Die in Plain Sight (9 page)

“There are worse ways to go,” Ian said.

“I’m sure she would have agreed with you,” Susa said. “She’d outlived her husband and her only child, her daughter-in-law hated her, and her only granddaughter was as wild as the wind. The Savoy Curse.”

“Too many dollars,” Ian said.

“Not enough cents,” Lacey added innocently.

He groaned at the pun.

“I’m going to take you home with me,” Susa said, smiling at Lacey. “Don will love you. Stop about twenty yards up from here, Ian. There should be a level spot where we used to build campfires.”

Ian parked the truck where Susa pointed. While he wouldn’t have pitched a tent there, it was level enough that he didn’t have to put rocks under the tires.

“Let me help with that,” Ian said as Susa dragged her easel out of the pickup bed.

She shooed his hands off like irritating flies. “You’d just be in the way.”

He looked at Lacey. She was already heading out into the grass, her arms full and her eyes fixed on the view.

While the women set up easels and small folding tables for their paints and brushes and palettes, Ian lowered the dusty tailgate and put out a five-star feast. Colorful little vegetables and piquant dips, meat pies in airy pastries, something that looked like tiny popovers and tasted like heaven, finger-size columns of bread smelling of herbs and cheese, a
dessert of brownies and lemon bars, and enough fine champagne to put them all on the wrong side of the law.

“Anybody hungry?” he called out hopefully.

Nothing answered but the wind.

He took it as agreement. “So am I.”

Reminding himself that he was working, not playing, he filled two hotel plates with an assortment of food and took it to the women. He started to add the linen napkins that had been provided, then looked up in time to see both women absently wipe their hands on their jeans.

“Right. They’re wearing their napkins.”

Susa barely nodded when he eased the food within reach on her paint table. When he set a plate near Lacey, she gave him a vague smile, a muttered word, and went back to painting. Same thing when he opened bottles of water and put them out—
Hello, good-bye, do I know you?

Ian left the champagne corked. No way he was going to waste Grande Dame on two women who wouldn’t know if he was feeding them pork rinds and home brew. Uncapping a second bottle of water for himself, he filled a third plate, leaned against the side of the truck, and ate with enough appreciation for himself and the women combined. As he ate, he catalogued the surrounding land with the eye of a man who had once jumped out of planes at night behind enemy lines. Then he’d jumped once too often and broke his right ankle in too many places to ever jump again.

He couldn’t say that he missed it.

No matter where he looked, nothing moved but the wind and a red-tail hawk looking for lunch. None of the fleet of white vehicles showed on any of the dirt tracks that wound over hills and through valleys and canyons. No trespasser was running his dog in the open country. The cattle and farm machinery that had once cropped the hills were gone. He was alone with two beautiful women who didn’t even know he was alive.

“Welcome to my life,” he muttered, shaking his head. “I really should get a dog or a cat to talk to. Or goldfish. They don’t care if you go off for a week at a time. Maybe some ivy or dandelions or something. Nope, you have to water plants. Where are pet rocks when you need them?”

If either of the women heard, neither answered. They were as lost in their painting as the wind was in the sky.

Ian reached under the front seat and pulled out the binoculars he’d bought when he realized that his bodyguarding of Susa required excursions into unpopulated ranch lands. Not that he expected any trouble. He didn’t. And he was paid to make sure it stayed that way.

He finished his second bottle of water, opened a thermos of coffee, and quartered the land with the binoculars while he sipped rich coffee from a plastic cup. No matter where he looked, he saw nothing but gentle hills, lush grass, outcroppings of boulders, occasional eucalyptus or chaparral in the ravines, and what looked like an old piece of machinery rusting at the bottom of Cross Country Canyon. It was too early in the day for deer or coyotes, and way too early for teenagers sneaking out into the wilds with six-packs of illicit beer under their arms.

He brought the binoculars back to the shadowed ravine, intrigued by the rusting machinery. In addition to old movie posters, he collected old baling hooks, branding irons, license plates, and less identifiable bits of metal left over from forgotten farms. It wouldn’t take but a few minutes to skid down the slope, check out the rusty ruins, and get rid of all the water he’d been drinking.

He searched the surroundings a final time. Nothing in sight that shouldn’t be. He put the field glasses on the seat.

“Susa, I’m going into the ravine for a bit,” he said. “You holler if you need anything.”

She might have nodded. He wasn’t sure. He went up to Lacey and said right into her ear, “I’m taking a bio break. You yell if you see anything new. Okay?”

She jumped, gave him a deer-in-headlights look, and said, “Uh. Sure. Whatever.”

For a moment he considered grabbing her and kissing her senseless, just to see her reaction. Then he decided his ego couldn’t take it if she ignored that, too.

“I’ll be right down there,” he said, pointing to the ravine. “Think you can remember that?”

“Sure. Why wouldn’t I?”

“Jesus. I give up.”

Lacey winced. “Sorry. I, uh, get a little distracted when I’m painting.”

“Really? I hadn’t noticed.”

“Have I been that bad?”

“Yeah. Susa’s worse. Now, listen up. I’m going down in the ravine for a few minutes. If you see anything human besides us, let me know in a real loud voice. Okay?”

Lacey frowned and glanced around at the beautiful empty land. “Do you really think—”

“I’m paid to be paranoid and I’m good at my job,” he cut in. Gently he rubbed a smear of blue paint off the corner of her mouth and touched the center of her lower lip with the pad of his thumb. “Don’t worry. Go back to painting.”

“Did I almost get a pat on the head?” she muttered.

“No. You almost got kissed.”

She looked at his dark eyes and wide, tempting mouth, and wondered if it was too late. Then she realized she’d said it aloud and wanted to bury her face in her paints. “Sorry. I don’t have any, uh, social graces when I’m painting. Or any other time. I just say whatever I think.”

Ian brushed a tender, tasting kind of kiss over her lips. “You ate dessert first.”

She blinked and looked into the nearly black eyes that were so close to her own. “What?”

“Lemon bar.”

“You’ve been drinking coffee. Tastes good.”

“I’ll get you some,” he said.

“Only if you drink it first. I hate coffee.”

His eyes darkened to a hot kind of black. “If I weren’t on duty, I’d take you down in that ravine and…play.”

She blew out a breath. “Whew. Do you come with warning labels?”

“Do you?”

“I’ve never needed any.”

“Neither have I,” Ian said. “Guess we have a bad effect on each other.”

She licked her lips. “If that’s bad, heaven is overrated. Now go away before I do something embarrassing.”

“Like what?”

“Reach inside your jacket and see if your gun is loaded,” she retorted.

Ian laughed out loud.

“Knock it off, you two,” Susa said, trying not to laugh herself. “You’re distracting me and Don is half a world away.”

“Does that mean if I tell you I’m taking a walk in the ravine you’ll hear me this time?” Ian asked.

“I hear you,” Susa said. “Now I don’t want to hear you for a while.”

“I’m gone,” he said, but he gave Lacey a tasting kind of look before he loped off toward the ravine.

Then he paid attention to the footing. Running shoes were fine for sidewalks, well-combed athletic tracks, and pavement. On long grass and a steep slope, the shoes were a little like two surfboards. He managed to stay right side up and landed at the bottom with only a twinge or two from his bad ankle.

The rusting hulk that had intrigued him from a distance wasn’t farm machinery after all. It was an old two-door Chevy of the kind once loved by hot-rodders. Even overgrown with grass and covered with eucalyptus leaves and bark, it was obvious that the car had burned either before or after it had bounced down the steep ravine. Rusted, heat-warped metal was scattered over the ravine. Whatever had happened had been a long time ago. Only the biggest eucalyptus growing nearby showed any trace of fire scars; all the younger trees were untouched.

He watered one of the trees while he eyed hunks of wreckage. What looked like a bumper lay upside down by the one of the rocks poking out of the other side of the narrow ravine. He zipped up and went to investigate. There was a patch or two of chrome shining among the swaths of rust. When he pried the bumper out of the undergrowth, he saw a battered license plate beneath.

“Cool,” he said, grinning at the half-century-old plate. “I don’t have one like this in my collection.”

He picked it up, rubbed off dirt and frantic sow bugs, and looked around again at the collapsed, burned body of the car. Even fifty years later, one thing was clear.

Whoever had been behind the wheel hadn’t walked away.

Painter’s Beach

Wednesday afternoon

M
r. Goodman shook Ward Forrest’s hand with a combination of enthusiasm and gratification that he’d finally gotten the chance to meet the big man himself. Around them the Savoy Hotel’s lobby was like a kicked-over anthill with workers scurrying right, left, and center. Ward’s presence didn’t fluster any of the regular staff or workers. He’d been in and out—and underfoot—so much that the busy staff hardly noticed him anymore.

“I’m so sorry Susa couldn’t join us,” Mr. Goodman said to Ward. “The hotel staff said she was out painting. On your ranch, I believe?”

Ward looked at Rory, who was in uniform, right down to the shiny Sam Browne belt wrapped around his narrow hips. Rory looked at Savoy, who was casually elegant as always, turning female heads wherever he went.

“We okayed her painting excursions before she arrived in southern
California,” Savoy said. “Naturally, we’re hoping for some paintings of the ranch.”

“She painted the ranch before, I believe,” Goodman said.

“Yes, back when she was an unknown artist,” Savoy said. “I suspect that’s why she was willing to participate in your auction—a trip down memory lane.”

Ward straightened his Western string tie with its beautiful Zuni medallion of coral and turquoise and silver, depicting the gods of rain and wind. “I can’t say as I’d mind adding a Susa to our collection. It’d be worth the money just to hear the Pickfords scream.”

Mr. Goodman smiled warily. The fights between the Pickfords and the Forrests were the stuff of Moreno County legend. “It would certainly be a fine feather in our county’s artistic cap,” Goodman said. “As president of Moreno County Artists, vice president of California Plein Air Coalition, and former president of the American Figurative Artists Association, I’d be happy to help in any way I can.”

“We’ll keep it in mind,” Ward said, glancing around at the quiet frenzy of activity. “The auction going to come off on time?”

“Absolutely,” Goodman said. “The hotel manager assured me not half an hour ago.”

Ward grunted. He’d believe that when he saw it. And he damn well better see it, or a lot of folks would be looking somewhere else for their next paycheck.

“I know how pressed for time you must be with the auction breathing down your neck,” Savoy said to Goodman, “so why don’t we just get to the paintings?”

“Of course. Would anyone like coffee or something else sent in?”

“Nothing, thanks,” Ward said.

Rory wouldn’t have minded some coffee, but it wasn’t worth the trouble. Ward was in a mood. Savoy knew it; he was practically oozing soothing vibes. Rory didn’t blame him. Ward could be a mean son of a bitch when he felt like it.

Savoy looked expectantly at Goodman.

“Right this way,” Goodman said, ushering Ward across the busy lobby. “I don’t know if you’re aware of it, sir,” he said to Ward, “but the artists Association is looking for sponsors for its scholarships for deserving
children, with emphasis on the large immigrant community of southern California.”

“Send a note to my office,” Savoy said before his father could take a bite out of Goodman. “We’ll get back to you on it.”

“Thank you. It’s a very worthy cause.”

“They all are,” Ward said. “Some day someone’s going to pitch an
un
worthy cause to me and I’m going to kiss the bastard on all four cheeks.”

Goodman took the hint.

Rory glanced around the lobby, paying particular attention to the discreet cameras that were being installed. Since he partially owned a security firm that handled the hotel, he knew that the cameras—when they were working correctly, and they were finicky bitches—gave about ninety percent coverage. It would take a real pro to sneak through the missing ten percent.

“Did you want to show Mr. Forrest some of the other paintings you looked at earlier?” Goodman asked Savoy hopefully.

Savoy knew he wasn’t the “Mr. Forrest” in question. When his father was along, there was only one Mr. Forrest. “No point in wasting my father’s time right now,” Savoy said blandly. “Those paintings could be acquired out of the museum cash drawer after a slow day.”

Rory smiled faintly and thought if Savvy would show his teeth more often, Ward wouldn’t have to.

Goodman unlocked the conference room with a master electronic key and headed toward the executive bathroom beyond. Before he could open the door, Savoy took the key from his hand.

“Thank you,” Savoy said. “We’ll return the key at the front desk after we’re finished.”

“Damned waste of time,” Ward muttered. “They make ’em by the gross. About as secure as a sieve.”

Goodman hesitated, then took his dismissal with the grace of a man who was accustomed to begging for grants and scholarships among the wealthy. “Of course. If I can be of any further assistance—”

“We’ll call you,” Ward cut in impatiently, taking the key from his son. “Thank you and good-bye. Let’s get to it, Savvy. I don’t have all day to spend on this.”

Savoy gave Goodman a smile and a shrug that invited him to be understanding of a spoiled old man’s impatience. “Be sure to send your scholarship information to my personal attention,” Savoy said. “I’ll put it at the top of my requests pile.”

Goodman smiled and forgot to be annoyed. “Thank you, sir.”

Savoy waited until Goodman was out of earshot before he shut the automatically locking conference room door and turned to his father. “Your manners need some work. Goodman may be a pushy twit, but he’s well respected in the art community, whose support is important to the Savoy Museum, which is important to the family’s philanthropic image, which is very important to New Horizons, which is feeling goosy about the upcoming merger.”

“What you don’t understand about power, boy, is that you have to exercise it. Respect is better than a friendship award every time.” Ward jerked his thumb toward the bathroom. “Now open the fucking door,
please
.”

“You have the key.”

“You bet I do.” Ward smiled. “Don’t ever forget it.” He shoved the plastic rectangle in the slot.

Rory snickered. The old man was a pistol, no doubt about it. He might drive them all crazy, but he hadn’t lost a step to the years.

Ward shoved the door open and stared at the three paintings. “I’ll be a son of a bitch. You were right, Savvy.” He whipped reading glasses out of his suit coat and checked for a signature on the dark painting. “What the hell is this? He didn’t sign it?”

“That’s why I brought you. You have a better eye than I do,” Savoy said evenly. It was only the truth. “Is this a Marten?”

Ward lifted the painting and flipped it over, peering along the thin edge where canvas wrapped around stretcher. He grunted. “Number twenty-seven. Jesus, how many did he paint before he died?”

“So it’s a Marten?” Savoy asked.

“Marten or Santa Claus, signed or unsigned, I’m buying it.”

“We have nineteen already,” Savoy said. “Burning house, burning car, drowning woman. Sixteen are signed. Don’t you think that’s enough?”

“The thing about collecting is that you ain’t finished until you have it all.” Ward set the painting down. “Buy it.”

“I told you,” Savoy said patiently, “it’s not for sale.”

“Bullshit. Everything’s for sale. Just a matter of finding out the price.”

“That could be difficult.”

“Why?”

Savoy bit back his rising temper. He knew very well that his father’s memory was better than a computer’s. The old man was just doing what he did best—pushing his son’s buttons. So Savoy reached into his sports coat, pulled out his cell phone, and pushed some buttons of his own. After a few moments the screen showed what it had been showing ever since the first e-mail: no response from the elusive Ms. Marsh.

“She’s not answering my e-mails.”

“So call her.”

“No phone number,” Savoy said through his teeth. “Remember? No address, either. Remember?”

A flush of temper appeared on Ward’s cheekbones. “I’m not senile.”

“Then don’t act like it,” Savoy shot back. “We’ve been over this ground five times since I first told you about the painting. Now, I’d love to get it for your birthday—or rather, the company would—but I can’t buy what’s not for sale.”

Ward turned to Rory. “Find her.”

“A description would help,” the sheriff said mildly.

“Goodman saw her,” Savoy said. “Talk to him.”

Rory flicked a sideways glance at Savoy and waited for Ward to speak.

“Do it,” Ward said.

“When I find her, what then?” Rory asked.

“Savvy will take it from there.”

Rory sighed. “Wouldn’t it be easier just to wait until Saturday? She’s bound to show up for the auction.”

“Maybe, but I’m not counting on it,” Ward said.

“Why not?” Savoy said. “It’s only logical.”

Ward turned on his son. “Christ Jesus, haven’t you learned anything? Logic isn’t what turns people’s screws.
Find her.”