The Monet Murders

bottles of cold water to the men sweating in the sun. Men like Lee’s father. Alone that fatal day, had she opened the door to the wrong person? To someone she recognized? Surely not to Paulo, but to Merle Skimp, perhaps? Or to George Farragut? Or to someone I had never met and would never know?

That was the hell of it, not knowing. But someone did. The killer, who had walked in bold as brass and walked out-to borrow Simon’s phrase-as rich as sin.

Chapter Nine

On the drive back to Naples, my mind swirled with Morgan’s demands. For the sake of both my business and my sanity, I needed to concentrate on his project and stop obsessing about the crimes-to trust in Rossi and the Naples P.D.

To help me get a grip, and to lighten my mood, I decided to use a little psychology on myself and tally all the pluses in my life.

Okay. First and foremost, I passed the one year anniversary of Jack’s death without a total meltdown.

After years of dragging my heels, I finally summoned the guts to start my own business.

The Jones project promises to be a shot of fiscal adrenaline.

Last night, a handsome man kissed me breathless.

I passed a slowpoke driver and switched into the high-speed lane. To even the playing field, I’d count the negatives, too.

Though the hurt ebbs away a little each day, each week, each month, the bitter truth is I’ve lost Jack forever.

Morgan might not like my ideas and refuse to hire me.

A kiss is not a life.

I miss seeing Rossi.

Whoa! Where had that come from? A red light flared in front of my eyes. I jammed on the brakes. God, I had nearly sped through the stop. What was the matter with me?

A lot.

I was in emotional recovery.

Lonely.

Broke-almost.

I had discovered the theft of a twenty-million-dollar painting and found a woman with a bullet in her head.

Things couldn’t be much worse. Then, like some kind of urban miracle, the stop light turned green. An omen. Go. I stomped on the gas pedal and my self-pity at the same time.

I was still young and healthy and worked in one of the loveliest towns in America. The sun shone, the palm trees swayed, the hibiscus bloomed. And all this in December.

What did freckles and frizzy hair matter? My B cups were filled out pretty well, and more than one man had mentioned my sensational legs.

I felt better already. The psychologists were right, counting your blessings was a good thing.

Tonight after work, I’d go grocery shopping for Christmas dinner. The Irish Pub would be closed on the holiday, so I’d see if Lee might be free-Paulo, too. For I couldn’t believe, didn’t want to believe, he was anything but a young man in love.

We’d have roast prime rib, Yorkshire pudding-Jack had loved it-baked stuffed tomatoes, steamed asparagus and two kinds of pie, pecan and pumpkin. I’d lace the whipped cream topping with a little brandy. Cold shrimp for the first course. Some simple cheese snacks with wine before dinner. Not gourmet but not bad.

* * *

Christmas morning the dining table gleamed with Nana’s Coalport china and Jack’s mother’s old Irish silver. Red decorations would war with my peach-colored walls, so, instead, I sent a wired gold ribbon cascading along the center of the table and topped the ribbon with a row of brass angels holding thick ivory candles. As if it were confetti, I sprinkled tiny gold snowflakes over the entire tabletop. When we sat down for dinner, the candlelight would make everything glittery and warm and festive.

I found myself humming. It had been over a year since anyone had come for dinner. What a good feeling to have a semblance of normalcy seep back into my life.

I lit the oven, and soon the roast filled the air with a heavenly aroma. Preparations complete, I stripped off my shorts and Jack’s old BU T-shirt. Glamming it up a bit, I shrugged into a snug green crop top and matching wide-leg slacks. The fuzzy angora top played off the silky smooth pants. And the narrow swath of bare midriff added a little sauce to the mix. I dabbed powder on my nose, glossed my mouth with Revlon Peach and, for fun, put on dangly Christmas tree earrings. Swaying on either side of my face, they looked a little dumb, but oh well, “’Tis the season,” my image in the bathroom mirror told me. It also said, “Be happy today.”

“Good advice. I’ll take it,” I said out loud.

Promptly at two, the door bell chimed.

Da da da DA.

The opening notes of Beethoven’s Fifth, Jack’s favorite. Simon and Paulo had arrived together and stood outside on the stone walkway. From their smiles, they were clearly more than ready for a party.

“Come in! Welcome. Merry Christmas.”

“Merry Christmas, Deva.”

Simon held up two wine bags. “I covered both bases. Red and white.” He gave me a discreet peck on the cheek, so discreet I wondered for a second if I had fantasized our encounter in the carport.

While I arranged brie and crackers on a plate, Simon put the red wine on the kitchen counter-we’d have that with dinner-and uncorked the Pinot Grigio.

Paulo asked for a Coke. When we carried our drinks into the living room, I sat where I could watch the clock. In less than an hour, the roast should be done to perfection. Above all, I didn’t want to ruin it.

Paulo sipped his soda and glanced around my living room, his gaze lingering on the heirloom pieces I’d inherited from Jack’s family, the tall case clock, the sideboard, the Tabriz rug in faded shades of apricot, taupe and muted green. He caught me watching him and grinned sheepishly.

“You have a good eye,” I told him.

“You have nice stuff, Mrs. Dunne.”

“Deva.”

He nodded and sneaked a peek at his watch. I knew what he was thinking. Where was she? On the days Lee worked at the shop, she’d never been late. So why late today?

At three, I went out to the kitchen to rescue the roast. Simon followed me with our empty glasses and poured more wine while I transferred the meat to a platter to rest before carving. To keep it warm, I covered it with a sheet of aluminum foil. I was about to skim the pan drippings and start the Yorkshire pudding when the kitchen phone rang. Busy at the stove, I asked, “Would you get that, Simon?”

He answered. A second later, he asked, “What? Where are you? Are you at home?” At the edge in his voice, I looked up, alarmed. “Where are you?” he repeated, listening for a long moment before slowly lowering the receiver onto the cradle. “She screamed, then the phone went dead.”

“Who?” I asked, knowing.

“That was Lee, wasn’t it?” Paulo suddenly appeared in the kitchen, an empty Coke can crushed in his hand.

“Yes,” Simon said. “She was crying. I think someone snatched the phone away from her. She said, ‘Don’t do that.’ Next thing the receiver slammed down.”

I turned off the stove. We wouldn’t be eating dinner anytime soon. “Where is she?”