Hemlock Bay

patted his shoulder. “Hmm, nice suit. I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, as this seems to be quite upsetting to you, but she is under no such obligation to you. I suppose you could try to get her declared incompetent, but you would lose, and I’m sure it would create quite a stir in the local papers.”
    “Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. What I mean is that I suppose then that everything is all right, but you understand, I have to call Dr. Frasier. He has been dealing with everything. I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Frasier even once over all the months the paintings have been here.”
    Savich pulled out his wallet, showed Mr. Monk his ID, and said, “Why don’t we go to your office and make that phone call?”
    Of course Savich had shown Mr. Monk his FBI shield. He swallowed, looked at Lily like he wanted to shoot her, and said, “Yes, of course.”
    “Good,” Savich said. “We can also discuss all the details of how they’ll be shipped, the insurance, the crating, all those pesky little details that Dr. Frasier doesn’t have to deal with anymore. By the way, Mr. Monk, I do know what I’m doing since I also own eight Sarah Elliott paintings myself.”
    “Would you like to go now, Mr. Savich?”
    Savich nodded, then said over his shoulder as he escorted Mr. Monk from that small, perfect room, “Sherlock, you stay here with Lily, make sure she sits down and rests. Mr. Monk and I will finalize matters. Come along, sir.”
    “I hope the poor man doesn’t cry,” Lily said. “They built this special room, did a fine job of exhibiting the paintings. I think that Elcott and Charlotte Frasier donated the money to build the room. Wasn’t that kind of them?”
    “Yes. You know, Lily, many people have enjoyed the paintings over the past year. Now people in Washington can enjoy them for a while. You need to think about where you want the paintings housed. But we can take our time there, no rush, let people convince you they’re the best.
    “Oh, Lily, don’t feel guilty. There are a whole lot of people there who have never seen these particular Sarah Elliott paintings.”
    “Truth be told, I’m just mighty relieved that they’re all present and accounted for and I’m not standing here looking at blank walls because someone stole the paintings. That’s why I came, Sherlock. I just realized that since Tennyson married me for the paintings, maybe they were already gone.”
    Sherlock patted a cushion and waited until Lily eased carefully down beside her. “We didn’t want to wait either.” She paused to look around. “Such beauty. And it’s in your genes, Lily, both yours and Dillon’s. You’re very lucky. You draw cartoons that give people great pleasure, and Dillon whittles the most exquisite pieces. He whittled Sean, newly born, in the softest rosewood. Whenever I look at that piece, touch it, I feel the most profound gratitude that Dillon is in my life.
    “Now, I’m going to get all emotional and that won’t help anything. Did I have a point to make? Oh yes, such different aspects of those splendid talent genes from your grandmother.”
    “What about your talent, Sherlock? You play the piano beautifully. You could have been a concert pianist, if it hadn’t been for your sister’s death. I want to listen to you play when we get back to Washington.”
    “Yes, I’ll play for you.” Sherlock added, without pause, “You know, Lily, I was very afraid that Tennyson and his father had stolen the paintings as well, and you hadn’t been notified because you’d been too ill to deal with it.”
    “I suppose they had other plans. All of this happened very quickly.”
    “Yes, they did have time, but don’t you see? If the paintings were suddenly gone, they would have looked so guilty San Quentin would have just opened its doors and ushered them right on in. I suppose they were waiting to sell them off when you were dead and they legally belonged to Tennyson.”
    “Dead.” Lily said the word again, then once more, sounding it out. “It isn’t easy to believe that someone wants you dead so they can have what you own. That’s really low.”
    “Yes, it is.”
    “I feel shock that Tennyson betrayed me, probably his father as well, but I don’t want to wring my hands and cry about it. Nope, what I really want to do is belt Tennyson in the nose, maybe kick him hard in his ribs, too.”
    Sherlock hugged her, very lightly. “Good for you. Now, how do you feel, really?”
    “Calm, just a bit of pain, nothing