The Monet Murders Read online

  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 a
t 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?

  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.”