“Now, I’m going to get all emotional and that won’t help anything. Did I have a point to make? Oh yes, such different aspects of those splendid talent genes from your grandmother.”

“What about your talent, Sherlock? You play the piano beautifully. You could have been a concert pianist, if it hadn’t been for your sister’s death. I want to listen to you play when we get back to Washington.”

“Yes, I’ll play for you.” Sherlock added, without pause, “You know, Lily, I was very afraid that Tennyson and his father had stolen the paintings as well, and you hadn’t been notified because you’d been too ill to deal with it.”

“I suppose they had other plans. All of this happened very quickly.”

“Yes, they did have time, but don’t you see? If the paintings were suddenly gone, they would have looked so guilty San Quentin would have just opened its doors and ushered them right on in. I suppose they were waiting to sell them off when you were dead and they legally belonged to Tennyson.”

“Dead.” Lily said the word again, then once more, sounding it out. “It isn’t easy to believe that someone wants you dead so they can have what you own. That’s really low.”

“Yes, it is.”

“I feel shock that Tennyson betrayed me, probably his father as well, but I don’t want to wring my hands and cry about it. Nope, what I really want to do is belt Tennyson in the nose, maybe kick him hard in his ribs, too.”

Sherlock hugged her, very lightly. “Good for you. Now, how do you feel, really?”

“Calm, just a bit of pain, nothing debilitating. I believed I loved him, Sherlock, believed I wanted to spend the rest of my life with him. I trusted him, and I trusted him with Beth.”

“I know, Lily. I know.”

Lily got ahold of herself, tried to smile. “Oh yes, I’ve got something amazing to tell you. Remus was dancing in my head this morning, yelling at me so loud that I went out and bought art supplies. Then, strange thing, I get on this empty city bus to go back to The Mermaid’s Tail and this young guy tries to mug me.”

Sherlock blinked, her mouth open.

Lily laughed. “Finally I’ve managed to surprise you so much you can’t think of anything to say.”

“I don’t like this, Lily. Tell me exactly what happened.”

But Mr. Monk appeared in the doorway. “I will contact our lawyers and have them prepare papers for your signature. I’ve detailed to Mr. Savich how the paintings will be packed and crated in preparation to be shipped to Washington. You will need to inform us of their destination so that we can make arrangements with the people at the other end. There will be two guards as well for the trip. It’s quite an elaborate process, necessary to keep them completely safe. I will phone you when the papers are ready. Did you plan to leave the area soon?”

“Fairly soon, Mr. Monk.” Lily rose slowly, her stitches pulling, aching more now, and took his hand. “I’m sorry, but I really can’t leave them here.”

“It’s a pity. Dr. Frasier said on the phone that you were divorcing him and that he had no more say in anything.”

“I’m relieved that he didn’t try anything underhanded,” Lily said.

Mr. Monk looked profoundly uncomfortable at that. “He’s a fine man, and so are his esteemed father and mother.”

“I understand that many people think that. Yes, we’re divorcing, Mr. Monk.”

“Ah, such a pity. You’ve been married such a short time. And you lost your little girl just a few months ago. I do hope you’re making this decision with a clear head.”

“You still think my mental condition is in question, Mr. Monk?”

Mr. Monk seemed to pump himself up. He swallowed and said, “Well, I think that just maybe you’re acting in haste, not really thinking things through. And here you are divorcing poor Dr. Frasier, who seems to love you and wants only the best for you. Of course, Mrs. Frasier, this is a very bad thing for me and for the museum.”

“Well, these things happen, don’t they? And I’d have to say that Dr. Frasier loves my paintings, sir, not me. I’m staying at The Mermaid’s Tail here in Eureka. Please call when I can finalize all this.”

Lily’s last view of Mr. Monk was of him standing in the doorway to the Sarah Elliott room, hunched in on himself, looking like he’d just lost all his money in a poker game. The museum had run just fine before Sarah Elliott’s paintings had arrived, and it would do so after they went away.