Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

“St. Paul. From the Corinthians,” Lee said, her voice spiking with pleased surprise. “You read the Bible, too?”

I wondered if Paulo could pass a polygraph on that one.

“No. Not really,” he said, regret tingeing his tone. “But I think I’ll begin. Starting now.”

“I love St. Paul. He’s my favorite of all the New Testament writers.”

“Then I’ll definitely begin with him.” Obviously reluctant to leave, Paulo stood clutching his clipboard, his eyes devouring Lee.

I suppressed a smile. “Perhaps we could hold Bible class at another time.”

“Oh. Sorry, Mrs. Dunne.” With a visible effort, he tore his gaze from Lee. “I’ll be back on Wednesday. I promise I won’t interrupt your business.”

With a courtly little bow for each of us, he left, setting the sleigh bells jangling. This time, looking at a radiant, pink-cheeked Lee, I thought they sounded positively jolly.

“Well,” I said. “What do you think of all that?”

“Miz Dunne…Deva…I’m so frazzled, I can’t think hardly at all.”

I laughed or I would have cried remembering the impact of Jack Dunne’s presence the first time we met. “Can you come back down to earth long enough to tell me if there were any calls?”

“Oh. Oh, yes, ma’am. Two. One from a Mr. Simon-” she glanced at a note pad, “-Yaeger. He wants to talk to you about Christmas dinner. He said he’ll call back this afternoon. And Mrs. Ilona Alexander called. She wants you to drop by her house tomorrow. She needs your decorating advice for their Christmas Eve party.”

A party? And poor Maria’s remains hardly scooped up from the kitchen floor? Unbelievable.

“Why me?” Ilona Alexander asked when I arrived at the Gordon Drive house the next afternoon. “This morning I must take lie test. Can you believe? Me?” She pointed a French-manicured fingernail at her spectacular breasts. “They say I pass. Of course I pass. Instead why they not tell me who stole my painting? Or why my cook is killed? Why? Why my cook?” She pronounced her w’ s like v’ s, the heavy Hungarian accent adding to the allure of her blonde supermodel looks.

Simon had been right. Everything about her shrieked trophy -the long tanned legs, the highlighted hair tumbling past her shoulders, the aura of Opium perfume floating around her. And, of course, the breasts. I’ll bet they’re fake, I’d sniffed the first time I met her. She had stepped out of her home gym in workout gear, her spandex top challenged to the max. And did I mention her face? Perfection. She made the average female- moi -acutely aware of all my flaws: my frizzy hair, my every freckle, my mere size-B cups, my generous hips.

Today, in a leopard-print sheath and spike-heeled gold slides, she paced her living room’s marble floor, asking, “Why?” Vhy ?

“It is tragic,” I said, mystified as to the reason I had been summoned there.

“Yes, tragic. To think I cannot find cook. No one will come. Not after this…this katasztrofa ! They’re too afraid.”

“Perhaps a bonus.”

“I try that. No woman will touch it. And I want female cook. My mother had woman for cook. My grandmama had woman for cook. I am Szent-Gyorgyi. Woman cooks are family tradition.” She heaved a sigh. “Also Trevor must be happy. He is so jealous, he wants no men living here. Only Jesus because he is married man.” Her diamond-studded fingers flew up to her mouth. “No more he is. I suppose now Trevor will say he must go.”

She sank onto the down-filled cushions of her double-length sofa. “Why this happen? Why?”

“The police are asking that same question, Ilona. I’m sure they’ll find the reason.”

She nodded but didn’t answer. She didn’t invite me to sit, either, but I thought, what the hell, and did anyway, on an exquisite bergère across from the sofa.

The original owners of the house had hired Holland Sally, Naples’s premier design firm, to create the interiors. They had chosen white and ivory for the public rooms with yellow silk brocade on the French chairs and touches of gilt on the ormolu tables and accessories. A masterful plan, it enhanced the formality of the high-ceilinged rooms yet managed to keep them light and playful. It was a look strangely at odds with Trevor’s blunt practicality, but one that suited glamorous Ilona perfectly. Though looking at her lovely, discontented face, I was struck by the realization that all this opulence hadn’t made her happy. Far from it.

“Now what I will do?” she asked. “Fifty guests for Christmas Eve and no chef. What? ”

She looked like she really wanted to know, so I decided to tell her what I honestly thought. “Well, in light of the investigation and Maria’s death, you could cancel.”

She bolted upright on the cushions. “Absolute not. Once given, invitation never is withdrawn.”

“But under the circumstances?”

“ Nem . No. But where to find chef, even male, in so short time? Is half impossible.”

“True,” I said, annoyed enough to agree. Not a word of sympathy for Maria had yet escaped from those sculpted lips. Ilona acted as if Maria had never existed, never boiled her an egg, never prepared her special lo-cal meals, her après pool parties, her lavish dinners. Sweet Maria who had called me Señora Dunne in her soft voice and had smiled so warmly each time, almost as if she knew how much I loved being known as Jack’s wife. What a shame her life had been snuffed out so savagely.

Ilona heaved a sigh. “I’m desperate woman. Desperate.”

I thought of Chip, who lived in the condo next to mine. A retired executive chef, he could probably use some extra cash. “Well, if you’re really at wit’s end, a chef I know might consider pitching in. He’s retired but-”

Ilona sat up straight, bristling with interest. “Who this marvel is?”

“My next-door neighbor, Chip.”

“Cheep?”

“Yes.”

“What is his specialty?”

“Italian.”

“Northern Italy?” Hope leapt across Ilona’s chiseled features.

“Southern.” I was enjoying myself.

“ Jaj Istenem! Oh, my God! Not tomatoes.”

“Exactly. Everybody loves his lasagna. He passes extra sauce around. And wait till you taste his antipasto.” Touching my thumb and forefinger to my lips, I sent her a little pucker of gastronomic bliss. “Gelato for dessert. Homemade. Vanilla is his forte. ”

Ilona heaved a sigh that sent her breasts aquiver. Hmm, maybe, just maybe, they weren’t implants. “Never can I face my friends again.” She wrung her hands, the stones on her fingers clicking together. “You know I’m Szent-Gyorgyi?”

“You mentioned that, but I don’t understand.”

“Szent-Gyorgyi. I descend from noble family. Kings, queens, intelligentsia. You heard of Albert Szent-Gyorgyi? Yes?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“My great uncle. My Albert Bacsi. He won Nobel Prize for Medicine in 1936. For green peppers.”

“Green peppers?”

“ Igen . Yes. Hungarians love them. Uncle Albert isolate vitamin C from peppers. It was big medical breakthrough for my bacsi . ”

“Ah. Fascinating.”

“Of course. My family is one of oldest in Europe. And now I cannot even hire cook, a menial.”

Okay. For that crack, Chip’s price just doubled.

“Well, should you decide to ask Chip for Christmas Eve, his fee would be two thousand dollars. You’d provide the food as usual, of course.”

“Two thousand? That is ridiculous. Who he is? Wolfgang Puck?”