She looked at him for a good, long time, took a small bit of apple pie, and said finally, “You really don’t want to know, Mr. Russo. And I’ve decided that if Dillon trusts you, why, then, I can, too.”
12
Raleigh Beezler, co-owner of the Beezler-Wexler Gallery of Georgetown, New York City, and Rome, gave Lily the most sorrowful look she’d seen in a very long time, at least as hangdog as Mr. Monk’s at the Eureka museum.
He kissed his fingers toward the paintings. “Ah, Mrs. Frasier, they are so incredible, so unique. No, no, don’t say it. Your brother already told me that they cannot remain here. Yes, I know that and I weep. They must make their way to a museum so the great unwashed masses can stand in their wrinkled walking shorts and gawk at them. But it brings tears to my eyes, clogs my throat, you understand.”
“I understand, Mr. Beezler,” Lily said and patted his arm. “But I truly believe they belong in a museum.”
Savich heard a familiar voice speaking to Dyrlana, the gorgeous twenty-two-year-old gallery facilitator, hired, Raleigh admitted readily, to make the gentlemen customers looser with their wallets. Savich turned and called out, “Hey, Simon, come on back here.”
Lily looked through the open doorway of the vault and watched Simon Russo run the distance to the large gallery vault in under two seconds. He skidded to a stop, sucked in his breath at the display of the eight Sarah Elliott paintings, each lovingly positioned against soft black velvet on eight easels, and said, “My God,” and nothing else.
He walked slowly from painting to painting, pausing to look closely at many of them, and said finally, “You remember, Savich, that your grandmother gave me The Last Rites for my graduation present. It was my favorite then and I believe it still is. But this one-The Maiden Voyage-it’s incredible. This is the first time I’ve seen it. Would you look at the play of light on the water, the lace of shadows, like veils. Only Sarah Elliott can achieve that effect.”
“For me,” Lily said, “it’s the people’s faces. I’ve always loved to stare at the expressions, all of them so different from each other, so telling. You know which man owns the ship just by the look on his face. And his mother-that look of superior complacency at what he’s achieved, mixed with the love she holds so deeply for her son and the ship he’s built.”
“Yes, but it’s how Sarah Elliott uses light and shadow that puts her head and shoulders above any other modern artist.”
“No, I disagree with you. It’s the people, their faces, you see simply everything in their expressions. You feel like you know them, know what makes them tick.” She saw he would object again and rolled right over him. “But this one has always been my favorite.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the frame on The Swan Song. “I really hate to see it go to a museum.”
“Keep it with you then,” Savich said. “I’ve kept The Soldier’s Watch. The insurance costs a bundle as well as the alarm system, but very few people know about it, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep it close and keep it quiet.”
Simon looked up from his study of another painting. “I have The Last Rites hung in a friend’s gallery near my house. I see it nearly every day.”
“That’s an excellent idea,” Raleigh Beezler said and beamed at Lily, seeing hope. “Do you know, Mrs. Frasier, that there is an exquisite townhouse for sale not two blocks from my very safe, very beautiful, very hassle-free gallery that would accord you every amenity? What do you say I call the broker and you can have a look at it? I understand you’re a cartoonist. There is this one room that is simply filled with light, just perfect for you.”
That was well done, Lily thought. She had to admire Mr. Beezler. “And I could leave some of my paintings here, in your gallery, on permanent display?”
“An excellent idea, no?”
“I’d like to see the townhouse, sir, but the price is very important. I don’t have much money. Perhaps you and I could come to a mutually satisfying financial arrangement. My painting displayed right here for a monthly stipend, a very healthy one, given that this house sits in the middle of Georgetown and I’d have to afford to live here. What do you think?”
Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his hands together. There was the light of the negotiator in his dark eyes.
Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued studying the rest of the paintings, and now he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler. Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”
Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage payments, at least until I can get an ongoing paycheck for No Wrinkles Remus, maybe even get it syndicated…”
Simon just shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.”
“What’s wrong, Simon?” Because he knew Simon, knew that tone of voice, Savich automatically took Lily’s hand. “All right, the floor’s yours. You really wanted to see the paintings. You’ve seen them. I’ve watched you studying them. What’s wrong?”
“No easy way to say this,” Simon said. “Oh damn, four of them are fakes, including The Swan Song. Excellent fakes, but there it is.”
“No,” Lily said. “No. I would know if it weren’t real. You’re wrong, Mr. Russo, just wrong.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Savich, but I’m very sure. Like I said, the way Sarah Elliott uses light and shadows makes her unique. It’s the special blend of shades that she mixed herself and the extraordinary brush strokes she used; no one’s really managed to copy them exactly.
“Over the years I’ve become an expert on her paintings. Still, if I hadn’t also heard some rumors floating around New York that one of the big collectors had gotten a hold of some Sarah Elliott paintings in the last six months, I wouldn’t have come rushing down here.”
Savich said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but Simon is an expert. If he says they’re fake, then it’s true.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew of. When I heard The Swan Song as one of the paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong. I immediately put out feelers to get more substantial information. With any luck, I’ll find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened to the fourth painting. Since I knew that you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and that they’d been moved from the Chicago Art Institute to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago, I didn’t want to believe it-there are always wild rumors floating through the art world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”
“Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly as red as her hair, “shit.”
Savich stared at his wife and said slowly, “You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t even curse when you were in labor.”
“I apologize for that, but I am so mad I want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m really ready to go over the edge here. Those bastards-those officious, murdering bastards. There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much. This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have a good idea who’s responsible.”
Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”
Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it. No wonder he was near tears when you told him you were taking the paintings. He knew the jig would be up sooner or later. He had to know that in Washington, D.C., experts would be viewing the paintings and one of them would spot the fakes.”