The Monet Murders (5 page)

Lee recovered first and, still seated behind the desk, she held out her hand. Paulo wiped a palm on his jeans before reaching across the desk to her. When they touched, I half expected to see a lightning bolt shoot across the shop, but no, he took her fingers gently, bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

So French. Or so Jamaican. Whichever. I was impressed.

And Lee? Well, Lee damn near fainted.

“I declare,” she said. “I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”

“You should have,” Paulo said. What he left unsaid would fill a volume.

I cleared my throat. Startled that I was still there, they both looked at me, wide eyed.

“Mr. St. James wants to paint your portrait, Lee,” I said. “Are you willing?”

She looked at me as if I were crazed for asking. “That’s a mighty fine compliment.”

“Then it’s yes?” Paulo asked.

She nodded, her heart in her eyes.

“I’ve made a preliminary sketch,” he said, holding up his work for her to see. “To establish the composition. I’ll refine it tonight and be back tomorrow with an easel and canvas.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, staring at the sketch as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “But I’m not here except for Wednesdays and Fridays.”

His face fell. “Wednesday’s good. I won’t bother you. I’ll be outside.” He pointed to the alley then swiveled his attention to me, a stricken expression on his face. “As long as Mrs. Dunne doesn’t object.”

“No, that’s fine.” I said. “Actually, an artist with an easel might bring people down the alley. And that might be very good for business.”

He nodded, his smile wide enough to include both Lee and me. “I’ll paint you through the window, Lee, like today. Seen through its gleam, you’ll be mysterious, unattainable. Like in…what’s that passage?…’through a glass darkly.’”

“St. Paul. From the Corinthians,” Lee said, her voice spiking with pleased surprise. “You read the Bible, too?”

I wondered if Paulo could pass a polygraph on that one.

“No. Not really,” he said, regret tingeing his tone. “But I think I’ll begin. Starting now.”

“I love St. Paul. He’s my favorite of all the New Testament writers.”

“Then I’ll definitely begin with him.” Obviously reluctant to leave, Paulo stood clutching his clipboard, his eyes devouring Lee.

I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps we could hold Bible class at another time.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Dunne.” With a visible effort, he tore his gaze from Lee. “I’ll be back on Wednesday. I promise I won’t interrupt your business.”

With a courtly little bow for each of us, he left, setting the sleigh bells jangling. This time, looking at a radiant, pink-cheeked Lee, I thought they sounded positively jolly.

“Well,” I said. “What do you think of all that?”

“Miz Dunne…Deva…I’m so frazzled, I can’t think hardly at all.”

I laughed or I would have cried remembering the impact of Jack Dunne’s presence the first time we met. “Can you come back down to earth long enough to tell me if there were any calls?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, ma’am. Two. One from a Mr. Simon—” she glanced at a note pad, “—Yaeger. He wants to talk to you about Christmas dinner. He said he’ll call back this afternoon. And Mrs. Ilona Alexander called. She wants you to drop by her house tomorrow. She needs your decorating advice for their Christmas Eve party.”

A party?
And poor Maria’s remains hardly scooped up from the kitchen floor?
Unbelievable.

Chapter Six

“Why me?” Ilona Alexander asked when I arrived at the Gordon Drive house the next afternoon. “This morning I must take lie test. Can you believe? Me?” She pointed a French-manicured fingernail at her spectacular breasts. “They say I pass. Of course I pass. Instead why they not tell me who stole my painting? Or why my cook is killed? Why? Why my cook?” She pronounced her
w’
s like
v’
s, the heavy Hungarian accent adding to the allure of her blonde supermodel looks.

Simon had been right. Everything about her shrieked
trophy
—the long tanned legs, the highlighted hair tumbling past her shoulders, the aura of Opium perfume floating around her. And, of course, the breasts.
I’ll bet they’re fake,
I’d sniffed the first time I met her. She had stepped out of her home gym in workout gear, her spandex top challenged to the max. And did I mention her face? Perfection. She made the average female—
moi
—acutely aware of all my flaws: my frizzy hair, my every freckle, my mere size-B cups, my generous hips.

Today, in a leopard-print sheath and spike-heeled gold slides, she paced her living room’s marble floor, asking, “Why?”
Vhy?

“It is tragic,” I said, mystified as to the reason I had been summoned there.

“Yes, tragic. To think I cannot find cook. No one will come. Not after this…this
katasztrofa!
They’re too afraid.”

“Perhaps a bonus.”

“I try that. No woman will touch it. And I want female cook. My mother had woman for cook. My grandmama had woman for cook. I am Szent-Gyorgyi. Woman cooks are family tradition.” She heaved a sigh. “Also Trevor must be happy. He is so jealous, he wants no men living here. Only Jesus because he is married man.” Her diamond-studded fingers flew up to her mouth. “No more he is. I suppose now Trevor will say he must go.”

She sank onto the down-filled cushions of her double-length sofa. “Why this happen? Why?”

“The police are asking that same question, Ilona. I’m sure they’ll find the reason.”

She nodded but didn’t answer. She didn’t invite me to sit, either, but I thought,
what the hell,
and did anyway, on an exquisite bergère across from the sofa.

The original owners of the house had hired Holland Sally, Naples’s premier design firm, to create the interiors. They had chosen white and ivory for the public rooms with yellow silk brocade on the French chairs and touches of gilt on the ormolu tables and accessories. A masterful plan, it enhanced the formality of the high-ceilinged rooms yet managed to keep them light and playful. It was a look strangely at odds with Trevor’s blunt practicality, but one that suited glamorous Ilona perfectly. Though looking at her lovely, discontented face, I was struck by the realization that all this opulence hadn’t made her happy. Far from it.

“Now what I will do?” she asked. “Fifty guests for Christmas Eve and no chef.
What?
”

She looked like she really wanted to know, so I decided to tell her what I honestly thought. “Well, in light of the investigation and Maria’s death, you could cancel.”

She bolted upright on the cushions. “Absolute not. Once given, invitation never is withdrawn.”

“But under the circumstances?”

“
Nem.
No. But where to find chef, even male, in so short time? Is half impossible.”

“True,” I said, annoyed enough to agree. Not a word of sympathy for Maria had yet escaped from those sculpted lips. Ilona acted as if Maria had never existed, never boiled her an egg, never prepared her special lo-cal meals, her
après
pool parties, her lavish dinners. Sweet Maria who had called me Señora Dunne in her soft voice and had smiled so warmly each time, almost as if she knew how much I loved being known as Jack’s wife. What a shame her life had been snuffed out so savagely.

Ilona heaved a sigh. “I’m desperate woman. Desperate.”

I thought of Chip, who lived in the condo next to mine. A retired executive chef, he could probably use some extra cash. “Well, if you’re really at wit’s end, a chef I know might consider pitching in. He’s retired but—”

Ilona sat up straight, bristling with interest. “Who this marvel is?”

“My next-door neighbor, Chip.”

“Cheep?”

“Yes.”

“What is his specialty?”

“Italian.”

“Northern Italy?” Hope leapt across Ilona’s chiseled features.

“Southern.” I was enjoying myself.

“
Jaj Istenem!
Oh, my God! Not tomatoes.”

“Exactly. Everybody loves his lasagna. He passes extra sauce around. And wait till you taste his antipasto.” Touching my thumb and forefinger to my lips, I sent her a little pucker of gastronomic bliss. “Gelato for dessert. Homemade. Vanilla is his
forte.
”

Ilona heaved a sigh that sent her breasts aquiver. Hmm, maybe, just maybe, they weren’t implants. “Never can I face my friends again.” She wrung her hands, the stones on her fingers clicking together. “You know I’m Szent-Gyorgyi?”

“You mentioned that, but I don’t understand.”

“Szent-Gyorgyi. I descend from noble family. Kings, queens, intelligentsia. You heard of Albert Szent-Gyorgyi? Yes?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“My great uncle. My
Albert Bacsi.
He won Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1936. For green peppers.”

“Green peppers?”

“
Igen.
Yes. Hungarians love them. Uncle Albert isolate vitamin C from peppers. It was big medical breakthrough for my
bacsi.
”

“Ah. Fascinating.”

“Of course. My family is one of oldest in Europe. And now I cannot even hire cook, a menial.”

Okay. For that crack, Chip’s price just doubled.

“Well, should you decide to ask Chip for Christmas Eve, his fee would be two thousand dollars. You’d provide the food as usual, of course.”

“Two thousand? That is ridiculous. Who he is? Wolfgang Puck?”

I shrugged. “Chip’s retired, so he may not want to get back into a kitchen.” But I knew he would. Chip adored cooking and had only retired to please AudreyAnn, his love buddy. While not exactly a trophy, AudreyAnn required a lot of TLC. Chip, I suspected, enjoyed dishing that out as much as he did lasagna. Still, for two grand, AudreyAnn would no doubt be willing to sacrifice a cozy Christmas Eve around the palm tree.

Ilona slumped deeper into the down cushions, staring through the glass wall out to the Gulf of Mexico sparkling turquoise all the way to the horizon. As Ilona stared at the view, I wondered why on earth I’d been called here. I was grateful to the Alexanders for hiring me but also worried that the scandal would kill fledgling Deva Dunne Interiors before it had a chance to fly. But there wasn’t much I could do about that except hope the case would soon be solved. So, nerves on edge, I waited, my design time clock clicking away at a hundred dollars per hour.

Finally, Ilona tore her attention from the view, heaved a sigh and said, “You know something, Deva, I never should have married him.” She threw her hands up in the air. “That yenta should be shot.”

“I’m not following you, Ilona.”

“No? You never heard of yenta?”

“I have, but what has that got to do—”

“You want I should tell you?”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. Something I shouldn’t hear.
The same thing happened on nearly every sizable design project. Somehow, when you pick out people’s drapery fabric, you morph into a confessor, and they tell you stuff their own mothers don’t know. Usually I dread these confidences, but this time I was as alert as a bunny in an open meadow.

In fact, I aided and abetted. “So tell me. What’s a yenta?”

Another dramatic sigh. “A matchmaker. This one I should never have listened to.”

“No?” I leaned forward so as not to miss a word.

“It’s no secret. When Trevor drinks, Trevor talks. Everybody knows. Everybody.” She swept her arms wide encompassing the room, the Gulf, the world. At least the world that counted socially.

“Ilona, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I
did
have a glimmer, but curiosity had seized me in its sharp teeth, and I was dying for the fangs to sink in deeper.

“He buy me.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I no kid. For three hundred thousand dollars.”

“No!” If my jaw hadn’t been attached to my face, it would have hit the floor.

“Yes, I tell you truth. That’s what that yenta charge him. Her clients search everywhere but cannot find what they want in wife. She finds. All over world. Only the best, the
crème de la crème.
She comes to Budapest and interviews me many times, and I tell you, Deva, she asks questions your mama never would. Terrible.”

“You answered?”

Ilona’s eyes widened with a frisson of surprise. “Of course. In strange way, it was honor. And I want to marry. It was time.”

I was amazed that her noble family would have allowed such bartering for one of their own. Centuries earlier, rulers did so out of political expediency, but today there could only be one reason. You couldn’t live on a noble name alone, and Trevor Alexander was an extremely wealthy man.

Interesting that he couldn’t find a woman without a yenta, but, no, I dismissed the idea as soon as it popped up. Though a portly fifty, what Trevor lacked in physical stature—and hair—he more than made up for in fiscal assets. Women would fight to nail him. He didn’t need a high-priced marriage broker to find a mate. But he obviously hadn’t wanted a garden variety female; he’d wanted a twenty-something aristocratic hothouse plant.
Hot
being the operative word.

“Anyway, that is past what I speak of,” Ilona said. “Now I must look to future, or—”

“Sounds ominous, darling,” a male voice boomed from the doorway.

“Oh, Trevor. Dearest, you’re here at last. We wait for you.”

Without moving from her cushioned comfort or revealing the slightest guilt at what she’d just admitted, Ilona held up her arms and raised her face for a kiss. When Trevor bent over the couch to embrace her, she clung to him as if she never wanted to let go. An Academy Award performance. Trevor loved it, and the kiss lingered on. And on. I was about to excuse myself when he finally broke loose and stood upright. He removed a folded handkerchief from a pocket of his linen slacks and wiped the trace of Ilona’s pink lipstick from his mouth.

When he lowered the handkerchief from his lips, Ilona gasped. “You have blood. Is something wrong with mouth? With teeth?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I think you bit me, darling.”

“Yes? See what power you have over me. I forget myself.”

He smiled, probably in anticipation, an expression Ilona must have understood all too well, for she immediately changed the subject.

“How did lie test go, darling?”

His smile disappeared. “As well as can be expected. At least we’ve got that behind us.”

Ilona turned to me. “Can you believe, Deva? In Europe we are when the Monet is cut. Yet still we must take this detector test. Ridiculous!”

Trevor patted his mouth once more before putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I take it you ladies haven’t addressed the design problem yet.”

“Not yet, darling. I told you, we wait for you.” Ilona unfolded her lovely curves from the sofa and crooked a finger at me. “Come, Deva. We look. You tell us what you think.”

More puzzled than ever, I followed the two of them to the dining room. I hadn’t been in there since the day I found the Monet missing, and my heart pounded as I walked in. Though the room looked its best at night under the glow of the Baccarat chandelier, the wall sconces, and the flicker of candles, I was grateful for the afternoon sunlight. In it, the remaining oil of the beach at Royan took my breath away once more.

At my side, Trevor said, “The insurance company returned the painting to us just yesterday. They had insisted on having an appraiser examine it. It’s intact, thank God.”

I forced my attention from the painting and glanced over at him. “I love looking at it, Trevor, but frankly I’m puzzled. Why am I here today?”

“To settle a dispute between my beautiful wife and me. We’re at odds about what to do in here.”

I laughed. “A family spat? How can I possibly help with that?” Truth be told, though, husbands and wives often had different design ideas. When they did, my job involved negotiating a solution that would satisfy both. This had to be one of those times.

Trevor pointed to the empty gilt frame on the opposite wall. Shorn threads of canvas still clung to the wood.

“I think we should remove the empty frame and leave that wall bare for now. Some bastard took the larger painting, but the remaining one’s strong enough to dominate the room on its own.”

“Of course, it is,” I said.

“I disagree with dear husband.” Ilona softened the sting in her words by slipping her arm through his. “Is dramatic to leave frame in place. Why try to hide truth? Everyone knows.”

“Our house is perfection, darling.” Trevor’s glance ran over her saying without words,
and so are you.
“It distresses me to have this desecration on our wall. Don’t you agree, Deva?”

A loaded question. I was King Solomon with a naked baby lying in front of me. Cut it in half or leave it intact? Not wanting to give him a blunt yes or no, I asked, “Have you been to the Isabella Gardner Museum in Boston?”

His lips thinned in displeasure. “How is that relevant?”

“A multimillion-dollar theft occurred there a few years ago.” I pointed to the plundered frame. “Same scenario. Pictures were cut from their frames. They’ve never been recovered.”

Trevor’s already thin lips tightened to a slit.
Uh-oh, a mistake to mention that. Oh well, too late now.

I plunged on. “The Gardner left the empty frames on the walls with notes explaining what had been stolen. I wouldn’t tack up a note, but I would leave the frame in place. It’s gorgeous on its own, and besides, it’s dramatic. Think of the dinner party conversation it will generate.”

His slitted lips settled into a frown. Obviously, he disliked my suggestion.