“Hey, wait a minute,” I called. “Are you telling Morgan or am I?” Too late, her black-clad form disappeared out the door just as a group of three women entered.
By noon, the cookies were all gone, and by five, I’d sold two-thirds of the markdowns. I’d keep the sale going until New Year’s Eve, though judging from today, there wouldn’t any discounts left by then.
Happily weary, at six I turned the Open sign to Closed, snapped off the lights and sat behind Lee’s desk near the entrance. The long shadows cast by the buildings lining Fern Alley darkened as the sun slipped lower. Faint rumbles of thunder echoed in the distance and, overhead, a streak of lightning flashed high across the horizon, silhouetting rooftops against the sky. A soothing, gentle rain splashed lightly on the front window.
I rested my arms on the desk and lowered my head to them. Just a few more days and the holiday season would be over. Thank God. I’d have to dismantle the tree…order some romantic Valentine-themed accessories…and call Morgan Jones. Too bad. I hoped I wouldn’t lose his project. It would lift me out of the red ink I was awash in.
Although if what Jessica had said was true-and why would she lie?-his assets were tied up in his art collection. So even if I managed to keep him as a client, I’d have to be careful…request fifty percent upfront for any purchases…that would cover wholesale costs. For added protection, I’d ask him to sign a contract. The standard industry boilerplate. He shouldn’t object to a straightforward business arrangement like that. Still, in light of what I’d just heard, I found it strange that Morgan retained George Farragut as his financial planner if he didn’t listen to the man.
I raised my head off the desk. Why ponder these details? Most likely the job was lost. I leaned down to massage my foot. Tomorrow I’d wear flats. Standing in heels all day hadn’t been smart.
Wait a minute! I let go of my aching foot and sat up straight. George wasn’t just Morgan’s financial planner, he was also Trevor Alexander’s financial planner.
So what? What was I reaching for?
Think. Think.
According to Jessica, all of Morgan’s money went to feed his art addiction. He was constantly short of funds. What did that have to do with George Farragut? Nothing. And yet Morgan must know George had access to the Alexanders. That still didn’t mean anything. Morgan liked abstract, avant-garde art, not nineteenth-century Impressionism. He wouldn’t covet the Monet. Ah, he might sell it, though. If he could get hands on it. A big if. But who knew?
I stared across the darkened shop, seeing only shadows. With George Farragut’s help, maybe Morgan had somehow gained entrance to the Alexander mansion. Who was to say they weren’t in on it together? Aiding and abetting? A thief and a murderer? They could have cut the painting from its frame and fenced it to a private collector. Morgan must have widespread connections in the art world. Valued at twenty million, even on the black market, the Monet would fetch enough to make both men wealthy. And go a long way toward covering the walls of a twelve-thousand-square-foot house with Russian abstracts.
Would Morgan stoop so low? Jessica had called him a gifted healer. Would a man like that murder a woman for any reason under the sun?
Hard to imagine, yet Morgan had deceived his wife, big time. Not exactly a sterling character trait. Agitated about where my thoughts were leading, I kicked off the heels and padded around the unlit shop in bare feet. My theory was an unsubstantiated idea, tantamount to character assassination. So maybe I should just forget about it.
In the dark, my foot struck a table leg. Pain shot up my leg. I yelped and hobbled back to my seat.
On the other hand, someone had killed Maria, a good, decent woman. Anything that might help find her killer, no matter how wacky, should be explored. As botched up as my thinking might be, I owed it to her to call Rossi and let him know what I’d learned-and suspected-about Dr. Jones and George Farragut.
To prove to myself this wasn’t personal in any way, I’d contact Rossi at the station, not at home. Though at either location, his voice would come through abrupt and gravelly. Then, when he heard me on the line, there’d be a pause before he’d ask, “What can I do for you, Mrs. D?” I loved those little pauses.
I picked up the desk phone and glanced outside. The Fifth Avenue street lamps had surged on, lifting the alley’s gloom a bit. Without warning, a bolt of lightning split the sky. Another wild flash, closer this time. The gentle rain turned vicious and pounded against the glass. The storm was getting nasty. After making the call, I’d head for home.
I’d punched in the first three digits of the NPD number when, with an explosive crash, something heavy struck the window. At the impact, the glass shattered, sending lethal shards spinning throughout the shop.
I screamed. For a split second, a lightning bolt like a streak of fire illuminated the alley, turning night into noon and revealing the rain-soaked figure of a man. Merle Skimp in the flesh.
Chapter Twelve
A hunk of concrete as big as my head had landed on the shop floor. So much for Daddy being Mr. Nice Guy. Heart pounding, I looked out through the gaping hole. The alley was empty. But I had seen Merle. I was sure of it.
Even in the half light, glass fragments sparkled on the desk top. I fumbled around for my shoes. No telling where the other fragments had landed. They could cut my feet to ribbons. As my toes searched for the shoes, I felt something dripping along my left arm. The sleeve of my green striped shirt was slashed. A shard must have hit me; that was blood leaking onto the desk. My fingers trembled but managed to punch in the NPD number.
A no-nonsense male voice answered. “Naples Police.”
“My shop’s been vandalized,” I said.
“You’re calling from 555-8880?”
“That’s correct.”
“Your name?”
I told the official voice what he needed to know and sat still until the blue cruiser lights came flashing down the alley. The blood had soaked my sleeve to the wrist. I needed a tourniquet but somehow I couldn’t think of what to use to staunch the flow. When I got up to open the door and snap on the lights, my head spun, but I clung to the entrance doorjamb. A part of my mind acknowledged that the rain had stopped. A good thing, with that big hole in the front window. I sniffed the air. It smelled fresh and clean, newly washed.
The biggest cop in the world came striding toward me. Officer Batano. Two weeks ago, he’d been the first responder at the Alexanders’. “You’re injured, ma’am?”
“My arm.”
He gave it a visual scan. “Why don’t you come in and sit down? We’ll call an ambulance.”
“No, that’s not necessary, but I will sit.”
He helped me to the desk chair. “That arm needs attention.”
I sat down heavily, an old woman suddenly. His female partner, a petite brunette, followed him into the shop.
“This here’s Officer Hughes,” Batano said. “Call for an ambulance,” he told her in the same breath. “She’s losing blood.”
As Officer Hughes worked her cell phone, Batano went behind the counter that held the cash register and packaging supplies. He tore off a length of moiré ribbon, doubled it, came back and tied it around my arm above the gash. “You all right?”
“I think so.” I really wasn’t sure. I glanced around at my wounded shop. As if sprinkled with ice, it glittered in the light from the overheads.
Batano peered at my face. “You’re the woman who found the murder vic on Gordon Drive? Right?”
I nodded.
“And now this?” He pulled his cell phone out of its case. “The lieutenant’ll want to know what happened here.”
To my relief, he asked for Rossi. I brushed the glass fragments off the desk and laid my head on the top.
“Hang in there, Mrs. Dunne. Help’s on the way.” That was the last I heard before I tuned out the world.
* * *
I woke in the ER with an IV drip flowing into my right arm and Rossi hovering beside it looking distraught.
A sight better than a tropical sunrise, it made me smile.
“Mrs. D, what am I going to do with you?” he asked.
I could have told him, but the effort was more than I could muster. “They drugged me,” I murmured.
The curtains surrounding my cubicle parted. A tired-looking nurse in hospital greens stepped up to my bed, nodded at Rossi and checked the IV. “We’ll be wheeling you into the OR in a few minutes, Mrs. Dunne. We’re going to take good care of that arm.”
“Is the plastic surgeon here?” Rossi asked her.
Whoa! “What plastic surgeon?” I asked.
“The one I requested,” Rossi said.
“He’s scrubbing now, Lieutenant,” the nurse told him.
I raised my head off the pillow just enough to peer at my arm. It was so swathed in bandages, I couldn’t see a thing. But at least the throbbing had stopped.
“Mrs. Dunne lives alone. I want her kept overnight.”
Listen to that Rossi, I thought before I drifted away. He sounds like a husband.
* * *
Well, as it turned out, the underlying muscle tissue in my arm had been damaged, and I’d needed over fifty stitches, from wrist to elbow. Batano’s tourniquet had saved me from bleeding to death, and Rossi’s plastic surgeon had saved the function and, not incidentally, the appearance of my arm.
“How’re you feeling?” Rossi asked when he arrived in my throw-up-green hospital room the next morning. His stubbled chin and heavy eyes told me he hadn’t had much sleep.
“Weren’t you wearing that same shirt last night?” I asked him. “I think I remember that beach scene.”
He glanced down at one of the stars in his Hawaiian collection, Waikiki and Diamond Head repeated every ten inches. He rubbed a hand across his chin. “Didn’t have time to change.”
Lifting my injured left arm with my right hand, I moved it to my lap like the dead weight it was and turned in the bed to face him. “Thank you, Lieutenant, for being with me last night. I appreciate your concern more than I can say. But will you answer a question?”
Wariness flooded his hawk eyes. “Yeah…”
“When you insisted on the plastic surgeon, why did the ER staff carry out that order without asking me?”
“You were in no condition to answer.”
I evil-eyed him. “Rossi. Come clean.”
He cleared his throat. “I signed a form guaranteeing payment for his services.”
I rolled back, flat out on the bed. He thought that much of me? For the first time since all this happened, tears leaked out of my eyes.
“Hey, stop that,” Rossi ordered. “You’ve lost enough fluids. I’d have done the same for my sister.”
“You have a sister?”
He shifted from one foot to the other. “Well, no.”
I let the tears flow. They felt good running down my face, dripping off my chin. “I have excellent health insurance. It was Jack’s from BU. Whatever the costs, they should be covered.” I mopped my face with the sleeve of my jonny. “Thanks for saving my arm, Rossi. I love you for it.”
At my words, his face flushed a deep magenta. What a sight. If I hadn’t seen it, I wouldn’t have believed it.
“Gotcha!” I said, flipping him a grin.
To cover his confusion, I swear, he bent over and picked up a Deva Dunne Interiors shopping bag-glossy white stock with the logo and handles in deep Boston green. “A change of clothes,” he said, “for when you get sprung. Which should be later today, after the surgeon’s rounds.”
I could feel the grin melting off my face. “How did you get my clothes?”
He cocked an eyebrow.
“You’ve been in my condo?”
His shrug sent hurricane winds whipping over Waikiki.
I blew out a breath. “Okay, let’s see what you brought.”
He placed the bag on the bed. With my good arm, I lifted out a lavender tank, a pair of hyacinth slacks, flat sandals and my makeup kit. I left the lacy bra and panties in the bag.
“Good choices?” he asked, back in control again. Despite his fatigue, his eyes sparkled.
“Have you been in my underwear drawers?”
“Let me put it this way, Mrs. D. I know you don’t wear cotton granny briefs. No padded bras either.”
“You checked. And I’ll bet you sniffed everything too. That’s disgusting. You know that, Rossi.”
He couldn’t suppress a grin. “Actually, I accompanied your assistant, Miss Skimp, to the condo. She made the selections while I waited in the living room.”
“You had a key?”
He sighed. “We can open any door in town. Remember that and keep your dead bolts on when you’re home.” He arched an eyebrow. “I know you don’t want any surprise visitors at midnight.”
If that was a question, I didn’t bother to answer it and glared at him instead.
“That’s what I thought.” He cleared his throat. “Now, if you’re feeling well enough, we need to talk seriously.”
“I’m ready whenever you are.”
This time, suppressing yet another grin-at least it looked suspiciously like one to me-he sat in the faux leather chair beside the bed. With the two fingers he always used for the job, he extracted a notebook and pencil stub from his shirt pocket and wasted no time getting down to business.
“Last night, you said you saw Merle Skimp in the alley right after the attack. Correct?”
“Yes.”
“That alley’s pretty dark.”
“There was a flash of lightning. It was Merle, all right.”
“Did you see him throw the rock?”
“No. Right afterward. Then he disappeared.”
“You’re sure?”
“I’d swear on a Bible.”
Rossi nodded and scribbled in the pad before looking up. “You realize it’s your word against his. The allegation will be tough to prove.”
“I understand, but what about-”
“Further vandalism?”
I nodded. “Exactly.”
Rossi cleared his throat and shifted on the leather chair. “We can’t rule that out, of course, but the probability is remote. Batano and I paid a call on Mr. Skimp last night. Batano scared the bejez-he warned Mr. Skimp we’d be watching him day and night from here on in. The police will increase patrols in the shop area also.” Rossi lowered his note pad. “That said, I want you to park your car on Fifth Avenue, not in the lot in back of the shop. And close up nights before dark. It’s doubtful Skimp would try anything in broad daylight. Above all, be careful. As I’ve told you before, call the minute you suspect something.”
I moved the injured arm back onto the mattress. “The lights were out. He must have thought the shop was empty.”
“A sneaky dude, all right, but you understand we can’t prosecute him. There’s no hard evidence he was the culprit.”
“I know. And for Lee’s sake I don’t want this to escalate. But there’s something else you need to know. I was about to call you at the station when Merle shattered the window.”
He gave me one of his skeptical here-she-goes-again looks. I ignored it and launched into what I’d learned about Morgan Jones and George Farragut, muffling my guilt as I did so. True, I was ratting on a client and his friend, but Maria’s silent form trumped my concern for them. I had to tell Rossi what I believed, however specious my theory might be. Either that or never sleep again.
He took notes with his scrap of a pencil before glancing up. “I’ll consider this a confidential lead. We’ll see where it takes us.” He pocketed the pad and pencil and stood, pushing the chair into a corner. “I’ve got to get back to work.”
“So do I.”
“Not so fast.”
“What do you mean, not so fast? I have a business to run. One with a gaping hole in the window. God knows what’s happened to the inventory, and there were glass shards everywhere. I’ve got to get over there.”
If Rossi hadn’t been in the room, I’d have tossed the thin
hospital blanket aside. But the short, blue-sprigged jonny hardly reached the top of my thighs.
Rossi paused in the doorway. “Not to worry. It’s all been taken care of.”
“What do you mean?”
He walked back to the foot of the bed. “A disaster cleanup service came in last night. Got rid of the glass. Boarded the front window.” He glanced at his watch. “Lee Skimp should be over there now, letting in the glazier.”
“What glazier? What disaster cleanup service?”
“The ones I contacted.”
I sank back onto my pillow. “Were you up all night?”
“No,” he said. But standing there unshaven, in yesterday’s shirt, he sure looked like he’d just lied.
“When this case is over, Rossi…”
“Yeah?” he growled, his heavy eyes brightening.
“Mrs. Dunne,” a deep voice boomed from the open doorway, “I’m Dr. Lemoine.” A tanned man with the lean physique of a long-distance runner bounced into the room on the balls of his feet. “I operated on your arm last night.”
“Doctor, this is-” I began.
Rossi and the surgeon nodded at each other. “We met last night,” Rossi said. “And now I’m on my way. Before I leave, there’s one other thing, Mrs. D. When you’re released, your neighbors Chip and AudreyAnn will be here to take you home.”
He had my entire life arranged. Torn between gratitude and irritation, I watched him make a quick exit then concentrated on what Dr. Lemoine had to say: I should retain full use of my arm and have minimal to no scarring.
What irritation? Deep, heartfelt gratitude won out.
* * *
“You’re having Italian penicillin for lunch,” Chip announced on the way home.
“Which is?”
“Minestrone soup. My mother’s recipe. After you eat that, you’ll probably want a nap. When you wake up, it’s a filet mignon with Chanterelle mushrooms and roasted asparagus.” He glanced across the seat. “You need red meat for strength.”
The Monet Murders Page 10
