Lineage Most Lethal

by S. C. Perkins

  The list he held was only inches from me, the names and the three unbroken ciphers now as familiar to me as my own name.

  I pointed at two of the names, my voice growing insistent.

  “Two of them—Rocco Zeppetelli and Penelope Ohlinger—are already dead, Detective. And you were there when Officer Carr said Hugo Markman—the guy who croaked at the Hotel Sutton—was poisoned with radium chloride. How can you think I’m kidding you when I’m bringing you irrefutable proof that these people are somehow connected and the others are in danger?”

  Dupart lowered the list. “Ms. Lancaster, you have to realize how absurd this sounds. How do I know that Hugo Markman wasn’t some crazy, overzealous conspiracy theorist who licked the glow-in-the-dark stuff on one of his old clocks to commit suicide? Then when he knew he was dying, he found some names of people with war-era relatives, made this list, and happened to get, for lack of a better word, lucky that he picked two people who ended up getting killed?” This time it was he who jabbed at the list, indicating the three undeciphered codes. “Plus, these three we have no proof are names at all. He could have written gibberish, for all we know, just to give it extra drama.”

  “But he didn’t. Hugo didn’t,” I said, but my voice was small. I’d never considered that my evidence wouldn’t be taken seriously—and frustratingly, I could see Dupart’s point.

  What was worse, a part of me was being traitorous and wondering if my grandfather’s mind really was going on him. That he, like Hugo, may have created something out of nothing. The very idea I was even entertaining such a thought made me weak with shame and fear. Dupart seemed to sense my lack of conviction and used a pen to put a mark by Penelope Ohlinger’s name.

  “Look, there’s no proof Mrs. Ohlinger was murdered to begin with. She’d had three small strokes already in the last two years and was on some pretty intense heart meds. The toxicology tests are still pending, but in all likelihood, she just had a heart incident and happened to fall into the weeds when she was out walking in the dead of night while suffering from jet lag.”

  I looked at Dupart and realized that, while he wasn’t being a jerk, he was wondering whether I was being played as a major fool by someone. And he was possibly suspicious about my overall state of mind, too. He was treating me like the CIA had treated Hugo Markman: like a harmless nutter.

  I bit the inside of my cheek for a moment, then lifted my chin and sat up straight. I hadn’t met Hugo, but I had faith in him, and I had ten times that amount of faith in my grandfather. I was determined to proceed. Pulling out a folder bulging with papers, I turned it around to Detective Dupart and slid it to him.

  “Here are copies of the research I’ve done on the people on Hugo Markman’s list,” I said. I pointed to the tabs I’d created out of pink sticky notes. “I’ve traced the World War Two–era ancestors of Rocky Zeppetelli, Penelope Ohlinger, Naomi Van Dorn, Alastair Newell, and Fiona Keeland.”

  I separated out two ancestral charts. “Though as for the name Fiona Keeland, I strongly believe she is actually either forty-two-year-old Fiona Pulleyn Kenland of York, England, or fifty-four-year-old Fiona Jameson Keyland of Lexington, Kentucky. I could find no credible instances of the surname Keeland and I truly believe it was an error made by whoever created the cipher that Hugo found and partially decoded. It’s also possible the cipher creator took the name based on Soundex.”

  At Dupuart’s furrowed brow, I explained. “Soundex, in the simplest terms, is an index of surnames that are grouped by the way they sound instead of the way they’re spelled. It’s meant as a system to help you find your ancestor if their name was unintentionally misspelled when it was recorded.”

  Before the detective could respond, I took a breath and continued. “Regardless, I made ancestral charts for both women, as they each had had grandfathers in World War Two and, at one point or another, posted something on social media about their respective grandfathers being honored for their service.”

  Dupart took the folder without any hint of sarcasm. “Thank you, Ms. Lancaster.” He seemed to be aware my feelings were bruised, and this almost made it worse. I kept talking.

  “You should know that Alastair Newell is in bad health in England. He was in an accident during a vacation and has limited walking abilities now. I found a small news article from his village in the Cotswolds that said his injuries were a result of a hit-and-run during a vacation to Germany about a year and a half ago.” I reached over, opened the folder, and showed him the article I’d printed. “It makes me wonder if he was the first target and the killer didn’t succeed.”

  Dupart’s eyes silently scanned the short article, which was about a fund-raiser to help Alastair pay for a wheelchair ramp at his house, but he said nothing.

  I said, “Then Naomi Van Dorn—or, rather, Naomi Marie Cogswell Kostopoulos Liebovitz Van Dorn—has a blog where she writes about her marriages and various other things. She wrote three separate posts dedicated to her search for her paternal grandparents, both of whom were in World War Two. Her grandfather died just before D-Day and her grandmother died from complications of childbirth just after Naomi’s father was born.”

  Again, I pulled out a two-page printout. “In the third post, Naomi said she’d been contacted by a woman in England who claimed to be her half aunt. The woman claims Naomi’s grandfather Robbie Cogswell had a wartime romance with this woman’s mother, who was one of England’s Land Girls, and got her pregnant just before his outfit was moved. This woman is claiming Robbie had boasted he worked with the OSS.”

  I’d highlighted the sentences, and Dupart’s eyes darted to them as he rubbed his goatee with one hand.

  I said, “You’ll see that she and the half aunt were planning on meeting up around the holidays, though she doesn’t say where or when. If you recall, Penelope Ohlinger was also here in Austin to meet up with an old friend she’d recently reconnected with. Were you able to contact this supposed friend, Detective?”

  Dupart looked at me, his jaw tight, his eyes still doubting, but didn’t answer directly.

  “Ms. Lancaster, this information is interesting, but what motive would anyone have to want to kill off descendants of some OSS and SOE spies after all this time? And why these specific descendants and not others? Surely all these spies have multiple descendants.”

  “You’re right, they do,” I said. “I’ve thought about it a lot, and I believe the killer isn’t trying to wipe out whole families—that would take too much time. He just wants to hurt or kill someone from each family for some sort of decades-late retribution. An eye-for-an-eye type of thing, possibly.”

  “How is this person deciding on their victims, then?” Dupart asked.

  “Well,” I said, “after tracing each of their lineages, I think the people on this list are being targeted for a couple of reasons. One, they either look like or are named after their OSS or SOE parent, grandparent, or great-grandparent. The other option is because they had a particularly close relationship with that relative.”

  I took back the file and selected Chef Rocky’s tab. One of the little extras I often did for my clients, especially those who cared very little for their family histories and didn’t see much to get excited about, was to create a photographic side-by-side comparison of my client and one of their ancestors. I used it to point out the little visual signposts that linked them to their familial past: the shape of their eyes, ears, or nose. The fullness of their lower lip. The way their jawline curved or their eyebrows arched. Or sometimes it was in their expressions or their facial measurements, meaning the distances between certain parts of their faces, such as from the hairline to between the eyes, or between the base of the nose and the chin. I’d never failed to help someone discover the magic in themselves as a portal to the past, even if they continued to struggle with finding their family history interesting.

  Within the file, I pulled out the side-by-side I’d created of photos of Rocky and Angelo Zeppetelli at around the same age. “For example, as you ca
n see, Rocky Zeppetelli and his great-grandfather Angelo didn’t greatly resemble one another, except for in this area.” I used my fingers to circle Rocky’s and Angelo’s eyes and nose, where the similarities were striking. “Also, Rocky stated more than once in interviews and on the Hotel Sutton website that he revered and was very close to his great-grandfather, who I already have confirmation was in the OSS.”

  “How do you know for sure?” Dupart asked, his eyes narrowing again.

  “I have a source,” I said, unwilling to let loose Grandpa’s secret just yet.

  Dupart’s eyes narrowed further, but he didn’t challenge me. I figured he was thinking that, along with having a screw loose, I was also embracing my inner amateur sleuth a little too much again.

  Inwardly, I sighed, but continued. I was determined not to leave until Dupart had the information he needed. I would do my part to protect these people, even if I would never meet them and got branded by the APD as a genealogist who was a taco short of a combination plate.

  I located another chart. “Alastair Newell is one who was named for his father—though we don’t know if his father was the spy or not.”

  I found another printout, this time of a Facebook post. “Then Penelope Ohlinger posted on her public Facebook page that she was her father’s favorite child and was named for her father as well. His name was Francis and her middle name is the feminine form—Frances, with an ‘e-s’ instead of an ‘i-s.’” I pointed to a second printout. “She also hints in another post that her dad did ‘hush-hush’ work during the war.”

  I went back to Naomi’s information, pulling out yet another blog post. “Then, as you’ll see on Naomi’s blog, she’s posted a photo of her grandfather next to a photo of her, and she’s nearly his feminine spitting image.”

  “And all this information you found on social media?” Dupart asked, waving a hand over all the papers spread out over his desk.

  I nodded. “Researching people’s family history means I use every tool at my disposal, and social media is one of the best ones there is. You’d be surprised what personal information people put out there, not realizing it will never disappear and it can be found by nearly anyone.”

  “Actually, I’m not surprised,” Dupart said dryly. “You have no idea how many criminals I’ve busted based on their social media posts.”

  He began rifling through the other information in the folder, but didn’t ask me anything further. I stood up, slinging my tote over my shoulder. I was exhausted now and I had to get back to the hotel to interview Pippa’s cousin Ginny.

  “You’ll see I’ve given you ways to contact all these people. I’m especially worried about Naomi Van Dorn. The potential half aunt she’s been talking to may be legit or may not. If she isn’t, Naomi could be the next one in danger. She may be making plans to meet with the woman at this moment.”

  “Or this person could be a man, posing as a woman,” Dupart said.

  “Exactly,” I said. I paused, then added, “One last thing, Detective. As to the reason why this person is targeting descendants of these particular eight spies…”

  He looked up. “Yes, I was wondering about that.”

  “My source believes it’s because of a specific joint OSS–SOE operation during the war, but as of yet I have no other details, except for one. My source has given me the operation’s code name.” I gestured to the folder in his hands and said, “I also have another source, one at the National Archives, who’s going to help me find the names of those involved in the operation, assuming it’s been declassified. He has the code name and I’ve sent him all the information you have here. He’s working on cross-referencing Hugo’s list and the ancestors I’ve found with what he uncovers about the operation to see if there’s any matches.”

  Dupart ran a thumb along the edge of his goatee, seemingly weighing whether to give my assertions any credence. Finally, he said, “And what about the last three potential names?” He pointed to the ciphers at the bottom of the page.

  I gave him a wan smile. “With a little help from some friends, I’ve gathered nine different editions of The Thirty-Nine Steps. I plan to try to crack the other codes tonight. I’ll let you know what I find.”

  I didn’t tell him that my name could be one of them. That would give Grandpa’s secret away, and I still wanted to hold off on that if I could.

  Before he could reply, I said, “Thank you, Detective. I hope you won’t dismiss what I’ve given you without at least looking into it first,” and turned and walked out of his office, proud of myself for keeping my composure.

  THIRTY-FOUR

  On the way back to the Hotel Sutton, I called the hospital again to check on Grandpa. If he was awake, I’d make a beeline to his side. Instead, Nurse Angelique told me he was still asleep, but she’d been checking on him regularly for signs of any issues.

  “He seems to be doing good, Lucy. Sleep is the best healing medicine he could get right now, but I expect he might wake up in a couple of hours.”

  I thanked her, telling her I’d be by in the late afternoon, after my interview. I hung up as I pulled into the hotel’s parking lot and hauled out a large paper carrier bag holding all nine copies of The Thirty-Nine Steps. Walking up the pathway, I felt the bag’s handles strain with the weight, so I hoisted it up into my arms as I struggled to open the hotel’s heavy front door.

  Inside, a gaggle of Sutton family members were crowding the foyer. Some were on the grand staircase, taking photos. Others spilled into the bar area, and a few more were in the front room, including little Claire and Marilyn, who were sitting on one of the emerald-green sofas, giggling with each other and swinging their feet to their own made-up rhythm. They sat almost directly under the portrait of their ancestor, and I felt like Sarah Bess was benevolently watching over her young descendants.

  From a few steps up the staircase, Pippa waved to me in between photos with her various other cousins. Roselyn was standing next to her daughter and, while smiling dutifully at the camera, she wouldn’t meet my eyes and looked strained.

  Pippa glanced at her mother, then back at me, mouthing, “I’ll see you at dinner,” when the other cousins were switching around for a different lineup or checking the photos to see how they looked.

  I sent her a grin, then I sidled left around another cousin while aiming for the back staircase, and nearly bumped into Uncle Dave.

  “Oh, hello, Lucy,” he said. He was holding a bottle of water and looking uncomfortable.

  “Hello,” I said, feeling a tad uncomfortable myself.

  He cleared his throat. “I feel like I was the world’s biggest idiot yesterday, and I’d like to apologize,” he said. “Both for behaving as I did in front of your grandfather, and for—” He broke off and ran a hand over his hair, which was once more neatly brushed back. “Um, I’m not exactly sure what I’m apologizing for last night, since I can’t remember much clearly, but I feel like I might have accidentally run you over.” His blue eyes, so like Pippa’s father’s, looked at me with almost boyish embarrassment.

  I grinned. I no longer felt the need to take him to task. “You did, but just a little.”

  His face flushed for a moment. “I’m thoroughly mortified, Lucy. I think it was those old fashioneds the bartender was serving me. I usually can handle my bourbon, so I don’t know what happened.”

  “What happened was that they were Napoli old fashioneds,” I told him, rocking up on my toes in amusement. “They were spiked with arancello—Italian blood orange liqueur. Two doses of high-octane booze in one tasty drink.”

  “Good grief,” Uncle Dave said. “No wonder I felt like I’d been hit by a tractor this morning. I’m only now starting to feel somewhat human again, and that’s only because Pippa took me to this fantastic little taqueria for some lunch.”

  I grinned. “Big Flaco’s Tacos?”

  “Yeah,” Uncle Dave said, his smile growing. “You know it? Big, scary-looking guy runs the place. There’s a huge velvet portrait of him on th
e wall, looking like Elvis in Blue Hawaii, only holding a cast-iron pan instead of a ukulele.”

  “That’s Flaco,” I said with a laugh. “And that place is practically my second home.”

  “I can see why,” he said. “Fantastic food. Pippa told me that something called menudo is a good cure for a hangover. It looked like it had some funny stuff in it, but I ate it and felt a ton better. Had a couple of tacos, too, once I felt the clanging in my head subside. I may have to go there a few more times while I’m in town.”

  I grinned, decided not to tell him he’d consumed the lining from a cow’s stomach in a spicy broth, and excused myself, telling him I had to go set up to interview his cousin Ginny.

  “She’s got some stories, that one,” he said cheerfully. “Ask her about the time she convinced our grandfather to let her drive his brand-new Cadillac. It’s one for the books, no doubt.”

  I promised I would, and wended my way around another group of family members, sending a wink to Claire and Marilyn, who started giggling again, and breezed by Mrs. P. at the front desk. She gave my bag full of books a curious look, but waved me on with a smile as I said, “I’m on a mission—have to get set up for my interview.” I was two steps into the hall, my head still turned toward the front desk, when I crashed into someone coming the other way.

  My bag of books toppled, and three paperback copies of The Thirty-Nine Steps crashed to the floor with a fluttery fwump.

  “Oh, I’m so sorry,” came a feminine voice with a hint of a Hispanic accent. “Let me help you.”

  As I fumbled to keep the other books from falling, I saw a petite woman about my height bend to pick up the two nearest books. She was wearing chef’s whites, with her hair covered by a baseball cap. She held a bunch of greenery in one hand, along with a pair of garden shears, and I once again breathed in the delicious mixture of mint mixed with a hint of chocolate.

  “Is everything okay, Lucy?” Mrs. P.’s voice came from behind me. Then she started chuckling, stooping to pick up the third book. “We can’t leave you alone for five seconds put together without you getting into some kind of trouble, can we?”