The Monet Murders

behind the bouffant folds.

High heels clicked into the dining room. “Deva is not here,” Ilona said. “She must have left without guard seeing her. But party boxes are still in garage. I no understand-”

“I told you not to give out the code to anybody. But as usual, you didn’t listen to me.”

Trevor. I’d heard that annoyed tone in his voice before.

“She forgot to reset the motion sensor on her way out. Just like a woman.” His tone had gone from annoyed to disgusted.

“Deva is no threat. She just want party supplies.”

“Don’t worry your head over that pile of crap. You’ve got other fish to fry. Tonight’s the night.”

“Nem. No, darling. Not tonight. I’m too upset. Not one person sit at our table. Or stop to chat. We must leave this place.”

“The only place I’m going to is bed. And you with me.”

“You no understand, Trevor. I want to go home to my anya. To Hungary. We have armed guard outside our door. It’s like gulag. I no want to live here anymore.”

“Oh, yeah? Well, I do. It’s a goddamn paradise. What I no want is that nem, nem, nem. Always, it’s nem, nem, nem. What the hell did you marry me for? No, don’t answer that. I already know. Come on. Come on. Up the stairs.”

In the stifling air behind that heavy fabric, my clothes stuck to my back as I strained to listen. A muffled slap floated through the draperies.

“I’ve told you no touch my derriere like that,” Ilona said, then the click of her stiletto heels on the marble stairs.

I waited, hardly daring to breathe, for what seemed like an eternity before creeping out from behind the draperies and inching toward the foyer. I’d disarm the security code and reset it, motion sensors and all. In the next instant, I’d be outside waving to the guard. Then I’d disappear down the driveway and out of sight before Trevor got his pants back on.

Chapter Twenty-Two

The instant I slid behind the wheel of the Audi, I groped for the cell and, heart hammering, phoned Rossi. For once, I had something important to tell him, something he couldn’t dismiss for lack of evidence.

He picked up on the first ring. “Where are you?”

“On my way home. Will you meet me there? Fifteen minutes?”

“I’m already there,” he growled. “In your parking lot.”

“You’re waiting for me? How sweet.” I heaved out a sigh of relief. I could always count on Rossi. “Why don’t you jimmy my door open and wait inside?”

“There’s a name for that. Breaking and entering. It’s against the law.”

“Be home as soon as I can,” I said, disconnecting the call and tossing the cell on the passenger seat. As I eased out of the parking space and onto Thirteenth Avenue, my heartbeat slowed to normal. A purist about the law, Rossi might not be as pleased with my news as I’d first thought.

Okay, so technically, I’d entered the Alexander mansion under false pretences. But I meant no harm. If, in fact, I had found the stolen painting, I’d done some good, hadn’t I? An irreplaceable treasure, the Monet belonged out in the world, not fenced into hiding by some sneak thief. Surely Rossi would agree to that.

Anxious to get to him and spill what I knew, I pressed on the gas pedal. With light traffic all the way home, I made it in ten minutes flat and zoomed into the Surfside carport, screeching to a halt next to Rossi’s Mustang.

He greeted me with a poker face and a slight nod of his head. What a romantic.

Nightfall had cooled the salt-laden air a bit, but not by much, and we strolled into my air-conditioned living room with a sigh of relief. But the air didn’t feel cool for long. He reached for me, and together we soon upped the temperature to a sweaty, humid, tropical haze.

Before my body could turn to flame, I eased out of his embrace. “I have to tell you something.”

“It’ll wait.” He stroked my hair.

I took a step back. “No, I have to tell you or bust.”

“Your timing is terrific.” He frowned but let me take his hand and draw him onto the sofa. While I told him what I’d found, he listened without interrupting. But the more I talked, the more the scowl lines in his forehead deepened into grooves.

“That it?” he asked when I stopped, his voice dripping with ice. Or maybe with fire.

I nodded and sat hugging my knees in a corner of the sofa while he paced around my living room waving his arms. I’d never seen him so incensed.

“Breaking and entering is a felony. The Alexanders would be within their rights to press charges.”

The anger in his voice sent my own temper soaring. “Why would they do that? The guard let me in. I’m on Ilona’s good-guy list.”

Rossi glared at me, his hooded eyes smoldering, but not with the passion I’d hoped for. I couldn’t blame him for being furious. Now that I was safely back home, the chance I had taken swept over me, catching me up in a delayed reaction. If I dared get off the couch, I was sure my knees would buckle.

Rossi stopped pacing to stand over me, glowering. “A killer’s on the loose.”

“I know,” I said.

“He struck twice in that house you just broke into.”

“I didn’t-”

“Don’t interrupt. You could have been his next victim. You should have thought of that.”

Seeing him so upset, with worry lines creasing his forehead and veins sticking out in his neck, I just nodded, all protest exhausted. But Rossi had more to say.

“Suppose he found you examining the painting? Maria was killed because she caught someone cutting it out of the frame.”

“You’re raving, Rossi.”

“And Jesus was killed because he caught someone-”

“Hiding the stolen Monet behind the other one,” I finished. “And the most likely candidate to have done so is George Farragut.”

Rossi shut up and sank onto the sofa next to me. He held out his arms. “Come here.”

I didn’t need a second invitation to snuggle next to him. Warm and hard, his arms pulled me in close. I laid my head on his chest and listened to his heart. All that ranting had it pounding like crazy.

“There’s something else you should know,” I said after a moment.

He groaned and loosened his grip a little. “What now?”

“When I was in Mesnik’s frame shop today I saw something.”

“Yeah?”

“A painting of Ilona Alexander. Paulo is the artist.”

Rossi frowned. “Why is that significant information?”

“No one has been told about it. I don’t think even Lee knows.”

“So?”

“There has to be a reason for the secrecy. I thought you should know.”

“All right. It’s probably not relevant to the case, but I’ll follow up on it.” He dropped a kiss on my hair. “There’s something else I have to tell you.”

He knows the thief’s identity. He trusts me enough to confide in me. I leaned back in his arms so I could look into his face.

“I care for you,” he said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Understand?” He held me at arm’s length so he could judge my response to his words “I can’t stand it when you place yourself in jeopardy,” he continued. “Like you did tonight. Like you have in the past.”