at the reception desk. He topped six-three, carried at least a hundred extra pounds, and was dressed in black from head to foot. His Darth Vader look didn’t make me feel any easier.
“I’ll be waiting outside, Mrs. D.” Rossi took out his cell phone as he headed for the front door. Before it swung closed behind him, I heard him say, “Yeah, I’ll be in as soon as we’re finished here.”
Police business, I surmised, wishing he had followed me into the cubicle with Darth, who said, “Please have a seat and let me tell you how the polygraph works.”
He indicated a straight-backed wooden chair in front of a small table. The stale air in the windowless room reeked of fear and tension, or maybe it was just my imagination working overtime. I took the seat he indicated. With nothing on the industrial tan walls to attract my attention, I concentrated on the table and its black box. Roughly the size of a briefcase, the box bristled with wires, some of which led to a blood pressure cuff. A graph printer was attached to one side of the box.
“There’s no right or wrong to this test,” he said as I sat down. “What the polygraph does is record your physiological responses to the questions I’ll ask. These responses are involuntary. In other words, they can’t be controlled.”
I was about to ask, “What makes you so sure?” when he handed me a sheet of graph paper. “This is a sample printout.” Jagged vertical lines marched across the page. “The longer the lines, the greater the emotional response to the question.”
“Those are the lies, then?”
He stiffened. “Possibly.”
Bingo.
He removed a sheet of paper from a manila envelope Rossi had handed him when we came in. He glanced it at briefly then gave it to me. “Read these over and when asked, simply answer truthfully with a yes or a no. All questions are factual about events that did or did not occur. None are based on emotion or opinion.”
Straightforward enough, but still I could feel my blood pressure shoot up, and my palms go sweaty. Rossi must have written the questions before I got to his house. Knowing he had did nothing to calm me down. In fact, believing he’d set me up, I’d be taking the test mad as hell. As Darth stood there with the blood pressure cuff in his hands, I scanned the questions. He had been truthful; I could answer every one with a single yes or no.
I gave him back the page. He hooked me up to the machine and wrapped the cuff around my upper arm. “I’m also going to put a monitor on your finger to measure pulse and breathing rates, so try not to move your fingers or toes. Movement can affect the results. Okay so far?”
I nodded though I wasn’t okay with this at all. Far from it. Maybe I should have contacted a lawyer before getting in so deep. I heaved a sigh. A fine time to worry about legal counsel now that I was hooked up like fish bait.
“First, I’ll ask you some basic questions,” Darth was saying. “They’re not relevant to the case, but they’ll give me a baseline for your responses. I’ll be marking the sheet as you respond. Don’t worry about that. It’s standard procedure. Just answer truthfully. Then I’ll ask a final question, and I want you to lie.”
I nodded. The fake lie would establish a sample of my reactions when I really was lying.
He stood behind the table, turned on the polygraph machine and asked, “Ready?”
I nodded.
“Is your name Devalera Dunne?”
“Yes.” I love the Dunne part.
“Are you married?” Oh, I was, I was.
“No.”
“Divorced?” From Jack? Never.
“No.”
“Widowed?” Dear God in heaven, that has to be a…
“Yes.”
“Have you ever stolen money?”
“Yes.” When I was seven, a dime from my grandma’s change purse.
“Final question. Have you stolen anything in the last six months?”
“Yes.” That’s my lie.
The long sheet of graph paper spewing out of the printer spilled over the table edge. Darth examined it then picked up the list of relevant questions Rossi had prepared.
“All right, Mrs. Dunne. We’ll do a practice run of the lieutenant’s questions. Simply answer as truthfully as you can. Then we’ll do the test a second time. That’s the one that’ll count. Understood?”
I nodded, ignoring the trickle of sweat between my shoulder blades.
The questions began. “Did Mr. and Mrs. Alexander employ you as an interior designer? Did you steal the Monet seascape? Do you know Mrs. Alexander’s maiden name? Did you know the Alexanders’ cook, Maria Cardoza? Did you find the Monet cut from the frame? Do you know who stole it? Did you contact the police? Did you find Maria Cardoza’s body? Did Maria Cardoza ever cook you a meal? Did you kill Maria Cardoza? Do you know who did kill her?”
On and on, he droned. All told, with periodic stops while he marked the graph sheet, the practice test lasted for nearly an hour. In between the benign queries there were four lethal ones-did I steal the painting; did I know who had? Had I killed Maria; did I know who had? Those were no, of course. After we ran through the list once, Darth examined the printout then he turned off the polygraph machine, removed the cuff from my arm and the monitor from my finger.
“You did very well,” he said.
I looked at him in surprise. “What’s the matter, Mr. Butterworth, aren’t you going to give me the test?”
His smile said it all. “I have, Mrs. Dunne. We’re finished.”
“Wasn’t that a practice run?”
“Well,” he said, his smile growing broader, “if you put me on the machine and asked that same question, the needle would spike.”
“You lied.”
“Yes,” he said, “I did. But I’m sure you didn’t.”
* * *
“So I passed the test, but dammit, Rossi,” I said when we hit the parking lot and headed for the Audi, “that guy lied to me. I bet you knew he was going to.”
“Pretty standard procedure, Mrs. D. If the subject thinks it’s only a practice test, he relaxes. It goes better.”
“So now I’m a subject. Of what? Speculation? All I did was check on my design job. I found the crimes. I didn’t commit them.”
Rossi stopped midstride and, planting his feet wide apart on the tarmac, stood facing me. “It looks like a woman. It moves like a woman. I’ll bet it feels like a woman. Too bad it sounds like a child.”
“You have a hell of a-”
He held up a warning hand, palm out. He had a long lifeline. “Stop there. This is a murder investigation. I’m sorry you were lied to, but I’m sorrier Maria Cardoza is lying on a slab.”
Heat rushed into my face. If I had a mirror, I’d be looking at a boiled beet.
Rossi stared at me without blinking, waiting, no doubt, for his pound of flesh. I gave it to him. “I’m truly sorry. You’re absolutely right. Forgive me for losing sight of what matters.”
He grinned. “Maybe. All depends. Want to hear the terms?”
“Why not?” Though I could guess.
“After the investigation is concluded-not before-you’ll have dinner with me.”
“Where? Mel’s Diner?”
Mel’s was the local greasy spoon. I let my voice purr with disdain, but I was faking it. Fact is, though I hadn’t been out with anyone since losing Jack, at least not on an actual date, I was surprised to realize I’d enjoy going to dinner with Rossi. And somehow, I knew that would be okay with Jack.
“No, not Mel’s,” Rossi said calmly, not letting my disdainful tone affect him. Or at least not enough to let it show. “Someplace where I have to wear a jacket. The one in the closet on the fifteenth hanger.”
“I know the one.” I heaved a sigh to make him think the decision came hard. “St. George and the Dragon?”
“Great. It’s dark as a cave in there.”
“You’ve been?”
“I’m the detective. I ask the questions. And there’s something else. I spoke to the chief while you were taking the test. He’ll recuse me from the case if you and I…ah…give the appearance of impropriety.”
Relief flooded through me. So he had been sincere in hiring me. There was no trap, after all. Still I asked, “What does recuse mean, Rossi, in plain English?”
“It means just the suspicion of collusion can prejudice the outcome.”
“That’s English?”
He put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Except for police business, I won’t be contacting you until the case is resolved. No dinner. No house redo. No nothing.”
“But that’s all it’s been. Nothing.” I’d only told one lie all day, and this wasn’t it.
He slammed a fist against his chest. “That cuts, Mrs. D.”
“You know it’s true.”
“So far.” His mouth tried for a smile but failed. “I also know a detective has to be above reproach. Like Caesar’s wife. See how much you made me forget?” His expression sobered. “I’m sorry to put off the redecorating. But it’s not forever. Now let’s get going. I’ve got work to do.”
* * *
I drove back to Rossi’s house and dropped him off so he could pick up his car, a dusty, dinged Mustang.
“That’s quite a vehicle,” I said, “for Mr. Clean.”
“Part of the disguise, Mrs. D.” He climbed out of the Audi, taking the scent of his aftershave with him. I would have asked what it was but didn’t want to give him the satisfaction of knowing I’d been aware of it for the whole damn drive. Before closing the door, he leaned across the front seat. “Not to worry. For my social life, I have different wheels.”
Does he think I’m a snob? For some reason, that bothered me. It bothered me a lot. “I only mentioned your car because it doesn’t fit your squeaky-clean image. Besides, Jack always had dirty cars. I’m used to them. There’s something very liberating about tossing a banana peel on the backseat and leaving it there.”
“To rot?”
“Precisely.” The shocked look on Rossi’s face made my day. “Ciao, ciao, bambino.”
I waved goodbye and laid rubber, the screech of the tires on his quiet street music to my ears. Halfway down the road, I eased my foot off the gas pedal. Maybe Rossi had been right earlier. I did have a childish streak. To make up for my outburst, I drove back to the shop five miles under the limit. I was disappointed not to be able to tackle his bedroom right away. I sure could use the business, but I was surprised to realize how much I’d miss seeing Rossi. He was growing on me. Like moss. I laughed and checked my watch. Two-thirty. If all had gone according to plan, Lee would be at the shop now.
On Fifth Avenue, I spied an in-season rarity, a parking space. I nosed into it, holding up a parade of traffic as I pulled in, pulled out, pulled in, pulled out, until, finally yanking on the wheel for the last time, I nestled that baby in place. Triumphant, I waved thanks to the row of waiting cars, locked up and crossed the street to Fern Alley.
Off Shoots, the junior clothing shop next door where we’d found Lee’s new dress, buzzed with customers. Good for Irma and Emma, the hard-working twins who owned it. Their ad for holiday dresses in the Naples Daily had attracted a lot of interest. A green strapless gown in their display window caught my eye. It would be perfect for New Year’s Eve, but I wasn’t going…and then I saw him. Dreadlocks. The handsome young guy who promised not to drop his empties in my planters. Why was he hanging out in front of the shop? Sitting cross-legged on the sidewalk with a clipboard on his lap?
He was so intent on what he was doing he didn’t hear me approach until I came alongside him. When he spotted me, he looked up and gave me a dazzling smile.
“Hey, design lady!”
“What are you doing crouched in front of my shop window? You’ll scare people away.”
“I’m drawing. Have a look.”
With a sigh of irritation, I peered over his shoulder and gasped in amazement. I couldn’t believe my eyes. His drawing was masterful. He had captured her. Lee Skimp. Her very essence, not just her beauty, lived on that page.
I glanced from the clipboard into the shop window where Lee sat near the entrance at a desk-an antique bureau plat actually-looking stunning in her new black clothes, her hair a shimmering curtain to her shoulders.
“It’s beautiful,” I told him, looking back at the clipboard.
“Yes, she is,” he said, glancing from the page to the window…his glance lingering there…then back to the page.
“Listen,” I said, hands on hips, “I can understand your fascination, but for the second time I have to tell you I’m running a business here. And it’s not a dating service.”
“What?” He glared up at me as if I were the encroacher. “I’m not trying to make out. I’m an artist. I specialize in portraits.”
“Right.”
“Yeah, right.” He scrambled to his feet. “This drawing is a study for an oil painting.”
“How do you know she wants you to paint her?”
His annoyance fled, replaced by something else. Uncertainty? “I don’t,” he said.
I peered at his sketch again. The lad had a talent that leaped off the page. Lee looked alive in his rendering, her gentleness, her serenity, her strength uncannily revealed in a few bold lines.
I waved at Lee inside the shop. She returned my greeting with an uncertain little waggle of her fingers.
“Have you two met?” I asked Dreadlocks.
He shook his head.
“Would you like to?”
That smile again. “Is the pope a Catholic?”
“Okay, wise guy, come on.” I had my hand on the door knob before I thought to ask, “What’s your name?”
“Paulo St. James. It’s Jamaican.”
“I’m Deva Dunne. It’s Irish.”
Clipboard in hand, he followed me into the shop. When the Yarmouthport sleigh bells stopped their jangling, I said, “Mr. Paulo St. James, this is Miss Lee Skimp.”
I think they both heard me, but I couldn’t be sure. I wonder if the moment you fall in love you’re aware of anything except the beat of your heart banging against your ribs?
Lee recovered first and, still seated behind the desk, she held out her hand. Paulo wiped a palm on his jeans before reaching across the desk to her. When they touched, I half expected to see a lightning bolt shoot across the shop, but no, he took her fingers gently, bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.
So French. Or so Jamaican. Whichever. I was impressed.
And Lee? Well, Lee damn near fainted.
“I declare,” she said. “I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”
“You should have,” Paulo said. What he left unsaid would fill a volume.
I cleared my throat. Startled that I was still there, they both looked at me, wide eyed.
“Mr. St. James wants to paint your portrait, Lee,” I said. “Are you willing?”
She looked at me as if I were crazed for asking. “That’s a mighty fine compliment.”
“Then it’s yes?” Paulo asked.
She nodded, her heart in her eyes.
“I’ve made a preliminary sketch,” he said, holding up his w
ork for her to see. “To establish the composition. I’ll refine it tonight and be back tomorrow with an easel and canvas.”
“Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, staring at the sketch as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “But I’m not here except for Wednesdays and Fridays.”
His face fell. “Wednesday’s good. I won’t bother you. I’ll be outside.” He pointed to the alley then swiveled his attention to me, a stricken expression on his face. “As long as Mrs. Dunne doesn’t object.”
“No, that’s fine.” I said. “Actually, an artist with an easel might bring people down the alley. And that might be very good for business.”
He nodded, his smile wide enough to include both Lee and me. “I’ll paint you through the window, Lee, like today. Seen through its gleam, you’ll be mysterious, unattainable. Like in…what’s that passage?…’through a glass darkly.’”
“St. Paul. From the Corinthians,” Lee said, her voice spiking with pleased surprise. “You read the Bible, too?”
I wondered if Paulo could pass a polygraph on that one.
“No. Not really,” he said, regret tingeing his tone. “But I think I’ll begin. Starting now.”
“I love St. Paul. He’s my favorite of all the New Testament writers.”
“Then I’ll definitely begin with him.” Obviously reluctant to leave, Paulo stood clutching his clipboard, his eyes devouring Lee.
I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps we could hold Bible class at another time.”
“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Dunne.” With a visible effort, he tore his gaze from Lee. “I’ll be back on Wednesday. I promise I won’t interrupt your business.”
With a courtly little bow for each of us, he left, setting the sleigh bells jangling. This time, looking at a radiant, pink-cheeked Lee, I thought they sounded positively jolly.
“Well,” I said. “What do you think of all that?”
“Miz Dunne…Deva…I’m so frazzled, I can’t think hardly at all.”
I laughed or I would have cried remembering the impact of Jack Dunne’s presence the first time we met. “Can you come back down to earth long enough to tell me if there were any calls?”
The Monet Murders Page 4
