The Monet Murders (17 page)

“Give me your keys,” Rossi said. I was about to refuse when he beat me to it. “I insist.”

I could have fought him but didn’t. It would take too much energy. Energy I didn’t have at the moment. “Here.”

I dropped them into his outstretched palm. For an instant only, my fingers brushed his skin. He didn’t try to take my hand or hold it but turned away with a curt, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Telling myself his coldness didn’t matter, I slumped on a kitchen stool until he returned with Officer Hughes in tow.

“Officer Hughes will drive you home,” Rossi said.

“First I need to empty my trunk.”

“Not a problem. We’ll exit through the front door.” The events of the past few months had taught me quite a bit about police procedure. I knew the garage was out of bounds.

Squad cars, a hearse and the forensics rolling lab—a retro-fitted panel truck that I remembered seeing a month ago—thronged the driveway, boxing in my car.

“Have Batano help you clear out her trunk, then drive across the lawn,” Rossi told Officer Hughes. “I don’t want the guys inside disturbed.”

“Yes, sir.”

After carrying out Rossi’s orders, Hughes slid behind the wheel of the Audi, and I got in on the passenger side. At the entrance to the property, Batano stood guard, waving curiosity seekers away, keeping chaos at a distance.

“You have the address?” Rossi asked Hughes, as if I weren’t sitting there perfectly capable of giving her directions myself. The nerve of him.

“Surfside Club on Gulf Shore.”

“That’s it.” He turned to Batano. “Hughes will need a ride back.”

Batano gave Rossi a noncommittal nod and, striding out to the middle of Gordon Drive, held up traffic long enough for Officer Hughes to gun the Audi across the grass and pull out onto the road. I wondered if the tires left tracks in the pristine lawn, but dismissed the thought as soon as it flared up. What difference did it make?

“Buckle up, Mrs. Dunne,” Officer Hughes said and then drove silently all the way to Surfside. I laid my head back on the tan leather cushions, happy, actually, not to have to fight the traffic. At the height of the tourist season, the Naples roads were as congested as clogged arteries.

At Surfside, she parked in my assigned parking slot in the carport, and we both piled out of the car. Officer Hughes snapped the locks and handed me my keys. So she planned to walk me to my door. Fine. Police procedure? I shrugged and trudged across the parking lot, tired and depressed. Today Rossi and I had been total strangers. Though he said he believed my story, the easy camaraderie we shared the night he brought pizza and grocery store flowers had completely disappeared.

At my door, I inserted the key in the lock and extended a hand. “Thanks for the lift, officer.”

Instead of taking my hand, Officer Hughes reached into her hip holster and removed her service pistol. “Open up and step aside, please.”

“You’ve got to be kidding.” I pointed to the gun. “What’s that all about?”

“Lieutenant’s orders. I’m to make sure your house is secure. Wait outside here till I return.”

Egads.
I leaned against the stucco wall and stood in the fading sun. It didn’t take long before Officer Hughes was back, tucking her gun into its holster.

“You check under the bed?” I asked.

No smile. “Your house is secure, Mrs. Dunne. Have a good evening.”

She strode off to the waiting squad car. “Hey,” I called after her, “thanks for checking.”

If she heard me, she didn’t turn around to wave. Resigned, I just shrugged. I’d struck out all day long. But Jesus, Jesus had struck out big time.

Chapter Nineteen

The short winter day had lowered into dusk. I kicked off my heels and peeled out of my sweater and skirt, replacing them with a Florida uniform—white T-shirt and denim cutoffs.

Too demoralized to eat or drink a thing, too world weary to even snap on the evening news, I flopped on one of the club chairs and stared at the living room wall. As the gloom gathered around me, I gave myself a halfhearted pep talk.

So what if Rossi had treated me like a piece of wood all day? A consummate professional, he had concentrated on his job, and, without question, that was the right thing to do. I was annoyed with myself for letting his clinical attitude bother me. What I needed to do was suck up my disappointment and believe that once the case was solved, he would come after me like gang busters, no holds barred, and love the breath right out of my body. Easier said than done. The day’s trauma and the loneliness I’d been holding at bay for a year overwhelmed me, and I heaved out a sigh that echoed in the quiet room. I might have sat like that for hours, not moving a muscle if the doorbell hadn’t chimed.

Da da da DA.

Whoever it was could damn well go away. I wasn’t in the mood for drop-in company. I wasn’t in the mood for anything.

Da da da DA. Da da da DA.

“Open up. Police.”

Rossi.
What did he want?

“Open up! Police.”

I gripped the chair arms. Maybe this wasn’t a social call at all. Maybe Rossi was here on official business. The man
was
a homicide detective. I
had
just found a murder victim.

My breath caught in my throat. Only one way to find out what he wanted. Slowly, as if my bones might be mush when put to the test, I got to my feet and dragged out to the foyer.

Da da da DA.

For some reason, he couldn’t wait for me to open up, and I tensed for a moment. Then my Irish flared. I was innocent, for Pete’s sake. Why act like I was approaching the gallows? Straightening my shoulders, I held my head high and flung the door open.

Ready to press the bell again, Rossi’s finger hovered in the air before he lowered his hand to his side. Some part of my mind registered that he looked harassed and irritable, not surprising in light of what he’d had to deal with today, but I was too irritable myself to cut him any slack.

“Why are you here, Lieutenant? It was my impression the interrogation was over,” I said, damned if I’d let him get past the foyer.

He waved his hand forward, impatiently nudging me back into the living room. To put a few inches between us, I retreated a step. That was all the edge he needed. Slamming the door behind him, he shot the bolt and strode past me into the living room.

Hands on hips, I followed him in. “I don’t remember inviting you. I have nothing more to say to the police.”

“Well, I have a few things to say to you.” With a couple of strides, he covered the distance between us, pulled me to him and wrapped his arms around me. “It could have been you on that garage floor. The thought’s had me crazy all day. You could have walked in on the killer. Caught him in the act. Then what?”

Too stunned to protest, I nestled against Rossi’s chest, inhaling aftershave and a faint trace of something else. Male pheromones? Whatever it was, I liked it. I liked it a lot and didn’t even try to pull out of his embrace. This was what I’d been wanting him to do for a month. What I’d been longing for. My irritation melted like icicles in April.

“I could have lost you before we ever…”

This was all so unbelievable. A hundred-and-eighty-degree turn. I wanted to hear more. Had to hear more.

“So sorry,” he whispered into my hair.

“For what?”

“For what you found last month. For what you found today. For everything that makes you unhappy.”

I tried loosening his embrace so I could see his face, but as I tensed in his arms, he held me even tighter.

“Let me go, Rossi. I want to look at you.”

He relaxed his arms a bit. I drew back, still in the circle of his embrace, and glanced up at him. This was no joke. He was utterly serious.

“And I’m sorry for something else—for not being here to keep you safe all these weeks.”

“But, the chief—”

He lowered his mouth to mine and, unthinking, as if it were the most natural thing in the world, I opened to him and slipped my tongue between his lips. He growled and seized me so close he sealed us together from thigh to hip to chest, his mouth hardening, pressing, his tongue teasing, his breathing labored and quick, as was mine. Why were we breathless? We hadn’t climbed any mountains, had we? No, not yet. But somewhere in my fevered brain, I knew the Matterhorn loomed ahead.

When we finally parted so we could both inhale, his hands cupped the back of my head, his fingers probing deep into my hair. “I couldn’t wait any longer. Not after today. Not after walking into that fancy kitchen and seeing your face all white and frozen. When your freckles pop out, I know you’re in distress. I hate seeing you like that, Mrs. D.”

I looked up into his face. “Say my name. You never have. I want to hear it from your lips. Say it.”

He smiled into my eyes. “Deva. Devalera.” His smile widened. “Devalera. That’s a hell of a handle, Mrs. D.”

Dammit,
he’d wrecked the moment. “I happen to love my name,” I lied, wriggling out of his arms. “You’ve got some nerve, Rossi.”

“Honey, I’ve got more than nerve.” He cocked an eyebrow. “Interested?”

A challenge.
“I haven’t decided yet.”

He nodded and raised his hands in the air, palms out. “Okay, play it safe. Swim in the shallow end of the pool. For a long time, I’ve been that way myself. But I think I’m getting ready to change. So let me ask you something. When’s the last time you went to the moon?”

“The
moon?
”

“Yeah. Since you lost Jack, that is.”

“Three, four times last week. Twice yesterday”

His jaw dropped.

Aha! A hit.

“Yup. I’ve been the town pump, Rossi.”

He waggled a finger at me. A metronome. Left, right. Left, right. “Not a chance. You loved Jack too much to sleep around.”

A surge of emotion flared through me. “My feelings for Jack are none of your damn business.”

Serious again, he looked me straight in the eye. “I know you loved him. There’s no need to erase that, ever. Or to pretend that you don’t want another man in your life. Maybe I’m the guy.” He shrugged. “Maybe not. But think it over.”

“Let me ask
you
something, Rossi.”

“Shoot.”

“How many times have
you
been to the moon?”

“You know something, Deva. I used to believe I’d been there a lot, but lately I’m not so sure. I think those trips I took were to minor planets.” He cocked an eyebrow and waited.

I smiled. Who could stay mad at Rossi?

The cell phone in his pocket began an insistent chirping.
Always at the wrong time.

He fished the phone out of his pocket and growled into it. He listened for a moment, his fingers tightening on the receiver. “I’ll be right in,” he said. “Leave the report on my desk.” He repocketed the cell. “Duty calls. Have to go.” He gave me a hurried, unsatisfying peck on the cheek and was halfway out the door when he turned back, a wicked gleam in his eye. “One last question, Mrs. D. You ever hear of the Big Bang Theory?”

Chapter Twenty

At eight the next morning I woke with a start, flung back the covers and leaped up, amazed that I had slept like a baby for hours. With my life in chaos, how could I have been so relaxed? The conversation with Rossi? Maybe. The kiss? More than likely.

I stretched, long and luxuriously, reaching for the sky, then took a quick, cool shower and scrambled into some clothes…a white string sweater and a bright orange skirt. Strappy tan leather sandals with four-inch heels. In them I’d look tall and towering—to match my mood.

On my way out, I left the
Naples Daily
lying on the front step in its plastic sleeve without even glancing at the headlines. I knew what I’d find. Why torture myself? What I didn’t know was what I’d find at the shop—a throng, a mob, or worse, deadly, empty silence.

I found Lee alone with worry lines creasing her forehead. No wonder. Having your employer discover two murder victims in less than a month didn’t add up to job security.

“Morning, Deva,” she said, forcing a wan smile. “Daddy just left. He told me what happened. I’m so sorry.”

“Daddy?”
About to stash my handbag underneath the sales counter, I straightened in disbelief and the bag fell to the floor. “Isn’t he in Alabama?”

“He’s on his way back there today. He sold his place over in East Naples and was here for the closing.”

So Merle Skimp had been in town yesterday. I doubted Merle’s presence was enough to cause the tension I had seen coiling in Rossi’s back when he answered his cell phone yesterday. But who knew? If Merle had been in Naples at the time Jesus was killed, were the cops aware of that? And if not, would pointing out the possibility be the action of a rat fink? Or the best thing I could do for Lee and Paulo? Exasperated, I retrieved the bag and placed it under the counter.

With a tired sigh, Lee sank onto the chair behind her desk. “Daddy gave me a nice check from the sale. I know he worries about me…I didn’t tell him Paulo and I are getting married.” Her eyes filled with tears. “I’m afraid he’ll try to stop me.” She looked down at her lap. “But I took the check anyway.”

“Of course you did. Your mother would have wanted you to.”

“That’s what Daddy said. So I took it.” She glanced up, tears brimming under her lids. “In case…in case…”

“The shop fails,” I finished.

She nodded. “There’s just no way of tellin’, Deva. I’m so scared. Paulo knew that Jesus man. They worked together. He’ll be questioned again. Under suspicion again.”

She was right, Paulo would be under suspicion again, and so would I. I could think of no words of comfort for either of us. All we could do was play the waiting game. And pray. But somehow I felt far from defeated even though the shop was dead all morning, even though by one in the afternoon not a single customer had come through the door, not a single phone call through the line.

The truth was Rossi was keeping despair at bay. I knew Jack would understand. Months earlier, in my dreams, he had told me not to let his death keep me from living. I could still hear his voice with its lilting brogue: “When life closes one door, it opens another. A pretty marvelous phenomenon, don’t you think?”

I do
.

Troubled about the lack of business, yet buoyant, I was such a contradictory bundle of nerves that when the phone finally rang in the middle of the afternoon, my hand shot out and I grabbed it before the second ring.

“Deva Dunne Interiors.”

“Deva,” Rossi said. Not Mrs. D. Pleased, I pressed the phone to my ear, bringing him in a little closer.

He cleared his throat, his voice lowering. “I appreciated your honesty during my…ah…interrogation yesterday.” His discretion told me he was calling from the station.

“I would never lie to the police.”

He laughed, an honest-to-God, deep belly laugh. I held the phone away from my ear and stared at it. That was a first. Grins, yes. Smiles, rarely. Smirks, definitely. But an out-and-out laugh? Never.

I brought the phone back to my ear. “I mean it, Lieutenant. I’ll cooperate whenever I can be of service.”

“I’ll keep that in mind. In fact, I may have some further questions for you.”

“Whenever you’re ready, Lieutenant.”

“I’ll be in touch.”

I hung up positively energized. Though business was dead, killed by all the lethal publicity, I was more alive today than I’d been since Jack died. Today nothing would defeat me. Nothing.

I glanced across the shop to where Lee sat behind her desk, patiently waiting to greet the first customer of the day. It was two o’clock. We had been open since nine.

Screw it.

“Lee, how would you like to have lunch at the Ritz Carlton?”

Her eyes widened into blue pools. “Oh, my. I’ve never been to the Ritz.”

“Well, high time then. Grab your purse and let’s go. We’re celebrating.”

“What all are we celebrating, Deva?”

“The good men in our lives.”

She rewarded me with the only real smile I’d seen on her face all day. Brighter than Ilona’s diamonds, it lit up the whole shop. “It’s the lieutenant, isn’t it?”

The bells on the door jangled, and we both turned toward the door.

Uh-oh.
Mrs. Jessica Jones. In funereal black from head to foot.

She bounded into the shop, slamming the door so hard the bells jangled for another thirty seconds. “Did that bastard tell you what he did to me?”

“Which bastard is that?” I asked, taking the Fifth.

“Don’t pretend, Deva.” With a nod at Lee, Jessica took a seat on the zebra settee. “He served me with divorce papers, the son of a bitch.”

I heaved a sigh. This wasn’t going to be easy. “You handle anger well, Jessica.”

Her eyes narrowed at me, but she rested the Ferragamo tote on the floor next to her feet as if she planned to stay a while and crossed her legs at the knee.

At the knee.
“Not to change the subject, Jessica, but have you lost weight?”

She ran her palms down her sides. “Ten pounds since Christmas. It’s the best thing that’s happened to me in years. Only forty more to go. I hope you don’t have any of those Christmas cookies left. I can do without the temptation.”

“You’re safe. They’re long gone.”

Lee dropped her purse back into a desk drawer. I guess she recognized that Jessica needed to vent, and that meant girl talk, lots of it.

Jessica picked up the Ferragamo and rummaged in it for a tissue. I hoped she wasn’t about to burst into tears. But no, she gave her nose a vigorous blow, tucked the tissue in a jacket pocket and said, “I like you, Deva, so I came to warn you, woman to woman.”

“Warn me? About what?”

Lee stiffened. I caught her alarmed glance and smiled, but her troubled expression didn’t change.

I pulled up a folding garden chair. Whatever Jessica had to say would be easier to take sitting down. I leaned forward. “What is it?”

“Don’t trust Morgan. He’s a bloody liar.”

“But—”

She held up a hand for silence. “Let me finish. I have proof. Wait till you see this.” She reached back into the tote, yanked out a bank statement and thrust it at me.

One glance and I knew. “All his accounts have been cancelled.”

“Right. And that’s just the Sun Trust Bank. The others are the same. He’s stripped every account. At least those I could find.”

I handed her back the statement.

“I had to take a hammer to his desk drawer to get this much information. Wait till he sees the damage. Not that I give a damn. What infuriates me is that he changed the password to his PC. God knows what he’s hiding in there. But one thing for sure, he’s holding out on me, Deva.”

This didn’t bode well for Jessica. Or for Deva Dunne Interiors, either. “I’m sorry to hear all this. You sounded so positive the night you telephoned.”

“Yeah. Well I was a fool to believe him. He knew you and I had talked about the new house. So he figured he had to tell me the truth about it. That kept me off his back until he could move his assets where I wouldn’t find them. And that little weasel helped him.”

“Weasel?”

“George Farragut. God, I can’t stand the creep. He’s as bad as Morgan with his precious collections. All those drab etchings. Not a one with any color to it. Just like him. The little prick.”

George’s etchings may be drab, but your language sure is colorful.

“I used to be such a lady.” Jessica uncrossed her legs and, spreading them apart, dropped her hands between her knees. “Now I’m a piranha. Out for blood. That’s why I’m here. I don’t want Morgan to screw you over—” with a wink to a wide-eyed Lee, “—metaphorically speaking, of course, the way he screwed me. So get your money upfront. Or else leave him hanging with a half-finished house. Slap a lien on it if you have to. He’ll have a tough time impressing his bimbo then.”

A housewife forever and now sliding down the fifties hill, Jessica had my sympathy, even though punishing Morgan, not protecting my interests, was her motive in coming here today. I couldn’t blame her for her fury, but she should be concentrating on her fiscal interests, not revenge. Anger must have her blindsided. I wondered what marketable skills she possessed but didn’t dare ask. Her ace in the hole was her husband, and it looked like she’d played that card. Unless?

“Have you seen a lawyer, Jessica?”

She looked up from her knees and shook her head. “A divorce lawyer? Not yet. First I’m talking to Morgan’s tax attorney. See if I can get the truth out of him. We always filed a joint return, so I know how much Morgan earned but not where it went. Simon Yaeger better not hold out on me.” She pounded a fist on the settee arm. “I have a right to know. Once I learn what’s what from Yaeger, I’ll contact a divorce lawyer. You know a good one? Somebody who’ll go for the jugular?”

I shook my head when what I wanted to do was slap myself on the forehead. Sometimes you can’t see the forest—too many trees in the way. Of course, they all knew each other. Simon, the Alexanders, George Farragut, and now the Morgan Joneses.

So not only did Simon handle legal affairs for Trevor and George, he apparently did so for the Morgans. That was something I didn’t find out the day I rifled—I mean glanced at—the documents on Trevor’s desk. The day Simon called and left that chilling message on Trevor’s answering machine. And of course both Simon and George did business with Trevor.

Now that I thought about it, there were a lot of loose ends, too. George had recommended the Russian art show to Simon. They had planned to meet there that night so Simon could return George’s briefcase. A briefcase Simon had been storing in his office for a week—the very week after Maria was murdered. For some unexplained reason, at the last minute George had skipped the art show. Had he seen Rossi lurking in his car outside the gallery? Could that have kept him away? It had to have been something serious. The next day he had arrived at Morgan’s house practically panting to get his briefcase back. Whatever it held had to have been valuable.

Not a laptop. It had been too light. Client records, then? Facts, information? Possibly. Or money. No. Suitcases full of cash only cropped up in B movies…

Somewhere, in the background, Jessica nattered on about how rotten Morgan was, how
she
was going to operate on
him
for a change. Her words were gnats buzzing in the distance. A cold sweat broke out on my skin, for in that instant, I
knew
without proof, without evidence, without anything except a growling in my gut that could not be denied—

George had rolled up the Monet and hidden it in his briefcase. And Simon had stored it for him. What better hiding place than the office of Naples’s most respected law firm? Which left me with two burning questions: Had Simon known what was in the case? And where was the painting now?

“…furthermore, Deva, I’ll bet that bimbo is a bag of bones. Wait till he bangs into her in the dark. Ha! He’ll miss me then.”

With a start, I came back into the moment. “I’m sorry, Jessica. What were you saying?”

* * *

The phone rang shortly after Jessica left. Rossi again? Or maybe a customer. I picked up fast.

“Deva. For you I have bad news. It is bad for me, too.”

“What is it, Ilona?”

“Our Wine Festival dinner is no more. It’s
halott.
Dead.”

Surprised but not stunned, I asked, “You’ve cancelled? Why?”

“Everybody we invite refuse. They will not come to my house. No matter how old my family, they do not come. Tonight, Trevor and I, we go to Port Royal Club for dinner. If no one sit with us then I know we are finished in Naples. Finished. It is not fair, Deva. We own two Monets, so we are victims.” A Hungarian sigh floated through the line. “No longer do we even own two. I go now. I must inform Cheep.”

“Your retainer, Ilona?”

“Never no mind, Deva. You keep. For aggravation.”

“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Especially since I had already spent it. Actually, Ilona was kind to excuse the two thousand. Maybe, after all, I had misjudged her. “What of the party supplies I stored in your garage? They’re all returnable.”

“Come get whenever you wish.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The last number on code is three now, not five. But you may not need code. Tomorrow, our new housekeeper arrive. Another Maria, she is. I tell her to let you in whenever you call.”

“I appreciate your trust, Ilona.” I meant it. If the situation were reversed and I lived in a house where two people had been murdered, I wouldn’t trust a soul with my security code. I wondered why Ilona did.

“We are girls together, Deva. Of course I trust. It is the mens I no trust.”

Ah. My answer?

“Now, I hang up phone. I am too upset to talk more.”

I cradled the receiver. Poor Chip. He would be devastated. I glanced around my silent, empty shop. Deva Dunne Interiors already was devastated. I had a feeling it would remain so until the Alexander case was solved. That had better be soon. My pockets were too shallow to hold out much longer. With that thought, my temper flared. I hated feeling like a victim.

“Let’s call it a day, Lee. This place is as dead as a teetotaler’s party.”