The Monet Murders (8 page)

Chapter Nine

On the drive back to Naples, my mind swirled with Morgan’s demands. For the sake of both my business and my sanity, I needed to concentrate on his project and stop obsessing about the crimes—to trust in Rossi and the Naples P.D.

To help me get a grip, and to lighten my mood, I decided to use a little psychology on myself and tally all the pluses in my life.

Okay. First and foremost, I passed the one year anniversary of Jack’s death without a total meltdown.

After years of dragging my heels, I finally summoned the guts to start my own business.

The Jones project promises to be a shot of fiscal adrenaline.

Last night, a handsome man kissed me breathless.

I passed a slowpoke driver and switched into the high-speed lane. To even the playing field, I’d count the negatives, too.

Though the hurt ebbs away a little each day, each week, each month, the bitter truth is I’ve lost Jack forever.

Morgan might not like my ideas and refuse to hire me.

A kiss is not a life.

I miss seeing Rossi.

Whoa! Where had that come from? A red light flared in front of my eyes. I jammed on the brakes. God, I had nearly sped through the stop. What was the matter with me?

A lot.

I was in emotional recovery.

Lonely.

Broke—almost.

I had discovered the theft of a twenty-million-dollar painting and found a woman with a bullet in her head.

Things couldn’t be much worse. Then, like some kind of urban miracle, the stop light turned green. An omen.
Go.
I stomped on the gas pedal and my self-pity at the same time.

I was still young and healthy and worked in one of the loveliest towns in America. The sun shone, the palm trees swayed, the hibiscus bloomed. And all this in December.

What did freckles and frizzy hair matter? My B cups were filled out pretty well, and more than one man had mentioned my sensational legs.

I felt better already. The psychologists were right, counting your blessings was a good thing.

Tonight after work, I’d go grocery shopping for Christmas dinner. The Irish Pub would be closed on the holiday, so I’d see if Lee might be free—Paulo, too. For I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, he was anything but a young man in love.

We’d have roast prime rib, Yorkshire pudding—Jack had loved it—baked stuffed tomatoes, steamed asparagus and two kinds of pie, pecan and pumpkin. I’d lace the whipped cream topping with a little brandy. Cold shrimp for the first course. Some simple cheese snacks with wine before dinner. Not gourmet but not bad.

* * *

Christmas morning the dining table gleamed with Nana’s Coalport china and Jack’s mother’s old Irish silver. Red decorations would war with my peach-colored walls, so, instead, I sent a wired gold ribbon cascading along the center of the table and topped the ribbon with a row of brass angels holding thick ivory candles. As if it were confetti, I sprinkled tiny gold snowflakes over the entire tabletop. When we sat down for dinner, the candlelight would make everything glittery and warm and festive.

I found myself humming. It had been over a year since anyone had come for dinner. What a good feeling to have a semblance of normalcy seep back into my life.

I lit the oven, and soon the roast filled the air with a heavenly aroma. Preparations complete, I stripped off my shorts and Jack’s old BU T-shirt. Glamming it up a bit, I shrugged into a snug green crop top and matching wide-leg slacks. The fuzzy angora top played off the silky smooth pants. And the narrow swath of bare midriff added a little sauce to the mix. I dabbed powder on my nose, glossed my mouth with Revlon Peach and, for fun, put on dangly Christmas tree earrings. Swaying on either side of my face, they looked a little dumb, but oh well, “’Tis the season,” my image in the bathroom mirror told me. It also said, “Be happy today.”

“Good advice. I’ll take it,” I said out loud.

Promptly at two, the door bell chimed.

Da da da DA.

The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, Jack’s favorite. Simon and Paulo had arrived together and stood outside on the stone walkway. From their smiles, they were clearly more than ready for a party.

“Come in! Welcome. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Deva.”

Simon held up two wine bags. “I covered both bases. Red and white.” He gave me a discreet peck on the cheek, so discreet I wondered for a second if I had fantasized our encounter in the carport.

While I arranged brie and crackers on a plate, Simon put the red wine on the kitchen counter—we’d have that with dinner—and uncorked the Pinot Grigio.

Paulo asked for a Coke. When we carried our drinks into the living room, I sat where I could watch the clock. In less than an hour, the roast should be done to perfection. Above all, I didn’t want to ruin it.

Paulo sipped his soda and glanced around my living room, his gaze lingering on the heirloom pieces I’d inherited from Jack’s family, the tall case clock, the sideboard, the Tabriz rug in faded shades of apricot, taupe and muted green. He caught me watching him and grinned sheepishly.

“You have a good eye,” I told him.

“You have nice stuff, Mrs. Dunne.”

“Deva.”

He nodded and sneaked a peek at his watch. I knew what he was thinking. Where
was
she? On the days Lee worked at the shop, she’d never been late. So why late today?

At three, I went out to the kitchen to rescue the roast. Simon followed me with our empty glasses and poured more wine while I transferred the meat to a platter to rest before carving. To keep it warm, I covered it with a sheet of aluminum foil. I was about to skim the pan drippings and start the Yorkshire pudding when the kitchen phone rang. Busy at the stove, I asked, “Would you get that, Simon?”

He answered. A second later, he asked, “
What?
Where are you? Are you at home?” At the edge in his voice, I looked up, alarmed. “Where are you?” he repeated, listening for a long moment before slowly lowering the receiver onto the cradle. “She screamed, then the phone went dead.”

“Who?” I asked, knowing.

“That was Lee, wasn’t it?” Paulo suddenly appeared in the kitchen, an empty Coke can crushed in his hand.

“Yes,” Simon said. “She was crying. I think someone snatched the phone away from her. She said, ‘Don’t do that.’ Next thing the receiver slammed down.”

I turned off the stove. We wouldn’t be eating dinner anytime soon. “Where is she?”

“She didn’t have a chance to say, only that she’s not at home.”

“Someone’s hurting her.” Paulo looked like his world had shattered into a million pieces. “We have to do something.”

“I’ll call the police,” I said, reaching for the phone.

“It’s Christmas Day.” Paulo raised his arms then dropped them to his sides. “They’ll think she’s partying or something.”

“True.” Simon blew out a breath. “It takes at least twenty-four hours for any action on a missing person. And we’re not even sure she’s missing…though she did say she wasn’t at home.” He paced around my small kitchen. That’s when I knew he was as upset as Paulo.

“There is one other thing we can do,” I said.

“What?” they asked in unison.

“Call Lieutenant Rossi.”

Paulo looked at me with wide, scared eyes. “The lieutenant who questioned everybody at the Alexanders?”

“Yes.”

“He’s a
homicide
detective.” Paulo looked ready to weep.

“Don’t jump to conclusions, son,” Simon said. “Lee’s very much alive.”

“Call him.” Paulo’s voice broke. “Call him now.”

“I have his home phone number,” I said. Ignoring Simon’s raised eyebrow, I dug the slip of paper Rossi had given me out of my purse and dialed his number, hoping to God he’d answer.

He picked up on the first ring.

“Lieutenant Rossi, this is Deva Dunne.”

“I’ve been thinking about you, too,” he said.

“This is serious, Lieutenant.”

“You wouldn’t have called otherwise, Mrs. D,” he said, unflappable as ever, giving nothing away.

“I need your help.”

When I finished telling him about Lee’s call, he asked, “Have you notified the station?”

“No. Just you.”

A pause. I knew detectives weren’t first responders. This was a violation of protocol. He could well refuse to get involved, especially after his chief had warned him about even a hint of impropriety. But all he said was, “I’ll take my pizza out of the oven and be right over.”

While we waited for Rossi, the three of us huddled in the kitchen, staring at the phone, willing it to ring again, but it didn’t. Simon and I slumped in the chairs by the table. Paulo stood at the kitchen sliders looking out at the palm trees waving in the bright Christmas sun. For once, I felt sure his keen artist’s eyes were seeing nothing. Only Lee’s face streaked with tears. And fear.

When the chimes sounded, we all hurried into the living room. Rossi nodded but wasted no time in greetings. “Tell me what you know about the girl. For starters, where does she live?”

“In a room on Third Avenue South,” I said.

“She said she wasn’t there,” Simon told him.

“Any boyfriends?”

“No,” Paulo said. “No boyfriends.” His firm tone left no room for argument.

Rossi shot him a keen look. “How about enemies?”

“Absolutely not. If you’d met her—”

“She’s afraid of her father, though,” I said.

Rossi switched his attention from Paulo to me.

“He works for Gro Green Gardeners. Merle Skimp’s his name. He was working outside the Alexander house the day I contacted 911.”

“I’ve talked to Merle,” Rossi said, his jaw tightening.

“Merle?”
Paulo exclaimed. “I know him. I’ve seen him there.
He’s
Lee’s father? Oh God.” Paulo sank onto Nana’s couch. “He hates me.”

We all turned to him. “Why?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Isn’t it obvious?”

“You’re acquainted with Skimp’s daughter?” Rossi asked.

Paulo nodded then stared down at his hands clenched in his lap.

“Has her father seen you together?”

“I don’t know. It’s possible. She works at the Irish Pub, and lately I’ve been walking her home when her shift ends. It’s late for her to be out alone.”

Simon looked across at me. Our glances tangled, caught up in the same thought.

“Since she told you she wasn’t home, we’ll start with the father,” Rossi said. “I’m going out to use the car radio. I’ll be back.”

We waited without speaking. I was worried sick about Lee, but my heart went out to Paulo, too. He sat on the sofa, his shoulders sagging, his hands dangling between his knees. I knew without being told that Merle’s unearned hatred wasn’t the first ill will Paulo had encountered in his young life.

After a few minutes that felt like an age, Rossi strode back in. “I have the address of a Merle Skimp in East Naples, off Rattlesnake Road. I’m officially off duty, but I’ll be happy to pay a friendly social call on Mr. Skimp. If the girl’s not there, we’ll make a formal report at the station. But in light of what you told me, Mrs. D, this is worth a try.” He met Paulo’s panic-stricken eyes. “You want to ride with me?”

Paulo leaped off the couch.

“I’m coming, too,” I said.

“Deva and I will follow you, Lieutenant,” Simon told him.

Rossi darted a hooded glance my way, then nodded. “Let’s go.”

Christmas Day traffic was light, and within twenty minutes, we were outside a barrackslike condominium building that must have held a couple of hundred units. In the parking lot, Simon parked his BMW next to Rossi’s beat-up Mustang.

“He’s on the first floor,” Rossi said. “On the end. Don’t stand in front of the door,” he warned as we reached Skimp’s unit.

Pressing hard, Rossi ground his thumb on the bell. Shrill and clear, a buzzer pierced the air. No answer. He lifted off his thumb and pressed a second time. Still no answer. Using the flat of his hand, he pounded on the door.

“Open up, police.”

Again he buzzed. Nothing. His hand was raised, ready to attack the door again when it squeaked open as far as the safety chain allowed. Merle Skimp’s thin, worn face peered through the slit.

“What’s all this noise?”

“Lieutenant Rossi. Naples Police.” Off duty or not, Rossi flashed his badge. “We’re looking for a Miss Lee Skimp.”

Merle squinted at the badge. “What do you want with her? She’s done no wrong.”

“Can we come in and talk to you?”

“I’ve got nothing to say to the police.” Merle broke the word into two syllables—
po-lice.

“I have a few questions, Mr. Skimp. A short while ago, your daughter placed a distress call. We have reason to believe she may have been kidnapped.”

“Kidnapped?” Merle snorted. “You can’t kidnap your own kin.”

“She’s here, then?” Paulo asked, his voice rising.

Merle peered at him through the narrow opening. “What’s it to you?”

“Remember me, Merle?” Paulo asked. “From the Alexanders? The big place on Gordon Drive?”

“Yeah, I remember you, all right. Stay away from my gal, you hear. I don’t want her consortin’ with the likes of you.”

“Where is she, Merle?”

“None of your business, Blackie.”

Ignoring his warning, Paulo shoved his foot in the opening and cupped his hands around his mouth. “Lee! Lee, are you in there?”

“I’m here, Paulo. I’m in here!” Lee’s voice, muffled but unmistakable.

Before Merle could react, Paulo leaned on the door and, pressing against it with the flat of both hands, he raised his knee then slammed his foot forward. The safety chain snapped like a broken thread. The door banged open, knocking Merle to the floor.

In a flash, Paulo dashed inside. “Lee, where are you?”

“Here! I’m in here.”

He raced to the sound of her voice. Tossing aside a chair that had been shoved under a bedroom doorknob, he twisted the handle, and she ran out, straight into his arms. He wrapped her in an embrace that said she was the one gift he’d always longed to have—for Christmas and every day. As they clung together, he bent down to brush a kiss on her hair.