“This is gorgeous,” I said, glancing around at the faux, but well-done, eighteenth century décor.
“Is adequate,” Ilona said. “Have seat, Deva. I must talk to another woman or go crazy. Megbolondulok we say in Hungary.”
“Sounds the same in English,” I answered, taking the seat she indicated, but my attempt at humor fell on deaf ears. I suspected Ilona only heard the sound of her own needs. “All right. I’m here. Now tell me why.”
Ilona sat opposite me, one arm flung lightly across the back of her loveseat. “You, I trust with the truth.”
“Which is?”
“I leave Trevor. We are no more. I already speak to divorce lawyer.”
I bolted upright. And on down cushions that wasn’t easy. “You just took my breath away, Ilona. It must have been a quick decision. You never let on.”
“Nem. Not quick. I plan to leave him long time ago. Before Christmas. Now I no can stand any more.”
“That’s too bad, Ilona. Trevor loves you very much.” I thought I’d toss that out, even though I had no idea, really, what Trevor did or didn’t love. About what he liked, on the other hand, I had a really good idea.
Ilona threw her hands in the air, as usual sending light rays sparking around the room. Her marriage might be dead, but there was a lot of life left in those wedding diamonds. “Love? Love? You want to know what Trevor love? No, you innocent working girl. I no say.”
“Let me guess. Cookies and milk at bedtime?”
She ignored my attempt at a wisecrack. “But I treat him fair. I ask only for what our, how you say, pre-nup contract say is mine. Sunrise at Royan belong to me. I ask for no more.”
“That’s fair,” I replied, trying to keep the acid out of my voice. I glanced outside, the Gulf water, a soft aqua so like Monet’s sea, shimmered in the distance. The painting had been appraised at twenty million. The hidden one-which I was convinced was Sunset at Royan-must be worth at least that much. Even fenced, the black market price would fetch plenty. Clever. Very, very clever. And high payment, indeed, for a mere two years of wedded bliss.
“Can you keep secret, Deva?”
I nodded. “Of course. Keeping secrets is part of my job.”
“This one is serious. For rest of my life.” She paused to think that over. “Well, for a while anyway. I have new man.”
I wasn’t really surprised. Goddesses like Ilona might go braless but not manless. At least not for long.
“My new man, he is so different from Trevor. He has cultivation. Sophistication. He can speak of music and art and medicine. Psychology, too. I have headache, he understand. I need pill, he give. I need back rub, he rub. Not like Trevor. All he know is money. And sex. So coarse. The things I could tell.” She shuddered, a little ripple running from her shoulders to her hips.
I asked the only question that mattered. Actually, I went for the jugular. “You love this new man?”
“That question, Deva, it is so American.”
“Really?” I tamped down my annoyance. “I thought everybody in the world needed love.”
She waved a dismissing hand and shook her head. “To choose a man for love is ridiculous. Respect, that is ticket. But I tell you something else. Another secret.”
I leaned forward on the overly soft down cushions. “I’m all ears.”
“A man must love a woman. That is what matter. Then he is in palm of hand.”
“An interesting concept,” I said, leaning back and sinking so deep into the cushions my thighs disappeared. Love on one side and respect on the other. Like bathroom taps: hot and cold.
“My new man call just before you get here and insist I go to him today. He cannot wait to see me. To hold me to him. I say yes, though he should wait. But he cannot help himself.” She glanced at her watch. “I ordered tea for us but I cancel. He expect me in little while. I would like you to meet, but is not possible. But you meet soon, I promise. I trust you, Deva, with everything-even with my new love.”
Humph, she did, did she? I guess she didn’t see me as any kind of female threat. In that she was absolutely correct. In the looks department we were apples and oranges. Though come to think of it, while I might be a Macintosh, she was no navel orange. A luscious exotic would be more like it. In other words, no contest. Her boyfriend would be safe with me. The burning question was, who was he?
“Want to tell me his name?” I asked, striving for an arch girl-talk tone.
“I want to, but I no can. We must wait for divorce before we tell.”
With difficulty, I pulled myself off the sofa and swooped up my handbag. “I have to run. Don’t worry about the tea. You don’t want to keep your man waiting.”
“He wait,” she said, utterly confident. “Something else there is. Before you go, I have little favor to ask.”
“I’ll help you if I can,” I said. For that two grand, I did owe her a favor, and maybe, just maybe, she didn’t know about the hidden canvas.
“My clothes, my jewelry, my shoes, even, are in house on Gordon Drive. I want you to go there, pack everything and bring it to me here.”
I shook my head. “Ilona, that would be breaking and entering. I can’t do that. I could end up in jail.” The irony of what I’d just said wasn’t lost on me, nor was the kernel of truth in it. “Why don’t you go get your things yourself?” I’d seen the stuff in her closet. She’d need an eighteen wheeler to move all of it out of there.
“Trevor, he no allow. He forbid me to step foot in house. He’s such a pig. What can he do with my clothes, I ask you?”
Burn them? “Bitter, is he?”
She nodded and sighed, deeply enough to send her chest into a spectacular up and down boogie. “You sure you will not do it?”
“I’m sure.” I fake peeked at my watch. “Now I really must go.”
“Well, I tell my new man I tried. I can do no more.” To my surprise, she jumped up and gave me a farewell hug and a kiss on the cheek. I resisted the urge to wipe it off.
“I appreciate that you listen,” she said. “I needed to talk.”
“Not a problem, Ilona. I’d help you with the other but-” In the foyer, my hand on the doorknob, I turned to her. “Just between us girls, I think it’s damn sporting of you to ask Trevor for the Monet and nothing else.” I paused, a Meryl Streep with perfect dramatic timing. “But what a shame you can’t have both Monets.”
Ilona gasped. A quick intake of breath. Nothing more. But it was enough to reveal what I had probed for-she knew.
In a flurry of “Ta-ta’s” and air kisses, I hurried to the elevator and jabbed Down.
After a valet pulled the Audi up under the Ritz canopy with only a faint squealing of brakes, I tipped him, drove along the horseshoe-shaped drive and parked at the foot of the curve by Vanderbilt Beach Road. The driveway was the only guest exit from the hotel. Ilona would have to pass me to get to her tryst.
I jumped out of the car, popped the trunk and removed a sunhat I stored there with my Nikes for beach excursions. More than once it had prevented me from turning into Freckle City. Together with a pair of outsized shades, it would have to do as a disguise. I got back behind the wheel and, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, watched for the Porsche. For I was sure Ilona would be driving “her” car. Her pride and joy…well, one of them, anyway. I didn’t think she’d recognize the Audi. When I called on Gordon Drive, she had never greeted me at the door. That had been Jesus’s job, God love him. My hands gripped the wheel as a flash of silver came streaking down the curved Ritz drive.
I ducked down as the Boxster sped past and took a right onto Vanderbilt. I followed, and when Ilona turned north on Tamiami Trail, I kept on her tail, a super sleuth in a sunhat.
The daytime traffic, always heavy at the height of the tourist season, ran bumper to bumper. I took my eyes off the Porsche long enough to glance at my watch. Four-thirty. Rush hour. The Boxster could outmaneuver and outrun most cars on the road, but like the rest of us, Ilona was hemmed in on all sides and su
bject to the same limit, fifty per.
Or was she?
Two cars ahead of her, the middle lane opened up for a millisecond. Her foot, no doubt in her usual backless, spike-heeled slide, must have tromped on the gas. She zoomed into the opening, took the high speed lane, then swerved to the right, passed a pickup and was back in the far left lane in the blink of an eye.
Watching her antics, I admired her daredevil driving and the Porsche’s flawless performance. Its racing car suspension switched lanes with no rocking and not the slightest tilt of the chassis, as smooth as water over glass.
A minute later, I was swearing my head off. Ilona had sped out of sight. I had lost her. Doing some fancy passing of my own, I picked up speed and eyeballed the crowded lanes for several more miles. No luck. Whether she’d headed for Ft. Myers or beyond, or driven off onto one of the dozens of side roads that intersected the Trail, I couldn’t tell.
Damn. Now I’d have to wait for a formal introduction to The Boyfriend.
Some sleuth. I snatched off the sunhat, flung it in the backseat and slowed down. I had taken a chance chasing Ilona. With the Glock still in my purse, I was carrying without a permit. One more piece of bad publicity in the Naples Daily and I might as well set up shop in Bangladesh.
As soon as I came to a turnoff, I’d head for home. Under the speed limit. Disgusted, I snapped on the radio. Some kind of fifties elevator music clogged the airways. I was about to change stations when an announcer’s voice interrupted what was passing for music.
“A breaking news bulletin. An hour ago, a prominent Naples citizen was found dead in his Fifth Avenue South office. Mr. George Farragut, well-known financial analyst to many of Naples’s wealthiest residents, was shot to death in what is apparently a homicide. Police are now investigating…”
I switched into the low speed lane and turned off the radio so I could digest what I’d just heard. George? Murdered. Unbelievable. So I had been wrong about him. Perhaps, all along he had been the prey not the predator. Or maybe his death and Maria and Jesus’s were totally unrelated. But somehow I didn’t think so. With his close connection to the Alexanders, it was entirely possible that George had been the victim of the same killer. But why George? What had he seen? What did he know that had caused his death?
I pulled off the highway and parked in a Walgreens lot to think for a while. The day I was in Trevor’s study, Simon had left a phone message saying he had dealt with George. Whatever the problem might have been, was killing George the ultimate solution?
Chapter Twenty-Five
I didn’t get any answers to my questions that night, though Rossi called to say hello and to tell me to keep the deadbolts on and the cell phone next to my bed.
“Then you think whoever killed the Cardozas killed George too?”
“That has not yet been determined. I’m just telling you to be careful.”
“You’re scaring me,” I said.
“Good. Stay scared. Scared doesn’t take chances. I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”
He hung up. That was midnight, and by nine the next morning, when I left for work, I’d heard nothing else from him.
“Deva, wait up!”
As I hurried toward the Surfside carport, I glanced over a shoulder, though I hardly needed to. I’d know that deep, lustrous voice anywhere.
Tall, tanned and handsome, in a charcoal gray Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt and silver striped tie, Simon came striding across the Surfside parking lot looking like every woman’s dream guy. Why not mine? Truth be told, I was afraid of him. George had been a problem to him and now George was dead. And I was “the Dunne woman” as if I were a person he had met once or twice on a bus or something. Also because I was intrigued with a short guy who wore garish Hawaiian shirts with the tails out. Go figure.
“It’s good to see you,” Simon said, a smile lighting his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”
“Sorry, Simon, but business has been terrible. I haven’t had time to think of anything else.” I was lying through my teeth. Multitasking was every designer’s middle name. But I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was definitely not an option.
“You’ve heard about Farragut?” he asked.
“Yes, it was all over the news last night. And on the front page this morning.”
“Nice guy. Very capable. A shame.”
“I know, scary.”
“Sounds like you need a diversion. After all this bad news, I could use one too. How about tonight? I have some Pinot Grigio. A Michael Bublé CD. We can order Chinese takeout. Your favorite, Beef Szechwan.”
Though I hated to kill his hopeful-looking smile, I shook my head. I should tell him I was interested in someone else, but couldn’t. Besides, Rossi and weren’t actually dating. At least not officially. He had said he cared for me and worried about me, and I didn’t figure him for a liar, but caring and worrying weren’t commitments, were they? Besides, if I said a single word, Simon would want to know who the lucky guy was. I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Rossi knew I wasn’t implicated in the crimes, but he had to contend with that line in the sand the chief had drawn. Any outing of our…ah…relationship would have to come from him.
I rolled back my shirt cuff and glanced at my watch. “I’d love to chat, Simon, but I’m late for an appointment with a plumbing supplier.”
He nodded as if I’d just said something interesting.
“Then I’m meeting an art installer at Morgan Jones’s new house. It’s quite the showplace, or will be when it’s finished. Have you seen it?”
He shook his head. “No reason I should. I hardly know the guy. He’s a friend of George Farragut’s not mine.”
True or false? I wanted to believe Simon, but the thought of how he’d had me deliver that Hermès briefcase to Morgan’s house rose like a specter between us. My trust in him destroyed, I pretended not to see the hurt in his eyes, said goodbye and hurried over to the Audi. After stalling out a couple times, the engine roared to life, and I drove off leaving Simon on the tarmac watching me go.
* * *
Choosing some ornate powder room fixtures at Bears’ Plumbing Supply only took a few minutes. Selections made, I tossed my tote and handbag in the Audi’s backseat, got behind the wheel and switched on the engine. Or tried to. It didn’t even turn over. Whether the battery had conked out or something more insidious had happened, I couldn’t tell. Tire kicking summed up the extent of my mechanic skills.
Now I’d have to contact Tom at Art Installations and reschedule. I climbed out of the car and stood tapping a foot on the tarmac as I thought things over. Pretty much a one-man operation, Tom had set aside several hours for the Jones project. I knew he needed the business and hated to waste his time over a no-show.
Instead of canceling, I could leave my car in the Bears’ lot for now and call a cab. Consider the fare a business write-off.
I went back inside the showroom to tell Bears Plumbing about my problem. They surprised me, big time. Said they’d drop me off at Morgan’s house, would call a garage, and if my car could be fixed in the next couple of hours, they would deliver it to the same address. Making a mental note to give Bears all my future business, I went outside and kicked the tires anyway. You never know.
* * *
When I was dropped off at the Jones house, Tom’s pickup wasn’t waiting in the driveway. Strange. I rechecked my schedule. Yeah, Tom and I were on for today. The traffic must have held him up.
I coded my way into the house. The lacquered foyer, a lapis lazuli jewel box, positively glowed in the midday sun, exactly the effect I’d been after. I wandered into the great room where the odor of drying paint lingered in the air. The whisper of blue on the walls was as subtle as a baby’s breath-not my first choice, but a good foil, actually, to the abstract art-especially the blue-inspired Rosenquist.
I left my bags on a kitchen counter and checked my watch. Tom was a half hour late. Very unlike him. Maybe being dropped off out here hadn’t been such a good
idea after all. Restless and getting a tad more nervous by the minute, I wandered through the downstairs rooms, making notes and verifying a few measurements. A bit bored, I wandered upstairs. If Tom didn’t show in the next half hour, I’d call him and find out what happened.
At the top of the stairs, the master suite, an empty shell, stood waiting for the satin bed Morgan had demanded.
Hmm. I let my imagination play with the finished room and all its sexy details. Would Rossi like a similar bedroom? We could add color, soften the lighting, buy some satin sheets. But somehow I could hear his gravelly voice telling me such frills didn’t matter. The important thing…
What was that? Had I heard something? Yes. A man’s voice. It couldn’t be Tom. He didn’t have a key to the house. I stood still, listening. Ah, I recognized Morgan’s cool tone and then another voice. A woman’s.
Uh-oh, there was no car parked in the drive. Having me suddenly burst out of the bedroom like a Jack-in-the-box would be an unpleasant surprise. Well, no avoiding it. The sooner they knew I was upstairs, the better.
I took a step toward the open bedroom doorway. Then I heard her, loud and clear, the only woman I knew with a Hungarian accent. Ilona.
What was she doing here? And then it hit me. Oh God, could Morgan be her new man? The one she had left Trevor for? Like a movie camera on fast forward, my mind raced with possibilities. Of course, that was why she was here. This was no casual house tour. She was checking out her soon-to-be home. Nothing else made sense.
Paralyzed with indecision, I stood in the center of the room, listening to her heels click on the marble staircase. For certain, they’d come in here. Right where Morgan planned to make love the instant he had his new satin bed. Right where I was standing. Egads. Without thinking, acting on pure instinct, I hurried into the walk-in closet and silently closed the shuttered door. A dumb move, actually. To a woman like Ilona, clothes closets were as vital as air. She’d want to see if it were big enough. For sure, it wouldn’t be.
The Monet Murders Page 20