The Monet Murders

by Jean Harrington

  Anyway, Simon returned with more wine and shortly thereafter, Lee helped me serve dinner. The meat had the texture of Goodyear rubber, but Simon and Rossi both had seconds of everything. Paulo ate very little, throughout dinner hardly tearing his gaze from Lee sitting across from him.

  As we lingered over dessert, she said, “I want to thank y’all for what you did today, coming for me and everything. And for this beautiful dinner, Deva, that almost got ruint. But I have to tell you something y’all don’t know.” She drew in a deep breath as if talking about the “something” wouldn’t be easy. “My daddy’s a good man. My momma, she was sick for years, and he took mighty fine care of her. It cost him near every penny he had, but he didn’t complain. Not once. So I owe him for that. For other things, too.” She upped her chin, as if defying herself to go on. “I’m all he has left, but he really doesn’t have me anymore. So I worry about him.” Her voice faltering, she looked down at her lap. “There’s more to Daddy than what he showed today.”

  Unbidden, a thought popped into my head. If Merle Skimp had spent everything he’d worked for on medical bills, would he-out of desperation-have dared steal the Monet? Watching Lee make a case for her daddy’s goodness, I found it hard to continue the thought, yet it refused to go away.

  When I glanced across at Rossi to try to guess what he might be thinking, he winked and picked up his fork. He had another piece of pumpkin pie to deal with. I should know by now that Rossi never gave anything away.

  One by one, the candles guttered in the angel holders and died. I was about to light some lamps when Paulo rose from the table and came over to kiss me on the cheek. “Thanks, Deva. That was delicious.”

  Lee looked up at him, all limpid, inquiring eyes. “You’re leaving?”

  “Yes.” Avoiding the plea in her voice, Paulo turned to Rossi. “Lieutenant, will you take Lee home?”

  “My pleasure,” Rossi said, smooth as silk.

  “But Paulo…” Lee whispered his name like a prayer.

  “I have to get back,” he said, and with a little bow to all of us, he left, taking Christmas with him.

  “He’s ashamed of me.” Lee sank against her chair back. “I’m white trash, and he knows it.”

  “Not so, Lee,” Simon said. “You need to look deeper.”

  “You can’t go any deeper than your family,” she said, shaking her head. “You sprang from them. They made you what you are. Who you are.”

  Simon swallowed a forkful of brandied whipped cream. “Exactly. Think about it. Paulo may feel the same way about his own folks.”

  Lee stared at him, thoughtful and wide eyed. “You think that’s what’s troubling him?”

  “Could be. He might be seeing himself through your father’s eyes.”

  “Daddy’s still fighting that war, isn’t he?”

  “Most likely,” Simon said quietly. “Problem is, the battle’s just beginning for Paulo.”

  “For me, too,” Lee said, picking up her fork and polishing off her pie.

  A steel magnolia.

  Rossi pushed his empty dessert plate back from the edge of the table. “Mrs. D, that was the best meal I’ve had in weeks. No, make that months. I owe you one. And now, I think I’d better check my calls and get this young lady home. So-” he stood, “-if you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way.”

  He offered his hand to Simon, who grasped it. They didn’t exactly Indian wrestle, just hand clasped, mano a mano.

  Despite her distress, Lee looked over at me and grinned.

  I shook my head, and her grin got wider. What was she signaling? The two men were vying for me? No way. I couldn’t believe it, but I admit I enjoyed considering the possibility.

  The macho handshake over, Rossi walked around the table to say goodbye to me. Did I have a kiss coming? Maybe a peck on the cheek? No. Just a quick smile-and a single finger secretly stroking my palm. “You made my Christmas, Mrs. D,” he said in his best crime-busting voice.

  Did he know his surreptitious signal had just sent my blood pressure soaring? No doubt. Nothing escaped Rossi.

  Lee scooped up her backpack, hugged me tight, then with a “See y’all Sunday at the shop, Deva,” she left with Rossi.

  “Alone at last.” Simon wore his biggest smile of the day. Definitely the biggest one since I’d invited Rossi for dinner. “How about a nightcap?”

  “Sounds good, but first the dishes, okay?”

  “Let me help.”

  Together we cleared the dining room table and loaded the dishwasher. After setting the roasting pan in the sink to soak clean, I found a bottle of Grand Marnier lurking behind a box of cornflakes. Simon poured us each a double thimbleful, and we carried our glasses into the living room. With a grateful sigh, I collapsed into a club chair’s down cushions. It had been a long day.

  Simon put his Grand Marnier on the coffee table. “Be right back. There’s something for you in the bottom of that wine bag.”

  He returned a moment later. “For you,” he said.

  I looked up. Nestled in the palm of Simon’s outstretched hand was a box in that unmistakable shade of Tiffany blue.

  A tiny blue Tiffany box.

  My mouth fell open. Oh God, it’s a ring.

  My heart began a rumba, pounding away as if I had a mariachi band in my chest.

  I didn’t want a ring. I didn’t want a commitment. I didn’t want a new love.

  I didn’t?

  Did I want to go through life alone? A widow forever? Sleeping alone? Eating alone? No one caring if I lived or died? All potent reasons to marry again, but…

  Fingers trembling, I undid the white bow. The ribbon rippled to my lap. I glanced over at Simon perched on the edge of Nana’s couch, an expectant gleam in his eyes. What about the most important reason to say ‘yes’? What about love?

  “Go on, open it,” he urged with a smile.

  I heaved a sigh. A ring, egads. While I didn’t want to erase the happy smile from Simon’s face, I didn’t know if I even wanted to go out with him. Never mind accepting a ring.

  Removing the blue lid with care as if a joke box snake might leap out and bite me, I said, “Tiffany boxes are so exciting. Every woman loves them.”

  “You’re not every woman, Deva. Far from it.”

  The rumba revved up a notch. Once I opened his gift, our relationship would change forever. We’d go from being friends to lovers…or enemies.

  Trapped by Tiffany’s, with no way out, I reached inside and lifted out the inner box. In one swift move, I pulled off its lush velvet cover. And gasped.

  “A pendant! It’s beautiful!”

  “It’s a Paloma Picasso,” he said.

  Fashioned of gold, spare yet intricate, retro yet new, the design was absolutely gorgeous. I loved it.

  Relief like an exotic drug swept through my veins. I leaped up and, box in hand, threw my arms around Simon and kissed him. He swept me into a body hug and repeated his stellar performance of the evening in the carport. No question, the man had talented lips.

  When we came up for air, he asked, “Does this mean I’m invited?”

  I stared at him, blank faced. Though I knew, I asked anyway. “Invited to what?”

  “To stay the night.”

  I could have kicked myself. Like a teenaged tease, I’d sent the wrong vibes. Now what?

  Wriggling free of Simon’s embrace, I stood, tugging his hand until he stood, too.

  “Toward the bedroom?” he asked, one eyebrow arched hopefully.

  “Toward the door,” I said, trying out my playful turn-down voice. “With an apology. The pendant was such a thrill I got carried away.”

  “But obviously not to the moon.” He let me lead him toward the door, didn’t complain, didn’t try to change my mind. His lack of protest lessened my guilt. Wasn’t he supposed to sweep me off my feet? Carry me up the steps of Tara? Or at least get pissed? Nada. Not even looking annoyed, he touched a finger to his forehead in mock salute and left with, “Thanks for everything, De
va. Be in touch soon.”

  Humph. I locked the front door and flicked off the living room lights. At least Christmas with all its angst was over.

  And if my love life was over, too, whose fault was that?

  Chapter Eleven

  The next morning I tossed together a sandwich of leftover roast beef on leftover rye, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and got to the shop an hour early. The day after Christmas traditionally brought out the bargain shoppers, and I wanted to be ready for them.

  I planned to collect all the holiday items: the silk centerpieces, the needlepoint pillows with the clever mottos-”He knows where you’ve been sleeping”-the mercury glass Santas, the red and green dessert plates-everything seasonal-and arrange them on the two skirted tables nearest the entrance with a big white 50% off sign.

  At eight-thirty I was about halfway through the rearranging when the front door knob rattled. I looked up to see a big-hipped middle-aged woman banging on the window with the palm of her hand. The shop lights were on, but the closed sign leaned against the glass. Not ready to open up, I waved, pointed at my watch, and kept on with what I was doing. Another bang on the glass. Louder this time. Then she rattled the door handle several more times.

  Can’t the woman read?

  A bargain hunter with a vengeance, she pressed her face to the window, cupped the sides of her cheeks with her hands and peered in. When she saw me look her way, she raised an arm and waggled her fingers, beckoning me toward her.

  I strode over to the window, miming, “We open at nine.”

  Red-faced, she shouted, “Do you know who I am?”

  Annoyed, I turned away without answering. I was a shopkeeper, not a slave.

  In a voice shrill enough to shatter glass, she yelled, “I’m Mrs. Morgan Jones!”

  That got my attention. I whirled around. The Great One had a wife? Why, he’d never let on. Didn’t wear a wedding band, either. I’d assumed he was a bachelor.

  Whatever this woman had to say, I wanted to hear. I unlocked the door and let Mrs. Jones inside the shop.

  “Are you Deva Dunne, the decorator?” She eyed me up and down, her glance lingering on the Christmas tree earrings. I knew they were dumb, but I was trying to create a mood here.

  “I’m Deva Dunne, the designer.” I spoke in my iciest Boston voice. This was a woman I could learn to dislike, and it wouldn’t even take one lesson.

  “Well, I’m Jessica Jones, Morgan’s wife.”

  “Yes?”

  She obviously wanted something from me, but whatever it was, she’d have to work for it.

  Still red-faced, she flung her arms akimbo, sending her outsized Ferragamo tote banging against one ample hip. “Is that all you have to say?”

  “As you can see, Mrs. Jones, I’m busy.” I put down a mercury glass snowman. “But I can spare a few minutes. How may I help you?”

  “I want to know what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean? Exactly?”

  She rummaged around in the Ferragamo, pulled out my card and plunked it on the sales table. “This was in Morgan’s blue serge suit. With your home phone number on the back.”

  I picked up the card. “Yes, I gave this to Dr. Jones. My clients sometimes need to contact me outside of shop hours.”

  Her face went from beet red to bedsheet white so fast I thought she’d faint.

  “Would you like a seat, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Of course not,” she snapped. “What I’d like is to know what your card…with your personal number on it…was doing in my husband’s pants.”

  That was when I knew I was in trouble. “You need to ask your husband that question.”

  A big-boned woman packing thirty or forty extra pounds, she took a step forward. I took one backward.

  “I demand an answer,” she said, moving forward with the relentlessness of a Sherman tank.

  “Then talk to your husband. I can’t reveal-”

  “Are you two having an affair?”

  “What? Absolutely not. I’m designing the interior of his new house.”

  Her shoulders slumped, sending the Ferragamo sliding down her arm. “Shit! I was hoping he was having an affair.”

  Was she serious? My God, that was the last thing in the world I’d ever hope Jack was having.

  Without further ado, she plopped onto a zebra-print settee, set the tote on the floor, and crossed her feet at the ankles. I wondered if her legs were too chunky to cross at the knee. Whatever. She obviously had no intention of moving until she found out what she wanted to know.

  I glanced at my watch. Ten to nine and I’d only half finished setting up the sales displays. The Christmas cookies I kept in a small dorm fridge in the storeroom hadn’t been set out yet, either. But one look at Mrs. Jones’s determined expression, and I knew the fastest way to rid myself of the woman was to tell her the truth. I pulled up a gold Chiavari chair and sat facing her.

  “What do you need to know, Mrs. Jones?”

  “Everything. Begin at the beginning.”

  If my association with Morgan was a secret, he should have mentioned the fact, yet with a sinking feeling I knew that wouldn’t make a bit of difference when he found out about this meeting. And find out, he would.

  Beginning with a sigh, I told her about the house in Bonita and what I had been asked to do there. Jessica sat unmoving on the zebra skin. It might have been my imagination, but the more I said, the more she seemed to shrink into herself. Nor did her face get back its beet-colored hue. No question, my news had upset her.

  “You knew nothing of this house?” I asked at the end of my tale.

  She shook her head. “Morgan doesn’t want me to know. When the place is move-in ready, he’ll pretend it’s a surprise for me. But it isn’t for me. It’s not even for him…not really…it’s for those damned paintings. He promised he wouldn’t buy any more. But I guess he can’t help himself. It’s an obsession. He sees them, falls in love and has to possess them.” She dipped into the tote, removed a tissue and swiped at a tear. “When I found your card, I was hoping this time he’d fallen in love with a woman.”

  “Really?” This was mind-blowing. I had to struggle to keep my mouth from falling open.

  “A woman might have been cheaper.” She took another swipe at a tear. “You don’t know the half of it.”

  Uh-oh, here it comes. I leaned back on the chair and braced myself for the familiar client-to-designer spilling of guts. Or a version thereof-Jessica Jones wasn’t even a client, for Pete’s sake-but she sure acted like she needed to vent. I peeked at my watch. Nine-fifteen.

  “Morgan’s a cardiac surgeon,” she said, “a gifted one. I can’t tell you how many people he’s pulled from the brink of death. It’s no wonder our annual income is in the high six figures-some years seven. And you know what? We don’t have a dime. Hardly a cent in savings. Not a single, solid investment.” She paused to reach for a fresh tissue and blew her nose. “But I can tell you what we do have. Lots and lots of canvases. We live in an eight-thousand-square-foot house, and we’ve run out of wall space. So what’s the size of this new place? Ten thousand? Twelve?”

  “Twelve,” I admitted.

  “High ceilings. Right?”

  Reluctantly, I nodded.

  “And he wants the rooms decorated in shades of blue.”

  I tried for a smile. “You know your man.”

  “And he knows his bankers. They give him any loan he asks for. Problem is, he forgets they have to be repaid-including this latest extravaganza.”

  Now what? Would Jessica go home and confront Morgan, tell him I’d confided everything? Betrayed his secret? A secret I didn’t even know he had? If so, he’d most likely fire me before I’d even been officially hired.

  I leaned forward on the Chiavari until we were eye-to-eye.

  “Jessica, you have to tell Morgan we’ve met and that you know about the house. Either you tell him, or I will.” I smoothed my apple green skirt over my thighs. “Once he knows, I�
��ll offer to resign from the project. That’s always better than being fired.” The laugh I reached for came out a croak.

  Her initial shock over, a little color had seeped into Jessica’s broad cheeks. “Working on Morgan’s house is important to you?”

  I nodded. “The shop’s only been open a few weeks. Every sale counts.” I stood and moved the gilt chair back behind Lee’s bureau plat. “So if you’ll excuse me, I have to finish setting up the display.”

  “Let me help.” Jessica heaved to her feet and surveyed my half-arranged bargain table. “Looks like you want to get rid of holiday items.”

  “It’s either that or store them for a year.”

  “Why don’t I go around and collect them? Then you can stay put and do the arranging.”

  Without waiting for an okay, she went over to a wall shelf and removed two red pillar candles embellished with wax holly. She brought them over to me and went back for two more.

  Despite her considerable bulk, Jessica moved efficiently and soon had the two sales tables piled with items I arranged, smaller in front, larger in back. When she’d gone around the shop several times gathering up things, she asked. “What else can I do?”

  Nine-thirty. I flipped the Closed sign to Open and unlocked the door. “There are some Christmas cookies in the storeroom fridge. They go on the hunt board against the side wall.” I pointed to a Sheffield tray that had belonged to Jack’s mother and, needless to say, wasn’t for sale. “You can put them on that.”

  She arranged the cookies in neat rows on the silver tray, fanned some paper napkins to the right and placed a silver dish with my business cards on the left.

  Munching on a cookie, she strolled over to the table where I was finishing up. “This is a cute shop, Deva. The displays look great. You’ll do well here. You have a knack, I can see that. I’ll do well, too. I’m going to divorce that obsessed son of a bitch. Then I’m going to lose fifty pounds and find a guy who hates art.”

  She grabbed another cookie, picked up her tote, and with a “Ta-ta” let herself out, setting the Yarmouthport sleigh bells jingling joyfully.