Twice Dead - Catherine Coulter [203]
Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his hands together. There was the light of the negotiator in his dark eyes.
Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued studying the rest of the paintings, and now he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler. Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”
Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage payments, at least until I can get an ongoing paycheck for No Wrinkles Remus, maybe even get it syndicated ...”
Simon shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s not possible.”
“What’s wrong, Simon?” Because he knew Simon, knew that tone of voice, Savich automatically took Lily’s hand. “All right, the floor’s yours. You really wanted to see the paintings. You’ve seen them. I’ve watched you studying them. What’s wrong?”
“No easy way to say this,” Simon said. “Four of them are fakes, including The Swan Song. Excellent fakes, but there it is.”
“No,” Lily said. “No. I would know if it weren’t real. You’re wrong, Mr. Russo.”
“I’m sorry, Ms. Savich, but I’m very sure. Like I said, the way Sarah Elliott uses light and shadows makes her unique. It’s the special blend of shades that she mixed herself and the extraordinary brush strokes she used; no one’s really managed to copy them exactly.
“Over the years I’ve become an expert on her paintings. Still, if I hadn’t also heard some rumors floating around New York that one of the big collectors had gotten ahold of some Sarah Elliott paintings in the last six months, I wouldn’t have come rushing down here.”
Savich said, “I’m sorry, Lily, but Simon is an expert. If he says they’re fake, then it’s true.”
“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew of. When I heard The Swan Song as one of the paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong. I immediately put out feelers to get more substantial information. With any luck, I’ll find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened to the fourth painting. Since I knew that you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and they’d been moved from the Art Institute of Chicago to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago, I didn’t want to believe it—there are always wild rumors floating through the art world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”
“Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly as red as her hair, “shit.”
Savich stared at his wife and said slowly, “You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t even curse when you were in labor, at least you didn’t until the end.”
“I apologize for that, but I am so mad I want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m really ready to go over the edge here. Those bastards—those officious, murdering bastards. There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much. This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have a good idea who’s responsible.”
Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”
Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it. No wonder he was near tears when you told him you were taking the paintings. He knew the jig would be up sooner or later. He had to know that in Washington, D.C., experts would be viewing the paintings and one of them would spot the fakes.”
“So did Tennyson,” Savich said.
Lily said, “Probably my father-in-law as well. Maybe the whole family was in on this. But they couldn’t have known we would find out the very day after we got here.” She turned to Simon Russo. “I’m madder than Sherlock. Thank you, Mr. Russo, for being on top of this and getting to us so quickly.”
Simon turned to Savich. “There is one positive thing here. At least Tennyson Frasier didn’t have time to have all eight of them forged. Now that I know for certain that we’ve got four forgeries, I can find out the name of the forger. It won’t be difficult. You