Free The Monet Murders by Terry Mort Page B

story?” he asked.
    â€œHere’s the deal as far as I know it. The late Mrs. Watson was keeping company with this guy Wilbur Hanson. I have a photo of him that she gave me.”
    â€œI already know what he looks like, although I’m guessing he looks better in the picture than when I saw him. And just a word of advice—if you’re going to be a private dick out here, you’d better find a more colorful way of saying ‘keeping company.’ Otherwise, people’ll think you’re some sort of fairy.”
    â€œFine. I’ll try to clean it up. How’s this—she was banging the guy, and it was the classic story of the older woman and the younger man who was only putting up with her sagging charms and tinted hair because he figured there was something in it down the road. She had a bad case of the hots, and he had a bad case of wanting to get rich.”
    â€œThat’s more like it.”
    â€œThe prize in this case was a painting. A Monet. Ever hear of the guy?”
    â€œThere’s a black dude named Maurice Monay doing three-card monte on Figueroa, but I doubt it’s the same one.”
    â€œNo, this one’s a French artist whose paintings go for six figures.”
    â€œSix figures. Hard to believe anyone would pay that for a picture of anything. Unless it was a nude. Was it?”
    â€œNo. A bunch of flowers.”
    â€œI swear the human race gets dumber by the hour. Anyway. . . .”
    â€œSo anyway, this guy Hanson steals the Monet from the aforementioned Emily Watson and replaces it with a copy. And, as is usual in such cases, she goes over the edge when she realizes she’s been played for a sucker. When Hanson shows up again, she lets him have it and, then, after a moment of emotional turmoil and romantic despair, turns the gun on herself. Full stop.”
    â€œRomantic despair?”
    â€œMaybe there’s a better way to express it. Hysteria, maybe. Shock. Maybe even accident. What do you know about Hanson?”
    â€œNot much. He doesn’t seem to have any next of kin that we can find. He’s just another one of these pretty boys who come to this town. How’s the painting figure into this?”
    â€œWho knows? I thought he might be trying to return it, maybe mend some broken fences. Or maybe he got cold feet and realized he wasn’t cut out for the art underworld.”
    â€œWhat about the husband?”
    â€œClueless, according to his wife.”
    â€œAbout the boyfriend or the stolen painting?”
    â€œBoth. Out of curiosity, does he have an alibi?”
    â€œSeems to. He was gambling out on the Lucky Lady pretty much all through the day and most of the night. Plenty of witnesses saw him. He called the cops when he got home. The boys said he was pretty shook up.”
    â€œI’ll bet. But I keep wondering why Hanson came to the house that night. I keep thinking he was trying to return the original and get back on the side of the angels.”
    â€œNo one in this town is on the side of the angels. Our name is a cosmic joke. But I see your point. If he was trying to make good, the other painting, whether real or copy, would be soaking up some gigolo blood when we got there.”
    â€œThat was the idea.”
    â€œGood idea, but no cigar. There was plenty of blood, but it was being soaked up by a Persian carpet. The only painting was hanging above the mantel—not that I paid much attention to it. I’m looking at the crime-scene photos now, and there’s definitely a picture above the mantel. But there’s no second painting anywhere. Sorry.”
    â€œHmmm. Maybe Wilbur stashed the painting somewhere safe and went to Emily’s house to beg for forgiveness.”
    â€œPromising to return the painting later?”
    â€œRight.”
    â€œIt’s possible, I suppose. Most likely we’ll never know. But what do you want out of this?”
    â€œThe lady in question gave me