The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington Page B

“something” wouldn’t be easy. “My daddy’s a good man. My momma, she was sick for years, and he took mighty fine care of her. It cost him near every penny he had, but he didn’t complain. Not once. So I owe him for that. For other things, too.” She upped her chin, as if defying herself to go on. “I’m all he has left, but he really doesn’t have me anymore. So I worry about him.” Her voice faltering, she looked down at her lap. “There’s more to Daddy than what he showed today.”
    Unbidden, a thought popped into my head. If Merle Skimp had spent everything he’d worked for on medical bills, would he—out of desperation—have dared steal the Monet? Watching Lee make a case for her daddy’s goodness, I found it hard to continue the thought, yet it refused to go away.
    When I glanced across at Rossi to try to guess what he might be thinking, he winked and picked up his fork. He had another piece of pumpkin pie to deal with. I should know by now that Rossi never gave anything away.
    One by one, the candles guttered in the angel holders and died. I was about to light some lamps when Paulo rose from the table and came over to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks, Deva. That was delicious.”
    Lee looked up at him, all limpid, inquiring eyes. “You’re leaving?”
    “Yes.” Avoiding the plea in her voice, Paulo turned to Rossi. “Lieutenant, will you take Lee home?”
    “My pleasure,” Rossi said, smooth as silk.
    “But Paulo…” Lee whispered his name like a prayer.
    “I have to get back,” he said, and with a little bow to all of us, he left, taking Christmas with him.
    “He’s ashamed of me.” Lee sank against her chair back. “I’m white trash, and he knows it.”
    “Not so, Lee,” Simon said. “You need to look deeper.”
    “You can’t go any deeper than your family,” she said, shaking her head. “You sprang from them. They made you what you are. Who you are.”
    Simon swallowed a forkful of brandied whipped cream. “Exactly. Think about it. Paulo may feel the same way about his own folks.”
    Lee stared at him, thoughtful and wide eyed. “You think that’s what’s troubling him?”
    “Could be. He might be seeing himself through your father’s eyes.”
    “Daddy’s still fighting that war, isn’t he?”
    “Most likely,” Simon said quietly. “Problem is, the battle’s just beginning for Paulo.”
    “For me, too,” Lee said, picking up her fork and polishing off her pie.
    A steel magnolia.
    Rossi pushed his empty dessert plate back from the edge of the table. “Mrs. D, that was the best meal I’ve had in weeks. No, make that months. I owe you one. And now, I think I’d better check my calls and get this young lady home. So—” he stood, “—if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”
    He offered his hand to Simon, who grasped it. They didn’t exactly Indian wrestle, just hand clasped, mano a mano.
    Despite her distress, Lee looked over at me and grinned.
    I shook my head, and her grin got wider. What was she signaling? The two men were vying for me? No way. I couldn’t believe it, but I admit I enjoyed considering the possibility.
    The macho handshake over, Rossi walked around the table to say goodbye to me. Did I have a kiss coming? Maybe a peck on the cheek? No. Just a quick smile—and a single finger secretly stroking my palm. “You made my Christmas, Mrs. D,” he said in his best crime-busting voice.
    Did he know his surreptitious signal had just sent my blood pressure soaring? No doubt. Nothing escaped Rossi.
    Lee scooped up her backpack, hugged me tight, then with a “See y’all Sunday at the shop, Deva,” she left with Rossi.
    “Alone at last.” Simon wore his biggest smile of the day. Definitely the biggest one since I’d invited Rossi for dinner. “How about a nightcap?”
    “Sounds good, but first the dishes, okay?”
    “Let me help.”
    Together we cleared the dining room table and loaded the dishwasher. After setting the roasting pan