The Detective. Adrienne Giordano

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       Chapter Two

      Lexi stood in the expansive living room of the Williamses’ brownstone studying carpet that made her think of dirty snow. Such an abomination. What were they thinking putting that disgusting carpet in this house? Given the budget constraints, she’d have to keep it simple, but she could, without a doubt, restore the house to its classic elegance. Flooring she’d splurge on because the situation begged for hardwood. Everywhere else she’d do subtle but warm paint colors and effective accents with doorknobs, handrails and fixtures.

      “Every inch of this carpet has to come up,” she said to Nate, the contractor she’d chosen for this job. “I’m betting there’s hardwood underneath.”

      And, if it could be salvaged, it would help her budget.

      Nate made notes on his clipboard as they wandered through the house. She liked Nate. They’d worked together on several projects, and although he was closing in on fifty, he had the mind of a thirty-year-old. When he did a renovation, he saw youth and exuberance, and his attention to detail and superior craftsmanship made him her go-to guy on important projects.

      She moved through the kitchen—again with the dirty snow? This time it was on the walls. She had nothing against light beige. Neutrals with the right texture and undertones—wisps of green, yellow or orange—gave a room dimension. Depth. This beige?

      Awful.

      “We’ll be repainting in here.”

      “Just tell me what colors.”

      “Let’s do that soft gray we did in the Wileys’ kitchen. We’ll add color splashes to brighten it up. It’ll be fabulous with the natural light.”

      “Got it.”

      The laundry room off the kitchen came next, and she hesitated at the doorway. Did Nate know a man had been murdered in here? The real-estate agent had assured Lexi the scene had been sanitized, but what made her nervous, made that little twitch in her cheek fire, was what had seeped beneath the tile. When they tore up that floor, would they find dried blood?

      Lexi reached in and groped along the wall for the light switch. Where are you? Got it. The room, roughly ten by ten, lit up, its glossy white walls glowing. A built-in closet with shelves and coat hooks and storage bins lined one wall. The opposite wall housed the washer and dryer.

      How odd that the only room not needing updating was the one room she’d been directed to completely redesign.

      Then again, a dead body tended to destroy positive energy. She glanced at the floor, imagined Jonathan Williams sprawled across the slate-look porcelain and closed her eyes, hoping to clear that nasty image. A dead body definitely killed creativity. Ditch the body. She opened her eyes again. “I’d like to know what’s under the tile. It’s a shame they want this redone. With all the traffic that comes through here, porcelain is perfect.” She waggled her fingers. “Give me your hammer. Please.”

      The tile had to come up anyway and, well, she didn’t want to stress about what had seeped under there. She’d find out now. Face it head-on, as she did any other issue.

      Nate pulled the hammer from his tool belt and handed it over. She squatted, ready to administer that first whack, when the front door chime sounded. Someone coming in.

      “You expecting someone?” Nate asked.

      “No. Hello?” she hollered.

      No response. A few seconds later a man appeared—and what a man he was with all that lush dark hair. He wore a sling on his right arm, flat-front khakis and a white button-down shirt under a leather jacket. The arm in the sling was tucked under the jacket, his sleeve hanging loose. His lace-up oxfords were just the right touch. Not too formal, not too casual. His dark emerald eyes zoomed in on the hammer and his jaw—really nice, strong jaw—locked. Modern-day Indiana Jones here.

      He stepped forward. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?”

      “Excuse me?”

      Grabbing the hammer with his free hand, he gave it back to Nate. “You can’t do that.”

      “I most certainly can. Who’re you?”

      “Who’re you? Wait. Don’t tell me. You’re the decorator.”

      Oh, and the way he said it. All sarcastic and snippy as if she was some dope. Some airhead incapable of forming a sentence. She breathed in, counted to three and stood tall. “I’m the interior designer. Alexis Vanderbilt. СКАЧАТЬ