Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

“Or we could just have a nightcap,” he was saying. “Or only do the gallery,” he ended lamely.

He had stopped short of begging, but the pleading note in his voice decided me. Besides, I couldn’t hide out forever, turn into a professional widow. Above all, Jack wouldn’t like that. The unexpected realization swept through me like a healing drug, and I blurted out, “I’d love to go to the opening, Simon.”

His eyes took on a shine. Over me? “Wonderful. Pick you up at quarter to eight.”

“I’ll be ready,” I said. It would be networking, I told myself, not a date.

With classes at FGCU over for Christmas break, Lee’s hours at the Irish Pub had increased from three nights to five. Still she insisted she was free on Sunday afternoon and showed up for work at two, her usual time. She must have informed Paulo, for he arrived promptly at two as well. While Lee sat at her desk by the entrance greeting people as they walked in, he sat outside on a folding stool behind his easel engrossed in the portrait. When a customer needed her help, Lee would leave her place by the window. Each time that happened, Paulo waited patiently for her to return to her seat. As she did, he nodded, smiled, and resumed painting, the attention turning her pink as a rose.

The sight of an artist at work drew people down Fern Alley, and for the first time the shop buzzed with activity, the sleigh bells on the door pealing every few minutes. In a few hours, I’d sold more than I had all week. One woman wanted her powder room redone right after the holidays and left her name and phone number. A small job, but a good omen for the future.

Lee had to change into her server’s uniform and be at the Irish Pub by six. So at five, she retrieved her purse from the storage room, and with a soft, “See y’all on Wednesday, Deva,” she stepped outside.

The lure of the painting brought her, as it must, to Paulo’s side. As I watched, she stared at the canvas, a hand covering her mouth to catch the gasp escaping from her lips. Paulo smiled up at her, causing my heart to turn over. I remembered the same light shining in Jack’s eyes when he looked at me so long ago. A lifetime ago.

“Deva, how much is this glass bowl?” a woman asked, and when I glanced out to the alley again, Paulo and Lee were gone.

Simon picked me up right on time, quarter to eight. Since we both lived in Surfside, he didn’t have far to go, just a quick elevator ride from his third floor condo to my garden apartment on ground level. When I opened the door, he let out a wolf whistle and made a circle with an index finger. “Turn around.” I obliged. “Arm candy,” he declared.

I laughed. “High praise coming from the best-dressed man in Naples.”

“It’s not the dress, it’s the body,” he said, bestowing a light kiss on my cheek.

“I won’t argue with that,” I said, laughing even more. A woman knows her flaws better than anyone else, so to have them overlooked by an attractive man has to be high praise. I’d worn my one and only Armani suit, black shantung, the skirt slightly too short, the heels slightly too high, and Jack’s mother’s pearls, exactly right.

With every parking spot on Broad Street taken, we parked a block away on Third Street South. Before we walked to the Adler-Meek Gallery in the mild December air, Simon popped open the BMW’s trunk and removed an Hermès briefcase.

“Yours?” I asked. “An Hermès? I’m impressed.”

“No, a client’s. It’s been in my office since last week. He was rushing to catch a plane to L.A. and forgot it. He’ll be here tonight and asked me to bring it along.”

Simon left the case at the reception desk, and we skimmed the gallery’s catalog before shoehorning our way into the showrooms.

“It’s jammed,” Simon whispered in my ear.

“Figures. Opening night. Free champagne and hors d’oeuvres.” It looked like every art buff in town was here. I wondered if Ilona and Trevor would be as well.

Simon plucked two champagne flutes from a tray and handed one to me. “To my lovely lady,” he said. We clinked glasses.

The “lovely lady” was nice, but I wasn’t sure about the “my.” To hide my confusion, I strolled ahead of him. Perfume and aftershave swirled in the air along with the buzz of talk and laughter.

I glanced back over my shoulder. Simon had stopped to speak to someone he knew. I should take a lesson from him and chat it up. That was why I had come, after all, to network. Judging from their clothes and jewelry, this was a high-end crowd who might well be interested in the talents of a good interior designer. Trouble was, I’d have to interrupt a conversation to be heard.

I sipped my champagne and, squeezing through tight clusters of people, strolled into the next room. Into an explosion of color. A bit dazed by the visual impact bouncing off the walls, I wandered over to a large nude of a female torso. A Sizov. One of the Russian surrealists the catalog mentioned. It was surreal, all right, with magnificent breasts and swollen nipples, the paint swirled on in wild combinations.

A tall, lean whippet of a man with a high forehead and receding hairline stood engrossed in the oil. He wore a double-breasted suit and a jaunty bowtie strangely at odds with his serious demeanor. I stood next to him, trying to see what he found so fascinating. If he noticed me, he didn’t let on.

“What’s the focal point?” I finally asked of no one in particular.

He glanced over at me. “Does there have to be one?”

I shrugged. “Surrealism’s a ball game without rules.”

He took his attention from the oil to rivet it on me. His keen glance appraised my suit and lingered at the pearls I’d clasped around my throat. Assessing their value? He extended his hand. “Morgan Jones.”

“Deva Dunne.”

“I’m in love with this painting,” he said.

“You have the eye of an artist.”

“More likely that of a surgeon.”

“Oh?”

“Surgery’s my work. Art is my love. But to get back to the Sizov. You seem conflicted about her.”

I took another sip of champagne. “Green nipples take a little getting used to, but what tears you away from them is that third eye.” I laughed. “The one in the middle of her forehead.”

He looked back at the painting. “Why do you suppose it’s there?”

“Does there have to be a reason?”

“Let’s assume there is.”

“All right.” If he wanted to play mind games, I was willing. “Let’s assume the breasts are bizarrely colored to capture our attention, but once we’re captured, it’s the eye that holds us. It pulls our glance upward, away from the physical to the mind. To the intelligence. Hence, we have two focal points. One stronger than the other. And the stronger is mind over matter.”

He cocked an eyebrow. “Very good. You’re no idle gallery groupie.”

Maybe he didn’t mean to be condescending, but I stiffened. “My degree’s in art history. I guess that helps.”

His eyes, glossy as agates, flashed over me again, missing nothing this time, openly appraising what I wore, my makeup, my hair, my jewelry, and estimating the cost of my suit down to the penny.

“Interesting” was all he said, but he made no move to walk away.

I opened my purse and took out the sterling silver card case Simon had given me when I opened the shop. I handed Dr. Morgan Jones my business card.

His glance flicked over it. “So you’re an interior designer? That’s how you used your degree?”

I nodded. He didn’t need the story of my life.

He snapped the card with an index finger. “I’m buying the Sizov. She’ll be an exciting addition to my collection.” He tucked the card into a pocket. “Tell me,” he said, “if you had to work this lady into a house-” he gestured to the painting, “-how would you go about it?”