“Lily, what are you doing out of bed? Why are you here?”
Dillon and Sherlock stood just behind Mr. Monk, and neither of them looked very pleased.
She smiled, saying only, “I’m here to tell Mr. Monk that the paintings go where I go, and in this case, it’s all the way to Washington, D.C. Unfortunately, he says that everyone knows I’m crazy and that Dr. Frasier is the one who controls everything to do with the paintings—and so Mr. Monk won’t release them to me.”
“Now, Mrs. Frasier, I didn’t quite mean that…”
Savich lightly tapped him on the shoulder, and when Mr. Monk turned, in utter confusion, he said, “The paintings can’t be released to my sister? Would you care to explain that to us, Mr. Monk? I’m Dillon Savich, Mrs. Frasier’s brother, and this is my wife. Now, what is all this about?”
Mr. Monk looked desperate. He took a step back. “You don’t understand. Mrs. Frasier isn’t mentally competent, that’s what I was told, and thus the paintings are all controlled by Dr. Frasier. Appropriate, naturally, since he is her husband. When we heard that she’d been in an accident, an accident that she herself caused, there were some who thought she was dying and thus Dr. Frasier would inherit the paintings and then they would never leave the museum.”
“I’m not dead, Mr. Monk.”
“I can see that you’re not, Mrs. Frasier, but the fact is that you aren’t as well as you should be to have charge of such expensive and unique paintings.”
Savich said, “I assure you that Mrs. Frasier is mentally competent and is legally entitled to do whatever she wishes to with the paintings. Unless you have some court order to the contrary?”
Mr. Monk looked momentarily flummoxed, then, “A court order! Yes, that’s it, a court order is what’s required.”
“Why?” said Savich.
“Well, a court could decide whether she’s capable of making decisions of this magnitude.”
Sherlock patted his shoulder. “Hmm, nice suit. I’m sorry, Mr. Monk, as this seems to be quite upsetting to you, but she is under no such obligation to you. I suppose you could try to get her declared incompetent, but you would lose, and I’m sure it would create quite a stir in the local papers.”
“Oh, no, I wouldn’t do that. What I mean is that I suppose then that everything is all right, but you understand, I have to call Dr. Frasier. He has been dealing with everything. I haven’t spoken to Mrs. Frasier even once over all the months the paintings have been here.”
Savich pulled out his wallet, showed Mr. Monk his ID, and said, “Why don’t we go to your office and make that phone call?”
Of course Savich had shown Mr. Monk his FBI shield. He swallowed, looked at Lily like he wanted to shoot her, and said, “Yes, of course.”
“Good,” Savich said. “We can also discuss all the details of how they’ll be shipped, the insurance, the crating, all those pesky little details that Dr. Frasier doesn’t have to deal with anymore. By the way, Mr. Monk, I do know what I’m doing since I also own eight Sarah Elliott paintings myself.”
“Would you like to go now, Mr. Savich?”
Savich nodded, then said over his shoulder as he escorted Mr. Monk from that small, perfect room, “Sherlock, you stay here with Lily, make sure she sits down and rests. Mr. Monk and I will finalize matters. Come along, sir.”
“I hope the poor man doesn’t cry,” Lily said. “They built this special room, did a fine job of exhibiting the paintings. I think that Elcott and Charlotte Frasier donated the money to build the room. Wasn’t that kind of them?”
“Yes. You know, Lily, many people have enjoyed the paintings over the past year. Now people in Washington can enjoy them for a while. You need to think about where you want the paintings housed. But we can take our time there, no rush, let people convince you they’re the best.
“Oh, Lily, don’t feel guilty. There are a whole lot of people there who have never seen these particular Sarah Elliott paintings.”
“Truth be told, I’m just mighty relieved that they’re all present and accounted for and I’m not standing here looking at blank walls because someone stole the paintings. That’s why I came, Sherlock. I just realized that since Tennyson married me for the paintings, maybe they were already gone.”
Sherlock patted a cushion and waited until Lily eased carefully down beside her. “We didn’t want to wait either.” She paused to look around. “Such beauty. And it’s in your genes, Lily, both yours and Dillon’s. You’re very lucky. You draw cartoons that give people great pleasure, and Dillon whittles the most exquisite pieces. He whittled Sean, newly born, in the softest rosewood. Whenever I look at that piece, touch it, I feel the most profound gratitude that Dillon is in my life.