The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington

piercing mine with the sharpness of a scalpel, “is the only possible color. Period. End of story. Design around that premise, Ms. Dunne, or don’t design at all.”
    Of course he liked blue. Shame all over me. I had forgotten the principles of my design bible—color dynamics. Blue was the coldest shade in the spectrum. No wonder he adored it.
    “Blue it is,” I said.
    “Yes, blue it will be. I have a copy of the architect’s plans for you. And these photographs from the gallery.” Dr. Jones pulled an envelope from his breast pocket and held it out. “I thought photographs of the art would help you select the palette for the rooms.”
    My defection apparently forgiven, he favored me with a smile as I flipped through the snapshots.
    I didn’t smile back. “No, I’m afraid they’re of no help. They distort the colors in the paintings.”
    His gemlike eyes widened at being contradicted, but I had to hold my own. Once I started playing obedient nurse to his commanding doctor, I might as well flush my credibility down the toilet. He’d won the blue round. Now I had to win one. Either that or walk off the project, a luxury common sense told me Deva Dunne Interiors couldn’t afford.
    “I need to match swatches to the paintings themselves. That’s the only method that results in perfection, Dr. Jones.”
    “Call me Morgan,” he said, “and, if I may, I’ll call you Deva.” He held up a warning finger. “Remember, keep blue in mind.”
    “How could I forget…Morgan?”
    He waved a dismissive hand, as if my words were gnats dive-bombing his nose. “I want the blue interpreted with sophistication. Do you understand?”
    “Yes, I believe I do. Subliminal. There, but not there.”
    “Good girl.” He actually patted my arm. “Now come, I’ll show you the rest of the house. Let’s start with the master suite.”
    When we reached a ballroom-sized bedroom, he said, “I want this room luxurious. When the lights go on in the evening, everything must be bathed in a luminous glow.” He pinned me with his eyes. “Tenderness, softness, is what I’m after.”
    I nodded. “Now that I have a better idea of—”
    He cut me off. “Put in several levels of lighting. Sconces, chandeliers and muted lamp light on the bedside tables. The wall color is to be the most delicate blue-gray you can find, and make it shimmer. As I said, softly.”
    I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. This from the Ice Man? Maybe I had him pegged all wrong. Maybe he hid his passion from view, but like a beating heart, it pulsed steadily out of sight. For what Dr. Jones wanted was a bedroom oozing sex. The kind of fantasy room that would cause a woman to strip off her clothes, stretch out on a satin sheet, spread her hair like a curtain over the pillows and wait…
    I took notes as we toured, my handwriting deteriorating into pictographs as Morgan spewed out demands faster and faster. He trashed a few of my ideas but retained most. Then, when it came to the placement of the Sizov nude, I won another round.
    “It belongs in the kitchen,” I said.
    He recoiled like I had hit him. “No, absolutely not. It’ll be wasted in there.”
    “It’ll be unexpected in there.” I tempted him. “It’ll be intelligent in there.”
    He hesitated. “A nude in the kitchen?”
    “Positively. She’s perfect for the kitchen. Apple cheeks, eyes like purple grapes, nipples like unripe cherries. She’s good enough to eat.”
    I let him gnaw on that one, and he did. A smile creased his face. No word of a lie, the third smile in the past hour.
    “Fine,” he said, shooting an overly starched cuff, checking his Rolex. “I have five minutes left. I want to see color samples and sketches as soon as possible.”
    “I’ll get on it right away, but with the holidays so close, should we plan to meet after the New Year? January second?”
    He nodded. “That’ll do.” Reaching into a kitchen drawer, he removed a silver ring with two attached keys and gave