Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

guts.”
    She smiled, amused rather than insulted. “Actually, I’m smart enough to know that it’s important to understand the past but not to be owned by it. Burning canvases is a way for me to be free as an artist.”
    “Like burning bridges?” Ward asked.
    “Exactly.”
    “Well, I sure as hell know about that. Some bridges just have to be burned, no matter what the rest of the world thinks about it.” Ward laughed and winked at Susa. “The trick is to know which bridges to burn, and when, and how not to get caught with the matches in your hand.”
    “My father has a unique take on the world,” Savoy said wryly, shaking his head. “No frills, no fancies, just get the job done.”
    “My take isn’t so unique that I’m going to pass up Susa’s offer of a painting,” Ward retorted. “It would be great publicity for the corporation.”
    “And for the arts,” Savoy added quickly, turning to Susa. “You might not believe it after listening to him, but my father is the force behind the Savoy Museum. It was his vision, his dedication, and his willingness to fight other board members to free up funds that resulted in the museum’s establishment and its continuing acquisitions.”
    Susa made an appropriately polite sound. Privately she doubted that Ward Forrest had a single artistic sensibility in his flinty soul. Not that it mattered in the long run. Throughout history many of the most famous patrons of the arts wouldn’t have known what to buy if some well-dressed salesperson hadn’t pointed out the art and told them what words to use when discussing their new acquisitions with their equally clueless peers.
    Ignorance combined with acquisition shouldn’t have annoyed Susa, but sometimes it did. She couldn’t help wondering how many of the people in this room would have bought one of her own paintings if they’d stumbled over it in a flea market twenty years ago. Ian, perhaps. He had a good eye.
    And where the hell was he, by the way? He was supposed to keep her from getting bitchy out of sheer boredom.
    Oh, quit whining and do your job, Susa told herself impatiently. She wasn’t here for her own benefit, she was here because she’d once been among the legions of talented, hungry, hardworking artists who were consumed by their need to paint. The more support she could send their way now, the better the chance that they would keep painting long enough to be “discovered.” Then they could quit their day job and follow their fey talent as far as it would take them.
    “Have you been to our museum?” Savoy asked.
    “Not yet,” Susa said, snapping back into focus. “I’m hoping to fit in a trip before the auction.”
    “I gave your man my card,” Savoy said.
    “My man? Oh, Ian.” She pressed her lips against a smile.
    “Whenever you want to come, just call that number. I’ll see that you have a full guided tour. And feel free to bring guests such as Ms. Marsh.”
    Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Marsh? The one with the—”
    “Yes,” Savoy cut in, not wanting his blunt father to say too much. No point in paying more than they had to for an unsigned painting. “I understand that Ms. Marsh is reluctant to sell her paintings. I hope after she sees how well they would be cared for in the museum, she’ll change her mind and sell us at least one.”
    “We’re going painting tomorrow,” Susa said. “I’ll mention it to her.”
    “Then you know where she lives?” Ward asked.
    “She’s meeting us at the hotel,” Ian said, walking up in time to hear the conversation.
    Susa’s eyebrows went up, because she’d heard Ian make arrangements to pick up Jan—Lacey, damn it!—early in the morning. But Susa wasn’t the Donovan’s wife for nothing.
    She knew when to talk and when to shut her mouth.

Pasadena
    Wednesday night
18
    W hen the telephone rang, Brody Quinn looked up from his notes on his most recent case—a woman who had decided that being an accountant wasn’t as lucrative as being an embezzler. With each motion of his pen, the cat’s white paw swatted at the flashing metal. Brody didn’t even pause in his notes. He would have noticed only if the cat hadn’t been there. Tag-the-pen was part of a nightly ritual that man and feline enjoyed.
    “Can you get that, honey?” Dottie called from the direction of the master suite spa. “I’m up to my chin in bubbles.”
    He muttered something, checked the caller ID, and sighed in relief. Just Lacey, not another business