He smiled and decided not to tell her it was great cover for his shoulder holster. “Dang, I keep forgetting about that.”
Lacey absorbed the man’s slow smile and wondered why she’d ever been nervous. The smile she gave him in return was more appreciative than professional. Automatically she walked closer.
“Most of the people around here still worship at the altar of film noir,” she said, waving to the three framed posters that hung over the cash register, protected from the sun by special glass.
Ian glanced up at the posters. Though they depicted black-and-white movies, the cinema moguls had known that color sells. Most of the posters had been printed with at least some bright elements. For every man in dark hat and jacket—no tie—cigarette dangling at a just-so angle from his world-weary lips, there was a woman with smooth yellow hair, hourglass body, creamy skin, and wearing a cocktail dress that was as red and close-fitting as lipstick. Some kind of handgun—usually wrong for the period—smoked in the foreground. Everything but the babe’s dress and hair was in shades of darkness that owed more to philosophy than to the reality of shooting in black-and-white film.
“I prefer my black-and-white with more color,” he said dryly.
Lacey laughed. “So do I, but I’m in business and noir sells.” She pointed toward the side of the store. “My Western and musical posters are in the bin just beyond the Deco-style vases. I’ll help you, but have to wash my hands first. I’ve been grubbing around in the storeroom.”
“Pretty colorful storeroom.”
She looked at her hands and then at her clothes. “Oops. I forgot. I was painting before I went through some canvases to choose three for a charity event and then I came back and—oh brother, talk about too much information. Go look in the bin. I’ll be right back.”
Instead of telling her that she could keep talking just for the pleasure of hearing the laughter in her voice, Ian walked over to the bin and began flipping through the cardboard-backed, glassine-shielded posters. Musicals and more musicals. Though he didn’t collect them, he smiled at the colorful exuberance of the singers and dancers coming and going beneath his fingertips. Like Westerns, musicals celebrated a less world-weary America. He was all for that. Christ knew that the world had enough brutality without making movies about it.
The scent of soap and something feminine drifted to him even as he heard footsteps behind him. She wasn’t nearly as wary of him now. She came up almost close enough to kiss. He’d always enjoyed women like her, unself-conscious and intelligent. The fact that there was definitely a female body wrapped around the package sure didn’t hurt.
He would have to browse this store again. Soon. Since the charity art show wouldn’t happen until the end of the week, he should have enough time to explore the shop, and maybe even the woman. There hadn’t been any rings under all the paint and grime on her hands. But then, maybe she didn’t wear jewelry while painting or working in storage sheds.
“Any luck?” she asked, watching his mouth, wondering idly if his kiss was half as warm as his smile.
“Not yet. Nice collection, though.”
“Thanks. A lot of them were my grandfather’s.”
“Was he in the movies?”
“Nope. Unless set painting counts.”
“Keeps bread and beans on the table,” Ian said. “That always counts.”
Lacey’s smile slipped. She remembered more than one loud argument between her father and grandfather on the subject of how the elder Quinn earned his living.
“Now here’s a prime one,” Ian said.
Lacey stepped around him and looked. The poster was indeed prime. “John Wayne in Hondo.” She started to say that her customer bore more than a passing resemblance to the younger Wayne. At the last second she changed her mind. He might take it as a come-on.
He might be right. It had been a long time since she’d seen anything as deep down interesting as this man’s smile, obvious pleasure in the posters, and offhand intelligence.
“That was one of my grandfather’s favorites,” Lacey said.
Ian glanced at the discreet sticker on the back of the cardboard and sighed. “You know what you have, don’t you?”
“You bet.”
“Any give on the price?”
“Not much.”
“How much is not much?” he asked.
“You live in California?”
He nodded.
“I’ll eat the sales tax,” she said.
He glanced at his watch. There was just enough time to make Susa’s plane and still buy the poster. “Bon appétit,” he said, smiling. “Check or credit card?”
Lacey blinked. There it was, slow and warm and so gentle it had to be seen to be believed. A smile like that should be registered as a lethal weapon. Mentally she shook herself and focused on the business at hand.
“Local check?” she asked.
“If Upland is local, I’m local.”
She hesitated. Upland wasn’t exactly local, but it wasn’t that far away, either. And she really hated giving the credit card barons two percent of her hard-won sales.
“Pleased to meet you, neighbor,” she said, holding out her right hand. “I’m Lacey Quinn, half owner of the shop.”
“Ian Lapstrake, neighbor at large.”
He shook her hand. Its competent feminine strength reminded him of Dana. He released Lacey’s hand before she could feel uneasy about her humorous gesture of “neighborliness” when they actually lived one to three hours apart, depending on how clogged the freeways were.
“Will you be taking the poster with you or do you want it shipped?” she asked.
He glanced at her left hand—freshly scrubbed, no visible rings or ring marks—and decided he would come back for the poster. “Could you hold it for a day or two?”
“Sure.”
He pulled a folding checkbook out of his jacket pocket, and braced it on his thigh. “Can I borrow your pen?”
She patted her jean pockets. “I don’t have one.”
“How about this one?” Deftly he pulled a pen out of the curls dancing around her right ear.
“What are you, a magician?”
“Only in my dreams.” He wrote swiftly, tore out the check, and tucked the pen back into its nest of curls before she could react. “I didn’t know hair came in that many shades of dark and gold and almost red. It’s beautiful.”
Before the compliment registered, he was on his way out the door.
“Who was that?” Shayla asked from the stairway.
“I was wondering the same thing myself.”
Lacey was also wondering if she had really seen the outline of a shoulder holster beneath the denim when he bent over to write the check, stretching the cloth across his back.
Over Moreno County
Tuesday afternoon
7
It was the type of sunny January day that made people in the Blizzard Belt pack their cars and head for southern California. Though Seattle rarely had any snow to flee from, it did have a thousand shades of winter gray. Susa Donovan was happy to see the sun again, even through an airplane window.
Sitting in the comfortable cabin of a Donovan International executive jet gave her an uninterrupted view of the coastline far below. These days she rarely painted humanity’s marks on the landscape, but the contrast between the wild fluid blue of the sea and the pale man-made grid of subdivisions, freeways, and industry made her hand itch to hold a paintbrush. Viewed from a distance, the image was abstract and dramatic, like a human storm poised on the edge of breaking over the endless ocean.
Yet if she almost closed her eyes, she could see the land as it once had been, green ravines and velvet shadows of eucalyptus, orange and yellow evenings, a young woman’s smile as she painted her lover holding out his hand in silent offering.
Sometimes it was hard for Susa to believe she’d ever been that young, but she had. Years before it became fashionable in the late sixties, she’d abandoned school and home for a
n unconventional life of late nights, exotic cigarettes, the smell of turpentine and sex; and painting, always painting, more important to her than all the rest of it put together.
She’d been born much too late to participate in the glory days of California Impressionism, yet she’d known some of the great painters, had learned from them, had heard them talk over endless bottles of wine about the glories and scandals of the Painter’s Beach art colony at its height, Benford Savoy III, called Three, a rich man’s son who supported artists because he enjoyed the bohemian life.
Sometimes she wondered what had happened to those unknown artists, the talented ones who lost their art in booze, or the women whose art disappeared under the weight of cultural disinterest and the intricate demands of motherhood. So many of them tore themselves apart and left nothing to mark their passage from art to death.
A feeling of foreboding went through her, the kind of rippling of the skin that her kids laughingly called sure evidence that not all the witches had been burned in Salem. Even as she tried to dismiss the chill beneath the warmth, she wished that her husband was beside her and her children and grandchildren gathered around. She felt…haunted.
Something was wrong. Somewhere.
Of course there is, she told herself briskly. Something is always wrong somewhere. No need to take it personally, even if I do have witches in my ancestry. Well, druids, actually, but they burned just the same.
Whatever. Everything is fine with those I love.
And if she told herself that often enough, she might believe it. Part of it was that she hated having Don half a world away. And most of it was something else, something that couldn’t be touched or known, simply accepted.
“Ms. Donovan?”
The pilot’s voice came over the intercom. Susa flipped a switch on the seat arm. “Yes?”
“The Donovan requests that you ‘turn on your goddamned cell phone.’”
“Oops,” Susa said, reaching for her big purse. “I didn’t expect him to be awake. Isn’t it the middle of the night in whatever godforsaken hunk of real estate he’s visiting?”
“Trust me. He’s awake.”
“I’m calling him as we speak.”
The pilot, whose ears had been singed, sighed gratefully. “Good. We’re landing in twenty minutes. I’d hate to try to juggle both the Donovan on a rant and the air controller at John Wayne International.”
Susa was still smiling when her husband answered his phone.
“Susa?” The voice was rough yet warm.
“I’m here, love.”
“I miss you.”
She caressed the phone with her fingertips as though she could reach through time and space and feel the warmth of her husband’s mouth. “Same here. I’m one lucky woman.”
“Because I’m not around to harass you?”
She laughed softly. “That’s not harassment. I was just thinking about the painters in Moreno County.”
“BWM,” he said.
Before We Met. It was the way Susa and Donald Donovan divided their lifetimes.
“Yes,” she said. “I look down at the land and I’m haunted by the talented men who never found what they were looking for and stopped painting, and the talented women who weren’t fortunate enough to find a mate who supported their work, praised their abilities, and made painting part of raising a family. I was so lucky to find you. Have I ever thanked you for that, my love?”
“Every time you smile.”
“I wish I could kiss you.” She hadn’t wanted him to go and had told him so more than once before he left. For God’s sake, Don, why do you think I put up with our strapping, looming sons and quick-witted daughters if not to let them take over the business so we can play?
But Don was as stubborn as she was, which was why they were still individuals and still together. “How are the negotiations going?”
“Slowly.”
“You’re going to miss the auction.” It wasn’t a question.
“I’m afraid so.”
“Afraid? Ha! You’re chortling.”
“Well, smiling maybe, but not chortling. I never chortle.” He yawned hugely. “Couldn’t sleep until I heard your voice.”
“Are you saying I put you to sleep?” she teased.
“Eventually. Damn it, honey. I should be with you, not over here talking through interpreters to people who see dollar signs when I walk in the room.”
“Then come home.”
“Always.”
“But not tonight, huh?”
“No.” He sighed. “I swear I’m going to put a leash on one of our kids and make them take my place.”
“Remind me to be somewhere else when you try.”
He bit back a laugh. “Be safe, my beautiful Susa. Call me even if you think I’m asleep.”
“Same for you. Don’t let down your guard, love.”
“Don’t worry. Uncle Sam assigned me some company. Three guys. They remind me of Jake and Archer, cool around the eyes and always ready to jump in any direction.”
Susa’s heartbeat quickened. Their son Archer and their son-in-law Jake had once spent time in the kinds of government service that Congress didn’t oversee. “Don’t worry?” she asked in a rising voice. “What’s going on?”
“Nothing. The government just thought it was easier to keep an eye on me than to find me if I got lost,” he said.
She let out a long breath. “Good for them.”
“You think it’s a good idea?”
“Anything that keeps you safe is a good idea.”
At the other end of the line, her husband grinned. Gotcha. “Then you’ll cooperate with Ian Lapstrake.”
“Who?”
“The man who’s meeting you at the airport. He’s Lawe’s friend.”
“Oh, that Ian.”
“He’s also one of Rarities’ top security men. I’m sure you’ll enjoy his company every minute of the time you’re hauling yourself and your half-million-dollar paintings all over the southern California landscape.”
“Are you saying—” Susa began hotly.
“I love you.”
Being a wise man, the Donovan hung up before Susa could answer.
Savoy Ranch
Tuesday afternoon
8
The room was more than a hundred years old, a symphony of brass and polished wood, thick Persian carpets and heavy draperies, brown leather couches so deep that only a fit man could get out of one without grunting. A wood fire leaped and licked at the huge hearth. Ward Forrest hadn’t changed any of the Savoy decor when he married Gem and united the Savoy fortune with the Forrest ambition. He’d even left the trophy heads on the walls—mule deer, bighorn sheep, elk, antelope, moose, bear, cougar. Though he’d personally shot bigger game, he’d never felt the need to stare at the results over coffee and brandy.
Ward went back to studying the contract-labor arrangements for the Savoy Hotel. Although it wasn’t well known, the conglomerate that owned the hotel was largely owned by one of the many arms of Savoy Enterprises. It was a belated—and probably too late—attempt to diversify from an entirely land-based business. Because Ward had insisted on overseeing every detail of the hotel personally, down to the kitchen equipment, uniform sources for everyone from cooks to concierge, and security arrangements on every floor for every reason, the Savoy Hotel had taken up a large part of his working days. He would be glad when the damn thing was launched and he could stay home and go back to being semiretired.
The grandfather clock chimed repeatedly like someone humming the opening note for a choir of angels. The dog at Ward’s feet wagged its tail, dreaming along in key.
“You lazy old son,” Ward said, and thumped the dog fondly on its well-padded ribs. “Too fat to hunt and too old to care.”
Honey Bear opened one eye, slicked his tongue over Ward’s fingers, and went back to sleep. Ward smoothed his hand down the dog’s coat several times. He’d had a lifetime of Honey Bears romping at his heels: different dogs bu
t the same sex, breed, and name, the same eager-to-please nature, and the same unquestioning love for the hand that fed them. Smooth coats, too. The older he got, the more he appreciated that silky canine warmth and reliability.
In his opinion, when it came to company on a lonely night a good dog was worth twenty women. Dogs didn’t ask fool questions, didn’t argue about how the ranch should be run, and didn’t throw a shit fit when they didn’t get what they wanted. His wife had done all that and more.
Die in Plain Sight Page 4
