The Monet Murders

Simon plucked two champagne flutes from a tray and handed one to me. “To my lovely lady,” he said. We clinked glasses.

The “lovely lady” was nice, but I wasn’t sure about the “my.” To hide my confusion, I strolled ahead of him. Perfume and aftershave swirled in the air along with the buzz of talk and laughter.

I glanced back over my shoulder. Simon had stopped to speak to someone he knew. I should take a lesson from him and chat it up. That was why I had come, after all, to network. Judging from their clothes and jewelry, this was a high-end crowd who might well be interested in the talents of a good interior designer. Trouble was, I’d have to interrupt a conversation to be heard.

I sipped my champagne and, squeezing through tight clusters of people, strolled into the next room. Into an explosion of color. A bit dazed by the visual impact bouncing off the walls, I wandered over to a large nude of a female torso. A Sizov. One of the Russian surrealists the catalog mentioned. It was surreal, all right, with magnificent breasts and swollen nipples, the paint swirled on in wild combinations.

A tall, lean whippet of a man with a high forehead and receding hairline stood engrossed in the oil. He wore a double-breasted suit and a jaunty bowtie strangely at odds with his serious demeanor. I stood next to him, trying to see what he found so fascinating. If he noticed me, he didn’t let on.

“What’s the focal point?” I finally asked of no one in particular.

He glanced over at me. “Does there have to be one?”

I shrugged. “Surrealism’s a ball game without rules.”

He took his attention from the oil to rivet it on me. His keen glance appraised my suit and lingered at the pearls I’d clasped around my throat. Assessing their value? He extended his hand. “Morgan Jones.”

“Deva Dunne.”

“I’m in love with this painting,” he said.

“You have the eye of an artist.”

“More likely that of a surgeon.”

“Oh?”

“Surgery’s my work. Art is my love. But to get back to the Sizov. You seem conflicted about her.”

I took another sip of champagne. “Green nipples take a little getting used to, but what tears you away from them is that third eye.” I laughed. “The one in the middle of her forehead.”

He looked back at the painting. “Why do you suppose it’s there?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Let’s assume there is.”

“All right.” If he wanted to play mind games, I was willing. “Let’s assume the breasts are bizarrely colored to capture our attention, but once we’re captured, it’s the eye that holds us. It pulls our glance upward, away from the physical to the mind. To the intelligence. Hence, we have two focal points. One stronger than the other. And the stronger is mind over matter.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Very good. You’re no idle gallery groupie.”

Maybe he didn’t mean to be condescending, but I stiffened. “My degree’s in art history. I guess that helps.”

His eyes, glossy as agates, flashed over me again, missing nothing this time, openly appraising what I wore, my makeup, my hair, my jewelry, and estimating the cost of my suit down to the penny.

“Interesting” was all he said, but he made no move to walk away.

I opened my purse and took out the sterling silver card case Simon had given me when I opened the shop. I handed Dr. Morgan Jones my business card.

His glance flicked over it. “So you’re an interior designer? That’s how you used your degree?”

I nodded. He didn’t need the story of my life.

He snapped the card with an index finger. “I’m buying the Sizov. She’ll be an exciting addition to my collection.” He tucked the card into a pocket. “Tell me,” he said, “if you had to work this lady into a house-” he gestured to the painting, “-how would you go about it?”

It was an impossible question, and he knew it.

“I haven’t seen the house,” I said.

“Exactly.” His lips parted a bit over even white teeth in what might pass for a smile.

I glanced at the gorgeous nude and took a mental leap. Why not? What did I have to lose? “I’d hang her where you would never expect to see her. Let her play with the observer. Shock him. Take him by surprise.”

He laughed, his smile increasing for a fraction of an instant before it disappeared. Somehow I got the impression laughing and smiling were rare indulgences for him. “I’m going to find a salesman before someone else decides he can’t live without a woman with green nipples. Stay,” he said in a voice accustomed to giving orders and having them obeyed. “I’ll be back.”

Stay, like a puppy in obedience training. A waiter passed by with a tray of bacon- wrapped scallops. I took two and munched them, glancing around for Simon. I finally spotted him at the far end of the room, deep in conversation with a handsome, tanned couple. For someone who’d only been in town for six months, he’d already made a lot of connections. Well-heeled ones, no doubt. No sign of Ilona and Trevor. They probably didn’t care for surrealism.

Dr. Jones elbowed his way through the crowd, a young clerk with a choirboy face, in a black silk T-shirt and slacks, following in his wake.

“Andre, this is Ms. Dunne,” Dr. Jones told him.

Andre greeted me warmly enough, but he wasted no time in swiveling his attention back to Dr. Jones. I didn’t blame him. How many people here tonight would buy in the five figures?

“Send the painting to my new address, Andre, and I’d like photographs of all my gallery purchases. Include sizes as well.”

“Certainly, Dr. Jones. Our pleasure.”

“Ms. Dunne will need that information when she does the interiors of the house.”

* * *

“He didn’t even ask me,” I said to Simon when we left the gallery. “He told me to meet him at his house tomorrow morning. If he likes my design suggestions, I’m in. What do you think of that?”

“I think you need the business.”

I sighed. “True. My stupid pride keeps getting in my way.”

“The guy’s arrogant, no doubt about it. He’s forgetful, too, so get some money upfront.”

“You know something I don’t know?” Though if he did, Simon would suddenly become Mr. Legal and clam up.

“No, not really. It’s just that he forgot the damn briefcase. My client couldn’t make it tonight, after all. He called and asked me to give the case to Morgan Jones. He’ll be seeing him tomorrow. I told Jones it was at the front desk, but he walked off without it.”

“Not surprising. He was all excited. He had a nude on his mind.”

“What! That cold fish?”

Simon sounded so disbelieving, I laughed. “It’s a long story.”

“All I know is I’m tired of babysitting this briefcase. You want to do me a favor?”

“If I can.”

“Bring it with you tomorrow and give it to Dr. Jones?”

“Happy to.”

“Thanks, I’ll call my client first thing in the morning and tell him Jones will have it.”

The winter night had turned chilly. I was grateful for Simon’s sheltering arm around me as we strolled along Third Street toward his car. At the corner I spotted a beat-up Mustang parked at the curb, a dark figure behind the wheel. Rossi. What on earth was he doing here? I resisted the urge to go up and talk to him, hop in the front seat, ask him how the case was coming…ask him…

No, not if he missed me. Why the surveillance? Over a hundred people had attended the exhibit. Surely, he couldn’t remember all those faces. Or was he hoping to see one particular person? Someone of interest in the