Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

that the same January Marsh who brought the paintings that so excited Susa?”
    “Yes.”
    Again Savoy waited. Again Ian didn’t offer any more information. “I’ve been trying to get in touch with Ms. Marsh.”
    Ian made a sound that meant he was listening.
    “Do you have her phone number?” Savoy asked.
    “January Marsh’s? No.” He had Lacey Quinn’s, but it wasn’t up to him to spread that fact around.
    “If you happen to hear from her, tell her that the Savoy Museum is very interested in acquiring at least one of the paintings she showed to Susa.”
    “Sure, but I got the impression Tuesday night that she wasn’t interested in selling.”
    “If she cared enough to bring the paintings in the first place, perhaps she’ll care enough to see that they are properly housed and passed on to future generations. The Savoy Museum can do that.”
    “Good point.” Ian shifted his dark suit coat. The fabric kept wanting to hang up on the damned shoulder holster. That’s what he got for buying the coat a size larger instead of having the right size properly tailored for the harness. “It might help if she saw the museum. When is it open?”
    “For Ms. Marsh, it’s open whenever she wants to visit.” Savoy got out a business card and wrote quickly on its back. “This number is always the fastest way to reach me.”
    Ian took the card and wondered how much Savoy would pay for one of the paintings. Lacey wasn’t poor, but anyone who worked for herself the way she did could always use money. The good news was that she hadn’t put her talents to work forging old masters or more recent Impressionists for quick cash.
    He hoped.
    “Savvy, you have a minute to talk to Susa?” Ward asked from across the room.
    “Excuse me,” Savoy said.
    “No problem. I’m just the hired help.”
    “So am I,” Savoy said under his breath.
    Ward watched impatiently while Savoy greeted two couples who had just arrived—very big spenders on the art circuit—and wove through the other people with a smile and a promise to come back soon.
    Savoy held both hands out to Susa. “Your paintings are magnificent,” he said, “but I didn’t mean to ignore the artist.”
    There was no polite way for Susa to say that she’d rather be ignored than feted, so she pressed his hands gently, released them, and changed the subject. “Your father was just telling me that the Savoy Museum was interested in acquiring some paintings at the upcoming auction.”
    “January Marsh’s paintings,” Ward added.
    Susa frowned at the name. She still didn’t understand why such an otherwise open young woman would want to have a fake name. As a personal matter, Lacey certainly didn’t have the sort of artistic fame that would make anonymity welcome. Perhaps it was simply that she couldn’t afford to insure such fine paintings. The thought cheered Susa, even though she couldn’t quite believe it.
    “We have our eye on several pieces of art,” Savoy said to Susa, “including those you painted on our ranch. They’re an almost inevitable acquisition for the Savoy Museum, don’t you think?”
    “Since it was on the Savoy Ranch that I first found, absorbed, and understood what it meant to be a painter, I would be happy to make a gift to the museum of a painting created on your ranch,” Susa said.
    Savoy didn’t bother to conceal his surprise. “That’s very generous, but hardly necessary.”
    “As my daughter-in-law Hannah would say, ‘No worries.’ I’ll just paint another one.”
    “If only it was that easy,” Savoy said, remembering the times he’d painted before his mother convinced him that he should focus his talents on business. “But you can’t ever capture the same thing twice, can you?”
    Susa smiled at his understanding. “No. You just go on and hope to capture something new. Sometimes you do, most times you don’t. So you burn the bad ones on New Year’s Eve and get ready to try again.”
    “You burn money?” Ward asked.
    “No. Failed paintings.”
    “Would anyone but you think of them as failures?” Ward asked.
    “I know the difference. That’s what matters to me.”
    “Son of a bitch,” Ward said, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose you have enough money to burn some now and then.”
    Her eyebrows raised. “I’ve been burning paintings for as long as I’ve painted, and I was plenty poor until about fifteen years ago.”
    “You have guts,” Ward said. “Not much business smarts, but plenty of