“I’m sorry,” Simon said. “Also, there were no Sarah Elliotts for sale that I knew of. When I heard The Swan Song as one of the paintings acquired, I knew something was wrong. I immediately put out feelers to get more substantial information. With any luck, I’ll find out what’s going on soon. Unfortunately, I haven’t yet heard a thing about what happened to the fourth painting. Since I knew that you, Ms. Savich, owned them, and that they’d been moved from the Chicago Art Institute to the Eureka Art Museum eleven months ago, I didn’t want to believe it—there are always wild rumors floating through the art world. I couldn’t be sure until I’d actually seen them. I’m sorry, they are fakes.”
“Well,” Sherlock said, her face nearly as red as her hair, “shit.”
Savich stared at his wife and said slowly, “You really cursed, Sherlock? You didn’t even curse when you were in labor.”
“I apologize for that, but I am so mad I want to chew nails. This is very bad. I’m really ready to go over the edge here. Those bastards—those officious, murdering bastards. There, I don’t have to curse anymore. I’m sorry, Dillon, but this really is too much. This is so awful, Lily, but at least we have a good idea who’s responsible.”
Lily said, “Tennyson and his father.”
Sherlock said, “And Mr. Monk, the curator of the Eureka museum. He had to be in on it. No wonder he was near tears when you told him you were taking the paintings. He knew the jig would be up sooner or later. He had to know that in Washington, D.C., experts would be viewing the paintings and one of them would spot the fakes.”
“So did Tennyson,” Savich said.
Lily said, “Probably my father-in-law as well. Maybe the whole family was in on this. But they couldn’t have known we would find out the very day after we got here.” She turned to Simon Russo. “I’m madder than Sherlock. Thank you, Mr. Russo, for being on top of this and getting to us so quickly.”
Simon turned to Savich. “There is one positive thing here. At least Tennyson Frasier didn’t have time to have all eight of them forged. Now that I know for certain that we’ve got four forgeries, I can find out the name of the forger. It won’t be difficult. You see, it’s likely to be one of three or four people in the world—the only ones with enough technique to capture the essence of Sarah Elliott and fool everyone except an expert who’s been prepared for the possibility.”
Lily said, “Would you have known they were fakes if you hadn’t heard about them being sold to a collector?”
“Maybe not, but after the second or third viewing, I probably would have realized something was off. They really are very well done. When I find out who forged them, I’ll pay a visit to the artist.”
“Don’t forget, Simon, we need proof,” Savich said, “to nail Tennyson. And his family, and Mr. Monk at the Eureka museum.”
Sherlock said, “No wonder that guy tried to murder you on the bus, Lily. They knew they had to move quickly and they did. It’s just that you’re no wuss and you creamed the guy. I wanna lock them all up, Dillon. Maybe stomp on them first.”
Simon, who had been studying The Maiden Voyage, looked up. “What do you mean she creamed the guy? Someone attacked you? But you were just out of surgery.”
“Sorry, I forgot to mention that,” Savich said.
Lily said, “There was no reason to tell him. But yes, I’d been five or six days out of surgery. I was okay, thanks to a psychiatrist who…well, never mind about that. But I was feeling just fine. A young guy got on an empty bus, sat beside me, and pulled out this really scary switchblade. He was lucky to get away.” And Lily gave him a big smile, the first one he’d gotten from her. He smiled back.
“Very good. Your brother taught you?”
“Yes, after Jack…No, never mind that.”
“You have a lot of never minds, Ms. Savich.”
“You may have to get used to it.” But she saw him file Jack’s name away in that brain of his.
Simon said, “As for the fourth painting, Effigy, I thought it was just fine at first, but then I realized that the same forger who did the other three did that one as well. No leads yet on Effigy, but we’ll track it down. It probably went to the same collector.”
Mr. Beezler, shaken, wiped a beautiful linen handkerchief over his brow and said, “This would be a catastrophe to a museum, Mr. Savich, like a stick of dynamite stuck in the tailpipe of my Mercedes. You, Mr. Russo, you are, I gather, in a position to perhaps get the original paintings back?”