LITMIR.BIZ

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      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. Hired by the owner of this home to do my magic. That includes tearing up this tile. Something I’d rather not do, but when a client makes a request, I generally respond.”

      “Brodey?” A woman called from the front of the house.

      Brodey. Had Brenda Williams mentioned a Brodey? Lexi ticked names off in her mind. No Brodey.

      “Back here,” Brodey Whoever said. “I just met the decorator.”

      “Well, technically, we haven’t met. All you’ve done is come in here and make unreasonable demands.”

      That made Brodey Whoever smile, and it wasn’t just one of those run-of-the-mill, see-it-every-day smiles. This smile developed slowly, like a growing—and sometimes devastating—wave. Hello, smile.

      “You’re right,” he said. “My apologies. I’m Brodey Hayward. I’d shake your hand, but...”

      He gestured to his sling just as a stunning brunette stepped behind him. When the brunette spotted Nate and Lexi, her head jerked back. “Oh, hello.”

      Now might be as good a time as any for Lexi to take up meditation. “Excuse me, but who are you people?”

      The brunette angled around Brodey and stuck her hand out. “I’m Jenna Hayward from Hennings & Solomon. I’m a private investigator assisting on Mr. Williams’s case. I believe you’re aware we’d be helping. This is my brother Brodey. He’s a—”

      “I’m helping,” Brodey interrupted, clearly not wanting his sister to explain.

      How very interesting. Mental note: do an internet search on Brodey Hayward.

      The investigators. Got it. Lexi shook Jenna’s hand. “Right. I’m sorry. Mrs. Williams hadn’t mentioned you were coming by today. We should be done in the next hour or so. Feel free to ignore us. Now, if you’ll step back, I need to see what’s under this tile.” She flopped her hand out to Nate. “Hammer, please?”

      “I don’t think so,” Brodey said.

      “Pardon?”

      “An unsolved murder occurred in this room. Could be potential evidence under there.” He jerked his thumb to the kitchen. “How about working around this area until I can look at it?”

      Again, Lexi breathed deep. Channeled her inner calm. “Mr. Hayward—”

      “Brodey is fine.”

      “Brodey. Great. Thank you. Now, I’m sure the Chicago Police Department has been through here.” She waggled her hands. “They have all their crime-scene people and whatnot. After all, this house has been empty for two years.”

      Two years without an offer because potential buyers were spooked about the murder in a supposed high-security community.

      Imitating her gesture, Brodey waggled his hand. “If it’s been empty all that time, another hour won’t hurt.” He stepped aside. “If you’ll excuse us, we have work to do.”

      The inner warrior in Lexi didn’t just yell, she roared. Frustration railed, turning her vision a starker white than the glossy walls. She didn’t care what kind of an investigator Brodey Hayward was. Treating them like rodents would not do. Relax. This is not a problem until you make it one. Lexi swung to Nate. “Would you give us a minute, please?”

      He nodded. “Sure thing.”

      Jenna, the beautiful brunette, stepped aside, smiling at Nate as he gave her more—much more—than a brief once-over. She smiled, but averted her eyes, letting Nate know in expert fashion he should forget about her and keep on moving. Nice move on her part. But right now, Lexi needed to strike a deal. Figure out how long they needed to be here and when she could start tearing the place apart. Compromise. That was what she’d do.

      “Brodey, I’m trying to get this house redesigned and sold in forty-five days. Do you have any idea what an undertaking that is?”

      He smiled at her, a slow, cocky grin that would surely lead to a sarcastic remark. “I’m sure you’re being well compensated.”

      Bingo. Everyone liked to rip on the decorator. How she hated that word. As if her bachelor’s in interior design coupled with her master’s in business didn’t qualify her for the Intelligent Club. “Okay, well, just so you know, it’s a huge undertaking. But I’ll get it done. I’m a woman with the promised land in sight and I want the promised land. Tell me how long you need to be in here and I’ll see if I

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