“A pen?” Mrs. P. echoed. “I didn’t see a pen.”
“That’s because Boomer stole it off the ground before you got there, when I was doing CPR on our guy.” I jerked my thumb over my shoulder, out toward the front of the hotel.
Mrs. P. stared at me for a moment, as if her mind were replaying the scene outside, then rolled her eyes heavenward. “Oh, that silly dog. Pippa took him to training when he was a puppy, but little of it seems to have stuck.” Then she abruptly disappeared behind the desk. When she straightened, she was unscrewing the lid of a glass jar filled with dog snacks. She fished out two, her button nose wrinkling at the strong liver smell.
“Here,” she said, placing them in my hand. “He goes crazy for these things, for reasons only he knows. He’ll do anything you want once he gets a whiff of them.” Mrs. P. shook her head like Boomer was more trouble than the most finicky guest at the hotel, but with an indulgent smile. Even the Force of the Front Desk couldn’t pretend she was immune to the charms of the goofy Lab.
“Do you think this pen may be evidence?” she asked me, her blue eyes lighting up with sudden curiosity.
“I seriously doubt it,” I said with a shrug. Worried Boomer would wander off again before I could get to him, I started toward the back porch, tossing over my shoulder, “but I’ll be giving it to the police anyway, just in case.”
“Good,” I heard Mrs. P. say with satisfaction. She wouldn’t have had me do anything less.
SEVEN
I got lucky. Boomer was still hanging out in the knot garden when I walked out the French doors onto the back porch. He wagged his tail furiously at the sight of me, but didn’t approach. The pen was still firmly in his mouth, unchewed.
“What’s up, buddy?” I said, sitting down on the porch’s topmost step. Boomer, his excitement overtaking him, took two steps toward me, then stopped. He knew the rules of dog and human: if he came too close, I could nab him and probably get him to drop his new toy. No way was he having that.
All casual like, I put one liver treat in my hand. Boomer’s soft golden ears perked up and his black nose twitched. He took two steps closer, unable to resist the smell, which seemed to have been modeled after stinky feet.
“Want a treat?” I asked him, holding it out on my palm.
It was the magic phrase. He raced up the stairs, eyes bright with anticipation. I didn’t even have to say “Drop” to get him to spit out his prize. The pen landed at my feet with a deep thunk and Boomer stood staring at the treat with the look of a drug addict in need of a fix.
Showing he did have some manners, he waited for me to hold my hand closer before he inhaled the treat and chomped it in rapid, slobbery bites. I bent forward, grabbing up the pen. With one last lick of his lips, Boomer went the still of a hunting dog, his sweet brown eyes fixed on the pen once more, which was laced with slobber and gravel grit.
“Oh no, sweetie. You can’t have this back,” I told him before giving him the second treat. Rubbing his ears, I examined the pen.
It looked like your everyday black affair with a gold clip, the only other ornamentation being four gold bands encircling the pen cap. Three of the bands were delicately thin, but the fourth was close to an eighth of an inch wide. I could tell it wasn’t new, both from the weight, thickness, and indications of use over the years in the form of fine scratches on the barrel, cap, and clip.
Turning it endways, I saw that it was a Montblanc, the distinctive “snow cap” emblem on the tip mimicking the snowy top of Mont Blanc mountain, for which the brand was named. Without thinking, I wiped it on my leg to get off the excess dog slobber and granite dust, then froze.
Rats. Could I have just wiped off evidence?
Boomer and I looked at each other. “You slobbered on it first,” I whispered to him. “Okay if I just blame you?”
His tail thumped the steps in response as I held the pen up to the brightest part of the porch lights. There it was, the faint red hue beneath the black resin, signaling to me it was a real Montblanc, not a fake. My paternal grandfather had taught me that trick.
I smiled, thinking of my grandpa. He had a thing for Montblanc pens, and still used one for anything he wrote to this day. He’d given my sister, Maeve, and me each a lovely one from his collection for our respective college graduations, and we both used them for signing important documents. As I examined the pen, I thought about Grandpa, and smiled.
Boomer whined, watching me turn the pen over in my hand, using every ounce of his manners training to not snatch it out of my hand. Sliding off the cap, my eyebrows went up. Though I knew it was older, I’d somehow been expecting a regular ballpoint. Instead, it was a fountain pen, with a beautifully engraved gold nib. A very sharp, pointy nib.
“Sorry, darlin’,” I said, using my knuckles to rub Boomer between his eyes. “I had to confiscate this before you chewed it up or swallowed it. Pens aren’t good for puppy dogs, you know.” I smiled when he gave in, sat down and leaned into my rubbing, accepting my affection in place of his toy.
I turned the Montblanc over once more, admiring its clean lines, wondering if it were from the 1950s or earlier, which Grandpa preferred. I was sure it was a Meisterstück, which meant “masterpiece,” the Montblanc company’s most classic pen line, because the nib was engraved with the numbers 4-8-1-0, the height of Mont Blanc in meters.
I looked again at the gold nib and saw it was more elaborately engraved than most, including a scroll-like motif and—I squinted—what looked like two feathers crossed at the bottom. Grandpa would love to see this pen, I thought. He adored ones with intricate engravings. I could show it to him over FaceTime, which he’d just learned to use a few months ago and had taken to, as Josephine had said, like a pigeon on a french fry.
All at once, Ben’s voice was in my head. “We don’t know if the man’s death was natural or not, Ms. Lancaster. You should call the police now and turn the pen in. There could be prints on it or other evidence connected with it.”
I scowled, feeling a swoop of irritation that I could still remember Ben’s voice so clearly. Even when he’d so thoroughly left me behind, he was somehow still trying to boss me.
I mean, really, the police already had Mr. Markman’s ID, right? They didn’t need this pen to confirm that. So would it really make that much of a difference if I turned it in after I showed it to Grandpa?
I checked my watch. Grandpa would be in bed by now, and calling him at night would only make him worry, even if it were only for the amount of time it took him to put on his glasses and answer his phone. It would definitely have to be tomorrow, even if I grudgingly knew the Ben voice in my head might be right.
I looked at Boomer with a rueful smile. “I think my brain is feeling the need to taunt me with thoughts of annoying FBI agents who sucker nice genealogists into falling for them.” But Boomer just sighed and nuzzled my hand, maneuvering it until I was scratching his neck. Smart dog.
I slid the cap back into place and made my decision. I’d give it to the police tomorrow, after showing it to Grandpa over FaceTime. Flicking off one last tiny nugget of granite clinging to the barrel, I put the pen in the pocket of my down vest.
From the far side of the hotel, I heard Pippa’s voice call, “Boom-er! Here, boy!”
Boomer jumped to his feet and dashed toward his human’s voice without a glance back at yours truly. I had to laugh as I walked back inside.
“Another love ’em and leave ’em type,” I said. “Apparently, I’m a magnet for them.”
But I was barely five steps down the hall when I stopped in my tracks, an odd feeling creeping up my spine. Like I had eyes on me.
I looked around. To my right was the sitting room. On my left, the back parlor. Was someone in one of those rooms, watching me?
Slowly, I stepped into the sitting room, which was still brightly lit by several lamps. Empty. I eyed the back parlor across the hall, and goose bumps popped up on my arms. On my first visit, Pippa had told me it was reputed to be haunted.
At the time, I’d laughed it off. Now, with the room mostly in shadows, it was an easy tale to believe.
Making myself be brave, I peeked in. The furniture, all dark woods, leather, and suede, had been arranged into five separate seating areas with several large, cushy armchairs, two leather Chesterfield sofas the color of tobacco, and several paintings of bird dogs, horses, and hunting scenes on the wall, one of which I was positive was a Stubbs. Besides two dimmed lamps, the only other light was from the large fireplace along the south wall, which was emitting a low, flickering glow.
My eyes darted around the room, which was quiet other than the soft ticking of the grandfather clock. I recalled Pippa’s tale and how her light Texas accent had affected a thick drawl.
“The menfolk used to sit here after dinner, smokin’, drinkin’, and gamblin’. Two of ’em died in here in 1908, in fact, after pullin’ their pistols on one another when they both accused the other of cheatin’ at cards.” Her drawl eased, to be replaced by a note of ghoulish amusement. “Their spirits are said to live on in here, brandishing their pistols at one another. Several family members and guests throughout the years have seen them.”
“Have you?” I asked, fascinated.
She grinned. “Nope, but occasionally you’ll hear a noise that sounds like someone having the wind knocked out of him.”
“Oooh, creepy,” I said with a shudder. “Were you related to either of these dueling men?”
She shook her head. “But both were rumored to be lovers of Sarah Bess’s.” Her green eyes lit up again, this time with mischief. “She was a beautiful and wealthy widow by that time, after all.”
I’d grinned along with her, hardly shocked. The notion of puritanical Americans in Sarah Bess’s era, before, and since, was as much of a myth as it was a fact. It was refreshing to have a client who already knew their third great-grandmother hadn’t been some pristine angel, and wasn’t judging her for it, either.
I took in the large portrait of Reginald Sutton hanging in pride of place between two of the parlor’s windows, lit from above with a brass picture light. If his portrait were a true likeness, then his pronounced widow’s peak, turn-of-the-century garb, and dark eyes gave him an uncomfortable resemblance to a vampire.
Another rush of a chill stole over me, like I’ve always heard happens when ghosts are nearby. I readied myself to see two apparitional gamblers raising pistols in my direction.
There was nothing, though. The room was silent, except for the continued ticking of the grandfather clock. I nearly jumped out of my skin when it began softly gonging the hour.
“Holy frijoles,” I said under my breath, my hand over my racing heart.
“Lucy? Whatever are you doing?”
I whirled around with a gasp. Mrs. P. was standing in the hallway, holding a clipboard, looking at me with a mixture of concern and amusement. I nearly wilted against the parlor’s door frame, then began laughing like a fool at the relief of seeing a real human and not a pistol-wielding ghost.
“Oh, not much, Mrs. P. Just going a little nuts here from a long day, low blood sugar, and Pippa’s ghost stories, that’s all.” A couple of snort-laughs escaped, and I held my hand over my mouth to try and compose myself, making Mrs. P. chuckle. Then, much like she’d done earlier with Pippa, she made shooing gestures with her clipboard.
“Go on, then, you silly goose, get out of here. I’ve got my evening check to do before I go home and Pippa’s waiting for you in the bar with those cocktails and some of Chef Rocky’s pasta carbonara. Go have yourself a stiff drink and some food. You’ve had a long day.”
“Right you are, Mrs. P.,” I said with a grin. I turned and began walking off, then whirled around again, pulling the fountain pen out of my pocket. “Oh, and thanks for—”
At that moment, Roselyn Sutton had come in the back porch doors, looking polished and calm once more. Her eyes coldly assessed me as I waved the Montblanc with my loopy grin, then they slid to Mrs. P. without so much as a hello. I opened my mouth to ask Roselyn how she was feeling, but caught Mrs. P.’s look that told me it would be a bad idea.
“You’re welcome, dear,” Mrs. P. said pointedly to me with a reassuring smile and a nod.
I took it as my cue to skedaddle for the bar. If I didn’t need a potent drink before, I sure as heck did now.
EIGHT
“Lucy! Good morning, my darlin’.” After a blurry moment, my grandfather’s beaming face came into focus on my iPad.
I blew him a kiss, which he pretended to catch and put on his cheek. “Good morning, Grandpa,” I said. “You finally got over that cold. I’m so glad to hear it.” I had to turn the speaker volume down a couple of notches, his voice was coming over so clear, but it made me happy to do so. He was in his early nineties now, so colds weren’t the trifling things they once were.
He chuckled. “Not much can keep me down for long, you know.” As I knew he would, he changed the subject, never one to want to talk about his health. “Now, to what do I owe this lovely pleasure? Did your mom and dad get off on their cruise all right?”
I nodded. “They just boarded. Mom said she’ll be sending you, Maeve, and me a group text once they set sail for Turks and Caicos.”
“And Maeve? She and Kyle are still with his parents in Vermont?”
“Yep. Skiing to their hearts’ content,” I said.
“Good,” he said, before eyeing me sideways. “Then you’re not calling to tell me you have other plans for brunch next week, are you?”
I laughed, tucking my feet under me on the black-and-white zebra-striped armchair. Each of the hotel’s rooms was named after one of Sarah Bess’s favorite flowers and decorated in the same elegant but eclectic style as the rest of the hotel. My room, with its wainscoted walls painted a high-sheen dusky blue, was the Plumbago Room.
There was a silky duvet in a dark lavender color on my bed, which had a tufted leather settee acting as a footboard. On one wall, a large painting of the English countryside hung over an art deco bar cart, where a crystal ice bucket and highball glasses stood alongside a matte-black coffee machine. On the wall by the bathroom, three black-and-white photos of 1960s classic cars were positioned in a step pattern, giving the impression that the Corvette Stingray was winning. Dark-wood side tables, French doors opening to the veranda, and heavy blackout drapes in a bottle-green color finished off the room.
I’d already opened all the drapes, looking out over the veranda to find a gray sky with the trees shrouded in mist. On Lady Bird Lake, two kayakers braving the cold were paddling by with smooth strokes, their bright watercrafts, helmets, and life vests lending pops of color to the monochrome morning.
“No way am I canceling on our brunch date next week,” I told Grandpa. “I’m craving the diner’s chicken and waffles something fierce.”
“Then chicken and waffles you shall have,” he replied gallantly as he moved into the better light of the kitchen and settled himself onto one of the barstools. His image on the screen became clear again as he rested his elbows on the butcher-block countertop.
Grandpa was probably my favorite person in the whole world. The oak desk I used in my office in Austin, with its gloriously scuffed top and large crosshatch carved into the right corner, had been his. And it was Grandpa whom I wanted to call whenever I had had a rough day and just needed to hear the voice of someone who thought everything I did was wonderful. My late grandmother said Grandpa and I were two peas in a pod, and my mother was forever saying the blueprint for my soul had been taken straight from my grandfather’s, he and I were so alike. We both considered it the best compliment.
Luckily for me, Grandpa lived only forty-five minutes south- west of Austin, in the pretty little town of Wimberley, where he tended to his garden, built birdhouses that he gave away to anyone who wanted one, and walked to his favorite diner for lunch, like he had every day for the past ten years, ever since my beloved Gran passed away. He was my hero, and the only other man who could hold a candle to him was my own fathe
r.
“Grandpa, you have to hear what happened to me yesterday,” I began.
“I’m all ears—almost literally, these days,” he said with a chuckle as he plucked his glasses off the neck of his gray sweater and put them on.
“You’re still the handsomest man I know,” I said, and it was the truth, even if his ears, which had always been a smidge on the big side, weren’t getting any smaller, and his dark, wavy hair had long since turned white and thinned. Photos of him from his younger years showed him to be matinee-idol handsome, even with the ears. Serena and Jo had almost swooned over photos of him in his army uniform during the war, and I knew from many stories my grandmother had told me that she’d practically had to beat other girls off with a stick when she and Grandpa were courting.
Grandpa gave a bark of laughter and waved my compliment away. “Enough of that tosh. What’s this interesting story you have for me?”
“Well,” I began, “yesterday a man died at the hotel where I’m staying.”
I saw his brow furrowing at my words. Rats. Shouldn’t have made him worry by saying that.
“Anyway, when he—”
“A man died, you say, Lucy?” Grandpa cut in.
“Oh, it had nothing to do with me,” I hastened to reassure him. “He wasn’t a guest at the hotel or anything, and the police don’t think there’s a connection at all. Mr. Markman—that’s the guy’s name—was likely very ill, and was probably delusional, bless his heart.”
I wasn’t going to tell my grandfather the man had died right in front of me, right after uttering those final cryptic words. No way, no how.
Seeing the look of relief on my grandfather’s features made me recall the look in Mr. Markman’s eyes before he’d collapsed. It had been odd, the way he’d seemed almost comforted to see me. I pushed it out of my thoughts. Surely it was just an effect of the poor man’s deluded mind.
Lineage Most Lethal (Ancestry Detective) Page 4