The Monet Murders

As soon as Lee arrived the next morning, starry eyed and smiling, I left for Michael Mesnik’s Art Frame and Restoration Studio. I had six ladies’ fashion prints from the nineteen twenties that needed framing for the new powder room I was designing. Located next to Tin City, one of Naples’s bayside tourist attractions, Mesnik’s was the best framer in town.

The minute I walked in, someone said, “Well, fancy meeting you here, Mrs. Dunne.”

The voice was familiar, as was the tanned, bald pate that had been polished like an apple.

“George Farragut. What a surprise.” Actually, surprise was an understatement. I never expected to see a numbers cruncher like George in an art frame shop. Though come to think of it, he was supposed to have met Simon that night at the Russian art exhibit.

“I’m on my way to work,” he said, “but I had to stop by and see what Michael has done with my last acquisition. And to drop off another one.”

George rested his Hermes briefcase on the counter and shook my good hand a little too vigorously.

“This is one of my favorite places in town. Being next to the Riverwalk Bar doesn’t hurt, either.” He laughed, and eyes darting to my sling, said, “You’ve been making the headlines.”

“To my regret.”

“Any idea of who the vandal might be?”

“None at all.”

“Unfortunately, the local police are less than efficient.”

“Oh, I don’t know-”

Michael, the shop’s owner, a tall, thin man who always looked rushed even when he wasn’t, came out from the back room. “Mrs. Dunne. Mr. Farragut. Pleased to see you both. Your etching is ready,” he said to George. “I’ll get it, and be right with you, Mrs. Dunne.” He hurried behind the curtain separating the shop from his workroom.

“Etching?” I asked. “So you’re interested in art, George?”

He nodded, his attention on the opening to the workroom, his fingers drumming on the countertop. Like Morgan Jones, another obsessed art lover?

A moment later, an actor on a stage, Michael parted the curtain and emerged with a small framed image in his hands. About twelve by sixteen inches, the etching was French matted in cream and framed in ebony. He held it up for George to inspect.

“Ah, nice, Michael. Very nice, indeed.”

I agreed. Flemish perhaps, or Dutch, it depicted a woodland scene, its incised lines crisp and clean. The deep ivory paper told me it was old. Eighteenth, or even seventeenth century.

“What do you think?” George asked, tearing his attention from the image long enough to ask my opinion.

“It’s incredible.”

“That’s the word precisely. Not like those lurid abstracts Morgan chases down.”

Uh-oh, an art snob.

“Abstract art has its admirers,” I replied.

“You’re not one of them, are you?”

I shrugged. “Modern art is a mirror of our time. And mirrors aren’t always flattering.” I sighed and let truth win out. “That said, I admit this etching is the choice of a very selective connoisseur.”

George smiled as if I’d said something amusing. So my opinions were funny, were they?

“You’re an intelligent woman, Mrs. Dunne. I’ll be interested to see what you do with Morgan’s place. All that blue. And all those huge acrylics in those garish colors.” George indulged in a little shudder.

So the man thought I was intelligent? I supposed I should be flattered but wasn’t. Somehow his compliment had sounded like a patronizing crack.

Working quickly, Michael laid the etching over a sheet of bubble wrap and secured it with tape.

“I have something else for you,” George said, unzipping his briefcase. He reached in, withdrew a folder and opened it with a flourish. Inside lay a drawing of a female nude, sponge in hand, bathing in a tub of water.

Michael gasped. “Is it?” he asked in a hushed tone.

George nodded. “A Degas. The provenance is above reproach.”

“The same framing? Ebony?”

“Exactly.”

“I’ll get to it right away. An honor, Mr. Farragut.”

“Don’t rush. The delay will give me something to look forward to. I trust we’ll meet again, Mrs. Dunne,” George said, giving me a little two-fingered salute. Then picking up his briefcase and tucking the etching under an arm, he exited Mesnik’s with a swagger.

“One of my best customers,” Michael said when we were alone. “His office is in the building next door, and he’s in here all the time. A nice man with a very refined taste.”

“So I noticed.”

“He scours Europe for those old master drawings, and some of them are priceless. Judging from the number I’ve restored for him over the years, he must have a world-class collection by now.”

“How interesting,” I said, taking the fashion prints out of a manila envelope and laying them on the counter. After the Degas, I had to admit they looked pretty tame, but they’d be a colorful conversation piece once Michael matted and framed them. Together we made our selections, and I said goodbye, crammed the receipt in my purse and headed for the door.

What I’d learned about George was interesting. Another man with ties to the Alexanders who was obsessed with collecting. I hurried across the parking lot. The instant I got inside the Audi, I’d call Rossi and tip him off. My pace slowed. On second thought, maybe not. I’d promised myself I wouldn’t play amateur sleuth, and that was a promise I needed to keep. I also needed to concentrate on my own business, and that meant completing the renderings Morgan Jones would expect to see on January second.

Besides, so what if George liked etchings? Everyone who collected art wasn’t a thief. And everyone who knew the Alexanders wasn’t a killer.

No, I wouldn’t call Rossi and annoy him with my half-baked suspicions. Not about Merle’s flight and not about George’s etchings. Sink or swim, Rossi was on his own.

Chapter Sixteen

New Year’s Eve. Midnight, and all the bells and whistles at Times Square were going crazy. I pushed back from the drawing board and watched CNN record the frenzy. The glittering ball descended on the screaming crowd at the exact moment my kitchen phone rang. Who could this be? A reveler bringing in the New Year?

I stood, arched my back, and hurried out to the kitchen, hoping, hoping…

A little breathless, I picked up. “Hello.”

“Deva! Happy New Year!”

Simon. My pulse, soaring a moment before, dropped down to its normal rhythm. “Where are you?” I asked. “You sound like you’re partying.”

“Upstairs. Alone. Want me to come down for a nightcap?”

Was I wrong, or was he slurring his words? “I’m in bed, Simon,” I lied.

“All the better.”

“Very funny. Thanks for the good wishes, but-”

“Don’t hang up. Have you finished that Jones project?”

“No, but I’ve made a good dent in it.”

“Translated that means dinner’s out again tomorrow?”

“’Fraid so. I really need to spend the day working.”

“Of course. I understand.”

“Thanks for calling. It was sweet of you, Simon. See you in January.”

“Wait-”

I hung up, but gently, and went back to the living room to watch the excitement in Times Square. People shaking noisemakers and shouting “Happy New Year, everybody!” Couples kissing and hugging and waving at the