The Monet Murders (6 page)

“You see. I say same. For drama alone is worth keeping.” Ilona winked at me over Trevor’s shoulder.

“Very well. I can’t fight you both,” Trevor said, his frown disappearing as he drew Ilona to his side.

A discreet cough sounded from the open doorway. We turned to see a solemn-faced Jesus standing there.

“The bartender is here, sir, awaiting instructions for Christmas Eve.”

“Ah, good. Come along, darling,” Trevor said to Ilona. “I want to discuss the setups with him. I’m thinking of putting the bar on the terrace this time. I hope you’ll agree to that, at least.”

My opinion rendered—for two hundred dollars in design time—I followed them out to the living room where Jesus waited with the bartender.

“Oh my,” I said when I saw him. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

His startled expression told me he was as surprised as I was. “Hello, there, Mrs. Dunne,” he said, giving me one of his signature bows.

It was Paulo St. James.

Chapter Seven

“You know each other?” Trevor asked, glancing back and forth at us.

I nodded. “We’ve met. Paulo’s an artist. He’s painting a young woman who works in my shop.”

“Is that so?” Trevor said. “What makes you think you’re an artist? You have something unique to say?”

I looked over at Paulo. Though the silver studs rode his ears, he had tied his dreadlocks together at his nape with a black cord, and a starched white shirt concealed the snake tattoo. A spark flared in his eyes.

“Time will tell.” Paulo held up his large, strong hands. “And these.”

“Humph,” Trevor replied. “This house is full of art. You’ve worked here before. You must have noticed?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“The Monets, of course, are the stars of the collection. You’ve seen them?”

“Yes. They’re glorious.”

“Well, one still is anyway. You’d like to paint like that?”

At Trevor’s mocking tone, caution crept into Paulo’s expression. I stole a glance at Ilona. Intent on watching Paulo, she didn’t notice.

“Well,” Trevor goaded, “no answer for me?”

“I have no wish to imitate the great Monet,” Paulo replied. “Portraits are my passion. I want to paint people and reveal what is hidden within…the secrets they keep from the world.”

“Very ambitious. Very.” His words courteous, his voice patronizing, Trevor cocked a finger at Paulo beckoning him toward the terrace. “Well, as to the bar…”

The two men strolled outside and, after giving Ilona “Chef Cheep’s” phone number, I left for the shop.

All the way back to Fern Alley, I mulled over the surprise meeting with Paulo. A multimillion-dollar painting was missing, a woman dead, and, like me, Paulo had been in the house many times. He knew its layout, its treasures, and, to some degree, its owners’ comings and goings. No doubt, he well understood the value of the Monet. But I didn’t want to go down that ugly road, not with Lee’s radiant face shining in my mind.

Surprising, too, that Trevor hadn’t said if he’d been to the Gardner Museum in Boston. He obviously loved Impressionist works, and the Gardner had several major examples. But I hadn’t been surprised to learn that Ilona had regrets. From what she’d revealed about the yenta, her marriage was one of convenience, nothing more. At least on her side. After watching her eyes feasting on Paulo, I suspected that Trevor might have reason for jealousy.

With my head spinning, I opened up the shop to another surprise; Simon came in right after me with a big happy-to-see-you smile stretched across his face. Easily the best-dressed man I’d ever known, he looked wonderful, as always. In recent months he’d abandoned his dark business suits for Naples casual wear, though he had his slacks custom tailored and bought only imported Italian silk shirts.

To Jack, clothes had been just a means of protecting himself from the elements—and public view. “A history teacher is supposed to be rumpled,” he’d told me once. “You know, the absent-minded professor look.” The colors and patterns of his clothes were always at war. For some reason, I had found that endearing. Rossi’s execrable Hawaiian shirts struck me the same way. But Simon was different, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the difference. While clothes didn’t make the man, they sure did make him pleasant to look at. That wasn’t enough, not even close to enough, but I doubted I had learned all there was to know about Simon.

This was his first visit to the shop, and he nodded in approval as he looked around. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.” He pointed to the lime green rear wall. “I like that, and the white garden bench you set in front of it. Looks like a piece of sculpture.”

My turn to smile. “That was the whole idea. I hoped it would show how much can be done with a little imagination.”

“It does.” He circled the Christmas tree, sniffing the pine aroma. “This is great, too. Right out of my childhood.”

“I meant it as a reminder of old times. Going to Grandma’s house for Christmas. That sort of thing. But there’ve been days I wish I hadn’t bothered.”

“The holidays can be hell,” he agreed, his voice warm with understanding. “My parents both died in the same year. That Christmas I stayed drunk for two days. It gets better, Deva.”

Unwelcome tears rushed to my eyes. I blinked them away, hoping Simon hadn’t noticed. He stepped closer, stopping an arm’s length away. For a moment, I thought he’d enfold me in an embrace, and for that single moment, I hoped he would. But he gave me a rueful little smile and said, “You will be happy again. I promise you.”

“I’m happy now,” I insisted. “Sort of.”

He laughed. “There’s hope for you and…” His voice trailed off. Had he meant to say “for you and me”? If he did, I never found out. He changed the subject to, “I’m here on a mission. I need some Christmas gifts. For my two partners and my secretary. It’s either Deva Dunne Interiors or the Total Wine Store.”

He strolled over to one of the four skirted display tables I’d placed against the side walls. Two were covered in bright red and two in a gold-and-white paisley print. I planned to keep them on through Valentine’s Day then switch them for something that said spring. Maybe lavender for Easter, later a blue-and-white awning stripe for summer. It would be a simple and inexpensive way to keep the shop looking seasonal year round.

Simon picked up a bronze golfer in midswing. “One of the guys plays golf. What do you think of this?”

“Ideal.” We spent the better part of an hour making his selections, which I wrapped in festive paper tied with glitzy bows—the golfer, an ormolu desk box, a crystal ice bucket with silver tongs.

On his way out, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Are you free tomorrow night? There’s a gallery opening, and I promised a client I’d drop by.”

This was the second time this week he’d invited me somewhere, and I hated to refuse him again.

“We could do a late dinner afterward,” he said.

I flecked some imaginary dust off one of the tables. Accepting was stage one. Stage two would probably be a kiss. Stage three would be a hand on my thigh. Stage four would be… I wasn’t ready for that, not with Simon. He was a good friend and neighbor, but—

“Or we could just have a nightcap,” he was saying. “Or only do the gallery,” he ended lamely.

He had stopped short of begging, but the pleading note in his voice decided me. Besides, I couldn’t hide out forever, turn into a professional widow. Above all, Jack wouldn’t like that. The unexpected realization swept through me like a healing drug, and I blurted out, “I’d love to go to the opening, Simon.”

His eyes took on a shine.
Over me?
“Wonderful. Pick you up at quarter to eight.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said. It would be networking, I told myself, not a date.

* * *

With classes at FGCU over for Christmas break, Lee’s hours at the Irish Pub had increased from three nights to five. Still she insisted she was free on Sunday afternoon and showed up for work at two, her usual time. She must have informed Paulo, for he arrived promptly at two as well. While Lee sat at her desk by the entrance greeting people as they walked in, he sat outside on a folding stool behind his easel engrossed in the portrait. When a customer needed her help, Lee would leave her place by the window. Each time that happened, Paulo waited patiently for her to return to her seat. As she did, he nodded, smiled, and resumed painting, the attention turning her pink as a rose.

The sight of an artist at work drew people down Fern Alley, and for the first time the shop buzzed with activity, the sleigh bells on the door pealing every few minutes. In a few hours, I’d sold more than I had all week. One woman wanted her powder room redone right after the holidays and left her name and phone number. A small job, but a good omen for the future.

Lee had to change into her server’s uniform and be at the Irish Pub by six. So at five, she retrieved her purse from the storage room, and with a soft, “See y’all on Wednesday, Deva,” she stepped outside.

The lure of the painting brought her, as it must, to Paulo’s side. As I watched, she stared at the canvas, a hand covering her mouth to catch the gasp escaping from her lips. Paulo smiled up at her, causing my heart to turn over. I remembered the same light shining in Jack’s eyes when he looked at me so long ago. A lifetime ago.

“Deva, how much is this glass bowl?” a woman asked, and when I glanced out to the alley again, Paulo and Lee were gone.

* * *

Simon picked me up right on time, quarter to eight. Since we both lived in Surfside, he didn’t have far to go, just a quick elevator ride from his third floor condo to my garden apartment on ground level. When I opened the door, he let out a wolf whistle and made a circle with an index finger. “Turn around.” I obliged. “Arm candy,” he declared.

I laughed. “High praise coming from the best-dressed man in Naples.”

“It’s not the dress, it’s the body,” he said, bestowing a light kiss on my cheek.

“I won’t argue with that,” I said, laughing even more. A woman knows her flaws better than anyone else, so to have them overlooked by an attractive man has to be high praise. I’d worn my one and only Armani suit, black shantung, the skirt slightly too short, the heels slightly too high, and Jack’s mother’s pearls, exactly right.

With every parking spot on Broad Street taken, we parked a block away on Third Street South. Before we walked to the Adler-Meek Gallery in the mild December air, Simon popped open the BMW’s trunk and removed an Hermès briefcase.

“Yours?” I asked. “An Hermès? I’m impressed.”

“No, a client’s. It’s been in my office since last week. He was rushing to catch a plane to L.A. and forgot it. He’ll be here tonight and asked me to bring it along.”

Simon left the case at the reception desk, and we skimmed the gallery’s catalog before shoehorning our way into the showrooms.

“It’s jammed,” Simon whispered in my ear.

“Figures. Opening night. Free champagne and hors d’oeuvres.” It looked like every art buff in town was here. I wondered if Ilona and Trevor would be as well.

Simon plucked two champagne flutes from a tray and handed one to me. “To my lovely lady,” he said. We clinked glasses.

The “lovely lady” was nice, but I wasn’t sure about the “my.” To hide my confusion, I strolled ahead of him. Perfume and aftershave swirled in the air along with the buzz of talk and laughter.

I glanced back over my shoulder. Simon had stopped to speak to someone he knew. I should take a lesson from him and chat it up. That was why I had come, after all, to network. Judging from their clothes and jewelry, this was a high-end crowd who might well be interested in the talents of a good interior designer. Trouble was, I’d have to interrupt a conversation to be heard.

I sipped my champagne and, squeezing through tight clusters of people, strolled into the next room. Into an explosion of color. A bit dazed by the visual impact bouncing off the walls, I wandered over to a large nude of a female torso. A Sizov. One of the Russian surrealists the catalog mentioned. It was surreal, all right, with magnificent breasts and swollen nipples, the paint swirled on in wild combinations.

A tall, lean whippet of a man with a high forehead and receding hairline stood engrossed in the oil. He wore a double-breasted suit and a jaunty bowtie strangely at odds with his serious demeanor. I stood next to him, trying to see what he found so fascinating. If he noticed me, he didn’t let on.

“What’s the focal point?” I finally asked of no one in particular.

He glanced over at me. “Does there have to be one?”

I shrugged. “Surrealism’s a ball game without rules.”

He took his attention from the oil to rivet it on me. His keen glance appraised my suit and lingered at the pearls I’d clasped around my throat. Assessing their value? He extended his hand. “Morgan Jones.”

“Deva Dunne.”

“I’m in love with this painting,” he said.

“You have the eye of an artist.”

“More likely that of a surgeon.”

“Oh?”

“Surgery’s my work. Art is my love. But to get back to the Sizov. You seem conflicted about her.”

I took another sip of champagne. “Green nipples take a little getting used to, but what tears you away from them is that third eye.” I laughed. “The one in the middle of her forehead.”

He looked back at the painting. “Why do you suppose it’s there?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Let’s assume there is.”

“All right.” If he wanted to play mind games, I was willing. “Let’s assume the breasts are bizarrely colored to capture our attention, but once we’re captured, it’s the eye that holds us. It pulls our glance upward, away from the physical to the mind. To the intelligence. Hence, we have two focal points. One stronger than the other. And the stronger is mind over matter.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Very good. You’re no idle gallery groupie.”

Maybe he didn’t mean to be condescending, but I stiffened. “My degree’s in art history. I guess that helps.”

His eyes, glossy as agates, flashed over me again, missing nothing this time, openly appraising what I wore, my makeup, my hair, my jewelry, and estimating the cost of my suit down to the penny.

“Interesting” was all he said, but he made no move to walk away.

I opened my purse and took out the sterling silver card case Simon had given me when I opened the shop. I handed Dr. Morgan Jones my business card.

His glance flicked over it. “So you’re an interior designer? That’s how you used your degree?”

I nodded. He didn’t need the story of my life.

He snapped the card with an index finger. “I’m buying the Sizov. She’ll be an exciting addition to my collection.” He tucked the card into a pocket. “Tell me,” he said, “if you had to work this lady into a house—” he gestured to the painting, “—how would you go about it?”

It was an impossible question, and he knew it.

“I haven’t seen the house,” I said.

“Exactly.” His lips parted a bit over even white teeth in what might pass for a smile.

I glanced at the gorgeous nude and took a mental leap. Why not? What did I have to lose? “I’d hang her where you would never expect to see her. Let her play with the observer. Shock him. Take him by surprise.”