The Monet Murders

by Jean Harrington

  “Well, yes, but this is the full amount.”

  “Never no mind. I trust. Send other expenses to Trevor. He will be in better mood by then, I promise.”

  Designing, I decided on the spot, was an easier gig than some marriages.

  “Thanks, Ilona. I’ll see that the party materials are here when you return. Bon voyage. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

  “Oh, but I must,” she said, no smile in her tone, or on her face, either.

  For the first time since we’d met, Mrs. Trevor Alexander had my sympathy.

  Poor little rich girl. In comparison, clutching the two grand, I felt like a rich little poor girl as I jogged down the stone steps to my car.

  * * *

  The money went fast, on rent, phones and payroll, but what a wonderful reprieve. Because of it, I didn’t have to dip into my skimpy reserves, at least for another month. Then when Morgan’s payment kicked in, Deva Dunne Interiors should be well on its way.

  All week long, I found myself humming. What was that tune? An Italian love song, “That’s Amore.” Figures. Ilona’s Tuscan theme had to be the inspiration. Not Rossi. Ha! With an effort, I banished him from my thoughts and concentrated on making a list of items needed for the Alexanders’ party.

  Fabric. Cornucopias. Fruit and gourds. Rustic lanterns. Costumes. Music. Engraved invitations.

  With luck, when Ilona returned in two weeks, I would have booked the staff and musicians and purchased the party materials.

  Overnight, Kravatz Fabrics in Manhattan priority-mailed me a carton of possible tabletop swatches. All medieval in feeling, in deep russets and greens with flashes of burgundy. To see which one looked best on the loggia, I telephoned the house, hoping Jesus would pick up. I’d rather he let me in than use the new security code. But he didn’t answer at ten, twelve or two. On the chance that he might be enjoying a rare day off, I rang him again the next day. Only the answering machine kicked on.

  While waiting for Jesus to return my call, I made a quick trip to the Miromar Design Center in Ft. Myers to pick up the party supplies. Then I scoured the local antique stores for vintage linen napkins. The largest I could find for dinner and smaller ones for cocktails. They didn’t have to match, but they did have to look like old family heirlooms.

  Each guest should also have a token gift waiting at the dinner table. Something Medici in feeling. Poison rings for the ladies? Faux antidotes in tiny pillboxes for the men? No doubt in poor taste after what had happened there, but Ilona might like an outrageous gesture like that.

  As soon as Morgan’s retainer arrived, I ordered his case goods and hired Oceanside Finishes to paint his interior. I also called on the two women who had come into the shop during the holidays, one wanting a new bathroom, and the other a revived family room. When I snagged both sales, I did a mental jump for joy.

  Without Lee’s help, all the scurrying around would have plowed me under. She kept the merchandise neatly arranged, charmed the customers and, I suspect, made selling Paulo’s paintings a special interest. In a single week, she had lined up a commission for him.

  Watching her, I realized how wondrous happiness is, and with a pang, understood that what I saw in Lee-the shining eyes, the effortless smile, the glow of a woman well loved-had once been mine in those days when Jack vowed I centered his universe. In the days when he couldn’t wait to rush home to me at night. When he started undressing inside the front door, scattering his clothes from room to room, and mine as well…transforming me with his adoration into a goddess…

  Rossi, you’ve got your work cut out for you.

  The thought made me laugh, and to Lee’s surprise, I went over and hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re so happy,” I said.

  “Y’all mean it, I know, Deva,” she said, hugging me back. “And I’m glad I’m so happy, too.”

  We laughed, startling two customers who walked in searching for sofa pillows in purple.

  That afternoon, I rang Jesus again. Still no answer. He must have taken advantage of the Alexanders’ absence and gone to Guatemala with Maria’s ashes. No point in waiting any longer. I packed everything in the Audi’s trunk and headed for Gordon Drive.

  To be certain the house was empty, I rang the front door chimes. They echoed loudly to no avail. Satisfied that no one was inside, I entered the new code and carried one of the boxes into the silent, chilled interior.

  “Anybody home?” I called. No response. I had the place to myself.

  In the dining room, I worshipped the Monet for a while then brought the fabric swatches out to the loggia. As I suspected, the muted shades of the vine pattern had the vintage look I was after. I’d call Gwen at Kravatz the minute I got back to the shop and order enough to cover five tables of six to the floor.

  Satisfied, I wandered back into the great room. Chez Alexander had never been a noisy house. Not once, in all the times I’d been here, could I recall a radio or a stereo playing, but today the quiet was positively eerie. Nerves, I told myself, plain and simple. I’d had so much stress lately I was jittery for no reason at all. So why was I tiptoeing across the polished great room floor? No one was around to hear me. Yes, definitely nerves.

  Still, something was a little off. No gardenia scent wafted in the air. And usually when the Alexanders were out of town, the blinds and draperies were closed, shutting out the sun and its effects on the interior. But not today. Beyond the windows, out to the horizon, I could see the Gulf water sparkling turquoise and serene, and the sun’s rays glinting off the occasional shallow whitecap.

  The box of party supplies weighed a ton. I lowered it onto a chair and plunked my purse on top. On the coffee table, the bowl of gardenias that were changed every day had wilted, the faded blossoms drooping over the rim, brown petals scattered across the tabletop. No wonder no gorgeous scent perfumed the air. I sniffed. Actually a musty, closed-up odor had replaced it. Strange. Even if Jesus were left alone for days, he wouldn’t neglect his duties.

  “Hello,” I called again, just to be sure. “Jesus, are you here? Jesus!” I half expected him to suddenly respond in that gracious, courteous manner of his, but he didn’t. Maybe he had gone to Central America after all.

  Oh, well. I gave a mental shrug and headed for the kitchen wing. I needed to scout out the garage for a place to stash the party supplies. As I passed the corridor leading to Trevor’s study, I spied the glow of yellow lamplight. Maybe Jesus was working in there and hadn’t heard me. Though he should have. I’d made as much noise as a Patriots cheerleader.

  Led by curiosity, I started down the corridor to the study. When I caught myself tiptoeing along like there was something to fear, I forced my feet to step normally. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

  Still my heart pounded as I reached the open study door and peeked in. Empty. No Jesus. So why were the lights on over the desk? Ilona once told me that of the entire household, only Jesus, who had been trained not to touch Trevor’s documents or move his papers, was allowed into the study. But I walked in anyway and strode to the desk. Might as well turn off the light. I leaned over and reached for the lamp switch then froze, an arm in midair, as a sheet of paper atop a pile caught my eye. A bank statement, it showed a massive withdrawal. Was I reading that correctly?

  Leaving the lamp on, I picked up the statement. The account had been closed over a week ago. A Morgan-Stanley logo embellished the next sheet. I glanced at that as well. Another deep withdrawal, and underneath that statement a personal letter from the local Morgan-Stanley office urging Mr. Alexander not to sell at this point in the market.

  The next sheet and the next, all stacked in that same neat pile, were much the same. Hmm. Stunned, I sank onto Trevor’s leather swivel chair and rode it for a while. What was going on? Had Trevor found a more lucrative investment opportunity? One that required large sums of money? Or did the withdrawals signify trouble?

  None of my business, of course, except that Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t survive a nonpaying client. Not with Ilona’s demand
s accelerating as they were. And come to think of it, most of her payments to me had been in cash from her secret stash of mad money.

  Tense as a wound watch, I swiveled like mad. Only one thing to do. As I’d done with Morgan Jones, before ordering anything more I’d ask for payment of my out-of-pocket costs up front. The downside meant that might delay the party plans. Well, either that or take a chance. The Kravatz fabric alone was seventy dollars a yard and for five tables, we’d need-

  The phone rang suddenly, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, the paper in my fingers fluttering to the floor. As I bent over, heart thumping, to retrieve it, a familiar deep voice came through the line. I sat up, placed the paper back on the pile and listened.

  “Trevor, this is Simon Yaeger. Want you to know I took care of that little matter. George wasn’t happy about it, but I let him know where you stand. It’s your money he’s playing with, not his own. Don’t think he’ll retaliate, but you know George. I told him what he has in mind is definitely out of the question. You don’t need any legal entanglements with the IRS, not on top of everything else.”

  Simon cleared his throat. I waited. Was there more? Yes. “One other thing, you know how women like to talk. You might ask Ilona to be discreet.” A pause. “I heard the Dunne woman is in and out of the house a lot, so I’d make sure she doesn’t get a hold of this. The fewer people who are in on it the better. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

  A click and the phone went dead. I rode the swivel hard for a few moments then reached across the desk, turned off the lamp and slowly got to my feet. The Dunne woman. Is that how Simon thought of me? In that clinical, detached manner? So underneath that suave façade, Mr. Hot Lips was a man of ice. Nevertheless, he had just done me a valuable service. I would definitely ask Trevor for a serious retainer before ordering another thing. And I would definitely reassess my so-called friendship with Simon.

  The urge to get out of this musty, silent tomb seized me. I walked out of the study, grabbed the box of party supplies from the great room and hurried down the hall to the kitchen. I didn’t want to leave party paraphernalia lying around, sullying the hushed elegance of Chez Alexander. The workbench in the garage would do. Everything would be safely out of the way there.

  The musty odor was stronger in the kitchen. How long had Jesus been gone, anyway? I rested the box on the island and opened the side door leading from the kitchen wing to the four-car garage. The instant I did, a strange odor smacked me in the face. I sniffed the air and wished I hadn’t. My stomach clenched. What was that smell? Like an animal had found its way inside and been trapped.

  I snapped on the garage lights. Their glare revealed the Mercedes SUV Jesus used for errands, Ilona’s silver Boxster and Trevor’s Cadillac Seville. The fourth stall held a rack of bikes and Trevor’s prized toy, a glittering Honda Goldwing. All the household vehicles were here, so Jesus must have driven the Alexanders to the airport, returned the car, then gotten a ride from someone so he could catch his own flight. A trickle of perspiration slid down my back as I stood in the doorway sniffing the foul air, not knowing whether to go in any farther or not.

  Well, I couldn’t leave the boxes cluttering the house, so I picked up the one I’d carried in and stepped into the garage. Whatever had caused the odor must be dead. I hoped it was a squirrel trapped under the roof…or even, God forbid, a rat. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, whatever had died in here couldn’t hurt me, and the box was getting heavier by the minute.

  I dumped it on top of the workbench next to a hammer and an open box of scattered tacks. The clutter surprised me. Jesus usually kept his workstation as impeccably neat as Maria had kept her kitchen. But not this time. He must have been interrupted in the middle of a task. As I turned to go back for another box, a dark stain on the concrete floor caught my eye. The trickle of sweat on my back chilled.

  I bent over for a closer look. If the stain had once been wet, it was dry now. Mesmerized, I followed where its trail led-between the Cadillac and the Boxster.

  And then I saw him. Not a squirrel. Not a rat. Jesus. Crumpled in death and glued to the floor with his own blood.

  I grabbed the Cadillac’s door handle to steady myself and stared, transfixed, at the corpse. First Maria, now her husband. It couldn’t be, my mind shrieked. It is, my eyes insisted. Another death. Another murder.

  I had to get to a phone, call 911, but afraid I’d pitch forward in a dead faint and join Jesus on the floor, I just stood there gripping the handle, staring at the horror of what lay before me…the gunshot wound in Jesus’s chest, his wide, unseeing eyes, and, strangely, a handful of tacks in his open palm.

  I kept inhaling, gulping, filling my lungs with the noisome air, but the gulping did little good. I couldn’t breathe. My lungs weren’t functioning. I’d pass out after all and fall to the blood-covered floor.

  Before I could, the garage doors went into a noisy ascent, and my gaze switched from Jesus’s corpse straight into Trevor and Ilona’s shocked faces.

  Chapter Eighteen

  “Christ! It’s Jesus,” Trevor said, stepping into the garage for a closer look.

  Ilona gasped and clutched his arm, tugging him back from the body. “No, Trev. Nem.”

  He shook off her hand and edged farther in, stopping just short of the bloodstain.

  In unison, we both stared down at Jesus, at his startled, unseeing eyes, at his mouth wide open, gaping at what? His murderer?

  “Why did you kill him?” Trevor asked, glancing up from the corpse, pinning me with an accusing look.

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I didn’t kill him. I just found him. He looks like he’s been dead awhile.” I didn’t mention the way he smelled. Trevor had a nose of his own.

  He grunted something unintelligible and, eyes once again riveted on the gruesome sight, yelled over a shoulder. “Call the police, Ilona.”

  Rooted to her spot by the open overheads, she didn’t move, her face so pale under her golden tan, I thought she’d be the one who’d join Jesus on the floor.

  “The phone, Ilona. The phone.” Trevor snapped his fingers. “Hurry up.” At his second barked order, she obeyed, sidling around the other side of the SUV and disappearing through the side door into the house.

  “So why did you do it?” Trevor asked again.

  “Don’t be an ass.” I was too irritated to be scared. Or polite. “Do I have a weapon in my hand?” I pointed to the remains. “Is that a fresh corpse?”

  His eyes flickered at my tone. “How the hell should I know?”

  “The blood’s dried on the floor, Trevor. Use your head.” Screw the Mr. Alexander shit.

  “You could have killed him and come back. Returned to the scene of the crime.”

  This guy had made millions in the stock market? Unbelievable.

  “We’re not moving until the cops get here,” he said.

  Egads. He must have seen every Eliot Ness film ever made.

  Ilona returned and stood gripping the kitchen doorframe for support. As if I didn’t exist, she avoided making eye contact with me, focusing solely on Trevor. “I call,” she said in a dull monotone.

  “Good girl. Now let’s see how fast Naples’s finest can get here.” Then, as a sudden thought struck him, he glared at me. “Hey! How’d you get in? The code’s been changed.”

  I shot a quick glance Ilona’s way. She shook her head, the movement barely perceptible, but I caught it, nonetheless. Still leaning on the Porsche, I shifted my attention to Trevor. “I’ll do my talking to the police.”

  A few minutes later, an NPD squad car pulled up in front of the open garage door. “Well, here’s your chance to spill what you know,” Trevor said as my shadow, Officer Batano, stepped out with his sidekick, petite Officer Hughes, close behind him. As usual, like a secretary in battle gear, she brandished a clipboard.

  Before the cops could get in a word, Trevor announced, “I’m Trevor Drexel Alexander. My wife and I have been out of town. We can prove it.” He wave
d an arm at the body. “This was our welcome home present. My butler, Jesus Cardoza. Or what’s left of him.” Trevor pointed an index finger at me. “She was standing over the corpse when we got here.”

  Batano pierced me with a keen glance as if he couldn’t believe what he was seeing. “Are you Mrs. Devalera Dunne, age thirty-two? Address Surfside Arms, Gulf Shore Boulevard, condominium unit 104? Proprietor of Deva Dunne Interiors, Fern Alley, Naples, Florida?”

  A flawless performance by Batano and I hadn’t said a thing. “Yes.”

  Batano shook his head, either in disbelief or disgust, I couldn’t be sure which, and shouldering his way in between the vehicles, he crouched over Jesus. “He’s dead,” he pronounced. The man had a gift for the obvious. Heaving his bulk to his feet, he turned to Officer Hughes. “Call Homicide,” he instructed her. “Then stay with the remains. We’ll be inside.” He reached for her clipboard. “I’ll take that.”

  The three of us trooped back into the house after Batano.

  “This will do,” he said when we reached the kitchen. It was then that the impact of what I’d seen hit me with the force of a sledgehammer blow. Only a month earlier, I’d entered this same room with its Smallbone cabinets and perched on this same wrought iron stool while Rossi interrogated me.

  What would he think when he saw me here again? What would anybody think? Within a span of weeks, I’d found two murder victims. I’d stumbled on them, the poor things, only stumbled on them, but who would believe that? Who would continue to think I had nothing to do with their deaths? That I was simply in the wrong place at the wrong time?

  No one, that was who. I glanced across at Ilona leaning against the center island looking positively ashen. I’d never seen her so upset, so moved, not even when Maria died. The sight caught me up short. So who was the selfish bitch now? I was. Thinking only of myself. Of my own welfare. What of the two victims? Earnest, hardworking people away from their families and their homeland, most days on duty around the clock, trying to please, trying to live…then murdered without mercy. But why?