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Sherlock laughed as she lifted him out of the walker. “You ready for a bath, sweetie? Goodness, and a change, too. It’s late, so let’s go do it. Dillon, why don’t you make Lily and Simon some coffee. I’ll be back with the little prince in a while.”

“Some apple pie would be nice,” Simon said. “I haven’t had dinner yet; it would fill in the cracks.”

“You got it,” Savich said, gave Lily the once-over to make sure she was okay, and went to the kitchen.

“Why do you want to see my paintings so badly?” Lily asked again.

“I’d just as soon not say until I actually see them, Mrs. Frasier.”

“Very well. What do you do in the art world, Mr. Russo?”

“I’m an art broker.”

“And how do you do that, exactly?”

“A client wants to buy, say, a particular painting. A Picasso. I locate it, if I don’t know where it is already—which I do know most of the time—see if it’s for sale. If it is, I procure it for the client.”

“What if it’s in a museum?”

“I speak to the folk at the museum, see if there’s another painting, of similar value, that they’d barter for the one my client wants. It happens that way, successfully sometimes, if the museum wants what I have to barter more than the painting they have. Naturally, I try to keep up with the wants and needs of all the major museums, the major collectors as well.” He smiled. “Usually, though, a museum isn’t all that eager to part with a Picasso.”

“You know all about the illegal market, then.”

Her voice was flat, no real accusation in it, but he knew to his toes that she was very wary of him. Why? Ah, yes, her paintings, that was it. She didn’t trust him because she was afraid for her paintings. Okay, he could deal with that.

He sat down on the sofa across from her, picked up the afghan, and held it out to her.

Lily said, “Thanks, I am a bit cold. No, no, just toss it to me.”

But he didn’t. He spread it over her, aware that she didn’t want him near her, frowned, then sat down again and said, “Of course I know about the illegal market. I know all of the main players involved, from the thieves to the most immoral dealers, to the best forgers and the collectors who, many of them, are totally obsessed if there is a piece of art they badly want. ‘Obsession’ is many times the operative word in the business. Is there anything you want to know about it, Mrs. Frasier?”

“You know the crooks who acquire the paintings for the collectors.”

“Yes, some of them, but I’m not one of them. I’m strictly on the up-and-up. You can believe that because your brother trusts me. No one’s tougher than Savich when it comes to trust.”

“You’ve known each other for a very long time. Maybe trust just starts between kids and doesn’t end, particularly if you rarely see each other.”

“Whatever that means,” Simon said. “Look, Mrs. Frasier, I’ve been in the business for nearly fifteen years. I’m sorry if you’ve had some bad experiences with people in the art world, but I’m honest, and I don’t dance over the line. You can take that to the bank. Of course I know about the underside of the business or I wouldn’t be very successful, now would I?”

“How many of my grandmother’s paintings have you dealt with?”

“Over the years, probably a good dozen, maybe more. Some of my clients are museums themselves. If the painting is owned by a collector—legally, of course—and a museum wants to acquire it, then I try to buy it from the collector. Since I know what all the main collectors own and accumulate, I will try to barter with them. It cuts both ways, Mrs. Frasier.”

“I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please don’t call me that again.”

“All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest. What would you like to be called, ma’am?”

“I think I’ll go back to my maiden name. You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be Lily Savich again.”

Her brother said from the doorway, “I like it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders of Tennyson.”

“Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”

Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His father told me that Lord or