The Monet Murders

by Jean Harrington

  I keyed my way in, dumped the briefcase on a chair and headed for the shower. A cold one.

  Chapter Eight

  All night I had long, vivid dreams of Simon, but toward dawn, Rossi entered the picture and drove him away. Interesting and annoying. What was Rossi doing in my psyche? Even more important, what was he doing in the Alexander case? No clue either way.

  At ten o’clock I set the arrow on the shop window sign to two, locked up and drove to Dr. Jones’s house in Bonita Bay, an upscale gated community a few miles north of Naples.

  The Bonita Bay gate guard admitted me and gave me directions to the Jones property. The day couldn’t have been more beautiful, full of sun, full of promise as I followed a winding road through a lush, jungle-meets-Palm Beach landscape. Every acre or so, a sprawling house, usually faux Tuscan in design, studded a well-groomed lawn. When I spied a boxlike stark white structure in striking contrast to its neighbors, I pulled onto the curved stone driveway.

  Figures. Anyone who liked surreal green nipples would like sleek deconstructionist architecture. Judging from its exterior, the house would be fascinating to work with and, not to be crass about it, a big empty place that needed everything was a designer’s dream come true. Well, one of them, anyway.

  Pulse pounding, I climbed out of the Audi and rang the front entrance bell. Waited, rang a second time, waited, rang a third. No answer. My pulse rate dropped back to normal, and I returned to the car and sat behind the wheel. Our appointment was for ten thirty. I’d give him until eleven. If he didn’t show by then, I’d leave. Whether I needed the job or not. A girl has her pride.

  To my relief, Dr. Jones didn’t put me to the test. Shortly before eleven, he roared up in a marine blue Porsche Boxster. The car door swung open, and he jumped out frowning. I yanked the key out of the ignition, picked up my handbag, clipboard and the Hermès briefcase, and exited the Audi.

  Dr. Jones nodded and flicked his glance over me, running it from my hair down to my Jimmy Choos-one of the best investments I’d ever made. In neutral leather, they went with everything. Everything today being a gold tank top and pencil skirt over which I’d tossed a new purchase, a short fitted jacket, hand-quilted in squares of coffee, orange, green and gold. It even sported chunky wooden buttons that looked a lot like Oreo cookies. I hoped it would signal to Dr. Jones that while I do classic black I do flashy funk too. After all, he had bought that bizarre painting, who knew where his tastes might lie?

  As Dr. Morgan’s glance crawled over me, I felt nothing sexual in his stare. Like last night, he gave me the impression he was merely appraising the dollar value of my attire. Creepy. And I was about to enter an empty house with him? I gave a mental shrug. Simon knew I’d be meeting Dr. Morgan this morning so that was a safety valve of sorts. Besides, the man was a well-respected physician. Creepy didn’t mean dangerous, did it?

  I held up the briefcase. “Your friend’s?”

  “Yes, thank you.” He took it from me, and with his free hand jabbed a finger at the house. “Shall we? I only set aside an hour for this.”

  No apology for being a half hour late? Reining in my irritation, I followed him to the front door. Anger didn’t pay well. Be charming, I muttered to myself, even if it kills you.

  He coded off the electronic security locks and held open one of the double doors. His frown disappeared, and a smile flitted across his face. Unexpected as a flash of sun at midnight, it startled me. But I was in for another shock. I stepped inside, walked through the foyer into the great room and gasped.

  “The house is full of art!” I said, whirling around to face him.

  “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

  He had, all right. In the bare white interior, a row of stunning oil paintings was propped against the walls. I stood in the center of the empty, echoing space and stared at them in amazement. Eight in all, they ranged from a smallish Jim Dine, a mere two feet by four, to a monumental Rosenquist. At nine by twelve, through sheer size alone it ruled the room.

  Dr. Jones walked up to the massive abstract, studying it as though it were a beautiful woman-with lust glowing in his eyes. Then he turned to me. “I had to have the Rosenquist. I couldn’t resist. The color is exactly right for the house.”

  Shades of blue, pierced with thunderbolts of silver and black, shot across the canvas.

  “Which color is right?” I asked.

  “The blue. It’s my favorite color in the world.”

  Blue for a post-modernist structure? This was a house on the cutting edge, and it called for cutting edge colors to play up the form. “Blue as an accent, perhaps, but-”

  “Blue,” he said, his eyes piercing mine with the sharpness of a scalpel, “is the only possible color. Period. End of story. Design around that premise, Ms. Dunne, or don’t design at all.”

  Of course he liked blue. Shame all over me. I had forgotten the principles of my design bible-color dynamics. Blue was the coldest shade in the spectrum. No wonder he adored it.

  “Blue it is,” I said.

  “Yes, blue it will be. I have a copy of the architect’s plans for you. And these photographs from the gallery.” Dr. Jones pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out. “I thought photographs of the art would help you select the palette for the rooms.”

  My defection apparently forgiven, he favored me with a smile as I flipped through the snapshots.

  I didn’t smile back. “No, I’m afraid they’re of no help. They distort the colors in the paintings.”

  His gemlike eyes widened at being contradicted, but I had to hold my own. Once I started playing obedient nurse to his commanding doctor, I might as well flush my credibility down the toilet. He’d won the blue round. Now I had to win one. Either that or walk off the project, a luxury common sense told me Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford.

  “I need to match swatches to the paintings themselves. That’s the only method that results in perfection, Dr. Jones.”

  “Call me Morgan,” he said, “and, if I may, I’ll call you Deva.” He held up a warning finger. “Remember, keep blue in mind.”

  “How could I forget…Morgan?”

  He waved a dismissive hand, as if my words were gnats dive-bombing his nose. “I want the blue interpreted with sophistication. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, I believe I do. Subliminal. There, but not there.”

  “Good girl.” He actually patted my arm. “Now come, I’ll show you the rest of the house. Let’s start with the master suite.”

  When we reached a ballroom-sized bedroom, he said, “I want this room luxurious. When the lights go on in the evening, everything must be bathed in a luminous glow.” He pinned me with his eyes. “Tenderness, softness, is what I’m after.”

  I nodded. “Now that I have a better idea of-”

  He cut me off. “Put in several levels of lighting. Sconces, chandeliers and muted lamp light on the bedside tables. The wall color is to be the most delicate blue-gray you can find, and make it shimmer. As I said, softly.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This from the Ice Man? Maybe I had him pegged all wrong. Maybe he hid his passion from view, but like a beating heart, it pulsed steadily out of sight. For what Dr. Jones wanted was a bedroom oozing sex. The kind of fantasy room that would cause a woman to strip off her clothes, stretch out on a satin sheet, spread her hair like a curtain over the pillows and wait…

  I took notes as we toured, my handwriting deteriorating into pictographs as Morgan spewed out demands faster and faster. He trashed a few of my ideas but retained most. Then, when it came to the placement of the Sizov nude, I won another round.

  “It belongs in the kitchen,” I said.

  He recoiled like I had hit him. “No, absolutely not. It’ll be wasted in there.”

  “It’ll be unexpected in there.” I tempted him. “It’ll be intelligent in there.”

  He hesitated. “A nude in the kitchen?”

  “Positively. She’s perfect for the kitche
n. Apple cheeks, eyes like purple grapes, nipples like unripe cherries. She’s good enough to eat.”

  I let him gnaw on that one, and he did. A smile creased his face. No word of a lie, the third smile in the past hour.

  “Fine,” he said, shooting an overly starched cuff, checking his Rolex. “I have five minutes left. I want to see color samples and sketches as soon as possible.”

  “I’ll get on it right away, but with the holidays so close, should we plan to meet after the New Year? January second?”

  He nodded. “That’ll do.” Reaching into a kitchen drawer, he removed a silver ring with two attached keys and gave it to me. “The small one is for the security system.”

  “Thank you. Before I leave, I think I’ll take another look around.”

  “Take all the time you need.” He glanced at his watch again. “I was expecting someone else, but he’s late, and I’ve got to leave. Be sure to turn on the alarm when you’re finished.”

  “Of course.”

  As we left the kitchen, the chimes sounded. His habitual frown in place, Morgan strode to the foyer and yanked open the front door.

  “Do you have my briefcase?” a man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Christ, I’ve been worried sick about it.”

  “Then you should have shown up last night.”

  “I had good reason not to. Whose Audi is that in the driveway?”

  Curious to see the caller, I strolled toward the foyer. The visitor was a middle-aged man with the tanned, fit look of a dedicated sportsman.

  “George Farragut, this is Deva Dunne, my interior designer,” Morgan said. “George is my financial advisor, Deva. He’s known for keeping creative books.”

  “I’ll ignore that crack, Morgan.” George peered at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” he asked as I held out my hand. “Ah, now I remember. In the Naples paper. You’re the woman who discovered the art theft at the Alexanders.”

  Not a word about Maria. I lowered my hand. “That’s correct. I discovered the theft. I didn’t perpetrate it.”

  “I didn’t mean to imply you had,” George said, his expression implying plenty.

  “You know the Alexanders?” I asked, annoyed enough to question him.

  “I’m Trevor’s financial advisor.”

  “Then we have something in common. We both work for him.” Borrowing one of Rossi’s ruses, I sprung a surprise question. “The Monets are marvelous, aren’t they? Which one is your favorite?”

  “Sunset at Royan.” He stopped short as if he’d said the wrong thing.

  “The one that’s missing.” My turn to insinuate. You could say I do bitchy really well.

  Anyway, the smug expression fled George’s face. “Yes, so I understand.”

  “I’ve never seen the Alexanders’ Monets,” Morgan said with a shrug. “No matter. My preference is late twentieth century. Here’s your precious briefcase, George.” Morgan picked up the Hermès case from the foyer floor and handed it to him.

  George clasped it to his chest. “I got in eighteen holes at Pebble Beach, but other than that, the trip to L.A. was damn near a bust without this. The office faxed most of what I needed, but still…”

  “You shouldn’t have been so forgetful,” Morgan told him. “Are you slipping, George?”

  This from the man who’d forgotten the same case last night.

  Without waiting for an answer, Morgan clasped George’s shoulder and drew him toward the front door. “I’m seeing patients this afternoon, and I know you have to get back to work. So let’s leave Deva alone to do her thing. Don’t forget to turn on the alarm,” Morgan said, glancing back and tossing me a wink. I couldn’t believe it. A wink from the Ice Man? Would wonders never cease?

  And would the list of people who had access to the Alexander mansion keep growing? Rossi had his work cut out for him. Socially prominent, the Alexanders entertained constantly. Scores of people, most of them wealthy and well connected, had been guests in their home and had seen the Monets. But being a guest in the company of others was one thing; having access when the house was empty was another. Except for family and close friends, that would be business people like George and me, and service personnel, the laundress and maids who came in several times a week, floor polishers, window cleaners, and the party temps who helped Maria and Jesus serve invited guests.

  Even the gardeners had limited access. On several occasions I saw Maria open the kitchen door and hand bottles of cold water to the men sweating in the sun. Men like Lee’s father. Alone that fatal day, had she opened the door to the wrong person? To someone she recognized? Surely not to Paulo, but to Merle Skimp, perhaps? Or to George Farragut? Or to someone I had never met and would never know?

  That was the hell of it, not knowing. But someone did. The killer, who had walked in bold as brass and walked out-to borrow Simon’s phrase-as rich as sin.

  Chapter Nine

  On the drive back to Naples, my mind swirled with Morgan’s demands. For the sake of both my business and my sanity, I needed to concentrate on his project and stop obsessing about the crimes-to trust in Rossi and the Naples P.D.

  To help me get a grip, and to lighten my mood, I decided to use a little psychology on myself and tally all the pluses in my life.

  Okay. First and foremost, I passed the one year anniversary of Jack’s death without a total meltdown.

  After years of dragging my heels, I finally summoned the guts to start my own business.

  The Jones project promises to be a shot of fiscal adrenaline.

  Last night, a handsome man kissed me breathless.

  I passed a slowpoke driver and switched into the high-speed lane. To even the playing field, I’d count the negatives, too.

  Though the hurt ebbs away a little each day, each week, each month, the bitter truth is I’ve lost Jack forever.

  Morgan might not like my ideas and refuse to hire me.

  A kiss is not a life.

  I miss seeing Rossi.

  Whoa! Where had that come from? A red light flared in front of my eyes. I jammed on the brakes. God, I had nearly sped through the stop. What was the matter with me?

  A lot.

  I was in emotional recovery.

  Lonely.

  Broke-almost.

  I had discovered the theft of a twenty-million-dollar painting and found a woman with a bullet in her head.

  Things couldn’t be much worse. Then, like some kind of urban miracle, the stop light turned green. An omen. Go. I stomped on the gas pedal and my self-pity at the same time.

  I was still young and healthy and worked in one of the loveliest towns in America. The sun shone, the palm trees swayed, the hibiscus bloomed. And all this in December.

  What did freckles and frizzy hair matter? My B cups were filled out pretty well, and more than one man had mentioned my sensational legs.

  I felt better already. The psychologists were right, counting your blessings was a good thing.

  Tonight after work, I’d go grocery shopping for Christmas dinner. The Irish Pub would be closed on the holiday, so I’d see if Lee might be free-Paulo, too. For I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, he was anything but a young man in love.

  We’d have roast prime rib, Yorkshire pudding-Jack had loved it-baked stuffed tomatoes, steamed asparagus and two kinds of pie, pecan and pumpkin. I’d lace the whipped cream topping with a little brandy. Cold shrimp for the first course. Some simple cheese snacks with wine before dinner. Not gourmet but not bad.

  * * *

  Christmas morning the dining table gleamed with Nana’s Coalport china and Jack’s mother’s old Irish silver. Red decorations would war with my peach-colored walls, so, instead, I sent a wired gold ribbon cascading along the center of the table and topped the ribbon with a row of brass angels holding thick ivory candles. As if it were confetti, I sprinkled tiny gold snowflakes over the entire tabletop. When we sat down for dinner, the candlelight would make everything glittery and warm and festive.r />
  I found myself humming. It had been over a year since anyone had come for dinner. What a good feeling to have a semblance of normalcy seep back into my life.

  I lit the oven, and soon the roast filled the air with a heavenly aroma. Preparations complete, I stripped off my shorts and Jack’s old BU T-shirt. Glamming it up a bit, I shrugged into a snug green crop top and matching wide-leg slacks. The fuzzy angora top played off the silky smooth pants. And the narrow swath of bare midriff added a little sauce to the mix. I dabbed powder on my nose, glossed my mouth with Revlon Peach and, for fun, put on dangly Christmas tree earrings. Swaying on either side of my face, they looked a little dumb, but oh well, “’Tis the season,” my image in the bathroom mirror told me. It also said, “Be happy today.”

  “Good advice. I’ll take it,” I said out loud.

  Promptly at two, the door bell chimed.

  Da da da DA.

  The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, Jack’s favorite. Simon and Paulo had arrived together and stood outside on the stone walkway. From their smiles, they were clearly more than ready for a party.

  “Come in! Welcome. Merry Christmas.”

  “Merry Christmas, Deva.”

  Simon held up two wine bags. “I covered both bases. Red and white.” He gave me a discreet peck on the cheek, so discreet I wondered for a second if I had fantasized our encounter in the carport.

  While I arranged brie and crackers on a plate, Simon put the red wine on the kitchen counter-we’d have that with dinner-and uncorked the Pinot Grigio.

  Paulo asked for a Coke. When we carried our drinks into the living room, I sat where I could watch the clock. In less than an hour, the roast should be done to perfection. Above all, I didn’t want to ruin it.

  Paulo sipped his soda and glanced around my living room, his gaze lingering on the heirloom pieces I’d inherited from Jack’s family, the tall case clock, the sideboard, the Tabriz rug in faded shades of apricot, taupe and muted green. He caught me watching him and grinned sheepishly.