Lineage Most Lethal

by S. C. Perkins

  When he’d been sleeping earlier, it had occurred to me that he might have been driving to his local bookstore to find copies of The Thirty-Nine Steps when his car was hit. “Were you going to the bookstore?” I asked before his eyes closed.

  He gave me one brief nod. After that, he only was able to get out one word before the medications took hold again.

  “Greenfinch,” he whispered.

  “Copy that,” I responded, and squeezed his fingers twice, hoping the military talk would further add to his comfort. He nodded with his eyes closed—which was good, because mine were filling with tears.

  I still had no idea what “Greenfinch” meant, though. I stayed with Grandpa until he was sleeping peacefully and Nurse Angelique had promised me three times that she would guard him and get him well again. Through the windows, morning twilight was just nudging the blackness aside as I finally agreed to leave and get some rest.

  At the elevator bank, I was in my own little world, trying to think what the heck “Greenfinch” might mean. Could it be someone’s last name? Bird names were often found as last names. Hawk, Swan, Crane, Starling—bird-related surnames were all over the place, and in multiple languages, too. Finch itself was certainly one, and I happened to know the German surname Stieglitz meant “goldfinch,” so while I hadn’t heard of Greenfinch as a surname, it wasn’t impossible for it to be one.

  Or was Greenfinch a company name? Or maybe, like Dr. Brozo suggested, a street name? I stood up straighter. Could Greenfinch be the street where Hugo Markman lived? Was Grandpa telling me to go there and find something of importance at Hugo’s house?

  The elevator dinged. A car going down opened and I got in along with a nurse who looked to have just gotten off shift and a mother holding on to the hand of a little boy. I pulled out my phone and turned around to face the closing doors, ready to search for Greenfinch Street, just as another elevator opened across from us and my breath caught.

  He was looking at his phone and didn’t see me as I silently mouthed his name. Ben?

  Then I exhaled as I took in the whole picture of the guy. He was the same height and build as Ben, and, well, it was hard not to stare. If my Ben looked uncannily like Harrison Ford as buttoned-up Professor Jones in the Indiana Jones movies, this guy was channeling Harrison Ford as Han Solo circa the cantina scene in Star Wars. Brown hair that hung down past his collar, a white shirt unbuttoned at the throat, dark leather jacket that hit at his hips, well-worn jeans, and beat-up motorcycle boots. A day’s worth of scruff was only adding to the overall rugged look of him.

  I’ll admit, the words, Oh, hot damn … came to mind. I was never one for bad boys in practice, but I couldn’t deny the visceral attraction to them in theory. Then I chastised myself for my earlier thought. My Ben. Come off it, Luce. He was never your Ben.

  But the nurse next to me with her dozens of tiny braids tied back at the crown and her purse slung over her shoulder saw him, too. In fact, she’d craned her neck to watch him walk away, with appreciation written all over her face.

  “You know him?” she asked.

  I gave a half snort. “No. I’m not sure the guy I know would ever look like that.” Unfortunately, I didn’t add. Ben would have made a smokin’ Han Solo for Serena’s next Halloween party.

  She raised her eyebrows and went for one more look as the elevator doors closed.

  “Too bad, honey. That’s one nice-looking man.”

  As we rode down to the parking garage, I was starting to feel overwhelmed with emotions—worry, anger, tiredness, fear, general stress—none of which were helped by seeing Ben’s caliente Han Solo bad-boy doppelgänger.

  I let out a frustrated huff as I made for the parking garage, not realizing the nurse from the elevator was walking next to me.

  She nudged my shoulder briefly with hers and said, “Honey, you look like you’ve got the weight of the world on these skinny things. You need to phone a friend, go get a drink, and talk things out.”

  She tilted her head back toward the hospital again and gave me a broad grin. “Or better yet, go find that hunk of a man, get a drink with him, and let him take you for a ride as you tell him all about it. The point is, do yourself a favor and halve your problem by sharing it with someone.”

  “You’re right,” I said, returning her grin. “Thanks for the reminder.”

  It was true, I needed some help. I started my car, thinking hard, but my brain kept going back to the guy from the elevator. Part of me wished furiously it had been Ben, but then I knew I probably would have been so frustrated with him that I wouldn’t be able to even speak to him properly at best, or I’d say things I didn’t mean at the worst, and I didn’t want or need either at the moment.

  “Face it, Luce,” I muttered as I caught my reflection in my rearview mirror. “The cards were stacked against you. So for the love of Pete, think of something useful!”

  And just like that, I remembered my ace in the hole. His name was Sean Nelson, but he wasn’t some shadowy contact like in Grandpa’s world. In fact, Sean worked for the National Archives, but I knew he had contacts in a lot of worlds that were shadowy-adjacent at times … if that were even a thing.

  Then I stopped, with my finger hovering over his name in my contacts. If I talked to Sean, I would have to give him information about my grandfather that Grandpa hadn’t authorized me to give. I bit my lip. Would Grandpa allow me to tell his secret?

  I thought of Hugo Markman and Chef Rocky Zeppetelli. Then I thought of the other six people on the list Hugo had left me. I had to do my best to save them from whatever was going on, and I had to believe my grandfather would want me to save them, too. If that meant giving away his secret in order to do so, I felt sure Grandpa would give me the go-ahead.

  The only thing I can do is try, I thought. And my friend Sean was about as trustworthy as they came, so if I had to tell Grandpa’s secret, at least it would be in good hands.

  As it was so early, I called Sean’s work line and left a lengthy message, but without giving away Grandpa’s past just yet. Still, I was already feeling like my problem was being halved as I drove out of the parking garage and headed back to the Hotel Sutton.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  The sun had barely started to rise when I trudged back into the hotel. I slipped through the doors just in time to hear an angry male voice talking without any attempt at modulation.

  “There’s no way we’re going to stay here when people keep turning up dead.”

  “That’s right,” came a shrill feminine one.

  Mrs. P. met my eyes and gave me a strained smile. A couple I recognized as Mr. and Mrs. Carverson were standing, stone-faced, at the front desk. Their luggage was at their feet.

  “Can you imagine how unsafe we felt when we woke up this morning, turned on the TV, and heard what happened to your chef?” Mr. Carverson was saying, his protuberant dark eyes flashing and mustache wiggling like a fluffy slug attached to his upper lip.

  Mrs. Carverson, who was petite and thin, with red hair a half shade too orange for her coloring, finished her husband’s thought, echoing his tone and expression. “And Roselyn and Pippa Sutton, the very owners of this hotel, are under investigation! What kind of place are you running here?”

  I gave Mrs. P. a sympathetic wave and headed upstairs as she was telling the couple, “Of course, I do so understand,” in patient tones mixed with the right amount of concern and remorse. “We’ll be happy to refund your last two nights. Let me get that done for you right now.”

  I felt for Mrs. P., and for Pippa and the whole staff—though with the exception of one other room currently occupied by the newlywedded Nguyen-Sobnoskis, the rest of the hotel was filled by Sutton family members through New Year’s Day. Thus, there wouldn’t be a mass exodus of guests that could look bad for Pippa’s fledgling hotel. They would weather the storm and be fine.

  Making my way to my room, I saw a waiter at Uncle Dave’s door. Uncle Dave himself had stuck his head out of his room, hair wildly disheve
led and cheeks blotchy, and was blearily eyeing the waiter, who was holding a breakfast tray with a French press full of coffee, a cup and saucer, a pitcher of cream, and something underneath a stainless-steel food cover.

  “Miss Pippa thought you might like this, sir,” the waiter said. “It’s plain toast with a side of marmalade. Thick-cut, your favorite. May I come in to leave the tray?”

  I heard a grunt of thanks, then the waiter stepped inside Uncle Dave’s room.

  At least he was alive, I thought with relief, closing my door. That was one good thing that had happened in the last twelve hours.

  My room was dark, the blackout curtains still closed from when I’d fallen asleep last night. My bed looked more inviting than ever. And yet I was strangely awake and full of energy. I threw open the curtains to reveal a beautiful day in the making, but with hints that the temperatures were going to stay colder than they had been for the previous few days. Since snow was predicted for late on New Year’s Eve, I wasn’t surprised.

  Looking out over the lawn, I saw Boomer cavorting around, finding just the right bushes on which to do his morning business. That meant Pippa was awake. I decided to go see if she and Boomer wanted to take a walk with me. I figured we both could use some fresh air.

  Changing into workout gear, I took the back stairs instead of the grand staircase, just in case the Carversons hadn’t left and were still doing everything they could to win Annoying Guests of the Year.

  Instead, it was Mrs. P.’s and Roselyn’s voices I heard. In my running shoes, I barely made a sound on the stairs, so it didn’t surprise me they hadn’t heard me approaching.

  “Did Rocky say something, do you think?” It was Mrs. P., speaking in low tones.

  “I don’t know,” snapped Roselyn, stress giving her voice a knife edge. “I had other things I wanted to discuss.”

  I froze on the stairs. I couldn’t tell where they were.

  “I’ll bet you did,” Mrs. P. replied in knowing tones.

  My eyebrows shot up. I wouldn’t have expected Mrs. P. to talk like that to her employer, even if they had known each other for years. Roselyn, however, seemed to be so much in her own head, she either didn’t notice or didn’t care that Mrs. P. had made a crack at Roselyn’s friends-with-benefits relationship with Chef Rocky.

  “All I care about is that he didn’t tell Pippa or that annoying little genealogist,” Roselyn said. “God, she irritates me. Always has a factoid to roll off her tongue about history or genealogy like a pert mynah bird. The past is the past! And who cares where you come from anyway?”

  “Pippa, for one,” Mrs. P. said, though mildly. Again, Roselyn seemed not to hear. I wished I hadn’t been hearing this myself. Every word from Roselyn was like a stab to my heart.

  “And because she has some contact at the APD, she let loose the hounds before I had a chance to talk to my daughter and call them myself.”

  “Were you going to call them yourself?” Mrs. P. asked, sounding almost amused.

  “Eventually, of course,” Roselyn said in a sniffy voice. “But I didn’t kill him, so that’s not the point here.”

  Mrs. P.’s voice went ghoulish. “Do you know who did? Do you think they did?”

  Roselyn’s voice broke and she cried out in a tearful voice, “I don’t know. I just don’t know!”

  I heard Mrs. P. soothing her and saying she would go to the sitting room and get her a nice warming cup of tea. I realized the two were directly below me, in a hall near the back parlor. Hurriedly, I tiptoed back upstairs before Mrs. P. could walk across the hall and notice me. Then I waited upstairs for a full five minutes—mostly to compose myself in case I happened to see Roselyn—and went down the grand staircase and out the front door instead.

  Though it was cold, the sun’s rays were blinding. I’d planned to warm myself up with a light jog to Pippa’s, but I was so angry and hurt, I sprinted the entire way. Boomer, who’d been sniffing around some dormant rosebushes, raced to catch up with me, making it up the stairs to Pippa’s porch several strides before I did.

  Panting as hard as Boomer, and with a stitch in my side, I knocked on Pippa’s door. A good thirty yards away was Roselyn’s cottage, but thankfully I could no longer see it due to a tall hedge that served as a privacy barrier between the two homes. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait for my time at the hotel to be up so I no longer had to see Roselyn Sutton at all.

  Then the front door was flung open and Pippa was rushing forward to envelop me in a hug.

  “Lucy, where have you been? I’ve called you twice this morning. After last night, I’ve about been going crazy with worry!”

  * * *

  Sure enough, two calls from Pippa had come in while I’d been changing, but I hadn’t heard them since my phone was still on silent. After a wholehearted apology, and the ceremonial flipping of the switch on my phone that turned the ringer back on, I told Pippa about my grandfather.

  “He’ll be okay, though. Really,” I said as Pippa clasped her hands on top of her head and exhaled slowly, walking around her living room like she couldn’t take much more stress. In contrast, Boomer snuffled happy circles around me, his tail literally whipping the nearby sofa.

  I’d been in Pippa’s house a few times over the weeks of our working relationship and never failed to find it warm and inviting—and not anything like how she’d decorated the Hotel Sutton.

  Her three-room, open-floor-plan cottage was decorated in soothing neutrals, with cool white walls, ivory-toned sofas, and an oversize square ottoman in a sandy-brown giraffe print. Color was used sparingly, but well, with the biggest swath coming from a sofa-size daub painting in primary colors in Pippa’s office. Since her office door was a wide, sliding barn door that she rarely needed to close, the huge painting added almost enough color to brighten up the entire home.

  “I’m so glad your grandfather will be all right,” she said, then gestured for me to follow her. “Come on back to the kitchen. Have you eaten breakfast yet?”

  I admitted I hadn’t, except for a granola bar at the hospital when Grandpa was being checked over by Dr. Brozo and her team while I stood outside with Grandpa’s government-issued guard.

  After offering my help and having it refused, I relaxed in Pippa’s cozy little breakfast nook while she fixed us some scrambled eggs on toast with slices of avocado and made some chicory coffee in a French press, serving it with warmed milk for cafés au lait.

  “Do you know who took this photo?” I asked, pointing to a framed, poster-size print of what looked to be an abandoned stone temple. “It’s really lovely. Looks like the temple is about to be reclaimed by the woods at any minute.”

  I’d been entranced by the photo while Pippa cooked. Beams of slanted light were filtering through the tall trees, hitting the temple’s golden blocks of stone, one strong beam passing through the middle of the four decorative columns to illuminate the floor within and banish the shadows. It was an amazing shot at the right moment.

  “I did,” Pippa said. “It’s actually a folly designed in the early 1900s for Sarah Bess so she had somewhere cool to go in the summers. It’s made out of Austin limestone and had been unused and neglected for, oh, about twenty years when I discovered it as a child. I’ve had it restored and I still go out there when I just need some peace and quiet.”

  “So this folly is on the grounds somewhere?” I asked.

  Using her spatula, Pippa pointed out the window, past her back porch that stepped down onto an Italianate patio, and just over a wrought-iron gate covered in evergreen vines. “It’s back there, in the woods. There’s an almost-hidden pathway just off the side of my place. It winds back into the woods for, oh, a minute or more. You hook around a last curve and it’s right there.”

  “Do you ever get any random hikers or other hotel guests finding it?”

  She shook her head. “No, for liability reasons—and for somewhat selfish reasons of my own, because I think of it as my special place—we don’t tell the guests it’s there and don
’t encourage them to go back into the woods. If someone gets hurt back there, they could scream and yell and it’d be unlikely someone would hear them.”

  “Are you serious?” I said.

  She nodded. “It’s six acres of pretty dense woods. When I was fifteen, I tripped out there and broke my ankle. I yelled at the top of my lungs for nearly an hour and no one heard me. Mom finally came looking for me when it was time to go to dinner. She figured I’d be sitting in the folly reading the Harry Potter series for the tenth time, not lying in the dirt with a busted ankle.”

  Her phone dinged with a text message as she plated our breakfasts. She read it with a wry smile.

  “Uncle Dave,” she said. “He says he’s got a raging hangover.”

  “Poor guy,” I said, and told her about seeing the waiter bringing him the toast and marmalade she’d sent. “He seemed to appreciate it as much as he could.”

  “I’m sorry you had to see him like that,” Pippa said, shaking her head in frustration as she placed a plate in front of me and added two links of chicken-and-apple sausage, still spitting from the skillet. She went round the other side of the banquette and slid in next to me. Boomer laid down at her feet. “He’s lost without his work. I honestly don’t know that I’d fare any better if I were in his shoes.”

  “Really? You’re impressive and strong; I’ve no doubt at all you would,” I said, and she gave me a grateful look. For all of Pippa’s wealth, beauty, and business acumen, I got the impression she could have used a truly supportive confidante in her daily life, like a sister or a brother. Or even a mother who was less flighty and more nurturing.

  I picked up my coffee cup. “How are you doing after last night?”

  I’d noticed that while she’d made a delicious breakfast, she was really only nibbling at it while I was plowing through mine and trying to stop myself from eyeing her two as-yet-untouched sausage links.