“I’m your Siamese twin.”
“Good answer.” Susa put a gracious smile on her face and turned to greet the rest of the dinner guests.
Ian went to the easels and began carefully unwrapping the unframed paintings Susa carried around with less fanfare than most women would a purse. There were four easels and four paintings. Two of them were from the early stages of Susa’s long career. The other two were so fresh they still smelled of the oils that had been used to create them. Ian didn’t know which made him more nervous—older paintings worth close to a million bucks or art so new it was barely safe to handle, despite the metallic salts Susa and Lacey had added to their paints to accelerate the drying process.
“Extraordinary,” Savoy said. Even without the spare signature— —in the lower left-hand corner of each painting, he could see that it was the same painter no matter the differences that artistic development had brought.
He stared at the paintings of the dark, narrow ravine where his grandfather and great-grandmother had died in separate accidents. This was Bliss’s “sacred ground,” land that she would rather drag the family into ruin than develop. His mother had died a lot closer to home in another accident. At least that’s what the coroner’s report had said, but when the coroner/sheriff was a close friend of the family, it wasn’t hard to switch death by suicide to accidental death by overdose of drugs and alcohol, and let tongues wag until they bled about the Savoy Curse.
“The old and the new are different, yet no one else could have painted them but La Susa,” Savoy said.
“I’ll take your word on it. I only saw her paint these two,” Ian said, setting up the second new canvas.
“I’m relieved,” Savoy said dryly. “The other two were painted before you were born, and well before suburbs crowded up against the sea.”
Ian looked at the paintings. Savoy was right. Beneath the differences in execution, season, and color, the land was the same except for the amount of buildings in the background at the edges of the modern paintings.
“Have you worked for Susa long?” Savoy asked.
“No.”
Savoy waited, but Ian didn’t say anything more. “The maître d’ said you were bringing a third person, a Ms. Marsh?” Savoy asked.
“It didn’t work out. Sorry, I guess the maître d’ didn’t have time to tell you.”
Savoy shrugged. “Any guest of Susa’s would be welcome. Is that the same January Marsh who brought the paintings that so excited Susa?”
“Yes.”
Again Savoy waited. Again Ian didn’t offer any more information. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Ms. Marsh.”
Ian made a sound that meant he was listening.
“Do you have her phone number?” Savoy asked.
“January Marsh’s? No.” He had Lacey Quinn’s, but it wasn’t up to him to spread that fact around.
“If you happen to hear from her, tell her that the Savoy Museum is very interested in acquiring at least one of the paintings she showed to Susa.”
“Sure, but I got the impression Tuesday night that she wasn’t interested in selling.”
“If she cared enough to bring the paintings in the first place, perhaps she’ll care enough to see that they are properly housed and passed on to future generations. The Savoy Museum can do that.”
“Good point.” Ian shifted his dark suit coat. The fabric kept wanting to hang up on the damned shoulder holster. That’s what he got for buying the coat a size larger instead of having the right size properly tailored for the harness. “It might help if she saw the museum. When is it open?”
“For Ms. Marsh, it’s open whenever she wants to visit.” Savoy got out a business card and wrote quickly on its back. “This number is always the fastest way to reach me.”
Ian took the card and wondered how much Savoy would pay for one of the paintings. Lacey wasn’t poor, but anyone who worked for herself the way she did could always use money. The good news was that she hadn’t put her talents to work forging old masters or more recent Impressionists for quick cash.
He hoped.
“Savvy, you have a minute to talk to Susa?” Ward asked from across the room.
“Excuse me,” Savoy said.
“No problem. I’m just the hired help.”
“So am I,” Savoy said under his breath.
Ward watched impatiently while Savoy greeted two couples who had just arrived—very big spenders on the art circuit—and wove through the other people with a smile and a promise to come back soon.
Savoy held both hands out to Susa. “Your paintings are magnificent,” he said, “but I didn’t mean to ignore the artist.”
There was no polite way for Susa to say that she’d rather be ignored than feted, so she pressed his hands gently, released them, and changed the subject. “Your father was just telling me that the Savoy Museum was interested in acquiring some paintings at the upcoming auction.”
“January Marsh’s paintings,” Ward added.
Susa frowned at the name. She still didn’t understand why such an otherwise open young woman would want to have a fake name. As a personal matter, Lacey certainly didn’t have the sort of artistic fame that would make anonymity welcome. Perhaps it was simply that she couldn’t afford to insure such fine paintings. The thought cheered Susa, even though she couldn’t quite believe it.
“We have our eye on several pieces of art,” Savoy said to Susa, “including those you painted on our ranch. They’re an almost inevitable acquisition for the Savoy Museum, don’t you think?”
“Since it was on the Savoy Ranch that I first found, absorbed, and understood what it meant to be a painter, I would be happy to make a gift to the museum of a painting created on your ranch,” Susa said.
Savoy didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “That’s very generous, but hardly necessary.”
“As my daughter-in-law Hannah would say, ‘No worries.’ I’ll just paint another one.”
“If only it was that easy,” Savoy said, remembering the times he’d painted before his mother convinced him that he should focus his talents on business. “But you can’t ever capture the same thing twice, can you?”
Susa smiled at his understanding. “No. You just go on and hope to capture something new. Sometimes you do, most times you don’t. So you burn the bad ones on New Year’s Eve and get ready to try again.”
“You burn money?” Ward asked.
“No. Failed paintings.”
“Would anyone but you think of them as failures?” Ward asked.
“I know the difference. That’s what matters to me.”
“Son of a bitch,” Ward said, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose you have enough money to burn some now and then.”
Her eyebrows raised. “I’ve been burning paintings for as long as I’ve painted, and I was plenty poor until about fifteen years ago.”
“You have guts,” Ward said. “Not much business smarts, but plenty of guts.”
She smiled, amused rather than insulted. “Actually, I’m smart enough to know that it’s important to understand the past but not to be owned by it. Burning canvases is a way for me to be free as an artist.”
“Like burning bridges?” Ward asked.
“Exactly.”
“Well, I sure as hell know about that. Some bridges just have to be burned, no matter what the rest of the world thinks about it.” Ward laughed and winked at Susa. “The trick is to know which bridges to burn, and when, and how not to get caught with the matches in your hand.”
“My father has a unique take on the world,” Savoy said wryly, shaking his head. “No frills, no fancies, just get the job done.”
“My take isn’t so unique that I’m going to pass up Susa’s offer of a painting,” Ward retorted. “It would be great publicity for the corporation.”
“And for the arts,” Savoy added quickly, turning to Susa. “You might not believe it after listening to him, but my father is the force behind the Savoy Museum. It w
as his vision, his dedication, and his willingness to fight other board members to free up funds that resulted in the museum’s establishment and its continuing acquisitions.”
Susa made an appropriately polite sound. Privately she doubted that Ward Forrest had a single artistic sensibility in his flinty soul. Not that it mattered in the long run. Throughout history many of the most famous patrons of the arts wouldn’t have known what to buy if some well-dressed salesperson hadn’t pointed out the art and told them what words to use when discussing their new acquisitions with their equally clueless peers.
Ignorance combined with acquisition shouldn’t have annoyed Susa, but sometimes it did. She couldn’t help wondering how many of the people in this room would have bought one of her own paintings if they’d stumbled over it in a flea market twenty years ago. Ian, perhaps. He had a good eye.
And where the hell was he, by the way? He was supposed to keep her from getting bitchy out of sheer boredom.
Oh, quit whining and do your job, Susa told herself impatiently. She wasn’t here for her own benefit, she was here because she’d once been among the legions of talented, hungry, hardworking artists who were consumed by their need to paint. The more support she could send their way now, the better the chance that they would keep painting long enough to be “discovered.” Then they could quit their day job and follow their fey talent as far as it would take them.
“Have you been to our museum?” Savoy asked.
“Not yet,” Susa said, snapping back into focus. “I’m hoping to fit in a trip before the auction.”
“I gave your man my card,” Savoy said.
“My man? Oh, Ian.” She pressed her lips against a smile.
“Whenever you want to come, just call that number. I’ll see that you have a full guided tour. And feel free to bring guests such as Ms. Marsh.”
Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Marsh? The one with the—”
“Yes,” Savoy cut in, not wanting his blunt father to say too much. No point in paying more than they had to for an unsigned painting. “I understand that Ms. Marsh is reluctant to sell her paintings. I hope after she sees how well they would be cared for in the museum, she’ll change her mind and sell us at least one.”
“We’re going painting tomorrow,” Susa said. “I’ll mention it to her.”
“Then you know where she lives?” Ward asked.
“She’s meeting us at the hotel,” Ian said, walking up in time to hear the conversation.
Susa’s eyebrows went up, because she’d heard Ian make arrangements to pick up Jan—Lacey, damn it!—early in the morning. But Susa wasn’t the Donovan’s wife for nothing.
She knew when to talk and when to shut her mouth.
Pasadena
Wednesday night
18
When the telephone rang, Brody Quinn looked up from his notes on his most recent case—a woman who had decided that being an accountant wasn’t as lucrative as being an embezzler. With each motion of his pen, the cat’s white paw swatted at the flashing metal. Brody didn’t even pause in his notes. He would have noticed only if the cat hadn’t been there. Tag-the-pen was part of a nightly ritual that man and feline enjoyed.
“Can you get that, honey?” Dottie called from the direction of the master suite spa. “I’m up to my chin in bubbles.”
He muttered something, checked the caller ID, and sighed in relief. Just Lacey, not another business crisis.
“Hi, Lacey,” he said.
“Sorry to interrupt your work,” she said. “I know you look forward to evenings without the phone yammering at you.”
“I’m always glad to hear from my girls.”
At the other end of the line, Lacey almost smiled. It had been a long time since she’d qualified as a “girl,” yet to her father she would always be just that. “How’s everything?” she asked.
“Same as always at this time of night. The fur ball is teasing my pen, I’m behind on my work, and your mother is up to her lips in the spa.”
Lacey hesitated. She wished her father would be as enthusiastic about the good news as she was, but she didn’t think he would be.
“Everything all right with you?” Brody asked.
“Everything is wonderful. Susa went nuts over Grandfather’s paintings. Said they were as good as Lewis Marten’s work.”
Brody’s eyes closed and his hand clenched on the phone. Damn it, Dad, couldn’t you have picked someone else to copy? “That’s nice.”
“Nice? It’s incredible! Lewis Marten is a fine, nearly unknown California Impressionist who would have been world-famous if he hadn’t—”
“—died a long time ago,” Brody interrupted impatiently. “Your grandfather died two years ago. Why would anyone believe it’s great that my father painted just like some dead artist? Better he should have had his own style, don’t you think?”
“You don’t understand. Susa agrees with me that Granddad is a fine artist. The leading collector of California plein air artists wants to buy at least one of his paintings. Susa says that I should have them appraised, because they could be worth hundreds of thousands each.”
“Only if they were actually painted by Lewis Marten,” Brody said flatly. “But they weren’t painted by Marten. They were done by a man who was old enough to know better but couldn’t resist making money the easy way.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Something you don’t want to hear and I sure as hell don’t want to tell you. Leave it alone, Lacey.”
“Tell me anyway.”
“Always pushing. Always have to do it your own way.”
“I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s too late for me to change. Are you going to tell me or not?”
Brody bit back a curse. He’d always been afraid that this skeleton wouldn’t stay in the closet forever, but he really wished it had come rattling out at some more convenient time.
“When cash got short,” he said, “your beloved Grandpa Rainbow forged Lewis Marten paintings and sold them—unsigned—to unsuspecting galleries at cut rates.”
Lacey opened her mouth. Nothing came out through her painfully constricted throat. She swallowed and tried again. “But I saw him paint,” she said hoarsely. “He was magical. He didn’t need to copy anyone.”
Angry and unhappy, Brady swept off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn it, honey. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want him to make you cry like he did everyone else.”
“I’m not crying.” Yet. Lacey bit down hard on her emotions. “I can’t believe it.”
“You mean you won’t.”
Lacey drew a ragged breath. “I know he was a lousy husband and father, but he was an artist.”
“He was a forger,” Brody said, “and all your stubbornness won’t change that fact. Now the whole world will know. When the shit hits the headlines, I’m going to deny all knowledge and hope to hell you will, too. It’s the only way I might salvage my professional reputation.”
“But that’s crazy. Even if you’re right about Grandpa, you can’t be held accountable for what your father did or didn’t do.”
Brody laughed without humor. “Lacey, how old are you? This is politics, not church. Guilt by association is the name of the game.”
She wanted to argue but knew there wasn’t any point. He was right. “God, I’m so sorry. I never meant to—”
“I know that,” Brody interrupted roughly. “Hell, maybe it’s for the best. After the doctor told me to slow down, your mother wasn’t crazy about the idea of me being a judge. She’s been after me to cut back on work and spend more time traveling.”
“But you’ve always wanted to be a judge.”
He shrugged. “You don’t always get what you want.”
“No one has to know,” she said urgently. “No one knows my name. I’ll just withdraw the paintings and vanish.”
“It won’t be that easy.”
“But—”
“Forget it,” Brody cut in, his
voice raw and weary. “The cat’s too far out of the bag to shove it back in. Save your energy for salvaging your own reputation when people start wondering if the granddaughter is as big a cheat as the old man was.”
“I told you—nobody knows who I am!” Well, almost nobody. Ian didn’t count, did he?
“It will be all right, Dad. I’ll just withdraw the paintings and everything will be fine.”
But everything wasn’t fine. She finally understood why her Grandpa Rainbow never signed a canvas.
Die in Plain Sight Page 12
