The Monet Murders

it when he wanted. I’d have to remember that the next time he frowned.

“It’s all as I imagined.” Without taking his attention from the drawing, he asked, “Are there dimmers on these lights?”

“Of course.”

“Excellent. And I like the bed linens. The blue-gray satin is lovely, very subdued. Very alluring.” He cleared his throat as if he had, somehow, revealed too much of himself.

I wondered if Jessica knew how important their bedroom was to her husband. It was nice to know a couple who had been together for years had kept the romance alive in their marriage. But I backed away from that thought-fast.

“Where do I sign?” Morgan asked.

I handed him the pen with a steady hand.

“The sooner I can move in, the better. So get started immediately,” he ordered.

Some things never changed. I indulged in an audible sigh, but otherwise tamped down my temper. I couldn’t afford another tantrum. Besides, you had to pick your battles, and right now I tasted victory.

“I won’t waste a moment,” I assured him. “The drawings will be in the shop. So if Jessica would like to see them-”

“That won’t be necessary.”

“Really? She’s not interested?”

“That’s irrelevant.” He glanced at his watch again. An excuse not to look at me? “We’re getting divorced. In fact, I’m late for an appointment with my attorney.”

“Divorced? Oh? Jessica never let on.”

“She didn’t know. I informed her yesterday. A new start for a New Year.”

So the satin coverlet and the dimmer switch weren’t for Jessica after all. Nor the musky cologne drifting around him. Probably not the new-looking blue silk tie, either. Too bad. Jessica, hearty and unpretentious, had, I suspected, put up with a lot from Morgan over the years. I hoped she’d get a good settlement. Dumped after a lifetime, she deserved one.

Hey, wait a minute. What was I thinking? Divorce in Florida meant a division of assets. Even Steven. What a divorce would do to Dr. Jones’s financial health wasn’t any of my business. Whether he could afford to pay me for my work was. Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford to take a hit.

My heart in my mouth, I said, “I’ll work up a proposal for you this afternoon and fax it to your office. Once you approve of the purchases, I’ll require fifty percent down before filling any orders.”

I hardly dared breathe as I waited for his answer. Red or green? Stop or go?

He didn’t hesitate. “Not a problem, Deva. Just get the project in the works. I’m anxious to begin my new life.”

Green.

With so much emphasis on the master bedroom, I doubted Dr. Jones would be living that new life alone. Not my concern, neither was the source of his funding. But I couldn’t squelch the question that kept popping into my head. Where had he found the means for so much spending? From his investments? From his surgeon’s skill? Or from the sale of the Monet? I decided on the spot that this time I would tell Rossi what puzzled me. For Maria’s sake, the murderer had to be found, the Monet recovered.

And I’d call for another, less noble cause-until the police solved the case, I couldn’t begin even the semblance of a new life. And I was starting to realize I needed a new one-whether it had dimmers and satin in it or not.

Chapter Seventeen

On January third at two-thirty sharp, I called at Chez Alexander. A few minutes later, perched beside Ilona on one of the yellow brocade sofas, I watched Trevor stomp around his living room, his hand-sewn loafers slapping against the marble floor.

“Whattya mean, you want a grapevine?” he shouted. “Twenty thousand square feet under glass, and now I gotta build you a grapevine? No, absolutely not.”

“But darling, is for wine festival dinner,” Ilona protested.

“That damn dinner’s costing me a fortune. With everything else that’s going on, I don’t need the aggravation. Or the expense.”

“But Trev, we agree. You want everything perfect. Remember, our Evening in Tuscany.”

“No grapevine. Nem. Come up with another idea. A cheaper one.” Trevor stopped mid-stomp to point a finger at me. It quivered in the air in front of my nose. “And that includes you. She doesn’t have any common sense, but I thought you did. I must’ve been wrong.”

He stormed out of the room. “Don’t wait up,” he yelled before disappearing in the direction of the kitchen wing. A distant door slammed.

Ilona listened then ran on her pink slides to the front window. “I bet he take my Boxster just to be difficult.”

Sure enough, a moment later a silver Porsche, sleek as a high-speed panther, zoomed down the curved driveway.

“I knew it. Te diszno! You pig!” Ilona turned from the window and flipped her hair over a shoulder. “Whenever I say ‘no sex’ he act this way. A little boy. Never no mind. Maybe he get ticket.” Her face brightened at the prospect. “Is all right, Deva. We forget grapevine. We come up with another plan.”

What was this “we” stuff? The grapevine idea had been hers. Personally I thought it was too obvious to be tasteful and had told her so. But that moment of truth was about to be buried. Why bother to resurrect it?

Interesting, though, to hear Trevor complaining about the party’s cost. So maybe he wasn’t Midas rich. I gave a mental shrug. Even kings had a limit to their coffers. This one I wouldn’t run past Rossi. When I called him yesterday, he hadn’t been too impressed with my Morgan Jones story and in no uncertain terms told me to stick to my decorating and let him do the detecting. Off and on since then, I’d been trying to decide if I was seriously pissed at him or not. Not, actually. He was right, and I knew it.

“Deva, we have tea while you give me ideas for party. I tell Jesus.”

Ilona wiggled her way across the marble floor to the kitchen wing. From the rear, she looked fabulous in her hot pink pants. In no time, she clicked her way back into the living room. Despite the frown lines stressing her normally smooth forehead, she looked fabulous from the front, too, in her hot pink sweater.

“Jesus will bring tea. And cookies,” she added with a guilty smile. “After Trevor, I need sweet. Now, Deva, what will we do?”

We again. Okay, for two thousand plus extras, she’d bought the right to ask.

“Ilona, Tuscan means contrasts. Monks and aristocrats. Peasants and nobility. That’s what your party should play up.” I made sure my voice sounded decisive, for ultimately, decisiveness was what I sold. Clients hired me to make decisions that if left on their own they’d agonize over. I eyed Ilona, pausing to let my words sink in.

“Go on. I like,” she said, shifting to the edge of her down sofa cushion.

“Okay. How about this? We serve dinner outside, overlooking the Gulf. The loggia can easily accommodate thirty diners, and it has the columns and arches of a medieval cloister. Torchlight on the lawn and rustic lanterns on the tables. Heavy tapestry tablecloths to the floor. For centerpieces, cornucopias spilling fruit and veggies.”

Ilona wrinkled her perfect nose. “Veggies?”

I laughed. “Not potatoes or onions. Gourds and squashes. Pomegranates. Apples and pears. Grapes, too.”

“Ha, grapes! I like.”

“We’ll costume the staff. Put the bartenders in brown monk’s robes, the servers in peasant dress. Jesus in britches. That sort of thing.”

Ilona waved her diamond-studded hands, sending an aurora borealis flashing through the air. “Where we get such clothes?”

“From a costume supplier. It shouldn’t be a problem.”

“Music, Deva. Music we must have.”