The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington Page B

Surely not to Paulo, but to Merle Skimp, perhaps? Or to George Farragut? Or to someone I had never met and would never know?
    That was the hell of it, not knowing. But someone did. The killer, who had walked in bold as brass and walked out—to borrow Simon’s phrase—as rich as sin.

Chapter Nine
    On the drive back to Naples, my mind swirled with Morgan’s demands. For the sake of both my business and my sanity, I needed to concentrate on his project and stop obsessing about the crimes—to trust in Rossi and the Naples P.D.
    To help me get a grip, and to lighten my mood, I decided to use a little psychology on myself and tally all the pluses in my life.
    Okay. First and foremost, I passed the one year anniversary of Jack’s death without a total meltdown.
    After years of dragging my heels, I finally summoned the guts to start my own business.
    The Jones project promises to be a shot of fiscal adrenaline.
    Last night, a handsome man kissed me breathless.
    I passed a slowpoke driver and switched into the high-speed lane. To even the playing field, I’d count the negatives, too.
    Though the hurt ebbs away a little each day, each week, each month, the bitter truth is I’ve lost Jack forever.
    Morgan might not like my ideas and refuse to hire me.
    A kiss is not a life.
    I miss seeing Rossi.
    Whoa! Where had that come from? A red light flared in front of my eyes. I jammed on the brakes. God, I had nearly sped through the stop. What was the matter with me?
    A lot.
    I was in emotional recovery.
    Lonely.
    Broke—almost.
    I had discovered the theft of a twenty-million-dollar painting and found a woman with a bullet in her head.
    Things couldn’t be much worse. Then, like some kind of urban miracle, the stop light turned green. An omen. Go. I stomped on the gas pedal and my self-pity at the same time.
    I was still young and healthy and worked in one of the loveliest towns in America. The sun shone, the palm trees swayed, the hibiscus bloomed. And all this in December.
    What did freckles and frizzy hair matter? My B cups were filled out pretty well, and more than one man had mentioned my sensational legs.
    I felt better already. The psychologists were right, counting your blessings was a good thing.
    Tonight after work, I’d go grocery shopping for Christmas dinner. The Irish Pub would be closed on the holiday, so I’d see if Lee might be free—Paulo, too. For I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, he was anything but a young man in love.
    We’d have roast prime rib, Yorkshire pudding—Jack had loved it—baked stuffed tomatoes, steamed asparagus and two kinds of pie, pecan and pumpkin. I’d lace the whipped cream topping with a little brandy. Cold shrimp for the first course. Some simple cheese snacks with wine before dinner. Not gourmet but not bad.
    * * *
    Christmas morning the dining table gleamed with Nana’s Coalport china and Jack’s mother’s old Irish silver. Red decorations would war with my peach-colored walls, so, instead, I sent a wired gold ribbon cascading along the center of the table and topped the ribbon with a row of brass angels holding thick ivory candles. As if it were confetti, I sprinkled tiny gold snowflakes over the entire tabletop. When we sat down for dinner, the candlelight would make everything glittery and warm and festive.
    I found myself humming. It had been over a year since anyone had come for dinner. What a good feeling to have a semblance of normalcy seep back into my life.
    I lit the oven, and soon the roast filled the air with a heavenly aroma. Preparations complete, I stripped off my shorts and Jack’s old BU T-shirt. Glamming it up a bit, I shrugged into a snug green crop top and matching wide-leg slacks. The fuzzy angora top played off the silky smooth pants. And the narrow swath of bare midriff added a little sauce to the mix. I dabbed powder on my nose, glossed my mouth with Revlon Peach and, for fun, put on dangly Christmas tree earrings. Swaying on either side of