Hemlock Bay

  “Are you in pain?” he asked, taking a step toward her.

  Lily blinked at him, drawing herself in even more. “What?”

  “Are you in pain? I know you had surgery last week. That’s got to be tough.”

  “No,” she said, still looking as though she was ready to gut him. Then Lily realized that she had no reason at all to dislike this man. He was her brother’s friend, nothing more, no reason to be wary of him. The only problem was that he was good-looking, and surely she could overlook that flaw. He was here to see her paintings.

  The good Lord save her from good-looking men who wanted her paintings. Two had been more than enough.

  She tried to smile at him to get that puzzled look off his face.

  Now what was this? Simon wondered, but he didn’t get an answer, of course. He didn’t say anything more. He turned on his heel and walked to where Sean had come to a halt in his walker and was staring up at him, a sodden graham cracker clutched in his left hand. Crumbs covered his mouth and chin and shirt.

  “Hi, champ,” Simon said and came down on his haunches in front of Sean’s walker.

  Sean waved the remains of the graham cracker at him.

  “Let me pass on that.” He looked over his shoulder. “He’s still teething?”

  Sherlock said, “Yep, for a while yet. Don’t let Sean touch you, Simon, or you’ll regret it. That jacket you’re wearing is much too nice to have wet graham cracker crumbs and spit all over it.”

  Simon merely smiled and stuck out two fingers. Sean looked at those two fingers, gummed his graham cracker faster, then shoved off with his feet. The walker flew into Simon. He was so startled, he fell back on his butt.

  He laughed, got back onto his knees, and lightly ran his fingers over Sean’s black hair. “You’re going to be a real bruiser, aren’t you, champ? You’re already a tough guy, mowed me right down. Thank God you’ve got your mama’s gorgeous blue eyes or you’d scare the bejesus out of everybody, just like your daddy does.” He turned on his heel to say to Lily, “Are you the changeling or is Savich?”

  Savich laughed and gave Simon a hand up. “She’s the changeling in our immediate family. However, she looks just like Aunt Peggy, who married a wealthy businessman and lives like a princess in Brazil.”

  “Okay, then,” Simon said, “let’s see if she tries to bite my hand off.” He stuck out his hand toward Lily Frasier. “A pleasure to meet another Savich.”

  Good manners won out, and she gave him her hand. A soft hand, smooth and white, but there were calluses on her fingertips. He frowned as he felt them. “I remember now, you’re an artist, like Savich here.”

  “Yes, I told you about her, Simon. She draws No Wrinkles Remus, a political cartoon strip that—”

  “Yes, of course I remember. I’ve read the strip, but it’s been a while now. It was in the Chicago Tribune, if I remember correctly.”

  “That’s right. It ran there for about a year. Then I left town. I’m surprised you remember it.”

  He said, “It’s very biting and cynical, but hilarious. I don’t think it matters if the reader is a Democrat or a Republican, all the political shenanigans ring so true it just doesn’t matter. Will the world see more of Remus?”

  “Yes,” Lily said. “Just as soon as I’m settled in my own place, I’m going to begin again. Now, why are you so anxious to see my paintings?”

  Sean dropped the graham cracker, looked directly at his mother, and yelled.

  Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie? Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late, so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be back with the little prince in a while.”

  “Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would fill in the cracks.”

  “You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the once-over to make sure she was okay, and went to the kitchen.

  “Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?” Lily asked again.

  “I’d just as soon not say until I actually see them, Mrs. Frasier.”

  “Very well. What do you do in the art world, Mr. Russo?”

  “I’m an art broker.”

  “And how do you do that, exactly?”

  “A client wants to buy, say, a particular painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t know where it is already—which I do know most of the time—see if it’s for sale. If it is, I procure it for the client.”

  “What if it’s in a museum?”

  “I speak to the folk at the museum, see if there’s another painting, of similar value, that they’d barter for the one my client wants. It happens that way, successfully sometimes, if the museum wants what I have to barter more than the painting they have. Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants and needs of all the major museums, the major collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually, though, a museum isn’t all that eager to part with a Picasso.”

  “You know all about the illegal market, then.”

  Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes that she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.

  He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.

  Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”

  But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times the operative word in the business. Is there anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”

  “You know the crooks who acquire the paintings for the collectors.”

  “Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You can believe that because your brother trusts me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it comes to trust.”

  “You’ve known each other for a very long time. Maybe trust just starts between kids and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely see each other.”

  “Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look, Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve had some bad experiences with people in the art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t dance over the line. You can take that to the bank. Of course I know about the underside of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful, now would I?”

  “How many of my grandmother’s paintings have you dealt with?”

  “Over the years, probably a good dozen, maybe more. Some of my clients are museums themselves. If the painting is owned by a collector—legally, of course—and a museum wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it from the collector. Since I know what all the main collectors own and accumulate, I will try to barter with them. It cuts both ways, Mrs. Frasier.”

  “I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please don’t call me that again.”

  “All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest. What would you like to be called, ma’am?”

  “I think I’ll go back to my maiden name. You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be Lily Savich again.”

  Her brother said from the doorway, “I like it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders of Tennyson.”

  “Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”

  Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His father told me that Lord or Alfred just wouldn’t do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but my mother-in-law hates the poet.”

  “Perhaps Tennyson, the poet—not your nearly ex-husband—is a bit on the ‘pedantic’ side.”

  “You’ve never read Tennyson
in your life,” Lily said.

  He gave her the most charming smile and nodded. “You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’ isn’t quite right?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”

  “Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich said, then cocked his head, looking upward. He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean. He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to get along while I join the sing-along. You can trust him, Lily.”

  When they were alone again, Lily heard the light slap of rain on the windows for the first time. Not a hard, drenching rain, just an introduction, maybe, to the winter rains that were coming. It had been overcast when they’d landed in Washington, and there was a stiff wind.

  Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee, sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes. “Savich makes the best coffee in the known world. And he rarely drinks it.”

  “His body is a temple,” she said. “I guess his brain is, too.”

  “Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man, sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I bet Savich would fall over in shock if he heard you say that about him.”

  “Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless. Our dad taught all of us kids how to make the very best coffee. He said if he was ever in an old-age home, at least he’d know he could count on us for that. Our mom taught Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston to go to MIT.”

  “Did she teach all of you?”

  “No, just Dillon.” She stopped, listening to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my favorite.”

  “They do the harmony well. However, what Savich does best is country and western. Have you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”

  She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee, and knew her stomach would rebel if she had any more.

  “Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough, we could all go hear him sing at the club.”

  She didn’t say anything.

  “Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich? Or dislike me? Whatever it is.”

  She looked at him for a good, long time, took a small bit of apple pie, and said finally, “You really don’t want to know, Mr. Russo. And I’ve decided that if Dillon trusts you, why, then, I can, too.”

  12

  Raleigh Beezler, co-owner of the Beezler-Wexler Gallery of Georgetown, New York City, and Rome, gave Lily the most sorrowful look she’d seen in a very long time, at least as hangdog as Mr. Monk’s at the Eureka museum.

  He kissed his fingers toward the paintings. “Ah, Mrs. Frasier, they are so incredible, so unique. No, no, don’t say it. Your brother already told me that they cannot remain here. Yes, I know that and I weep. They must make their way to a museum so the great unwashed masses can stand in their wrinkled walking shorts and gawk at them. But it brings tears to my eyes, clogs my throat, you understand.”

  “I understand, Mr. Beezler,” Lily said and patted his arm. “But I truly believe they belong in a museum.”

  Savich heard a familiar voice speaking to Dyrlana, the gorgeous twenty-two-year-old gallery facilitator, hired, Raleigh admitted readily, to make the gentlemen customers looser with their wallets. Savich turned and called out, “Hey, Simon, come on back here.”

  Lily looked through the open doorway of the vault and watched Simon Russo run the distance to the large gallery vault in under two seconds. He skidded to a stop, sucked in his breath at the display of the eight Sarah Elliott paintings, each lovingly positioned against soft black velvet on eight easels, and said, “My God,” and nothing else.

  He walked slowly from painting to painting, pausing to look closely at many of them, and said finally, “You remember, Savich, that your grandmother gave me The Last Rites for my graduation present. It was my favorite then and I believe it still is. But this one—The Maiden Voyage—it’s incredible. This is the first time I’ve seen it. Would you look at the play of light on the water, the lace of shadows, like veils. Only Sarah Elliott can achieve that effect.”

  “For me,” Lily said, “it’s the people’s faces. I’ve always loved to stare at the expressions, all of them so different from each other, so telling. You know which man owns the ship just by the look on his face. And his mother—that look of superior complacency at what he’s achieved, mixed with the love she holds so deeply for her son and the ship he’s built.”

  “Yes, but it’s how Sarah Elliott uses light and shadow that puts her head and shoulders above any other modern artist.”

  “No, I disagree with you. It’s the people, their faces, you see simply everything in their expressions. You feel like you know them, know what makes them tick.” She saw he would object again and rolled right over him. “But this one has always been my favorite.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the frame on The Swan Song. “I really hate to see it go to a museum.”

  “Keep it with you then,” Savich said. “I’ve kept The Soldier’s Watch. The insurance costs a bundle as well as the alarm system, but very few people know about it, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep it close and keep it quiet.”

  Simon looked up from his study of another painting. “I have The Last Rites hung in a friend’s gallery near my house. I see it nearly every day.”

  “That’s an excellent idea,” Raleigh Beezler said and beamed at Lily, seeing hope. “Do you know, Mrs. Frasier, that there is an exquisite townhouse for sale not two blocks from my very safe, very beautiful, very hassle-free gallery that would accord you every amenity? What do you say I call the broker and you can have a look at it? I understand you’re a cartoonist. There is this one room that is simply filled with light, just perfect for you.”

  That was well done, Lily thought. She had to admire Mr. Beezler. “And I could leave some of my paintings here, in your gallery, on permanent display?”

  “An excellent idea, no?”

  “I’d like to see the townhouse, sir, but the price is very important. I don’t have much money. Perhaps you and I could come to a mutually satisfying financial arrangement. My painting displayed right here for a monthly stipend, a very healthy one, given that this house sits in the middle of Georgetown and I’d have to afford to live here. What do you think?”

  Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his hands together. There was the light of the negotiator in his dark eyes.

  Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued studying the rest of the paintings, and now he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler. Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”

  Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage payments, at least until I can get an ongoing paycheck for No Wrinkles Remus, maybe even get it syndicated…”

  Simon just shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.”

  “What’s wrong, Simon?” Because he knew Simon, knew that tone of voice, Savich automatically took Lily’s hand. “All right, the floor’s yours. You really wanted to see the paintings. You’ve seen them. I’ve watched you studying them. What’s wrong?”

  “No easy way to say this,” Simon said. “Oh damn, four of them are fakes, including The Swan Song. Excellent fakes, but there it is.”

  “No,” Lily said. “No. I would know if it weren’t real. You’re wrong, Mr. Russo, just wrong.”

  “I’m sorry, Ms. Savich, but I’m very sure. Like I said, the way Sarah Elliott uses light and shadows makes her unique. It’s the special blend of shades that she mixed herself and the extraordinary brush strokes she used; no one’s really managed to copy them exactly.

  “Over the years I’ve become an expert on her paintings. Still, if I hadn’t also heard some rumors floating around New York that one of the big collectors had gotten a hold of some Sarah Elliott paintings in the last six months, I wouldn’t have come rushing down here.”

  Savich said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but Simo
n is an expert. If he says they’re fake, then it’s true.”

  “I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew of. When I heard The Swan Song as one of the paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong. I immediately put out feelers to get more substantial information. With any luck, I’ll find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened to the fourth painting. Since I knew that you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and that they’d been moved from the Chicago Art Institute to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago, I didn’t want to believe it—there are always wild rumors floating through the art world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”

  “Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly as red as her hair, “shit.”

  Savich stared at his wife and said slowly, “You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t even curse when you were in labor.”

  “I apologize for that, but I am so mad I want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m really ready to go over the edge here. Those bastards—those officious, murdering bastards. There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much. This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have a good idea who’s responsible.”

  Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”

  Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it. No wonder he was near tears when you told him you were taking the paintings. He knew the jig would be up sooner or later. He had to know that in Washington, D.C., experts would be viewing the paintings and one of them would spot the fakes.”

  “So did Tennyson,” Savich said.

  Lily said, “Probably my father-in-law as well. Maybe the whole family was in on this. But they couldn’t have known we would find out the very day after we got here.” She turned to Simon Russo. “I’m madder than Sherlock. Thank you, Mr. Russo, for being on top of this and getting to us so quickly.”