Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

blinked, and said, “Since you brought the paintings to Susa?”
    Lacey nodded. “Even if it’s someone from Grandfather’s past, whoever it is never said ‘Boo’ to me until the paintings went public.”
    “Like I said, brains will beat bullets every time.”
    I hope.
    But neither of them said it aloud.
    “Okay, the first person is Susa,” Ian said.
    Lacey’s pencil hesitated. “You said it was a man’s voice on the phone.”
    Ian shrugged. “There are a lot of Donovan men.”
    “Do you really think—never mind, I withdraw the objection, the point is to make a list with everyone on it no matter how nutty.”
    She printed Susa’s name.
    “Then there’s Mr. Goodman,” Lacey said. Mentally she played back the first night she’d met Susa. “I can’t think of anyone else I saw for the first time that night who showed any interest in the paintings. Can you?”
    “A couple of Goodman’s assistants were old enough to set fires. I’ll check them out. Leave some blank lines.” Ian shifted against his harness until nothing dug into his ribs. “The next new person you met was Savoy Forrest, right?”
    “Right.” Lacey wrote down the name as she flipped through hours in her mind. “I didn’t meet the gate guard at Savoy Ranch when Susa and I went painting, so does he count?”
    “Put him down.”
    She did. “New people were kind of slow until the auction. Then there’s a raft of them. Bliss, and Ward Forrest. Angelique White. Savoy’s son, who said about three words to me.”
    “Don’t forget the silk suit who tried to pick you up.”
    Lacey blinked. “I missed him.”
    “I didn’t, but we won’t count him since Pickford never got close enough to you for an introduction.”
    “Pickford? The accountant?”
    “No, the son and lawyer, not the father.”
    “Whatever. I’ll write ’em both down.”
    Ian watched Lacey’s swift, stylish printing.
    “Did I meet the sheriff that night?” she asked, frowning.
    “Probably. He was with Bliss.”
    “Would I be unbearably naïve if I pointed out that he’s the sheriff , for God’s sake?”
    “Hotel theft was an inside job, and he owns part of the security company.” Ian took the pencil from her and wrote Rory Turner in dark, slashing letters. “He also has my cell-phone number.”
    “Then we have to include the deputies who followed us,” she said, reclaiming the pencil, “even if I didn’t meet them. Did you get their names?”
    “Just write down deputy A and B.” He twisted the top off another soda. “I’ll name them if they look good for it.”
    “Gallery owners,” Lacey said, and wrote the names down.
    Then they looked at the names.
    “Okay, let’s take the incidents in order,” Ian said. “Who knew you had the paintings?”
    “Everyone on this list,” she said dryly.
    “ Before the fire.”
    “Susa, and she didn’t know my real name.”
    “Who did?” he asked.
    “Besides you and me? No one. When I took the paintings back, everyone thought I was January Marsh. That’s what doesn’t make any sense.In order for the fire to have been aimed at destroying the paintings, someone would have to have known where I took them and who I was. You were the only one.”
    “You don’t look worried,” he said.
    “If you wanted me dead, I’d be dead.”
    He smoothed the renegade curl away from her eyes.
    “Since I’m alive,” she said, “I’m concluding that you’re not the one trying to kill me.”
    “I could be really sneaky and just stringing you along.”
    “I could be channeling the Queen of Atlantis.”
    He smiled. “Okay, we’re innocent. How long did it take you to get your paintings back from Mr. Goodman?”
    “Almost an hour.”
    “We know Goodman called Savoy, who could have arranged for his good friend the sheriff to have you followed to your shop. Or Goodman could have called the sheriff directly. Either way,” Ian said, “you’re tagged. All anyone had to do was show your picture up and down the blocks to get an ID—Lacey Quinn, not January Marsh.”
    “Where would they get a picture?” Then, before he could answer, she said, “The security cameras. I must have been all over them. Can you print photos from them?”
    “In a heartbeat.”
    “Who has the authority to do it?” she asked. “Goodman?”
    “Maybe. The sheriff, certainly. Or anyone on the security staff could do it on the sly for his or her own purposes and follow you the same way. The most direct route would be through the