Rarities Unlimited 03 - Die in Plain Sight

not-so-recent ones. What she was thinking must have showed on her face.
    “Neither do I, much of the time,” Savoy said. “That makes it all themore important to please him when the possibility arises. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll tell him that you’re considering selling a painting as long as a matching contribution goes to Friends of Moreno County.”
    Before Lacey could answer, Savoy stepped into the crowd that had gathered at the edge of the stage to watch Susa paint. A moment later he was talking to a man who didn’t resemble him at all, except for a certain hardness around the eyes. Ward Forrest, the father that the son was trying so hard to please.
    Lacey wished him luck.
    “Ms. Quinn?”
    She turned quickly and saw the expensive blonde. “Ms. Forrest?”
    “Not for long. I’m giving up my maiden name all over again for Rory Turner.”
    “So I heard.”
    Bliss smiled as narrowly as her brother had. “Gossip flies.”
    “The price of being the first family of a county and a state.”
    Bliss shrugged with grace and impatience. “I’m used to it. Hell, I’ve added to the fires just to watch my daddy spit and sputter.”
    Lacey tried not to laugh.
    “He turns red and then he turns off the money spigot,” Bliss said. Her cleverly painted mouth turned down in a sulky, stubborn line.
    “Um” was all Lacey could think of to say.
    “Look, I’m really curious about the artist,” Bliss said, gesturing toward the painting of the drowning woman.
    “So are a lot of people.”
    Bliss nibbled at her lip, then at her thumb. “Just thought I’d warn you about my father. He really hates gossip and that painting is going to send the gossips into a frenzy.”
    “What are you talking about?”
    “My mother was blond, she wore this bracelet all the time, and she died in our spa at night. Alone. The coroner said it was accidental, drugs and alcohol and hot water. The gossips said it was suicide because her latest lover had left her for a younger woman. And that painting—” Bliss drew in a swift, broken breath. “Daddy’s not going to be happy about that. Neither is Ms. Fucking Pure Angelique White.”
    Lacey said the first thing that came to her mind. “Why?”
    “That painting says my mother was killed.”
    Lacey was too shocked to say anything. It didn’t matter. Bliss was still talking.
    “And who would know better than the man who did it?” Bliss asked bitterly. “Too bad the bastard didn’t sign the painting. There’s no statute of limitations on murder.”

Savoy Hotel
    10 P.M. Saturday night
47
    N o sooner had Susa shut the door to her bedroom than Ian turned and pulled Lacey into his arms. Instead of giving her a lover’s kiss, he just rocked her against his chest.
    “Spit it out, darling. What’s wrong?”
    She buried her face in his chest and hung on. “Nothing.”
    “Bullshit.”
    Lacey fought against the indefinable sense of panic that had been growing in her since she’d talked to Bliss. “Talking about it—I can’t. It’ll make it worse.”
    “Not talking about it is eating you alive. But that’s okay, I’ll call sweet little Bliss and ask her what she said to you.”
    Lacey’s head came up so fast she nearly clipped Ian’s chin. “How did you know it was her?”
    “I was watching you from the stage. I figured it was her or Savoy. Got lucky on the first try.”
    “You trapped me.”
    “It’s what I’m good at.” He kissed her slowly, tenderly. “You look so shattered, it’s tearing me apart.”
    “Don’t be nice. I’ll start crying and my nose will turn red and start running and…”
    “I’ll let you use my shirt as a hanky.”
    She made a choked sound that could have been laughter or tears or both together.
    He held her and smoothed his cheek against the loose curls of her hair.
    “My dad was right,” she whispered. “I shouldn’t have pushed. People aren’t always what you want them to be.”
    Ian couldn’t have argued that if he felt like it, so he just held her and said quietly, “Are we talking about your Grandpa Rainbow?”
    She didn’t speak for a moment. She didn’t have to. Ian could feel the heat of her tears against his neck.
    “I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I never cry and lately I’m sniveling over everything.”
    “Hush,” he said against her lips. “You lost a home and business, discovered that your grandfather might be a famous forger or a collector with millions in art, or both, and—”
    “Bliss’s mother was