Die in Plain Sight (11 page)

“If only it was that easy,” Savoy said, remembering the times he’d painted before his mother convinced him that he should focus his talents on business. “But you can’t ever capture the same thing twice, can you?”

Susa smiled at his understanding. “No. You just go on and hope to capture something new. Sometimes you do, most times you don’t. So you burn the bad ones on New Year’s Eve and get ready to try again.”

“You burn money?” Ward asked.

“No. Failed paintings.”

“Would anyone but you think of them as failures?” Ward asked.

“I know the difference. That’s what matters to me.”

“Son of a bitch,” Ward said, shaking his head. “Well, I suppose you have enough money to burn some now and then.”

Her eyebrows raised. “I’ve been burning paintings for as long as I’ve painted, and I was plenty poor until about fifteen years ago.”

“You have guts,” Ward said. “Not much business smarts, but plenty of guts.”

She smiled, amused rather than insulted. “Actually, I’m smart enough to know that it’s important to understand the past but not to be owned by it. Burning canvases is a way for me to be free as an artist.”

“Like burning bridges?” Ward asked.

“Exactly.”

“Well, I sure as hell know about that. Some bridges just have to be burned, no matter what the rest of the world thinks about it.” Ward laughed and winked at Susa. “The trick is to know which bridges to burn, and when, and how not to get caught with the matches in your hand.”

“My father has a unique take on the world,” Savoy said wryly, shaking his head. “No frills, no fancies, just get the job done.”

“My take isn’t so unique that I’m going to pass up Susa’s offer of a painting,” Ward retorted. “It would be great publicity for the corporation.”

“And for the arts,” Savoy added quickly, turning to Susa. “You might not believe it after listening to him, but my father is the force behind the Savoy Museum. It was his vision, his dedication, and his willingness to fight other board members to free up funds that resulted in the museum’s establishment and its continuing acquisitions.”

Susa made an appropriately polite sound. Privately she doubted that Ward Forrest had a single artistic sensibility in his flinty soul. Not that it mattered in the long run. Throughout history many of the most famous patrons of the arts wouldn’t have known what to buy if some well-dressed salesperson hadn’t pointed out the art and told them what words to use when discussing their new acquisitions with their equally clueless peers.

Ignorance combined with acquisition shouldn’t have annoyed Susa, but sometimes it did. She couldn’t help wondering how many of the people in this room would have bought one of her own paintings if they’d stumbled over it in a flea market twenty years ago. Ian, perhaps. He had a good eye.

And where the hell was he, by the way? He was supposed to keep her from getting bitchy out of sheer boredom.

Oh, quit whining and do your job,
Susa told herself impatiently. She wasn’t here for her own benefit, she was here because she’d once been among the legions of talented, hungry, hardworking artists who were consumed by their need to paint. The more support she could send their way now, the better the chance that they would keep painting long enough to be “discovered.” Then they could quit their day job and follow their fey talent as far as it would take them.

“Have you been to our museum?” Savoy asked.

“Not yet,” Susa said, snapping back into focus. “I’m hoping to fit in a trip before the auction.”

“I gave your man my card,” Savoy said.

“My man? Oh, Ian.” She pressed her lips against a smile.

“Whenever you want to come, just call that number. I’ll see that you have a full guided tour. And feel free to bring guests such as Ms. Marsh.”

Ward’s eyes narrowed. “Marsh? The one with the—”

“Yes,” Savoy cut in, not wanting his blunt father to say too much. No point in paying more than they had to for an unsigned painting. “I understand that Ms. Marsh is reluctant to sell her paintings. I hope after she sees how well they would be cared for in the museum, she’ll change her mind and sell us at least one.”

“We’re going painting tomorrow,” Susa said. “I’ll mention it to her.”

“Then you know where she lives?” Ward asked.

“She’s meeting us at the hotel,” Ian said, walking up in time to hear the conversation.

Susa’s eyebrows went up, because she’d heard Ian make arrangements to pick up Jan—Lacey, damn it!—early in the morning. But Susa wasn’t the Donovan’s wife for nothing.

She knew when to talk and when to shut her mouth.

Pasadena

Wednesday night

W
hen the telephone rang, Brody Quinn looked up from his notes on his most recent case—a woman who had decided that being an accountant wasn’t as lucrative as being an embezzler. With each motion of his pen, the cat’s white paw swatted at the flashing metal. Brody didn’t even pause in his notes. He would have noticed only if the cat hadn’t been there. Tag-the-pen was part of a nightly ritual that man and feline enjoyed.

“Can you get that, honey?” Dottie called from the direction of the master suite spa. “I’m up to my chin in bubbles.”

He muttered something, checked the caller ID, and sighed in relief. Just Lacey, not another business 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 Rainbow
forged 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, his voice raw and weary. “The cat’s too far out of the bag to shove it back in. Save your energy for salvaging your own reputation when people start wondering if the granddaughter is as big a cheat as the old man was.”

“I told you—nobody knows who I am!”
Well, almost nobody. Ian didn’t count, did he?

“It will be all right, Dad. I’ll just withdraw the paintings and everything will be fine.”

But everything wasn’t fine. She finally understood why her Grandpa Rainbow never signed a canvas.

Forger
.

Newport Beach

Wednesday night

B
liss stared at the credit cards and debit cards on her kitchen table. Every time she’d tried to use one of them today, the “request” had been denied. She’d had to pay for the all-day spa treatment out of her own checkbook. She hadn’t really understood how much it cost until she sat there and wrote the check. Three thousand dollars plus six hundred in tips. Thirty-six hundred dollars for a facial, pedicure, body peel, botox shots, haircut and three-color frost, body waxing, manicure, massage, makeover—all the things a woman her age needed
not
to look her age.

Thirty-six hundred bucks. Jesus.

She was used to just signing a chit and never looking at the amount, because the money all came out of Forrest family funds. Or it had, until she tried to make her father surrender some control over the land.

Is he really mad?

He’s really determined. Different thing entirely.

As always, Rory had been right. Her father was going to do things his way and to hell with who got hurt in the process.

“Bliss?” Rory asked from the bedroom.

“In the kitchen,” she said.

She looked up as he came into the kitchen, rumpled and too sexy to be over fifty. Life really was unfair to women, she decided all over again. Not that Rory had complained about how she looked. After dinner they had gone at each other like teenagers and finally had fallen asleep in a slippery, satisfied pile.

Why is this the one man for me when there’s a world full of males I can handle without breaking a sweat?

There wasn’t any answer. There hadn’t ever been, but she kept asking anyway, hoping one day she would figure it all out.

“What are you doing?” Rory asked, rubbing his bare chest idly.

“Wondering how long Daddy’s going to stay mad.”

Rory looked at the pile of plastic cards while a combination of anger and helplessness coursed through him. Ward knew all about fighting to win. Bliss knew only how to be rich. Rory had always admired Ward’s bottom-line business sense, but he hated seeing it applied to the woman he loved.

“How much do you owe?” he asked.

She lifted one shoulder.

“Guess,” he said.

“I just sign, I don’t look.”

“Twenty thousand? Thirty?”

She glanced up at him with hurting blue eyes. “Why is he doing this? It’s not like I’m asking him to give up the ranch. Just the places that are important, like Sandy Cove and the beaches we used as children and the canyon where Three and Granna Sandra died, and—”

“The places you’re describing are among the most easily developed, most accessible, and most valuable land on the whole damn ranch.”

“It’s
my
history even if it isn’t his. It’s
Savoy
money he’s spending, not his own. It’s
my
money, damn it!”

“Bliss…” Rory cursed under his breath and tried again, wondering if she would listen, really listen, this time. “Your mother argued that point most of her married life. It didn’t do her any good. It won’t do you any good. The only money you control is in trust funds. Saying that it should be different won’t put one penny in your bank accounts.”

There was a long, unhappy silence.

“He always ends up winning,” Bliss said in a thin voice.

Rory didn’t argue. It was the truth.

“Once, just once, I want him to lose,” she said fiercely. “Is that too much to ask?”

“How much are you willing to give up for it?” Rory asked.

“I don’t know.”

“You willing to try marriage again?”

She gave him a startled glance and almost smiled. “Why?”

“It’s the only way I can protect you. Ward respects a man’s right to stand up for what is his. But an employee getting in the way of a family dispute would be fired.”

“He’d never fire you. You’re the son he never had. He cares for you more than he does for me or Savvy.”

Rory just shook his head. “Ward would hand me my corporate pink slip and go out hunting pheasant without a thought. And when it came time for re-election, he’d back another candidate.”

Her mouth dropped open and stayed that way. Then she reeled in her astonishment. “I can’t believe it.”

“I can. You never knew your Grandfather Forrest real well, did you?”

“I never thought about it.”

“He was a very smart man and a natural politician. Charming to anyone who could do him some good. Hard as steel underneath the smile. He ran Moreno County with a clenched fist, both as sheriff and later as district attorney. Booted out some gambling gangsters and sent them to Las Vegas at a time when it was a real dangerous thing to do.”

Bliss tried to imagine her grandfather running gangsters out of town. She couldn’t. When she’d known him, he was a spidery old man with nothing much better to do than sit in the sun with a cat in his lap.

“I don’t imagine Theodore Forrest was much kinder to his son than Ward is to Savoy,” Rory continued. “The Forrests aren’t long on kindness, but if you want the job done, they’ll do it. And if
they
want the job done, you’d better do it or get the hell out of their way.”

“Was your family like that?” Bliss asked, curious about Rory in a way she’d never been when she was younger.

“Pretty much. Only poor, real poor. If your father hadn’t liked what he saw when I turned up looking for work at the ranch close to forty
ago, I’d probably be someone’s hired man today instead of the sheriff of Moreno County and a member of the Savoy Ranch corporation board.”

“But you’d risk getting Daddy mad at you to help me.”

“Hell, Bliss, I’ve always loved you. I just can’t always live with you.”

She laughed almost sadly. “Same here, darling. Damn, life can be a tricky bitch.”

He held out his hand. “Come back to bed while we can still live with each other.”

“Want something to eat first?”

“Nope. How about you?”

Smiling, she pushed back from the table. Before she could take his hand, his cell phone rang. He rummaged through the pile of clothes on the living room floor, found his belt, and looked at the number in the cell phone window.

“Speak of the devil,” Rory muttered. He punched in the connect button. “Evening, Ward. Or should I say good morning?”

At home, Ward laughed curtly and scratched Honey Bear’s silky ears. The dog groaned and all but slid to the floor in a puddle of pleasure.

“Have you found January Marsh?” Ward asked.

“Lots of people in the county and state with the last name of Marsh. No one called January or Jan or Janet or Jane or any other variant we could think of. No driver’s license in those names. No voter registration. No property taxes. No business license. No wants, warrants, parking tickets, fingerprints, telephone numbers. No birth certificate on file in any state, no tax records either state or federal. No social security number. Offhand, I’d say the lady doesn’t exist.”

“Find her. I didn’t get you elected sheriff of Moreno County for the fun of it.”

“I have someone watching the paintings. If anyone asks to see them, man or woman, they’ll be tagged and followed. We’ll find her.”

“I want that painting, damn it!” As he spoke, Ward sank his fingers into Honey Bear’s thick fur. The dog stirred uneasily at the sudden pressure, then settled.

“The auction is Saturday,” Rory said patiently. “If we don’t find her sooner, we will when she comes to pick up her art.”

“Susa knows Ms. Marsh, or whatever the hell her name is. They’re going painting tomorrow.”

Then why are you badgering me?
But Rory knew better than to say that aloud. The old man wasn’t reasonable when it came to his damned paintings. He’d spend whatever it took and defy God, the devil, or the members of the board to stop him.

“Will they be painting at the ranch?” Rory asked.

“I don’t know. Probably.”

“If ‘Ms. Marsh’ shows up tomorrow, I’ll have her real identity by dinner.”

“How?”

“Does it matter?” Rory asked evenly.

Ward laughed and hung up.

“What was that all about?” Bliss asked.

“Your daddy has a bug up his ass about buying a painting.”

Rory punched numbers on his cell phone. Talk about a waste of taxpayer money. On the other hand, one way or the other, the lion’s share of the county taxes were being paid by Ward Forrest.

As soon as someone answered, Rory gave rapid-fire orders.