Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

I shrugged. “Chip’s retired, so he may not want to get back into a kitchen.” But I knew he would. Chip adored cooking and had only retired to please AudreyAnn, his love buddy. While not exactly a trophy, AudreyAnn required a lot of TLC. Chip, I suspected, enjoyed dishing that out as much as he did lasagna. Still, for two grand, AudreyAnn would no doubt be willing to sacrifice a cozy Christmas Eve around the palm tree.

Ilona slumped deeper into the down cushions, staring through the glass wall out to the Gulf of Mexico sparkling turquoise all the way to the horizon. As Ilona stared at the view, I wondered why on earth I’d been called here. I was grateful to the Alexanders for hiring me but also worried that the scandal would kill fledgling Deva Dunne Interiors before it had a chance to fly. But there wasn’t much I could do about that except hope the case would soon be solved. So, nerves on edge, I waited, my design time clock clicking away at a hundred dollars per hour.

Finally, Ilona tore her attention from the view, heaved a sigh and said, “You know something, Deva, I never should have married him.” She threw her hands up in the air. “That yenta should be shot.”

“I’m not following you, Ilona.”

“No? You never heard of yenta?”

“I have, but what has that got to do-”

“You want I should tell you?”

Uh-oh. Here it comes. Something I shouldn’t hear. The same thing happened on nearly every sizable design project. Somehow, when you pick out people’s drapery fabric, you morph into a confessor, and they tell you stuff their own mothers don’t know. Usually I dread these confidences, but this time I was as alert as a bunny in an open meadow.

In fact, I aided and abetted. “So tell me. What’s a yenta?”

Another dramatic sigh. “A matchmaker. This one I should never have listened to.”

“No?” I leaned forward so as not to miss a word.

“It’s no secret. When Trevor drinks, Trevor talks. Everybody knows. Everybody.” She swept her arms wide encompassing the room, the Gulf, the world. At least the world that counted socially.

“Ilona, I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I did have a glimmer, but curiosity had seized me in its sharp teeth, and I was dying for the fangs to sink in deeper.

“He buy me.”

“You’re kidding, right?”

“I no kid. For three hundred thousand dollars.”

“No!” If my jaw hadn’t been attached to my face, it would have hit the floor.

“Yes, I tell you truth. That’s what that yenta charge him. Her clients search everywhere but cannot find what they want in wife. She finds. All over world. Only the best, the crème de la crème. She comes to Budapest and interviews me many times, and I tell you, Deva, she asks questions your mama never would. Terrible.”

“You answered?”

Ilona’s eyes widened with a frisson of surprise. “Of course. In strange way, it was honor. And I want to marry. It was time.”

I was amazed that her noble family would have allowed such bartering for one of their own. Centuries earlier, rulers did so out of political expediency, but today there could only be one reason. You couldn’t live on a noble name alone, and Trevor Alexander was an extremely wealthy man.

Interesting that he couldn’t find a woman without a yenta, but, no, I dismissed the idea as soon as it popped up. Though a portly fifty, what Trevor lacked in physical stature-and hair-he more than made up for in fiscal assets. Women would fight to nail him. He didn’t need a high-priced marriage broker to find a mate. But he obviously hadn’t wanted a garden variety female; he’d wanted a twenty-something aristocratic hothouse plant. Hot being the operative word.

“Anyway, that is past what I speak of,” Ilona said. “Now I must look to future, or-”

“Sounds ominous, darling,” a male voice boomed from the doorway.

“Oh, Trevor. Dearest, you’re here at last. We wait for you.”

Without moving from her cushioned comfort or revealing the slightest guilt at what she’d just admitted, Ilona held up her arms and raised her face for a kiss. When Trevor bent over the couch to embrace her, she clung to him as if she never wanted to let go. An Academy Award performance. Trevor loved it, and the kiss lingered on. And on. I was about to excuse myself when he finally broke loose and stood upright. He removed a folded handkerchief from a pocket of his linen slacks and wiped the trace of Ilona’s pink lipstick from his mouth.

When he lowered the handkerchief from his lips, Ilona gasped. “You have blood. Is something wrong with mouth? With teeth?”

“Nothing I can’t handle. I think you bit me, darling.”

“Yes? See what power you have over me. I forget myself.”

He smiled, probably in anticipation, an expression Ilona must have understood all too well, for she immediately changed the subject.

“How did lie test go, darling?”

His smile disappeared. “As well as can be expected. At least we’ve got that behind us.”

Ilona turned to me. “Can you believe, Deva? In Europe we are when the Monet is cut. Yet still we must take this detector test. Ridiculous!”

Trevor patted his mouth once more before putting the handkerchief back in his pocket. “I take it you ladies haven’t addressed the design problem yet.”

“Not yet, darling. I told you, we wait for you.” Ilona unfolded her lovely curves from the sofa and crooked a finger at me. “Come, Deva. We look. You tell us what you think.”

More puzzled than ever, I followed the two of them to the dining room. I hadn’t been in there since the day I found the Monet missing, and my heart pounded as I walked in. Though the room looked its best at night under the glow of the Baccarat chandelier, the wall sconces, and the flicker of candles, I was grateful for the afternoon sunlight. In it, the remaining oil of the beach at Royan took my breath away once more.

At my side, Trevor said, “The insurance company returned the painting to us just yesterday. They had insisted on having an appraiser examine it. It’s intact, thank God.”

I forced my attention from the painting and glanced over at him. “I love looking at it, Trevor, but frankly I’m puzzled. Why am I here today?”

“To settle a dispute between my beautiful wife and me. We’re at odds about what to do in here.”

I laughed. “A family spat? How can I possibly help with that?” Truth be told, though, husbands and wives often had different design ideas. When they did, my job involved negotiating a solution that would satisfy both. This had to be one of those times.

Trevor pointed to the empty gilt frame on the opposite wall. Shorn threads of canvas still clung to the wood.

“I think we should remove the empty frame and leave that wall bare for now. Some bastard took the larger painting, but the remaining one’s strong enough to dominate the room on its own.”

“Of course, it is,” I said.

“I disagree with dear husband.” Ilona softened the sting in her words by slipping her arm through his. “Is dramatic to leave frame in place. Why try to hide truth? Everyone knows.”

“Our house is perfection, darling.” Trevor’s glance ran over her saying without words, and so are you. “It distresses me to have this desecration on our wall. Don’t you agree, Deva?”

A loaded question. I was King Solomon with a naked baby lying in front of me. Cut it in half or leave it intact? Not wanting to give him a blunt yes or no, I asked, “Have you been to the Isabella Gardner Museum in Boston?”

His lips thinned in displeasure. “How is that relevant?”

“A multimillion-dollar theft occurred there a few years ago.” I pointed to the plundered frame. “Same scenario. Pictures were cut from their frames. They’ve never been recovered.”