“I’m divorcing him, Mr. Russo. Please don’t call me that again.”

“All right. ‘Frasier’ is a rather common sort of name anyway, doesn’t have much interest. What would you like to be called, ma’am?”

“I think I’ll go back to my maiden name. You can call me Ms. Savich. Yes, I’ll be Lily Savich again.”

Her brother said from the doorway, “I like it, sweetheart. Let’s wipe out all reminders of Tennyson.”

“Tennyson? What sort of name is that?”

Lily actually smiled. If it wasn’t exactly at him, it was still in his vicinity. “His father told me that Lord or Alfred just wouldn’t do, so he had to go with Tennyson. He was my father-in-law’s favorite poet. Odd, but my mother-in-law hates the poet.”

“Perhaps Tennyson, the poet-not your nearly ex-husband-is a bit on the ‘pedantic’ side.”

“You’ve never read Tennyson in your life,” Lily said.

He gave her the most charming smile and nodded. “You’re right. I guess ‘pedantic’ isn’t quite right?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t read him either.”

“Here’s coffee and apple pie,” Savich said, then cocked his head, looking upward. He said, “I hear Sherlock singing to Sean. He loves a good, rousing Christmas carol in the bathtub. I think she’s singing ‘Hark! The Herald Angels Sing.’ You guys try to get along while I join the sing-along. You can trust him, Lily.”

When they were alone again, Lily heard the light slap of rain on the windows for the first time. Not a hard, drenching rain, just an introduction, maybe, to the winter rains that were coming. It had been overcast when they’d landed in Washington, and there was a stiff wind.

Simon sipped Savich’s rich black coffee, sighed deeply, and sat back, closing his eyes. “Savich makes the best coffee in the known world. And he rarely drinks it.”

“His body is a temple,” she said. “I guess his brain is, too.”

“Nah, no way. Your brother is a good man, sharp, steady, but he ain’t no temple. I bet Savich would fall over in shock if he heard you say that about him.”

“Probably so, but it’s true nonetheless. Our dad taught all of us kids how to make the very best coffee. He said if he was ever in an old-age home, at least he’d know he could count on us for that. Our mom taught Dillon how to cook before he moved to Boston to go to MIT.”

“Did she teach all of you?”

“No, just Dillon.” She stopped, listening to the two voices singing upstairs. “They’ve moved on to ‘Silent Night.’ It’s my favorite.”

“They do the harmony well. However, what Savich does best is country and western. Have you ever heard him at the Bonhomie Club?”

She shook her head, drank a bit of coffee, and knew her stomach would rebel if she had any more.

“Maybe if you’re feeling recovered enough, we could all go hear him sing at the club.”

She didn’t say anything.

“Why do you distrust me, Ms. Savich? Or dislike me? Whatever it is.”

She looked at him for a good, long time, took a small bit of apple pie, and said finally, “You really don’t want to know, Mr. Russo. And I’ve decided that if Dillon trusts you, why, then, I can, too.”

Raleigh Beezler, co-owner of the Beezler-Wexler Gallery of Georgetown, New York City, and Rome, gave Lily the most sorrowful look she’d seen in a very long time, at least as hangdog as Mr. Monk’s at the Eureka museum.

He kissed his fingers toward the paintings. “Ah, Mrs. Frasier, they are so incredible, so unique. No, no, don’t say it. Your brother already told me that they cannot remain here. Yes, I know that and I weep. They must make their way to a museum so the great unwashed masses can stand in their wrinkled walking shorts and gawk at them. But it brings tears to my eyes, clogs my throat, you understand.”

“I understand, Mr. Beezler,” Lily said and patted his arm. “But I truly believe they belong in a museum.”

Savich heard a familiar voice speaking to Dyrlana, the gorgeous twenty-two-year-old gallery facilitator, hired, Raleigh admitted readily, to make the gentlemen customers looser with their wallets. Savich turned and called out, “Hey, Simon, come on back here.”

Lily looked through the open doorway of the vault and watched Simon Russo run the distance to the large gallery vault in under two seconds. He skidded to a stop, sucked in his breath at the display of the eight Sarah Elliott paintings, each lovingly positioned against soft black velvet on eight easels, and said, “My God,” and nothing else.

He walked slowly from painting to painting, pausing to look closely at many of them, and said finally, “You remember, Savich, that your grandmother gave me The Last Rites for my graduation present. It was my favorite then and I believe it still is. But this one-The Maiden Voyage-it’s incredible. This is the first time I’ve seen it. Would you look at the play of light on the water, the lace of shadows, like veils. Only Sarah Elliott can achieve that effect.”

“For me,” Lily said, “it’s the people’s faces. I’ve always loved to stare at the expressions, all of them so different from each other, so telling. You know which man owns the ship just by the look on his face. And his mother-that look of superior complacency at what he’s achieved, mixed with the love she holds so deeply for her son and the ship he’s built.”

“Yes, but it’s how Sarah Elliott uses light and shadow that puts her head and shoulders above any other modern artist.”

“No, I disagree with you. It’s the people, their faces, you see simply everything in their expressions. You feel like you know them, know what makes them tick.” She saw he would object again and rolled right over him. “But this one has always been my favorite.” She lightly touched her fingertips to the frame on The Swan Song. “I really hate to see it go to a museum.”

“Keep it with you then,” Savich said. “I’ve kept The Soldier’s Watch. The insurance costs a bundle as well as the alarm system, but very few people know about it, and that’s what you’ll have to do. Keep it close and keep it quiet.”

Simon looked up from his study of another painting. “I have The Last Rites hung in a friend’s gallery near my house. I see it nearly every day.”

“That’s an excellent idea,” Raleigh Beezler said and beamed at Lily, seeing hope. “Do you know, Mrs. Frasier, that there is an exquisite townhouse for sale not two blocks from my very safe, very beautiful, very hassle-free gallery that would accord you every amenity? What do you say I call the broker and you can have a look at it? I understand you’re a cartoonist. There is this one room that is simply filled with light, just perfect for you.”

That was well done, Lily thought. She had to admire Mr. Beezler. “And I could leave some of my paintings here, in your gallery, on permanent display?”

“An excellent idea, no?”

“I’d like to see the townhouse, sir, but the price is very important. I don’t have much money. Perhaps you and I could come to a mutually satisfying financial arrangement. My painting displayed right here for a monthly stipend, a very healthy one, given that this house sits in the middle of Georgetown and I’d have to afford to live here. What do you think?”

Raleigh Beezler was practically rubbing his hands together. There was the light of the negotiator in his dark eyes.

Simon cleared his throat. He’d continued studying the rest of the paintings, and now he turned slowly to say, “I think that’s a very good idea, Ms. Savich, Mr. Beezler. Unfortunately, there is a huge problem.”

Lily turned to frown at him. “I can’t see any problem if Mr. Beezler is willing to pay me a sufficient amount to keep up mortgage payments, at least until I can get an ongoing paycheck for No Wrinkles Remus, maybe even get it syndicated…”

Simon just shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it’s just not possible.”