“Everybody we invite refuse. They will not come to my house. No matter how old my family, they do not come. Tonight, Trevor and I, we go to Port Royal Club for dinner. If no one sit with us then I know we are finished in Naples. Finished. It is not fair, Deva. We own two Monets, so we are victims.” A Hungarian sigh floated through the line. “No longer do we even own two. I go now. I must inform Cheep.”
“Your retainer, Ilona?”
“Never no mind, Deva. You keep. For aggravation.”
“Thank you. I appreciate that.” Especially since I had already spent it. Actually, Ilona was kind to excuse the two thousand. Maybe, after all, I had misjudged her. “What of the party supplies I stored in your garage? They’re all returnable.”
“Come get whenever you wish.” She lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. “The last number on code is three now, not five. But you may not need code. Tomorrow, our new housekeeper arrive. Another Maria, she is. I tell her to let you in whenever you call.”
“I appreciate your trust, Ilona.” I meant it. If the situation were reversed and I lived in a house where two people had been murdered, I wouldn’t trust a soul with my security code. I wondered why Ilona did.
“We are girls together, Deva. Of course I trust. It is the mens I no trust.”
Ah. My answer?
“Now, I hang up phone. I am too upset to talk more.”
I cradled the receiver. Poor Chip. He would be devastated. I glanced around my silent, empty shop. Deva Dunne Interiors already was devastated. I had a feeling it would remain so until the Alexander case was solved. That had better be soon. My pockets were too shallow to hold out much longer. With that thought, my temper flared. I hated feeling like a victim.
“Let’s call it a day, Lee. This place is as dead as a teetotaler’s party.”
She laughed. “You have funny sayings, Deva. Are they Irish?”
“Well, that one probably is.” I glanced at my watch. Three o’clock. Too late for lunch. “Come on, I’ll drop you off at home. I promise we’ll do a fancy lunch another day.”
“Would y’all mind dropping me at Paulo’s instead? He’s home working on a portrait. His first commission. You should see it. It’s beautiful. Two little children, a brother and a sister. Though to speak frankly to y’all, I think the momma should have asked for separate portraits. Someday, I declare, those two little ones’ll be fightin’ over who gets Paulo’s painting.”
Her love for her man shone in her eyes, on her skin, in the very way she pronounced his name. Shyly, as if her pride in him were pride in herself, she said, “When he has six or more portraits finished, the Von Liebig Art Center is going to give him a one-man show.”
“How wonderful! After that, he’ll be on his way.”
She nodded, happy to agree. “Uh-huh. ’Course he needs more commissions to get to that six number, but he’ll get them. Wait till people see those children.”
“Of course he will. Let’s go. After I leave you, I’ll swing by Mesnik’s frame shop. Those powder room fashion prints are ready.”
Then I’d go home and wait for Rossi to call. Impatiently.
Chapter Twenty-One
At Mesnik’s, the front section of the shop was empty. I stood at the sales counter for a few minutes before calling, “Hello. Anybody home?”
Michael Mesnik popped his head through the green velvet curtain that screened his back workroom from customer view.
“Sorry, Mrs. Dunne. I didn’t hear you come in.”
“The six fashion prints?”
“Ah, yes. They’re ready.” He parted the curtain, holding it open with one hand. “Come have a look. I think you’ll be pleased.”
I circled the sales counter and stepped into the inner sanctum. Curious, I glanced around at the sizeable room. Michael had centered it with a massive wooden worktable and lined it with shelves holding various lengths of framing in every conceivable style and color. Sheets of glass waiting to be cut to size and matting materials in a rainbow array filled several slanted bins. Against one wall, a long workbench held electric saws, hand tools, paint cans and brushes. Overall, a sloppy, cluttered space for busy, creative people.
And then against another wall something else caught my eye and I gasped. A portrait of Ilona Alexander.
Mesmerized, I stood staring, caught up in the image before it occurred to me to search for the artist’s signature. Ah, there it was along the edge, scrolled in a thick bold lettering-Paulo St. James.
Lee hadn’t mentioned Paulo’s doing a portrait of Ilona. Did she know?
“She’s really something, isn’t she?” Michael said, startling me out of my thoughts.
“Yes. Something.”
“It’s here for framing. Brilliant young artist painted it. A Paulo St. James. Got a great future ahead of him.” Michael stared at the portrait smiling as warmly at it as if Ilona would smile back. “She’s the most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen.”
“Right.”
“Present company excepted of course.”
I laughed. “Not necessary, Michael. I know Mrs. Alexander. She’s a stunner.”
“St. James sure thinks so.”
“He said that?” I asked, my voice sounding squeaky even to me.
“Didn’t have to. How else could he have done this?”
Poor Lee. I remembered the way Ilona had stared at Paulo the day he came to Chez Alexander to set up the party bar. But that didn’t explain why he kept his portrait of her a secret from the girl he loved. Yet there had to be a reason, I told myself. A good, solid reason. As soon as I had a chance to speak to Paulo alone, I’d ask him.
Or would I? What right did I have? None.
No, until Lee mentioned the portrait to me, I wouldn’t say anything about it to either of them. But I would tell Rossi. I had to. While I didn’t want to believe Paulo had done anything wrong-couldn’t believe it-for Maria and Jesus’s sakes, the police should know everything that had occurred in the Alexander household, no matter how trivial. Though somehow this didn’t strike me as trivial.
“Your prints are over here,” Michael said, jarring me back to the moment. He went to a side wall where, out of the line of traffic, he kept the newly framed and restored artworks. “Let me put them where you can get a better look,” he said, picking up the prints and laying them on the center worktable.
“Very nice,” I said. The prints weren’t great art, but they were charming and would lend a delicate, feminine look to the powder room.
Michael’s assistant nodded a greeting. Intent on restoring a Hudson River oil painting, he couldn’t talk. Not with a mouthful of tacks. He popped out a tack from between his lips. Holding it with a thumb and forefinger, he carefully tapped it into the edge of the canvas he was smoothing over a wooden stretcher. Then he popped out another one.
I hoped he wouldn’t suddenly have to sneeze.
“Usually we staple a painting onto a stretcher,” Michael explained, “but on these old canvases we use tacks. Less stress on the artwork.”
His assistant continued to pop out the tacks and secure them in place, slowly stretching the canvas so it would show no bulges, no sags, no wrinkles.
Tacks. I stared at the oil, seeing not the murky river scene but a garage workbench scattered with tacks, and a
