Free Die in Plain Sight by Elizabeth Lowell Page B

minimalism. I painted ‘scenery.’ Believe me, I had a long procession of teachers, fellow artists, and critics telling me I was painting the wrong thing.”
    Lacey smiled. “I get some of that, too.”
    “I thought you were a painter,” Susa said with satisfaction.
    “How could you tell?”
    “Hands.”
    Lacey looked down. Sure enough, she hadn’t been able to get all the paint off her skin. “Mother would kill me.”
    Wordlessly Susa held out her own hands. Neatly trimmed nails, no manicure, scrubbed skin…and indelible, colorful shadows of the last oils she had used.
    “Don’t forget the chin,” Ian said.
    Both women looked at him.
    Gently he touched just under Susa’s chin, then Lacey’s. “Different colors, same place.”
    “When I’m in a hurry, I switch brushes and tuck the extra ones under my chin,” Lacey said, trying not to be embarrassed.
    “Me, too,” Susa said. “My husband teases me about it. Says it’s a good thing I’m so short that no one will ever see the bottom of my chin.” She gave Ian a measuring kind of look. “But you noticed.”
    “Lifetime of looking at pretty women,” he said blandly. “The prettier they are, the closer I look.”
    Lacey rolled her eyes.
    Susa just laughed. “With that kind of focus, you should have been a painter yourself.”
    “If you’d ever seen me draw, you’d bite your tongue clear through before you suggested that again.”
    She looked at his hands. Large. Competent. Callused. Clean. “Ah, well, you’re either called to paint or you aren’t. What’s in the last package? I feel like a kid at Christmas.”
    Lacey thought of the painting still shrouded in bubble wrap and wondered all over again if she had made the right choice. “It’s not like the others,” she said slowly.
    “Not the same painter?” Susa asked, disappointed.
    “Same painter. Different mood.”
    Susa waited for a moment, realized that Lacey was hesitating for some reason, and said, “Stop torturing me and unwrap it.”
    Mentally crossing her fingers, Lacey pulled the red tape and waited for Susa’s reaction to Scream Bloody Murder.
    But it was Ian who responded first. “Jesus Christ, is that what I think it is?”
    “Quiet,” Susa said. It was a voice her family rarely heard, but when they did, they shut up.
    So did Ian. He studied the painting and waited, wondering what was going on. He was no painter, but he knew a murder when he saw it in black and blue and red in front of him. What he didn’t know was who had killed, who had died, and why it had been painted.
    “Incredible. He’s fully mature in this one. Nothing blurred. Nothing hiding. Nothing bridled. Pure talent driven by even purer rage.” Susa let out a long breath. “It’s a vision of humanity that I wouldn’t be comfortable hanging in my home, yet as an artist I can only say, ‘Bravo!’ Were you planning on auctioning any of these, Ms. Marsh?”
    It took Lacey a moment to realize that she was Ms. Marsh. “I—I hadn’t thought that far ahead.”
    In fact, she was just realizing that she hadn’t truly thought beyond the instant when her belief in her grandfather would be vindicated. Now that it had happened, she was frantically wondering how she would manage to stay anonymous. She certainly hadn’t counted on being recognized by a customer from Lost Treasures Found who knew Susa Donovan.
    The only good news here—beyond Susa’s enthusiasm—was that no one had questioned the garage sale story. And if someone did, she’d stick to it and dare anyone to prove otherwise.
    “My advice would be to get a professional appraisal before you sell these paintings. Ian can put you in contact with an excellent house, Rarities Unlimited.”
    “He’s an unknown artist,” Lacey began, “so I don’t think—”
    “If he’s Lewis Marten,” Susa interrupted calmly, “and I believe he is, his paintings, if you are lucky enough to find one, start at three hundred thousand dollars.”
    “Holy