The Monet Murders (2 page)

Chapter Two

The next day, my spirits lower than the price of a garage-sale rug, I opened my shop, Deva Dunne Interiors, promptly at nine as usual. Though the MRI hadn’t shown signs of trauma, my head pounded anyway. It had every right to.

This was December fifteenth, the one-year anniversary of my husband Jack’s death, and as Rossi had guessed, a day I’d been dreading. But no whining allowed. I intended to meet it dry-eyed and chin up, as Jack would have wanted. No sobbing. No groaning or carrying on about how much I missed him. How much I’d lost. How much I wanted him back in the circle of my arms, so I could reach up and sink my fingers in his thick Irish thatch, and warm myself in the sparkle of his eyes and his smile. No moaning about how every cell in my body would come alive each time he said he loved me…in a lilt more enchanting than music, more wonderful than…

I glanced out the display window. No, not again! What a nerve! I jumped up and yanked open the shop door. I’d had it with being dumped on.

“Hey, you! Dreadlocks!”

In his early twenties, with latte skin and dozens of loosely wound braids to his shoulders, the guy turned and pointed a finger at his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. I saw you through my window. I want you to quit that.”

He stared at me, a baffled look on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”

“Stop dumping your empties in my planters. I’ve been finding them there all week.”

He shrugged. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Like hell they are.”

I stepped outside. Plucking a dead soda can out of an English boxwood next to the entrance, I held it up. “The planters are for decoration. For customers.
This
is for you.” I threw the can at him. It bounced off his foot. “No more Cokes. No more Buds. Got that?”

In the distance, traffic pulsed along Fifth Avenue, Naples’s version of Rodeo Drive, but no one ventured down the alley. Dreadlocks and I were alone. Over six feet tall, with pecs like Arnold, he could easily have knocked me down, but I stood my ground. I was struggling to create a little bit of beauty in the world and wasn’t about to tolerate any trashing. Not today of all days.

He picked up the empty, crumpled it and dropped it in the gutter. “That better?”

I sighed. “Better. Not good.”

Silver rings mounted the edges of his ears. He’d cut the sleeves off his sweatshirt; a tattooed snake rippled on his right upper arm.

“Thanks for the compassion,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m trying to get a business started here. Why make life tough for me?” Tears stung my eyelids, but I willed myself not to cry. Not here. Not now. I’d done enough of that all year. No more. Definitely not in front of this hostile stud with muscles, hooded eyes and ’tude.

He stepped in closer. “You crying?”

“Of course not.”

His voice rose an octave. “Over a can? That’s nothing to cry about.”

“The nothings add up.”

“Yeah, I know.” He frowned. “Look, I don’t want to make an old lady cry.”

Old?
“I’m only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake.”

Forehead creasing, he peered at me. “Whatever.”

I didn’t have a single gray strand in my frizzy red hair—at least not a new one—or a wrinkle that mattered. But in that minute I celebrated my hundred and tenth birthday. It was a pity party. Despite my resolve not to cry today, the tears flowed in earnest. I swiped at them with an open palm and turned back to my Boston green door.

“Hey, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dreadlocks called after me. “No more empties in your plants. If I see any, I’ll fish them out, okay?”

Not trusting myself to say more than “Thanks,” I gulped down the last of my tears and went into the best little design shop in Naples. The one practically nobody knew existed. But thanks to Channel 2 and the
Naples Daily News,
by now everybody probably knew about the missing Monet and the murder and my role in the whole ugly affair. What the reaction to that would be, I dreaded finding out.

The phone rang. Hoping the call meant business, I grabbed the receiver before the second ring.

“Deva Dunne Interiors.”

“Deva, I just read about the crimes. I should never have sent you to the Alexanders.”

Simon Yaeger, a Surfside neighbor. We were friends. No more than that. Though I had the feeling Simon would like to up the ante, I was far from ready for a relationship.

“What happened yesterday wasn’t your fault, Simon. Who could’ve guessed I’d be involved in a murder?”

His voice lowered. “I mean it. I’m so sorry.”

For some reason, maybe the effect of Simon’s suave voice, I sat up straight and eased the linen sheath over my knees. At least the green dress—an homage to the season—gave off the understated vibes a designer should project. Despite the good dress, I was relieved he couldn’t see me at the moment with what were no doubt red eyes, a red-tipped nose and out-of-control hair. A bit of vanity that shot my guilt through the roof.

“I appreciate your concern, Simon, but I’m confident the police will find the killer.”

While Simon had given me the Alexander tip with the best of intentions, he
had
landed me in the middle of a murder investigation. But why tell him what he already knew?

A pause hummed through the receiver. “There must be something I can do. Take you out for dinner?” A moment of silence, then a whispered, “I can do more than dinner.”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.” I wanted to say, “I belong to Jack,” but I couldn’t bring myself to speak of him.

“Okay, your loss.”

No question, ice dripped from his words. I’d seriously annoyed him. Terrific. In an attempt at damage control, I asked, “Want to come for Christmas dinner?”

“That might work. I’ll let you know.” He hung up.

I stared at the dead receiver in my hand.
Damn.

Only two months ago, Simon had phoned with a great tip. “How would you like an A-list client?” he’d asked, his voice as smooth and silky as his custom-made clothes.

“Oh? You have one for me, do you?” I liked to play cool with Simon. Tall, tanned and Tampa bred, he had to be most girls’ idea of a dream guy, but the man filling my dreams remained rumpled, charming Jack Dunne. I doubted the void he left in my life could ever be filled. But I gave silky Simon credit for trying. He could really work the phone, and that was saying a lot for a tax attorney who charged by the minute.

“Their name’s Alexander,” he told me. “They’re newbies in town. Rich as sin. Trevor’s a client of mine. Lives on Gordon Drive.”

I clutched the receiver to my ear. Gordon Drive, Naples’s most luxurious neighborhood. Snagging a design project in one of those mansions would lift my struggling business out of the red. My pulse rate rocked. “This is music you’re singing, Simon. Do go on.”

“Ilona, the wife, is Hungarian. Quite the looker. Very trophy.” He cleared his throat at that little indiscretion. “They want to redo their dining room before the holidays.”

“Just the one room?” Disappointment must have crept into my voice.

“Deva, the dining room’s as big as your condo. They’ve got Monets on the walls.”

“
Monets?
You’re sure?” Playing the cool game had gotten harder.

“Two of them. People don’t lie to their legal counsel.”

“Ha! Why me? I’m not a name.”

Simon sighed. “Because I recommended you. Highly. I told them you’re from Boston, know all about classical furniture and art, and understand the effects of tropical light on interiors.”

“You oversold me.” My turn to sigh. He’d exaggerated my credentials. Not the best way to approach prospective clients. Could I, truly, create a design to showcase a Monet? Two Monets? Torn, I hesitated, wondering what Jack would have said. The answer came winging right at me.
Of course you can.

“So, would you like the Alexanders’ phone number?” Simon asked.

“Of course I can. I mean, of course I would.”

After scribbling the number on a notepad, I thanked him, and the rest, as they say, is history.

Snapping me out of my reverie, the antique sleigh bells on the shop door went into a cheery ding-a-ling frenzy. My first customer of the day? I glanced up. Oh. Not quite.

“Lieutenant Rossi.” I stood and strolled over to greet him. “You found my shop.”

“I am a detective, Mrs. D.”

He took my outstretched hand. His was as warm and firm as I remembered. His dark eyes flicked over me, a complete body check. I remembered that, too, and glared at him, pretending to be irritated, though I really wasn’t.

“Has there been a break in the case, Lieutenant?”

He shook his head. “Not yet.”

“So you’re not here on official police business?”

“No. I had a few minutes free. I wanted to remind you to stop by the station and sign your witness statement, and ah, to see how you were doing.” He yanked his glance away from me and looked around the shop. “I like it in here. It’s got, you know, class.” His glance swiveled back to me. “Like that dress.” He peered into my eyes. “You been crying?”

My guess was that Rossi liked to spring questions. Catch people off guard so they’d blurt out the truth. Well, that wouldn’t work on me.

“No,” I lied.

Staring at nothing in particular, he picked up a mercury glass Santa from a display table, put it down then reached for a crystal snowman. He cleared his throat. “When we met a few months ago, you mentioned that the date of ah…ah…”

I forced myself to say, “Jack’s death.”

He nodded. “Yeah. It’s today, so I wanted to ah…”

“Cheer me up.”

“Exactly.” He looked relieved that I had fleshed out his sentence.

“Well you have, Lieutenant.” I meant it and gave him what no doubt was a wobbly smile. “Your shirt alone does that for me.”

He glanced down at himself and grinned. “You like it, huh?”

“I didn’t say that.”

He was sporting another Hawaiian number today. Green palm trees swaying in orange sunsets. Many trees, many sunsets.

“Do you own a suit jacket?” I asked. “You know, a blazer? In navy blue?”

“Yeah,” he said, his expression guarded.

“Well?”

“Well, what?”

“Do you ever wear it?”

He shook his head. “I’m saving it for my wedding.”

“Your wedding? You have a girlfriend this time?” Six months ago, he had me convinced he was engaged. Maybe this time he really was. I tamped down what felt strangely like a stab of disappointment but I wasn’t fast enough. His detective’s eyes flashed over me and his lips curved into a knowing smile.

“No, there’s no girlfriend, but I let women think there is. Otherwise they’re all over me.”

I felt like slapping him. “That remains the most egotistical thing I’ve ever heard.”

He shrugged and grinned again. “You never know, my M.O. could change.”

A rugged, dark-haired forty-something, he had apparently evaded every trap known to womankind. Why let his guard down now? To hit on me? How did he know I wasn’t the thief? Or the murderer?

“Want to take a look at my bedroom?” he asked, blowing my silent question out of the water.

Arms akimbo, shrew style, I said, “Rossi, you have the gall of ten men and the finesse of none. For five cents, I’d throw you out of here.”

Smiling, smirking actually, he waggled a finger under my nose. “Your imagination’s jumping ahead of the facts, Mrs. D.”

“Don’t give me that forensic mumbo-jumbo. I just heard you say—”

“You don’t decorate bedrooms?”

“Oh.” My face went from flushed to hot. I deserved his smirk. “I apologize. I’m not myself today.”

“I figured this would be a bad day for you.” He cleared his throat. “Wilma, that’s my cleaning lady, she’ll be at my place Friday morning. If you want to take a look, she’ll let you in.”

“I found a dead body yesterday. How do you know I’m not the killer?”

“Years of training, Mrs. D. Plus gut instinct.” That grin again. “Besides, you were out cold. No smoking gun in your hand, either.”

“My father was a Boston cop. He taught me something about police procedure. Aren’t you supposed to avoid personal contact with witnesses?”

He nodded. “What I’m suggesting isn’t personal. It’s business.”

“Oh? True.” For some reason I felt deflated.

Amusement glimmered in his eyes. “You want the job or not?”

Not only did I want it, I needed it. Swallowing my pride, I nodded. “What’s your favorite color?”

He shrugged. “I like ’em all.”

“I’ll take a look. Thank you.”

He reached into his shirt pocket and removed his notepad and pencil stub. Apparently, he didn’t go anywhere without them. After scribbling for a few seconds, he ripped off a sheet and handed it to me. “My address and phone number.”

I glanced at what he had written. This was his private number. Not the one at police headquarters.

I tapped the paper with a fingernail. “Privileged stuff here, Rossi. You can be reached day or night. Correct?”

“Yeah, I’m leaving myself wide open, Mrs. D. Remember, I’ve got a murder to solve. Don’t be calling me at all hours looking for a hot date.”

“Rossi, I—”

His expression sobered. “And don’t take any chances. Call 911 at the slightest suspicion of trouble.”

“You think I’m in danger?”

He shook his head. “I doubt the murderer has you in his sights, but it’s best to be careful. Gotta go. Don’t forget to come in and sign your witness statement.” His face relaxed into a smile. “When this is over, maybe we can try cruisin’ for burgers.”

“Is that an invitation or an order?”

“I never give orders to beautiful women.”

I stared at him tongue-tied. He winked and exited the shop, leaving me alone with the jangling sleigh bells. And my guilt. Somehow, Rossi had managed to press my buttons, and on this day of all days.

Not only that, he could be jeopardizing his job by hiring me. Why? A clever ploy to keep me close, to get to know me better, to see if I could be a killer and a thief? Or all of the above? Bottom line, I couldn’t believe a tough guy like Rossi cared a hoot about interior design. No, he had another motive. Me, myself and I? Was the reason as simple as that?