Hemlock Bay
Page 26
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“I remember. That was way back in the dark ages before I started screwing up big time.”
“No, you were screwing up then, too,” Savich said, lightly punching her arm. “Remember that point spread you had on the Army-Navy game? And Dad found out that you’d gotten twenty dollars off Mr. Hodges next door?”
“I hid out in your room, under your bed, until he calmed down.”
They laughed. It sounded especially good to Sherlock, who beamed at both of them. Lily depressed? It was hard, looking at her now, to believe that she’d ever been depressed.
Lily said, “Yes, I remember Simon Russo. He was a real pain in the butt and you said yeah, that was true enough, but it didn’t matter because he was such a good wide receiver.”
“That’s Simon. He’s neck-deep in the art world, you know. He got back to me right away, said eight Sarah Elliotts are worth in the neighborhood of eight to ten million dollars.”
Lily stared at him blank-faced. She was shaking her head. “That’s unbelievable. No, you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re kidding, Dillon.”
“Nope. The paintings have done nothing but gain in value since Grandmother died seven years ago. Each of the four grandchildren got eight paintings. Each painting is worth about one million dollars right now, more or less, according to Simon.”
“That’s an enormous responsibility, Dillon.”
He nodded. “Like you, I think the rest of us have felt like we’re the guardians; it’s our responsibility to see that the paintings are kept safe throughout our lifetimes and exhibited so that the public can enjoy them. I remember yours were on loan to the Chicago Art Institute. Are they still there?”
Lily said slowly, rubbing her palms on the legs of her jeans, “No. When Tennyson and I married he thought they should be here, in a regional museum, close to where we lived. So I moved them to the Eureka Art Museum.”
Savich said without missing a beat, “Does Tennyson know anyone who works in the museum?”
Lily said very quietly, “Elcott Frasier is on the board of the museum.”
“Bingo,” Sherlock said.
• When Tennyson Frasier walked through the front door of his house that evening, he saw his wife standing at the foot of the stairs, looking toward him. She watched his eyes fill with love and concern. But it didn’t take him long to realize that something was up. He sensed it, like an animal senses danger lying in wait ahead. His step slowed. But when he reached Lily, he said gently, as he took her hands, “Lily, my dear, you are very pale. You must still be in pain. After all, the surgery wasn’t long ago at all. Please, sweetheart, let me take you up to bed. You need to rest.”
“Actually, I feel fine, Tennyson. You needn’t worry. Mrs. Scruggins has made us a superb dinner. Are you hungry?”
“If you’re sure you want to eat downstairs, then yes, I’m hungry.” He sent a wary look to his brother and sister-in-law, who had just walked into the entrance hall from the living room. “Hello, Sherlock, Savich.”
Savich just nodded.
“Hope you had a good day, Tennyson,” Sherlock said and gave him a sunny smile. She hoped he couldn’t tell just yet that she wanted to strangle him with his own tie.
“No, I didn’t actually,” Tennyson said. He took a step back from Lily and stuck his hands in his pockets. He didn’t take his eyes off his wife. “Old Mr. Daily’s medication isn’t working anymore. He talked about sticking his rifle in his mouth. He reminded me of you, Lily, that awful hopelessness when the mind can’t cope. It was a dreadful day. I didn’t even have time to come visit you before you left the hospital. I’m sorry.”
“Well, these unpleasant sorts of things occasionally happen, don’t they?” Sherlock patted his arm and just smiled at the disgusted look he gave her.
Savich winked at her as they walked to the dining room.
Tennyson tenderly seated Lily in her chair in the long dining room. Lily loved this room. When she’d moved in, she had painted it a light yellow and dumped all the heavy furniture. It was very modern now, with a glossy Italian Art Deco table, chairs, and sideboard. On the walls were five Art Deco posters, filled with color and high-living stylized characters. Tennyson was no sooner seated than Mrs. Scruggins began to serve. Normally, she simply left the food in the oven and went home, but not this evening.
Tennyson said, “Good evening, Mrs. Scruggins. It’s very nice of you to stay.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Frasier,” she said.
“No, you were screwing up then, too,” Savich said, lightly punching her arm. “Remember that point spread you had on the Army-Navy game? And Dad found out that you’d gotten twenty dollars off Mr. Hodges next door?”
“I hid out in your room, under your bed, until he calmed down.”
They laughed. It sounded especially good to Sherlock, who beamed at both of them. Lily depressed? It was hard, looking at her now, to believe that she’d ever been depressed.
Lily said, “Yes, I remember Simon Russo. He was a real pain in the butt and you said yeah, that was true enough, but it didn’t matter because he was such a good wide receiver.”
“That’s Simon. He’s neck-deep in the art world, you know. He got back to me right away, said eight Sarah Elliotts are worth in the neighborhood of eight to ten million dollars.”
Lily stared at him blank-faced. She was shaking her head. “That’s unbelievable. No, you’re pulling my leg, aren’t you? Please tell me you’re kidding, Dillon.”
“Nope. The paintings have done nothing but gain in value since Grandmother died seven years ago. Each of the four grandchildren got eight paintings. Each painting is worth about one million dollars right now, more or less, according to Simon.”
“That’s an enormous responsibility, Dillon.”
He nodded. “Like you, I think the rest of us have felt like we’re the guardians; it’s our responsibility to see that the paintings are kept safe throughout our lifetimes and exhibited so that the public can enjoy them. I remember yours were on loan to the Chicago Art Institute. Are they still there?”
Lily said slowly, rubbing her palms on the legs of her jeans, “No. When Tennyson and I married he thought they should be here, in a regional museum, close to where we lived. So I moved them to the Eureka Art Museum.”
Savich said without missing a beat, “Does Tennyson know anyone who works in the museum?”
Lily said very quietly, “Elcott Frasier is on the board of the museum.”
“Bingo,” Sherlock said.
• When Tennyson Frasier walked through the front door of his house that evening, he saw his wife standing at the foot of the stairs, looking toward him. She watched his eyes fill with love and concern. But it didn’t take him long to realize that something was up. He sensed it, like an animal senses danger lying in wait ahead. His step slowed. But when he reached Lily, he said gently, as he took her hands, “Lily, my dear, you are very pale. You must still be in pain. After all, the surgery wasn’t long ago at all. Please, sweetheart, let me take you up to bed. You need to rest.”
“Actually, I feel fine, Tennyson. You needn’t worry. Mrs. Scruggins has made us a superb dinner. Are you hungry?”
“If you’re sure you want to eat downstairs, then yes, I’m hungry.” He sent a wary look to his brother and sister-in-law, who had just walked into the entrance hall from the living room. “Hello, Sherlock, Savich.”
Savich just nodded.
“Hope you had a good day, Tennyson,” Sherlock said and gave him a sunny smile. She hoped he couldn’t tell just yet that she wanted to strangle him with his own tie.
“No, I didn’t actually,” Tennyson said. He took a step back from Lily and stuck his hands in his pockets. He didn’t take his eyes off his wife. “Old Mr. Daily’s medication isn’t working anymore. He talked about sticking his rifle in his mouth. He reminded me of you, Lily, that awful hopelessness when the mind can’t cope. It was a dreadful day. I didn’t even have time to come visit you before you left the hospital. I’m sorry.”
“Well, these unpleasant sorts of things occasionally happen, don’t they?” Sherlock patted his arm and just smiled at the disgusted look he gave her.
Savich winked at her as they walked to the dining room.
Tennyson tenderly seated Lily in her chair in the long dining room. Lily loved this room. When she’d moved in, she had painted it a light yellow and dumped all the heavy furniture. It was very modern now, with a glossy Italian Art Deco table, chairs, and sideboard. On the walls were five Art Deco posters, filled with color and high-living stylized characters. Tennyson was no sooner seated than Mrs. Scruggins began to serve. Normally, she simply left the food in the oven and went home, but not this evening.
Tennyson said, “Good evening, Mrs. Scruggins. It’s very nice of you to stay.”
“My pleasure, Dr. Frasier,” she said.
