The Monet Murders

Alexander case? A suspect?

Me?

For an instant, the possibility chilled my blood, but Rossi wouldn’t think of me that way. I was sure he wouldn’t. Furthermore, I had passed the polygraph with flying colors. I told myself to relax, and the fear slowly faded.

Besides, I had something more immediate to consider. Simon. After all the finger food and champagne, I begged off making another stop. As we approached Surfside, I began to tense. What now? A good-night kiss like a couple of teenagers on prom night? A handshake? Or the whole Monty? His bed or mine? As he pulled into the carport and doused the headlights, to my disgust a fit of virginal panic seized me.

I had my palm on the door handle when he said, “Wait for a minute, Deva. It’s still early.”

“It’s been a long day.”

“They’re all the same length. Twenty-four hours apiece.”

In the dim glow from the lights lining the parking lot, I could see the humor flitting across his features. He knows. I hoped he wasn’t aware of the flush heating my cheeks.

When he rested a staying hand on my left arm, I forced myself not to flinch. “I wanted to tell you how beautiful you looked tonight. How proud I was to have you with me.”

“Thank you, I-”

His hold on my arm tightened. “There’s more.”

The fingers of my right hand clutched the door handle.

“Your business will succeed beyond your wildest dreams. You have the skill to make that happen. And you will. What I’m truly sorry about is getting you involved with the Alexanders, with that whole investigation thing.”

“Don’t blame yourself, Simon. Who would have guessed? Besides, I have confidence the case will be solved soon.”

“I agree.” His hand slid up my arm and wrapped around my shoulder. “Why don’t you take your hand off the door handle?”

I stared at him without moving a muscle.

“Go ahead, take it off.”

Wary, reluctant, I let my hand drop into my lap.

“Now put your arms around my neck.”

Quickly, before I had a chance to refuse, he leaned toward me and gathered me in his arms. He lowered his mouth to mine, the tip of his tongue darting out to touch my lips, urging me to open to him. To my surprise, I succumbed to his urgency and opened my mouth, sucking him in, clinging to him, my own sudden need a shocking recognition of how lonely I had been.

But was this what I really wanted? Or was Simon a Band-Aid on my bleeding heart? I squirmed in his embrace, and his arms loosened around me.

“That was amazing, Simon. Thank you, but-”

He reached out and put a finger over my mouth. “No, don’t say any more. If it was good, that’s enough for now.” His smile returned. “There’s more where that came from, but not tonight.”

He opened the driver’s side door and stepped out. Weak-kneed, I slid out the passenger side, not sure I was disappointed or relieved as he walked me to my door, handed me the briefcase, and with a quick kiss on my forehead said, “Good night. See you on Christmas Day. I’ll bring the wine.”

I keyed my way in, dumped the briefcase on a chair and headed for the shower. A cold one.

Chapter Eight

All night I had long, vivid dreams of Simon, but toward dawn, Rossi entered the picture and drove him away. Interesting and annoying. What was Rossi doing in my psyche? Even more important, what was he doing in the Alexander case? No clue either way.

At ten o’clock I set the arrow on the shop window sign to two, locked up and drove to Dr. Jones’s house in Bonita Bay, an upscale gated community a few miles north of Naples.

The Bonita Bay gate guard admitted me and gave me directions to the Jones property. The day couldn’t have been more beautiful, full of sun, full of promise as I followed a winding road through a lush, jungle-meets-Palm Beach landscape. Every acre or so, a sprawling house, usually faux Tuscan in design, studded a well-groomed lawn. When I spied a boxlike stark white structure in striking contrast to its neighbors, I pulled onto the curved stone driveway.

Figures. Anyone who liked surreal green nipples would like sleek deconstructionist architecture. Judging from its exterior, the house would be fascinating to work with and, not to be crass about it, a big empty place that needed everything was a designer’s dream come true. Well, one of them, anyway.

Pulse pounding, I climbed out of the Audi and rang the front entrance bell. Waited, rang a second time, waited, rang a third. No answer. My pulse rate dropped back to normal, and I returned to the car and sat behind the wheel. Our appointment was for ten thirty. I’d give him until eleven. If he didn’t show by then, I’d leave. Whether I needed the job or not. A girl has her pride.

To my relief, Dr. Jones didn’t put me to the test. Shortly before eleven, he roared up in a marine blue Porsche Boxster. The car door swung open, and he jumped out frowning. I yanked the key out of the ignition, picked up my handbag, clipboard and the Hermes briefcase, and exited the Audi.

Dr. Jones nodded and flicked his glance over me, running it from my hair down to my Jimmy Choos-one of the best investments I’d ever made. In neutral leather, they went with everything. Everything today being a gold tank top and pencil skirt over which I’d tossed a new purchase, a short fitted jacket, hand-quilted in squares of coffee, orange, green and gold. It even sported chunky wooden buttons that looked a lot like Oreo cookies. I hoped it would signal to Dr. Jones that while I do classic black I do flashy funk too. After all, he had bought that bizarre painting, who knew where his tastes might lie?

As Dr. Morgan’s glance crawled over me, I felt nothing sexual in his stare. Like last night, he gave me the impression he was merely appraising the dollar value of my attire. Creepy. And I was about to enter an empty house with him? I gave a mental shrug. Simon knew I’d be meeting Dr. Morgan this morning so that was a safety valve of sorts. Besides, the man was a well-respected physician. Creepy didn’t mean dangerous, did it?

I held up the briefcase. “Your friend’s?”

“Yes, thank you.” He took it from me, and with his free hand jabbed a finger at the house. “Shall we? I only set aside an hour for this.”

No apology for being a half hour late? Reining in my irritation, I followed him to the front door. Anger didn’t pay well. Be charming, I muttered to myself, even if it kills you.

He coded off the electronic security locks and held open one of the double doors. His frown disappeared, and a smile flitted across his face. Unexpected as a flash of sun at midnight, it startled me. But I was in for another shock. I stepped inside, walked through the foyer into the great room and gasped.

“The house is full of art!” I said, whirling around to face him.

“I wanted to surprise you,” he said.

He had, all right. In the bare white interior, a row of stunning oil paintings was propped against the walls. I stood in the center of the empty, echoing space and stared at them in amazement. Eight in all, they ranged from a smallish Jim Dine, a mere two feet by four, to a monumental Rosenquist. At nine by twelve, through sheer size alone it ruled the room.

Dr. Jones walked up to the massive abstract, studying it as though it were a beautiful woman-with lust glowing in his eyes. Then he turned to me. “I had to have the Rosenquist. I couldn’t resist. The color is exactly right for the house.”

Shades of blue, pierced with thunderbolts of silver and black, shot across the canvas.

“Which color is right?” I asked.

“The blue. It’s my favorite color in the world.”

Blue for a post-modernist structure? This was a house on the cutting edge, and it called for cutting edge colors