The Monet Murders

Chapter Two

The next day, my spirits lower than the price of a garage-sale rug, I opened my shop, Deva Dunne Interiors, promptly at nine as usual. Though the MRI hadn’t shown signs of trauma, my head pounded anyway. It had every right to.

This was December fifteenth, the one-year anniversary of my husband Jack’s death, and as Rossi had guessed, a day I’d been dreading. But no whining allowed. I intended to meet it dry-eyed and chin up, as Jack would have wanted. No sobbing. No groaning or carrying on about how much I missed him. How much I’d lost. How much I wanted him back in the circle of my arms, so I could reach up and sink my fingers in his thick Irish thatch, and warm myself in the sparkle of his eyes and his smile. No moaning about how every cell in my body would come alive each time he said he loved me…in a lilt more enchanting than music, more wonderful than…

I glanced out the display window. No, not again! What a nerve! I jumped up and yanked open the shop door. I’d had it with being dumped on.

“Hey, you! Dreadlocks!”

In his early twenties, with latte skin and dozens of loosely wound braids to his shoulders, the guy turned and pointed a finger at his chest. “Me?”

“Yes, you. I saw you through my window. I want you to quit that.”

He stared at me, a baffled look on his face. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, lady.”

“Stop dumping your empties in my planters. I’ve been finding them there all week.”

He shrugged. “That’s what they’re for.”

“Like hell they are.”

I stepped outside. Plucking a dead soda can out of an English boxwood next to the entrance, I held it up. “The planters are for decoration. For customers. This is for you.” I threw the can at him. It bounced off his foot. “No more Cokes. No more Buds. Got that?”

In the distance, traffic pulsed along Fifth Avenue, Naples’s version of Rodeo Drive, but no one ventured down the alley. Dreadlocks and I were alone. Over six feet tall, with pecs like Arnold, he could easily have knocked me down, but I stood my ground. I was struggling to create a little bit of beauty in the world and wasn’t about to tolerate any trashing. Not today of all days.

He picked up the empty, crumpled it and dropped it in the gutter. “That better?”

I sighed. “Better. Not good.”

Silver rings mounted the edges of his ears. He’d cut the sleeves off his sweatshirt; a tattooed snake rippled on his right upper arm.

“Thanks for the compassion,” I said.

His eyes narrowed. “What’s that mean?”

“I’m trying to get a business started here. Why make life tough for me?” Tears stung my eyelids, but I willed myself not to cry. Not here. Not now. I’d done enough of that all year. No more. Definitely not in front of this hostile stud with muscles, hooded eyes and ’tude.

He stepped in closer. “You crying?”

“Of course not.”

His voice rose an octave. “Over a can? That’s nothing to cry about.”

“The nothings add up.”

“Yeah, I know.” He frowned. “Look, I don’t want to make an old lady cry.”

Old? “I’m only thirty-two, for Pete’s sake.”

Forehead creasing, he peered at me. “Whatever.”

I didn’t have a single gray strand in my frizzy red hair-at least not a new one-or a wrinkle that mattered. But in that minute I celebrated my hundred and tenth birthday. It was a pity party. Despite my resolve not to cry today, the tears flowed in earnest. I swiped at them with an open palm and turned back to my Boston green door.

“Hey, I’m sorry, ma’am,” Dreadlocks called after me. “No more empties in your plants. If I see any, I’ll fish them out, okay?”

Not trusting myself to say more than “Thanks,” I gulped down the last of my tears and went into the best little design shop in Naples. The one practically nobody knew existed. But thanks to Channel 2 and the Naples Daily News, by now everybody probably knew about the missing Monet and the murder and my role in the whole ugly affair. What the reaction to that would be, I dreaded finding out.

The phone rang. Hoping the call meant business, I grabbed the receiver before the second ring.

“Deva Dunne Interiors.”

“Deva, I just read about the crimes. I should never have sent you to the Alexanders.”

Simon Yaeger, a Surfside neighbor. We were friends. No more than that. Though I had the feeling Simon would like to up the ante, I was far from ready for a relationship.

“What happened yesterday wasn’t your fault, Simon. Who could’ve guessed I’d be involved in a murder?”

His voice lowered. “I mean it. I’m so sorry.”

For some reason, maybe the effect of Simon’s suave voice, I sat up straight and eased the linen sheath over my knees. At least the green dress-an homage to the season-gave off the understated vibes a designer should project. Despite the good dress, I was relieved he couldn’t see me at the moment with what were no doubt red eyes, a red-tipped nose and out-of-control hair. A bit of vanity that shot my guilt through the roof.

“I appreciate your concern, Simon, but I’m confident the police will find the killer.”

While Simon had given me the Alexander tip with the best of intentions, he had landed me in the middle of a murder investigation. But why tell him what he already knew?

A pause hummed through the receiver. “There must be something I can do. Take you out for dinner?” A moment of silence, then a whispered, “I can do more than dinner.”

“No, I’m afraid you can’t.” I wanted to say, “I belong to Jack,” but I couldn’t bring myself to speak of him.

“Okay, your loss.”

No question, ice dripped from his words. I’d seriously annoyed him. Terrific. In an attempt at damage control, I asked, “Want to come for Christmas dinner?”

“That might work. I’ll let you know.” He hung up.

I stared at the dead receiver in my hand. Damn.

Only two months ago, Simon had phoned with a great tip. “How would you like an A-list client?” he’d asked, his voice as smooth and silky as his custom-made clothes.

“Oh? You have one for me, do you?” I liked to play cool with Simon. Tall, tanned and Tampa bred, he had to be most girls’ idea of a dream guy, but the man filling my dreams remained rumpled, charming Jack Dunne. I doubted the void he left in my life could ever be filled. But I gave silky Simon credit for trying. He could really work the phone, and that was saying a lot for a tax attorney who charged by the minute.

“Their name’s Alexander,” he told me. “They’re newbies in town. Rich as sin. Trevor’s a client of mine. Lives on Gordon Drive.”

I clutched the receiver to my ear. Gordon Drive, Naples’s most luxurious neighborhood. Snagging a design project in one of those mansions would lift my struggling business out of the red. My pulse rate rocked. “This is music you’re singing, Simon. Do go on.”

“Ilona, the wife, is Hungarian. Quite the looker. Very trophy.” He cleared his throat at that little indiscretion. “They want to redo their dining room before the holidays.”

“Just the one room?” Disappointment must have crept into my voice.

“Deva, the dining room’s as big as your condo. They’ve got Monets on the walls.”

“Monets? You’re sure?” Playing the cool game had gotten harder.

“Two of them. People don’t lie to their legal counsel.”

“Ha! Why me? I’m not a name.”

Simon sighed. “Because I recommended you. Highly. I told them you’re from Boston, know all about classical furniture and art, and understand the effects of tropical light on interiors.”

“You oversold me.” My turn to sigh. He’d exaggerated my credentials. Not the best way to approach prospective clients. Could I, truly, create a design to showcase a Monet? Two Monets? Torn, I hesitated, wondering