Hemlock Bay

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 Simon 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.”

Simon turned to Savich. “There is one positive thing here. At least Tennyson Frasier didn’t have time to have all eight of them forged. Now that I know for certain that we’ve got four forgeries, I can find out the name of the forger. It won’t be difficult. You see, it’s likely to be one of three or four people in the world-the only ones with enough technique to capture the essence of Sarah Elliott and fool everyone except an expert who’s been prepared for the possibility.”

Lily said, “Would you have known they were fakes if you hadn’t heard about them being sold to a collector?”

“Maybe not, but after the second or third viewing, I probably would have realized something was off. They really are very well done. When I find out who forged them, I’ll pay a visit to the artist.”

“Don’t forget, Simon, we need proof,” Savich said, “to nail Tennyson. And his family, and Mr. Monk at the Eureka museum.”

Sherlock said, “No wonder that guy tried to murder you on the bus, Lily. They knew they had to move quickly and they did. It’s just that you’re no wuss and you creamed the guy. I wanna lock them all up, Dillon. Maybe stomp on them first.”

Simon, who had been studying The Maiden Voyage, looked up. “What do you mean she creamed the guy? Someone attacked you? But you were just out of surgery.”

“Sorry, I forgot to mention that,” Savich said.

Lily said, “There was no reason to tell him. But yes, I’d been five or six days out of surgery. I was okay, thanks to a psychiatrist who… well, never mind about that. But I was feeling just fine. A young guy got on an empty bus, sat beside me, and pulled out this really scary switchblade. He was lucky to get away.” And Lily gave him a big smile, the first one he’d gotten from her. He smiled back.

“Very good. Your brother taught you?”

“Yes, after Jack… No, never mind that.”

“You have a lot of never minds, Ms. Savich.”

“You may have to get used to it.” But she saw him file Jack’s name away in that brain of his.

Simon said, “As for the fourth painting, Effigy, I thought it was just fine at first, but then I realized that the same forger who did the other three did that one as well. No leads yet on Effigy, but we’ll track it down. It probably went to the same collector.”

Mr. Beezler, shaken, wiped a beautiful linen handkerchief over his brow and said, “This would be a catastrophe to a museum, Mr. Savich, like a stick of dynamite stuck in the tailpipe of my Mercedes. You, Mr. Russo, you are, I gather, in a position to perhaps get the original paintings back?”

“Yes,” said Simon, “I am. Keep the black velvet warm, Mr. Beezler.”

Savich said, “I’ll speak to the guys in the art fraud section, see what recommendations they have. The FBI doesn’t do full-blown stolen art investigations at this time, so our best bet is Simon finding out who acquired the paintings.”

Simon said, “First thing, I’ll do some digging around, hit up my informants to get verification on who our collector is, find the artist, and squeeze him. The instant our collector hears that I’m digging-and he’d hear about it real quick-he’ll react, either go to ground, hide the paintings, or maybe something else, but it won’t matter.”

“What do you mean ‘something else’?” Lily asked.

Savich gave him a frown, and Simon said quickly, shrugging, “Nothing, really. But since I plan to stir things up, I’ll be really careful who’s at my back. Oh yeah, Savich, I’m relieved you didn’t use the shippers that Mr. Monk wanted you to use.”

Savich said, “No, I used Bryerson. I know them and trust them. There’s no way Mr. Monk or Tennyson or any of the rest of them could know, at least for a while, where the paintings ended up. However, I will call Teddy Bryerson and have him let me know if he gets any calls about the paintings. Simon, do you think anyone will realize that these four paintings are fakes if they’re out in the open for all to see?”

“Sooner or later someone would notice and ask questions.”

Lily said to Mr. Beezler, “I can’t very well let a museum hang the four fakes. What do you think about hanging all of them here for a while, Mr. Beezler, and we can see what happens?”

“Yes, I will hang them,” said Raleigh, “with great pleasure.”

Lily said to Simon, “Do you really think you can get the paintings back?”

Simon Russo rubbed his hands together. His eyes were fierce, and he looked as eager as a boy with his first train set. “Oh, yes.”

She imagined him dressed all in black, even black camouflage paint on his face, swinging down a rope to hover above an alarmed floor.

Savich said, “Just one thing, Simon. When you find out who bought the paintings, I go with you.”

Sherlock blinked at her husband. “You mean that you, an FBI special agent, unit chief, want to go steal four paintings?”

“Steal back,” Savich said, giving her a kiss on her open mouth. “Bring home. Return to their rightful owner.”

Lily said, “I’ll be working with Mr. Russo to find the person who forged them and the name of the collector who bought them. And then we’ll have proof to nail Tennyson.”

“Oh no,” Savich said. “I’m not letting you out of my sight, Lily.”

“No way,” Sherlock said. “No way am I letting you out of my sight either. Sean wants his auntie to hang out with him for a while.”

Simon Russo looked at Lily Savich and slowly nodded. He knew to his bones that when this woman made up her mind, it would take more than an offering of a dozen chocolate cakes to change it. “Okay, you can work with me. But first you need to get yourself back to one-hundred-percent healthy.”

“I’ll be ready by Monday,” Lily said. She raised her hand, palm out, to her brother before he could get out his objection. “You guys have lots to worry about-this Tammy Tuttle person. She’s scary, Dillon. You’ve got to focus on catching her. This is nothing, in comparison, just some work to track these paintings, maybe talking to these artists. I know artists. I know what to say to them. It won’t be any big deal. I can tell Mr. Russo exactly how to do it.”

“Right,” said Simon.

Sherlock was pulling on a hank of curly hair, something, Savich knew, she did when she was stressed or worried. She said, “She’s right, Dillon, but that doesn’t mean I like it.” She sighed. “And it’s not just Tammy Tuttle. Oh well, I’ll just spit it out. Ollie phoned just before we left the house this morning.”

“He did?” Savich turned the full force of his personality on his wife, a dark brow raised. “And you didn’t see fit to mention it to me?”

“It’s Friday morning, Gabriella was at the dentist and running late; she’s our nanny,” Sherlock added to Simon. “Besides, you’d already told Ollie and Jimmy Maitland that you wouldn’t be in until late morning. I was going to tell you on the way in.”

“I know I don’t want to hear this, but out with it, Sherlock. I can take it.”

“Besides worrying about Tammy Tuttle, there’s been a triple murder in a small town called Flowers, Texas. The governor called the FBI and demanded that we come in, and so we will. Both the ATF and the FBI are involved. There’s this cult down there that they suspect is responsible for the murder of the local sheriff and his two deputies, who’d gone out to their compound to check things out. Their bodies were found in a ditch outside of town.”

“That’s nuts,” Simon said.

“Yes,” Sherlock said, “it is. Ah, Raleigh, would you mind visiting with Dyrlana for a moment? All this stuff is sort of under wraps.”

Raleigh looked profoundly disappointed, but he left them in the vault. At the doorway, he said, “What about your sister and Mr. Russo? They’re civilians, too.”

“I know, but I can control what they say,” Savich said. “I really couldn’t get away with busting your chops.”

They heard him chuckling as he called out, “Dyrlana! Where is my gumpoc tea?”

“One problem is,” Sherlock said, “that the cult has cleared out, split up into a dozen or more splinter groups and left town in every direction. Nobody knows where the leader is. They’ve pulled in a few of the cult members, but these folks just shake their heads and claim they don’t know anything about it. The only good thing is that we have a witness, of sorts. It seems that one of the women is pregnant by the guru. Lureen was rather angry when she found him seducing another cult member, actually at least three or four other cult members. She slipped away and told the town mayor about it.”

Savich said, “A witness, then. Did she identify the guru as the guy who ordered the murders?”

“Not yet. She’s still thinking about it. She’s afraid she’d screw up her child’s karma if she identified the father as a murderer.”

“Great,” Savich said and sighed. “Like Ollie said, there doesn’t seem to be anything in this life that’s easy. Do we have some sort of name on this guy?”

“Oh, sure, that’s no secret,” Sherlock said. “Wilbur Wright. Lureen just wouldn’t say his name out loud, but everybody knows it, since he was around town for a couple of months.”

“Isn’t that clever?” Savich rubbed the back of his neck, nodded to Simon, grabbed his wife’s hand, and walked out of the vault. He said over his shoulder, “It’s settled then. Lily, you rest and recuperate. Simon, you can stay at the house. I’d feel better if you did. Sherlock and I will call you guys later. Oh yes, don’t spoil Sean. Gabriella is besotted with him already; she doesn’t need any more help. Holler if you want MAX to check anything out for you, Simon.”

“Will do.”

“Oh, yes, there’s one other thing,” Sherlock said to Savich once they were out of the vault and in the gallery itself, alone and beyond the hearing of Lily or Simon. She glanced at Raleigh and Dyrlana, who were drinking gumpoc tea over by the front glass doors.

Savich knew he didn’t want to hear this. He merely looked at her, nodding slowly.

“The guru. He had the hearts cut out of the sheriff and his two deputies.”

“So this is why the Texas governor wants us involved. This guy has probably done something this sick before in other states. Ah, Sherlock, I just knew it couldn’t be as straightforward as you presented it. So, is Behavioral Sciences also involved?”

“Yes. I didn’t want Lily to have to hear that.”

“You’re right. All right, love, let’s go track down Tammy Tuttle and Wilbur Wright.”

Lily Savich and Simon Russo stood in the silent vault, neither of them saying a word. She walked to one of the paintings that was real, not forged-Midnight Shadows. She said, “I wonder why he tried to kill me when he did? What was the hurry? He had four more paintings to have forged. Why now?”

Savich had told Simon most of what had happened to his sister the previous evening, after she’d gone to bed, looking pale and, truth be told, wrung out. All except for the murder attempt on the city bus in Eureka. What had happened to her-what was still happening-was tragic and evil, and it all came on top of the death of her daughter.

But just perhaps they could recover the paintings. He sure wanted to. He said, “That’s a good question. I don’t know why they cut the brake lines. My guess is that something must have happened to worry them, something to make them move up the timetable.”

“But why not just kill me off right away? Surely it would have been easier for Tennyson to simply inherit the paintings, to own them himself. Then he wouldn’t have had to go to all the trouble and risk of finding a first-class forger and then collectors who would want to buy the paintings.”

“Count on Mr. Monk to help with all that. I bet you Mr. Monk doesn’t have all that sterling a reputation. I’ll check into that right away.”

“Yes,” Lily continued, her head cocked to one side, still thinking. “He could have killed me immediately, and then he would have owned the paintings. He could then have sold them legally, right up front, with no risk that someone would turn on him, betray him. Probably he would have made more money that way, you know, in auctions.”

“First of all, Lily, killing you off would have brought Savich down on their heads, with all the power of the FBI at his back. Never underestimate your brother’s determination or the depths of his rage if something had happened to you. As for legal auctions for the paintings, you’re wrong there. Collectors involved in illegal art deals pay top dollar, many times outrageous amounts because they want something utterly unique, something no one else on the face of the earth owns. The stronger the obsession, the more they’ll pay. Going this route was certainly more risky, but the payoff was probably greater, even figuring in the cost of the forgery. It was trying to kill you that was the real risk. As I said, something very threatening must have happened. I don’t know what, but we’ll probably find out. Now, you ready to go have some lunch before you go home to bed?”

Lily thought about how tired she was, how she could simply sit down and sleep, then she smiled. “Can I have Mexican?”