Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

crisis.
    “Hi, Lacey,” he said.
    “Sorry to interrupt your work,” she said. “I know you look forward to evenings without the phone yammering at you.”
    “I’m always glad to hear from my girls.”
    At the other end of the line, Lacey almost smiled. It had been a long time since she’d qualified as a “girl,” yet to her father she would always be just that. “How’s everything?” she asked.
    “Same as always at this time of night. The fur ball is teasing my pen, I’m behind on my work, and your mother is up to her lips in the spa.”
    Lacey hesitated. She wished her father would be as enthusiastic about the good news as she was, but she didn’t think he would be.
    “Everything all right with you?” Brody asked.
    “Everything is wonderful. Susa went nuts over Grandfather’s paintings. Said they were as good as Lewis Marten’s work.”
    Brody’s eyes closed and his hand clenched on the phone. Damn it, Dad, couldn’t you have picked someone else to copy? “That’s nice.”
    “Nice? It’s incredible! Lewis Marten is a fine, nearly unknown California Impressionist who would have been world-famous if he hadn’t—”
    “—died a long time ago,” Brody interrupted impatiently. “Your grandfather died two years ago. Why would anyone believe it’s great that my father painted just like some dead artist? Better he should have had his own style, don’t you think?”
    “You don’t understand. Susa agrees with me that Granddad is a fine artist. The leading collector of California plein air artists wants to buy at least one of his paintings. Susa says that I should have them appraised, because they could be worth hundreds of thousands each.”
    “Only if they were actually painted by Lewis Marten,” Brody said flatly. “But they weren’t painted by Marten. They were done by a man who was old enough to know better but couldn’t resist making money the easy way.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “Something you don’t want to hear and I sure as hell don’t want to tell you. Leave it alone, Lacey.”
    “Tell me anyway.”
    “Always pushing. Always have to do it your own way.”
    “I’m sorry, Dad, but it’s too late for me to change. Are you going to tell me or not?”
    Brody bit back a curse. He’d always been afraid that this skeleton wouldn’t stay in the closet forever, but he really wished it had come rattling out at some more convenient time.
    “When cash got short,” he said, “your beloved Grandpa Rainbowforged Lewis Marten paintings and sold them—unsigned—to unsuspecting galleries at cut rates.”
    Lacey opened her mouth. Nothing came out through her painfully constricted throat. She swallowed and tried again. “But I saw him paint,” she said hoarsely. “He was magical. He didn’t need to copy anyone.”
    Angry and unhappy, Brady swept off his reading glasses and pinched the bridge of his nose. “Damn it, honey. I didn’t want this to happen. I didn’t want him to make you cry like he did everyone else.”
    “I’m not crying.” Yet. Lacey bit down hard on her emotions. “I can’t believe it.”
    “You mean you won’t.”
    Lacey drew a ragged breath. “I know he was a lousy husband and father, but he was an artist .”
    “He was a forger,” Brody said, “and all your stubbornness won’t change that fact. Now the whole world will know. When the shit hits the headlines, I’m going to deny all knowledge and hope to hell you will, too. It’s the only way I might salvage my professional reputation.”
    “But that’s crazy. Even if you’re right about Grandpa, you can’t be held accountable for what your father did or didn’t do.”
    Brody laughed without humor. “Lacey, how old are you? This is politics, not church. Guilt by association is the name of the game.”
    She wanted to argue but knew there wasn’t any point. He was right. “God, I’m so sorry. I never meant to—”
    “I know that,” Brody interrupted roughly. “Hell, maybe it’s for the best. After the doctor told me to slow down, your mother wasn’t crazy about the idea of me being a judge. She’s been after me to cut back on work and spend more time traveling.”
    “But you’ve always wanted to be a judge.”
    He shrugged. “You don’t always get what you want.”
    “No one has to know,” she said urgently. “No one knows my name. I’ll just withdraw the paintings and vanish.”
    “It won’t be that easy.”
    “But—”
    “Forget it,” Brody cut in,