I didn’t have the heart to tell him I’d had beef for Christmas and a chunk of it still lingered in the fridge. “Chocolate tiramisu for dessert,” he added.
“I’ll go up a dress size, Chip.”
“Just this once,” he said. “It’ll make you feel better.”
Yeah, it would. Further protest died on my lips.
“Thanks to you both for all this inconvenience.” I glanced over my shoulder at AudreyAnn in the backseat. Usually dour faced, she was actually smiling into the rearview mirror. She bent forward and ran a finger through the curly hair at Chip’s nape. “Tell Deva your big news, honey.”
Honey?
He took his eyes off the road to beam at me, his round face lit with a grin.
“The Alexanders want me to be their celebrity chef at the February Wine Festival. Imagine that. Me. Chip Salvatore. A celebrity chef at the biggest social event in Southwest Florida. There’ll be fifteen celebrity chefs at fifteen different mansions, and I’ll be one of them. We’ll each cook for thirty guests. Altogether that’s four hundred and fifty philanthropists.” Eyes twinkling, he glanced across the seat again. “What do you think of them apples?”
“That’s ‘wow’ news. I’m thrilled for you.” A warm, bighearted guy, Chip deserved an ego boost. Somehow, I doubted he’d had many in life. For making him so happy, I owed Ilona a thank you.
“Yeah, I figured you’d be pleased. It’s for a good cause, too. Raises millions every year for needy kids. And you made it possible for me, Deva, giving my name to the Alexanders and all.” His chins began to wobble.
I hoped he wouldn’t cry. “You’ve earned the honor, Chip. You make a killer lasagna.”
“This time, I’m going fancy. No lasagna at a big event like this.”
“But everybody loves it.”
He shook his head. “Nah, I’ll be competing with fourteen giants. My food’s gotta stand up to a lot of competition.”
“The chefs will be at fifteen different houses, Chip, so you won’t really be competing, will you?”
“You don’t understand. You know who these guys are?” Chip turned to me again, taking his eyes off the road so long, I gripped the arm rest with my intact hand and braced myself for another trip to the ER.
“No, Chip, I don’t…but the road?”
“Oh yeah.” He swiveled his attention back to his driving. “They’re famous. The cream of the crop. Tony Mantuano from Spiaggia’s in Chicago, Obama’s favorite restaurant. Emeril, for gosh sakes. Wolfgang Puck.” He raised his hands off the wheel. “Everybody!”
“And Chip Salvatore,” AudreyAnn chimed in from the backseat.
I sent her a grateful smile over my shoulder. It was the first compliment I’d ever heard her give Chip. It was nice to hear, and when I turned back in my seat, nice to see him grip the wheel again.
“Mrs. Alexander…” Chip cleared his throat and took a quick peek in the rearview mirror, “…Ilona…called last night to tell me the news. She was going to call you next. She wants you to work on the festival, too.” His expression did a one-eighty. “But after the publicity you got in this morning’s paper, she maybe changed her mind.”
Chapter Thirteen
The pundits claim there’s no such thing as bad publicity, but when I got home and read the newspaper account of last night’s attack, I groaned. The Naples Daily had plastered Deva Dunne Interiors all over page one, including a photograph of the shattered window and an inset of me leaving the Gordon Drive house the day of Maria’s murder.
The headline read Design Shop Vandalized. Owner Injured. They’d even included the shop address. Beneath it, the whole of last night’s episode and a recap of the double crime at the Alexanders. Chip was right. After reading all that, I did need a nap. I’d become notorious and the shop along with me. We were both doomed.
Under Chip’s watchful eyes, I ate my soup then went to bed and slept like the dead until five o’clock. The phone woke me. I groped for it with my good hand.
“Deva? How y’all feeling?”
Lee. “Groggy at the moment. Did you have an awful day?”
“No, not at all. That’s why I’m calling. People crowded the shop from nine o’clock until just a minute ago. All the sales items sold and a lot of the regular merchandise. Two ladies who want design work left their names and numbers. Oh, and Mrs. Alexander phoned. Something about a wine festival. She said she’d call back.” Lee dropped her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “Officer Batano’s here. He’s going to escort me to the bank with the proceeds. So I have to go now, but I’ll be in tomorrow. Don’t worry about a thing, Deva, the shop’s doing just fine.”
Just fine without me, she meant. I hung up and lay there limp as a discarded dishrag. Nobody needed me for anything…not even to run my own business. I was wallowing in self-pity when a knock sounded.
Gluing on a happy face, I called, “Come in.”
AudreyAnn peeked around the edge of the door, stern as a cigar store Indian. “You all right?” Not exactly Mother Teresa but she meant well.
“Except for needing a shower, yes.”
She eased the door wider. “I’ll help you.”
Get naked in front of AudreyAnn? Not in this life. I tossed off the covers and sat up, a little lightheaded, on the edge of the bed. “Tell you what. If you’ll bring me the plastic sleeve the Naples Daily came in, I’ll slide it over the bandage. After that, I can manage alone.”
A frown creased AudreyAnn’s forehead. “You strong enough to stand?”
She really was concerned for me. Severe, no-nonsense AudreyAnn. Who would have guessed?
“It won’t take long. Besides, the water will revive me.”
“Okay, if you’re sure.” She found the plastic sleeve and slipped it over my arm. “I’ll be in the kitchen with Chip, but I’ll leave the bedroom door open a crack in case you need me.”
When she left, I shed Jack’s old pajama top and stood. As I made my way to the bathroom, the lightheadedness disappeared. In the shower, shielding my left arm from the spray with my body, I let the soft, warm water wash away the hospital odors and the ache in my muscles, along with my brief lapse into self-pity.
Now if only I could rinse away the fear and tension. What a situation I’d been thrust into-my shop vandalized two weeks after I discovered a multimillion-dollar art theft and a murder victim, and now, to top off everything else, as many stitches in my arm as in a Chinese tapestry.
At least I knew who the shop vandal was. But what about the murder and the Monet? The perp could be someone I didn’t know, or worse, someone I did. Even someone as obvious as Trevor, though he and Ilona had been in Europe at the time of the robbery. Still, they could have accomplices. I’d seen bank heist movies…
I turned off the water and, wrapped in a towel, sat on the bathroom stool to dry off and think. The possible role of Morgan Jones and George Farragut in all this still bothered me. The connoisseur and the financial analyst. What one didn’t know, the other did. Who was to say they hadn’t cooked up a plot. And what about Simon? He’d recommended me to the Alexanders in the first place. Funny, I’d never asked him if he’d actually been in the house and seen the Monets. Though he’d mentioned them…and Ilona’s good looks. Then there was Merle, the rat fink. And though I hated dwelling on it, whenever the Alexanders had a party, Paulo tended bar.
No, I shook my head. I was being ridiculous. Targeting people I knew when someone I had never even met could have gained entrance. Maria and Jesus might have admitted anyone.
Jesus!
The name lifted me off the stool to my feet. Good God, could Maria’s husband have killed her? Could she have caught him in the act of stealing the Monet and protested? A horrible idea. Something else to drop at Rossi’s feet. But if I’d come up with that thought, no doubt the police had, too, and with every other half-baked theory I’d hatched. I’d better let them do their work and stick to mine. And God knows, I had enough to do. Even though Lee said the shop had done well today, w
hat would tomorrow bring?
I tossed the towel over a rack and eyed my mirror image. Since Jack’s death I was ten pounds lighter, my stomach flatter, my waist narrower. A terrible way to lose weight. With a sigh, I slipped on a billowy lime green caftan and let my hair riot around my head like crazy. It had a mind of its own, and for once I didn’t argue with it.
After easing my arm into the sling, I padded out to the living room in bare feet. Uh-oh, company, and me without a bra or panties. Too late. Simon leaped off Nana’s sofa and hurried over to kiss me on the cheek. As though I were a piece of Steuben crystal in danger of shattering, he gently led me to the sofa, all the tenderness in the world in his eyes. Since that was more than I could handle at the moment, I glanced away. A gorgeous arrangement of peach-colored roses with apricot hearts sat on the coffee table.
“They’re beautiful,” I said. “From you?”
He took my hand. “Yes. After I read the paper, I called the hospital, but you’d been discharged. I’m so sorry this happened. If you plan to press charges, let me know. I’m at your service.”
If Simon noticed my lack of underwear, he didn’t let on. His soft gray eyes never left my face, his hands clung to my fingers.
“No, no charges.” I shrugged. “Who would I charge? I have no idea who vandalized the shop. It makes no sense.”
That proved I could lie with the best of them, although Simon’s legal eagle eyes narrowed, telling me he was skeptical. Maybe I needed to brush up on my lying skills.
To change the subject, I said, “May I ask you something, Simon?”
“Of course.” He smiled. “Pop the question.”
“Were you ever in the Alexanders’ house?”
“That’s a strange one,” he replied, his smile fading.
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Were you ever in the Alexanders’? Did you ever see their Monets?”
“Yes, several times, but why the third degree?”
“Oh, just curious. I wondered what you thought of them.”
“They looked like money to me. Lots of it.”
I laughed. “You’re an honest man, Simon.” I had always thought he was, but now, my confidence shaken, I wondered. Damn the thief anyway. He’d stolen far more than a multimillion-dollar painting.
The kitchen phone rang, and a moment later, AudreyAnn came into the living room, the receiver in hand. “A Jessica Jones for you, Deva.”
I mimed “thanks” and took the phone. “Hello, Jessica.”
“Deva, your housekeeper just told me you’re all right. I’m so relieved.”
Housekeeper. AudreyAnn would kill her.
“I read about your shop in today’s paper and figured you could use some good luck. Well, listen to this. Last night, I informed Morgan of our little tête-à-tête. He’s relieved I know about the Bonita house. Best of all, it’s paid for, lock, stock and barrel. No mortgage. No loans. No anything. He’s been piling up investments for years. Imagine that. He loves his little secrets, don’t you know? So not to worry about losing his account. That won’t happen.”
Jessica chatted on for a few more minutes, obviously relieved. It sure sounded like she had patched up her marriage. I was happy for her and touched that she had reached out to assure me all was well. But as I hung up, I wondered if all really was.
Morgan had kept secrets in the past, could he be keeping another one? Had he accumulated a fortune, or had he stolen one?
* * *
At nine the next morning, Simon dropped me off at the shop, promising to pick me up at five. “Earlier if you need me,” he said, before hurrying around his BMW to open the passenger door and help me out.
“Next you’ll be tossing your cloak over a puddle,” I said.
He laughed. “If that’s what it takes.”
What did it take? I waggled my fingers at him as he drove through the alley. I knew Simon was waiting for me to up our relationship from kissing good-night to staying the night. Truth was, since Jack died, I hadn’t made love with anyone…was Simon the one? He was charming and thoughtful and witty and intelligent. Handsome, too, and successful. Still, I wasn’t sure. Something more than an injured arm had to be wrong with me. With a sigh, I stepped into the shop.
The disaster crew had performed wonders. Not one shard of broken glass sparkled anywhere, the displays were all neatly arranged, and the sun shone through the new shatterproof window. As soon as I had a free moment, I’d contact a sign painter to reapply the store logo. The shop smelled of cinnamon and spice from the aromatherapy candles I sold, but the pine scent was missing. So was the Christmas tree. Had the hunk of concrete hit it? For the life of me, I couldn’t remember.
I heard someone stirring about in the storeroom. “Anybody home?”
Lee popped her head around the open storeroom doorway. “Deva! You’re back! I was just getting out the Christmas cookies.” She hurried across the shop, arms outstretched, ready to give me a hug, but at the sight of my sling, she stopped and gave me an air kiss instead. “Y’all look fine, Deva. Just fine.” She smiled, but her porcelain complexion was ashen against that one and only black dress. “I feel so bad about what happened. Who on earth would do such a crazy-minded thing?”
“I have no idea. But you know what? It showed me how many friends I have. Including you. Thanks for taking such wonderful care of the shop. I’m curious, though, what happened to the Christmas tree?”
“That rock? It plumb knocked the tree to the floor. A lot of those beautiful decorations y’all had hanging on it got broken. I saved the ones I could and told the salvage people to tote the tree away.” A worry crease etched her forehead. “I hope that was all right.”
“That was perfect.”
“The good baubles are in a box out back.”
I peered at Lee more closely. Her eyes were red. “Have you been crying?”
She shook her head so vigorously her hair whipped around her face.
“While it’s quiet, why don’t we sit down for a few minutes?” I asked. “Take your desk chair, and I’ll sit here.” I sat on a tufted bench beside the bureau plat, cradling my injured arm in my right hand. “I have some good news. A Dr. Morgan Jones wants me to design the interior of his new house. Which means as soon as he signs a contract, I can afford to pay you.”
“But-”
I held up my right hand, palm out. “Retroactive from the first day. That’s for starters. As soon as business picks up some more, you get a raise.”
Her eyes looked suspiciously wet. “That’s wonderful, Deva,” she said, but her expression didn’t match her words.
“There’s something else. Off Shoots next door is having a sale. I want you to go there today and buy another dress. Any color you like. Charge it to me.”
“But-”
“Nope. No more buts.”
She looked down at her hands without speaking.
“Lee? Is anything wrong?”
She shook her head, the motion loosening a tear from each eye.
What a stupid question. The girl was only working two jobs plus struggling with college classes. Worse, she had a control freak for a father…and a love gone awry?
“It’s Paulo, isn’t it?”
Her head bowed, she said, “I’ve been phoning him since Christmas, but he isn’t returning my calls. I’ve texted him too, every single hour, but not a word back. And he hasn’t given an art class at the Von Liebig or been by the Irish Pub either, not once. I’m so worried. If I knew where he lived, I’d pay him a visit, but I don’t.” She covered her face with her hands. “Oh Deva, I’ll never see him again.”
“Oh, yes you will,” I said with more assurance than I felt. “Why don’t you give me his phone number and let me try?”
She knew it by heart. As I wrote it on a desk pad, the first customer of the day strolled in, and Lee fled to the back room to dry her tears.
Twice before noon, I found a moment to dial Paulo’s number, but got no answer. I left a me
ssage each time, avoiding Lee’s inquiring glance when I hung up.
By midafternoon, I knew I owed a huge debt of gratitude to the Naples Daily for their front page story. The sleigh bells jangled all day long announcing curiosity seekers mainly but a good sprinkling of buying customers as well. We were so busy I don’t know what I would have done without Lee. She wrapped purchases, ran the cash register and, during a brief quiet spell, unpacked fresh merchandise to flesh out our depleted tables.
An hour before closing, I shooed her next door to shop for a dress. She left reluctantly; should Paulo return my call, she wanted to be here. But I insisted and, too polite to refuse, she did as I asked. The minute she left, I dialed Rossi at the station.
When he picked up, his voice rough and gravelly, my heart skipped a beat before settling into its usual rhythm, though I should be used to that reaction by now. It happened every time we spoke.
“Lieutenant, this is Deva Dunne.”
I kept my voice all business. The call might be monitored. Who knew? There could be a kernel of truth in that old saw, “Just because you’re paranoid doesn’t mean they’re not out to get you.”
“I have a favor to ask, Lieutenant.”
A pause. “And that is?”
“Lee Skimp and I haven’t been able to reach Paulo St. James. Lee’s been trying for three days. All we have is a cell phone number. No address. I was wondering…could you possibly tell us where he can be located? It’s important.”
“You want me to give you Mr. St. James’s address…in other words, violate his privacy?” I could have made a weapon out of the steel in his voice. “That is not the function of this office. If you think there’s a problem, call back to the front desk. Ask for Missing Persons.”
The dull flat humming in my ear told me he’d hung up. Rude but right. I shouldn’t have bothered him. The man had his hands full trying to solve a murder and find an art treasure.
But somehow, I wasn’t sorry I’d called him. I’d been fighting the possibility that something had happened to Paulo. Every time he looked at Lee, his love for her came shining through his eyes. So why wasn’t he returning her calls? I hoped that Rossi, knowing Paulo worked for the Alexanders, might be worried enough to check on him. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more I was sure he would, and it was only a matter of time before the phone rang with Paulo on the line. Or a police officer with bad news darkening the shop door.
The Monet Murders Page 11