The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington Page A

it to me. “The small one is for the security system.”
    “Thank you. Before I leave, I think I’ll take another look around.”
    “Take all the time you need.” He glanced at his watch again. “I was expecting someone else, but he’s late, and I’ve got to leave. Be sure to turn on the alarm when you’re finished.”
    “Of course.”
    As we left the kitchen, the chimes sounded. His habitual frown in place, Morgan strode to the foyer and yanked open the front door.
    “Do you have my briefcase?” a man asked.
    “Yes.”
    “Christ, I’ve been worried sick about it.”
    “Then you should have shown up last night.”
    “I had good reason not to. Whose Audi is that in the driveway?”
    Curious to see the caller, I strolled toward the foyer. The visitor was a middle-aged man with the tanned, fit look of a dedicated sportsman.
    “George Farragut, this is Deva Dunne, my interior designer,” Morgan said. “George is my financial advisor, Deva. He’s known for keeping creative books.”
    “I’ll ignore that crack, Morgan.” George peered at me. “Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” he asked as I held out my hand. “Ah, now I remember. In the Naples paper. You’re the woman who discovered the art theft at the Alexanders.”
    Not a word about Maria. I lowered my hand. “That’s correct. I discovered the theft. I didn’t perpetrate it.”
    “I didn’t mean to imply you had,” George said, his expression implying plenty.
    “You know the Alexanders?” I asked, annoyed enough to question him.
    “I’m Trevor’s financial advisor.”
    “Then we have something in common. We both work for him.” Borrowing one of Rossi’s ruses, I sprung a surprise question. “The Monets are marvelous, aren’t they? Which one is your favorite?”
    “Sunset at Royan.” He stopped short as if he’d said the wrong thing.
    “The one that’s missing.” My turn to insinuate. You could say I do bitchy really well.
    Anyway, the smug expression fled George’s face. “Yes, so I understand.”
    “I’ve never seen the Alexanders’ Monets,” Morgan said with a shrug. “No matter. My preference is late twentieth century. Here’s your precious briefcase, George.” Morgan picked up the Hermès case from the foyer floor and handed it to him.
    George clasped it to his chest. “I got in eighteen holes at Pebble Beach, but other than that, the trip to L.A. was damn near a bust without this. The office faxed most of what I needed, but still…”
    “You shouldn’t have been so forgetful,” Morgan told him. “Are you slipping, George?”
    This from the man who’d forgotten the same case last night.
    Without waiting for an answer, Morgan clasped George’s shoulder and drew him toward the front door. “I’m seeing patients this afternoon, and I know you have to get back to work. So let’s leave Deva alone to do her thing. Don’t forget to turn on the alarm,” Morgan said, glancing back and tossing me a wink. I couldn’t believe it. A wink from the Ice Man? Would wonders never cease?
    And would the list of people who had access to the Alexander mansion keep growing? Rossi had his work cut out for him. Socially prominent, the Alexanders entertained constantly. Scores of people, most of them wealthy and well connected, had been guests in their home and had seen the Monets. But being a guest in the company of others was one thing; having access when the house was empty was another. Except for family and close friends, that would be business people like George and me, and service personnel, the laundress and maids who came in several times a week, floor polishers, window cleaners, and the party temps who helped Maria and Jesus serve invited guests.
    Even the gardeners had limited access. On several occasions I saw Maria open the kitchen door and hand bottles of cold water to the men sweating in the sun. Men like Lee’s father. Alone that fatal day, had she opened the door to the wrong person? To someone she recognized?