alone, and Trevor Alexander was an extremely wealthy man.
Interesting that he couldn’t find a woman without a yenta, but, no, I dismissed the idea as soon as it popped up. Though a portly fifty, what Trevor lacked in physical stature-and hair-he more than made up for in fiscal assets. Women would fight to nail him. He didn’t need a high-priced marriage broker to find a mate. But he obviously hadn’t wanted a garden variety female; he’d wanted a twenty-something aristocratic hothouse plant.
“Anyway, that is past what I speak of,” Ilona said. “Now I must look to future, or-”
“Sounds ominous, darling,” a male voice boomed from the doorway.
“Oh, Trevor. Dearest, you’re here at last. We wait for you.”
Without moving from her cushioned comfort or revealing the slightest guilt at what she’d just admitted, Ilona held up her arms and raised her face for a kiss. When Trevor bent over the couch to embrace her, she clung to him as if she never wanted to let go. An Academy Award performance. Trevor loved it, and the kiss lingered on. And on. I was about to excuse myself when he finally broke loose and stood upright. He removed a folded handkerchief from a pocket of his linen slacks and wiped the trace of Ilona’s pink lipstick from his mouth.
When he lowered the handkerchief from his lips, Ilona gasped. “You have blood. Is something wrong with mouth? With teeth?”
“Nothing I can’t handle. I think you bit me, darling.”
“Yes? See what power you have over me. I forget myself.”
He smiled, probably in anticipation, an expression Ilona must have understood all too well, for she immediately changed the subject.
“How did lie test go, darling?”
His smile disappeared. “As well as can be expected. At least we’ve got that behind us.”
Ilona turned to me. “Can you believe, Deva? In Europe we are when the Monet is cut. Yet still we must take this detector test. Ridiculous!”
Trevor patted his mouth once more before putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I take it you ladies haven’t addressed the design problem yet.”
“Not yet, darling. I told you, we wait for you.” Ilona unfolded her lovely curves from the sofa and crooked a finger at me. “Come, Deva. We look. You tell us what you think.”
More puzzled than ever, I followed the two of them to the dining room. I hadn’t been in there since the day I found the Monet missing, and my heart pounded as I walked in. Though the room looked its best at night under the glow of the Baccarat chandelier, the wall sconces, and the flicker of candles, I was grateful for the afternoon sunlight. In it, the remaining oil of the beach at Royan took my breath away once more.
At my side, Trevor said, “The insurance company returned the painting to us just yesterday. They had insisted on having an appraiser examine it. It’s intact, thank God.”
I forced my attention from the painting and glanced over at him. “I love looking at it, Trevor, but frankly I’m puzzled. Why am I here today?”
“To settle a dispute between my beautiful wife and me. We’re at odds about what to do in here.”
I laughed. “A family spat? How can I possibly help with that?” Truth be told, though, husbands and wives often had different design ideas. When they did, my job involved negotiating a solution that would satisfy both. This had to be one of those times.
Trevor pointed to the empty gilt frame on the opposite wall. Shorn threads of canvas still clung to the wood.
“I think we should remove the empty frame and leave that wall bare for now. Some bastard took the larger painting, but the remaining one’s strong enough to dominate the room on its own.”
“Of course, it is,” I said.
“I disagree with dear husband.” Ilona softened the sting in her words by slipping her arm through his. “Is dramatic to leave frame in place. Why try to hide truth? Everyone knows.”
“Our house is perfection, darling.” Trevor’s glance ran over her saying without words,
A loaded question. I was King Solomon with a naked baby lying in front of me. Cut it in half or leave it intact? Not wanting to give him a blunt yes or no, I asked, “Have you been to the Isabella Gardner Museum in Boston?”
His lips thinned in displeasure. “How is that relevant?”
“A multimillion-dollar theft occurred there a few years ago.” I pointed to the plundered frame. “Same scenario. Pictures were cut from their frames. They’ve never been recovered.”
Trevor’s already thin lips tightened to a slit.
I plunged on. “The Gardner left the empty frames on the walls with notes explaining what had been stolen. I wouldn’t tack up a note, but I would leave the frame in place. It’s gorgeous on its own, and besides, it’s dramatic. Think of the dinner party conversation it will generate.”
His slitted lips settled into a frown. Obviously, he disliked my suggestion.
“You see. I say same. For drama alone is worth keeping.” Ilona winked at me over Trevor’s shoulder.
“Very well. I can’t fight you both,” Trevor said, his frown disappearing as he drew Ilona to his side.
A discreet cough sounded from the open doorway. We turned to see a solemn-faced Jesus standing there.
“The bartender is here, sir, awaiting instructions for Christmas Eve.”
“Ah, good. Come along, darling,” Trevor said to Ilona. “I want to discuss the setups with him. I’m thinking of putting the bar on the terrace this time. I hope you’ll agree to that, at least.”
My opinion rendered-for two hundred dollars in design time-I followed them out to the living room where Jesus waited with the bartender.
“Oh my,” I said when I saw him. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
His startled expression told me he was as surprised as I was. “Hello, there, Mrs. Dunne,” he said, giving me one of his signature bows.
It was Paulo St. James.
Chapter Seven
“You know each other?” Trevor asked, glancing back and forth at us.
I nodded. “We’ve met. Paulo’s an artist. He’s painting a young woman who works in my shop.”
“Is that so?” Trevor said. “What makes you think you’re an artist? You have something unique to say?”
I looked over at Paulo. Though the silver studs rode his ears, he had tied his dreadlocks together at his nape with a black cord, and a starched white shirt concealed the snake tattoo. A spark flared in his eyes.
“Time will tell.” Paulo held up his large, strong hands. “And these.”
“Humph,” Trevor replied. “This house is full of art. You’ve worked here before. You must have noticed?”
“Certainly, sir.”
“The Monets, of course, are the stars of the collection. You’ve seen them?”
“Yes. They’re glorious.”
“Well, one still is anyway. You’d like to paint like that?”
At Trevor’s mocking tone, caution crept into Paulo’s expression. I stole a glance at Ilona. Intent on watching Paulo, she didn’t notice.
“Well,” Trevor goaded, “no answer for me?”
“I have no wish to imitate the great Monet,” Paulo replied. “Portraits are my passion. I want to paint people and reveal what is hidden within…the secrets they keep from the world.”
“Very ambitious. Very.” His words courteous, his voice patronizing, Trevor cocked a finger at Paulo beckoning him toward the terrace. “Well, as to the bar…”
The two men strolled outside and, after giving Ilona “Chef Cheep’s” phone number, I left for the shop.
All the way back to Fern Alley, I mulled over the surprise meeting with Paulo. A multimillion-dollar painting was missing, a woman dead, and, like me, Paulo had been in the house many times. He knew its layout, its treasures,
