“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 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 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 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 mighty relieved 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 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 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, 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 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 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 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 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 this 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 at her sister-in-law—tall, fine-boned, strong, capable. She had curly hair, a fire of autumn color, and the sweetest smile. Lily bet she 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 I’m going to check into my own credit card situation.”
“What does that mean?”
Lily 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.”
Savich nearly drove into a fire hydrant.
THEY were eating lunch in a small Mexican restaurant, The Toasted Taco, on Chambers Street, down the block from The Mermaid’s Tail, Lily having decided she was starving more than she was aching.
“Good salsa,” Lily said and dipped in another tortilla chip and stuffed it in her mouth. “That’s a sure sign that the food will be okay. Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry in my life.”
Savich said, “Talk.”
She told them about the bus driver who’d explained to her the bus was empty because of the big burying and was having a fine time chair-dancing while he drove, headphones turned up high, and about the young man with three earrings in his left ear, the switchblade that was sharp and silver and nearly went into her heart.
Savich blew out a big breath, picked up a tortilla chip, and absently chewed on it. “I suppose it’s occurred to you it may not have been a mugger.”
“He talked like one, maybe, I’m not sure since I’ve never been mugged before. Then he ruined it by pulling this switchblade knife. One thing I’m absolutely sure of—there was death in his eyes. And you know what? I knew all the way to my stomach lining it was the end of the line. But then I went after him, Dillon, wrecked him good—all the moves you taught me. I could hear your voice telling me things, ‘Make yourself as small as possible,’ stuff like that. I hammered him—my hand a tight fist and whap! Then I hammered him hard against his chest, then polished him off by slamming my palm against his ear. Unfortunately, he got himself together and jumped off the bus, got away. Hey, I smashed him, Dillon, really smashed him.”
She looked so proud of herself that Dillon wanted to hug her until she squeaked, but he was too scared. She could have been killed so very easily.
He cleared his throat. “Did you call the police?”
Lily shook her head. “To be honest, all I wanted to do was get back to the B-and-B. Then I thought of the paintings and got to the museum as fast as I could. Why don’t you think it was a mugger?”
Savich was still shaking with reaction. “I’m upset about this, Lily, really upset. He most certainly wasn’t a mugger. Listen, an empty bus, a guy starts with a throwaway line about taking your wallet to keep things real calm, then he brings out the knife? A mugger? No, Lily, I don’t think so.”
“The question is,” Sherlock said, chewing on a chip that she’d liberally dipped in salsa, her right hand near her glass of iced tea, “who found him, got him up to speed and moving so fast? You only told Tennyson last night that you were leaving him. Talk about fast action—that really surprises me. Tennyson, his father, whoever else is involved in this—they’re not pros, yet they got this guy after you very quickly. He must have been watching the B-and-B, then followed you to the art supply shop, got ahead of you and on the bus at the next stop. It was well planned, well executed, except he failed.”
“Yeah, they didn’t know what Dillon had taught me.” She actually rubbed her hands together, realized she’d gotten salsa all over herself, and laughed. “Can we have another basket of chips?” she called out to the young Mexican waitress, then, “I saved myself, Dillon, and it felt really good.”
Savich understood then, of course. Her life had been out of control for so very long, but no longer. He patted her back. “I wonder if it would help to check hospitals. Did you hurt him that bad?”
“Maybe. Good idea, I didn’t think of that.”
“He’s paid to think of things like that,” Sherlock said and got out her cell phone. She looked up at them after a moment, “We’ve got a lot of possibilities here.”
Savich said, “You know, I was going to call the cops. But now that I think about it, I don’t think the local constabulary is what we need just yet. What I want is Clark Hoyt from the FBI field office right here in Eureka. If he knows the local cops, thinks they could help with this, then we can bring them into it. But for the time being, let’s use our own guys.”
Sherlock said, as she called information, “Great idea, Dillon. I’m sure glad they opened up this field office last year. The one in Portland wouldn’t be able to help us with much. Clark can get all the hospitals checked in no time. Now, Lily, tell me where you hit this guy. Be as specific as you can.”
“Yeah, I can do that, and then hand me a napkin so I can draw the g
uy for you.”
TEN
Eureka, California
The Mermaid’s Tail
Savich flipped open his cell phone, which was softly beeping the theme song from The Lion King, listened, and said, “Simon Russo? Is this the knuckle-head who shot himself in the foot with my SIG?” Then he laughed and listened some more. Then he talked. Savich realized quickly enough that Simon didn’t like what he had been hearing, didn’t like it at all. What was going on here? He listened as Simon said slowly, “Listen, Savich, get your grandmother’s paintings safely back to Washington. Do it right away, don’t dither or let the museum curator put you off. Don’t take any shortcuts with their safety, but move quickly. I’ll be down to Washington as soon as the paintings get there. I want to see them. It’s very important that I see them. Don’t take any chances.”
Savich frowned into his cell phone. What was this all about? “I know you like my grandmother’s paintings, Simon. She gave you your favorite when you graduated from MIT, but you don’t have to come down to Washington to see them right away.”
“Yes,” Simon said, “trust me on this, I do.” And he hung up.
Sherlock was standing on the far side of the bedroom, her own cell phone dangling from her hand. “Sweetheart,” he called out to her, “strangest thing. Simon is all hot under the collar to see Lily’s eight Sarah Elliott paintings. He’s being mysterious, won’t tell me a thing, insists he has to see the paintings as soon as they arrive in Washington.”
Sherlock didn’t say anything. Savich felt a sharp point of fear. She looked shell-shocked, no, beyond that. She looked drop-dead frightened, her pupils dilated, her skin as pale as ice. He was at her side in an instant. He gathered her against him, felt that she was as cold as ice as well, and held on to her tightly. “What’s wrong? Tell me what’s wrong. It’s Sean, isn’t it? Something’s happened to our boy?”
Twice Dead Page 44
