Good manners won out, and she gave him her hand. A soft hand, smooth and white, but there were calluses on her fingertips. He frowned as he felt them. “I remember now, you’re an artist, like Savich here.”
“Yes, I told you about her, Simon. She draws No Wrinkles Remus, a political cartoon strip that-”
“Yes, of course I remember. I’ve read the strip, but it’s been a while now. It was in the Chicago Tribune, if I remember correctly.”
“That’s right. It ran there for about a year. Then I left town. I’m surprised you remember it.”
He said, “It’s very biting and cynical, but hilarious. I don’t think it matters if the reader is a Democrat or a Republican, all the political shenanigans ring so true it just doesn’t matter. Will the world see more of Remus?”
“Yes,” Lily said. “Just as soon as I’m settled in my own place, I’m going to begin again. Now, why are you so anxious to see my paintings?”
Sean dropped the graham cracker, looked directly at his mother, and yelled.
Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie? Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late, so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be back with the little prince in a while.”
“Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would fill in the cracks.”
“You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the once-over to make sure she was okay, and went to the kitchen.
“Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?” Lily asked again.
“I’d just as soon not say until I actually see them, Mrs. Frasier.”
“Very well. What do you do in the art world, Mr. Russo?”
“I’m an art broker.”
“And how do you do that, exactly?”
“A client wants to buy, say, a particular painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t know where it is already-which I do know most of the time-see if it’s for sale. If it is, I procure it for the client.”
“What if it’s in a museum?”
“I speak to the folk at the museum, see if there’s another painting, of similar value, that they’d barter for the one my client wants. It happens that way, successfully sometimes, if the museum wants what I have to barter more than the painting they have. Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants and needs of all the major museums, the major collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually, though, a museum isn’t all that eager to part with a Picasso.”
“You know all about the illegal market, then.”
Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes that she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.
He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.
Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”
But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times the operative word in the business. Is there anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”
“You know the crooks who acquire the paintings for the collectors.”
“Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You can believe that because your brother trusts me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it comes to trust.”
“You’ve known each other for a very long time. Maybe trust just starts between kids and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely see each other.”
“Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look, Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve had some bad experiences with people in the art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t dance over the line. You can take that to the bank. Of course I know about the underside of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful, now would I?”
“How many of my grandmother’s paintings have you dealt with?”
“Over the years, probably a good dozen, maybe more. Some of my clients are museums themselves. If the painting is owned by a collector-legally, of course-and a museum wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it from the collector. Since I know what all the main collectors own and accumulate, I will try to barter with them. It cuts both ways, Mrs. Frasier.”
“I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please don’t call me that again.”
“All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest. What would you like to be called, ma’am?”
“I think I’ll go back to my maiden name. You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be Lily Savich again.”
Her brother said from the doorway, “I like it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders of Tennyson.”
“Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”
Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His father told me that Lord or Alfred just wouldn’t do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but my mother-in-law hates the poet.”
“Perhaps Tennyson, the poet-not your nearly ex-husband-is a bit on the ‘pedantic’ side.”
“You’ve never read Tennyson in your life,” Lily said.
He gave her the most charming smile and nodded. “You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’ isn’t quite right?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”
“Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich said, then cocked his head, looking upward. He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean. He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to get along while I join the sing-along. You can trust him, Lily.”
When they were alone again, Lily heard the light slap of rain on the windows for the first time. Not a hard, drenching rain, just an introduction, maybe, to the winter rains that were coming. It had been overcast when they’d landed in Washington, and there was a stiff wind.
Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee, sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes. “Savich makes the best coffee in the known world. And he rarely drinks it.”
“His body is a temple,” she said. “I guess his brain is, too.”
“Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man, sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I bet Savich would fall over in shock if he heard you say that about him.”
“Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless. Our dad taught all of us kids how to make the very best coffee. He said if he was ever in an old-age home, at least he’d know he could count on us for that. Our mom taught Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston to go to MIT.”
“Did she teach all of you?”
“No, just Dillon.” She stopped, listening to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my favorite.”
“They do the harmony well. However, what Savich does best is country and western. Have you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”
She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee, and knew her stomach would rebel if she had any more.
“Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough, we could all go hear him sing at the club.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich? Or dislike me? Whatever it is.”