The Monet Murders

“I’m drawing. Have a look.”

With a sigh of irritation, I peered over his shoulder and gasped in amazement. I couldn’t believe my eyes. His drawing was masterful. He had captured her. Lee Skimp. Her very essence, not just her beauty, lived on that page.

I glanced from the clipboard into the shop window where Lee sat near the entrance at a desk-an antique bureau plat actually-looking stunning in her new black clothes, her hair a shimmering curtain to her shoulders.

“It’s beautiful,” I told him, looking back at the clipboard.

“Yes, she is,” he said, glancing from the page to the window…his glance lingering there…then back to the page.

“Listen,” I said, hands on hips, “I can understand your fascination, but for the second time I have to tell you I’m running a business here. And it’s not a dating service.”

“What?” He glared up at me as if I were the encroacher. “I’m not trying to make out. I’m an artist. I specialize in portraits.”

“Right.”

“Yeah, right.” He scrambled to his feet. “This drawing is a study for an oil painting.”

“How do you know she wants you to paint her?”

His annoyance fled, replaced by something else. Uncertainty? “I don’t,” he said.

I peered at his sketch again. The lad had a talent that leaped off the page. Lee looked alive in his rendering, her gentleness, her serenity, her strength uncannily revealed in a few bold lines.

I waved at Lee inside the shop. She returned my greeting with an uncertain little waggle of her fingers.

“Have you two met?” I asked Dreadlocks.

He shook his head.

“Would you like to?”

That smile again. “Is the pope a Catholic?”

“Okay, wise guy, come on.” I had my hand on the door knob before I thought to ask, “What’s your name?”

“Paulo St. James. It’s Jamaican.”

“I’m Deva Dunne. It’s Irish.”

Clipboard in hand, he followed me into the shop. When the Yarmouthport sleigh bells stopped their jangling, I said, “Mr. Paulo St. James, this is Miss Lee Skimp.”

I think they both heard me, but I couldn’t be sure. I wonder if the moment you fall in love you’re aware of anything except the beat of your heart banging against your ribs?

Lee recovered first and, still seated behind the desk, she held out her hand. Paulo wiped a palm on his jeans before reaching across the desk to her. When they touched, I half expected to see a lightning bolt shoot across the shop, but no, he took her fingers gently, bowed and placed a kiss on the back of her hand.

So French. Or so Jamaican. Whichever. I was impressed.

And Lee? Well, Lee damn near fainted.

“I declare,” she said. “I’ve never had my hand kissed before.”

“You should have,” Paulo said. What he left unsaid would fill a volume.

I cleared my throat. Startled that I was still there, they both looked at me, wide eyed.

“Mr. St. James wants to paint your portrait, Lee,” I said. “Are you willing?”

She looked at me as if I were crazed for asking. “That’s a mighty fine compliment.”

“Then it’s yes?” Paulo asked.

She nodded, her heart in her eyes.

“I’ve made a preliminary sketch,” he said, holding up his work for her to see. “To establish the composition. I’ll refine it tonight and be back tomorrow with an easel and canvas.”

“Oh, it’s wonderful,” she said, staring at the sketch as if she couldn’t believe what she was seeing. “But I’m not here except for Wednesdays and Fridays.”

His face fell. “Wednesday’s good. I won’t bother you. I’ll be outside.” He pointed to the alley then swiveled his attention to me, a stricken expression on his face. “As long as Mrs. Dunne doesn’t object.”

“No, that’s fine.” I said. “Actually, an artist with an easel might bring people down the alley. And that might be very good for business.”

He nodded, his smile wide enough to include both Lee and me. “I’ll paint you through the window, Lee, like today. Seen through its gleam, you’ll be mysterious, unattainable. Like in…what’s that passage?…’through a glass darkly.’”

“St. Paul. From the Corinthians,” Lee said, her voice spiking with pleased surprise. “You read the Bible, too?”

I wondered if Paulo could pass a polygraph on that one.

“No. Not really,” he said, regret tingeing his tone. “But I think I’ll begin. Starting now.”

“I love St. Paul. He’s my favorite of all the New Testament writers.”

“Then I’ll definitely begin with him.” Obviously reluctant to leave, Paulo stood clutching his clipboard, his eyes devouring Lee.

I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps we could hold Bible class at another time.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Dunne.” With a visible effort, he tore his gaze from Lee. “I’ll be back on Wednesday. I promise I won’t interrupt your business.”

With a courtly little bow for each of us, he left, setting the sleigh bells jangling. This time, looking at a radiant, pink-cheeked Lee, I thought they sounded positively jolly.

“Well,” I said. “What do you think of all that?”

“Miz Dunne…Deva…I’m so frazzled, I can’t think hardly at all.”

I laughed or I would have cried remembering the impact of Jack Dunne’s presence the first time we met. “Can you come back down to earth long enough to tell me if there were any calls?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, ma’am. Two. One from a Mr. Simon-” she glanced at a note pad, “-Yaeger. He wants to talk to you about Christmas dinner. He said he’ll call back this afternoon. And Mrs. Ilona Alexander called. She wants you to drop by her house tomorrow. She needs your decorating advice for their Christmas Eve party.”

A party? And poor Maria’s remains hardly scooped up from the kitchen floor? Unbelievable.

Chapter Six

“Why me?” Ilona Alexander asked when I arrived at the Gordon Drive house the next afternoon. “This morning I must take lie test. Can you believe? Me?” She pointed a French-manicured fingernail at her spectacular breasts. “They say I pass. Of course I pass. Instead why they not tell me who stole my painting? Or why my cook is killed? Why? Why my cook?” She pronounced her w’s like v’s, the heavy Hungarian accent adding to the allure of her blonde supermodel looks.

Simon had been right. Everything about her shrieked trophy-the long tanned legs, the highlighted hair tumbling past her shoulders, the aura of Opium perfume floating around her. And, of course, the breasts. I’ll bet they’re fake, I’d sniffed the first time I met her. She had stepped out of her home gym in workout gear, her spandex top challenged to the max. And did I mention her face? Perfection. She made the average female-moi-acutely aware of all my flaws: my frizzy hair, my every freckle, my mere size-B cups, my generous hips.

Today, in a leopard-print sheath and spike-heeled gold slides, she paced her living room’s marble floor, asking, “Why?” Vhy?

“It is tragic,” I said, mystified as to the reason I had been summoned there.

“Yes, tragic. To think I cannot find cook. No one will come. Not after this…this katasztrofa! They’re too afraid.”

“Perhaps a bonus.”

“I try that. No woman will touch it. And I want female cook. My mother had woman for cook. My grandmama had woman for cook. I am Szent-Gyorgyi. Woman cooks are family tradition.” She heaved a sigh. “Also Trevor must