Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

Trevor’s already thin lips tightened to a slit. Uh-oh, a mistake to mention that. Oh well, too late now.

I plunged on. “The Gardner left the empty frames on the walls with notes explaining what had been stolen. I wouldn’t tack up a note, but I would leave the frame in place. It’s gorgeous on its own, and besides, it’s dramatic. Think of the dinner party conversation it will generate.”

His slitted lips settled into a frown. Obviously, he disliked my suggestion.

“You see. I say same. For drama alone is worth keeping.” Ilona winked at me over Trevor’s shoulder.

“Very well. I can’t fight you both,” Trevor said, his frown disappearing as he drew Ilona to his side.

A discreet cough sounded from the open doorway. We turned to see a solemn-faced Jesus standing there.

“The bartender is here, sir, awaiting instructions for Christmas Eve.”

“Ah, good. Come along, darling,” Trevor said to Ilona. “I want to discuss the setups with him. I’m thinking of putting the bar on the terrace this time. I hope you’ll agree to that, at least.”

My opinion rendered-for two hundred dollars in design time-I followed them out to the living room where Jesus waited with the bartender.

“Oh my,” I said when I saw him. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

His startled expression told me he was as surprised as I was. “Hello, there, Mrs. Dunne,” he said, giving me one of his signature bows.

It was Paulo St. James.

“You know each other?” Trevor asked, glancing back and forth at us.

I nodded. “We’ve met. Paulo’s an artist. He’s painting a young woman who works in my shop.”

“Is that so?” Trevor said. “What makes you think you’re an artist? You have something unique to say?”

I looked over at Paulo. Though the silver studs rode his ears, he had tied his dreadlocks together at his nape with a black cord, and a starched white shirt concealed the snake tattoo. A spark flared in his eyes.

“Time will tell.” Paulo held up his large, strong hands. “And these.”

“Humph,” Trevor replied. “This house is full of art. You’ve worked here before. You must have noticed?”

“Certainly, sir.”

“The Monets, of course, are the stars of the collection. You’ve seen them?”

“Yes. They’re glorious.”

“Well, one still is anyway. You’d like to paint like that?”

At Trevor’s mocking tone, caution crept into Paulo’s expression. I stole a glance at Ilona. Intent on watching Paulo, she didn’t notice.

“Well,” Trevor goaded, “no answer for me?”

“I have no wish to imitate the great Monet,” Paulo replied. “Portraits are my passion. I want to paint people and reveal what is hidden within…the secrets they keep from the world.”

“Very ambitious. Very.” His words courteous, his voice patronizing, Trevor cocked a finger at Paulo beckoning him toward the terrace. “Well, as to the bar…”

The two men strolled outside and, after giving Ilona “Chef Cheep’s” phone number, I left for the shop.

All the way back to Fern Alley, I mulled over the surprise meeting with Paulo. A multimillion-dollar painting was missing, a woman dead, and, like me, Paulo had been in the house many times. He knew its layout, its treasures, and, to some degree, its owners’ comings and goings. No doubt, he well understood the value of the Monet. But I didn’t want to go down that ugly road, not with Lee’s radiant face shining in my mind.

Surprising, too, that Trevor hadn’t said if he’d been to the Gardner Museum in Boston. He obviously loved Impressionist works, and the Gardner had several major examples. But I hadn’t been surprised to learn that Ilona had regrets. From what she’d revealed about the yenta, her marriage was one of convenience, nothing more. At least on her side. After watching her eyes feasting on Paulo, I suspected that Trevor might have reason for jealousy.

With my head spinning, I opened up the shop to another surprise; Simon came in right after me with a big happy-to-see-you smile stretched across his face. Easily the best-dressed man I’d ever known, he looked wonderful, as always. In recent months he’d abandoned his dark business suits for Naples casual wear, though he had his slacks custom tailored and bought only imported Italian silk shirts.

To Jack, clothes had been just a means of protecting himself from the elements-and public view. “A history teacher is supposed to be rumpled,” he’d told me once. “You know, the absent-minded professor look.” The colors and patterns of his clothes were always at war. For some reason, I had found that endearing. Rossi’s execrable Hawaiian shirts struck me the same way. But Simon was different, and I wasn’t sure how I felt about the difference. While clothes didn’t make the man, they sure did make him pleasant to look at. That wasn’t enough, not even close to enough, but I doubted I had learned all there was to know about Simon.

This was his first visit to the shop, and he nodded in approval as he looked around. “Very nice. Very nice, indeed.” He pointed to the lime green rear wall. “I like that, and the white garden bench you set in front of it. Looks like a piece of sculpture.”

My turn to smile. “That was the whole idea. I hoped it would show how much can be done with a little imagination.”

“It does.” He circled the Christmas tree, sniffing the pine aroma. “This is great, too. Right out of my childhood.”

“I meant it as a reminder of old times. Going to Grandma’s house for Christmas. That sort of thing. But there’ve been days I wish I hadn’t bothered.”

“The holidays can be hell,” he agreed, his voice warm with understanding. “My parents both died in the same year. That Christmas I stayed drunk for two days. It gets better, Deva.”

Unwelcome tears rushed to my eyes. I blinked them away, hoping Simon hadn’t noticed. He stepped closer, stopping an arm’s length away. For a moment, I thought he’d enfold me in an embrace, and for that single moment, I hoped he would. But he gave me a rueful little smile and said, “You will be happy again. I promise you.”

“I’m happy now,” I insisted. “Sort of.”

He laughed. “There’s hope for you and…” His voice trailed off. Had he meant to say “for you and me”? If he did, I never found out. He changed the subject to, “I’m here on a mission. I need some Christmas gifts. For my two partners and my secretary. It’s either Deva Dunne Interiors or the Total Wine Store.”

He strolled over to one of the four skirted display tables I’d placed against the side walls. Two were covered in bright red and two in a gold-and-white paisley print. I planned to keep them on through Valentine’s Day then switch them for something that said spring. Maybe lavender for Easter, later a blue-and-white awning stripe for summer. It would be a simple and inexpensive way to keep the shop looking seasonal year round.

Simon picked up a bronze golfer in midswing. “One of the guys plays golf. What do you think of this?”

“Ideal.” We spent the better part of an hour making his selections, which I wrapped in festive paper tied with glitzy bows-the golfer, an ormolu desk box, a crystal ice bucket with silver tongs.

On his way out, almost as an afterthought, he asked, “Are you free tomorrow night? There’s a gallery opening, and I promised a client I’d drop by.”

This was the second time this week he’d invited me somewhere, and I hated to refuse him again.

“We could do a late dinner afterward,” he said.

I flecked some imaginary dust off one of the tables. Accepting was stage one. Stage two would probably be a kiss. Stage three would be a hand on my thigh. Stage four would be… I wasn’t ready for that, not with Simon. He was a good friend and neighbor, but-