The Monet Murders (3 page)

The sleigh bells were still jangling. I strode over to the door and ripped them off the knob. This Christmas season sure was murder.

Chapter Three

At five, I closed the shop and drove to the NPD station where I signed my witness statement for a young female officer. Lieutenant Rossi was nowhere in sight, nor did I ask for him. Afterward, figuring that though the sleigh bells and the tree hadn’t lifted my mood, maybe a glass of wine would, I drove back to Fifth Avenue and dropped in at the Irish Pub.

I sat at one of the little metal tables on the terrace overlooking Sugden Square and soaked up the cool evening breeze. As their children scampered about, tourists in shorts and T-shirts leisurely strolled the open square. Tiny white lights encircled the palm trees, adding a note of festivity to the scene. In this peaceful place, it was hard to believe that only a few blocks away a world-class masterpiece had been snatched into oblivion and a woman shot to death.

A slim blonde server approached, pad and pen in hand. “Evening, ma’am. What would y’all like?” she asked in a lilting southern drawl.

I’d heard that soft southern drawl before and glanced up from the menu. “Lee Skimp, is that you?”

“Y’all know me?” A hand flew to her mouth. “The decorating lady.”

“I’ve been called worse things,” I said, laughing. “How
are
you?” A sweet girl, Lee had been instrumental in finding Treasure’s killer, and for that I’d be eternally grateful to her.

“I’m just fine,” she said, adding shyly, “I looked in your shop window the other day. It sure is pretty.”

While she spoke, she kept glancing over one shoulder then the other as if searching for someone.

“Is anything the matter, Lee?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t be telling a customer, but since you asked…it’s my daddy. I moved out a month ago and heard tell he’s been looking for me. If he finds me here, I don’t know what all will happen.”

“Anyone of legal age has the right to strike out on her own.”

“I’ll be twenty-one and a half come Friday.”

Of course. To serve liquor she’d have to be, though truth to tell, she hardly looked that old. More like a lovely waif with her long, shiny hair and big Loretta Lynn eyes.

“Then your father can’t force you back home against your will.”

“You haven’t met my daddy.” She attempted a smile. “You’re not here to listen to me yammer on. What all can I get you, Ms. Dunne?”

“Please call me Deva. And a glass of house chardonnay would be lovely.” I was on a budget. My palate would understand.

“Coming right up.”

As Lee hurried off to fill my order, I scanned the menu. I’d have a burger, the pub specialty, affordable and filling.

Maybe the man’s hurried gait was what caught my eye. And his wintry clothes. Amid the scantily clad tourists, his blue jeans, cowboy boots and flannel shirt were as exotic as a bikini on an Eskimo. He trotted around Sugden Square, darting with a jerky step between clusters of sightseers. A nervous squirrel on a hunt for nuts, he looked vaguely familiar somehow. Strange.

Lee came back with the wine and took my order.

“A burger, well done, no onions.”

She wrote it down. “Anything else, Ms. Dunne?” I never got to answer. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “He’s found me.” Terror filling her eyes, she dropped the pad on the table. As if her fear drew him like a beacon, the strange man spotted her and came at her full tilt, in his haste elbowing a woman out of his way.

“Hey, quit your shoving,” she yelled.

He ignored her and hurried toward the terrace. Trembling, Lee shrank against the pub wall.

I knocked my chair back and jumped up. “Daddy?”

She nodded, panic in her eyes. “He’ll make me go home.”

“You don’t want to?”

Too terrified to speak, she shook her head.

I hate bullies, and judging from Lee’s fear, this little, skinny guy was a bona fide bully in the flesh. No way could I sit by and let him push her around. A grizzly protecting her cub, I stood in front of Lee, my purse clutched in both hands.

“Get out of the way,” her father ordered, his body fairly quivering with rage.

I squared my shoulders, drawing myself up to my full five feet six. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“My name’s Merle Skimp, this gal’s daddy. I’m telling you to step aside.”

“I’m telling you to leave her alone.”

“You got no right to come between kin.” Skimp’s hand, quick as a snake’s strike, darted out and clutched my arm. For a skinny man, he had a powerful grip. I couldn’t shake him off.

Food forgotten, the diners at the nearby tables stopped eating to stare at us.

“Let her go, Daddy,” Lee begged. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “You,” I shouted to a startled diner. “Get the manager. Hurry.” To my relief, the man jumped up and rushed into the pub.

“That won’t do you no good.” Skimp tightened his hold on my arm, bruising it. “You heard her. She’s leaving this godless place. Come on, gal.” The pressure of his fingers increased, shooting pain down to my fingertips.

Shaking, ashen-faced, Lee took a step toward him. Where the hell was the manager?

As Lee moved away from the wall, Skimp let go of me to lunge for her.
The tyrant.
My Irish temper flared sky high. Before he could grab her, I swung my handbag and clobbered him. Combined, my cell phone, keys and makeup kit had enough clout to knock him off his feet for a second. But only for a second. He rallied, beckoning to her. “Come on.”

I struck out again, this time knocking the baseball cap off his bald head. As he bent to retrieve it, I realized why he looked familiar. “I know you!”

He was the gardener I’d seen stooping over the shrubbery on the Alexanders’ lawn.

Before he could admit or deny it, a tall, chesty man with the heft of a barroom bouncer hurried over, trailed by the flustered diner.

“I’m Brad, the pub manager. What’s the problem here?” the big guy asked.

“Ain’t nothing to worry about, sir,” Merle Skimp said, tugging the Devil Rays cap back on his head. “It’s a family matter.”

Brad turned to me. “You called for help, ma’am?”

There was that “ma’am” again. First Dreadlocks, now Brad. Clearly, I needed to change my image—lengthen my hair, shorten my skirt.
Something.

“This man—” I pointed a finger at Skimp, “—attempted to abduct your server.”

At the direct accusation, Skimp found his spine. “She’s my gal. I just want to do the right thing by her. She don’t belong in here. Servin’ drinks like a common hussy.”

His eyes on Lee, Brad upped his hefty chin in her father’s direction. “You know this man?”

Trembling, Lee stepped out from behind me and nodded.

“You want to go with him?”

Without lifting her gaze from the concrete pavers lining the terrace, she shook her head. “No, sir.”

“You heard her,” Brad said to Skimp. “I have to ask you to leave.”

Skimp shot a venomous glance at me then held out a hand to Lee. She made no move to take it.

“Come on home, gal. Think of what your momma would say.”

Lee shook her head. “No, Daddy.”

Brad reached into his pants pocket and removed a cell phone. “Your choice, mister.”

“I’m goin’, but I ain’t happy about it. I’ll talk to you another day, gal.”

“Come back, I’ll call the police.” Arms crossed over his green Irish Pub T-shirt, biceps bulging, Brad held the phone, watching as Skimp darted across the square and disappeared around the corner of the Island Grill.

“I’m so sorry,” Lee began, teary eyed. She got no further.

“No need to apologize, Lee. You’re a good employee.” Brad turned to the gaping diners. “Show’s over, everybody. Drinks on the house.”

As a pleased buzz went up, he asked me, “Your name again, ma’am?”

Ma’am
. “I give up.”

“What was that?” Brad asked, a puzzled look on his face.

I shook my head. “Sorry. Just thinking out loud. My name’s Deva Dunne. I opened a design shop on Fern Alley a few weeks ago.”

“We’re neighbors, then.” He held out his huge hand, pumping mine up and down with a surprising gentleness. “You’re a friend of Lee’s?”

“Yes,” I replied without a moment’s hesitation.

Lee rewarded me with a tremulous smile.

“We’re not busy right now,” he said to her. “Why don’t you take an hour off? Have a burger or something. Talk to your friend…ah…Deva. I’ll have Nancy cover for you.”

“What a nice man,” Lee said as Brad strode off.

“Absolutely,” I agreed, stopping short of adding, “One out of two ain’t bad.”

With a grateful sigh, Lee sank onto the steel mesh chair across from me. Her lips quivered, but she didn’t cry. “Daddy means well, but I had to leave home all the same. He wouldn’t let me do anything. Except go to work at Kmart. He didn’t want me to have friends, either. Not even girlfriends. And I’ve never had me a boyfriend. Not one. Not ever.”

“He wanted to keep you for himself?”

“I guess so. Since Momma passed, he’s been lonely but…”

“You have your own life to lead.”

She nodded, her eyes misty. “I stayed, though, till he told me to quit school. That’s when I left.”

“School?”

“FGCU. Florida Gulf Coast University,” she added, sitting up straight. “I’m an art major. Got me a scholarship, too. I plan to be a decorator just like you.”

Just like me.
I wanted to cry. I’d seldom had a finer compliment.

“I’m renting a room two blocks over on Third Avenue, so I can walk to work, and I get a ride to class with a girl I know. Everything’s going just fine, except for—”

“Daddy.”

“Yes.”

Working nights and going to school days couldn’t be easy. She looked so frail and burdened I reached across the table to squeeze her hand. “Let’s order burgers and Cokes. You’ll feel better after you eat something.” She had a long way to go until the pub closed at midnight.

We had nearly finished eating when she surprised me with a question. “Deva, would you like some help in your new shop? When I peeked in the window the other day, I told myself I’d surely love to work there.”

I rested what was left of the burger on my plate. “I’m barely getting started, Lee. I can’t afford to hire anyone.”

Her eyes flared wide. “Oh, I don’t mean for pay. I mean kind of like a—what’s the word?—internship. Yes, that’s it. Internship. For the experience, like.”

I shook my head. “That would be taking unfair advantage of you. Besides, you have enough to do as is.”

“I worked at Kmart all through high school and after. I got to know the Martha Stewart line real good. Martha’s another decorating lady,” she added, “just like you.”

Just like me.
I sighed and gave in on the spot. “What did you have in mind?”

The last bites of her burger abandoned, Lee leaned forward, eyes aglow. “Well, I’m free Wednesday and Friday afternoons from two to five. I kind of thought if you’re working all alone, you might need to leave, you know, to go to customers’ homes and stuff. I could keep the shop open. At least two afternoons a week.”

“Lee, has anyone ever told you that you’re a steel magnolia?”

Her brow furrowed. “No. What do y’all mean?”

“You’re strong.”

“I wish my daddy thought so,” she said, looking as wistful as an abandoned child.

“If he didn’t before, chances are he does now. Though you’d better be careful walking home at night. He might follow you.”

“It’s okay, Deva. He won’t hurt me.”

Hoping she was right, I glanced out onto Sugden Square. Couples strolling arm in arm had replaced the tourist families. As night deepened, the lights on the tree trunks transformed the palms into glimmering sculptures. A lovely sight, but I couldn’t keep staring at it without answering Lee’s question. Yet how to answer her? The last thing I wanted was to hurt her feelings, but with my entire future at stake, the truth was my only option. I pulled my gaze from the square and looked across the table.

She was a beautiful girl, anyone could see that, but I suspected her wardrobe consisted of jeans, Reeboks and T-shirts. Loose T-shirts. Daddy wouldn’t have allowed anything else.

“Well, for openers, interior designers sell the sizzle. The steak comes later.”

“Y’all confusing me, Deva.”

“What I mean is it’s an image business.”

She nodded, her brow creasing as she waited for me to make my point.

Oh boy, this wasn’t going to be easy, but I had no choice except to plunge ahead. “To put it in as few words as possible, you need a signature look.”

“A what?”

I blew out a breath. “Clothes.”

“Oh. I don’t have any,” she said, sagging back onto the metal chair. “Nothing but jeans and tops.”

She looked so upset, I quickly added, “I can help you with that. So say we agree…you work in the shop Wednesday and Friday afternoons.” I held up a warning hand. “On three conditions.”

She nodded before I could count them off.

Index finger: “You bring your homework. When the shop’s quiet, you get in some studying.”

Third finger: “As soon as I’m out of the red, you go on the payroll.”

Ring finger: “Before you start, I buy you a black dress and high-heeled sandals. Black is fabulous on blondes. Wait and see. And a string of chunky faux pearls.”

“I’ve never had no black dress before.”

We’d have to work on those double negatives, too, but not tonight.

“Tomorrow’s Wednesday, why don’t you stop by at two, and we’ll shop for a dress?”

The smile on her face drove away any misgivings I might have had—except for one. “If you’re going to work with me, there’s something I should warn you about.” I hesitated. What I had to tell her might kill our association before it began. I gave a mental shrug. No way to avoid that. She deserved to know. “I’m involved with the police.”

Before I could say another thing, she raised her right hand then dropped it, palm down. “Don’t you go worrying yourself one little bit, Deva. I read the newspaper this morning. I know all about that dead body you found.”

Chapter Four

So, apparently, did everybody else in town. On Thursday, for the second day in a row, the
Naples Daily News
headlined the double crimes. By Friday, local TV channels were focused on little else. Even CNN gave the story a mention, but except for questioning me at the scene, the police hadn’t contacted me.

I’d hung the bells back on the shop door, and each time they jangled I expected to see a cop in the doorway. So maybe it was a good thing for my nervous system that walk-in business was practically nonexistent.

Anyway, Friday was Rossi Day, and I was curious to see his place. How he lived, the colors on his walls, the furniture—the pictures of his old girlfriends—would all have a tale to tell, and I couldn’t wait to hear it. Anyway, considering his execrable taste in clothes, whatever his motive for hiring me, I probably had my work cut out, which was fine. A healthy person didn’t need a doctor, right?

At eleven I changed the arrow on the Open sign in the shop window to two o’clock and locked up.

It was good to know that if I didn’t make it back by two, Lee would reopen for me. As expected, she looked breathtakingly beautiful in her new black dress, her blond hair shimmering over her shoulders, her long, slim legs showcased in the new high-heeled sandals. What were a few double negatives in light of all that? She’d be a wonderful, reliable asset to the business, I was certain of it. Now I just had to drum up enough business to keep her.

Rossi lived in East Naples, in Countryside, a gated community with a security system that rivaled the Kremlin’s. When I finally got through the guard check at the entrance gate, I drove along a curvy street lined with mailboxes and well-groomed lawns. A single-story stucco like its neighbors, Rossi’s house had curb appeal—new-looking beige paint, Mexican tile roof, shrubs trimmed to within an inch of their lives, walks swept clean of even so much as a fallen leaf.

I sat in the Audi staring at the property for a while. Not bad. I resisted the thought that Rossi had tidied it up just for me. Still, the possibility that he might have made me smile. Why, I had no idea. At least none I was willing to admit to. Now for the interior and a peek into Rossi’s psyche, if not into his underwear drawers.

I climbed out of the car, walked up the brick path to the front entrance and rang the bell—a no-nonsense buzzer. The door flew open.

“Lieutenant! You’re supposed to be at work.” I eyed him suspiciously. Had he lied to me about Wilma, his cleaning lady? Was this a trap? I sighed and walked in anyway, telling myself every man in the world didn’t find me irresistible. In fact, most didn’t, and Rossi was probably in that vast number.

“I worked all night,” he said. “Just came home to grab a shower.” He looked so heavy-eyed and fatigued I believed him.

“I can come back later. You have more important things to do than—”

“No, no. Life goes on even during police investigations. Come in. Come in. I’ve been waiting for you.” He waved me inside with a wide swipe of his right arm.

“If you’re sure. We can make it fast.”

“Not to hurry, Mrs. D. I have time.”

I walked through the small, bland foyer into a living room that was a virtual sea of light beige. Walls, furniture, rug, lamps. Straight ahead, open glass sliders led to a pool sparkling in the morning sunlight, its vivid aquamarine a jolt of visual relief. The only one. I glanced around. Not only was everything beige, everything was immaculate. Not a newspaper, a coffee cup, a discarded slipper or a wilted flower anywhere.

“Your cleaning lady just leave?” I asked.

“No, I told Wilma to skip this week.”

“It’s this clean after a whole week?”

“Two weeks.” He let his glance roam over me and changed the subject. “No dress today?”

“You don’t like slacks?”

“Yeah, I do. They’re a good tradeoff.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“No legs, but—”

—ass.
“Don’t go there, Rossi.”

“No.” He ran a hand over his stubbly jaw. “I was definitely out of line with that one. See what you do to me, Mrs. D?”

He did look distracted. He must have the murder on his mind. Not to mention the Monet. No doubt he needed to get back to work as soon as possible. I didn’t want to waste his time. “Where’s your bedroom?” I asked.

He broke out into one of his big white Chiclets grins. “Now you’re talking.” He cocked an index finger and beckoned me down a short hallway with a closed door at the end.

“You first,” I said. No way would I walk ahead of him while he checked me out.

“No flies on your tail, Mrs. D.”

“Lovely expression,” I muttered and followed him down the hall. Telling myself not to be ridiculous, I squelched a sudden spurt of tension. I had surveyed men’s bedrooms before, many of them. And without another woman present. What made this different? Rossi’s attitude? Or Rossi himself?

He opened his bedroom door. Like the living room, it was textbook perfect. The king-sized bed could pass military inspection. Not a single object studded the sleek Art Deco dresser. The matching bedside tables each held a pottery lamp and nothing else. Nowhere did I see an alarm clock, a loving cup, a watch winder, or heaven forbid, a dirty sock flung into a corner. And not a single girlfriend’s picture.

“You live here?” I asked, deadpan.

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“It means you’re a neat freak, Rossi.”

“That’s good, right?” His brows collided. For the first time since I’d known him, I had him worried. It was such a good feeling, I increased the pressure.

“Do you ever sit on the bed?”

“After it’s made? No. Why?”

I didn’t answer. Let him stew. “May I see your closet?”

“Sure.” He opened a set of shutter doors and snapped on the closet light.

I walked in to a store’s worth of Hawaiian shirts. I recognized a couple—that pink one and the green one with the orange sunsets. Like a rainbow, he had them arranged according to the spectrum. Red, orange, yellow, green, blue, violet.

“Rossi.” I turned around so fast, I bumped into him. As I moved back a step, the sleeve of a jacket brushed my arm. Navy blue. So he did have one. The cramped space, or maybe Rossi’s proximity, was making me claustrophobic. “I want to get out of the closet.”

“Yeah, you don’t belong in one.”

That grin again. He turned everything into—

“So what do you think?” he asked when we were back in the bedroom.

“California Closets could learn from you, Rossi, but as for the rest, may I be honest?”

“That’s what I prefer.”

“A house is not a crime scene. Fingerprints are okay. Ditto for used coffee cups and magazines. Even an empty pizza box isn’t a felony. It’s like you’ve got invisible yellow tape everywhere, cordoning everything off. Why don’t you let down the police barriers in your mind? Loosen things up? Get some pizzazz, some fun, some excitement in here.”

“Excitement I get on the job. Fun I don’t get from furniture.”

“Okay, I got carried away. Your home is commendably…ah…clean. Make that immaculate. But it lacks color and accessories.”

“Accessories?”

From his puzzled tone, I wondered if he’d ever heard the word.

“Yes, for starters, the big three. Plants. Pillows. Pictures.” I waved my arms around the room. “I like beige walls. I like beige furniture. I like beige rugs. I like beige coverlets. I like beige—”

He raised a hand, palm out. “Enough already. Barley’s Paints had a sale. I stocked up, that’s all. Then I matched everything. It was easier than figuring out what colors I should pick.”

I eyed his shirt. Turquoise today with yellow hibiscus blossoms. “You don’t have that trouble with your wardrobe.”

“I don’t look at what I’m wearing. You do.”

“Good point. So…to get back to why I’m here. What do you want from me?”
Wrong question.
I knew it the instant the words left my lips and ignited one of his grins. So why had I said them? Freudian slip? Maybe Rossi attracted me more than I let on—even to myself.

The claustrophobia rushed back. I hurried out of the bedroom and marched down the hall ahead of him. Let him check my butt if he wanted to.

In the living room, I sank onto the couch and glanced around. “You could use a little help out here as well. In fact, I suggest we start here, not in the bedroom.”

Damn.
There was that grin again.

“Maybe I should just leave,” I said, picking up my handbag.

“No, no. Don’t go. I want to hear your ideas. I mean it.” He slid onto a beige lounger opposite the couch, leaning back like he intended to listen. Or judging from the look of his heavy eyes, fall asleep.

I put the handbag down and swallowed my pride once again. Right now, I couldn’t afford to walk away from any job that came my way. “I’ll take some measurements. Make some notes. If you have no objection, I’ll photograph your interiors. Then, I’ll submit a proposal and layer it to give you several options. We take it from there.”

“Sounds good.”

I was removing the tape measure from my bag when he said, “Will you wait up a minute with that, Mrs. D? There’s something I have to tell you first.”

No grin. No humor. No innuendo.

A band tightened around my chest.

He leaned forward, focused and intense, all signs of sleep deprivation gone. “The Alexanders’ insurance company wants the FBI involved.”

“Understandable, considering the value of the missing Monet.”

“Correct, if not exactly flattering to our local boys in brown.” He blew out a breath. “I hope you also find this understandable—you’ve been asked to have a polygraph test.”

My jaw went slack. “As in lie detector?”

“Yes.”

“But I didn’t kill Maria. I didn’t steal the painting, either.”

“I know that. You know that. Now the insurance company and the chief need to know. You were in the wrong place at the wrong time. We want to eliminate you as a possible suspect. Not incriminate you.”

“Oh really? How comforting. Are these tests foolproof?”

He glanced away from me to study a nonexistent spot on his wall. Body language doesn’t lie. The answer was no.

“I refuse.”

“Thwarting a police request isn’t smart. I wouldn’t do that if I were you.”

He sounded so morally superior I wanted to fling the measuring tape at him. “Well, you’re not me. You’re not under suspicion, either.”

“How you feel is only natural, but—”

“Is that why you’re here today? Instead of Wilma? To tell me this?”

“Partly. I knew you’d be upset.”

“Now you’re a shrink as well as a detective.” I grabbed my bag and leaped to my feet.

He leaned back in his chair, maddeningly a man at ease in his own home. “You’re not alone.”

Halfway to the door, I turned around. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Everyone who knew the entry code is to be tested. For starters, you. The gardener. Jesus Cardoza. And the Alexanders.”

“The Alexanders? That’s ridiculous. They were in Europe at the time.”

He cocked an eyebrow at me but didn’t respond.

“Okay, not ridiculous, but farfetched.” I stomped back to the couch and sat on one of the arms, defying it to break off. “When?”

“What’s the matter with today?”