“The Mermaid’s Tail, just off Calistoga Street. It’s late fall. Tourist season is over so they’ll have room. What will you do?”

“I’m going to have a nice vegetarian dinner with Tennyson. I love lasagna. I’m going to see if I can get him to admit to anything useful. I really want to nail him. I’ll join you and Lily later.”

He rose and pulled her tightly against him. “Take MAX with you. Keep after him to find out all he can about Daddy Frasier’s efforts to get that public road built to the lovely resort spot on the coast he’s so hot to build. Without the state legislature passing it, the project would be doomed. He’s having trouble. Maybe they ran out of bribery money.”

“Don’t forget the condos he’s planning, too-Golden Sunset.”

“Yes, lots of potential profit from those as well. Elcott Frasier has lots and lots of bucks already invested. I wonder if they ran into more roadblocks. Maybe that’s why they wanted Lily out of the way. They were in deep financial trouble again. Now, let’s get you guys packed up and out of this house.”

But Lily didn’t cooperate. She was awake, she still didn’t hurt very much at all, and she was very clearheaded. She smacked her palm to the side of her head and announced, delight and wonder in her voice, “Would you look at me-I’m not depressed. In fact I can’t imagine being depressed. Nope, everything inside there is rattling around clockwise, just as it should be.”

They were in the hallway outside her bedroom. Lily was dressed in loose jeans and a baggy sweater, hair pulled back in a ponytail, no makeup, hands on hips, reminding Savich of his once sixteen-year-old sister who stood tall and defiant in front of their parents, who were dressing her down but good for her latest bookie scheme. “No, Dillon, I won’t just turn tail and leave. I want to read everything MAX has come up with so far. I want to speak to Tennyson, confront him with all this. It’s my right to find out if my husband of eleven months married me only to kill me off. Oh, dear. There’s a big problem here. Why would he do it? I don’t have any money.”

“Unfortunately, sweetheart,” Savich said, his voice very gentle, “you are very rich. All us kids tend to forget what Grandmother left us.”

“Oh, my Sarah Elliott paintings. You’re right, I forget about them, since they’re always on loan to a museum.”

“Yes, but they’re legally yours, all eight paintings, willed to you. I just e-mailed Simon Russo in New York. You remember him, don’t you? You met him way back when he and I were in college.”

“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.

Sherlock, who was watching her pile food onto Lily’s plate, knew that Mrs. Scruggins wasn’t about to leave unless she was booted out. “I couldn’t very well leave when Mrs. Frasier was coming home, now could I?”

Savich nearly smiled. Mrs. Scruggins wanted to hear everything. She knew the air was hot, even if she didn’t know the reason, and would become hotter.

Lily took a small bite of a homemade dinner roll that tasted divine. She said to her husband, “Oh yes, Tennyson, you’ll be pleased, I hope, to hear that I didn’t try to kill myself by running the Explorer into the redwood. Actually, neither the brakes nor the emergency brake worked. Since I was on that very gnarly part of 211, I didn’t stand a chance. Doesn’t that relieve your mind?”

Tennyson was silent, frowning a bit over a forkful of lasagna, beautifully flavored, that was nearly to his mouth. He swallowed, then said slowly, his head cocked to the side, “You remembered, Lily?”