The Monet Murders

to play up the form. “Blue as an accent, perhaps, but-”

“Blue,” he said, his eyes piercing mine with the sharpness of a scalpel, “is the only possible color. Period. End of story. Design around that premise, Ms. Dunne, or don’t design at all.”

Of course he liked blue. Shame all over me. I had forgotten the principles of my design bible-color dynamics. Blue was the coldest shade in the spectrum. No wonder he adored it.

“Blue it is,” I said.

“Yes, blue it will be. I have a copy of the architect’s plans for you. And these photographs from the gallery.” Dr. Jones pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out. “I thought photographs of the art would help you select the palette for the rooms.”

My defection apparently forgiven, he favored me with a smile as I flipped through the snapshots.

I didn’t smile back. “No, I’m afraid they’re of no help. They distort the colors in the paintings.”

His gemlike eyes widened at being contradicted, but I had to hold my own. Once I started playing obedient nurse to his commanding doctor, I might as well flush my credibility down the toilet. He’d won the blue round. Now I had to win one. Either that or walk off the project, a luxury common sense told me Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford.

“I need to match swatches to the paintings themselves. That’s the only method that results in perfection, Dr. Jones.”

“Call me Morgan,” he said, “and, if I may, I’ll call you Deva.” He held up a warning finger. “Remember, keep blue in mind.”

“How could I forget…Morgan?”

He waved a dismissive hand, as if my words were gnats dive-bombing his nose. “I want the blue interpreted with sophistication. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I believe I do. Subliminal. There, but not there.”

“Good girl.” He actually patted my arm. “Now come, I’ll show you the rest of the house. Let’s start with the master suite.”

When we reached a ballroom-sized bedroom, he said, “I want this room luxurious. When the lights go on in the evening, everything must be bathed in a luminous glow.” He pinned me with his eyes. “Tenderness, softness, is what I’m after.”

I nodded. “Now that I have a better idea of-”

He cut me off. “Put in several levels of lighting. Sconces, chandeliers and muted lamp light on the bedside tables. The wall color is to be the most delicate blue-gray you can find, and make it shimmer. As I said, softly.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This from the Ice Man? Maybe I had him pegged all wrong. Maybe he hid his passion from view, but like a beating heart, it pulsed steadily out of sight. For what Dr. Jones wanted was a bedroom oozing sex. The kind of fantasy room that would cause a woman to strip off her clothes, stretch out on a satin sheet, spread her hair like a curtain over the pillows and wait…

I took notes as we toured, my handwriting deteriorating into pictographs as Morgan spewed out demands faster and faster. He trashed a few of my ideas but retained most. Then, when it came to the placement of the Sizov nude, I won another round.

“It belongs in the kitchen,” I said.

He recoiled like I had hit him. “No, absolutely not. It’ll be wasted in there.”

“It’ll be unexpected in there.” I tempted him. “It’ll be intelligent in there.”

He hesitated. “A nude in the kitchen?”

“Positively. She’s perfect for the kitchen. Apple cheeks, eyes like purple grapes, nipples like unripe cherries. She’s good enough to eat.”

I let him gnaw on that one, and he did. A smile creased his face. No word of a lie, the third smile in the past hour.

“Fine,” he said, shooting an overly starched cuff, checking his Rolex. “I have five minutes left. I want to see color samples and sketches as soon as possible.”

“I’ll get on it right away, but with the holidays so close, should we plan to meet after the New Year? January second?”

He nodded. “That’ll do.” Reaching into a kitchen drawer, he removed a silver ring with two attached keys and gave it to me. “The small one is for the security system.”

“Thank you. Before I leave, I think I’ll take another look around.”

“Take all the time you need.” He glanced at his watch again. “I was expecting someone else, but he’s late, and I’ve got to leave. Be sure to turn on the alarm when you’re finished.”

“Of course.”

As we left the kitchen, the chimes sounded. His habitual frown in place, Morgan strode to the foyer and yanked open the front door.

“Do you have my briefcase?” a man asked.

“Yes.”

“Christ, I’ve been worried sick about it.”

“Then you should have shown up last night.”

“I had good reason not to. Whose Audi is that in the driveway?”

Curious to see the caller, I strolled toward the foyer. The visitor was a middle-aged man with the tanned, fit look of a dedicated sportsman.

“George Farragut, this is Deva Dunne, my interior designer,” Morgan said. “George is my financial advisor, Deva. He’s known for keeping creative books.”

“I’ll ignore that crack, Morgan.” George peered at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” he asked as I held out my hand. “Ah, now I remember. In the Naples paper. You’re the woman who discovered the art theft at the Alexanders.”

Not a word about Maria. I lowered my hand. “That’s correct. I discovered the theft. I didn’t perpetrate it.”

“I didn’t mean to imply you had,” George said, his expression implying plenty.

“You know the Alexanders?” I asked, annoyed enough to question him.

“I’m Trevor’s financial advisor.”

“Then we have something in common. We both work for him.” Borrowing one of Rossi’s ruses, I sprung a surprise question. “The Monets are marvelous, aren’t they? Which one is your favorite?”

“Sunset at Royan.” He stopped short as if he’d said the wrong thing.

“The one that’s missing.” My turn to insinuate. You could say I do bitchy really well.

Anyway, the smug expression fled George’s face. “Yes, so I understand.”

“I’ve never seen the Alexanders’ Monets,” Morgan said with a shrug. “No matter. My preference is late twentieth century. Here’s your precious briefcase, George.” Morgan picked up the Hermes case from the foyer floor and handed it to him.

George clasped it to his chest. “I got in eighteen holes at Pebble Beach, but other than that, the trip to L.A. was damn near a bust without this. The office faxed most of what I needed, but still…”

“You shouldn’t have been so forgetful,” Morgan told him. “Are you slipping, George?”

This from the man who’d forgotten the same case last night.

Without waiting for an answer, Morgan clasped George’s shoulder and drew him toward the front door. “I’m seeing patients this afternoon, and I know you have to get back to work. So let’s leave Deva alone to do her thing. Don’t forget to turn on the alarm,” Morgan said, glancing back and tossing me a wink. I couldn’t believe it. A wink from the Ice Man? Would wonders never cease?

And would the list of people who had access to the Alexander mansion keep growing? Rossi had his work cut out for him. Socially prominent, the Alexanders entertained constantly. Scores of people, most of them wealthy and well connected, had been guests in their home and had seen the Monets. But being a guest in the company of others was one thing; having access when the house was empty was another. Except for family and close friends, that would be business people like George and me, and service personnel, the laundress and maids who came in several times a week, floor polishers, window cleaners, and the party temps who helped Maria and Jesus serve invited guests.

Even the gardeners had limited access. On several occasions I saw Maria open the kitchen door and hand