Die in Plain Sight

by Elizabeth Lowell

  “Wonderful.” She rubbed her forehead. “What did he want?”

  “Guess?”

  “To buy the paintings?”

  “Yeah.”

  “How did he find out about the fire?” she asked.

  “He didn’t say anything about the second fire. Just told me that the paintings from the charity auction are being proudly displayed in the museum and you were welcome any old time at all, and after you saw them maybe you’d feel so good about how they’re being treated that you’d consider selling one or two, seeing as how you don’t have any safe place to put them and all.” Ian’s drawling summary of the conversation was at odds with his hard eyes and harder smile.

  “Does this move him to the top of our suspect list?” she asked rather bitterly.

  “Right up with good old Sheriff Turner.”

  “Why would Savoy want to kill me?”

  “I’ll ask him right after I talk to the sheriff.”

  “Should I take him up on the museum offer?” Lacey asked.

  “Have to, sooner or later. Rarities wants a look at the Martens the old man collected. As for selling them a painting, it’s up to you.”

  Lacey started to dismiss the idea as she had every time the subject came up. Then she thought of all the bills that would have to be paid even though the shop was a write-off. Shayla would need money, too. Selling a painting would keep both of them afloat while they found new work or put the pieces of their old work back together.

  “I’ll think about it.” Lacey raked fingers through her hair. “Did Mrs. Katz call back about her Marten?”

  “No.”

  “Damn. How are we supposed to find any true Martens hidden in Grandfather’s forgeries unless we have some real Martens to work with?”

  Ian didn’t answer, because she’d asked the question of the ceiling, not him. “We’ve still got private collectors,” he said.

  “The Forrests. It always goes back to them, doesn’t it?”

  “And your grandfather. And you. And the sheriff.”

  Lacey raked her hair again and tried to think of something more effective than what a mess. Then she brought herself up short. No pity party. Doesn’t do any good. Take one thing at a time and go through the list until something makes sense. “All right. To hell with what we don’t know. Let’s go with what we know.”

  “Which is?”

  “We need some real Martens for Rarities to work with. The Savoy Museum has them.” She grabbed her big ratty purse and expensive cashmere coat. “Let’s go get our wonderful guided tour.”

  “Unguided,” Ian said.

  “What?”

  “The museum isn’t open to the public today.”

  “Good. I’m not feeling very public.”

  Ian hesitated, then said bluntly, “You’d be safer here in the hotel room.”

  She stopped with her hand on the hallway door. Her chin came up. “For how long?”

  “Until I find out who’s threatening to kill you.”

  “How long?” she repeated. “A day or two? A week? Two weeks? Several months? Years?”

  “Lacey—”

  He was talking to her back going through the door.

  “Shit.”

  He shot through the door and caught up with her before she’d taken two steps.

  “In the future,” he said tightly, “I go first through the doors. That isn’t negotiable. Got it?”

  She started to argue, looked at the cold line of his mouth, and said, “Got it.”

  Savoy Tower

  Tuesday morning

  65

  Odd place for a museum,” Lacey said, looking around the posh interior of the Savoy Tower lobby.

  “Thirty years ago, yeah,” Ian said, “One thing I learned working for Rarities is that institutions have become some of the biggest collectors around. It’s a variation of the my-cock-is-longer-than-your-cock game.”

  She gave him a dark sideways glance. “Just little boys in thousand-dollar suits and million-dollar expense accounts, huh?”

  “Pretty much.”

  The receptionist was a guard dressed in a uniform suit that might have cost a few hundred bucks. Her hair was short, her makeup minimal, and she must have been a cop in her previous life. It took her less than five seconds to spot the harness under Ian’s dark denim jacket. Behind the chest-high desk, her foot moved just enough to hit a button.

  “Give her the card, Lacey,” Ian said. “I don’t want the boys who are going to show up real quick to be nervous.”

  Lacey handed the guard Savoy Forrest’s card.

  “Mr. Forrest invited us to tour the museum anytime,” Lacey said. “His private number is on the back. You can check with him.”

  As the woman called the number, two men came out of a side hall and walked quickly to the desk. The first guard held up a cautionary hand. The two men flanked Ian and Lacey and waited.

  “Mr. Forrest? Sorry to bother you, sir. A man and a woman—”

  “Lacey Quinn and Ian Lapstrake,” Ian cut in loudly enough to be heard on the other end of the line.

  “—say that you’ve invited them to view the museum after-hours.” She relaxed visibly as she listened to Savoy Forrest. “Thank you, sir. I’ll tell them.” The guard hung up and smiled. “Sorry about that. We’ve had so many threats from eco-terrorists that we have to treat everyone as an enemy.” She looked at one of the guards. “Show them up to the museum, would you? Mr. Savoy will join them up there if his meeting ends before they leave.”

  Lacey retrieved the business card that was the key to the kingdom and followed the guard into a nearby elevator. Ian was with her every step of the way. His jacket was open and his eyes never stopped moving and never truly looked away from the guard. She supposed that trick was part of the Advanced Paranoia training he’d talked about with Susa.

  “You don’t think,” she said in an undertone, “that we’ll have a problem here?”

  “I think there’s only one of me, and one is never enough to do a decent job of guarding anything.”

  “I’m here, too.”

  The line of his mouth softened. “You going to guard me, darling?”

  “Yes.”

  The elevator door opened. Ian held Lacey back and gestured for the guard to go first. He led them down an office corridor with doors opening off both sides. Other than a hall carpet and a sign on the wall that simply said MUSEUM, the place obviously had been constructed originally with private business rather than public art in mind.

  The guard unlocked a door that had the museum hours painted in discreet black on frosted white glass. Inside, the feel of the room changed dramatically. Business was just a memory; art ruled here. An oriental carpet in rich, age-muted colors warmed the room. To one side was a modest museum gift shop with art books, videos, and posters from previous shows prominently displayed. The rest of the space was given over to white walls holding plein air art painted by southern California Impressionists. The lights were turned off, leaving the exhibition room in a gloomy kind of twilight.

  “Hello?” said a voice from the back of the museum shop. “I’m sorry, we aren’t open today.”

  “Mr. Jordon?” the guard asked. “That you? I thought you weren’t in today.”

  “I’m not,” Jordon said, walking into view. He was middle-aged, with a graying, thin ponytail going down the back of his old sweatshirt halfway to his equally old jeans. “I’m doing inventory.”

  “Mr. Forrest told these folks that the museum was open anytime they wanted to visit and that we’d help them any way we could.”

  “Mr. Forrest,” Jordon repeated.

  “Yes, sir. Savoy Forrest.”

  Jordon looked at his grubby hands, sighed, and put a good face on it. “Of course. Welcome to the museum.” He stepped over to a master switch and threw it. Light flooded the room. “If you have any questions, you’ll find me in the shop counting books. Enjoy.”

  With that, Jordon vanished back into his inventory.


  “Will you lock up after they leave?” the guard called out.

  “Yes!” Jordon called back impatiently.

  The guard went out the hall door, leaving Ian and Lacey alone. She looked at him, shrugged, and walked toward the paintings. The lighting was excellent and cleverly positioned to bring life to even the darkest painting. Under other circumstances she would have been intrigued by most of the paintings and enthralled by a few. Today she was simply fast. She went from painting to painting with a speed that suggested someone looking for something and not finding it.

  Ian followed her, grateful that the display was one of the open kinds, rather than the maze that had made him nervous at the auction.

  There were only fifteen paintings. Less than three minutes after Lacey had been given the run of the museum, she looked at him and shook her head.

  “Nothing.” Then she heard herself and cringed. “Nothing that we’re looking for,” she added quickly. “Some nice paintings, some good ones, one excellent piece of art. In all, a thin and reasonably academic cross section of southern California plein air artists. No Marten, signed or otherwise.”

  “Interesting,” Ian said. “Any obvious blank spots or cards indicating that paintings are on loan somewhere?”

  “Not that I saw.”

  “Neither did I.”

  “Let’s look at the gift shop.”

  “What for?” he asked.

  “Books that have Marten in the index. Posters of old shows by this museum. Catalogues listing the contents of old shows.”

  “Good idea.”

  Making enough noise that Jordon would know what they were doing, Ian and Lacey went through the contents of the gift store. It didn’t take very long. Like the museum, the shop was small and focused in its content.

  Ian watched Lacey go through the last oversized art book.

  “Nope,” she said, replacing the book. “He’s mentioned, but not pictured. Not him personally, not his art.”

  “Is he mentioned as part of the museum collection?” Ian asked.

  “No. Simply a talented artist who died tragically, et cetera, and very little of his oeuvre survived him.” Without saying anything else, she tilted her head questioningly toward the small storage area where Jordon was rustling among the stock.

  Ian nodded.

  “Mr. Jordon,” Lacey said, walking behind the small desk that served as a checkout counter for patrons wishing to buy books. “Sorry to interrupt, but we have a problem.”

  Jordon was on his hands and knees, counting books. His gray ponytail bobbed as he shoved himself to his feet. “What is it?”

  “We were told that at least three of the paintings from the auction were hanging in this museum.”

  “They will be.”

  “When?”

  “As soon as they’re framed or cleaned or both. Let me check.” He went past them to the small desk. His fingers moved over the computer keyboard like hurried mice. “Auction, auction…ah, here we are. Two are being framed and one is being cleaned.”

  “Cleaned?” Lacey said sharply. “I didn’t give permission for any cleaning.”

  “Really?” He frowned. “Maybe there’s a mistake.” He checked the records again. “Two landscapes and a domestic scene. All untitled. All unsigned. All unframed.”

  “Domestic scene,” Ian repeated.

  “Yes. A woman in a spa.”

  Ian thought that was a rather precious description of murder, but he kept it to himself.

  “Where, exactly, are the paintings now?” Lacey asked.

  “The basement, I imagine. We have a modest frame shop there.”

  “Before you take us down to the basement,” Ian said, “can you tell us where the rest of the paintings by Lewis Marten are?”

  “Lewis Marten.” Jordon frowned irritably, remembered that his unwanted visitors came from Mr. Forrest himself, and keyed in the name. “We don’t list any Martens in the active file.”

  “Meaning?” Ian asked.

  “No paintings by Lewis Marten are part of our present collection on display in this museum. They’re either in rotation with other collections or in storage.”

  “What about in the past?” Lacey asked.

  “Those records are kept at Savoy Ranch, along with any paintings that aren’t being actively displayed at this time.”

  “How many paintings does the museum own?” Ian asked.

  “Several hundred.”

  “With only fifteen on display. Hell of a way to run a museum,” Ian muttered.

  Jordon straightened and looked down his nose at Ian. “You’re here for the Pickfords, aren’t you? This was all litigated years ago. This is a bona fide museum open to the public, and all their caviling won’t change anything.”

  “Pickfords?” Lacey asked.

  “Jason and Stephen,” Jordon said. His tone of voice said they already knew who he was talking about. “Do you really want to see the basement storage room?”

  “More than ever,” Lacey said.

  In silence they followed Jordon into an elevator and down to the basement. He unlocked a room, turned on the lights, and gestured impatiently for them to come inside.

  The two unsigned landscapes were on separate easels next to rows of framing samples. For each landscape a frame sample had been pulled out and rested on the corner of the canvas, giving an idea of the final effect. The drowning pool was on a third easel, its bleakly radiant canvas screaming of the dark side of humanity. Several frame samples were stacked near the painting, as though the framer hadn’t decided which worked best.

  Lacey glanced at the landscapes, checked the frames that had been chosen, and said, “Very nice.”

  She looked at the samples near the drowning pool, held up several in turn against the canvas, and then went completely still. She picked up the canvas, ignoring Jordon’s instinctive protest. Silently she turned it into the light and studied the painting, flipped it over to see the back, and turned it right side up again before she set it back on the easel.

  “Thankyou, Mr. Jordon,” she said. Then she turned to Ian. “Time to go.”

  Ian waited until they had left the Savoy Tower and were walking across the parking lot before he said, “What’s wrong?”

  “The drowning painting.”

  “What about it?”

  “It’s the first one. The one that was stolen from the hotel.”

  Ian stared at her. “Are you sure?”

  “The bracelet isn’t nearly as clear as it was in the second one. And the number on the back is twenty-seven, not thirty-six.”

  “Can you prove they were switched?” he asked.

  “I didn’t think to photograph the back of either painting while it was in my hands. Did you?”

  A low curse was Ian’s only answer.

  Newport Beach

  Late Tuesday morning

  66

  The offices of Pickford and Pickford weren’t as fancy as Savoy Tower, but they were big and had a peekaboo view of the marina through sheets of wind-driven rain. The weather clearing promised by the forecasters hadn’t come about. A big storm had. Stephen Pickford was sitting behind a desk the size of an aircraft carrier. If he was happy to see the two people dripping on his thick rug, it didn’t show.

  “I’d like to say that any friend of Savoy Forrest is a friend of mine,” Pickford said, “but I’d be lying.”

  Ian had picked up enough reading David Quinn’s fat envelope of clippings to know what Pickford meant. “We understand that you and your son sued Savoy Enterprises over the funding of the Savoy Museum.”

  “Yes. We lost, but not on the merits of the case. What of it?”

  “We’re looking for some paintings we thought were part of the Savoy Museum collection,” Lacey said, “but can’t be accounted for now.”

  Pickford shrugged. “They shift paintings in and out of that museum all the time. If they’re not there, they’re stored at the ranch house.”

  “Interesting,” Ian said.


  “Legal, too,” Pickford said sarcastically. “We’ve got the legal judgment that says so.”