The Monet Murders

by Jean Harrington

Overview

Interior decorator Deva Dunne never dreamed she'd see a Monet hanging on someone's dining room wall. Then she snags a client with two Monet seascapes. Her thrill lasts until she finds one of the paintings missing, cut from its frame, and the cook shot dead.

Rough-around-the-edges, but gorgeous all-around police lieutenant Victor Rossi insists Deva leave the sleuthing to the police. But what could it hurt to come up with a list of suspects that doesn't include herself? Like the owners of the Monets, a rich man and his trophy wife, and their frequent guests. Even the cook's husband is suspect. Then Deva finds another victim, clutching a very strange set of clues.

Desperate to save her business amid the negative publicity, Deva helps Rossi investigate. And when he needs advice decorating his bedroom, she just might find a client for life. Unless a killer gets to her first.

71,000 words

Product Details

ISBN-13:	9781426893933
Publisher:	Carina Press
Publication date:	06/11/2012
Series:	Murders by Design , #2
Sold by:	HARLEQUIN
Format:	eBook
Sales rank:	762,982
File size:	1 MB

Read an Excerpt

I punched in the code to the Alexander mansion as if I owned the place. Not wishful thinking. Familiarity. I'd been in and out of the house so often lately, it felt like home. Ha! My entire condo would fit into the dining room I'd just finished—my first ever high-end interior design project.

A gardener wearing a Devil Rays cap was clipping shrubbery by the stone portico. I waved to him, opened the door and stepped into the foyer. Though the Alexanders were in Biarritz for a week, I helloed like mad anyway. Staff might be around, and I didn't want to startle anyone.

The odor of lemon wax and gardenias floated through the air but not a single sound. Maria, the cook, and her husband, Jesus, the estate's major domo, must have taken the afternoon off. Perfect. I'd have the Monets to myself.

Heartbeat thudding, I tiptoed across the cavernous living room into the dining room. The new draperies I'd installed were closed, shutting out the light. I fumbled for the wall switch, flipped it, and the fabric swished apart, revealing a room magnificent enough for Arab sheiks. To give the paintings star billing, I'd kept the d cor opulent but discreet with ivory-colored paneling and heavy matching silk at the windows. The Baccarat crystal chandelier and wall sconces added the only glitzy touches, except, of course, for the glowing Monets.

I turned to the wall on the right. Ah...eyes hardly blinking, I worshipped Sunrise at Royan. Had there ever been a dawn as young? A sea as flawless? All apricot, peach and turquoise, the water gently lapped at the shore, not marring the scene with so much as a wave. My business needed every dime I could earn, but seeing this painting was almost payment enough. With a sigh, I tore my gaze away. I had to save some adoration for Sunset at Royan on the opposite wall. I swiveled to the left and saw—omigod!—an empty gilt frame.

The knock-off Chanel bag slipped from my arm and plunged to the floor.

I crept closer. Someone had sliced the canvas out of the frame. Only jagged edges still clung to the wood. Not daring to trust my eyes, I stared, unbelieving, at the sacrilege—a masterpiece cut and changed forever. Worse, it was gone, maybe for good.

The police. I had to notify the police.

Hands trembling, I grabbed the bag off the floor, plunked it on the mahogany table, for once disregarding its polished surface, and rummaged for the cell. My fingers fumbled, as limp as overcooked spaghetti. I couldn't find a thing. In desperation, I dumped out the contents. No phone. It was sitting on the Audi's front seat.

I remembered seeing a phone in the kitchen. Abandoning the mess on the tabletop, I pushed open the swinging door and rushed through the butler's pantry into the kitchen.

I grabbed the receiver and dialed 911.

"My name is Deva Dunne. I want to report a theft."

That was when I saw Maria—stretched out on the floor beside the food prep island—the toes of her oxfords pointing at the ceiling, a bullet hole in the middle of her forehead.