Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

He knows the thief’s identity. He trusts me enough to confide in me . I leaned back in his arms so I could look into his face.

“I care for you,” he said. “I don’t want anything to happen to you. Understand?” He held me at arm’s length so he could judge my response to his words “I can’t stand it when you place yourself in jeopardy,” he continued. “Like you did tonight. Like you have in the past.”

“But-”

“No buts. Throw your arms around me and tell me something I want to hear.”

“I care for you, too, Rossi.” Before the words left my lips, I knew them to be true. I did care for him, Hawaiian shirts, gravelly voice and all. So Jack, God bless him, had known the truth all along. When life takes something wonderful away, it sends something wonderful in its place. “As my Irish grandmother used to say, ‘That’s no word of a lie, Rossi.’”

Rossi beamed out one of his signature grins. “Yeah, I figured you did.”

“What!” I opened my mouth to tell him off, but he stopped me with his sassy, educated lips.

Soft and warm at first, his mouth hardened and opened. His tongue darted out seeking mine, seeking that small lovers’ mating dance. But the growl, where was the growl? Finally, a feral groan escaped from between his lips, a wild creature that couldn’t be contained. I loved causing that reaction in him and all the fight went out of me. When the kiss ended, I gasped for air.

“I liked that.” I admitted. He looked so smug I bristled and tugged free of his arms. “How come you were sure I would?”

Something suspiciously like amusement caused his eyes to crinkle at the corners. “You really want an answer?”

I nodded and folded my arms over my chest in classic defense mode. I had a sneaky feeling I wouldn’t like what he was about to reveal.

“Remember the day you came to my house?”

“I remember.”

“You didn’t want to go into the bedroom with me.”

“So?”

“So I figured there was no way you were afraid of me. You were afraid of yourself. There could only be one reason why. You were nuts about me.” He cocked an eyebrow as if waiting for my retort.

I didn’t let him down. “Rossi, that is so egotistical. It’s over the top, even for you.”

“Granted. But answer me this. Am I right?”

“Absolutely. I’ve been nuts about you since day one. I think your Hawaiian shirts appealed to me first. Then your charm. Your elegant manners. And the fact that when we stand side by side, we’re at eyeball level with each other.”

“You sayin’ I’m short?”

“’Course not. I’m saying you’re just about perfect-your height, your taste, your impeccable style.” I unfolded my arms and wound them around his neck.

“See, what did I tell you?”

“Okay, you win.” I kissed him again. If it weren’t for the Monets, I could have sat there and kept right on kissing him, but what I’d seen in that elegant dining room was coming between us. “Rossi,” I said, in his ear, “Suppose I’m right too? Suppose that is the missing Monet I saw? Then what?”

He sighed, topping it with a frown. “You want me to believe you’re on to something even the FBI missed?”

“The FBI? They’re in on it? So the insurance company got its way.”

He nodded. “They’ve brought in their international art investigator, Robert K. Wittman. You ever heard of him?”

I shook my head. “No.”

“The chief’s nose is a little out of joint, but the insurers wanted every possible resource on the case.”

“Then tell them there’s a painting hidden underneath the top one, because there is.” To beef up my argument, I asked, “You ever read Poe’s ‘The Purloined Letter’?”

“This an English test?”

“No. I’m going to give you the answer. The criminal hid the missing letter on his mantelpiece alongside his other mail. Brilliant, huh? The same here. First, the cops search the house. Second, art experts examine the remaining Monet. Third, they return it to the Alexanders. What better place to hide the missing canvas? In the same room where it was stolen. Right under everybody’s nose.”

He eased his grip on me and heaved another sigh. “A better place might be with a fence. But, okay, stranger things have happened. I’ll go to the chief with what you’ve told me. If you’re right…still a big if, Deva…you’ve found a huge piece of the puzzle, and I’ll see that you get recognition for helping crack the case. If you’re wrong, well, I can always start my own P.I. firm.”

My eyes must have lit up or something because Rossi’s fingers tightened his hold, frowning so deeply his eyebrows meshed together. “Listen to me.” He turned me so I faced him directly. “There’s an aspect to this case you know nothing about. So even if you have found the missing painting, the feds are going to tread lightly.”

“What aspect?” I asked.

He shook his head. “You know better than to ask. Also don’t expect to know or hear anything about this in the immediate future.” He gave my shoulders a little shake. “Got that?”

I nodded. He was serious.

“Above all, don’t tell anyone else what you’ve just told me. If you’re correct and word leaks out, you could be killed. Finally, and this is important, you have no proof, none at all, that George Farragut is involved.”

“But-”

“What you have is a hunch. Agreed?”

I nodded, reluctantly. “You could be correct.”

“That’s not the answer I’m looking for.”

“Yes.”

He pinned me with those hooded eyes. “You will tell no one else what you’ve just told me.”

“I swear I won’t tell another soul.”

“Now kiss me. I have to leave. I’ve got to call a federal agent.”

The next day, life almost spun back to the time before my big break-in. Almost, but not quite. Rossi cared. That alone would keep me going, but not Deva Dunne Interiors. For two days, since the news about Jesus’s murder had hit the papers, no one had come into the shop. If this continued much longer, I’d soon be out of business.

The shine in Lee’s eyes dimmed with each passing hour, and her shoulders drooped as she stood by the counter.

“Paulo won’t marry me till his name’s free and clear.”

For no other reason? She still hadn’t mentioned Ilona’s portrait. In the midst of arranging a Valentine’s display of cupids and crystal hearts, I paused to glance over at her. “I’m sorry,”

“I know,” she continued. “But we won’t get married till after they find the murderer and the missing painting. No telling how long that’ll take.”

“Is he under suspicion again?”

Her face tense and drawn, she nodded. “He’s been questioned twice. Didn’t have much to say, though. He hardly knew that Jesus man.”

I longed to tell her the FBI might be on to the painting’s whereabouts but couldn’t. The best thing I could do for both of us was to keep the doors open to Deva Dunne Interiors. I hoped that would continue to be possible. In the meantime, I had to keep busy with the clients I did have.

“I’ve got to get over to Bears’ Plumbing and order fixtures for that powder room project,” I said. “Think you can handle the crowd alone?”

She nodded and gave me a wobbly smile.

I got as far as the Audi when I remembered my measuring tape and notebook were back in the shop. I tossed my handbag in the trunk and, dodging traffic, jaywalked across Fifth Avenue and hurried down the alley.

“It’s just me,” I said over the cheery jangle of the sleigh bells. I hurried into the shop then careened to a dead stop at the sight of him. Merle Skimp. To my annoyance, a flash of fear shot through me. “I thought you were in Alabama.”