The Monet Murders
Jean Harrington
Interior decorator Deva Dunne never dreamed she'd see a Monet hanging on someone's dining room wall. Then she snags a client with two Monet seascapes. Her thrill lasts until she finds one of the paintings missing, cut from its frame, and the cook shot dead.
Rough-around-the edges, but gorgeous all-around police lieutenant Victor Rossi insists Deva leave the sleuthing to the police. But what could it hurt to come up with a list of suspects that doesn't include herself? Like the owners of the Monets, a rich man and his trophy wife, and their frequent guests. Even the cook's husband is suspect. Then Deva finds another victim, clutching a very strange set of clues.
Desperate to save her business amid the negative publicity, Deva helps Rossi investigate. And when he needs advice decorating his bedroom, she just might find a client for life. Unless a killer gets to her first.
Jean Harrington
The Monet Murders
Murders By Design 02, 2012
Dear Reader,
June is a good month for us here at Carina Press. Why? Because it’s the month we first started publishing books! This June marks our two-year anniversary of publishing books, and to celebrate, we’re featuring only return Carina Press authors throughout the month. Each author with a June release is one who has published with us previously, and who we’re thrilled to have return with another book!
In addition to featuring only return authors, we’re offering two volumes of Editor’s Choice collections. Volume I contains novellas from three of our rising stars in their respective romance subgenres: Shannon Stacey with contemporary romance novella Slow Summer Kisses, Cindy Spencer Pape with steampunk romance Kilts & Kraken, and Adrienne Giordano with romantic suspense novella Negotiating Point.
From the non-romance genres comes Editor’s Choice Volume II, and four fantastic novellas: paranormal mystery Dance of Flames by Janni Nell, science-fiction Pyro Canyon by Robert Appleton, humorous action-adventure No Money Down by Julie Moffett, and Dead Calm, a mystery novella from Shirley Wells.
Later in June, those collections are joined by a selection of genres designed to highlight the diversity of Carina Press books. Janis Susan May returns with another horror suspense novel, Timeless Innocents, following up her fantastic horror debut, Lure of the Mummy. Mystery author Jean Harrington offers up The Monet Murders, the next installment in her Murders By Design series. And the wait is over for fans of Shawn Kupfer’s debut science-fiction thriller, 47 Echo, with the release of the sequel, Supercritical. Rounding out the offerings for mystery fans, W. Soliman offers up Risky Business, the next novel in The Hunter Files.
Romance fans need not dismay, we have plenty more to offer you as well, starting with The Pirate’s Lady, a captivating fantasy romance from author Julia Knight. Coleen Kwan pens a captivating steampunk romance in Asher’s Invention, and fans of m/m will be invested in Alex Beecroft’s emotional historical novella His Heart’s Obsession.
If it’s a little naughty time you’re longing for, be sure to check out Lilly Cain’s Undercover Alliance, a sizzling science-fiction erotic romance.
We’re proud to showcase these returning authors, and the amazing books they’ve written. We hope you’ll join us as we move into our third year of publishing, and continue to bring you stories, characters and authors you can love!
We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.
Happy reading!
~Angela James
Executive Editor, Carina Press
www.carinapress.com
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To my dear friends, the BB’s:
Eleni, Fran, Kati, Nancy and Ramona, for all the fun and facts we’ve shared over the years.
Acknowledgments
To Peg Longstreth of Longstreth & Goldberg Art for her insights into the international art world; Robert K.Wittman, founder of the FBI Art Crime Team, for his informative book Priceless; Kati Griffith for the Hungarian phrases and for allowing the use of her family name; Attorney Carolyn Alden for her legal expertise; my friend and critique partner Sharon Yanish and Lethaladies of KOD for their fabulous cyber critiquing; Houston’s 2010 Lone Star Writing Contest for choosing The Monet Murders as a finalist; and to the Carina Press Executive Editor Angela James and my gifted manuscript-doctor editor Deborah Nemeth, who have welcomed Deva and company into their midst. Thank you, one and all.
Chapter One
I punched in the code to the Alexander mansion as if I owned the place. Not wishful thinking. Familiarity. I’d been in and out of the house so often lately, it felt like home. Ha! My entire condo would fit into the dining room I’d just finished-my first ever high-end interior design project.
A gardener wearing a Devil Rays cap was clipping shrubbery by the stone portico. I waved to him, opened the door and stepped into the foyer. Though the Alexanders were in Biarritz for a week, I helloed like mad anyway. Staff might be around, and I didn’t want to startle anyone.
The odor of lemon wax and gardenias floated through the air but not a single sound. Maria, the cook, and her husband, Jesus, the estate’s major domo, must have taken the afternoon off. Perfect. I’d have the Monets to myself.
Heartbeat thudding, I tiptoed across the cavernous living room into the dining room. The new draperies I’d installed were closed, shutting out the light. I fumbled for the wall switch, flipped it, and the fabric swished apart, revealing a room magnificent enough for Arab sheiks. To give the paintings star billing, I’d kept the décor opulent but discreet with ivory-colored paneling and heavy matching silk at the windows. The Baccarat crystal chandelier and wall sconces added the only glitzy touches, except, of course, for the glowing Monets.
I turned to the wall on the right. Ah…eyes hardly blinking, I worshipped Sunrise at Royan. Had there ever been a dawn as young? A sea as flawless? All apricot, peach and turquoise, the water gently lapped at the shore, not marring the scene with so much as a wave. My business needed every dime I could earn, but seeing this painting was almost payment enough. With a sigh, I tore my gaze away. I had to save some adoration for Sunset at Royan on the opposite wall. I swiveled to the left and saw-omigod!-an empty gilt frame.
The knock-off Chanel bag slipped from my arm and plunged to the floor.
I crept closer. Someone had sliced the canvas out of the frame. Only jagged edges still clung to the wood. Not daring to trust my eyes, I stared, unbelieving, at the sacrilege-a masterpiece cut and changed forever. Worse, it was gone, maybe for good.
The police. I had to notify the police.
Hands trembling, I grabbed the bag off the floor, plunked it on the mahogany table, for once disregarding its polished surface, and rummaged for the cell. My fingers fumbled, as limp as overcooked spaghetti. I couldn’t find a thing. In desperation, I dumped out the contents. No phone. It was sitting on the Audi’s front seat.
I remembered seeing a phone in the kitchen. Abandoning the mess on the tabletop, I pushed open the swinging door and rushed through the butler’s pantry into the kitchen.
I grabbed the receiver and dialed 911.
“My name is Deva Dunne. I want to report a theft.”
That was when I saw Maria-stretched out on the floor beside the food prep island-the toes of her oxfords pointing at the ceiling, a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.
The phone slipped from my hand and dangled at the end of its cord.
A distant voice squawked, “Hello? Hello? Please verify your location.”
Heart pounding, I stared a
t Maria in disbelief.
“Hello. Hello. Your name, please?”
I yanked on the cord and pulled the phone back up to my ear. “There’s a dead body here. On the kitchen floor. A woman with a bullet in her head.”
“Please verify-”
“1570 Gordon Drive.”
I had to get out of there. The killer could be lurking in the house. The phone dropped out of my hand again and clunked against a cabinet.
I pushed open the swinging doors to the butler’s pantry and raced through to the hall, glancing up at the staircase as I ran. No one. Nothing.
Hurry.
My heel slipped, my ankle gave way, and I fell, striking my head on the foyer wall.
* * *
I came to with a start, right into the glare of Lieutenant Victor Rossi’s deep-set, penetrating eyes.
Uh-oh, déjà vu.
“You okay, Mrs. D?” he asked, kneeling beside me, rubbing one of my hands between his own. His blunt fingers were firm and warm, caressing. Someone moaned. That couldn’t have been me, could it?
“You hit your head pretty hard,” he said. “You’ve been out for a while.”
The room swam back into focus. “How long?”
“I don’t know. You were out when Officer Batano got here. I was in the neighborhood so I came right over. Not to worry. The doc’s on his way. He’ll take a look at that lump.”
“The coroner? No thanks.”
Rossi frowned and blew out a breath.
I waved a hand in front of my face. “You been eating garlic?”
He reached into a pocket, took out a mint and popped it. “Think you can sit up?”
Fingering the lump on my head, I eased into a sitting position against the wall. Three months earlier, Lieutenant Rossi of the Naples PD had investigated the murder of Treasure Kozlowski, my neighbor at Surfside Condominiums. Looked like he’d be on this case, too. I’d been scared of him then, but not this time. This time…oh God…this time…
“Maria’s dead, isn’t she?”
He nodded. “The woman in the kitchen? I’m afraid so.”
“I hoped I’d imagined it.”
“No, it looks like a homicide. You need to tell me what happened. Why you’re here. What you saw.”
I struggled to my feet and must have stood up too fast. The room turned fuzzy, but Rossi grabbed me before I landed back on my head. It was the first time he had ever put his arms around me, and his embrace was amazingly strong and comforting.
“Let’s get you a seat,” he said.
Resisting the urge to cling to him, I pulled free and, a little shaky, walked into the living room ahead of him and sank onto a sofa.
Rossi peered at me with what looked like concern on his face. “You feel up to answering a few questions?”
“Of course.”
He reached into a pocket of the pink Hawaiian shirt he wore loose, hanging over his white slacks. With his wall-to-wall shoulders, the casual outfit looked as intimidating as a military uniform. Using a gesture I remembered all too well, he removed a notepad and a pencil stub.
Like death and taxes, there was no way out, so I told him everything I knew, which was next to nothing. He kept the pencil going as if he were whipping out a bestseller. Except when I asked, “Why did the thief only take one Monet? Why not both?”
That wasn’t an idle question. I really was puzzled. Why steal the larger of the two paintings and leave the smaller one? Was the missing one more valuable? To me, both were equally beautiful, equally precious.
He stopped writing for a second. “There’s a reason for everything, Mrs. D.” He jabbed his pencil stub in the direction of the dining room. “That’s what I’m here for, to uncover the reasons why a masterpiece has gone missing. And why a woman is dead.” He held the stub over the notebook again. “You notice anything else gone?”
“No, but I didn’t have a chance to look.”
A fleshy police officer barged into the room. “The cook’s husband is here,” he told Rossi. “A Jesus Cardoza. Batano’s got him on the terrace with the gardener. And the doc’s outside.”
“Tell Batano I’ll be right there. You can send in the doc.” Rossi flipped his notebook closed. “You sure you don’t want him to take a look at you?” he asked me.
I shook my head and regretted it. The room swayed then slowly steadied.
Rossi reached back into his shirt pocket, withdrew a business card and held it out to me.
“I have one, Lieutenant, and I remember the drill. If I think of anything else I’ll call you. Ditto if I leave town in the next few days.” My recital over, I asked, “Now may I leave?”
He tucked the card back in his pocket and gave me a sweeping head-to-toe glance. “You’re looking pale, Mrs. D. How about you go to the ER? Get that lump checked out? I’ll have one of the officers drive you.”
“Thanks, but no thanks. I’m feeling fine now. I’ll just get my handbag and go home.”
He huffed out a sigh. “I could insist.”
“No, you couldn’t. I’m not under arrest.”
He shrugged. “Feel free to leave.”
On my way home, I did intend to go to the ER at the Naples Community Hospital, but I didn’t want to make a big deal out of it by pulling up in a squad car.
I was halfway to the door when he said, “You know something, Mrs. D?”
Exasperated, I turned around. “What?”
“We’ve gotta stop meeting like this.” He grinned. Right in the middle of a murder scene.
How crass. Not a word about the victim, or the missing Monet, or my clients’ loss. I shook my head. A big mistake. I couldn’t take another step until the room stopped spinning.
“One more thing,” he said, as I reached the door. “You’ll need to come to the station tomorrow and sign a witness statement.” He frowned and added, “I know tomorrow will be a tough day for you, but I have to ask.”
I nodded then hurried away before the tears blinded me.
Tomorrow. He had remembered.
Maybe he wasn’t so crass after all.
Chapter Two
The next day, my spirits lower than the price of a garage-sale rug, I opened my shop, Deva Dunne Interiors, promptly at nine as usual. Though the MRI hadn’t shown signs of trauma, my head pounded anyway. It had every right to.
This was December fifteenth, the one-year anniversary of my husband Jack’s death, and as Rossi had guessed, a day I’d been dreading. But no whining allowed. I intended to meet it dry-eyed and chin up, as Jack would have wanted. No sobbing. No groaning or carrying on about how much I missed him. How much I’d lost. How much I wanted him back in the circle of my arms, so I could reach up and sink my fingers in his thick Irish thatch, and warm myself in the sparkle of his eyes and his smile. No moaning about how every cell in my body would come alive each time he said he loved me…in a lilt more enchanting than music, more wonderful than…
I glanced out the display window. No, not again! What a nerve! I jumped up and yanked open the shop door. I’d had it with being dumped on.
“Hey, you! Dreadlocks!”
In his early twenties, with latte skin and dozens of loosely wound braids to his shoulders, the guy turned and pointed a finger at his chest. “Me?”
“Yes, you. I saw you through my window. I want you to quit that.”
He stared at me, a baffled look on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”
“Stop dumping your empties in my planters. I’ve been finding them there all week.”
He shrugged. “That’s what they’re for.”
“Like hell they are.”
I stepped outside. Plucking a dead soda can out of an English boxwood next to the entrance, I held it up. “The planters are for decoration. For customers. This is for you.” I threw the can at him. It bounced off his foot. “No more Cokes. No more Buds. Got that?”
In the distance, traffic pulsed along Fifth Avenue, Naples’s version of Rodeo Drive, but no one ventu
red down the alley. Dreadlocks and I were alone. Over six feet tall, with pecs like Arnold, he could easily have knocked me down, but I stood my ground. I was struggling to create a little bit of beauty in the world and wasn’t about to tolerate any trashing. Not today of all days.
He picked up the empty, crumpled it and dropped it in the gutter. “That better?”
I sighed. “Better. Not good.”
Silver rings mounted the edges of his ears. He’d cut the sleeves off his sweatshirt; a tattooed snake rippled on his right upper arm.
“Thanks for the compassion,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”
“I’m trying to get a business started here. Why make life tough for me?” Tears stung my eyelids, but I willed myself not to cry. Not here. Not now. I’d done enough of that all year. No more. Definitely not in front of this hostile stud with muscles, hooded eyes and ’tude.
He stepped in closer. “You crying?”
“Of course not.”
His voice rose an octave. “Over a can? That’s nothing to cry about.”
“The nothings add up.”
“Yeah, I know.” He frowned. “Look, I don’t want to make an old lady cry.”
Old? “I’m only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake.”
Forehead creasing, he peered at me. “Whatever.”
I didn’t have a single gray strand in my frizzy red hair-at least not a new one-or a wrinkle that mattered. But in that minute I celebrated my hundred and tenth birthday. It was a pity party. Despite my resolve not to cry today, the tears flowed in earnest. I swiped at them with an open palm and turned back to my Boston green door.
“Hey, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dreadlocks called after me. “No more empties in your plants. If I see any, I’ll fish them out, okay?”
Not trusting myself to say more than “Thanks,” I gulped down the last of my tears and went into the best little design shop in Naples. The one practically nobody knew existed. But thanks to Channel 2 and the Naples Daily News, by now everybody probably knew about the missing Monet and the murder and my role in the whole ugly affair. What the reaction to that would be, I dreaded finding out.
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