Hemlock Bay

11

Washington, D.C.

Three days later

“You go to bed now, Lily. No arguments. You look like a ghost out of A Christmas Carol.”

Lily managed a small smile and did as she was told. She was still weak, and the long plane trip back east had knocked her flat. She awoke an hour later to hear Dillon and Sherlock talking to Sean. They cuddled, hugged, and kissed him until finally he was so exhausted he hollered big time for about two minutes. Then he was out like the proverbial light. His nursery was right next to the guest room, where she lay quietly in the dim light. She didn’t realize she was crying until a tear itched her cheek. She wiped it away.

She closed her eyes when she heard her door open slightly. No, she wasn’t ready to see anyone just yet, although she loved them both dearly for caring about her so very much. She pretended to be asleep. When she heard them go downstairs, she got up and went into the baby’s room. Sean was sleeping on his knees, his butt in the air, two fingers in his mouth, his precious face turned toward her. He looked just like his father, but he had his mother’s dreamy blue eyes. She lightly rubbed her fingers over his back. So small, so very perfect.

She cried for the beauty of this little boy and for the loss of Beth.

Late that evening, over a good-sized helping of Dillon’s lasagna, she said, “Have you checked back with your office? Did they find Marilyn Warluski?”

Savich said, “Not yet. They found the boyfriend, Tony Fallon, but he claims she hasn’t contacted him. But there were a couple of folk in Bar Harbor who identified a photo of her, said they’d seen her recently. They’re going back to put his feet to the coals. We’ll know something soon.”

“We hope,” Sherlock said. Then she smiled. “You should have seen Dillon’s mother when we picked up Sean-she didn’t want us to take him. She said we’d promised her at least a week with him all to herself, but we’d lied; it was barely a week. She was shouting ‘Foul’ even as we were pulling out of her driveway.”

Savich shook his head. “Now he’ll be so spoiled that we’ll actually have to say no to him a couple of times to get him grounded back into reality.”

“I bet Mom would love to baby-sit him on a regular basis,” Lily said.

“Well,” Savich said, “she’s got her own life. She’s his treat; two or three times a week he gets big doses of Grandma. It works well that way. Our nanny, Gabriella Henderson, is the best. She’s young, so she’s got the energy and stamina to keep up with him. Believe me, he can wear you down very fast.”

Lily was laughing, looking over at Sean, who was seated in his walker, a nifty contraption that let him scoot all over the downstairs. If he ran into something, he just changed directions.

Savich said, “Those wheels are bad for the floor, but Sherlock and I decided we’d just have them refinished when he moves on to crawling and walking.”

Lily said slowly, “Isn’t it strange? I never imagined you with a kid, Dillon.”

Savich smiled and helped her down on his big stuffed chair. “I didn’t either, but here came Sherlock, blasted right into my comfortable life, and it just seemed like the right thing. We’re very lucky, Lily. Now, sweetheart, we’ve been traveling all day and you’re jet-lagged, probably really bad what with the surgery a week ago. I want you to sleep at least ten hours before you face the world here in Washington tomorrow.”

“You and Sherlock have to be jet-lagged too. Even though you travel a lot and you are FBI agents, you-”

The front doorbell rang.

Savich walked around Sean, who was speeding toward the front door. It was Simon Russo. Savich knew him as a man of immense energy and focus, a man who just didn’t quit. And now Simon was looking beyond him to the living room.

“Simon, it’s good to see you. What the devil are you doing here?”

Simon grinned at his friend, shook his hand, and said, “Yeah, good to see you, Savich. I came to see the paintings. Where are they? Not here, I hope. You don’t have the kind of security to keep the paintings here, even overnight.”

“No we don’t. Come on in. No, the paintings are in the vault in the Beezler-Wexler Gallery, safe as can be.”

“Good, good. I’d like you to arrange for me to see them, Savich.”

“So you said. First, however, you need a cup of tea and a slice of apple pie. My mom made it.”

“Oh, not your blasted tea. Coffee, please, Savich, I’m begging you. Coffee, black. Then we can see the paintings.”

“Simon, come on in and say hello to Sherlock and meet my sister, Lily.”

Simon shook his head and asked, “Not until tomorrow? How early?”

“Get a grip, Simon. Come along. Hey, guys, look who just flew through our front door? Simon Russo.”

Lily’s first impression of Simon Russo was that he was too good-looking, that he was a man who looked like a Raphaelesque angel, hair black and thick and a bit too long. Yeah, the angel Gabriel, probably, the head angel, the big kahuna. He was taller than her brother, long and lean, his eyes brighter and bluer than a winter sky over San Francisco Bay, and he looked distracted. He hadn’t shaved. He was wearing blue jeans, sneakers, a white dress shirt, a yellow-and-red tie, and a tweed jacket. He looked like a gangster academic, an odd combination, but it was true. Or maybe a nerd gangster, what with a name like Simon. He also looked like he knew things, maybe dangerous things. Lily was sure all the way to her bones that she wouldn’t trust him if he pledged his name in blood.

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, just in case.

“Simon!” Sherlock was across the living room in under three seconds, her arms thrown around him, laughing and squeezing him. She came barely to his chin. 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 just 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. “Oh, what the hell.”

Then he turned those dark blue eyes on Lily, and he smiled at her, far too nice a smile, and she wished she could just 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. 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.”