She wanted to revel in, and marvel at, the miracle of loving him. She loved, fully and wholeheartedly, when she hadn’t thought she ever would. She had felt so smug about her ability to concentrate wholly on her work, confident she was immune to the emotional uproar called love. Hah! She was not only not immune, where Richard was concerned she was downright easy.
Even more, she was eager for an opportunity to demonstrate to him again just how easy she was.
But for now, she faced a day of doing nothing, or at least nothing much. She didn’t dare nap and couldn’t work. She was too tired to go out for a day of sketching. That left watching television, reading, or doing the laundry. She leaned toward reading, but the need to do laundry nagged at her conscience. Promising herself she would do the laundry after an hour of reading, she put on a pot of coffee and settled down with an oversized book about the use of acrylic paints.
The doorbell jerked her out of a study of brilliant colors. Muttering to herself, because she knew it couldn’t possibly be Richard and therefore had to be a nuisance, she went to the door and looked through the peephole. Two men in suits stood in the hallway. “Who is it?” she asked, keeping her eye to the lens.
“Detectives Aquino and Ritenour, New York Police Department.” The beefy man closest to the lens was the one who answered, and he used the entire phrase rather than the initials. Both men held out badges to the lens, as if she could read them through a fish-eye.
There was no way they could know about the painting, as only she and Richard knew she was doing it, but evidently someone had told them she was involved with Richard. She sighed as she opened the door. They were only doing their job, checking out all possibilities, but still she felt uneasy.
“Ms. Paris Sweeney?” the burly cop asked.
Her brows snapped together in a ferocious scowl. “Just Sweeney,” she growled.
He looked a little startled, then his expression smoothed into impassivity. “May we come in?”
He looked more tired than she felt, with dark circles under his eyes and his complexion gray. He looked freshly shaved and his hair was still the teeniest bit damp, indicating he had showered and probably changed clothes, but that couldn’t hide his exhaustion. The other detective, lean and sandy-haired, looked much more rested but not nearly as friendly.
“Would you like a pot of coffee?” she asked as they both sat down, because the burly guy really looked as if he could use a caffeine kick. “I mean, a cup of coffee.”
The sandy-haired detective got that stony, wild-eyed look of someone trying not to laugh. Detective Aquino shot him a dirty look. “That would be appreciated. Sugar and cream. A lot of both.”
“Same here,” Detective Ritenour said.
She freshened her own cup, and prepared two more, loading them down with enough sugar to send the average kid bouncing off the walls for ten hours, and enough cream to raise their cholesterol levels several points. They must drink a lot of bad coffee, she thought, for both of them to disguise the taste this way.
She put the cups on a small tray and carried it through to the living room, setting it down on the coffee table. Telling herself there was no reason to be nervous, she sat down and lifted her own cup. What was the procedure for interrogation? Should she invite them to begin?
The burly cop, after an appreciative sip of the coffee, began without her help. “Ms. Sweeney, are you acquainted with Richard Worth?”
She gave him a disbelieving look. “Well, of course I am, otherwise you wouldn’t be here.”
He coughed. “You’re aware that his estranged wife was murdered night before last.” That was a statement, not a question.
“Yes.”
“Were you also acquainted with Mrs. Worth?”
Sweeney’s eyes darkened. “Yes,” she repeated, softly. “I’ve known her for years. I exhibited at the gallery.”
“Oh, so you’re an artist.”
“Yes.”
“No kidding.” He looked at a large landscape on the wall. “Did you do that?”
“No.” She didn’t hang her own work. When she relaxed, she liked to look at something someone else had done.
That conversational gambit exhausted, he returned to the subject at hand. “Mrs. Worth wasn’t happy about your involvement with Mr. Worth, was she?”
The super, Sweeney thought. That scene in the entrance lobby. “She told me she didn’t care, but then when she came here one morning to see me and Richard was here, she was upset.” She was pleased with that masterful understatement.
“When was this?”
They already knew, she thought. They had already talked to the super. They were asking questions to which they already knew the answers, to see if she would tell the truth. “A few days ago.”
“How long have you been involved with Mr. Worth?”
She blinked at him, more taken aback by the question than most people would have been. “I don’t know. What day of the week is it?”
They shared a quick glance. “Thursday,” Detective Ritenour said.
“Then it’s been a week. I think. I lose track of days.”
“A week,” Detective Aquino echoed. He made a note in his little book. “You stayed at Mr. Worth’s town house last night.”
Sweeney blushed. Great. Now they knew how easy she was. “Yes.”
“Where were you night before last, Ms. Sweeney?”
Ah, now they were getting down to the meat of their questions. Sweeney felt a flicker of alarm. She had been alone here, with no calls, no witnesses—no alibis. “Here.”