The Monet Murders

“Y’all mean it, I know, Deva,” she said, hugging me back. “And I’m glad I’m so happy, too.”

We laughed, startling two customers who walked in searching for sofa pillows in purple.

That afternoon, I rang Jesus again. Still no answer. He must have taken advantage of the Alexanders’ absence and gone to Guatemala with Maria’s ashes. No point in waiting any longer. I packed everything in the Audi’s trunk and headed for Gordon Drive.

To be certain the house was empty, I rang the front door chimes. They echoed loudly to no avail. Satisfied that no one was inside, I entered the new code and carried one of the boxes into the silent, chilled interior.

“Anybody home?” I called. No response. I had the place to myself.

In the dining room, I worshipped the Monet for a while then brought the fabric swatches out to the loggia. As I suspected, the muted shades of the vine pattern had the vintage look I was after. I’d call Gwen at Kravatz the minute I got back to the shop and order enough to cover five tables of six to the floor.

Satisfied, I wandered back into the great room. Chez Alexander had never been a noisy house. Not once, in all the times I’d been here, could I recall a radio or a stereo playing, but today the quiet was positively eerie. Nerves, I told myself, plain and simple. I’d had so much stress lately I was jittery for no reason at all. So why was I tiptoeing across the polished great room floor? No one was around to hear me. Yes, definitely nerves.

Still, something was a little off. No gardenia scent wafted in the air. And usually when the Alexanders were out of town, the blinds and draperies were closed, shutting out the sun and its effects on the interior. But not today. Beyond the windows, out to the horizon, I could see the Gulf water sparkling turquoise and serene, and the sun’s rays glinting off the occasional shallow whitecap.

The box of party supplies weighed a ton. I lowered it onto a chair and plunked my purse on top. On the coffee table, the bowl of gardenias that were changed every day had wilted, the faded blossoms drooping over the rim, brown petals scattered across the tabletop. No wonder no gorgeous scent perfumed the air. I sniffed. Actually a musty, closed-up odor had replaced it. Strange. Even if Jesus were left alone for days, he wouldn’t neglect his duties.

“Hello,” I called again, just to be sure. “Jesus, are you here? Jesus!” I half expected him to suddenly respond in that gracious, courteous manner of his, but he didn’t. Maybe he had gone to Central America after all.

Oh, well. I gave a mental shrug and headed for the kitchen wing. I needed to scout out the garage for a place to stash the party supplies. As I passed the corridor leading to Trevor’s study, I spied the glow of yellow lamplight. Maybe Jesus was working in there and hadn’t heard me. Though he should have. I’d made as much noise as a Patriots cheerleader.

Led by curiosity, I started down the corridor to the study. When I caught myself tiptoeing along like there was something to fear, I forced my feet to step normally. Heel, toe. Heel, toe.

Still my heart pounded as I reached the open study door and peeked in. Empty. No Jesus. So why were the lights on over the desk? Ilona once told me that of the entire household, only Jesus, who had been trained not to touch Trevor’s documents or move his papers, was allowed into the study. But I walked in anyway and strode to the desk. Might as well turn off the light. I leaned over and reached for the lamp switch then froze, an arm in midair, as a sheet of paper atop a pile caught my eye. A bank statement, it showed a massive withdrawal. Was I reading that correctly?

Leaving the lamp on, I picked up the statement. The account had been closed over a week ago. A Morgan- Stanley logo embellished the next sheet. I glanced at that as well. Another deep withdrawal, and underneath that statement a personal letter from the local Morgan-Stanley office urging Mr. Alexander not to sell at this point in the market.

The next sheet and the next, all stacked in that same neat pile, were much the same. Hmm. Stunned, I sank onto Trevor’s leather swivel chair and rode it for a while. What was going on? Had Trevor found a more lucrative investment opportunity? One that required large sums of money? Or did the withdrawals signify trouble?

None of my business, of course, except that Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t survive a nonpaying client. Not with Ilona’s demands accelerating as they were. And come to think of it, most of her payments to me had been in cash from her secret stash of mad money.

Tense as a wound watch, I swiveled like mad. Only one thing to do. As I’d done with Morgan Jones, before ordering anything more I’d ask for payment of my out-of-pocket costs up front. The downside meant that might delay the party plans. Well, either that or take a chance. The Kravatz fabric alone was seventy dollars a yard and for five tables, we’d need-

The phone rang suddenly, and I nearly jumped out of my skin, the paper in my fingers fluttering to the floor. As I bent over, heart thumping, to retrieve it, a familiar deep voice came through the line. I sat up, placed the paper back on the pile and listened.

“Trevor, this is Simon Yaeger. Want you to know I took care of that little matter. George wasn’t happy about it, but I let him know where you stand. It’s your money he’s playing with, not his own. Don’t think he’ll retaliate, but you know George. I told him what he has in mind is definitely out of the question. You don’t need any legal entanglements with the IRS, not on top of everything else.”

Simon cleared his throat. I waited. Was there more? Yes. “One other thing, you know how women like to talk. You might ask Ilona to be discreet.” A pause. “I heard the Dunne woman is in and out of the house a lot, so I’d make sure she doesn’t get a hold of this. The fewer people who are in on it the better. I’ll be in touch again soon.”

A click and the phone went dead. I rode the swivel hard for a few moments then reached across the desk, turned off the lamp and slowly got to my feet. The Dunne woman. Is that how Simon thought of me? In that clinical, detached manner? So underneath that suave facade, Mr. Hot Lips was a man of ice. Nevertheless, he had just done me a valuable service. I would definitely ask Trevor for a serious retainer before ordering another thing. And I would definitely reassess my so-called friendship with Simon.

The urge to get out of this musty, silent tomb seized me. I walked out of the study, grabbed the box of party supplies from the great room and hurried down the hall to the kitchen. I didn’t want to leave party paraphernalia lying around, sullying the hushed elegance of Chez Alexander. The workbench in the garage would do. Everything would be safely out of the way there.

The musty odor was stronger in the kitchen. How long had Jesus been gone, anyway? I rested the box on the island and opened the side door leading from the kitchen wing to the four-car garage. The instant I did, a strange odor smacked me in the face. I sniffed the air and wished I hadn’t. My stomach clenched. What was that smell? Like an animal had found its way inside and been trapped.

I snapped on the garage lights. Their glare revealed the Mercedes SUV Jesus used for errands, Ilona’s silver Boxster and Trevor’s Cadillac Seville. The fourth stall held a rack of bikes and Trevor’s prized toy, a glittering Honda Goldwing. All the household vehicles were here, so Jesus must have driven the Alexanders to the airport, returned the car, then gotten a ride from someone so he could catch his own flight. A trickle of perspiration slid down my back as I stood in the doorway sniffing the foul air, not knowing whether to go in any farther or not.

Well, I couldn’t leave the boxes cluttering the house, so I picked up the one I’d carried in and stepped into the garage. Whatever had caused the odor must be dead. I hoped it was a squirrel trapped under the roof…or even, God forbid, a rat. The alternative didn’t bear thinking about. Anyway, whatever had died in here couldn’t hurt me, and the box was getting heavier by the minute.

I dumped it on top of the workbench next to a hammer and an open box of scattered tacks. The clutter surprised me. Jesus usually kept his workstation as impeccably neat as Maria had kept her kitchen. But not this time. He must have been interrupted in the middle of a task. As I turned to go back for another box, a dark stain on the concrete floor caught my eye. The trickle of sweat on my back chilled.

I bent over for a closer look. If the stain had once been wet, it was dry now. Mesmerized, I followed where its trail led-between the Cadillac and the Boxster.

And then I saw him. Not a squirrel. Not a rat. Jesus. Crumpled in death and glued to the floor with his own blood.

I grabbed the Cadillac’s door handle to steady myself and stared, transfixed, at the corpse. First Maria, now her husband. It couldn’t be, my mind shrieked. It is, my eyes insisted. Another death. Another murder.

I had to get to a phone, call 911, but afraid I’d pitch forward in a dead faint and join Jesus on the floor, I just stood there gripping the handle, staring at the horror of what lay before me…the gunshot wound in Jesus’s chest, his wide, unseeing eyes, and, strangely, a handful of tacks in his open palm.

I kept inhaling, gulping, filling my lungs with the noisome air, but the gulping did little good. I couldn’t breathe.