Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [201]
“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 Alfred wouldn’t do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but my mother-in-law hates the poet.”
“Perhaps Tennyson, the poet—not your nearly ex-husband—is a bit on the ‘pedantic’ side.”
“You’ve never read Tennyson in your life,” Lily said.
He gave her the most charming smile and nodded. “You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’ isn’t quite right?”
“I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”
“Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich said, then cocked his head, looking upward. He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean. He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to get along while I join the sing-along. You can trust him, Lily.”
When they were alone again, Lily heard the light slap of rain on the windows for the first time. Not a hard, drenching rain. An introduction, maybe, to the winter rains that were coming. It had been overcast when they’d landed in Washington, and there was a stiff wind.
Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee, sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes. “Savich makes the best coffee in the known world. And he rarely drinks it.”
“His body is a temple,” she said. “I guess his brain is, too.”
“Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man, sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I bet Savich would fall over in shock if he heard you say that about him.”
“Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless. Our dad taught all of us kids how to make the very best coffee. He said if he was ever in an old-age home, at least he’d know he could count on us for that. Our mom taught Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston to go to MIT.”
“Did she teach all of you?”
“No, only Dillon.” She stopped, listening to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my favorite.”
“They do the harmony well. However, what Savich does best is country and western. Have you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”
She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee, and knew her stomach would rebel if she had any more.
“Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough, we could all go hear him sing at the club.”
She didn’t say anything.
“Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich?