Die in Plain Sight (25 page)

Savoy Hotel

Saturday evening

A
fter dinner the guests sifted through the maze of freestanding panels, noting which paintings were for sale and which weren’t. People read Susa’s handwritten cards next to each painting, made notes, and moved on. Mr. Goodman did the sheep dog bit, gently and relentlessly herding people along the aisles of art. With an eye to the bottom line, he praised the ordinary and the indifferent, and emphasized how valuable Susa’s comments were to future owners.

Lacey let herself be herded. Away from Susa there was a blessed anonymity in being one of the crowd musing over paintings. On the stage, Ian practiced his barely leashed junkyard dog routine while a smock-shrouded Susa painted what had once been called Sandy Cove from memory. She wasn’t going to let a thief stand in the way of keeping her word to the Forrests about donating a landscape of the ranch to the Savoy Museum.

“Enjoying the show?” Savoy asked from beside Lacey.

“Some of these paintings are amazing.”

“Is that good or bad?”

“Works both ways.”

Savoy laughed and studied the painting Lacey was looking at. It was an unusual treatment of storm clouds and cattle. Energetic and undisciplined in equal parts. Primitive, yet arresting.

“Have you heard anything more about the robbery?” Savoy asked, moving on to the next painting when Lacey did.

“Since you ate dinner with the sheriff, I was going to ask you the same thing.”

“At dinner he was acting in his capacity as former and future family,” Savoy said wryly. “Nothing official.”

She glanced aside at Savoy. “Former and future?”

“My sister is his ex-wife. They’re getting married again tomorrow.”

“Oh, I remember now. Good for them. I hope.” Lacey heard her own words and winced. “I didn’t mean that the way it sounded.”

“Don’t worry. We’re all holding our breath on this one.”

For a moment they both stared at a watercolor that suggested seagulls in flight. Then Lacey found herself out of the maze and face-to-face with her grandfather’s forgeries.

“I understand you have quite a few of this artist’s paintings,” Savoy said.

“Yes.”

“Might I ask how many?”

She turned toward him. The forgeries were a subject she would love to avoid, but didn’t see any graceful—or even moderately polite—way of doing so. “Why?”

“As I’ve said before, my father collects works by this artist. He particularly focuses on the darker work.” Savoy gestured toward the drowning pool.

“No accounting for taste,” Lacey muttered.

“You don’t care for them?”

She sighed. “They’re brilliant. I just can’t see living with them on a daily basis.”

“Them? You have more than this one and the one that was stolen?”

Damn, not much gets by this man.
“Yes.”

“Since you don’t want to hang them yourself, and you have an ample supply, the foundation would love to acquire one or more for our museum.”

“I figured that out,” Lacey said. “I’m not ready to sell.”

“If you change your mind before the auction is over, I’ll give you one hundred thousand dollars for the pool painting and an equal amount to the Friends of Moreno County.”

Her eyes widened. “Holy—er, that’s a lot.”

Savoy smiled narrowly and cursed his father’s obsession. “Yes, it is. But art collectors are very passionate in their pursuits. And I am very passionate about pleasing my father.”

Crossing her arms over her chest, Lacey turned and faced Savoy fully. “Look, I’m going to be blunt because I’m no good at being subtle.”

His smile gentled, reaching his eyes. “I could like you, Ms. Quinn.”

“Promises, promises.” But she smiled back. “Dealing with these paintings in a public manner is new to me. I have to get used to the idea of their value. It isn’t easy. And I have to be sure that they
are
valuable before I go selling them for thousands of dollars.”

“I’m willing to take the risk.”

“I’m not. I’m sending all of them to Rarities Unlimited to be appraised.”

“Excellent firm. I’ll be interested in what they have to say.” He paused. “You’re sending all of them, even the ones that are here tonight?”

She nodded.

“The museum had hoped to display them,” Savoy said. “I believe that requirement was mentioned on the entry form.”

“Requirement?”

“Perhaps that’s too strong a word. Urgent preference might be more appropriate.”

Lacey thought about it for a moment, then shrugged. “Until Rarities asks for those three paintings, I’ll leave them in your hands.”

“Thank you.” Savoy smiled brilliantly. “My father will be pleased.”

“That means a lot to you, doesn’t it?”

“Do you get along with your father, Ms. Quinn?”

She thought about their recent arguments, and some of the 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 the
more 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

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 murdered,” Lacey cut in starkly.

“What?”

“She said my—my—she thinks whoever painted that picture did—did it.”

“Judas bleeding Priest.”

Ian picked up Lacey, took her into their bedroom, and kicked the door shut. He set her on the bed before he went into the bathroom for a cold washcloth. When he came back out, he gathered her close and put the cloth against her hot tear-wet cheeks. Then he held her until she was calm again.

“Damn,” she said. “I don’t know where that came from.”

He kissed her red nose. “Hearts are unpredictable things.”

She smiled crookedly and settled against his weapon harness. “Yeah, so I’ve heard.”
And I’m going to lose my heart to this gentle warrior if I don’t watch out.

“Ready to tell me the whole story?” he asked. “Or do you want to wait for me to pour some really expensive champagne?”

“Champagne?” She laughed raggedly. “Oh, damn, you do know how to appeal to my sense of the absurd. Please, pull the cork.”

Ian went to the small refrigerator and pulled out the champagne that the hotel kept stocking for them as though it was mineral water. He ripped off the “Compliments of the Hotel” card, pulled the cork, and licked the champagne that bubbled over his knuckles.

Lacey looked up as he came to the bedside. Her hair was wild, her eyes were huge and dark, her cheeks were both flushed and pale, and her lips trembled. But her hand was steady when she accepted a glass of champagne, and her spine was as straight as the line of her chin.

“To the truth,” she said, and touched her glass to his.

He hesitated. “Even if it makes you cry?”

“Dirty little secrets don’t go away. They just grow up to be dirty big ones.” Lacey took a long breath. “And if that woman was murdered, she deserves better than lies.”

“Justice?”

“You say that like you don’t believe in it.”

Ian smiled rather grimly. “Oh, I believe in it. I just know that it’s never free.”

She smiled a sad, lopsided kind of smile. “I look at the Death Suite and I can’t help thinking that a lot of paying has been done and there’s damn little justice to show for it.”

“To justice,” Ian said, touching his glass to hers.

She waited until he took a small sip, then she set aside her glass, stood up, and put her arms around him in a hug. “Thank you.”

He inhaled the heat and faint perfume of her hair. “For what?”

“For not making me feel like an idiot. For believing me. For comforting me. For being an all-around wonderful man.”

“That’s because you’re an all-around wonderful woman.”

She laughed softly against his chest. “I’m going to miss you when you leave with Susa tomorrow.”
Way too much.
Lacey’s smile faded. “Does your work bring you this way often?” Then, quickly, “Damn, I didn’t mean to say that.”

He held on when she tried to push away. “Lacey, what we have is too good to ignore.” He tipped up her chin and kissed her slowly. “I’m not going to let go. How about you?”

“I don’t want to let go.”

“Then we’ll find a way.”

They held each other for a long time, until she shifted and felt the hardness beneath his gentleness. Then she smiled and went to work on the weapon harness that was no longer alien to her.

“We don’t have to.” He kissed her hair. “I can see how tired you are. The last few days have been hell on you.”

“Then bring me a little heaven.”

He threaded his fingers into her hair and tilted her head back. The smoky desire in her eyes almost brought him to his knees. “I don’t deserve you,” he said.

“Too late to wriggle out of it now,” she said. “I’ve got you and I’m not letting go until you beg for mercy.”

“Beg, huh?”

“Beg.”

“Hands and knees?”

“More like on your back.” She pulled off the weapon harness and pushed him onto the bed. “Hands behind your head.”

His smile was slow and hot as he put his hands behind his head. “Gonna cuff me?”

“Nope. Gonna trust you.”

She straddled him in a soft rush of fabric and perfume. Breathing kisses over his face, she undid his shirt. When she drew her open mouth down his neck and across his chest, his breath hitched. When she nuzzled through the thatch of hair to lick and tease a tight male nipple, he made a sound deep in his throat. For hushed, sultry minutes she stroked and petted and tasted. He tried to tell her how much he enjoyed it, but the words kept coming out as groans.

Then her hands unfastened his pants and he knew he was in trouble. Fingers locked behind his head, he watched helplessly while she pulled out the prize. Her head bent down, her lips brushed, his body jerked.

“Uncuff me,” he said hoarsely.

“Mmm” was all she said.

Her mouth circled, her tongue stroked, her teeth nibbled, and then she took him in. His whole body tightened at the hot, teasing suction. Sweat broke out along his spine. His breath came in jerks and left as husky groans.

“Lacey, I—” He made a rough sound that could have been pain or
acute pleasure. His hips arched and his breath stopped and he shuddered from head to heels. “Okay. I’m begging. You hear me? On my back. Begging.”

“Mmm.”

“Now, Lacey. God.
Now.”

She slid back up him, bit his shoulder, and pulled apart his hands. Before she could take a breath, he flipped her over, stripped off her underwear, wrapped her legs around his neck, and buried his mouth in her. When she could force herself to breathe again, the sounds she made might have been begging, might have been demanding, and neither of them cared which.

The second time she came, he shifted upward until he could push into her. He held her that way, hard and deep, his body tight as a bowstring, sharing all the wild pulses and cries of her release. When she lay spent and languorous, he began to move inside her, starting slow, staying slow, watching her eyes widen as he stroked her higher and then higher still, listening to her breath break, feeling her arch up and abandon herself to him, moving with him until their shared world went red and black and wild.

Still deeply joined with him, she slid down the glittering slope of ecstasy into sleep. He felt the trust, the relaxation, the sweet sigh of intimacy as she turned her face into his neck and slept.

For a long time he simply savored it, and her. It was a lot better than thinking about all the reasons her grandfather might be obsessed with three particular deaths. And if Ian really worked at it, he didn’t think about the most common reason.

A lot of serial killers collected trophies.