Free The Monet Murders by Terry Mort

report the theft to the insurance company, collect your settlement, and forget the whole thing, while continuing to enjoy the copy. It would be perfectly honest, because the painting was in fact stolen. The only wrinkle in this story is that you happen to know who took it. But that is something you can keep to yourself. Your husband need never know anything other than you’d been robbed and restitution had been made. Apparently, he wouldn’t care one way or the other about the painting. Of course, Wilbur would get away with the crime, which would be a shame, but your reputation and relationships would be protected. As well as your bank account.”
    â€œI’ve thought of that, of course.”
    â€œAnd?”
    I could see the blood rushing to her face, and her expression changed so that she suddenly looked less like a pleasant Amelia Earhart and more like some evil stepmother in a scary children’s book.
    â€œI want the bastard found and caught.”
    So it wasn’t the painting so much. It was “Hell hath no fury,” with a side order of Medea.
    I stared at her for a moment while she digested the fact that I understood her real motivation and the fact that she didn’t give a damn whether I did or not.
    â€œWhat happens if I do track him down?”
    â€œThat’s my business. Finding him is yours, if you think you’re up to the job.”
    â€œI think I can handle it. Of course, he could be anywhere in the world.”
    â€œI don’t care where he is or how long it takes.”
    At twenty-five dollars a day plus expenses, this was the kind of client to have.
    â€œMay I keep this picture?”
    â€œYes. And when you’re finished with it . . . burn it.”

    When she left after writing a check for two hundred fifty dollars, it occurred to me that this arrangement could end badly. I didn’t like the combination of jealous rage and pearl-handled automatics, even a small caliber. I felt like a pointer sniffing out the quail. What if I found the guy, located him, and she said thank you very much just before she emptied the magazine into his midsection? If it happened, how was I supposed to feel about that? On the other hand, I did likeher two-hundred-and-fifty-dollar retainer check. This is a business that requires conscious compromises.
    My problem was solved for me the next morning when the headline in the papers said: SOCIETY MURDER/SUICIDE. EMILY WATSON SHOOTS INTRUDER, THEN TURNS GUN ON HERSELF. BEL AIR IS BUZZING . The rest of the copy contained the standard amount of lurid details. The victim, identified as “Wilbur Hanson, artist,” had needed three shots to the abdomen. Emily had only needed one to the side of the head.
    Things happen, don’t they? I had deposited her check, but the job was over before it started. I’d been hired to find the immediate whereabouts of the boyfriend. That was easy. He was lying on a stainless-steel gurney in the county morgue, draining. I imagine she was there too, in a similar situation. I wondered whether I should call her husband and offer to return the money. I wouldn’t have minded, but that would needlessly add to his shock and grief. Why did he have to know that she had hired a private dick to track this gigolo down? This way, he could maybe tell himself that she had defended her home and honor against a well-dressed intruder. A Raffles sort of gentleman burglar.
    Of course, he might wonder why she had felt compelled to shoot herself, but maybe he could put it down to shock or even accident. As long as he didn’t know the truth, he could tell himself anything that would be a barricade against obvious suspicions. On the other hand, I figured I owed her or someone something for the money, so I decided to call the boys at homicide and tell them what I knew. As far as the murder/suicide was concerned, I didn’t know much, except the motive. But I did know there was a “priceless