"Ellandun, surely you know how secretive Edith could be."
We stood at the head of the conference table. He gripped the back of the chair before him and leaned on its sturdy padded wood.
Beyond the glass panes some of the family lingered. Linda and Aunt Viola left immediately for the hospital, but Patricia snuggled beneath Uncle Preston's arm and showed no sign of emergence from that paternal embrace. Lindsay stood on her other side like a sentinel. Ralph and Miriam, the twins, giggled near the elevators, their expressions elated; they'd barely known Aunt Edith and reaped six figures each from the estate. Father and William stood near Sherlock's sofa. The magazine sprawled across his lap, but my borderline-insane commanding officer matched stares with my father, and the hairs on the back of my neck rose at the thought of those two men, the opposite poles of my life, coming together.
"One thing I can tell you." Langstrom also watched the panorama outside. "Although the house thing is rather new, the other codicils have been in Edith's will for as long as I've worked with her. That's not something she thought up simply to torture you. Those are long-standing requirements and they were extremely important to her." He turned to face me. "Whatever she meant by that, there's a good reason for it."
Sherlock closed the magazine and rose. Father limped a few steps nearer. They clasped hands before William introduced them.
I closed my eyes. "Only now, after her death, am I beginning to realize just how much that woman complicated my life. What's one more irritation between good relatives?"
He laughed but was slow in taking my offered hand, as if there was something else he wanted to discuss but wasn't certain how to start. Out of the blue I understood: that photograph. He wanted his family photo back but wasn't willing to jeopardize our tenuous relationship with such a hot topic.
Well, I wasn't ready for that one, either, so I beat a hasty retreat. Father and Sherlock seemed to be hitting it off famously. William stood at Father's elbow, looking skeptical, but Uncle Preston stood a few feet off with Patricia still beneath his wing, both blatantly eavesdropping, and they positively beamed at whatever Sherlock said. Beside them, Lindsay listened with wondering eyes and slightly open mouth.
I say "whatever it was," because as soon as I entered the reception area, Sherlock shut up and everyone in the room stared at me. That left no doubt as to the topic of their former conversation.
"Colonel." I gave Sherlock a butt-out-of-it look.
"Captain," he replied, his usual impervious self.
Father watched me. Nor did he turn away when I met his gaze. There was something — and I'm not certain how to describe this — something enlightened in his expression. If his face had been an old-fashioned cash register, someone had tugged his swing handle down, he had just gone ka-ching, and the money drawer had popped open.
"Father," I said. "William."
"Charles," Father said.
His voice, too, held that sudden understanding and I wondered desperately what Sherlock had said. Whatever it was, it hadn't changed my father's basic conception of me; there was still an amazing depth of anger in his eyes. It seemed much more profound than what might be expected from a scene in a public place, no matter how ugly or vindictive or humiliating, and I hesitated. There was something I had to say but Father's still-forbidding mien wasn't making it particularly easy.
William threw open his suit jacket — he too had changed clothing and the dark elegant suit had been cleaned and pressed — planted his fists on his hips, and kept quiet. But there was a considering edge to his expression, too, with just the touch of a wrinkle between his eyebrows. Sherlock's comments were causing some reconsideration of my role within the family all around, it seemed.
I ignored William and said what I had to before giving myself too much time to worry about it. "Father, I owe you an apology."
"Well," William said. "This ought to be good."
"Stuff it." I kept my voice light. "I made a scene in the gallery the other night, I was rude, and I apologize."
"Perhaps we might start with an explanation." Father's voice wasn't light. But — and it took me a moment to understand this — nor was it the powerful, cadenced tone he'd used to address me as a child, the one he practiced before the mirror, intended to sway juries but just as suitable for reproving an errant younger son. This wasn't a prepared speech nor a role he was playing.
For the first time in my life I had the attention, not of my father's persona, but of my father.
To hell with Sherlock's presence, or William's. The lack of familial communication had continued for too long, there were too many secrets and misunderstandings between Father and me, and quite simply far too much that needed to be said, no matter who might be listening. I caught and held his gaze long enough to know I had his attention, not some ghostly memory of his little sister: relationships among the living should matter more than those involving the dead. And, much as I loved Aunt Edith, she was dead and protecting my father's opinion of her would not bring her back. "No one ever told me that living arrangement wasn't intended to be permanent."
Before my eyes, he aged ten years in fewer seconds. "So for all these years — what did you think? Did you believe I didn't want you? Is that what you've believed of me all these years?"
As he spoke, the pain sliced even deeper into the lines about his mouth and eyes. And his evident fury — and volume — mounted to follow. Behind the polished desk, the receptionist froze, then pressed a button on her telephone and murmured into her headpiece.
Father's reaction surprised me, to say the least: if he still intended to extend an olive branch in my general direction, well, yelling at me in the reception area of Wynne Cameron Gamble et al. was an astounding method of doing so. I'm certain I stared at him and I can only imagine what showed in my face. I glanced for a second at Sherlock — steady as Gibraltar, of course he knew to stay out of a real family fight — and spoke the simple truth.
"Yes, Father, that's exactly what I believed of you."
For one more flaming moment Father glared at me, and I realized that, even as an adult and fully trained in military self-defense, I was not immune to the fear he'd aroused in me as a child. And even as that shiver flashed across my soul he eased closer, invading my personal space just as William did. As the fire in his mien transformed into ice, I felt I watched hell freezing over.
"Did you ever consider ringing me up and asking me?" His voice was very quiet.
The Ellandun genetics in my soul suggested a comment on the multiple directions that particular parkway could have been traveled. The self-control I'd learned in my battle with PTSD intervened. There was no point in continuing the argument because I was not the true target of his sniper's fire; he gunned for me simply because Aunt Edith could no longer be bracketed by his crosshairs. Even if it meant rolling over and playing dead, it was time to end this. It was preferable to murdering any love that remained between us.
"I'm sorry, Father."
He stared at me for a few seconds longer while ice and tension melted between us. He no longer looked like the father who had frightened me as a child, but rather like someone old and stricken who vaguely resembled that long-ago person. But it was too late to unsay his ugly words, and he turned and limped toward the elevators without even a nod toward Sherlock.
William still stared at me. Physically he hadn't moved; he still stood with his legs spread, fists on hips and jacket slung back. But his face wasn't the face of the same person who'd stood there a moment ago, nor was it the face of the elder brother who'd beaten me so brutally when I was a teenager. It seemed I'd given him, too, a new viewpoint to consider.
"Are you going with him or what?" I said. "And while you're at it, why don't you explain to him why E.T. never phoned home?"
He blinked. If Uncle Preston, minus Patricia and Lindsay, hadn't been holding the elevator for him, he wouldn't have made it.
The reception area was nearly empty, and quiet once more. Patricia sat on the arm of one
of the blue sofas, her legs tucked and folded in a graceful curve. She ripped the pins from her hair and shook it about her shoulders in a wave that glittered and reflected golden highlights. Her eyes glowed. "Well done," she said, then blushed as if realizing how patronizing that sounded.
"So that's what's between you and Dad," Lindsay said.
I let it all go. I felt no satisfaction, only shame and a restless sort of weariness. Future overtures from my family would not be answered. I'd suffered enough at their hands, whether I was the primary target or the displaced one.
The mini-scene with William, of course, was another matter entirely.
"Boss?" I asked.
He shrugged. "It's not like you haven't seen my dad rip into me."
At that confused moment, his line seemed the height of funny. I burst out laughing. Behind her desk, the receptionist smiled and murmured again into her headpiece, then pressed a button and opened a magazine.
"Does it make any difference, your father being a general and one of our commanding officers?"
He shook his head, lower lip jutting out. "Nope. It still makes me feel like I'm about six years old again." He nodded toward the now-empty conference room. "How'd it go in there?"
"It's official. The house is ours." For a moment he and I stood shoulder to shoulder, watching a stunning blonde in a pretty green suit cross from the elevators to the door behind the receptionist's desk. She smiled at us in passing. We both smiled back, probably at the same moment. "Wonder if I ought to keep the condo, just in case of emergencies."
Patty blinked. "What sort of emergency?"
I eased away. "The mouse might roar."
She smacked me, of course.
Theresa was still at the library when we returned. Patricia resumed her work in the dining room, with copies of deposit slips, itemized bank statements, and such over half the big table. Sherlock and Lindsay cheerfully got in her way. Bonnie was napping. She had, after all, held the swing shift last night during guard duty.
In Uncle Hubert's old study, Caren sat at the big mahogany desk, two wire-bound notebooks propped open before her and several sheets of paper, scribbled in columns in Patty's businesslike handwriting, spread out around them. I helped myself to a swig of her Moosehead, then another.
"While you're up," she said dryly.
I took the wingback chair near the fireplace, behind her, bottle still in my hand. "So how's it going?"
She leaned back in the swivel chair and swung it to face me, pulling her feet up onto the seat against her thighs. She had changed from jeans to shorts and the view was terrific. "You know, I really like this room. It's so," she paused, her eyes crinkling at the corners, "so writerly. It seems the sort of room where a serious scholar would turn out some lasting tome on a deep subject that only a very few readers would fully understand."
I chuckled. "You know, Uncle Hubert wrote an analysis of Celtic culture in Britain in this room and that's a pretty good description of it."
She held out her hand. I returned the bottle to her. It was, of course, empty, and she handed it right back. I fetched her a fresh one from the kitchen, then left her in peace with a kiss on the nape of her neck, beneath that marvelous soft hair. For now, I was satisfied. From her smile, so was she.
In the dining room, Sherlock read over several other pages of Patricia's notes. "Robbie, I'm sorry. It really is looking like blackmail."
"For God's sake, at least it's not murder." I yanked out a chair, swung it around, and straddled it facing them; I could torture the furniture now if I wanted. "Aunt Edith's chances of dying peacefully in her bed at an advanced old age weren't very good, were they?"
His scarred face was serious. "Practically nil."
I leaned my chin on the chair's back. "Tell me."
"We've — excuse me, Patricia's identified six different payees. And Robbie, we're not talking minor sums of money here. It looks like Edith Hunter built an empire this way."
I turned to Patricia. "Can you total up sums for me?"
She wouldn't meet my eyes but nodded. "I think so."
"Good. Because the value of this estate will drop by that amount. I'm not taking blackmail money."
Sherlock shifted. "We don't yet know what these people did. Remember the death clothes in the garret? We could be talking murder here."
"So I give the money to charity. I don't care. I'm serious, Sherlock. I can't do this."
"Cool," Lindsay said.
"Well." For once in our relationship, Sherlock let me off the hook without major squirming on my part. "The major payee seems to have been someone named Thomas Rainwater, to the tune of over a half million dollars."
I whistled. "Never heard of the man."
"Before crashing, Bonnie hooked up your computer and did an Internet search on the guy. Rainwater was an assistant professor of British history at Harvard about fifteen, twenty years ago. Am I correct in assuming that would have made him a peer of your Uncle Hubert?"
"Yes."
"Rainwater appeared to be on tenure track." Sherlock set down the pages of Patricia's notes, leaned back, and met my gaze. "He taught several popular courses, including a senior seminar that filled three semesters in a row, and published regularly. Without warning, he retired. The payments began the following week."
Patricia still would not lift her eyes from her work. "The payments began two weeks after Uncle Hubert's death."
Sherlock stared at her. "You didn't tell me that, sweetie."
Her eyes were dark against a too-pale face. "I've just realized it."
He turned back to me. "Research theft, maybe? Collegiate espionage?"
"Murder?" So many things were beginning to become clear, as if I had removed a pair of mental sunglasses and taken a good look at the world around me. "The police never did catch the driver of the car that struck Uncle Hubert."
Sherlock was still for a long moment. Then his eyes hooded. "We got his address, Robber."
"Later." I tapped my teeth with my fingernail and thought, then scooped up an address book from the middle of the table. "What's this?" It was an expensive thing, bound in maroon leather, and looked both old and unused at the same time.
Patricia shrugged. "Caren found that in the garret when we went back through the writing desk. Charles, do you know any of those people?"
I thumbed through it. "Earl of Danvers, Connor Twining. Address in Shropshire. Lady Meara Montgomery of Northamptonshire. No, I've never heard of them, no matter how impressive their titles might be."
"What in the world does all this mean?"
I shrugged. "I don't know, cuz, but we're going to put it right."
Finally she met my gaze. Her eyes were still dark but her expression was grateful. I couldn't bring myself to smile, though.
"What on earth possessed Aunt Edith to treat Jacob that way?" she asked.
I tossed the address book back into the center of the table. "When I spoke with him about those loans, he let me believe they had an amiable relationship. I wasn't expecting anything of the sort."
"What loans?"
Her face was blank. I laughed and waved at the financial records scattered across the table. "What loans do you think? I asked him at the gallery and he admitted them right off, one for his flat and the other to start his business."
She kept staring at me, her expression clouded. "I thought Dad gave him those loans."
I paused. I hadn't detected any sign of lying from Jacob. But then, his black eyes were so opaque, it was perhaps difficult to tell.
Sherlock stirred. "Maybe Jacob wound up needing more money than he'd originally thought and didn't want to go back to his dad."
"Perhaps." She pushed around some of her papers. "But how much money does it take to start an art appraisal service? Besides, whenever I asked to borrow money, Aunt Edith always gifted it. She said she didn't like contracts with her family."
"Me, too," I said. "But perhaps she didn't feel she knew Jacob that well."
She shrugged, lifted
a pile of documents, set them down. "Does anyone?"
I didn't say what I was thinking and thankfully neither did Sherlock. If Jacob had done something illegal and Aunt Edith blackmailed him, he was the one member of the family Trés might not have recognized from a silhouette on a dark street. But protecting Patty came naturally to both of us, it seemed.
"Well," Sherlock finally said, "Theresa called to complain about the number of newspapers and used car lots in this town, how many cars are for sale at any given time, et cetera, et cetera, ad nauseam. But she did say she was making progress. I mean, we got a really good description of the Suburban and its license plate number, too, so it should be only a matter of time."
"Why in the world did you call Theresa and invite her?" I asked. "What purpose on earth can she serve here?"
He laughed. "With her, you never know."
"What's her specialty?" Lindsay asked.
I shot Sherlock an accusing stare; exactly what had they discussed during their time together today? He returned the stare, measure for measure.
"Did you carry her case upstairs for her?" Theresa never put anything away for herself unless she was in her own home or temporary base housing.
"No," Patricia said, "I did. Why?"
I rose from the table and kissed her cheek. "Those were high explosives," I said, and left the dining room. If she was going to faint or have heart failure or a screaming fit, she could do it all over Sherlock, not me. And that would put paid to their flirting real quick.
The investigation seemed to be continuing just fine without my interference, so I popped a fresh bottle, fetched the tragedies from the matched Shakespeare set in Uncle Hubert's study, and sprawled across the long sofa in the parlor. A few minutes later, Lindsay joined me. She too had a book, but a mug of tea rather than a beer. Perhaps she didn't want to push it. Yet.
No time like the present to start another family feud. "Just what did you and Sherlock discuss today?"
She glanced up, green eyes wide. "Mostly we went through the scrapbook. Did Caren tell you the security guard in the last burglary was shot with a Browning pistol, just like the one you found in the garret? Colonel Sherlock thinks that might be the murder weapon."
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