Hemlock Bay

  Tennyson or his father could have stolen them last night after they’d left the house. Mr. Monk could have helped them.

  No, someone would have notified her if the paintings were gone. Or maybe they would just call Elcott Frasier or Tennyson. No, they were her paintings, but she was sick, wasn’t she? Another suicide attempt. Incapable of dealing with something so stressful.

  She was out the door again in three minutes.

  9

  The Eureka Art Museum took up an entire block on West Clayton Street. It was a splendid old Victorian mansion surrounded by scores of ancient, fat oak trees madly dropping their fall leaves in the chilly morning breeze. What with all the budget cuts, the leaves rested undisturbed, a thick red, yellow, and gold blanket spread all around the museum and sidewalks.

  Lily paid the taxi driver five dollars including a good tip because the guy had frayed cuffs on his shirt, hoping she had enough cash left for admission. The old gentleman at the entrance told her they didn’t charge anything, but any contributions would be gracefully accepted. “Not gratefully?”

  “Maybe both,” he said and gave her a big grin. All she had to give him in return was a grin to match and a request that he tell Mr. Monk that Mrs. Frasier was here.

  She’d seen the paintings here only once, during a brief visit, before the special room was built, right after she’d married Tennyson. She’d met Mr. Monk, the curator, who had gorgeous, black eyes and looked intense and hungry, and two young staffers, both with Ph.D.s, who’d just shrugged and said there were no jobs in any of the prestigious museums, so what could you do but move to Eureka? At least, they said, big smiles on their faces, the Sarah Elliott paintings gave the place class and respectability.

  It wasn’t a large museum, but nonetheless, they had fashioned an entirely separate room for Sarah Elliott’s eight paintings, and they’d done it well. White walls, perfect lighting, highly polished oak floor, cushion-covered benches in the center of the room to sit on and appreciate.

  Lily just stood there for a very long time in the middle of the room, turning slowly to look at each painting. She’d been overwhelmed when her grandmother’s executor had sent them to her where she was waiting for them in the office of the director of the Chicago Art Institute. Finally, she’d actually touched each one, held each one in her hands. Every one of them was special to her, each a painting she’d mentioned to her grandmother that she loved especially, and her grandmother hadn’t forgotten. Her favorite, she discovered, was still The Swan Song—a soft, pale wash of colors, just lightly veiling an old man lying in the middle of a very neat bed, his hands folded over his chest. He had little hair left on his head and little flesh as well, stretched so taut you could see the blood vessels beneath it. The look on his face was beatific. He was smiling and singing to a young girl, slight, ethereal, who stood beside the bed, her head cocked to one side. Lily felt gooseflesh rise on her arms. She felt tears start to her eyes.

  Dear God, she loved this painting. She knew it belonged in a museum, but she also knew that it was hers—hers—and she decided in that moment that she wanted to see it every day of her life, to be reminded of the endless pulse of life with its sorrowful endings, its joyous beginnings, the joining of the two. This one would stay with her, if she could make that happen. The value of each of the paintings still overwhelmed her.

  She wiped her eyes.

  “Is it you, Mrs. Frasier? Oh my, we heard that you had been in an accident, that you were in serious condition in the hospital. You’re all right? So soon? You look a bit pale. Would you like to sit down? May I get you a glass of water?”

  She turned slowly to see Mr. Monk standing in the doorway of the small Sarah Elliott room, with its elegant painted sign over the oak door. He looked so intense, like a taut bowstring, he seemed ready to hum with it. He was dressed in a lovely charcoal gray wool suit, a white shirt, and a dark blue tie.

  “Mr. Monk, it’s good to see you again.” She grinned at him, her tears dried now, and said, “Actually, the rumors of my condition were exaggerated. I’m just fine; you don’t have to do a thing for me.”

  “Ah, I’m delighted to hear it. You’re here. Is Dr. Frasier here as well? Is there some problem?”

  Lily said, “No, Mr. Monk, there’s no problem. The past months have been difficult, but everything is all right now. Oh, yes, which of these paintings is your favorite?”

  “The Decision,” Mr. Monk said without hesitation.

  “I like that one very much as well,” Lily said. “But don’t you find it just the least bit depressing?”

  “Depressing? Certainly not. I don’t get depressed, Mrs. Frasier.”

  Lily said, “I remember I told my grandmother I loved that one when I’d just lost a lot of money on a point spread between the Giants and Dallas. I was sixteen at the time, and I do remember that I was despondent. She laughed and loaned me ten dollars. I’ve never forgotten that. Oh, yes, I paid her back the next week when a whole bunch of fools bet New Orleans would beat San Francisco by twelve.”

  “Are you talking about some sort of sporting events, Mrs. Frasier?”

  “Well, yes. Football, actually.” She smiled at him. “I am here to tell you that I will be leaving the area, Mr. Monk, moving back to Washington, D.C. I will be taking the Sarah Elliott paintings with me.”

  He looked at her like she was mad. He fanned his hands in front of him, as if to ward her off. “But surely, Mrs. Frasier, you’re pleased with their display, how we’re taking such good care of them; and the restoration work is minor and nothing to concern you—”

  She lightly laid her fingers on his forearm. “No, Mr. Monk, it looks to me like you’ve done a splendid job. It’s just that I’m moving, and the paintings go where I go.”

  “But Washington, D.C., doesn’t need any more beautiful art! They have so many beautiful things that they’re sinking in it, beautiful things that are stuck in basements, never seen. They don’t need any more!”

  “I’m very sorry, Mr. Monk.”

  Those gorgeous dark eyes of his glittered. “Very well, Mrs. Frasier, but it’s obvious to me that you haven’t discussed this with Dr. Frasier. I’m sorry but I cannot release any of the paintings to you. He is their administrator.”

  “What does that mean? You know very well the paintings are mine.”

  “Well, yes, but it’s Dr. Frasier who’s made all the decisions, who’s directed every detail. Also, Mrs. Frasier, it’s common knowledge here that you haven’t been well—”

  “Lily, what are you doing out of bed? Why are you here?”

  Dillon and Sherlock stood just behind Mr. Monk, and neither of them looked very pleased.

  She smiled, saying only, “I’m here to tell Mr. Monk that the paintings go where I go, and in this case, it’s all the way to Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, he says that everyone knows I’m crazy and that Dr. Frasier is the one who controls everything to do with the paintings—and so Mr. Monk won’t release them to me.”

  “Now, Mrs. Frasier, I didn’t quite mean that…”

  Savich lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and when Mr. Monk turned, in utter confusion, he said, “The paintings can’t be released to my sister? Would you care to explain that to us, Mr. Monk? I’m Dillon Savich, Mrs. Frasier’s brother, and this is my wife. Now, what is all this about?”

  Mr. Monk looked desperate. He took a step back. “You don’t understand. Mrs. Frasier isn’t mentally competent, that’s what I was told, and thus the paintings are all controlled by Dr. Frasier. Appropriate, naturally, since he is her husband. When we heard that she’d been in an accident, an accident that she herself caused, there were some who thought she was dying and thus Dr. Frasier would inherit the paintings and then they would never leave the museum.”

  “I’m not dead, Mr. Monk.”

  “I can see that you’re not, Mrs. Frasier, but the fact is that you aren’t as well as you should be to have charge of such expensive and unique paintings.”

  Savich said, “I
assure you that Mrs. Frasier is mentally competent and is legally entitled to do whatever she wishes to with the paintings. Unless you have some court order to the contrary?”

  Mr. Monk looked momentarily flummoxed, then, “A court order! Yes, that’s it, a court order is what’s required.”

  “Why?” said Savich.

  “Well, a court could decide whether she’s capable of making decisions of this magnitude.”

  Sherlock patted his shoulder. “Hmm, nice suit. I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, as this seems to be quite upsetting to you, but she is under no such obligation to you. I suppose you could try to get her declared incompetent, but you would lose, and I’m sure it would create quite a stir in the local papers.”

  “Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. What I mean is that I suppose then that everything is all right, but you understand, I have to call Dr. Frasier. He has been dealing with everything. I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Frasier even once over all the months the paintings have been here.”

  Savich pulled out his wallet, showed Mr. Monk his ID, and said, “Why don’t we go to your office and make that phone call?”

  Of course Savich had shown Mr. Monk his FBI shield. He swallowed, looked at Lily like he wanted to shoot her, and said, “Yes, of course.”

  “Good,” Savich said. “We can also discuss all the details of how they’ll be shipped, the insurance, the crating, all those pesky little details that Dr. Frasier doesn’t have to deal with anymore. By the way, Mr. Monk, I do know what I’m doing since I also own eight Sarah Elliott paintings myself.”

  “Would you like to go now, Mr. Savich?”

  Savich nodded, then said over his shoulder as he escorted Mr. Monk from that small, perfect room, “Sherlock, you stay here with Lily, make sure she sits down and rests. Mr. Monk and I will finalize matters. Come along, sir.”

  “I hope the poor man doesn’t cry,” Lily said. “They built this special room, did a fine job of exhibiting the paintings. I think that Elcott and Charlotte Frasier donated the money to build the room. Wasn’t that kind of them?”

  “Yes. You know, Lily, many people have enjoyed the paintings over the past year. Now people in Washington can enjoy them for a while. You need to think about where you want the paintings housed. But we can take our time there, no rush, let people convince you they’re the best.

  “Oh, Lily, don’t feel guilty. There are a whole lot of people there who have never seen these particular Sarah Elliott paintings.”

  “Truth be told, I’m just mighty relieved that they’re all present and accounted for and I’m not standing here looking at blank walls because someone stole the paintings. That’s why I came, Sherlock. I just realized that since Tennyson married me for the paintings, maybe they were already gone.”

  Sherlock patted a cushion and waited until Lily eased carefully down beside her. “We didn’t want to wait either.” She paused to look around. “Such beauty. And it’s in your genes, Lily, both yours and Dillon’s. You’re very lucky. You draw cartoons that give people great pleasure, and Dillon whittles the most exquisite pieces. He whittled Sean, newly born, in the softest rosewood. Whenever I look at that piece, touch it, I feel the most profound gratitude that Dillon is in my life.

  “Now, I’m going to get all emotional and that won’t help anything. Did I have a point to make? Oh yes, such different aspects of those splendid talent genes from your grandmother.”

  “What about your talent, Sherlock? You play the piano beautifully. You could have been a concert pianist, if it hadn’t been for your sister’s death. I want to listen to you play when we get back to Washington.”

  “Yes, I’ll play for you.” Sherlock added, without pause, “You know, Lily, I was very afraid that Tennyson and his father had stolen the paintings as well, and you hadn’t been notified because you’d been too ill to deal with it.”

  “I suppose they had other plans. All of this happened very quickly.”

  “Yes, they did have time, but don’t you see? If the paintings were suddenly gone, they would have looked so guilty San Quentin would have just opened its doors and ushered them right on in. I suppose they were waiting to sell them off when you were dead and they legally belonged to Tennyson.”

  “Dead.” Lily said the word again, then once more, sounding it out. “It isn’t easy to believe that someone wants you dead so they can have what you own. That’s really low.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  “I feel shock that Tennyson betrayed me, probably his father as well, but I don’t want to wring my hands and cry about it. Nope, what I really want to do is belt Tennyson in the nose, maybe kick him hard in his ribs, too.”

  Sherlock hugged her, very lightly. “Good for you. Now, how do you feel, really?”

  “Calm, just a bit of pain, nothing debilitating. I believed I loved him, Sherlock, believed I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I trusted him, and I trusted him with Beth.”

  “I know, Lily. I know.”

  Lily got ahold of herself, tried to smile. “Oh yes, I’ve got something amazing to tell you. Remus was dancing in my head this morning, yelling at me so loud that I went out and bought art supplies. Then, strange thing, I get on this empty city bus to go back to The Mermaid’s Tail and this young guy tries to mug me.”

  Sherlock blinked, her mouth open.

  Lily laughed. “Finally I’ve managed to surprise you so much you can’t think of anything to say.”

  “I don’t like this, Lily. Tell me exactly what happened.”

  But Mr. Monk appeared in the doorway. “I will contact our lawyers and have them prepare papers for your signature. I’ve detailed to Mr. Savich how the paintings will be packed and crated in preparation to be shipped to Washington. You will need to inform us of their destination so that we can make arrangements with the people at the other end. There will be two guards as well for the trip. It’s quite an elaborate process, necessary to keep them completely safe. I will phone you when the papers are ready. Did you plan to leave the area soon?”

  “Fairly soon, Mr. Monk.” Lily rose slowly, her stitches pulling, aching more now, and took his hand. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t leave them here.”

  “It’s a pity. Dr. Frasier said on the phone that you were divorcing him and that he had no more say in anything.”

  “I’m relieved that he didn’t try anything underhanded,” Lily said.

  Mr. Monk looked profoundly uncomfortable at that. “He’s a fine man, and so are his esteemed father and mother.”

  “I understand that many people think that. Yes, we’re divorcing, Mr. Monk.”

  “Ah, such a pity. You’ve been married such a short time. And you lost your little girl just a few months ago. I do hope you’re making this decision with a clear head.”

  “You still think my mental condition is in question, Mr. Monk?”

  Mr. Monk seemed to pump himself up. He swallowed and said, “Well, I think that just maybe you’re acting in haste, not really thinking things through. And here you are divorcing poor Dr. Frasier, who seems to love you and wants only the best for you. Of course, Mrs. Frasier, this is a very bad thing for me and for the museum.”

  “Well, these things happen, don’t they? And I’d have to say that Dr. Frasier loves my paintings, sir, not me. I’m staying at The Mermaid’s Tail here in Eureka. Please call when I can finalize all this.”

  Lily’s last view of Mr. Monk was of him standing in the doorway to the Sarah Elliott room, hunched in on himself, looking like he’d just lost all his money in a poker game. The museum had run just fine before Sarah Elliott’s paintings had arrived, and it would do so after they went away.

  When they were walking down the stone steps of the museum, Savich on one side of Lily, her arm resting heavily on his, Sherlock on the other, Savich said, not looking at her, “I was wondering if Tennyson would be obstructive when we called him up. To be honest, if it had been you, Lily—by yourself on the phone—he would have been, no doubt in my mind about that. But he couldn’t t
his time, not with two of us federal agents and one of them your brother.”

  He stopped abruptly, turned, and grasped Lily’s shoulders in his big hands. “I’m not pleased with you, Lily. You should have let Sherlock and me take care of all this. I’ll bet you pulled your stitches and now your belly aches like you’ve been punched.”

  “Yes,” Sherlock said, “Dillon’s right. You look like you’re ready to fall over.”

  Lily smiled down at her sister-in-law—small, fine-boned, all that incredible curly red hair, and the sweetest smile—who could take down a guy three times her size. And she played the piano beautifully. She’d known from the moment they’d first met at her and Dillon’s wedding that Sherlock’s love for Dillon was steady and absolute. Beth had been three years old at the time, so excited to see her uncle Dillon, and so proud of her new patent-leather shoes. Lily swallowed, got herself together. She said, “Do you know that you and Dillon could finish each other’s sentences? Now, don’t fret, either of you. I am feeling a bit on the shaky side, but I can hold on until we get back to the inn.” She hugged him tight, then stepped back. “You know what, Dillon? I’ve decided that I’m going to check into my own credit card situation.”

  “What does that mean?”

  Lily just smiled. He helped her into the backseat, gently placed the pillow over her stomach, and fastened her seat belt. She lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I’m glad you came to the museum. I don’t think I had enough money to pay for a taxi back to the B-and-B.”

  Savich shook his head at her as he slipped his hand beneath the seat belt to make sure it wouldn’t press too hard against her middle, got in the driver’s seat, and drove off.

  “Now then, Lily,” Sherlock said, turning in her seat. “You can’t put it off any longer. Dillon will want to hear all about this, too. I want you to tell us about the mugger who attacked you on that empty bus this morning. No more than two hours ago.”