The Monet Murders

At five, I closed the shop and drove to the NPD station where I signed my witness statement for a young female officer. Lieutenant Rossi was nowhere in sight, nor did I ask for him. Afterward, figuring that though the sleigh bells and the tree hadn’t lifted my mood, maybe a glass of wine would, I drove back to Fifth Avenue and dropped in at the Irish Pub.

I sat at one of the little metal tables on the terrace overlooking Sugden Square and soaked up the cool evening breeze. As their children scampered about, tourists in shorts and T-shirts leisurely strolled the open square. Tiny white lights encircled the palm trees, adding a note of festivity to the scene. In this peaceful place, it was hard to believe that only a few blocks away a world-class masterpiece had been snatched into oblivion and a woman shot to death.

A slim blonde server approached, pad and pen in hand. “Evening, ma’am. What would y’all like?” she asked in a lilting southern drawl.

I’d heard that soft southern drawl before and glanced up from the menu. “Lee Skimp, is that you?”

“Y’all know me?” A hand flew to her mouth. “The decorating lady.”

“I’ve been called worse things,” I said, laughing. “How are you?” A sweet girl, Lee had been instrumental in finding Treasure’s killer, and for that I’d be eternally grateful to her.

“I’m just fine,” she said, adding shyly, “I looked in your shop window the other day. It sure is pretty.”

While she spoke, she kept glancing over one shoulder then the other as if searching for someone.

“Is anything the matter, Lee?”

She nodded. “I shouldn’t be telling a customer, but since you asked…it’s my daddy. I moved out a month ago and heard tell he’s been looking for me. If he finds me here, I don’t know what all will happen.”

“Anyone of legal age has the right to strike out on her own.”

“I’ll be twenty-one and a half come Friday.”

Of course. To serve liquor she’d have to be, though truth to tell, she hardly looked that old. More like a lovely waif with her long, shiny hair and big Loretta Lynn eyes.

“Then your father can’t force you back home against your will.”

“You haven’t met my daddy.” She attempted a smile. “You’re not here to listen to me yammer on. What all can I get you, Ms. Dunne?”

“Please call me Deva. And a glass of house chardonnay would be lovely.” I was on a budget. My palate would understand.

“Coming right up.”

As Lee hurried off to fill my order, I scanned the menu. I’d have a burger, the pub specialty, affordable and filling.

Maybe the man’s hurried gait was what caught my eye. And his wintry clothes. Amid the scantily clad tourists, his blue jeans, cowboy boots and flannel shirt were as exotic as a bikini on an Eskimo. He trotted around Sugden Square, darting with a jerky step between clusters of sightseers. A nervous squirrel on a hunt for nuts, he looked vaguely familiar somehow. Strange.

Lee came back with the wine and took my order.

“A burger, well done, no onions.”

She wrote it down. “Anything else, Ms. Dunne?” I never got to answer. “Oh, no,” she whispered. “He’s found me.” Terror filling her eyes, she dropped the pad on the table. As if her fear drew him like a beacon, the strange man spotted her and came at her full tilt, in his haste elbowing a woman out of his way.

“Hey, quit your shoving,” she yelled.

He ignored her and hurried toward the terrace. Trembling, Lee shrank against the pub wall.

I knocked my chair back and jumped up. “Daddy?”

She nodded, panic in her eyes. “He’ll make me go home.”

“You don’t want to?”

Too terrified to speak, she shook her head.

I hate bullies, and judging from Lee’s fear, this little, skinny guy was a bona fide bully in the flesh. No way could I sit by and let him push her around. A grizzly protecting her cub, I stood in front of Lee, my purse clutched in both hands.

“Get out of the way,” her father ordered, his body fairly quivering with rage.

I squared my shoulders, drawing myself up to my full five feet six. “I’ll do no such thing.”

“My name’s Merle Skimp, this gal’s daddy. I’m telling you to step aside.”

“I’m telling you to leave her alone.”

“You got no right to come between kin.” Skimp’s hand, quick as a snake’s strike, darted out and clutched my arm. For a skinny man, he had a powerful grip. I couldn’t shake him off.

Food forgotten, the diners at the nearby tables stopped eating to stare at us.

“Let her go, Daddy,” Lee begged. “I’ll come with you.”

“No, you won’t,” I said. “You,” I shouted to a startled diner. “Get the manager. Hurry.” To my relief, the man jumped up and rushed into the pub.

“That won’t do you no good.” Skimp tightened his hold on my arm, bruising it. “You heard her. She’s leaving this godless place. Come on, gal.” The pressure of his fingers increased, shooting pain down to my fingertips.

Shaking, ashen-faced, Lee took a step toward him. Where the hell was the manager?

As Lee moved away from the wall, Skimp let go of me to lunge for her. The tyrant. My Irish temper flared sky high. Before he could grab her, I swung my handbag and clobbered him. Combined, my cell phone, keys and makeup kit had enough clout to knock him off his feet for a second. But only for a second. He rallied, beckoning to her. “Come on.”

I struck out again, this time knocking the baseball cap off his bald head. As he bent to retrieve it, I realized why he looked familiar. “I know you!”

He was the gardener I’d seen stooping over the shrubbery on the Alexanders’ lawn.

Before he could admit or deny it, a tall, chesty man with the heft of a barroom bouncer hurried over, trailed by the flustered diner.

“I’m Brad, the pub manager. What’s the problem here?” the big guy asked.

“Ain’t nothing to worry about, sir,” Merle Skimp said, tugging the Devil Rays cap back on his head. “It’s a family matter.”

Brad turned to me. “You called for help, ma’am?”

There was that “ma’am” again. First Dreadlocks, now Brad. Clearly, I needed to change my image-lengthen my hair, shorten my skirt. Something.

“This man-” I pointed a finger at Skimp, “-attempted to abduct your server.”

At the direct accusation, Skimp found his spine. “She’s my gal. I just want to do the right thing by her. She don’t belong in here. Servin’ drinks like a common hussy.”

His eyes on Lee, Brad upped his hefty chin in her father’s direction. “You know this man?”

Trembling, Lee stepped out from behind me and nodded.

“You want to go with him?”

Without lifting her gaze from the concrete pavers lining the terrace, she shook her head. “No, sir.”

“You heard her,” Brad said to Skimp. “I have to ask you to leave.”

Skimp shot a venomous glance at me then held out a hand to Lee. She made no move to take it.

“Come on home, gal. Think of what your momma would say.”

Lee shook her head. “No, Daddy.”

Brad reached into his pants pocket and removed a cell phone. “Your choice, mister.”

“I’m goin’, but I ain’t happy about it. I’ll talk to you another day, gal.”

“Come back, I’ll call the police.” Arms crossed over his green Irish Pub T-shirt, biceps bulging, Brad held the phone, watching as Skimp darted across the square and disappeared around the corner of the Island Grill.

“I’m so sorry,” Lee began, teary eyed. She got no further.

“No need to apologize, Lee. You’re a good employee.” Brad turned to the gaping diners. “Show’s over, everybody. Drinks on the house.”

As a pleased buzz went up, he asked me, “Your name again, ma’am?”

Ma’am. “I give up.”

“What was that?” Brad asked, a puzzled look on his face.