The Monet Murders

anger and adrenaline seethed in my veins. I raised the club. I’d give him crass. But before I took my place at bat, I had to know something.

“After the robbery, where did you hide the painting?”

He smiled and lowered his hands, ready to chat it up. I guess he figured what the hell, I was never going to escape alive, why not tell me how diabolically clever he had been.

“I rolled the painting in a priority mail box, drove to Tallahassee and sent it to the Naples Community Hospital, care of myself. The mailroom held it till I picked it up.”

“So when Ilona gets her divorce, she walks off with not one Monet but two. And no one the wiser. Very clever.” I swung my club. Practice warm-ups, if you will. “Except your plan didn’t work. I told the homicide detective about the missing painting. The cops know it’s hidden behind Sunrise at Royan. So does the FBI.”

He reared back as if I had struck him. Desperate now, I played my strongest card. “If anything happens to me, they’ll nail Ilona, blame her for my death. Her only hope is if you let me go.”

He stood motionless. Would he buy what I was selling? Did he love Ilona enough to sacrifice himself for her? Doubtful. Far more likely he’d kill me and make a run for it. But I pressed on. “Ilona and I are friends. You heard her say so yourself. Those killings have appalled her. What will she think…or do…if you kill again?”

“She’ll think I’m strooong!”

Showtime. Morgan jumped into the ditch beside me. Confident he had me, he didn’t bother to pick up another log so we could duke it out, but lunged straight for my throat. As his arms reached out, I twisted out of the way. He shot past me, whirled around and, with a snarl, came at me again, a beast seeking its prey.

Muscles I didn’t know I had sprang into action. Weaving, parrying, feinting, I circled the ditch, brandishing my log, never turning my back to him. One chance was all I’d get. I couldn’t waste it. My best bet-go for his head, knock him out.

We circled, panting with effort, our harsh breaths mingling in the damp air with a cloud of buzzing gnats.

“You haven’t got a chance,” Morgan gasped. “Give up, Deva. It’ll be swift.”

“Damn right, Morgan.” Who did he think he was? He’d kill me mercifully, would he? Well, screw him. “Come on,” I taunted. “Come on. Come and get me. Let’s see how much of a man you are. Come on.”

He paused, not answering, sucked in a deep breath and rushed forward, arms extended, fingers flexed.

In the last split second before he grabbed me, I raised the log and held it in both hands, straight out like a battering ram. Too late to stop his forward thrust, Morgan crashed into it with his chest, the force of his rush splitting the log and jarring my arms clear up to my shoulders.

I screamed in pain, but Morgan didn’t utter a sound. A look of stunned disbelief flashed across his face, and he slumped to the ground where he lay as peacefully as if he were in his soft, satin ultra-king bed.

I flung down the log and scrambled out of the ditch. Helter-skelter, not knowing where I was running to, I raced through the woods on sore feet, hoping for the best, hoping for the west, hoping for a manicured lawn, a ribbon of road. I was running from a dead man. And from myself. For now I knew what I was capable of, and I ran from that as much as from the thought of Morgan’s lethal hands crushing my windpipe.

On tortured feet, I ran and ran, knifelike undergrowth slashing my soles, branches slapping my face and clawing at my clothes, until like a madwoman I burst through the undergrowth onto a lawn like a carpet.

Relief brought me to my knees. I sank onto the manicured grass, gasping for air, spewing out a prayer of gratitude. I lay there panting, listening for the sound of pounding feet and angry hands shoving away branches. Nothing.

I had to get help. I needed Rossi.

Pulling myself to my feet, I limped across the lawn to a huge Tuscan mansion sitting like a well-fed duce in the center of its elaborate gardens. My feet left a bloody trail on the stone entrance stairs. Wait till they see that, I thought, as I pressed the chimes. From inside the house, I heard a musical ring then the sound of footsteps. A few moments later, the door opened. A heavyset Hispanic woman in a white nylon uniform took one alarmed look at me and slammed the door in my face. No wonder. I probably looked like I’d been regurgitated.

I punched the chimes again. I’d keep doing that until someone inside called for help. And that’s exactly what happened.

After an eternity, the Bonita Bay security car rolled up the drive, and an elderly guard slowly climbed out from behind the wheel.

“Thank God you’re here,” I said, not giving him a chance to say a word. “Call the Naples Police.”

“You’re in Lee County, lady. Not Collier.”

“No matter, ask for a Lieutenant Rossi. His number is 555-8000. I want to report a homicide. Tell him I just stopped a man’s heart.”

The guard’s jaw dropped open.

“The man I killed was a cardiac surgeon. I got him in the chest. I don’t expect you to believe me, but it’s a case of poetic justice.”

He hesitated, then, without taking his eyes off me, trying to look tough, he stood at the bottom of the stone steps and dialed the number.

“They’ll be here in a few minutes,” he said, hanging up and pocketing his cell. “What’s your name, lady?”

“Deva Dunne.” I slumped onto the top step and let my feet hang over the edge.

“Good lord, how did that happen?” he asked, pointing to them.

“It’s a long story, sir. If you don’t mind, let’s wait for the cops. I’ve only got the strength to tell it once.”

Wary but willing, he nodded.

While we waited in an uneasy silence, I glanced around at the stone planters flanking the stairs. “Remind me to tell the owner these planters are the wrong scale for an entrance this size.”

“Okay, lady, sure,” he said, shifting from one foot to the other and giving his pants a hitch.

I knew he wouldn’t. I could tell he thought I was crazy.

Chapter Twenty-Seven

The guard was right. I was crazy. Crazy from guilt. I’d done the unthinkable-killed another human being. Fought like a wild animal to save my own life-to smash the life out of Morgan. When he lay crumpled at my feet, pure, raw triumph had surged through my veins. I could remember the very taste of it. Omigod, mea culpa. Mea culpa.

Keeping his vigil at the bottom of the stairs, the guard stood with his feet apart. Though he wasn’t packing, he kept his hands on his hips cowboy style. Still trying to look tough, he stared at me without blinking, though in my current condition I was no flight risk. I couldn’t have taken a single step.

I didn’t know if he had called Rossi or not. Like he’d said, we were in Lee County and Naples police had no jurisdiction here. At this point, I was almost beyond caring. All I wanted was to lie down in a clean bed and lose the pain in my feet and in my heart.

Within minutes a Bonita Springs cruiser drove onto the circular drive. No Rossi then. Two officers emerged from the car and one approached the guard. “This her?”

He nodded. “Yes sir. I apprehended her right here.”

“Hey wait a minute,” I said. “He’s got it all wrong.”

The younger of the two, the one without the paunch, strode up the steps. “I’m Officer Casey. Why don’t you tell me what happened.”

I waved an arm at the wooded lot. “He’s in there somewhere.”

“Who’s in there?”

“The man I killed. Dr. Morgan Jones.”

“You killed a man?” Officer Casey upped his chin at his partner. “Take this down.” He turned back to me. “What is your name, ma’am?”