Lineage Most Lethal (Ancestry Detective)

by S. C. Perkins

  “He’s a little obvious,” I agreed. “Okay, how about I go in first and scope the place out? I’ll find out where they’re sitting and see if we can get close enough to them to listen. Because if not, we may very well have to go to plan B.”

  Then I gestured up and down at her with a grin. “And since you’re the spitting image of your mom and a sporty blond goddess, I think you’d be noticed if you went to do the scoping.”

  Pippa blushed, but nodded. “Okay, good plan.”

  I dug into my roomy tote and came up with a slouchy, newsboy-style knit hat and the glasses I wore to drive at night. As usual, a hair tie was already around my wrist. I wrapped my long hair into a low knot, put the newsboy cap on, and added my glasses. “What do you think?”

  Pippa nodded. “It’s good. Mom will have to look hard to recognize you.”

  “Excellent,” I said. I looked at the time. “Give me at least five minutes. And text me before you try to come in.” I turned to leave, then spun back around. “And don’t go near the pub while I’m scouting. They might be sitting by a window.”

  Pippa suddenly grinned. “You know, sometimes I think you’re actually a Jason Bourne–style operative masquerading as a mild-mannered genealogist.”

  “Honey,” I drawled. “I might be nice, but I was never mild-mannered.”

  She laughed. “Truer words were never spoken.”

  I flashed her a toothy grin. “All right, I’m going in.”

  I walked with purpose to the front lawn of the Boarhound, where stood two picnic tables with patrons enjoying their drinks in the late afternoon sunshine. I trotted up the steps to the porch, past a guy in sunglasses and a baseball cap leaning casually against a pillar with a beer in his hand, and sailed through the open doorway. I felt like the guy might have done a double-take, but beyond noticing he had one heck of a great physique, I didn’t recognize him, so I didn’t care.

  Luckily, I’d been in the Boarhound before, so I was familiar with the layout: three rooms to my right, two to my left. On both sides, the bigger, more communal rooms were the first ones I passed.

  I’d also been thinking about where Roselyn could be having a private conversation with someone shady—if, in fact, that was what she was doing—and knew it would have to be in one of the three smaller rooms. The other two held too many people, so they were likely out. And if I had to bet on which of the three smaller rooms it would be, I would choose …

  As a waitress strode past me toward the bar and two guys ambled toward the exit, I made for the room that had probably been the house’s study. I’d just craned my head around the open doorway and seen three people in deep conversation—Roselyn, a well-dressed older man, and a third person I was trying to make out—when someone grabbed me by the arm, spinning me around.

  “Lolo, querida!” he exclaimed. He wrapped me in a big bear hug that pinned my arms to my sides, picked me up, and spun me around twice as he said in English heavily accented with Spanish, “I found you! You rush right past me, cariña. Come, I take you to our table.”

  The pub was so small, he’d danced me back to the front door before I’d even had a chance to struggle. I looked in complete shock at his face, which was grinning charmingly at me, though his eyes were obscured by his sunglasses. The weird thing was, there was something familiar about that grin.

  He let me down out on the porch just as fury raced through my bloodstream. “I’m not Lolo,” I snapped, jerking my fallen tote bag back up on my shoulder. I felt like I’d been accosted and I wanted to lash out with some of my newfound self-defense moves. “And how dare you,” I began, raising up my bootie-clad foot. I was going to smash his instep, and he would not like it.

  The guy seemed to know what I was about to do and backed up a step, while leaning down at the same time to speak in an undertone laced with anger.

  “You’re poking your nose into something dangerous, Lucy. So for once in your life, do as you’re told and get out of here. Now. And take Ms. Sutton with you.”

  Then he brushed past me and went back inside.

  All traces of an accent had gone when he spoke, and I must have looked like a weird, tote-bag-hugging version of the Karate Kid with my foot raised up and at the ready.

  My gritted teeth dropped into a gape. I knew that voice. The hair was longer and darker, the physique was slimmer and more muscular, the jawline tighter. But I knew that voice, and that charming smile. They belonged to a ghoster. They belonged to Ben.

  I turned and was down the porch steps and on the sidewalk before I could process what had happened. My heart was pounding and I knew my cheeks were flushed.

  “We need to go,” I said to Pippa, pulling off my knit cap and glasses. “Follow me and I’ll explain.”

  I must have looked like I could chew through nails, because she turned around with Boomer and followed me in silence.

  I was still steaming as we reached my car, but between taking Ben’s name in vain a couple of times for preventing me from spying on Roselyn, telling me off, and ordering me out of the pub, I’d managed to give Pippa the facts of my botched mission.

  “He’s an FBI agent, this Ben guy?” Pippa asked for the second time. “Are you serious?”

  “I’m serious,” I said. “He’s the one I told you about.”

  “Wait, he’s your Ben?”

  “Hardly,” I said, feeling my heart give a twist despite my anger.

  “But what could Mom be doing that involves the FBI? Does she know? Is Ben looking to trap her and put her in jail?”

  I couldn’t answer any of those questions and, needless to say, Pippa and I were both frustrated and angry when I drove out of the parking lot. In my state, I punched the accelerator and we flew up Cesar Chavez, somehow making most of the lights, neither of us saying anything as the heavy feeling of unanswered questions and worry filled the car like some noxious gas.

  Even Boomer seemed to notice it. When I glanced back in the rearview mirror, I saw he had his head on his paws, but his brown eyes were worriedly shifting back and forth between Pippa and me.

  The look on his sweet face made me embarrassed to be acting so childishly and ashamed for being angry at Ben, especially now that I was finally admitting to myself he was just doing his job, whatever it was. It had to be something undercover, from his continued Han Solo look.

  And his brusqueness? My cheeks heated. Ben was protecting me, again, and had risked putting his undercover work in danger for me.

  Now the only question was whether the FBI was setting Roselyn up for something, or if she was somehow merely in over her head and would be caught up in the arrests when Ben and his team made their bust.

  Glancing at Pippa, I saw that she was wiping a tear from her cheek. I pulled my foot off the accelerator, letting my car slow on its own as we approached our turn. My blinker on, I pressed the brake, then made a left onto Delta Drive.

  “Whoa,” Pippa said, even as Boomer’s collar tags jingled when he slid on the back seat.

  “Oops,” I said. “Sorry about that. Didn’t slow enough.” I pressed the brake pedal, but my car didn’t respond like it should. I pumped the brake again, twice, and felt the mushiness give way to nothingness.

  Frantically, I slammed my foot on the brake one more time and felt the sudden horrible, stomach-clenching thrill of being out of control as the brake and my foot went all the way to the floor.

  “Lucy, what’s wrong?” Pippa said.

  “My brakes,” I said, trying to remain calm. “They’re not working.”

  “Oh God,” Pippa said. Then she swiveled around to look at Boomer. “We have seatbelts, but he doesn’t.”

  “It’s going to be all right,” I said, even though I was hardly sure of it. “We’re only going twenty and we’re off the main road.”

  “Downshift to a lower gear,” Pippa urged as we continued to roll onward down the road.

  “Good thinking,” I said, grasping the gear shift and shoving it down to low. My car slowed further to eighteen,
then seventeen miles per hour. Better, but not enough.

  “I’m going to push on the parking brake,” I said. “I don’t know how hard the car will jerk, so brace yourself. And while you’re at it, look for somewhere good for us to crash, if we need to.”

  “I don’t like the thought of ‘a good place to crash,’” Pippa said, but pointed up ahead, saying, “There, aim there.”

  She was pointing to the line of tall, conical juniper trees stretching from the road all the way down to Lady Bird Lake Trail.

  I nodded. We’d slowed down to twelve miles an hour. Pippa shot a worried glance back at Boomer and then pushed herself back in her seat. “Hold on, buddy,” she said to him as I used my left foot to step on the small parking-brake pedal, pushing it in until I heard the rapid metallic clicks.

  My car lurched, then slowed even more. Eight miles an hour, then six. I aimed us toward the junipers. We were drifting at four miles an hour when my car hit between two fluffy trees in a whoosh of scraping sounds, finally coming to a halt with a still-sickening jolt. We heard Boomer slide forward in a heap, but when I glanced back, he was standing, uninjured, between the back and front seats. I turned off my car and Pippa reached one hand out to me and the other back to her dog. We sat for a few seconds in silence, breathing heavily.

  “You know, my great-grandfather planted the original set of junipers,” Pippa said. “He liked the way they looked soft, but were still very imposing and sturdy.” She gave a shaky laugh. “Glad to know he was right.”

  My mind whirled. Above us, a small flock of birds was flying toward the water. I saw Grandpa’s face, heard him whisper, “Greenfinch.” I looked at the juniper bushes we’d crashed into and thought of James Sutton, Pippa’s great-grandfather. One man was OSS, the other was SOE.

  I couldn’t believe I hadn’t made the connection yet. Was it possible? Could Pippa—the great-granddaughter of an SOE agent—be one of the still coded names on Hugo’s list? Could Pippa and I both be on the list?

  “I’ll call up to the hotel for help and get Mrs. P. to call a tow truck,” Pippa said, releasing my hand. I clamped down on her fingers.

  “Wait.” I shifted in my seat. “Would you be okay with not telling anyone that my brakes went out? At least, not yet? Can we just tell them I swerved to keep from hitting a squirrel or something?”

  Pippa’s brows knitted. “Okay … but why?”

  She was strong, intelligent, and I trusted her implicitly, but I didn’t want to scare her quite yet. Then the faces of Hugo Markman, Chef Rocky, and Penelope Ohlinger swam before me, and I was again harshly reminded of my duty to them, and to Grandpa. I hoped like crazy that Sean was making some headway with the information I’d sent him.

  “Because I just don’t want the fuss,” I said finally. “You, your mom, and the staff are all still mourning Chef Rocky, and I don’t want to add to anyone’s stress. Plus, I haven’t had my car checked in ages. It’s possible the brakes were just worn down or something.”

  This wasn’t true, of course. I kept my car regularly serviced, but it was the best stall for time I could think of at the moment.

  “I’ll have Frank look everything over,” I assured her. “Frank’s my service guy. We can tell people as soon as I know for sure.”

  After a few seconds, she nodded. “All right. I’ll get Mrs. P. to call for a tow and we’ll go with the squirrel story for now.”

  She called to the front desk, but got the bellboy, who said Mrs. P. was on the other line assisting one of the guests. After Pippa assured him that we were perfectly all right, he said he’d call the tow truck immediately. We then assessed our ability to get out of the car, seeing as we were surrounded by junipers. “We’re crawling out the back, then,” I said, popping the trunk of my SUV. Boomer leapt out, tail wagging. Pippa and I hopped down with less joy.

  “Well, it’s been one hell of a day,” she said. “And we still have dinner with my family in”—she checked her watch—“oh, about an hour. If you’re still up for it, that is.”

  “Of course,” I said, with more enthusiasm than I felt.

  Practically on cue, the sky changed hues from a pale blue to a dusky purple. The fairy lights at the hotel would be popping on at any minute.

  “Pippa,” I said as we sat on my tailgate. “May I ask a very weird question?”

  Her look was amused. “With all the weirdness you’ve been witness to in the last couple of days, I don’t think you could shock me, Lucy.”

  “True,” I said. “Um, okay, how should I put this? Have you had anything strange happen to you recently?”

  She cocked her head to one side. “Strange—as in alien-abduction strange? Or strange as in my ex-boyfriend calling me out of the blue and trying to get back together with me strange? The former has never happened, and the latter did about a week ago. I told him thanks, but no thanks.”

  I grinned. “Somewhere in between.” I gestured to my car. “Something like this kind of strange. Where you might have been hurt under the right circumstances. Or something completely different, but still odd. Like having someone be unduly interested in you, asking questions about you and your family for no apparent reason.”

  Pippa was looking at me like I was strange now. “Not that I can think of,” she said. “Why?”

  Headlights flashed, and we saw a tow truck rumbling our way. At the same time, we heard our names being called. It was Mrs. P., rushing toward us.

  “I’ll tell you later,” I said. “Why don’t you head Mrs. P. off at the pass and go inside while I get my car situated?”

  Pippa jumped up and called Boomer to her side. I heard her repeating the squirrel story to a concerned Mrs. P. as the tow truck driver backed the truck up to my car.

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  “Yeah, I know Frank’s Repair Shop,” the tow truck driver said as he handed me paperwork to sign. “I’ll take it there right now and have him give you a call.” Then he touched the brim of his cap and drove off, hauling my scraped-up car.

  A small wave of unsteadiness washed over me as I walked to the hotel in the rapidly darkening evening. I recognized the combination of low blood sugar and fading adrenaline. Digging in my tote once more, I came up with a peppermint and popped it into my mouth. I had so much to think about, not to mention three lines of code to break and a Sutton-family dinner to attend. First, however, I needed to check on Grandpa.

  Nurse Angelique assured me he was doing better, had eaten well, and was sleeping again, and the relief made me feel better. “Shall I tell him you’ll visit first thing in the morning?” she asked.

  “First thing, absolutely,” I said.

  I was almost upon the sign for the Hotel Sutton, which had been decorated for the holidays with lots of garland and shiny ornaments. I thought about Roselyn, how she’d glared at me earlier, and how Pippa thought she might be in with some bad people. I wondered if, just maybe, Roselyn was so scared of having her secret discovered by me that she would try to kill me—or get someone else to do it for her.

  Somehow, it didn’t seem right. I couldn’t pinpoint why, but it just didn’t.

  When I made it through the hotel’s front doors, Mrs. P. was once again helping out the Nguyen-Sobnoskis. When she glanced up at me, I pointed to myself, flashed a thumbs-up, and smiled. She nodded, though still looked concerned even as she put her focus back on her guests.

  * * *

  A half hour later, I found myself seated next to Uncle Dave at dinner. He held up his wineglass. “No Napoli old fashioneds for me tonight, no way. Sticking to good ol’ wine.”

  He was looking abashed again, so I clinked my wineglass to his. “To a delicious meal, good wine, and wonderful friends and family,” I said. Pippa, who was on my other side at the head of the table, seconded our toast as a team of waiters put our first course in front of us, a teaser of Chef Rocky’s famous handmade butternut squash gnocchi with sage butter sauce.

  Uncle Dave attacked his with gusto, and I leaned in toward Pippa. “Speaking of buttern
ut squash, any word from Detective Dupart about a certain kitchen staffer?”

  She shook her head, then stopped when Mrs. P. came up to her shoulder and whispered in her ear.

  “Oh, of course,” Pippa said, clapping one hand to her cheek. “I’m so sorry, Mrs. P. I brought Mr. Naveed’s check, but I must have left it in the kitchen when I was checking in with Chef Cardo. Hang on and I’ll go get it.” She was up and striding away through the kitchen doors before anyone could even ask what was going on.

  “Mr. Naveed is doing the flowers for our New Year’s Eve party,” Mrs. P. explained, casting a smile around the table. Her expression cooled into barely concealed dislike when she got to Uncle Dave, who was unfolding his napkin and putting it in his lap. I could almost see his hackles rise when he caught the look on Mrs. P.’s face.

  Taking up his wineglass, he drawled, “So, Mrs. Pollingham, how is that boyfriend of yours? Has he shown up here for any gelato lately?” He brought the glass to his lips, not quite hiding his smirk.

  I turned to see the pink spots in Mrs. P.’s cheeks deepening into a flush.

  Aunt Melinda said, “Why, Mrs. P., I didn’t know you were seeing someone. How wonderful!” She clapped her hands together. “What’s his name? How did you meet him?”

  Mrs. P. opened her mouth, but Uncle Dave answered for her.

  “He’s some accountant staying at the Sutton Grand for work. He moved in while I was working there. Took one look at our Mrs. P. here and I thought I was going to have to attach his jaw to my fishing reel and crank it back up into place.” He mimed reeling something in and guffawed. His relatives grinned, giving Uncle Dave the encouragement to continue.

  “They were the toast of the hotel for the rest of the time I was there, ol’ Mr. H. and Mrs. P. He was always asking her to go have gelato with him. They’d sit close together, talking history and their grandparents who’d lived through the war.” He sent her an exaggerated wink, the tail end of which he slid my way. “And on more than one night, I saw her sending a whiskey up to his room as a nightcap. The good stuff, too, not a blend.” He clapped one hand to his heart. “Oh, the signs of true love.”