And they had dates on New Year’s Eve.
I hung up and said “Happy New Year” to the fridge. Disgusted with my own longings, I snapped off all the lights, tossed the sling into a corner and tumbled into bed. Sure, I was lonely, but did I have to turn pathetic and needy, making weird phone calls at midnight? My first New Year’s resolution: no more calls like the last one. Not to any man on earth.
Before I could settle under the covers, the phone on the bedside table rang. Probably Simon again. I didn’t want to answer, but the ringing wouldn’t stop.
Annoyed, I grabbed the receiver off the hook. “Yes.”
“Happy New Year, Mrs. D.”
I bolted upright.
“I was asleep when you called,” he said.
A likely story. “You have caller ID? I didn’t say anything.”
“You sound lonely.”
So he could detect that, too? “You’re a psychiatrist now?”
“I told you what I was.”
A lover. “Under the circumstances, Rossi, it’s hard to remember everything you say.”
“For now, maybe, but not forever.”
“What does that mean, exactly?” I’d just vowed not to make any more middle-of-the-night phone calls, but asking middle-of-the-night questions wasn’t part of the deal.
“Are you in bed?” he asked, ignoring my question completely. Rossi did that a lot.
I gripped the phone tighter. “Why do you want to know?”
“I have some news that might help you rest easier. I would have called earlier, but I thought you’d be out with that neighbor of yours…that…what’s his name?”
Rossi never forgot a name. I was beginning to enjoy myself. “His name is Simon. And for your information, he did invite me out.” I lay back against the pillow. “What’s the good news you have for me?”
“Your assailant has left town. The shop should be safe now.”
“Oh?” So that was the reason he’d returned my call. Not because he needed to hear the sound of my voice or to say how much he missed not seeing me. “How did you find out about Merle?” I asked, trying to keep the disappointment out of my voice.
A growl pulsed through the line. “Go to sleep, Mrs. D. Sweet dreams.”
The steady hum of a dead line sounded in my ear. Damn. He’d hung up. He did that all the time. It drove me nuts.
* * *
January second. The holidays were over, thank God. So were my days wearing the sling. Dr. Lemoine removed my dressing and declared the angry-looking red scar “Healing beautifully. Two months from now, you’ll barely notice it. In six months, it will have disappeared.”
With only a light dressing covering the wound, and both arms fully functioning, I was a new woman. Armed with a portfolio of drawings, I drove to Bonita Bay and rang Morgan Jones’s front doorbell confident he’d love my design ideas. Until he yanked open the door, greeting me with a face full of frowns.
“Good morning, Morgan,” I said, forcing my voice into cheerful mode.
He checked his watch. “Let’s make this fast, Deva.”
Back to that attitude, were we? I saw red. Crimson with slashes of magenta. “I can do fast,” I said, stepping inside and slamming the door so hard the bang echoed throughout the vast, empty rooms. “I can also do very fast. And I can do super fast. Which one is your pleasure, Dr. Morgan?”
Tripod in one hand, portfolio in the other, handbag slung over my shoulder, I glared at him. Not an auspicious beginning. Maybe I had just blown the account. So be it. Every once in a while, everything took a backseat to a temper tantrum. I’d just had one a two-year-old could be proud of and enjoyed every second of it.
Like challenged bullies everywhere, Morgan backed down. “It’s been a stressful few days, Deva.”
That and that alone would be his apology. I nodded. It would do. I was there to make a sale-not love or war.
In the center of the great room, empty except for the paintings stacked to one side, I set up the tripod and placed the drawings on it. The morning light poured through the wall of glass, illuminating the first one, a rendering of this very room with the palest whisper of blue on the walls, the huge Rosenquist facing the windows, and the other oils on opposite walls, each one dynamic, each one demanding attention. To offset that demand, I’d introduced minimalist furnishings, a pair of long, linear sofas in white leather. The only jolt of color, a cobalt blue ottoman that could double as a coffee table. Clear Plexiglas for the narrow console tables behind the sofas, and the end tables; they took up no visual space, leaving that to the exciting wall art.
Morgan studied the concept carefully, his gaze darting from one detail to the next, missing nothing.
Finally, too nervous to keep still, I said, “Everything is designed to showcase the paintings.”
He glanced at me briefly then turned back to the drawing. “I can see that. Your conception is exactly what I had hoped for.”
A bead of perspiration trickled down my back. It felt good. “I’m delighted that you’re pleased, Doctor.” I uncapped my pen. “Would you initial this sheet?”
His frown returned, as scowly as ever. “Is that necessary?”
“It’s a standard formality.” Why bother to point out that his initials protected me should he decide, once I’d ordered the case goods and other materials, that he didn’t like the concept after all? If he were acting on good faith, he wouldn’t object to signing.
Holding my breath, I handed him the pen with a shaky hand. His lips tightened a bit, but he took the pen and scribbled his initials on a corner of the page.
I exhaled that pent-up breath and showed him a sketch of the foyer that multiple coats of cobalt blue lacquer had transformed into a jewel box. Together with the great room ottoman, they were the only two vivid touches in my scheme.
As Morgan studied it, the merest wisp of a smile raised the corners of his mouth. He tapped a fingernail on the page. “I like the drama.”
Good. I handed him the pen again. He quickly initialed the page before glancing at his watch. “I really am pressed for time. Let’s get to the bedroom. It’s the room I’m most concerned about.”
I flipped through the sketches, found the one for the master suite, set it in front of the others and stepped back.
“Aaaah.”
No need to ask if he liked it. As he stared at the satin bed linens, the piles of pillows, the velvet chaise and the concealed lighting that bathed everything in a soft glow, he smiled-an all-out, cheek-cracking smile. So he could do it when he wanted. I’d have to remember that the next time he frowned.
“It’s all as I imagined.” Without taking his attention from the drawing, he asked, “Are there dimmers on these lights?”
“Of course.”
“Excellent. And I like the bed linens. The blue-gray satin is lovely, very subdued. Very alluring.” He cleared his throat as if he had, somehow, revealed too much of himself.
I wondered if Jessica knew how important their bedroom was to her husband. It was nice to know a couple who had been together for years had kept the romance alive in their marriage. But I backed away from that thought-fast.
“Where do I sign?” Morgan asked.
I handed him the pen with a steady hand.
“The sooner I can move in, the better. So get started immediately,” he ordered.
Some things never changed. I indulged in an audible sigh, but otherwise tamped down my temper. I couldn’t afford another tantrum. Besides, you had to pick your battles, and right now I tasted victory.
“I won’t waste a moment,” I assured him. “The drawings will be in the shop. So if Jessica would like to see them-”
“That won’t be necessary.”
“Really? She’s not interested?”
“That’s irrelevant.” He glanced at his watch again. An excuse not to look at me? “We’re getting divorced. In fact, I’m late for an appointment with my attorney.”
“Divorced? Oh? Jessica never let on.”
> “She didn’t know. I informed her yesterday. A new start for a New Year.”
So the satin coverlet and the dimmer switch weren’t for Jessica after all. Nor the musky cologne drifting around him. Probably not the new-looking blue silk tie, either. Too bad. Jessica, hearty and unpretentious, had, I suspected, put up with a lot from Morgan over the years. I hoped she’d get a good settlement. Dumped after a lifetime, she deserved one.
Hey, wait a minute. What was I thinking? Divorce in Florida meant a division of assets. Even Steven. What a divorce would do to Dr. Jones’s financial health wasn’t any of my business. Whether he could afford to pay me for my work was. Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford to take a hit.
My heart in my mouth, I said, “I’ll work up a proposal for you this afternoon and fax it to your office. Once you approve of the purchases, I’ll require fifty percent down before filling any orders.”
I hardly dared breathe as I waited for his answer. Red or green? Stop or go?
He didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem, Deva. Just get the project in the works. I’m anxious to begin my new life.”
Green.
With so much emphasis on the master bedroom, I doubted Dr. Jones would be living that new life alone. Not my concern, neither was the source of his funding. But I couldn’t squelch the question that kept popping into my head. Where had he found the means for so much spending? From his investments? From his surgeon’s skill? Or from the sale of the Monet? I decided on the spot that this time I would tell Rossi what puzzled me. For Maria’s sake, the murderer had to be found, the Monet recovered.
And I’d call for another, less noble cause-until the police solved the case, I couldn’t begin even the semblance of a new life. And I was starting to realize I needed a new one-whether it had dimmers and satin in it or not.
Chapter Seventeen
On January third at two-thirty sharp, I called at Chez Alexander. A few minutes later, perched beside Ilona on one of the yellow brocade sofas, I watched Trevor stomp around his living room, his hand-sewn loafers slapping against the marble floor.
“Whattya mean, you want a grapevine?” he shouted. “Twenty thousand square feet under glass, and now I gotta build you a grapevine? No, absolutely not.”
“But darling, is for wine festival dinner,” Ilona protested.
“That damn dinner’s costing me a fortune. With everything else that’s going on, I don’t need the aggravation. Or the expense.”
“But Trev, we agree. You want everything perfect. Remember, our Evening in Tuscany.”
“No grapevine. Nem. Come up with another idea. A cheaper one.” Trevor stopped mid-stomp to point a finger at me. It quivered in the air in front of my nose. “And that includes you. She doesn’t have any common sense, but I thought you did. I must’ve been wrong.”
He stormed out of the room. “Don’t wait up,” he yelled before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen wing. A distant door slammed.
Ilona listened then ran on her pink slides to the front window. “I bet he take my Boxster just to be difficult.”
Sure enough, a moment later a silver Porsche, sleek as a high-speed panther, zoomed down the curved driveway.
“I knew it. Te diszno! You pig!” Ilona turned from the window and flipped her hair over a shoulder. “Whenever I say ‘no sex’ he act this way. A little boy. Never no mind. Maybe he get ticket.” Her face brightened at the prospect. “Is all right, Deva. We forget grapevine. We come up with another plan.”
What was this “we” stuff? The grapevine idea had been hers. Personally I thought it was too obvious to be tasteful and had told her so. But that moment of truth was about to be buried. Why bother to resurrect it?
Interesting, though, to hear Trevor complaining about the party’s cost. So maybe he wasn’t Midas rich. I gave a mental shrug. Even kings had a limit to their coffers. This one I wouldn’t run past Rossi. When I called him yesterday, he hadn’t been too impressed with my Morgan Jones story and in no uncertain terms told me to stick to my decorating and let him do the detecting. Off and on since then, I’d been trying to decide if I was seriously pissed at him or not. Not, actually. He was right, and I knew it.
“Deva, we have tea while you give me ideas for party. I tell Jesus.”
Ilona wiggled her way across the marble floor to the kitchen wing. From the rear, she looked fabulous in her hot pink pants. In no time, she clicked her way back into the living room. Despite the frown lines stressing her normally smooth forehead, she looked fabulous from the front, too, in her hot pink sweater.
“Jesus will bring tea. And cookies,” she added with a guilty smile. “After Trevor, I need sweet. Now, Deva, what will we do?”
We again. Okay, for two thousand plus extras, she’d bought the right to ask.
“Ilona, Tuscan means contrasts. Monks and aristocrats. Peasants and nobility. That’s what your party should play up.” I made sure my voice sounded decisive, for ultimately, decisiveness was what I sold. Clients hired me to make decisions that if left on their own they’d agonize over. I eyed Ilona, pausing to let my words sink in.
“Go on. I like,” she said, shifting to the edge of her down sofa cushion.
“Okay. How about this? We serve dinner outside, overlooking the Gulf. The loggia can easily accommodate thirty diners, and it has the columns and arches of a medieval cloister. Torchlight on the lawn and rustic lanterns on the tables. Heavy tapestry tablecloths to the floor. For centerpieces, cornucopias spilling fruit and veggies.”
Ilona wrinkled her perfect nose. “Veggies?”
I laughed. “Not potatoes or onions. Gourds and squashes. Pomegranates. Apples and pears. Grapes, too.”
“Ha, grapes! I like.”
“We’ll costume the staff. Put the bartenders in brown monk’s robes, the servers in peasant dress. Jesus in britches. That sort of thing.”
Ilona waved her diamond-studded hands, sending an aurora borealis flashing through the air. “Where we get such clothes?”
“From a costume supplier. It shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Music, Deva. Music we must have.”
“Yes,” I agreed, warming to the theme. “Nothing too loud. A chamber ensemble during cocktails, so people can chat. At dinner, Italian love songs with the main courses, operatic arias during dessert. End the evening on a vibrant note.”
“Your ideas, all of them are wonderful, Deva. You see, it is like I said, I need you to plan.”
A soft footfall sounded on the marble floor. Jesus entered carrying a serving tray laden with a silver tea service and an assortment of cookies. A tall man, with the sad bearing of a deposed aristocrat, he had lost a noticeable amount of weight in the three weeks since Maria’s death. His heavy eyes spoke of suffering. Three weeks and still no arrest. I could only hope Rossi and the Naples P.D. were working around the clock.
Jesus placed the tray on the coffee table. “Will that be all, señora?”
“For now, Jesus.” He left us, and Ilona reached for a chocolate-frosted morsel. “Jesus wants to bring Maria’s ashes to Guatemala. Can you believe that? At time like this, with wine festival so close? Have cookie, Deva. Maria made them. They’re finom. Delicious.”
The impulse to mash a cookie in her face told me I had to get out of there fast. I’d already had my temper tantrum for the year. I fake peeked at my watch. “Oh, I’m late. Must go, Ilona. As soon as the proposal is ready, I’ll fax it to you.”
“That is good. Tomorrow, Cheep comes to discuss menu. He has family recipes from many generations just like my anya’s cooks. All will be well.”
“Right.” I grabbed my fake Chanel handbag and hurried toward the foyer, not even stopping for a loving glimpse of the remaining Monet. Air, I craved air and yanked open the front door. “As soon as possible, I’ll drop off some samples for you to see,” I called over my shoulder.
Ilona scrambled off the couch, a second, or maybe a third, cookie in hand. “Wait, Deva, there is something you should know.”
/> What now? She hurried toward me on tiptoes, all the while glancing left and right as if someone might be watching. Who? Jesus? The cleaning staff?
She came close enough to whisper in my ear, “I am not supposed to tell, but security code is changed. You will need new one.”
“That’s all right, I’ll just give the samples to Jesus.”
“Suppose he go to Guatemala? One minute only, I write number for you.”
“But-”
She disappeared through the archway into the kitchen wing, returning with a folded slip of paper that she pressed into my palm. “Hide this,” she ordered. “Trevor should not know.”
“Ilona, why don’t I phone you after I collect the party supplies? We can settle on a meeting date then.”
She shook her head. “Nem. In two days, Trevor and I, we leave for Hungary. I promise my anya we come right after Christmas. Trevor no want to go, but I tell him I no come back if he refuse.” She heaved a sigh that did great things for the hot pink sweater. “Is not easy, Deva.”
“What isn’t?”
“Being Mrs. Trevor. Tonight I give him sex. Only then will he stop the pout.”
“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” I said, easing toward the door.
“Correct.”
I cleared my throat. Ilona had her problems and I had mine, and one of them was money. While I loved the creative challenge of designing, I hated dunning people for fees. But with even the slightest chance that she might not return, I had to plunge into girl talk with a purpose.
“Ilona, I have a request.” I squared my shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Before you leave for Europe, could you see that my design fee is paid? Or at least half of it. I’ll need it to cover expenses.”
She greeted this first from me with a fluttering of her luscious eyelashes. “Of course, I understand. You are working girl.”
I huffed out a breath. So are you, Ilona.
“But Trevor is such a bear these days, I ask him for little. So I pay you myself from my, how you say, mad money. Wait.” While I stood chilling in the foyer, she ran up the stairs, bouncing back down a few moments later with a sheaf of bills in her hand. “Two thousand. Correct?”
The Monet Murders Page 14