Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

Tower stands now,” Goodman said. “This painting would fit nicely into the Before and After wing of the Savoy Museum.”
    Savoy nodded and set the painting down. “I’ll keep it in mind.”
    Goodman pulled out several more landscapes that had caught Susa’s eye, including another one that depicted a piece of the Savoy Ranch that hadn’t changed. “This one is—”
    “Picnic Bluff,” Savoy cut in, taking the painting.
    He’d seen more accomplished plein air paintings—a lot of them—but not one of them had been painted on Picnic Bluff. It was his own personal time-out place. Whenever family, business, or life in general got to him, he would go to the bluff, lie on his back with a stem of grass in his teeth, and listen to the ocean foaming softly below and the wind whispering secrets to the hills. It didn’t cure the problems of the world, but it went a long way toward making them tolerable.
    Picnic Bluff was square in the center of the land that was slated for development into Ward Forrest’s visionary twenty-first-century city. Part of Savoy regretted that. The rest of him knew that unless the majority of the land was developed, the ranch would have to be broken up and sold off for taxes to keep the family in money. If the developed land included Picnic Bluff, so be it. There were a lot of bluffs on the ranch; he’d find another one to retreat to.
    “Put a five-hundred-dollar minimum on this one,” Savoy said. “I’ll guarantee that much.”
    “Excellent.” Goodman pulled out a business card, scribbled on the back of it, and stuck it into the frame.
    Savoy looked at a few other paintings, but didn’t find anything he wanted to own for himself or for the museum. He glanced pointedly at his watch. Goodman got the hint and unlocked the door to a room that was furnished as an intimate conference area.
    “Reporters,” Goodman said apologetically as he walked across the room to another locked door. “Word of Susa’s enthusiasm got out and we’ve been buried in calls for photo ops of Susa with the paintings.”
    “Great publicity.”
    “It certainly would be,” Goodman said, working over the lock on a door to an executive retreat that was bathroom, sitting room, and changing room combined, “but the owner of the paintings refused reprographic rights, even to the press.”
    “Not uncommon.”
    “No,” Goodman said, “but usually owners of unknown artists aren’t so reluctant for publicity.” He shrugged. “Artists are an unpredictable lot.”
    “The owner is an artist?”
    “So I understand. At least the person who brought the paintings to Susa last night is an artist.”
    “Who?”
    “Ms. January Marsh.”
    “Never heard of her.”
    “Neither have I.” The lock finally gave way. “Ah, here we go. Have to remember to have Maintenance oil that. They don’t have room for paintings in the hotel safe, you see.”
    Savoy didn’t answer. He’d just seen the three paintings that had been hung carefully on the opposite wall. Between the two landscapes the violence of the center painting was almost surreal.
    This definitely was the same artist his father collected at every opportunity. Paintings came on the market so rarely that it had been years since he’d seen one.
    “The woman, January Marsh,” Savoy said without glancing away from the art.
    “Yes?”
    “What is she asking for these?”
    “They aren’t for sale.”
    Savoy turned and gave Goodman a look. “Not for sale? Wasn’t that the whole point of this charitable exercise—raising money for the Friends of Moreno County?”
    Goodman shifted uncomfortably under Savoy’s cool eyes. “Well, yes, but not all people decided to auction off their paintings for charity. Their donation is the twenty-dollar-per-painting fee for having La Susa look at their family treasures.”
    “I see.” Savoy turned back to the paintings. “I take it that Ms. March is local?”
    “I don’t know.”
    Savoy spun around. “Excuse me?”
    “Our contact is an e-mail address.”
    “No telephone? Not even a P.O. box?”
    Goodman shook his head. “La Susa had a difficult time getting Ms. Marsh to agree even to exhibit the paintings.”
    “Odd.” He went closer to the paintings. “Well, give me the e-mail then. I’ll contact Ms. Marsh. I want my father to see these paintings before I do anything, but I’m sure he’ll agree that they would be excellent additions to the Savoy Museum.”
    Then perhaps Ms. Marsh could explain why there