The Monet Murders

couldn’t tell. Tire kicking summed up the extent of my mechanic skills.

Now I’d have to contact Tom at Art Installations and reschedule. I climbed out of the car and stood tapping a foot on the tarmac as I thought things over. Pretty much a one-man operation, Tom had set aside several hours for the Jones project. I knew he needed the business and hated to waste his time over a no-show.

Instead of canceling, I could leave my car in the Bears’ lot for now and call a cab. Consider the fare a business write-off.

I went back inside the showroom to tell Bears Plumbing about my problem. They surprised me, big time. Said they’d drop me off at Morgan’s house, would call a garage, and if my car could be fixed in the next couple of hours, they would deliver it to the same address. Making a mental note to give Bears all my future business, I went outside and kicked the tires anyway. You never know.

* * *

When I was dropped off at the Jones house, Tom’s pickup wasn’t waiting in the driveway. Strange. I rechecked my schedule. Yeah, Tom and I were on for today. The traffic must have held him up.

I coded my way into the house. The lacquered foyer, a lapis lazuli jewel box, positively glowed in the midday sun, exactly the effect I’d been after. I wandered into the great room where the odor of drying paint lingered in the air. The whisper of blue on the walls was as subtle as a baby’s breath-not my first choice, but a good foil, actually, to the abstract art-especially the blue-inspired Rosenquist.

I left my bags on a kitchen counter and checked my watch. Tom was a half hour late. Very unlike him. Maybe being dropped off out here hadn’t been such a good idea after all. Restless and getting a tad more nervous by the minute, I wandered through the downstairs rooms, making notes and verifying a few measurements. A bit bored, I wandered upstairs. If Tom didn’t show in the next half hour, I’d call him and find out what happened.

At the top of the stairs, the master suite, an empty shell, stood waiting for the satin bed Morgan had demanded.

Hmm. I let my imagination play with the finished room and all its sexy details. Would Rossi like a similar bedroom? We could add color, soften the lighting, buy some satin sheets. But somehow I could hear his gravelly voice telling me such frills didn’t matter. The important thing…

What was that? Had I heard something? Yes. A man’s voice. It couldn’t be Tom. He didn’t have a key to the house. I stood still, listening. Ah, I recognized Morgan’s cool tone and then another voice. A woman’s.

Uh-oh, there was no car parked in the drive. Having me suddenly burst out of the bedroom like a Jack-in-the- box would be an unpleasant surprise. Well, no avoiding it. The sooner they knew I was upstairs, the better.

I took a step toward the open bedroom doorway. Then I heard her, loud and clear, the only woman I knew with a Hungarian accent. Ilona.

What was she doing here? And then it hit me. Oh God, could Morgan be her new man? The one she had left Trevor for? Like a movie camera on fast forward, my mind raced with possibilities. Of course, that was why she was here. This was no casual house tour. She was checking out her soon-to-be home. Nothing else made sense.

Paralyzed with indecision, I stood in the center of the room, listening to her heels click on the marble staircase. For certain, they’d come in here. Right where Morgan planned to make love the instant he had his new satin bed. Right where I was standing. Egads. Without thinking, acting on pure instinct, I hurried into the walk-in closet and silently closed the shuttered door. A dumb move, actually. To a woman like Ilona, clothes closets were as vital as air. She’d want to see if it were big enough. For sure, it wouldn’t be.

Damn. But at this point, what choice did I have? They’d reached the room. It was too late now to pretend I hadn’t heard them.

“Darling,” Morgan said, his voice throbbing. “Here it is.”

They strolled in, along with a drift of Ilona’s Opium perfume, their footsteps loud on the room’s concrete sub- flooring. The plush, wall-to-wall carpeting wasn’t due for installation until next week.

“Now imagine our bed on that wall, between the sconces,” he said.

“An ultra king?” she asked.

“Of course, what else? It will be our private playpen. Luscious and soft. As you are, darling.”

Resisting the urge to gag, I peeked through the door slats. Morgan had taken Ilona in his arms and stood nuzzling her neck. Finally, with what looked like reluctance from behind the slats, her hands reached up and, encircling his back, she clung to him as he embraced her.

After a month or so, he lifted his head from her throat.

“If only we had a bed,” he murmured. “If only…” His voice broke, whether from passion or a head cold, I couldn’t tell.

“But we do not,” Ilona replied.

Damn, Hungarian women were so practical.

“We can improvise. There must be something.”

“Nem.”

Ha! Morgan had just heard the first of many nems.

“I want our joining to be perfect for you,” Ilona added, softening the blow, so to speak.

A sigh. The sound of a kiss. Then, “Very well, darling. I’ve waited this long. I’ll wait a little longer. Counting each day, each hour.”

“And I count minutes, Morgan.”

“Darling!”

“No more kisses now. We must talk. Like I tell you yesterday, I am worried. I think Deva suspect something.”

“Let her. She’s under suspicion herself. You were wise to give her the new code to your house…it draws her in. I’m just glad she didn’t decide to use it the day I-”

Ilona covered his mouth with a diamond-studded hand. “No, no say out loud. You did what you had to do. But I must tell you, Morgan, Maria was big shock, but not like Jesus. When I return from Hungary and find him dead, I almost faint. That was not part of plan.”

“No darling, it wasn’t. But he caught me tacking the oil in place. I had to kill him.”

Hardly daring to breathe, my heartbeat pounding in my ears, I kept peering through the shuttered closet door.

“I have question,” she said.

Holding her at arm’s length, he looked down into her eyes. “Yes?” Was I imagining it, or did he sound wary?

“Last night, the news say George Farragut is dead. Shot. Do you know of this, Morgan?”

“Of course I know of this. The airwaves have been filled with it. Poor devil.”

“That is not what I ask. Do you know of this?” She stepped back, out of the circle of his arms.

His hands fell by his sides. “Are you asking if I killed him?”

She stayed out of reach of his hands and nodded, just once, briefly.

“George knew. Or maybe I should say, he suspected.”

“How is that possible?” For the first time since I’d met her, Ilona’s voice didn’t rise above a whisper.

“We were drinking together one night. I alluded to a theft. He was a smart man, he surmised.”

“What this mean, surmise?”

“Guessed.”

It wasn’t easy, peeking through the slats, but still I’d take a vow that Ilona’s face went ashen white. “You killed him for a guess?”

“I had to. He could have gone to the police. I had no choice. For you, I have broken all my oaths. The ones I vowed to keep. But nothing matters except possessing you. I’ll be faithful to you forever.”

Under different circumstances I might have snorted in disbelief, but not this time. That was a serial killer out there, and I had no desire to be his next victim.

“If only I had a pillow or something to lay you on,” he murmured. “I’d prove how much I worship you. I know I