Hemlock Bay

“Actually, the rumors of my condition were exaggerated. I’m just fine; you don’t have to do a thing for me.”
    “Ah, I’m delighted to hear it. You’re here. Is Dr. Frasier here as well? Is there some problem?”
    Lily said, “No, Mr. Monk, there’s no problem. The past months have been difficult, but everything is all right now. Oh, yes, which of these paintings is your favorite?”
    “The Decision,” Mr. Monk said without hesitation.
    “I like that one very much as well,” Lily said. “But don’t you find it just the least bit depressing?”
    “Depressing? Certainly not. I don’t get depressed, Mrs. Frasier.”
    Lily said, “I remember I told my grandmother I loved that one when I’d just lost a lot of money on a point spread between the Giants and Dallas. I was sixteen at the time, and I do remember that I was despondent. She laughed and loaned me ten dollars. I’ve never forgotten that. Oh, yes, I paid her back the next week when a whole bunch of fools bet New Orleans would beat San Francisco by twelve.”
    “Are you talking about some sort of sporting events, Mrs. Frasier?”
    “Well, yes. Football, actually.” She smiled at him. “I am here to tell you that I will be leaving the area, Mr. Monk, moving back to Washington, D.C. I will be taking the Sarah Elliott paintings with me.”
    He looked at her like she was mad. He fanned his hands in front of him, as if to ward her off. “But surely, Mrs. Frasier, you’re pleased with their display, how we’re taking such good care of them; and the restoration work is minor and nothing to concern you—”
    She lightly laid her fingers on his forearm. “No, Mr. Monk, it looks to me like you’ve done a splendid job. It’s just that I’m moving, and the paintings go where I go.”
    “But Washington, D.C., doesn’t need any more beautiful art! They have so many beautiful things that they’re sinking in it, beautiful things that are stuck in basements, never seen. They don’t need any more!”
    “I’m very sorry, Mr. Monk.”
    Those gorgeous dark eyes of his glittered. “Very well, Mrs. Frasier, but it’s obvious to me that you haven’t discussed this with Dr. Frasier. I’m sorry but I cannot release any of the paintings to you. He is their administrator.”
    “What does that mean? You know very well the paintings are mine.”
    “Well, yes, but it’s Dr. Frasier who’s made all the decisions, who’s directed every detail. Also, Mrs. Frasier, it’s common knowledge here that you haven’t been well—”
    “Lily, what are you doing out of bed? Why are you here?”
    Dillon and Sherlock stood just behind Mr. Monk, and neither of them looked very pleased.
    She smiled, saying only, “I’m here to tell Mr. Monk that the paintings go where I go, and in this case, it’s all the way to Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, he says that everyone knows I’m crazy and that Dr. Frasier is the one who controls everything to do with the paintings—and so Mr. Monk won’t release them to me.”
    “Now, Mrs. Frasier, I didn’t quite mean that . . .”
    Savich lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and when Mr. Monk turned, in utter confusion, he said, “The paintings can’t be released to my sister? Would you care to explain that to us, Mr. Monk? I’m Dillon Savich, Mrs. Frasier’s brother, and this is my wife. Now, what is all this about?”
    Mr. Monk looked desperate. He took a step back. “You don’t understand. Mrs. Frasier isn’t mentally competent, that’s what I was told, and thus the paintings are all controlled by Dr. Frasier. Appropriate, naturally, since he is her husband. When we heard that she’d been in an accident, an accident that she herself caused, there were some who thought she was dying and thus Dr. Frasier would inherit the paintings and then they would never leave the museum.”
    “I’m not dead, Mr. Monk.”
    “I can see that you’re not, Mrs. Frasier, but the fact is that you aren’t as well as you should be to have charge of such expensive and unique paintings.”
    Savich said, “I assure you that Mrs. Frasier is mentally competent and is legally entitled to do whatever she wishes to with the paintings. Unless you have some court order to the contrary?”
    Mr. Monk looked momentarily flummoxed, then, “A court order! Yes, that’s it, a court order is what’s required.”
    “Why?” said Savich.
    “Well, a court could decide whether she’s capable of making decisions of this magnitude.”
    Sherlock