Die in Plain Sight

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “But we’ll protect you,” he said.

  “I’m whining, aren’t I?” Susa sighed and looked at her watch. “Let’s go see the paintings before dinner. If they haven’t displayed them properly, there’s still time to fix it.”

  The moment they stepped into the hall, it was obvious that the auction would be a success. Expensively dressed people were everywhere—leaving their hotel rooms, waiting for the elevator, chatting with friends. The lobby was crowded with glitter and flash and hummed with excitement. Bits of conversation drifted by like wind-driven leaves.

  “—seen the latest girlfriend? My God, she has to be fifty years younger than—”

  “I rather fancy the dark painting, so brutal and—”

  “If she gets another face-lift, she’ll have a goatee.”

  “If he gets another one, he’ll have two.”

  “—dreadful art at that show, just dreadful. It could have been left by the janitor when he changed the lightbulbs.”

  “Look, isn’t that La Susa?”

  “Omigod, look at those shoulders.”

  “Hers?”

  “His. Great butt, too.”

  “Do you suppose they’re lovers?”

  “Actually,” Ian said under his breath, “my shoulders and butt have been very close since birth.”

  “Behave,” Susa said mildly.

  “Why?” he muttered. “Nobody else is. I feel like meat in a deli.”

  Lacey smiled. “You are meat in a deli, my beautiful salami.”

  “Get used to it,” Susa said, winking at Lacey. “Most of the good-looking single men here are gay. But if any of the old ladies pinch you, I’ll smack their bony fingers.”

  Ian wondered if it was okay for a good-looking single man to roll his eyes.

  The fragmented conversations went silent in the elevator, only to resume with redoubled volume in the lobby.

  “Stand on my right,” he said to Lacey, “but don’t get in the way of my right hand, okay?”

  “Why?”

  “Guess.”

  Belatedly she realized that he wanted to be free to reach beneath his suit coat for his weapon.

  “Oh. Got it,” she muttered, and went to stand on his right side. But not too close. “So much for holding hands, huh?”

  “That’s why they call it work.”

  Ian put his left hand on Susa’s elbow, a grim look on his face, and stared down anyone who tried to approach her as they crossed the lobby. When a look wasn’t enough, he simply told the person that Susa would be available for conversation after the auction.

  “Thank you,” Susa said after he had turned away the fourth person. “You’re as good at that as Archer or Jake. Not quite rude and certainly not friendly.”

  “It’s something you learn in Junkyard Dog 101.”

  Lacey grinned.

  “This way,” Ian said, steering Susa toward a hallway that was discreetly marked as the Surf Ballroom.

  “Nice carpet,” Lacey said, eyeing the intricate, vaguely Persian pattern that had been done in shades of aquamarine and gold. “Wonder what it will look like in a few years.”

  “Used,” Ian said.

  “Gee, you’re really fun when you’re working.”

  Mr. Goodman came out of the Surf Ballroom, spotted Susa, and hurried forward. “Ms. Donovan, you look marvelous.”

  “Thank you,” Ian said before Susa could speak. “If you’ll excuse us, we’re on a rather short clock. Seating at the head table begins in five minutes and Susa hasn’t had a chance to see the auction layout.”

  “Oh, of course. If you have any questions….” Mr. Goodman was talking to Ian’s back.

  There was a uniformed deputy standing outside the entrance to the ballroom and two more covering other exits. The small raised stage at one end of the room featured Susa’s paintings. The forgeries were prominently displayed on movable panels just in front of the stage. The rest of the “Found by Susa Donovan” paintings formed an art maze that took up a third of the ballroom. The remainder of the big room was filled with plush folding chairs whose rubber feet left no marks on the gleaming wooden floor. Each seat held a paddle with huge numbers to identify bidders for the auctioneer and his assistants.

  Ian gave the art maze a jaundiced look. It could hide a platoon of Uzi-carrying goons.

  “Down boy,” Susa said.

  Ian glanced at her. “What?”

  “I know that look. They teach it in Advanced Paranoia. Just remember that you’re here to make the Donovan feel good, not because there is any credible or even in credible threat against me.”

  Ian grunted.

  Lacey left them to sort out bodyguard protocol and went to the three panels that held her grandfather’s art. The canvases were displayed the same way she’d brought them to Susa—unframed.

  The lack of framing only enhanced the raw, edgy energy of the paintings. The desert scene bristled with the silent, endless battle to survive. Cross Country Canyon looked almost ominous, as though the land knew it would be an untimely graveyard. The drowning pool sent out dark waves separated by a horrifying scarlet scream.

  Against her will, Lacey was drawn to the grim painting. Here in the sumptuous ballroom and clever lighting, her grandfather’s work took on greater detail, greater power, becoming both more specific and more universal. The woman was Everywoman, the bracelet on her right wrist suggested intertwined hearts. Instead of being more distinct, the killer’s hand became simply male, strong without being huge, deadly without weapons, a dark force taking light from the woman. The suggestion of a spa was more distinct in the special lighting; Lacey could almost see the outline of tile work and lush plantings. Yet if she didn’t look closely, it could have been Hawaii or the Caribbean, any place where the greenery was lush and the water pure.

  Gradually Lacey became aware that someone was standing next to her, staring at the painting as intently as she was. At first glance the woman looked thirty-something. A closer look upped the age a decade or more. She was expensively turned out in blended shades of blond hair, an oyster-colored silk dress whose lines whispered Paris, and a diamond and sapphire choker that enhanced the startling blue of her eyes.

  As Lacey watched, the woman slowly lifted her right arm until her bracelet was next to the painting. The jewelry she wore was made of white gold with diamond-set hearts, intertwining. Every third heart was a larger solid metal one.

  The woman leaned closer, looking from her arm to the painting. Suddenly her hand trembled. “That’s my bracelet.”

  Savoy Hotel

  Saturday evening

  45

  You’re sure?” Ian asked as he seated Lacey at the head table.

  “Positive.” She shivered. “It creeped me out. Didn’t do much for her, either. She turned around and left like her heels were on fire.”

  “Who was it?”

  “I don’t know.”

  Ian sat down between Susa and Lacey. “Interesting. If you see her again, point her out to me.”

  “No problem,” Lacey said instantly. “She’s coming up the aisle right now. The blonde.”

  He looked and saw a striking blonde hanging on Rory Turner’s arm. An even more striking blonde followed on Ward Forrest’s arm.

  “Which one?” Ian asked.

  “The first one. I never saw the second one before. Those gossips in the hallway were right. He’s old enough to be her grandfather.”

  “Never would have pegged him for that kind of fool.”

  “What does age have to do with it?” Lacey muttered. “Just because he’s gray around the edges doesn’t mean he’s smart about women.”

  “I suppose—just hate to see a walking cliché.”

  Savoy Forrest brought up the rear of the party with an elegant brunette in tow. Their body language said they might have been intimate once, but didn’t feel comfortable rubbing up against each other right now.

  “Well, well,” Ian said softly. “Putting two and two together, we’re looking at
the happy Forrest family. I’m guessing the first blonde is Bliss, Savoy’s sister and the sheriff’s ex-and soon-to-be-again wife.”

  “I’m missing something.”

  “You should talk to cops. Biggest gossips in the world.”

  The Forrests came up to the head table and chatted while introductions were made all around. When Lacey and Bliss were introduced, Lacey managed not to give Ian a sidelong glance.

  “I understand you own the painting of the drowning woman,” Bliss said bluntly.

  “Yes,” Lacey said cautiously.

  “Where did you get it?” Bliss asked.

  “Why?” Ian asked before Lacey could speak.

  “Because that’s my bracelet.”

  Ward’s head whipped toward his daughter. “We should be sitting down at our own table.”

  Bliss ignored her father. She might have her credit cards back, but she was still pissed off at him for winning again. “It belonged to my grandmother Sandra Wheaten Savoy. It was given to her to celebrate my mother Gem’s birth. When Mother was twenty-one, the bracelet became hers. It came to me when she died. It’s one of a kind.”

  Bliss pulled back the long, draped sleeve on her right arm and held the bracelet under Lacey’s nose.

  “Very pretty,” Lacey managed.

  “You’re damned right it is. So why is it in that ugly painting?”

  “Blissy,” Ward said softly, “it’s time for us to sit down.”

  Savoy stepped between father and daughter as he’d always done. “Excellent idea. I’m sure you and Ms. Marsh—excuse me, Quinn—will have lots of time to talk about art before and after the auction.”

  Rory looked at the stubborn set of Bliss’s mouth, mentally calculated how many drinks she’d had, and decided to risk it. He ran his index finger from her shoulder to her fingertips. “Come sit by me, sugar. I’ve had a long day and need to rest up for the night.”

  For a moment Bliss resisted. But when he picked up her hand and kissed her palm, she sighed. “All right.” Then she looked at Lacey. “Later.”

  Lacey made a sound that her mother often mistook for agreement.

  Bliss and Rory left for a nearby table. Ward waited patiently while Angelique asked Susa something about which brushes were best for water and which for clouds. He didn’t hear the answer, but he did see Mr. Goodman quivering in the aisle like an anxious sheep dog.

  “Sorry to interrupt,” Ward said, smiling at Susa, “but the organizer of the event will wet his pants if we don’t sit down pretty quick.”

  Angelique looked startled, then laughed. “Naughty man.”

  He smiled. “Somebody has to be or else nobody would appreciate good people like you.”

  With a light touch on her arm, Ward guided Angelique toward the table. Ignoring the discreet place cards, he seated Angelique so that he would occupy the empty chair next to Bliss. This put Angelique at the end of the table rather than in the center of things. Savoy gave him a sharp glance but didn’t protest the new arrangement.

  It took twenty minutes, but Ward finally managed to get his daughter’s attention without attracting anyone else’s.

  “Blissy?” he murmured.

  “What?”

  “I know how much you loved your mother.”

  Bliss’s fork hesitated over her salad. “You sure you want to go into this with Ms. Angel fanning her wings so close by?”

  Ward’s smile was as hard as the silverware. “Savvy’s son has her attention, talking about saving earthworms or some such crap. No doubt the boy will have a check in his pocket before the evening is out.”

  Bliss smiled at the lettuce with its little vegetable shavings. “Go on. I promise not to choke up at the thought of how close Mother and I were not.”

  “In some ways, you’re a lot like me.”

  “Frightening thought.”

  “For both of us,” he shot back softly. “So do us both a favor. Drop the subject of the damned bracelet.”

  “Why?”

  “Jesus, Blissy, why do you think?”

  She shrugged. “Tell me.”

  “The last thing I want right now is to air any more dirty skivvies in front of Ms. Angelique. You go hollering about that bracelet, and pretty soon all the old gossip about your mother’s death is going to be on the front pages again and our rich little angel will fly the hell out of here. Then I’d be almighty pissed off at you in a way that will make every other disagreement we’ve had look as bland as banana pudding. You get it?”

  “You’ll cut me off.”

  “You better believe it.”

  “Shit,” Blissy hissed under her breath. “Always pulling strings like some damned puppeteer.”

  He laughed and ruffled her hair as though she was five instead of nearly fifty. “You’re finally figuring it out.”

  “What?”

  “If you ain’t pulling strings, somebody is pulling yours. But don’t sulk, Blissy. Someday I’ll be dead and you’ll be rich enough to buy your own puppets.”

  Savoy Hotel

  Saturday evening

  46

  After dinner the guests sifted through the maze of freestanding panels, noting which paintings were for sale and which weren’t. People read Susa’s handwritten cards next to each painting, made notes, and moved on. Mr. Goodman did the sheep dog bit, gently and relentlessly herding people along the aisles of art. With an eye to the bottom line, he praised the ordinary and the indifferent, and emphasized how valuable Susa’s comments were to future owners.

  Lacey let herself be herded. Away from Susa there was a blessed anonymity in being one of the crowd musing over paintings. On the stage, Ian practiced his barely leashed junkyard dog routine while a smock-shrouded Susa painted what had once been called Sandy Cove from memory. She wasn’t going to let a thief stand in the way of keeping her word to the Forrests about donating a landscape of the ranch to the Savoy Museum.

  “Enjoying the show?” Savoy asked from beside Lacey.

  “Some of these paintings are amazing.”

  “Is that good or bad?”

  “Works both ways.”

  Savoy laughed and studied the painting Lacey was looking at. It was an unusual treatment of storm clouds and cattle. Energetic and undisciplined in equal parts. Primitive, yet arresting.

  “Have you heard anything more about the robbery?” Savoy asked, moving on to the next painting when Lacey did.

  “Since you ate dinner with the sheriff, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  “At dinner he was acting in his capacity as former and future family,” Savoy said wryly. “Nothing official.”

  She glanced aside at Savoy. “Former and future?”

  “My sister is his ex-wife. They’re getting married again tomorrow.”

  “Oh, I remember now. Good for them. I hope.” Lacey heard her own words and winced. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

  “Don’t worry. We’re all holding our breath on this one.”

  For a moment they both stared at a watercolor that suggested seagulls in flight. Then Lacey found herself out of the maze and face-to-face with her grandfather’s forgeries.

  “I understand you have quite a few of this artist’s paintings,” Savoy said.

  “Yes.”

  “Might I ask how many?”

  She turned toward him. The forgeries were a subject she would love to avoid, but didn’t see any graceful—or even moderately polite—way of doing so. “Why?”

  “As I’ve said before, my father collects works by this artist. He particularly focuses on the darker work.” Savoy gestured toward the drowning pool.

  “No accounting for taste,” Lacey muttered.

  “You don’t care for them?”

  She sighed. “They’re brilliant. I just can’t see living with them on a daily basis.”

  “Them? You have more than this one and the one that was stolen?”

  Damn, not much gets by this man. “Yes.”

  “Since you don’t
want to hang them yourself, and you have an ample supply, the foundation would love to acquire one or more for our museum.”

  “I figured that out,” Lacey said. “I’m not ready to sell.”

  “If you change your mind before the auction is over, I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars for the pool painting and an equal amount to the Friends of Moreno County.”