“I suppose they had other plans. All of this happened very quickly.”
“Yes, they did have time, but don’t you see? If the paintings were suddenly gone, they would have looked so guilty San Quentin would have just opened its doors and ushered them right on in. I suppose they were waiting to sell them off when you were dead and they legally belonged to Tennyson.”
“Dead.” Lily said the word again, then once more, sounding it out. “It isn’t easy to believe that someone wants you dead so they can have what you own. That’s really low.”
“Yes, it is.”
“I feel shock that Tennyson betrayed me, probably his father as well, but I don’t want to wring my hands and cry about it. Nope, what I really want to do is belt Tennyson in the nose, maybe kick him hard in his ribs, too.”
Sherlock hugged her, very lightly. “Good for you. Now, how do you feel, really?”
“Calm, just a bit of pain, nothing debilitating. I believed I loved him, Sherlock, believed I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I trusted him, and I trusted him with Beth.”
“I know, Lily. I know.”
Lily got ahold of herself, tried to smile. “Oh yes, I’ve got something amazing to tell you. Remus was dancing in my head this morning, yelling at me so loud that I went out and bought art supplies. Then, strange thing, I get on this empty city bus to go back to The Mermaid’s Tail and this young guy tries to mug me.”
Sherlock blinked, her mouth open.
Lily laughed. “Finally I’ve managed to surprise you so much you can’t think of anything to say.”
“I don’t like this, Lily. Tell me exactly what happened.”
But Mr. Monk appeared in the doorway. “I will contact our lawyers and have them prepare papers for your signature. I’ve detailed to Mr. Savich how the paintings will be packed and crated in preparation to be shipped to Washington. You will need to inform us of their destination so that we can make arrangements with the people at the other end. There will be two guards as well for the trip. It’s quite an elaborate process, necessary to keep them completely safe. I will phone you when the papers are ready. Did you plan to leave the area soon?”
“Fairly soon, Mr. Monk.” Lily rose slowly, her stitches pulling, aching more now, and took his hand. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t leave them here.”
“It’s a pity. Dr. Frasier said on the phone that you were divorcing him and that he had no more say in anything.”
“I’m relieved that he didn’t try anything underhanded,” Lily said.
Mr. Monk looked profoundly uncomfortable at that. “He’s a fine man, and so are his esteemed father and mother.”
“I understand that many people think that. Yes, we’re divorcing, Mr. Monk.”
“Ah, such a pity. You’ve been married such a short time. And you lost your little girl just a few months ago. I do hope you’re making this decision with a clear head.”
“You still think my mental condition is in question, Mr. Monk?”
Mr. Monk seemed to pump himself up. He swallowed and said, “Well, I think that just maybe you’re acting in haste, not really thinking things through. And here you are divorcing poor Dr. Frasier, who seems to love you and wants only the best for you. Of course, Mrs. Frasier, this is a very bad thing for me and for the museum.”
“Well, these things happen, don’t they? And I’d have to say that Dr. Frasier loves my paintings, sir, not me. I’m staying at The Mermaid’s Tail here in Eureka. Please call when I can finalize all this.”
Lily’s last view of Mr. Monk was of him standing in the doorway to the Sarah Elliott room, hunched in on himself, looking like he’d just lost all his money in a poker game. The museum had run just fine before Sarah Elliott’s paintings had arrived, and it would do so after they went away.
When they were walking down the stone steps of the museum, Savich on one side of Lily, her arm resting heavily on his, Sherlock on the other, Savich said, not looking at her, “I was wondering if Tennyson would be obstructive when we called him up. To be honest, if it had been you, Lily-by yourself on the phone-he would have been, no doubt in my mind about that. But he couldn’t this time, not with two of us federal agents and one of them your brother.”
He stopped abruptly, turned, and grasped Lily’s shoulders in his big hands. “I’m not pleased with you, Lily. You should have let Sherlock and me take care of all this. I’ll bet you pulled your stitches and now your belly aches like you’ve been punched.”
“Yes,” Sherlock said, “Dillon’s right. You look like you’re ready to fall over.”
Lily smiled down at her sister-in-law-small, fine-boned, all that incredible curly red hair, and the sweetest smile-who could take down a guy three times her size. And she played the piano beautifully. She’d known from the moment they’d first met at her and Dillon’s wedding that Sherlock’s love for Dillon was steady and absolute. Beth had been three years old at the time, so excited to see her uncle Dillon, and so proud of her new patent-leather shoes. Lily swallowed, got herself together. She said, “Do you know that you and Dillon could finish each other’s sentences? Now, don’t fret, either of you. I am feeling a bit on the shaky side, but I can hold on until we get back to the inn.” She hugged him tight, then stepped back. “You know what, Dillon? I’ve decided that I’m going to check into my own credit card situation.”
“What does that mean?”
Lily just smiled. He helped her into the backseat, gently placed the pillow over her stomach, and fastened her seat belt. She lightly touched her fingertips to his cheek. “I’m glad you came to the museum. I don’t think I had enough money to pay for a taxi back to the B-and-B.”
Savich shook his head at her as he slipped his hand beneath the seat belt to make sure it wouldn’t press too hard against her middle, got in the driver’s seat, and drove off.
“Now then, Lily,” Sherlock said, turning in her seat. “You can’t put it off any longer. Dillon will want to hear all about this, too. I want you to tell us about the mugger who attacked you on that empty bus this morning. No more than two hours ago.”
Savich nearly drove into a fire hydrant.
• They were eating lunch in a small Mexican restaurant, The Toasted Taco, on Chambers Street, just down the block from The Mermaid’s Tail, Lily having decided she was starving more than she was aching.
“Good salsa,” Lily said and dipped in another tortilla chip and stuffed it in her mouth. “That’s a sure sign that the food will be okay. Goodness, I don’t think I’ve ever been so hungry in my life.”
Savich said, “Talk.”
She’d told them about the bus driver who had explained to her that the bus was empty because of the big burying and was having a fine time chair-dancing while he drove, headphones turned up high, and about the young man with three earrings in his left ear, the switchblade that was sharp and silver and nearly went into her heart.
Savich blew out a big breath, picked up a tortilla chip, and absently chewed on it. “I suppose it’s occurred to you it may not have been a mugger.”
“He talked like one, maybe, I’m not sure since I’ve never been mugged before. Then he ruined it by pulling this switchblade knife. One thing I’m absolutely sure of-there was death in his eyes. And you know what? I knew all the way to my stomach lining that it was the end of the line. But then I went after him, Dillon, wrecked him good-all the moves you taught me. I could hear your voice telling me things, ‘Make yourself as small as possible,’ stuff like that. I hammered him-my hand a tight fist and whap! Then I hammered him hard against his chest, then polished him off by slamming my palm against his ear. Unfortunately, he got himself together and jumped off the bus, got away. Hey, I smashed him, Dillon, really smashed him.”
She looked so proud of herself that Dillon wanted to hug her until she squeaked, but he was still too scared. She could have been killed so very easily.
He cleared his throat. “Did you call the police?”
Lily shook her head. “To be honest, all I wanted to do was get back to the B-and-B. Then I thought of the paintings and got to the museum as fast as I could. Why don’t you think it was a mugger?”
Savich was still shaking with reaction. “I’m upset about this, Lily, really upset. He most certainly wasn’t a mugger. Listen, an empty bus, a guy starts with a throwaway line about taking your wallet to keep things real calm, then he brings out the knife? A mugger? No, Lily, I don’t think so.”
“The question is,” Sherlock said, chewing on a chip that she’d liberally dipped in salsa, her right hand near her glass of iced tea, “who found him, got him up to speed and moving so fast? You told Tennyson just last night that you were leaving him. Talk about fast action-that really surprises me. Tennyson, his father, whoever else is involved
