dead man’s open palm filled with more of them.
Michael made a stack of the prints. “Let’s go out front so I can wrap these for you, Mrs. Dunne.”
“May I ask you a question?”
“Of course.”
“Have you ever invited George Farragut back here?”
Michael laughed. “George doesn’t wait for an invitation. He just makes himself at home.”
What I wanted to do was go to Surfside and wait for Rossi’s call. Instead, I drove back to the shop, unpacked the prints and phoned the customer to tell her they were ready. Then I dusted all the displays, rearranged the tablescapes and uncrated a box of crystal hearts for Valentine’s Day. I was stalling for time. Tonight, while Trevor and Ilona dined at the Port Royal Club, I intended to make a house call on Chez Alexander. Seven o’clock struck me as the most likely witching hour. At best, it would be a narrow window of opportunity. Tomorrow a new Maria would be in the kitchen, and for what I had in mind, I needed the house to myself. If I miscalculated, and the Alexanders were home, I’d say I had come for the party supplies. Feeble, true, but the best plan I could come up with.
At five o’clock, I locked the shop, turned off my cell and drove to Lowdermilk Beach to hide from Rossi and wait. As much as I longed to see him, if he came to the condo after work, he wouldn’t want me to leave, and he’d never agree to go with me. Not without a search warrant.
If I thought he’d order a warrant, I’d tell him everything, though my everything amounted to nothing more than a hunch. Nothing more than a suspicion that George Farragut had stolen the Monet, stashed it in his briefcase in Simon’s office for a while and then, using tacks like those I’d seen in Jesus’s hand, had hidden it behind the remaining painting.
Why should Rossi buy into a theory like that? I had no proof. Just a belief deep in my gut that I was right. I couldn’t ask Rossi to share that belief. If he did and I was wrong, the chief would have his head.
No, better I go it alone. Convinced the gamble was worthwhile, I sat on the sand with one eye on my watch, the other on a glorious sunset, all peach, purple and turquoise, uncannily like the missing Monet. At quarter to seven, I brushed the sand off my skirt and drove over to Port Royal. To keep suspicion at bay, I parked on Thirteenth Avenue with its steady trickle of traffic. On elegant Gordon Drive, any unoccupied cars parked by the side of the road were suspect. Attention from a PD cruiser was the last thing I wanted.
I slipped off my high-heeled sandals, changed into the Nikes I kept in the trunk, and power-walked the few blocks over to the Alexander house. Lights twinkled in the downstairs windows, but not many. The upstairs bedrooms were dark. A Ford Taurus with a dented rear fender sat near the bottom of the drive, enough out of place in Jaguar Land to draw my attention. I didn’t see anyone around. Maybe the driver had run out of gas.
I jogged up the stone stairs to the entrance. The evening air, redolent with sea salt, blew soft and warm, doing little to keep me cool. To be sure the house was empty, I rang the chimes. No answer.
Praying Ilona had given me the correct new code, I punched in the numbers on the key pad and tried the door handle.
“Excuse me.”
Nearly startled out of my skin, I whirled around. An armed security guard in an official-looking dark blue uniform strode out from around the corner of the house.
“Can I help you, Miss?”
Not Naples PD. A private security cop. Still, the stern-jawed guy didn’t look like a pushover.
“I’m Devalera Dunne, Mrs. Alexander’s interior designer. I’m out for a walk, so I thought I’d check up on some party materials she ordered.”
“Just a minute, please.”
The guard reached into his shirt pocket, removed a sheet of paper and eyeballed it. Heart pounding, I hoped Ilona had given the security company my name.
He repocketed the paper. “I need to see some ID. A driver’s license will do.”
Sweating, and not just from the humidity, I reached into my canvas tote, removed the license from my billfold and handed it to him. In the light cast by the entrance lamps, he glanced at my photograph, then at me.
“It’s a terrible likeness,” I babbled, “but I never did take a good picture.” Oh God, of all the things to say.
After a final eye check, he gave the license back to me without a comment. “Go ahead in” was all he said.
Trying not to look too grateful, I nodded and, easing the entrance door open, slipped into the cool, dimly lit foyer, disarmed the motion sensor and reset the locks.
No need for more light. I knew my way and crept toward the dining room on the balls of my feet. Something about this house always put me in tiptoe mood, and tonight was no different.
I had seldom been in here after dark and couldn’t help taking a few moments to glance around and wonder, for a split second, what it would be like to live in such opulence. Though beautiful in the daytime, at night the house was pure magic with the lamps casting soft pools of light on the lush rugs, the gleaming floors, the crystal chandeliers…and, in the dining room, on
The beam from a recessed ceiling light illuminated the lapping water on that faraway shore and the images of three women who stood staring at Monet’s perfect blue sea. I blew out a breath, intimidated by the sight. Just looking at the painting gave me a high, never mind actually touching it.
I dropped my bag to the floor. No need right now for the flashlight. I wiped my damp palms on my skirt, reached up, and lifted the Monet from its wire holder. Slowly, I lowered it to the floor, turned it to face the wall and knelt in front of it. For all of its size, the painting weighed surprisingly little, the frame’s gilded wood old and dry. Another surprise, no brown paper dust cover protected the back. A good restorer would never have left an irreplaceable painting unprotected this way. My pulses throbbed. Was my hunch right, then?
Four wooden pegs, one at each corner, secured the canvas stretcher in the frame. I took a pair of snub-nosed pliers from my tote, pulled out the pegs and placed them on the floor. A clock sounded in the distance and my hand jerked. Seven-thirty. I needed to be careful. Poke a hole in this masterwork, and I’d end up in jail.
Despite the cool air, my palms were sweaty, and I wiped them on the orange skirt again. Then gently, like pressing on a baby’s cheek, I ran my fingers along the edge of the wooden stretcher and eased the canvas out of the gilded frame.
Beads formed on my forehead and dripped down my cheeks. If that guard decided to come in and check around, I’d be dead meat. My breath came in short, fast pants, but air wasn’t getting into my lungs.
I fumbled in the bag at my feet, grabbed the flashlight and hit the on button. The light flared, concentrating its energy on a single spot-the raw edge of the canvas. I peered closer, holding the flash in both hands to steady it. In its yellow beam, I saw what I’d hoped to find. A row of tacks, holding not one, but two raw edges. A second canvas
Fingers shaking, I carefully pressed the canvas back into the frame and inserted the four wooden pegs into the corner slots.
A door opened. The garage door to the kitchen? Crouched in front of the painting, I froze, listening.
Omigod. The murmur of voices.
I stood quickly and picked up the painting. It was heavier to lift than to take down. Arms trembling with effort, I raised it, fumbled for the wall hook and settled it in place.
Ilona’s high heels. The sound coming closer shocked me motionless.
Where to hide? I couldn’t let them find me in their dining room with a flashlight in my hand.
Where? Where could I hide?
Behind the draperies. Ten thousand dollars’ worth of silk fabric should be able to conceal one medium-sized woman. I snatched up my bag and, dropping the flashlight inside, tiptoed over to the curtain wall and huddled
