Hemlock Bay

She didn’t say anything. What was there to say, after all? It was crazy, all of it. And rather sad, she supposed, if one discounted the fact that he was perfectly willing to murder people who got in his way.
    She looked at the walls filled with so many of her grandmother’s paintings. All of them perfectly hung, grouped by the period in which they were painted. She had never seen such beauty in one room before in her life. It was her grandmother’s work as she had never seen it.
    She watched Simon walk slowly around the large room, studying each of the paintings, lightly touching his fingertips to some of them until he came to one that belonged to Lily. It was The Swan Song, Lily’s own favorite. The old man lying in the bed, that beatific smile on his face, the young girl staring at him.
    Olaf said, “That was the first one of yours I had copied, my dear. It was always my favorite. I knew it was at the Chicago Institute of Art, but I couldn’t get to it. It was frustrating.”
    Simon said, “So it was the first one you stole from the Eureka Museum.”
    “Nothing so dramatic,” Ian Jorgenson said, coming forward. He laid his hand lightly on his father’s shoulder. “Mr. Monk, the curator, was quite willing to have the painting copied. He simply gave it to our artist, replacing it with a rather poor, quickly executed copy until the real copy was finished. Then they were simply switched. No one noticed, of course. You know, Mr. Russo, I had hopes for you, at least initially. You yourself own a Sarah Elliott painting. I had hoped to convince you to join me, perhaps even to sell me your painting in return for a generous price and my offer of a financially rewarding partnership in some of my business ventures.”
    Ian looked toward Simon and his eyes narrowed, but when he spoke, his voice was perfectly pleasant. “My father realized you wouldn’t agree after Nikki and Alpo described your behavior on the long trip over here. You were in no way conciliatory, Mr. Russo. Actually, my father’s desire to make use of you in his organization was the only reason we bothered to bring you to Sweden. My father wanted to test you.”
    “Give me a test,” Simon said. “Let’s just see what I would say.”
    “Actually, I was going to ask you to give me your Sarah Elliott painting, The Last Rites; it is one I greatly admire. In exchange, I would offer you your life and a chance to prove your value to me.”
    “I accept your offer, if, in return, you give Lily and me our freedom.”
    “It is just as I feared,” Olaf said and sighed. He nodded to his son.
    Ian looked at his hands, strong hands, and lightly buffed his fingernails on his cashmere sleeve. He said to Simon, “I look forward to killing you, Mr. Russo. I knew you could never be brought to our side, that you could never be trusted. You have interfered mightily.”
    Simon said, “You had your chance to get The Last Rites, Mr. Jorgenson. Freedom for Lily and me, but you turned it down. Let me promise you that you will never get that painting. When I die, it goes to the Metropolitan Museum of Art.”
    Olaf said, “I do detest making mistakes in a person’s character. It is a pity, Mr. Russo.”
    Lily said to Ian, “Is it true that you have Rembrandt’s Night Watch aboard your yacht?”
    Ian Jorgenson raised a blond brow. “My, my, Mr. Russo has many tentacles, doesn’t he? Yes, my dear, I had it gently removed from the Rijksmuseum some ten years ago. It was rather difficult, actually. It was a gift to my wife, who died later that year. She was so pleased to look at it in her last days.”
    The old man laughed, then coughed. Nikki handed him a handkerchief, and he coughed into it. Lily thought she saw blood.
    Ian said, “As my father said, the Chicago Institute of Art is a difficult place, more difficult than even I wished to deal with. In the past ten years they’ve added many security measures that make removal of art pieces very challenging. But most important, my only contact, a curator there, lost his job five years ago. It was a pity. I didn’t know what to do until you moved to that ridiculous little town on the coast of California. This Hemlock Bay.”
    Olaf said, “My son and I spent many hours coming up with the right plan for you, Lily. Ian traveled to California, to Hemlock Bay. What a quaint and clever name. It was such a simple little town, generous and friendly to newcomers, such as you and your daughter, was it not? He liked the