The Monet Murders

being friends to lovers…or enemies.

Trapped by Tiffany’s, with no way out, I reached inside and lifted out the inner box. In one swift move, I pulled off its lush velvet cover. And gasped.

“A pendant! It’s beautiful!”

“It’s a Paloma Picasso,” he said.

Fashioned of gold, spare yet intricate, retro yet new, the design was absolutely gorgeous. I loved it.

Relief like an exotic drug swept through my veins. I leaped up and, box in hand, threw my arms around Simon and kissed him. He swept me into a body hug and repeated his stellar performance of the evening in the carport. No question, the man had talented lips.

When we came up for air, he asked, “Does this mean I’m invited?”

I stared at him, blank faced. Though I knew, I asked anyway. “Invited to what?”

“To stay the night.”

I could have kicked myself. Like a teenaged tease, I’d sent the wrong vibes. Now what?

Wriggling free of Simon’s embrace, I stood, tugging his hand until he stood, too.

“Toward the bedroom?” he asked, one eyebrow arched hopefully.

“Toward the door,” I said, trying out my playful turn-down voice. “With an apology. The pendant was such a thrill I got carried away.”

“But obviously not to the moon.” He let me lead him toward the door, didn’t complain, didn’t try to change my mind. His lack of protest lessened my guilt. Wasn’t he supposed to sweep me off my feet? Carry me up the steps of Tara? Or at least get pissed? Nada. Not even looking annoyed, he touched a finger to his forehead in mock salute and left with, “Thanks for everything, Deva. Be in touch soon.”

Humph. I locked the front door and flicked off the living room lights. At least Christmas with all its angst was over.

And if my love life was over, too, whose fault was that?

Chapter Eleven

The next morning I tossed together a sandwich of leftover roast beef on leftover rye, grabbed a can of Diet Coke from the fridge and got to the shop an hour early. The day after Christmas traditionally brought out the bargain shoppers, and I wanted to be ready for them.

I planned to collect all the holiday items: the silk centerpieces, the needlepoint pillows with the clever mottos-”He knows where you’ve been sleeping”-the mercury glass Santas, the red and green dessert plates- everything seasonal-and arrange them on the two skirted tables nearest the entrance with a big white 50% off sign.

At eight-thirty I was about halfway through the rearranging when the front door knob rattled. I looked up to see a big-hipped middle-aged woman banging on the window with the palm of her hand. The shop lights were on, but the closed sign leaned against the glass. Not ready to open up, I waved, pointed at my watch, and kept on with what I was doing. Another bang on the glass. Louder this time. Then she rattled the door handle several more times.

Can’t the woman read?

A bargain hunter with a vengeance, she pressed her face to the window, cupped the sides of her cheeks with her hands and peered in. When she saw me look her way, she raised an arm and waggled her fingers, beckoning me toward her.

I strode over to the window, miming, “We open at nine.”

Red-faced, she shouted, “Do you know who I am?”

Annoyed, I turned away without answering. I was a shopkeeper, not a slave.

In a voice shrill enough to shatter glass, she yelled, “I’m Mrs. Morgan Jones!”

That got my attention. I whirled around. The Great One had a wife? Why, he’d never let on. Didn’t wear a wedding band, either. I’d assumed he was a bachelor.

Whatever this woman had to say, I wanted to hear. I unlocked the door and let Mrs. Jones inside the shop.

“Are you Deva Dunne, the decorator?” She eyed me up and down, her glance lingering on the Christmas tree earrings. I knew they were dumb, but I was trying to create a mood here.

“I’m Deva Dunne, the designer.” I spoke in my iciest Boston voice. This was a woman I could learn to dislike, and it wouldn’t even take one lesson.

“Well, I’m Jessica Jones, Morgan’s wife.”

“Yes?”

She obviously wanted something from me, but whatever it was, she’d have to work for it.

Still red-faced, she flung her arms akimbo, sending her outsized Ferragamo tote banging against one ample hip. “Is that all you have to say?”

“As you can see, Mrs. Jones, I’m busy.” I put down a mercury glass snowman. “But I can spare a few minutes. How may I help you?”

“I want to know what’s going on.”

“What do you mean? Exactly?”

She rummaged around in the Ferragamo, pulled out my card and plunked it on the sales table. “This was in Morgan’s blue serge suit. With your home phone number on the back.”

I picked up the card. “Yes, I gave this to Dr. Jones. My clients sometimes need to contact me outside of shop hours.”

Her face went from beet red to bedsheet white so fast I thought she’d faint.

“Would you like a seat, Mrs. Jones?”

“Of course not,” she snapped. “What I’d like is to know what your card…with your personal number on it…was doing in my husband’s pants.”

That was when I knew I was in trouble. “You need to ask your husband that question.”

A big-boned woman packing thirty or forty extra pounds, she took a step forward. I took one backward.

“I demand an answer,” she said, moving forward with the relentlessness of a Sherman tank.

“Then talk to your husband. I can’t reveal-”

“Are you two having an affair?”

“What? Absolutely not. I’m designing the interior of his new house.”

Her shoulders slumped, sending the Ferragamo sliding down her arm. “Shit! I was hoping he was having an affair.”

Was she serious? My God, that was the last thing in the world I’d ever hope Jack was having.

Without further ado, she plopped onto a zebra-print settee, set the tote on the floor, and crossed her feet at the ankles. I wondered if her legs were too chunky to cross at the knee. Whatever. She obviously had no intention of moving until she found out what she wanted to know.

I glanced at my watch. Ten to nine and I’d only half finished setting up the sales displays. The Christmas cookies I kept in a small dorm fridge in the storeroom hadn’t been set out yet, either. But one look at Mrs. Jones’s determined expression, and I knew the fastest way to rid myself of the woman was to tell her the truth. I pulled up a gold Chiavari chair and sat facing her.

“What do you need to know, Mrs. Jones?”

“Everything. Begin at the beginning.”

If my association with Morgan was a secret, he should have mentioned the fact, yet with a sinking feeling I knew that wouldn’t make a bit of difference when he found out about this meeting. And find out, he would.

Beginning with a sigh, I told her about the house in Bonita and what I had been asked to do there. Jessica sat unmoving on the zebra skin. It might have been my imagination, but the more I said, the more she seemed to shrink into herself. Nor did her face get back its beet-colored hue. No question, my news had upset her.

“You knew nothing of this house?” I asked at the end of my tale.

She shook her head. “Morgan doesn’t want me to know. When the place is move-in ready, he’ll pretend it’s a