The Monet Murders (14 page)

Chapter Fifteen

Working alone in the shop, I had a busy day. Running the cash register with one arm in a sling was a challenge. Seeing my predicament, several of the customers wrapped their own purchases, acting as if they enjoyed helping me and hearing all about the vandalized window and my surgery. Around noon, I found time to call the two women who were interested in design work, got directions to their homes, and made appointments for the second week in January.

Throughout the day, I kept checking my watch. Two. Two-thirty. Three. Three-thirty. Where was Lee? At four, I paced around the tables to work off my anxiety. In this age of casual hooking up, should I be so worried?

Yes, I should. I’d encouraged Lee to go to Paulo. Well, if not encouraged exactly, I definitely hadn’t discouraged her. I’d even loaned her my car, for Pete’s sake. And what did I know about Paulo except that he was Jamaican and well mannered and gifted? Had the gifted part swayed me?

Calm down, you’re not the girl’s mother.
Besides, the attraction between them was like a bolt of lightning. I couldn’t have stopped it if I wanted to.
But you didn’t even try.

Ten past four.

Something must have happened by now. What that something might be, I could well imagine. The first time with Jack had been…

The sleigh bells jangled. My glance darted to the door.

Yes.

Hand in hand, easy and relaxed, Lee and Paulo strolled into the shop, happiness surrounding them like an aura. If I had said, “Beam them up, Scotty,” they would have risen out of sight. They were already ten feet off the floor.

“Deva, we want you to be the first to know,” Lee said, her face aglow, all signs of fatigue wiped away.

“Do I need to sit down?”

Paulo laughed. “We’re getting married.” A frisson of anxiety sprang into his eyes as he waited for my response.

“Come here, both of you,” I said, and holding out my good arm, I gave them a lopsided bear hug and dropped a sloppy kiss on each happy face. Then I held them at arm’s length and studied them—Lee, armed with a love no problem could surmount, and Paulo, so terribly aware that love could be lost in a heartbeat. For I felt sure that was the worry I read in his eyes. How well I understood.

“When?” I asked.

“As soon as we can get a license,” Paulo said. “We don’t want to wait.”

Ah. I shot a quick peek at Lee. She turned rosy red. I suppressed a smile. What had or hadn’t happened between them was none of my business.

“Surfside Condominiums has a clubroom. If you like, my wedding gift will be a celebration dinner. I even have a celebrity chef to do the honors. His specialty is Italian soul food. What do you think?”

They glanced at each other and grinned.

“Okay, that’s settled then,” I said. “But since you’ve confided in me, am I allowed a personal question?”

“Anything,” they said in unison, then looked at each other and laughed.

Already they were a single, united whole. I suspected they always would be, and at all I had lost, a sudden spurt of pain shot through me. But I squelched the self-pity before it could take root. The memory of a perfect love was mine to cherish forever. How many people have as much?

“What I was wondering is, where will you live? How will you manage?”

“We’ve been talking about that all day, Deva,” Lee said. “Paulo’s place over the garage is perfect. So small and cozy. As soon as the owners return for New Year’s, he’ll tell them about me. He doesn’t think there’ll be a problem. He has a Volkswagen, so we’ll have a car.”

“But money will be a problem,” Paulo acknowledged. “I teach a few classes a week at the Von Liebig Art Center, and bartend whenever I can, but—”

“I have an idea.” It was one that had been simmering in my brain ever since I saw Lee’s portrait.

Looking surprised, they both stared, waiting for me to go on. “Suppose we put Lee’s portrait on an easel here in the shop? Put some business cards next to it. Maybe a flyer with your picture, Paulo, and a little bio information. People coming into the shop would see it—”

Nodding and smiling, Lee finished my thought. “—and order paintings from you, Paulo. Deva, y’all have such wonderful ideas. Doesn’t she, Paulo?”

“Yes, but…”

“But what?” Lee asked, her smile dimming.

“The portrait was a gift to you. Not a sales device.”

“Oh, honey,” she said. “Y’all need me so bad.” With that she flung her arms around him, kissing him with an expertise she must have picked up that afternoon. Then she released him, glanced down and said, “I’m going to quit day classes.”

“Oh, no.” The words escaped my mouth before I could stop them.

At my outburst, Paulo gave me a startled glance then looked over at Lee. “That’s the downside of our plans,” he said quietly.

“No, it isn’t,” Lee insisted. “I’ll take classes two evenings a week. I only have three semesters to go. It’ll take a little longer to get my degree, is all. That way, Deva,” she added shyly, “if you want me, I can work more hours.”

“Of course I want you,” I said slowly. “I’ve been dreading the day you’d leave. But to be honest, I’m sorry to see you drop out of school. Night classes are difficult after you’ve worked all day.”

“Deva’s right, Lee,” Paulo said. “Maybe we should wait until you get your degree.”

“Darlin’,” she replied, with a tremor in her voice, “I don’t believe I
can
wait.” Then she flung her hands over her face, hiding her need and her bright pink cheeks.

Paulo looked across at me, and we both grinned.

“Well, I do have four design projects in the works,” I said. “So having you here to keep the shop open would be wonderful.”

Lee lowered her hands to her lap. “See,” she said, smiling at Paulo. “What did I tell y’all? Everything’s going to be just fine.”

* * *

As soon as Lee arrived the next morning, starry eyed and smiling, I left for Michael Mesnik’s Art Frame and Restoration Studio. I had six ladies’ fashion prints from the nineteen twenties that needed framing for the new powder room I was designing. Located next to Tin City, one of Naples’s bayside tourist attractions, Mesnik’s was the best framer in town.

The minute I walked in, someone said, “Well, fancy meeting you here, Mrs. Dunne.”

The voice was familiar, as was the tanned, bald pate that had been polished like an apple.

“George Farragut. What a surprise.” Actually, surprise was an understatement. I never expected to see a numbers cruncher like George in an art frame shop. Though come to think of it, he was supposed to have met Simon that night at the Russian art exhibit.

“I’m on my way to work,” he said, “but I had to stop by and see what Michael has done with my last acquisition. And to drop off another one.”

George rested his Hermès briefcase on the counter and shook my good hand a little too vigorously.

“This is one of my favorite places in town. Being next to the Riverwalk Bar doesn’t hurt, either.” He laughed, and eyes darting to my sling, said, “You’ve been making the headlines.”

“To my regret.”

“Any idea of who the vandal might be?”

“None at all.”

“Unfortunately, the local police are less than efficient.”

“Oh, I don’t know—”

Michael, the shop’s owner, a tall, thin man who always looked rushed even when he wasn’t, came out from the back room. “Mrs. Dunne. Mr. Farragut. Pleased to see you both. Your etching is ready,” he said to George. “I’ll get it, and be right with you, Mrs. Dunne.” He hurried behind the curtain separating the shop from his workroom.

“Etching?” I asked. “So you’re interested in art, George?”

He nodded, his attention on the opening to the workroom, his fingers drumming on the countertop. Like Morgan Jones, another obsessed art lover?

A moment later, an actor on a stage, Michael parted the curtain and emerged with a small framed image in his hands. About twelve by sixteen inches, the etching was French matted in cream and framed in ebony. He held it up for George to inspect.

“Ah, nice, Michael. Very nice, indeed.”

I agreed. Flemish perhaps, or Dutch, it depicted a woodland scene, its incised lines crisp and clean. The deep ivory paper told me it was old. Eighteenth, or even seventeenth century.

“What do you think?” George asked, tearing his attention from the image long enough to ask my opinion.

“It’s incredible.”

“That’s the word precisely. Not like those lurid abstracts Morgan chases down.”

Uh-oh, an art snob.

“Abstract art has its admirers,” I replied.

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

I shrugged. “Modern art is a mirror of our time. And mirrors aren’t always flattering.” I sighed and let truth win out. “That said, I admit this etching is the choice of a very selective connoisseur.”

George smiled as if I’d said something amusing. So my opinions were funny, were they?

“You’re an intelligent woman, Mrs. Dunne. I’ll be interested to see what you do with Morgan’s place. All that blue. And all those huge acrylics in those garish colors.” George indulged in a little shudder.

So the man thought I was intelligent? I supposed I should be flattered but wasn’t. Somehow his compliment had sounded like a patronizing crack.

Working quickly, Michael laid the etching over a sheet of bubble wrap and secured it with tape.

“I have something else for you,” George said, unzipping his briefcase. He reached in, withdrew a folder and opened it with a flourish. Inside lay a drawing of a female nude, sponge in hand, bathing in a tub of water.

Michael gasped. “Is it?” he asked in a hushed tone.

George nodded. “A Degas. The provenance is above reproach.”

“The same framing? Ebony?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll get to it right away. An honor, Mr. Farragut.”

“Don’t rush. The delay will give me something to look forward to. I trust we’ll meet again, Mrs. Dunne,” George said, giving me a little two-fingered salute. Then picking up his briefcase and tucking the etching under an arm, he exited Mesnik’s with a swagger.

“One of my best customers,” Michael said when we were alone. “His office is in the building next door, and he’s in here all the time. A nice man with a very refined taste.”

“So I noticed.”

“He scours Europe for those old master drawings, and some of them are priceless. Judging from the number I’ve restored for him over the years, he must have a world-class collection by now.”

“How interesting,” I said, taking the fashion prints out of a manila envelope and laying them on the counter. After the Degas, I had to admit they looked pretty tame, but they’d be a colorful conversation piece once Michael matted and framed them. Together we made our selections, and I said goodbye, crammed the receipt in my purse and headed for the door.

What I’d learned about George
was
interesting. Another man with ties to the Alexanders who was obsessed with collecting. I hurried across the parking lot. The instant I got inside the Audi, I’d call Rossi and tip him off. My pace slowed. On second thought, maybe not. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t play amateur sleuth, and that was a promise I needed to keep. I also needed to concentrate on my own business, and that meant completing the renderings Morgan Jones would expect to see on January second.

Besides, so what if George liked etchings? Everyone who collected art wasn’t a thief. And everyone who knew the Alexanders wasn’t a killer.

No, I wouldn’t call Rossi and annoy him with my half-baked suspicions. Not about Merle’s flight and not about George’s etchings. Sink or swim, Rossi was on his own.

Chapter Sixteen

New Year’s Eve. Midnight, and all the bells and whistles at Times Square were going crazy. I pushed back from the drawing board and watched CNN record the frenzy. The glittering ball descended on the screaming crowd at the exact moment my kitchen phone rang. Who could this be? A reveler bringing in the New Year?

I stood, arched my back, and hurried out to the kitchen, hoping, hoping…

A little breathless, I picked up. “Hello.”

“Deva! Happy New Year!”

Simon.
My pulse, soaring a moment before, dropped down to its normal rhythm. “Where are you?” I asked. “You sound like you’re partying.”

“Upstairs. Alone. Want me to come down for a nightcap?”

Was I wrong, or was he slurring his words? “I’m in bed, Simon,” I lied.

“All the better.”

“Very funny. Thanks for the good wishes, but—”

“Don’t hang up. Have you finished that Jones project?”

“No, but I’ve made a good dent in it.”

“Translated that means dinner’s out again tomorrow?”

“’Fraid so. I really need to spend the day working.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Thanks for calling. It was sweet of you, Simon. See you in January.”

“Wait—”

I hung up, but gently, and went back to the living room to watch the excitement in Times Square. People shaking noisemakers and shouting “Happy New Year, everybody!” Couples kissing and hugging and waving at the cameras…

I turned off the set and flung the remote on a chair. What was wrong with me? Sitting here alone on New Year’s Eve without a friend for company, without anyone to hug or kiss, in a silence that suddenly pounded in my head like jungle drums? I could be in bed now with Simon…I could be partying, champagne flute in hand…I could be out somewhere, anywhere, with Rossi.

Wait a New York minute. This wasn’t the first time Rossi had popped up out of nowhere. Why?
Why?
Without stopping to analyze the reason, I jumped up and dashed out to the kitchen. It wasn’t too late. The ball over Times Square had hardly hit the ground.

I picked up the phone and dialed. Maybe Rossi had to listen to the chief, but I didn’t. My pulse pounding in rhythm with the rings, I held the receiver to my ear, eager to hear that raspy voice. It would be on the cusp of irritation when he picked up, and then a heart-stopping pause when I said “hello” and he knew I was on the line. Yes…I had to hear that stunned pause. I had to have my fix.

On the fourth ring, I knew he wasn’t home. On the fifth, I held the receiver at arm’s length, staring at it as if it could tell me where he was. Did homicide detectives work at midnight on New Year’s Eve? Sure they did. ’Round the clock. Twenty-four/seven.

And they had dates on New Year’s Eve.

I hung up and said “Happy New Year” to the fridge. Disgusted with my own longings, I snapped off all the lights, tossed the sling into a corner and tumbled into bed. Sure, I was lonely, but did I have to turn pathetic and needy, making weird phone calls at midnight? My first New Year’s resolution: no more calls like the last one. Not to any man on earth.

Before I could settle under the covers, the phone on the bedside table rang. Probably Simon again. I didn’t want to answer, but the ringing wouldn’t stop.

Annoyed, I grabbed the receiver off the hook. “Yes.”

“Happy New Year, Mrs. D.”

I bolted upright.

“I was asleep when you called,” he said.

A likely story.
“You have caller ID? I didn’t say anything.”

“You sound lonely.”

So he could detect that, too? “You’re a psychiatrist now?”

“I told you what I was.”

A lover.
“Under the circumstances, Rossi, it’s hard to remember everything you say.”

“For now, maybe, but not forever.”

“What does that mean, exactly?” I’d just vowed not to make any more middle-of-the-night phone calls, but asking middle-of-the-night questions wasn’t part of the deal.

“Are you in bed?” he asked, ignoring my question completely. Rossi did that a lot.

I gripped the phone tighter. “Why do you want to know?”

“I have some news that might help you rest easier. I would have called earlier, but I thought you’d be out with that neighbor of yours…that…what’s his name?”

Rossi never forgot a name. I was beginning to enjoy myself. “His name is Simon. And for your information, he did invite me out.” I lay back against the pillow. “What’s the good news you have for me?”

“Your assailant has left town. The shop should be safe now.”

“Oh?” So that was the reason he’d returned my call. Not because he needed to hear the sound of my voice or to say how much he missed not seeing me. “How did you find out about Merle?” I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.

A growl pulsed through the line. “Go to sleep, Mrs. D. Sweet dreams.”

The steady hum of a dead line sounded in my ear. Damn. He’d hung up. He did that all the time. It drove me nuts.

* * *

January second. The holidays were over, thank God. So were my days wearing the sling. Dr. Lemoine removed my dressing and declared the angry-looking red scar “Healing beautifully. Two months from now, you’ll barely notice it. In six months, it will have disappeared.”

With only a light dressing covering the wound, and both arms fully functioning, I was a new woman. Armed with a portfolio of drawings, I drove to Bonita Bay and rang Morgan Jones’s front doorbell confident he’d love my design ideas. Until he yanked open the door, greeting me with a face full of frowns.

“Good morning, Morgan,” I said, forcing my voice into cheerful mode.

He checked his watch. “Let’s make this fast, Deva.”

Back to that attitude, were we? I saw red. Crimson with slashes of magenta. “I can do fast,” I said, stepping inside and slamming the door so hard the bang echoed throughout the vast, empty rooms. “I can also do very fast. And I can do super fast. Which one is your pleasure, Dr. Morgan?”

Tripod in one hand, portfolio in the other, handbag slung over my shoulder, I glared at him. Not an auspicious beginning. Maybe I had just blown the account. So be it. Every once in a while, everything took a backseat to a temper tantrum. I’d just had one a two-year-old could be proud of and enjoyed every second of it.

Like challenged bullies everywhere, Morgan backed down. “It’s been a stressful few days, Deva.”

That and that alone would be his apology. I nodded. It would do. I was there to make a sale—not love or war.

In the center of the great room, empty except for the paintings stacked to one side, I set up the tripod and placed the drawings on it. The morning light poured through the wall of glass, illuminating the first one, a rendering of this very room with the palest whisper of blue on the walls, the huge Rosenquist facing the windows, and the other oils on opposite walls, each one dynamic, each one demanding attention. To offset that demand, I’d introduced minimalist furnishings, a pair of long, linear sofas in white leather. The only jolt of color, a cobalt blue ottoman that could double as a coffee table. Clear Plexiglas for the narrow console tables behind the sofas, and the end tables; they took up no visual space, leaving that to the exciting wall art.

Morgan studied the concept carefully, his gaze darting from one detail to the next, missing nothing.

Finally, too nervous to keep still, I said, “Everything is designed to showcase the paintings.”

He glanced at me briefly then turned back to the drawing. “I can see that. Your conception is exactly what I had hoped for.”

A bead of perspiration trickled down my back. It felt good. “I’m delighted that you’re pleased, Doctor.” I uncapped my pen. “Would you initial this sheet?”

His frown returned, as scowly as ever. “Is that necessary?”

“It’s a standard formality.” Why bother to point out that his initials protected me should he decide, once I’d ordered the case goods and other materials, that he didn’t like the concept after all? If he were acting on good faith, he wouldn’t object to signing.

Holding my breath, I handed him the pen with a shaky hand. His lips tightened a bit, but he took the pen and scribbled his initials on a corner of the page.

I exhaled that pent-up breath and showed him a sketch of the foyer that multiple coats of cobalt blue lacquer had transformed into a jewel box. Together with the great room ottoman, they were the only two vivid touches in my scheme.

As Morgan studied it, the merest wisp of a smile raised the corners of his mouth. He tapped a fingernail on the page. “I like the drama.”

Good.
I handed him the pen again. He quickly initialed the page before glancing at his watch. “I really am pressed for time. Let’s get to the bedroom. It’s the room I’m most concerned about.”

I flipped through the sketches, found the one for the master suite, set it in front of the others and stepped back.

“Aaaah.”

No need to ask if he liked it. As he stared at the satin bed linens, the piles of pillows, the velvet chaise and the concealed lighting that bathed everything in a soft glow, he smiled—an all-out, cheek-cracking smile. So he could do it when he wanted. I’d have to remember that the next time he frowned.

“It’s all as I imagined.” Without taking his attention from the drawing, he asked, “Are there dimmers on these lights?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. And I like the bed linens. The blue-gray satin is lovely, very subdued. Very alluring.” He cleared his throat as if he had, somehow, revealed too much of himself.

I wondered if Jessica knew how important their bedroom was to her husband. It was nice to know a couple who had been together for years had kept the romance alive in their marriage. But I backed away from that thought—fast.

“Where do I sign?” Morgan asked.

I handed him the pen with a steady hand.

“The sooner I can move in, the better. So get started immediately,” he ordered.

Some things never changed. I indulged in an audible sigh, but otherwise tamped down my temper. I couldn’t afford another tantrum. Besides, you had to pick your battles, and right now I tasted victory.

“I won’t waste a moment,” I assured him. “The drawings will be in the shop. So if Jessica would like to see them—”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Really? She’s not interested?”

“That’s irrelevant.” He glanced at his watch again. An excuse not to look at me? “We’re getting divorced. In fact, I’m late for an appointment with my attorney.”

“Divorced? Oh? Jessica never let on.”

“She didn’t know. I informed her yesterday. A new start for a New Year.”

So the satin coverlet and the dimmer switch weren’t for Jessica after all. Nor the musky cologne drifting around him. Probably not the new-looking blue silk tie, either. Too bad. Jessica, hearty and unpretentious, had, I suspected, put up with a lot from Morgan over the years. I hoped she’d get a good settlement. Dumped after a lifetime, she deserved one.

Hey, wait a minute. What was I thinking? Divorce in Florida meant a division of assets. Even Steven. What a divorce would do to Dr. Jones’s financial health wasn’t any of my business. Whether he could afford to pay me for my work was. Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford to take a hit.

My heart in my mouth, I said, “I’ll work up a proposal for you this afternoon and fax it to your office. Once you approve of the purchases, I’ll require fifty percent down before filling any orders.”

I hardly dared breathe as I waited for his answer. Red or green? Stop or go?

He didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem, Deva. Just get the project in the works. I’m anxious to begin my new life.”

Green.

With so much emphasis on the master bedroom, I doubted Dr. Jones would be living that new life alone. Not my concern, neither was the source of his funding. But I couldn’t squelch the question that kept popping into my head. Where had he found the means for so much spending? From his investments? From his surgeon’s skill? Or from the sale of the Monet? I decided on the spot that this time I
would
tell Rossi what puzzled me. For Maria’s sake, the murderer had to be found, the Monet recovered.

And I’d call for another, less noble cause—until the police solved the case, I couldn’t begin even the semblance of a new life. And I was starting to realize I needed a new one—whether it had dimmers and satin in it or not.