The Monet Murders (10 page)

Chapter Eleven

The next morning I tossed together a sandwich of leftover roast beef on leftover rye, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and got to the shop an hour early. The day after Christmas traditionally brought out the bargain shoppers, and I wanted to be ready for them.

I planned to collect all the holiday items: the silk centerpieces, the needlepoint pillows with the clever mottos—”He knows where you’ve been sleeping”—the mercury glass Santas, the red and green dessert plates—everything seasonal—and arrange them on the two skirted tables nearest the entrance with a big white 50% off sign.

At eight-thirty I was about halfway through the rearranging when the front door knob rattled. I looked up to see a big-hipped middle-aged woman banging on the window with the palm of her hand. The shop lights were on, but the closed sign leaned against the glass. Not ready to open up, I waved, pointed at my watch, and kept on with what I was doing. Another bang on the glass. Louder this time. Then she rattled the door handle several more times.

Can’t the woman read?

A bargain hunter with a vengeance, she pressed her face to the window, cupped the sides of her cheeks with her hands and peered in. When she saw me look her way, she raised an arm and waggled her fingers, beckoning me toward her.

I strode over to the window, miming, “We open at nine.”

Red-faced, she shouted, “Do you know who I am?”

Annoyed, I turned away without answering. I was a shopkeeper, not a slave.

In a voice shrill enough to shatter glass, she yelled, “I’m Mrs. Morgan Jones!”

That
got my attention. I whirled around. The Great One had a
wife?
Why, he’d never let on. Didn’t wear a wedding band, either. I’d assumed he was a bachelor.

Whatever this woman had to say, I wanted to hear. I unlocked the door and let Mrs. Jones inside the shop.

“Are you Deva Dunne, the decorator?” She eyed me up and down, her glance lingering on the Christmas tree earrings. I knew they were dumb, but I was trying to create a mood here.

“I’m Deva Dunne, the designer.” I spoke in my iciest Boston voice. This was a woman I could learn to dislike, and it wouldn’t even take one lesson.

“Well, I’m Jessica Jones, Morgan’s wife.”

“Yes?”

She obviously wanted something from me, but whatever it was, she’d have to work for it.

Still red-faced, she flung her arms akimbo, sending her outsized Ferragamo tote banging against one ample hip. “Is that all you have to say?”

“As you can see, Mrs. Jones, I’m busy.” I put down a mercury glass snowman. “But I can spare a few minutes. How may I help you?”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“What do you mean? Exactly?”

She rummaged around in the Ferragamo, pulled out my card and plunked it on the sales table. “This was in Morgan’s blue serge suit. With your home phone number on the back.”

I picked up the card. “Yes, I gave this to Dr. Jones. My clients sometimes need to contact me outside of shop hours.”

Her face went from beet red to bedsheet white so fast I thought she’d faint.

“Would you like a seat, Mrs. Jones?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “What I’d
like
is to know what your card…with your personal number on it…was doing in my husband’s pants.”

That was when I knew I was in trouble. “You need to ask your husband that question.”

A big-boned woman packing thirty or forty extra pounds, she took a step forward. I took one backward.

“I demand an answer,” she said, moving forward with the relentlessness of a Sherman tank.

“Then talk to your husband. I can’t reveal—”

“Are you two having an affair?”

“
What?
Absolutely not. I’m designing the interior of his new house.”

Her shoulders slumped, sending the Ferragamo sliding down her arm. “Shit! I was hoping he was having an affair.”

Was she serious? My God, that was the last thing in the world I’d ever hope Jack was having.

Without further ado, she plopped onto a zebra-print settee, set the tote on the floor, and crossed her feet at the ankles. I wondered if her legs were too chunky to cross at the knee. Whatever. She obviously had no intention of moving until she found out what she wanted to know.

I glanced at my watch. Ten to nine and I’d only half finished setting up the sales displays. The Christmas cookies I kept in a small dorm fridge in the storeroom hadn’t been set out yet, either. But one look at Mrs. Jones’s determined expression, and I knew the fastest way to rid myself of the woman was to tell her the truth. I pulled up a gold Chiavari chair and sat facing her.

“What do you need to know, Mrs. Jones?”

“Everything. Begin at the beginning.”

If my association with Morgan was a secret, he should have mentioned the fact, yet with a sinking feeling I knew that wouldn’t make a bit of difference when he found out about this meeting. And find out, he would.

Beginning with a sigh, I told her about the house in Bonita and what I had been asked to do there. Jessica sat unmoving on the zebra skin. It might have been my imagination, but the more I said, the more she seemed to shrink into herself. Nor did her face get back its beet-colored hue. No question, my news had upset her.

“You knew nothing of this house?” I asked at the end of my tale.

She shook her head. “Morgan doesn’t want me to know. When the place is move-in ready, he’ll pretend it’s a surprise for me. But it isn’t for me. It’s not even for him…not really…it’s for those damned paintings. He promised he wouldn’t buy any more. But I guess he can’t help himself. It’s an obsession. He sees them, falls in love and has to possess them.” She dipped into the tote, removed a tissue and swiped at a tear. “When I found your card, I was hoping this time he’d fallen in love with a woman.”

“Really?” This was mind-blowing. I had to struggle to keep my mouth from falling open.

“A woman might have been cheaper.” She took another swipe at a tear. “You don’t know the half of it.”

Uh-oh, here it comes.
I leaned back on the chair and braced myself for the familiar client-to-designer spilling of guts. Or a version thereof—Jessica Jones wasn’t even a client, for Pete’s sake—but she sure acted like she needed to vent. I peeked at my watch. Nine-fifteen.

“Morgan’s a cardiac surgeon,” she said, “a gifted one. I can’t tell you how many people he’s pulled from the brink of death. It’s no wonder our annual income is in the high six figures—some years seven. And you know what? We don’t have a dime. Hardly a cent in savings. Not a single, solid investment.” She paused to reach for a fresh tissue and blew her nose. “But I can tell you what we do have. Lots and lots of canvases. We live in an eight-thousand-square-foot house, and we’ve run out of wall space. So what’s the size of this new place? Ten thousand? Twelve?”

“Twelve,” I admitted.

“High ceilings. Right?”

Reluctantly, I nodded.

“And he wants the rooms decorated in shades of blue.”

I tried for a smile. “You know your man.”

“And he knows his bankers. They give him any loan he asks for. Problem is, he forgets they have to be repaid—including this latest extravaganza.”

Now what? Would Jessica go home and confront Morgan, tell him I’d confided everything? Betrayed his secret? A secret I didn’t even know he had? If so, he’d most likely fire me before I’d even been officially hired.

I leaned forward on the Chiavari until we were eye-to-eye.

“Jessica, you have to tell Morgan we’ve met and that you know about the house. Either you tell him, or I will.” I smoothed my apple green skirt over my thighs. “Once he knows, I’ll offer to resign from the project. That’s always better than being fired.” The laugh I reached for came out a croak.

Her initial shock over, a little color had seeped into Jessica’s broad cheeks. “Working on Morgan’s house is important to you?”

I nodded. “The shop’s only been open a few weeks. Every sale counts.” I stood and moved the gilt chair back behind Lee’s bureau plat
.
“So if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish setting up the display.”

“Let me help.” Jessica heaved to her feet and surveyed my half-arranged bargain table. “Looks like you want to get rid of holiday items.”

“It’s either that or store them for a year.”

“Why don’t I go around and collect them? Then you can stay put and do the arranging.”

Without waiting for an okay, she went over to a wall shelf and removed two red pillar candles embellished with wax holly. She brought them over to me and went back for two more.

Despite her considerable bulk, Jessica moved efficiently and soon had the two sales tables piled with items I arranged, smaller in front, larger in back. When she’d gone around the shop several times gathering up things, she asked. “What else can I do?”

Nine-thirty. I flipped the Closed sign to Open and unlocked the door. “There are some Christmas cookies in the storeroom fridge. They go on the hunt board against the side wall.” I pointed to a Sheffield tray that had belonged to Jack’s mother and, needless to say, wasn’t for sale. “You can put them on that.”

She arranged the cookies in neat rows on the silver tray, fanned some paper napkins to the right and placed a silver dish with my business cards on the left.

Munching on a cookie, she strolled over to the table where I was finishing up. “This is a cute shop, Deva. The displays look great. You’ll do well here. You have a knack, I can see that. I’ll do well, too. I’m going to divorce that obsessed son of a bitch. Then I’m going to lose fifty pounds and find a guy who hates art.”

She grabbed another cookie, picked up her tote, and with a “Ta-ta” let herself out, setting the Yarmouthport sleigh bells jingling joyfully.

“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.