Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

made a disgusted sound. “Saint Rory. Why should I live like dirt? He never did. All he did was marry into Savoy money and he had the world at his fingertips. I’m a Savoy by birth . I deserve better than to be kept at heel like Honey Bear.”
    The corners of Rory’s mouth turned down. “The blood thing again. Jesus, Blissy. Maybe if Gem hadn’t rubbed Ward’s nose in her wealth and bloodlines, they’d have had a marriage instead of an armed truce.”
    “The only people who sneer at bloodlines don’t have any.”
    “As usual, this is going nowhere.” He sighed and rubbed a hand over his face. “You’re too much like your father. That’s why you drive each other nuts.”
    “Just because I don’t spend my life saying ‘yes, sir, whatever you say, sir’ doesn’t mean—”
    “We’ve been around this track,” Rory cut in, turning away. “Thanks for the omelet.”
    Bliss hesitated, then stretched out a hand he didn’t see. Hastily she withdrew it. “Rory.”
    He turned toward her.
    “I…” Her voice died. She began gnawing on her thumb. “Oh, hell. Is he really mad?”
    “He’s really determined. Different thing entirely.”
    “He wants to develop the Savoy Ranch in his own image, a monument for the ages.”
    “Maybe. And maybe he just wants to make enough money to keep all the Savoy-Forrests in beachfront condos. The deal you cut with CCSD will cost half a billion in land alone, not to mention what the developed property would be worth.”
    “But the tax write-off—”
    Rory’s laugh wasn’t humorous. “Blissy, you should talk to that accountant of yours. If we can’t develop the ranch, we won’t have any profits to write off taxes against. If you don’t sell off or develop big chunks of the land, all that Savoy wealth everybody is busy spending won’t amount to a fart in a tornado.”

Dana Hills
    Tuesday evening
10
    T he high school gymnasium smelled vaguely of old socks and sharply of fresh floor cleaner. Instead of the usual crowd of teenagers working painfully hard to be cool, there was a swirling, ever changing flood of people holding paintings from their attic or basement for Susa Donovan to anoint as worthy of cultural as well as familial interest.
    “Sweet God,” Ian muttered. “I haven’t seen this much crap since I raised geese for a 4-H project.”
    “Geese?” Susa asked.
    “No room for a pig or a pony. Besides, the geese mowed the lawn for me.”
    Susa laughed and felt like hugging him. For the past hour she’d been smiling and trying not to hurt someone’s feelings about the cultural worth of Great-Aunt Sissy’s fabulous study of a rose from bud to petal drop…in mauve, of course.
    “Uh-oh,” he said, spotting a woman with a look of hope and determination on her face.
    “Remember,” Susa said quietly, “these are treasures to the people who brought them.”
    “Lost Treasures Found.”
    “What?”
    “The name of a shop I was in earlier. Bought a nifty old movie poster. No bargain, but in great condition.”
    As Ian spoke, he stepped in front of Susa to protect her from a woman who was carrying more paintings than the average county museum. One of the event organizers and a leading figure in the American Figurative Artists Association, Mr. P. E. Goodman fluttered around her like a balding, scalded moth.
    “I’m so sorry,” Goodman said to Susa, rolling his eyes toward the matron. Then, in a hissing undertone, “She’s a big supporter of local artists. Wouldn’t hear of only three to a customer.”
    Susa smiled through her teeth. There were some in every crowd who just knew that the rules didn’t apply to them. The fact that Susa was built more like a pixie with laugh lines than an Amazon with fangs probably had something to do with the fact that everyone assumed they could just walk all over her.
    “Ms. Donovan will be happy to look at all your offerings,” Ian said, smiling gently at the matron even as he blocked her access to the table.
    “I knew she would. My grandmother’s paintings are of a much higher quality than—”
    “We’ll start with these,” Ian said over her. As he spoke he took three paintings from the woman’s armload and put them on the table in front of Susa. “There, that was easy, wasn’t it?”
    Before the woman could get past Ian’s smile, she found herself being escorted by him back to the auditorium doors, where the end of the line awaited her.
    “We’ll see more of these paintings in no time at all.”