The Monet Murders (15 page)

Chapter Seventeen

On January third at two-thirty sharp, I called at Chez Alexander. A few minutes later, perched beside Ilona on one of the yellow brocade sofas, I watched Trevor stomp around his living room, his hand-sewn loafers slapping against the marble floor.

“Whattya mean, you want a grapevine?” he shouted. “Twenty thousand square feet under glass, and now I gotta build you a grapevine? No, absolutely not.”

“But darling, is for wine festival dinner,” Ilona protested.

“That damn dinner’s costing me a fortune. With everything else that’s going on, I don’t need the aggravation. Or the expense.”

“But Trev, we agree. You want everything perfect. Remember, our Evening in Tuscany.”

“No grapevine.
Nem.
Come up with another idea. A cheaper one.” Trevor stopped mid-stomp to point a finger at me. It quivered in the air in front of my nose. “And that includes you. She doesn’t have any common sense, but I thought you did. I must’ve been wrong.”

He stormed out of the room. “Don’t wait up,” he yelled before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen wing. A distant door slammed.

Ilona listened then ran on her pink slides to the front window. “I bet he take my Boxster just to be difficult.”

Sure enough, a moment later a silver Porsche, sleek as a high-speed panther, zoomed down the curved driveway.

“I knew it.
Te diszno!
You pig!” Ilona turned from the window and flipped her hair over a shoulder. “Whenever I say ‘no sex’ he act this way. A little boy. Never no mind. Maybe he get ticket.” Her face brightened at the prospect. “Is all right, Deva. We forget grapevine. We come up with another plan.”

What was this “we” stuff? The grapevine idea had been hers. Personally I thought it was too obvious to be tasteful and had told her so. But that moment of truth was about to be buried. Why bother to resurrect it?

Interesting, though, to hear Trevor complaining about the party’s cost. So maybe he wasn’t Midas rich. I gave a mental shrug. Even kings had a limit to their coffers. This one I wouldn’t run past Rossi. When I called him yesterday, he hadn’t been too impressed with my Morgan Jones story and in no uncertain terms told me to stick to my decorating and let him do the detecting. Off and on since then, I’d been trying to decide if I was seriously pissed at him or not.
Not
, actually. He was right, and I knew it.

“Deva, we have tea while you give me ideas for party. I tell Jesus.”

Ilona wiggled her way across the marble floor to the kitchen wing. From the rear, she looked fabulous in her hot pink pants. In no time, she clicked her way back into the living room. Despite the frown lines stressing her normally smooth forehead, she looked fabulous from the front, too, in her hot pink sweater.

“Jesus will bring tea. And cookies,” she added with a guilty smile. “After Trevor, I need sweet. Now, Deva, what will we do?”

We again.
Okay, for two thousand plus extras, she’d bought the right to ask.

“Ilona, Tuscan means contrasts. Monks and aristocrats. Peasants and nobility. That’s what your party should play up.” I made sure my voice sounded decisive, for ultimately, decisiveness was what I sold. Clients hired me to make decisions that if left on their own they’d agonize over. I eyed Ilona, pausing to let my words sink in.

“Go on. I like,” she said, shifting to the edge of her down sofa cushion.

“Okay. How about this? We serve dinner outside, overlooking the Gulf. The loggia can easily accommodate thirty diners, and it has the columns and arches of a medieval cloister. Torchlight on the lawn and rustic lanterns on the tables. Heavy tapestry tablecloths to the floor. For centerpieces, cornucopias spilling fruit and veggies.”

Ilona wrinkled her perfect nose. “Veggies?”

I laughed. “Not potatoes or onions. Gourds and squashes. Pomegranates. Apples and pears. Grapes, too.”

“Ha, grapes! I like.”

“We’ll costume the staff. Put the bartenders in brown monk’s robes, the servers in peasant dress. Jesus in britches. That sort of thing.”

Ilona waved her diamond-studded hands, sending an aurora borealis flashing through the air. “Where we get such clothes?”

“From a costume supplier. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Music, Deva. Music we must have.”

“Yes,” I agreed, warming to the theme. “Nothing too loud. A chamber ensemble during cocktails, so people can chat. At dinner, Italian love songs with the main courses, operatic arias during dessert. End the evening on a vibrant note.”

“Your ideas, all of them are wonderful, Deva. You see, it is like I said, I need you to plan.”

A soft footfall sounded on the marble floor. Jesus entered carrying a serving tray laden with a silver tea service and an assortment of cookies. A tall man, with the sad bearing of a deposed aristocrat, he had lost a noticeable amount of weight in the three weeks since Maria’s death. His heavy eyes spoke of suffering. Three weeks and still no arrest. I could only hope Rossi and the Naples P.D. were working around the clock.

Jesus placed the tray on the coffee table. “Will that be all, señora?”

“For now, Jesus.” He left us, and Ilona reached for a chocolate-frosted morsel. “Jesus wants to bring Maria’s ashes to Guatemala. Can you believe that? At time like this, with wine festival so close? Have cookie, Deva. Maria made them. They’re
finom.
Delicious.”

The impulse to mash a cookie in her face told me I had to get out of there fast. I’d already had my temper tantrum for the year. I fake peeked at my watch. “Oh, I’m late. Must go, Ilona. As soon as the proposal is ready, I’ll fax it to you.”

“That is good. Tomorrow, Cheep comes to discuss menu. He has family recipes from many generations just like my
anya’s
cooks. All will be well.”

“Right.” I grabbed my fake Chanel handbag and hurried toward the foyer, not even stopping for a loving glimpse of the remaining Monet. Air, I craved air and yanked open the front door. “As soon as possible, I’ll drop off some samples for you to see,” I called over my shoulder.

Ilona scrambled off the couch, a second, or maybe a third, cookie in hand. “Wait, Deva, there is something you should know.”

What now? She hurried toward me on tiptoes, all the while glancing left and right as if someone might be watching. Who? Jesus? The cleaning staff?

She came close enough to whisper in my ear, “I am not supposed to tell, but security code is changed. You will need new one.”

“That’s all right, I’ll just give the samples to Jesus.”

“Suppose he go to Guatemala? One minute only, I write number for you.”

“But—”

She disappeared through the archway into the kitchen wing, returning with a folded slip of paper that she pressed into my palm. “Hide this,” she ordered. “Trevor should not know.”

“Ilona, why don’t I phone you after I collect the party supplies? We can settle on a meeting date then.”

She shook her head. “
Nem.
In two days, Trevor and I, we leave for Hungary. I promise my
anya
we come right after Christmas. Trevor no want to go, but I tell him I no come back if he refuse.” She heaved a sigh that did great things for the hot pink sweater. “Is not easy, Deva.”

“What isn’t?”

“Being Mrs. Trevor. Tonight I give him sex. Only then will he stop the pout.”

“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” I said, easing toward the door.

“Correct.”

I cleared my throat. Ilona had her problems and I had mine, and one of them was money. While I loved the creative challenge of designing, I hated dunning people for fees. But with even the slightest chance that she might not return, I had to plunge into girl talk with a purpose.

“Ilona, I have a request.” I squared my shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Before you leave for Europe, could you see that my design fee is paid? Or at least half of it. I’ll need it to cover expenses.”

She greeted this first from me with a fluttering of her luscious eyelashes. “Of course, I understand. You are working girl.”

I huffed out a breath.
So are you, Ilona.

“But Trevor is such a bear these days, I ask him for little. So I pay you myself from my, how you say, mad money. Wait.” While I stood chilling in the foyer, she ran up the stairs, bouncing back down a few moments later with a sheaf of bills in her hand. “Two thousand. Correct?”

“Well, yes, but this is the full amount.”

“Never no mind. I trust. Send other expenses to Trevor. He will be in better mood by then, I promise.”

Designing, I decided on the spot, was an easier gig than some marriages.

“Thanks, Ilona. I’ll see that the party materials are here when you return.
Bon voyage.
Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, but I must,” she said, no smile in her tone, or on her face, either.

For the first time since we’d met, Mrs. Trevor Alexander had my sympathy.

Poor little rich girl.
In comparison, clutching the two grand, I felt like a rich little poor girl as I jogged down the stone steps to my car.

* * *

The money went fast, on rent, phones and payroll, but what a wonderful reprieve. Because of it, I didn’t have to dip into my skimpy reserves, at least for another month. Then when Morgan’s payment kicked in, Deva Dunne Interiors should be well on its way.

All week long, I found myself humming. What
was
that tune? An Italian love song, “That’s Amore
.
” Figures. Ilona’s Tuscan theme had to be the inspiration. Not Rossi. Ha! With an effort, I banished him from my thoughts and concentrated on making a list of items needed for the Alexanders’ party.

Fabric. Cornucopias. Fruit and gourds. Rustic lanterns. Costumes. Music. Engraved invitations.

With luck, when Ilona returned in two weeks, I would have booked the staff and musicians and purchased the party materials.

Overnight, Kravatz Fabrics in Manhattan priority-mailed me a carton of possible tabletop swatches. All medieval in feeling, in deep russets and greens with flashes of burgundy. To see which one looked best on the loggia, I telephoned the house, hoping Jesus would pick up. I’d rather he let me in than use the new security code. But he didn’t answer at ten, twelve or two. On the chance that he might be enjoying a rare day off, I rang him again the next day. Only the answering machine kicked on.

While waiting for Jesus to return my call, I made a quick trip to the Miromar Design Center in Ft. Myers to pick up the party supplies. Then I scoured the local antique stores for vintage linen napkins. The largest I could find for dinner and smaller ones for cocktails. They didn’t have to match, but they did have to look like old family heirlooms.

Each guest should also have a token gift waiting at the dinner table. Something Medici in feeling. Poison rings for the ladies? Faux antidotes in tiny pillboxes for the men? No doubt in poor taste after what had happened there, but Ilona might like an outrageous gesture like that.

As soon as Morgan’s retainer arrived, I ordered his case goods and hired Oceanside Finishes to paint his interior. I also called on the two women who had come into the shop during the holidays, one wanting a new bathroom, and the other a revived family room. When I snagged both sales, I did a mental jump for joy.

Without Lee’s help, all the scurrying around would have plowed me under. She kept the merchandise neatly arranged, charmed the customers and, I suspect, made selling Paulo’s paintings a special interest. In a single week, she had lined up a commission for him.

Watching her, I realized how wondrous happiness is, and with a pang, understood that what I saw in Lee—the shining eyes, the effortless smile, the glow of a woman well loved—had once been mine in those days when Jack vowed I centered his universe. In the days when he couldn’t wait to rush home to me at night. When he started undressing inside the front door, scattering his clothes from room to room, and mine as well…transforming me with his adoration into a goddess…

Rossi, you’ve got your work cut out for you.

The thought made me laugh, and to Lee’s surprise, I went over and hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re so happy,” I said.

“Y’all mean it, I know, Deva,” she said, hugging me back. “And I’m glad I’m so happy, too.”

We laughed, startling two customers who walked in searching for sofa pillows in purple.

That afternoon, I rang Jesus again. Still no answer. He must have taken advantage of the Alexanders’ absence and gone to Guatemala with Maria’s ashes. No point in waiting any longer. I packed everything in the Audi’s trunk and headed for Gordon Drive.

To be certain the house was empty, I rang the front door chimes. They echoed loudly to no avail. Satisfied that no one was inside, I entered the new code and carried one of the boxes into the silent, chilled interior.

“Anybody home?” I called. No response. I had the place to myself.

In the dining room, I worshipped the Monet for a while then brought the fabric swatches out to the loggia. As I suspected, the muted shades of the vine pattern had the vintage look I was after. I’d call Gwen at Kravatz the minute I got back to the shop and order enough to cover five tables of six to the floor.

Satisfied, I wandered back into the great room. Chez Alexander had never been a noisy house. Not once, in all the times I’d been here, could I recall a radio or a stereo playing, but today the quiet was positively eerie. Nerves, I told myself, plain and simple. I’d had so much stress lately I was jittery for no reason at all. So why was I tiptoeing across the polished great room floor? No one was around to hear me. Yes, definitely nerves.

Still, something was a little off. No gardenia scent wafted in the air. And usually when the Alexanders were out of town, the blinds and draperies were closed, shutting out the sun and its effects on the interior. But not today. Beyond the windows, out to the horizon, I could see the Gulf water sparkling turquoise and serene, and the sun’s rays glinting off the occasional shallow whitecap.

The box of party supplies weighed a ton. I lowered it onto a chair and plunked my purse on top. On the coffee table, the bowl of gardenias that were changed every day had wilted, the faded blossoms drooping over the rim, brown petals scattered across the tabletop. No wonder no gorgeous scent perfumed the air. I sniffed. Actually a musty, closed-up odor had replaced it. Strange. Even if Jesus were left alone for days, he wouldn’t neglect his duties.