“Lily, be quiet, that’s not true, none of it. The paintings are great art. Why should the Chicago Art Institute have them when you live here now? Also, administration of the paintings is much easier when they’re exhibited locally.”
“What administration?”
Tennyson shrugged. “There are phone calls coming in all the time, questions about loaning the paintings out, about selling them to collectors, the schedule for ongoing minor restoration, about our approval on the replacement of a frame. Endless questions about tax papers. Lots of things.”
“There was very little of what you just described before I married you, Tennyson. There was only one contract with the museum to sign every year, nothing else. Why haven’t you said anything about any administration to me? You make it sound like an immense amount of work.”
Was that sarcasm? Savich wondered, rather hoping that it was. “You weren’t well, Lily. I wasn’t about to burden you with any of that.”
Suddenly, the strangest thing happened. Lily saw her husband as a grayish shadow, hovering without substance, his mouth moving but nothing really coming out. Not a man, just a shadow, and shadows couldn’t hurt you. Lily smiled as she said, “As Dillon said, I’m very rich, Tennyson.”
Savich saw that his brother-in-law was trying desperately to keep himself calm, to keep himself logical in his arguments, not to get defensive, not to let Lily see what he really was. It was fascinating. Could a man be that good a liar, that convincing an actor? Savich wished he knew.
Tennyson said, “It’s always been my understanding that you simply hold the paintings in a sort of trust. That they aren’t yours, that you’re merely their guardian until you die and one of your children takes over.”
“But you’ve been in charge of their administration all these months,” Lily said. “How could you not know that they were mine, completely mine, no trust involved?”
“I did believe that, I tell you. No one ever said anything different, not even the curator, Mr. Monk. You’ve met him, Lily, up front, so pleased to have the paintings here.”
Savich sipped at the hot tea Mrs. Scruggins had poured into his cup. “None of us hold the paintings in trust,” he said. “They’re ours, outright.” He knew Mrs. Scruggins was listening to everything, forming opinions. He didn’t mind it a bit. Just maybe she’d have something more to say to him or to Sherlock when this little dinner meeting was over. “If Lily wants to, she can sell one or two or all of the paintings. They’re worth about one million dollars each. Maybe more.”
Tennyson looked stunned. “I…I never realized,” he said, and now he sounded a bit frantic.
“Difficult not to,” Lily said. “You’re not a stupid man, Tennyson. Surely Mr. Monk told you what they’re worth. When you found out I was Sarah Elliott’s granddaughter, it would have been nothing at all for you to find out that she willed them to me. You saw me as the way to get to those paintings. You must have rubbed your hands together. I left everything in my will to Beth, at your urging, Tennyson, if you’ll remember, and I named you the executor.”
“As it happened,” Savich said, “Beth did predecease Lily. Who inherits?”
“Tennyson. My husband.” She continued after a moment, so bitter she was nearly choking on it. “How easy I made everything for you. What happened? Big money troubles? You needed me out of the way, fast?”
Tennyson was nearly over the edge now. “No, no, listen to me. I suppose I just saw the paintings as your grandmother’s, nothing more than that. Valuable things that needed some oversight, particularly after you became so ill. All right, I was willing to do that work. Please, Lily, believe me. When you told me that she was your grandmother, I was very surprised and pleased for you. Then I just dismissed it. Lily, I didn’t marry you for your grandmother’s paintings. I swear to you I didn’t. I married you because I love you, I loved Beth. That’s it. My father—no, I don’t believe there could possibly be anything there. You’ve got to believe me.”
“Tennyson,” Lily said, her voice low, soothing, “do you know that I’ve never been depressed in my life until I married you?”
“Dammit, before Beth’s death, you had no reason to be depressed.”
“Well, maybe I did. Didn’t I tell you a bit about my first husband?”
“Yes, he was horrible, but you survived him. But, Lily, it was completely different when your daughter was killed by a hit-and-run driver. It’s only natural that you’d be overcome with grief, that you would experience profound depression.”