Twice Dead (61 page)

Red lights flashed in her brain. No, she wouldn't let herself even see him as a man. He was an expert who wanted to see her Sarah Elliott paintings for some reason. He was Dillon's friend. She wouldn't have to worry about him. Still, she found herself drawing back into the big chair.

“Simon!” Sherlock was across the living room in under three seconds, her arms thrown around him, laughing and squeezing him. He was hugging her, kissing her bouncing hair. She pulled back finally, kissed his scratchy cheek, and said, “Goodness, you're here in a hurry. Yes, I know it isn't us you want to see, it's those paintings. Well, you'll have to wait until morning.”

Lily watched him hug her sister-in-law close once again, kiss her hair once again, and say, “I love you, Sherlock, I'd love to keep kissing you, but Dillon can kill me in a fair fight. The only time I ever beat him up, he was sick with the flu, and even then it was close. He also fights dirty. I don't want him to mess up my perfect teeth.” He lifted her over his head, then slowly lowered her.

Savich said, crossing his arms over his chest, “You kiss her hair again and I'll have to see about those teeth.”

Simon said, “Okay, I'll stay focused on the paintings, but, Sherlock, I want you to know that I wanted you first.” He started to kiss her again, then sighed deeply.

Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily, and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile, and she wished she could stand up and walk out of the room. He was dangerous.

“Why,” she said, not moving out of her chair, actually pressing her back against the cushions, “are you so hot to see my paintings?”

Savich frowned at her, his head cocked to one side. She sounded mad, like she wanted to kick Simon through a window. He said easily, “Lily, sweetheart, this is Simon Russo. You've heard me talk about him over the years. Remember, we roomed together our senior year at MIT?”

“Maybe,” Lily said. “But what does he want with my paintings?”

“I don't know yet. He's a big-time dealer in the art world. He's the one I called to ask how much Grandmother's paintings are worth in today's market.”

“I remember you,” she said to Simon. “I was sixteen when you came home with Dillon on Christmas your senior year. Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?”

Simon remembered her, only she was all grown up now, not the wily, fast-talking teenager who'd tried to con him out of a hundred bucks. He didn't remember the scheme—some bet, maybe, but he did remember that she would have gotten it out of him, too, if her father hadn't warned him away and told him to keep his money in his wallet.

Simon wasn't deaf. He heard wariness, maybe even distrust in her voice. Why would she dislike him? She didn't even know him, hadn't seen him in years. She didn't look much like that teenager, either. She still looked like a fairy princess, but this grown-up fairy princess looked ground under—alarmingly pale, shadows beneath her eyes. Her hair was pulled back in a ratty ponytail and badly needed to be washed. She also needed to gain some weight to fill out her clothes. Antipathy was pouring off her in waves, a tsunami of dislike to drown him. Why?

“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.” 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 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 doesn't matter. Will the world see more of Remus?”

“Yes,” Lily said. “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 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 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 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. 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, only 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 bite 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.”

TWELVE

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.”