The Monet Murders

“Yes,” I agreed, warming to the theme. “Nothing too loud. A chamber ensemble during cocktails, so people can chat. At dinner, Italian love songs with the main courses, operatic arias during dessert. End the evening on a vibrant note.”

“Your ideas, all of them are wonderful, Deva. You see, it is like I said, I need you to plan.”

A soft footfall sounded on the marble floor. Jesus entered carrying a serving tray laden with a silver tea service and an assortment of cookies. A tall man, with the sad bearing of a deposed aristocrat, he had lost a noticeable amount of weight in the three weeks since Maria’s death. His heavy eyes spoke of suffering. Three weeks and still no arrest. I could only hope Rossi and the Naples P.D. were working around the clock.

Jesus placed the tray on the coffee table. “Will that be all, senora?”

“For now, Jesus.” He left us, and Ilona reached for a chocolate-frosted morsel. “Jesus wants to bring Maria’s ashes to Guatemala. Can you believe that? At time like this, with wine festival so close? Have cookie, Deva. Maria made them. They’re finom. Delicious.”

The impulse to mash a cookie in her face told me I had to get out of there fast. I’d already had my temper tantrum for the year. I fake peeked at my watch. “Oh, I’m late. Must go, Ilona. As soon as the proposal is ready, I’ll fax it to you.”

“That is good. Tomorrow, Cheep comes to discuss menu. He has family recipes from many generations just like my anya’s cooks. All will be well.”

“Right.” I grabbed my fake Chanel handbag and hurried toward the foyer, not even stopping for a loving glimpse of the remaining Monet. Air, I craved air and yanked open the front door. “As soon as possible, I’ll drop off some samples for you to see,” I called over my shoulder.

Ilona scrambled off the couch, a second, or maybe a third, cookie in hand. “Wait, Deva, there is something you should know.”

What now? She hurried toward me on tiptoes, all the while glancing left and right as if someone might be watching. Who? Jesus? The cleaning staff?

She came close enough to whisper in my ear, “I am not supposed to tell, but security code is changed. You will need new one.”

“That’s all right, I’ll just give the samples to Jesus.”

“Suppose he go to Guatemala? One minute only, I write number for you.”

“But-”

She disappeared through the archway into the kitchen wing, returning with a folded slip of paper that she pressed into my palm. “Hide this,” she ordered. “Trevor should not know.”

“Ilona, why don’t I phone you after I collect the party supplies? We can settle on a meeting date then.”

She shook her head. “Nem. In two days, Trevor and I, we leave for Hungary. I promise my anya we come right after Christmas. Trevor no want to go, but I tell him I no come back if he refuse.” She heaved a sigh that did great things for the hot pink sweater. “Is not easy, Deva.”

“What isn’t?”

“Being Mrs. Trevor. Tonight I give him sex. Only then will he stop the pout.”

“A girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do,” I said, easing toward the door.

“Correct.”

I cleared my throat. Ilona had her problems and I had mine, and one of them was money. While I loved the creative challenge of designing, I hated dunning people for fees. But with even the slightest chance that she might not return, I had to plunge into girl talk with a purpose.

“Ilona, I have a request.” I squared my shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Before you leave for Europe, could you see that my design fee is paid? Or at least half of it. I’ll need it to cover expenses.”

She greeted this first from me with a fluttering of her luscious eyelashes. “Of course, I understand. You are working girl.”

I huffed out a breath. So are you, Ilona.

“But Trevor is such a bear these days, I ask him for little. So I pay you myself from my, how you say, mad money. Wait.” While I stood chilling in the foyer, she ran up the stairs, bouncing back down a few moments later with a sheaf of bills in her hand. “Two thousand. Correct?”

“Well, yes, but this is the full amount.”

“Never no mind. I trust. Send other expenses to Trevor. He will be in better mood by then, I promise.”

Designing, I decided on the spot, was an easier gig than some marriages.

“Thanks, Ilona. I’ll see that the party materials are here when you return. Bon voyage. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“Oh, but I must,” she said, no smile in her tone, or on her face, either.

For the first time since we’d met, Mrs. Trevor Alexander had my sympathy.

Poor little rich girl. In comparison, clutching the two grand, I felt like a rich little poor girl as I jogged down the stone steps to my car.

* * *

The money went fast, on rent, phones and payroll, but what a wonderful reprieve. Because of it, I didn’t have to dip into my skimpy reserves, at least for another month. Then when Morgan’s payment kicked in, Deva Dunne Interiors should be well on its way.

All week long, I found myself humming. What was that tune? An Italian love song, “That’s Amore.” Figures. Ilona’s Tuscan theme had to be the inspiration. Not Rossi. Ha! With an effort, I banished him from my thoughts and concentrated on making a list of items needed for the Alexanders’ party.

Fabric. Cornucopias. Fruit and gourds. Rustic lanterns. Costumes. Music. Engraved invitations.

With luck, when Ilona returned in two weeks, I would have booked the staff and musicians and purchased the party materials.

Overnight, Kravatz Fabrics in Manhattan priority-mailed me a carton of possible tabletop swatches. All medieval in feeling, in deep russets and greens with flashes of burgundy. To see which one looked best on the loggia, I telephoned the house, hoping Jesus would pick up. I’d rather he let me in than use the new security code. But he didn’t answer at ten, twelve or two. On the chance that he might be enjoying a rare day off, I rang him again the next day. Only the answering machine kicked on.

While waiting for Jesus to return my call, I made a quick trip to the Miromar Design Center in Ft. Myers to pick up the party supplies. Then I scoured the local antique stores for vintage linen napkins. The largest I could find for dinner and smaller ones for cocktails. They didn’t have to match, but they did have to look like old family heirlooms.

Each guest should also have a token gift waiting at the dinner table. Something Medici in feeling. Poison rings for the ladies? Faux antidotes in tiny pillboxes for the men? No doubt in poor taste after what had happened there, but Ilona might like an outrageous gesture like that.

As soon as Morgan’s retainer arrived, I ordered his case goods and hired Oceanside Finishes to paint his interior. I also called on the two women who had come into the shop during the holidays, one wanting a new bathroom, and the other a revived family room. When I snagged both sales, I did a mental jump for joy.

Without Lee’s help, all the scurrying around would have plowed me under. She kept the merchandise neatly arranged, charmed the customers and, I suspect, made selling Paulo’s paintings a special interest. In a single week, she had lined up a commission for him.

Watching her, I realized how wondrous happiness is, and with a pang, understood that what I saw in Lee-the shining eyes, the effortless smile, the glow of a woman well loved-had once been mine in those days when Jack vowed I centered his universe. In the days when he couldn’t wait to rush home to me at night. When he started undressing inside the front door, scattering his clothes from room to room, and mine as well…transforming me with his adoration into a goddess…

Rossi, you’ve got your work cut out for you.

The thought made me laugh, and to Lee’s surprise, I went over and hugged her. “I’m so glad you’re so happy,” I said.