Jean Harrington - The Monet Murders

I jumped out of the car, popped the trunk and removed a sunhat I stored there with my Nikes for beach excursions. More than once it had prevented me from turning into Freckle City. Together with a pair of outsized shades, it would have to do as a disguise. I got back behind the wheel and, keeping an eye on the rearview mirror, watched for the Porsche. For I was sure Ilona would be driving “her” car. Her pride and joy…well, one of them, anyway. I didn’t think she’d recognize the Audi. When I called on Gordon Drive, she had never greeted me at the door. That had been Jesus’s job, God love him. My hands gripped the wheel as a flash of silver came streaking down the curved Ritz drive.

I ducked down as the Boxster sped past and took a right onto Vanderbilt. I followed, and when Ilona turned north on Tamiami Trail, I kept on her tail, a super sleuth in a sunhat.

The daytime traffic, always heavy at the height of the tourist season, ran bumper to bumper. I took my eyes off the Porsche long enough to glance at my watch. Four-thirty. Rush hour. The Boxster could outmaneuver and outrun most cars on the road, but like the rest of us, Ilona was hemmed in on all sides and subject to the same limit, fifty per.

Or was she?

Two cars ahead of her, the middle lane opened up for a millisecond. Her foot, no doubt in her usual backless, spike-heeled slide, must have tromped on the gas. She zoomed into the opening, took the high speed lane, then swerved to the right, passed a pickup and was back in the far left lane in the blink of an eye.

Watching her antics, I admired her daredevil driving and the Porsche’s flawless performance. Its racing car suspension switched lanes with no rocking and not the slightest tilt of the chassis, as smooth as water over glass.

A minute later, I was swearing my head off. Ilona had sped out of sight. I had lost her. Doing some fancy passing of my own, I picked up speed and eyeballed the crowded lanes for several more miles. No luck. Whether she’d headed for Ft. Myers or beyond, or driven off onto one of the dozens of side roads that intersected the Trail, I couldn’t tell.

Damn. Now I’d have to wait for a formal introduction to The Boyfriend.

Some sleuth. I snatched off the sunhat, flung it in the backseat and slowed down. I had taken a chance chasing Ilona. With the Glock still in my purse, I was carrying without a permit. One more piece of bad publicity in the Naples Daily and I might as well set up shop in Bangladesh.

As soon as I came to a turnoff, I’d head for home. Under the speed limit. Disgusted, I snapped on the radio. Some kind of fifties elevator music clogged the airways. I was about to change stations when an announcer’s voice interrupted what was passing for music.

“A breaking news bulletin. An hour ago, a prominent Naples citizen was found dead in his Fifth Avenue South office. Mr. George Farragut, well-known financial analyst to many of Naples’s wealthiest residents, was shot to death in what is apparently a homicide. Police are now investigating…”

I switched into the low speed lane and turned off the radio so I could digest what I’d just heard. George? Murdered . Unbelievable. So I had been wrong about him. Perhaps, all along he had been the prey not the predator. Or maybe his death and Maria and Jesus’s were totally unrelated. But somehow I didn’t think so. With his close connection to the Alexanders, it was entirely possible that George had been the victim of the same killer. But why George? What had he seen? What did he know that had caused his death?

I pulled off the highway and parked in a Walgreens lot to think for a while. The day I was in Trevor’s study, Simon had left a phone message saying he had dealt with George. Whatever the problem might have been, was killing George the ultimate solution?

I didn’t get any answers to my questions that night, though Rossi called to say hello and to tell me to keep the deadbolts on and the cell phone next to my bed.

“Then you think whoever killed the Cardozas killed George too?”

“That has not yet been determined. I’m just telling you to be careful.”

“You’re scaring me,” I said.

“Good. Stay scared. Scared doesn’t take chances. I’ll call you again as soon as I can.”

He hung up. That was midnight, and by nine the next morning, when I left for work, I’d heard nothing else from him.

“Deva, wait up!”

As I hurried toward the Surfside carport, I glanced over a shoulder, though I hardly needed to. I’d know that deep, lustrous voice anywhere.

Tall, tanned and handsome, in a charcoal gray Brooks Brothers suit, white shirt and silver striped tie, Simon came striding across the Surfside parking lot looking like every woman’s dream guy. Why not mine? Truth be told, I was afraid of him. George had been a problem to him and now George was dead. And I was “the Dunne woman” as if I were a person he had met once or twice on a bus or something. Also because I was intrigued with a short guy who wore garish Hawaiian shirts with the tails out. Go figure.

“It’s good to see you,” Simon said, a smile lighting his eyes. “I’ve missed you.”

“Sorry, Simon, but business has been terrible. I haven’t had time to think of anything else.” I was lying through my teeth. Multitasking was every designer’s middle name. But I didn’t know what else to say. The truth was definitely not an option.

“You’ve heard about Farragut?” he asked.

“Yes, it was all over the news last night. And on the front page this morning.”

“Nice guy. Very capable. A shame.”

“I know, scary.”

“Sounds like you need a diversion. After all this bad news, I could use one too. How about tonight? I have some Pinot Grigio. A Michael Bublé CD. We can order Chinese takeout. Your favorite, Beef Szechwan.”

Though I hated to kill his hopeful-looking smile, I shook my head. I should tell him I was interested in someone else, but couldn’t. Besides, Rossi and weren’t actually dating. At least not officially. He had said he cared for me and worried about me, and I didn’t figure him for a liar, but caring and worrying weren’t commitments, were they? Besides, if I said a single word, Simon would want to know who the lucky guy was. I couldn’t go there. Not yet. Rossi knew I wasn’t implicated in the crimes, but he had to contend with that line in the sand the chief had drawn. Any outing of our…ah…relationship would have to come from him.

I rolled back my shirt cuff and glanced at my watch. “I’d love to chat, Simon, but I’m late for an appointment with a plumbing supplier.”

He nodded as if I’d just said something interesting.

“Then I’m meeting an art installer at Morgan Jones’s new house. It’s quite the showplace, or will be when it’s finished. Have you seen it?”

He shook his head. “No reason I should. I hardly know the guy. He’s a friend of George Farragut’s not mine.”

True or false? I wanted to believe Simon, but the thought of how he’d had me deliver that Hermès briefcase to Morgan’s house rose like a specter between us. My trust in him destroyed, I pretended not to see the hurt in his eyes, said goodbye and hurried over to the Audi. After stalling out a couple times, the engine roared to life, and I drove off leaving Simon on the tarmac watching me go.

Choosing some ornate powder room fixtures at Bears’ Plumbing Supply only took a few minutes. Selections made, I tossed my tote and handbag in the Audi’s backseat, got behind the wheel and switched on the engine. Or tried to. It didn’t even turn over. Whether the battery had conked out or something more insidious had happened, I couldn’t tell. Tire kicking summed up the extent of my mechanic skills.