Free The Monet Murders by Jean Harrington Page B

studded a well-groomed lawn. When I spied a boxlike stark white structure in striking contrast to its neighbors, I pulled onto the curved stone driveway.
    Figures. Anyone who liked surreal green nipples would like sleek deconstructionist architecture. Judging from its exterior, the house would be fascinating to work with and, not to be crass about it, a big empty place that needed everything was a designer’s dream come true. Well, one of them, anyway.
    Pulse pounding, I climbed out of the Audi and rang the front entrance bell. Waited, rang a second time, waited, rang a third. No answer. My pulse rate dropped back to normal, and I returned to the car and sat behind the wheel. Our appointment was for ten thirty. I’d give him until eleven. If he didn’t show by then, I’d leave. Whether I needed the job or not. A girl has her pride.
    To my relief, Dr. Jones didn’t put me to the test. Shortly before eleven, he roared up in a marine blue Porsche Boxster. The car door swung open, and he jumped out frowning. I yanked the key out of the ignition, picked up my handbag, clipboard and the Hermès briefcase, and exited the Audi.
    Dr. Jones nodded and flicked his glance over me, running it from my hair down to my Jimmy Choos—one of the best investments I’d ever made. In neutral leather, they went with everything. Everything today being a gold tank top and pencil skirt over which I’d tossed a new purchase, a short fitted jacket, hand-quilted in squares of coffee, orange, green and gold. It even sported chunky wooden buttons that looked a lot like Oreo cookies. I hoped it would signal to Dr. Jones that while I do classic black I do flashy funk too. After all, he had bought that bizarre painting, who knew where his tastes might lie?
    As Dr. Morgan’s glance crawled over me, I felt nothing sexual in his stare. Like last night, he gave me the impression he was merely appraising the dollar value of my attire. Creepy. And I was about to enter an empty house with him? I gave a mental shrug. Simon knew I’d be meeting Dr. Morgan this morning so that was a safety valve of sorts. Besides, the man was a well-respected physician. Creepy didn’t mean dangerous, did it?
    I held up the briefcase. “Your friend’s?”
    “Yes, thank you.” He took it from me, and with his free hand jabbed a finger at the house. “Shall we? I only set aside an hour for this.”
    No apology for being a half hour late? Reining in my irritation, I followed him to the front door. Anger didn’t pay well. Be charming, I muttered to myself, even if it kills you.
    He coded off the electronic security locks and held open one of the double doors. His frown disappeared, and a smile flitted across his face. Unexpected as a flash of sun at midnight, it startled me. But I was in for another shock. I stepped inside, walked through the foyer into the great room and gasped.
    “The house is full of art!” I said, whirling around to face him.
    “I wanted to surprise you,” he said.
    He had, all right. In the bare white interior, a row of stunning oil paintings was propped against the walls. I stood in the center of the empty, echoing space and stared at them in amazement. Eight in all, they ranged from a smallish Jim Dine, a mere two feet by four, to a monumental Rosenquist. At nine by twelve, through sheer size alone it ruled the room.
    Dr. Jones walked up to the massive abstract, studying it as though it were a beautiful woman—with lust glowing in his eyes. Then he turned to me. “I had to have the Rosenquist. I couldn’t resist. The color is exactly right for the house.”
    Shades of blue, pierced with thunderbolts of silver and black, shot across the canvas.
    “Which color is right?” I asked.
    “The blue. It’s my favorite color in the world.”
    Blue for a post-modernist structure? This was a house on the cutting edge, and it called for cutting edge colors to play up the form. “Blue as an accent, perhaps, but—”
    “Blue,” he said, his eyes