Simon paused a moment, wondering how much to tell Frasier and if it would frighten the man. He’d known, of course, about the forgeries, didn’t even try to act shocked. Why not push it all the way, since he had a pretty good idea of how it had gone down? It would have to make him act. He hadn’t told Lily this and hoped she wouldn’t act surprised. He smiled toward her, then added, “I originally thought that you initiated the whole deal. But then I got to thinking that you’re really a very small man, with no contacts at all. There’s a collector, a Swede named Olaf Jorgenson, who isn’t a small man. He’s very powerful, actually. When he wants something, he goes after it, no obstacle too great. I believe that it was Jorgenson who instigated the whole thing. It went this way: Olaf wanted the Sarah Elliott paintings when they were in the Chicago Institute, but he couldn’t pull it off and had to wait. He knew exactly when Lily Savich left Chicago to move to Hemlock Bay, California. He put out feelers and found you very quickly, and your son, Tennyson, who was the right age. Then you all cut a deal. Actually, I heard Olaf had only three of the paintings. I don’t know where the fourth one is as of yet. Hopefully, he has it as well. It makes everything cleaner, easier.” Simon snapped his fingers right in Frasier’s face. “We’ll get them back fast as that. So, Mr. Frasier, did I get it all right?”

Elcott Frasier didn’t bat an eye. He looked faintly bored. Lily, though, who knew him well, saw the slight tic in his left eye, there only when he was stressed out or angry. He could be either or both at this moment in time. She was surprised initially at what Simon had said but realized that it had probably happened just as Simon had said. She said, “Jorgenson is indeed powerful, Elcott. He isn’t a small man at all, not like you.”

Simon thought their father-in-law would belt her. He was ready for it, but Frasier managed to hold himself in. He said, dismissively and as smoothly as a politician accepting a bribe for a pardon, “That’s quite a scenario, Mr. Russo. I’m sorry to hear four of the paintings were forged. No matter what you say, it must have happened while they were at the Chicago Institute. All this elaborate plot by this fellow Olaf Jorgenson sounds like a bad movie. However, none of this has anything to do with me or my family. I really don’t know why you came here to accuse me of it.”

He turned to Lily and there was a good deal of anger in those eyes of his. “As for you, Lily, you left my son. I fear for his health. He is not doing well. All he talks about is you. He says that your brother and sister-in-law slandered him, and none of it’s true. He wants to see you, although if I were him, and I’ve told him this countless times, I’d just as soon see the back of you for good. You weren’t a good wife to him. You gave him nothing, and then you just up and left him. His mother is also very concerned. The mere idea that he would marry you to get ahold of some paintings, it’s beyond absurd.”

“I don’t think it’s absurd at all, Elcott. It could have happened the way Mr. Russo said. Or maybe it was Mr. Monk who found Mr. Jorgenson. Either way, four of my paintings are fakes and you are the one responsible.

“Now, if Tennyson isn’t doing well, I recommend that he pay a visit to Dr. Rossetti, the psychiatrist he very badly wanted me to see when I was still in the hospital. One wonders what he had to do with all this.” Lily paused a moment, shrugged, then continued. “But of course you would know about that. How much did you pay Morrie Jones to kill me?”

“I didn’t pay him a—” She’d snagged him, caught him completely off guard. He’d burst right out with it, then cut off like a spigot, but too late. Simon was impressed.

The tic was very pronounced now, and added to it was a face turning red with outrage.

“You’re quite a bitch, you know that, Lily? I can see why you brought your bodyguard with you. This painting business, I don’t know what you’ve done, but you can’t lay it on me. I’m not to blame for anything.”

Simon wanted, quite simply, to stand, reach over Mr. Frasier’s desk, and yank the man up by his expensive shirt collar and smash him in the jaw. It surprised him, the intense wish to do this man physical damage. But when he spoke, he was calm, utterly measured. “Trust me, Mr. Frasier, Lily isn’t a bitch. As for your precious son, what he is isn’t in much doubt. Would you like to tell us why Abe Turkle is staying at your cottage?” Simon sat slightly forward in his chair, the soul of polite interest.

“I don’t know who that is or why he’s there. The real estate agent handles rentals.”