Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  “You look wonderful,” I told her. “I haven’t seen you since your grand-opening party when you christened this place.” I used a forkful of cupcake to make a sweeping gesture around the bright space Helen had moved into last October.

  Her shop was located a few minutes from the Alden museum, in a short strip mall that was all modern white brick with black accents. Helen had snagged the corner spot, which also featured a loading bay for clients who needed to bring in larger items for restoration. Otherwise, it consisted of a long main workroom with one large countertop-height worktable in the middle and three smaller ones against the wall. At the far end of the room was a series of rollers holding different types of linen canvas, as well as another table Helen called her lining table. Among the paintings in various stages of restoration around the room, I saw a beautiful old mirror with a chipped frame, some pretty ceramics, a large blue-and-white Chinese vase, and a beautifully glazed majolica greyhound with some cracks and a leg waiting to be reattached. Through a wide, open doorway, just beyond a highboy chest of drawers that was awaiting some care, was a smaller room that held Helen’s office, the garagelike door to the loading bay, and a steel door that led to a temperature-controlled walk-in vault.

  Helen glanced around with pride. “It’s a great location, and I’ve enjoyed it here, I have to say.” She bit into her cupcake with a happy sigh. “Oh, so yummy …”

  As we sipped our coffee, Helen and I fell into our old routine, segueing naturally from topic to topic. She and her longtime boyfriend were still going strong and thinking of marriage. When I told her about Ben and pulled up a photo, Helen grabbed my phone and let out a long, appreciative whistle. Swiping to a photo I’d snapped yesterday, when Ben had been walking toward me in nothing but a pair of faded jeans, she began to fan herself. “He’s downright hot—and he looks like a young Harrison Ford. Do you realize this, Luce?”

  “Little bit, yeah,” I said, holding my thumb and index finger about a centimeter apart as a giddy smile spread across my face.

  Laughing and joking, we kept talking for another quarter of an hour, until she checked the time. Knowing she had a customer coming in soon, I got down to business.

  Opening my iPad to the photos I’d taken of Charlie’s panel from the triptych, I asked if she’d heard of the Braithwaite family.

  “Sure,” she said with a shrug. “Mostly by reputation as being wealthy and philanthropic. I’ve never met any of them, though, and I didn’t know they had any artists in the family.”

  I grinned. “I didn’t think I’d met any of the Braithwaites, either, but it turns out I worked with one for sixteen months.” Then I explained that I was doing some genealogy work for Camilla, and how the panels of the Civil War triptych done by her ancestor had been passed down through the three branches of the family. I told Helen about seeing Charlie’s piece of the triptych and about the toddler incident that had led to him noticing another painting underneath the top canvas. “He then asked if I had any friends in the art world who could tell him how to proceed, and of course I thought of you.”

  “I’m honored,” Helen said, beaming. “Now let’s see this baby. You said they called it folk art in style?”

  “For lack of a better term, I think,” I said, then showed her a photo of Charlie’s panel.

  Helen glanced at it, then gave me a hilarious wide-eyed look.

  “I had pretty much the same reaction,” I said with a laugh.

  Helen was a professional, though, and got to work studying the images, using two fingers to enlarge and better inspect certain parts.

  “Hmm, well, I can tell you with some confidence that this painting wasn’t done by a trained artist,” she said. “The brushstrokes lack refinement. The painting has a naive quality to it, to say the least, and just from these photos I’d guess the canvas wasn’t prepped properly.” She enlarged the photo again. “In fact, I’d bet it was hardly prepped at all, but I’d have to see it to be sure.”

  “Of course,” I agreed. “Now, let me show you what Charlie found after the toddler accidentally ripped the canvas.” I swiped to the last set of photos.

  A hint of excitement colored Helen’s voice as she examined them. “Now this was done by a true artist. If there’s this much detail in such a little piece of a man’s head and neck, I can only imagine what the rest of it looks like. You never know, there could be something really special under there. I’d guess at the very least it’s a figural painting—meaning human figures are the primary subjects. Did you see the verso?”

  My inner art geek had heard this term before. “That’s the back of the painting, right?”

  Helen nodded, but I shook my head. “Charlie said there’s some sort of heavy cardboard backing that’s concealing whatever is underneath. He said he wasn’t confident enough to try and remove it.”

  Helen looked mildly horrified that Charlie had even contemplated this. “I’m glad he didn’t,” she said with feeling. “He could have damaged both the paintings, and if there is something special under the top one and he didn’t use proper handling techniques, he could have reduced the value. No, I’ll be happy to go over there to look at it. He definitely needs to have the painting seen by an art restorer like me who’s also a conservator. After that, I’d recommend a good art appraiser.”

  “What’s the difference between an art restorer and a conservator?” I asked.

  “A lot more specialized training,” Helen answered with a smile. “Most well-trained art restorers are also conservators, but it’s not always the other way around. I happen to love conservation, but being self-employed, it’s the restoration part that’s my bread and butter. Good thing I love that part, too.”

  “I understand that,” I said. “I love all parts of my job, too, but I do wish I got to make more videos of my clients relating their family’s stories. With the technology out there today, I can make them much more sophisticated and interesting than they were even a couple of years ago. I’m starting to do outdoor, documentary-like videos where my clients walk around their favorite spots and talk about their family memories and such. They’re really fun to create.”

  “That sounds amazing,” Helen said. She tapped my iPad screen again. “But talking about outdoor videos reminds me—is this a panoramic triptych? Do the three pieces form a panoramic scene when put together?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know, but I think it’s likely. Camilla did say the triptych was a battle scene, but she was talking about the outer painting, not what’s underneath.”

  Helen said, “Well, it won’t help the value of this painting, but if what’s under it is better and a panoramic Civil War triptych? Now that would be very interesting indeed.”

  “Is there a big market for Civil War art?” I asked.

  She nodded in an exaggerated way. “Yes. It’s one of the biggest art markets there is in America.”

  “Even by an unknown artist?” I asked.

  “Are you completely sure Charles Braithwaite is unknown?” replied Helen. Before I could answer, she reached across the table for her laptop, saying, “Let’s check, shall we?”

  She pulled up a website, explaining that it was a subscription-based site with listings of known artists and what their art had sold for at auction, as well as examples of their verified signatures.

  “Yep, he’s listed,” she said. “Though there’s not much on him except for his signature.” She pointed to the image, where I saw Charles signed his works merely “C. Braithwaite” in bold, forward-slanting strokes, plus a longer than average cross-stroke on the second “t” in his surname.

  Helen continued, “It was taken from an illustration he did titled Life in the Lumber Mill in 1887 that was sold at auction five years ago to a collector. He’s not even known for Civil War art. He apparently mainly sold illustrations to newspapers as a side job and is best known for—”

  “The Texas Emancipation Day announcement drawing,” I said, reading the words on the screen out loud. Reaching for my tote, I p
ulled out the Chronology article. The sight of the magazine reminded me I’d wanted to call the reporter, Savannah Lundstrom. Problem was, I hadn’t yet thought of a way to tactfully ask her why she’d felt the need to levy an attack on the Braithwaite family via their ancestor. Making a mental note to think about that later, I found the page I wanted and showed Helen the photo of Charles Braithwaite’s drawing of the 1865 Texas Emancipation Day announcement in Galveston, Texas, adding, “His journal, which has some of his other sketches, is in the Alden museum.” I pulled up one of the photos I’d taken that morning to show her.

  Helen looked appreciatively at it, then found a magnifying glass and looked at the drawing in the magazine. “Both are highly detailed,” she murmured. “He certainly had a knack for capturing people and their emotions.”

  She gave me the magnifying glass and I got a close-up look at Charles Braithwaite’s painting for the first time. “Wow,” I said. “He really was talented, there’s no doubt about it.”

  “See, ninety percent of a painting’s worth is who painted it, not just what was painted,” Helen explained. “The fact that we have proof of Charles Braithwaite as an artist could potentially be helpful to the value of the painting that’s underneath, if what is found is of an interesting enough subject, of course. And if there’s a historical figure in the scene—such as Robert E. Lee—that could make it even more valuable.”

  That sense of excitement I’d felt in Charlie’s office when I saw the neck of the soldier underneath the top canvas was coming back. Could Charlie have found something of real importance? I was looking forward to finding out.

  “You said Camilla has another piece of the triptych,” Helen said, interrupting my thoughts. “Has she found anything under hers?”

  I groaned. “I didn’t even ask her. Can you believe it?” I explained how I’d let Camilla grouse about Elaine Trudeau the whole way back to my condo. “And asking about her part of the painting just slipped my mind.”

  Helen was unperturbed, though. “What about the third panel?”

  I tilted my head from side to side. “Now, that’s where it gets a bit trickier. It’s owned by someone in the third branch of the Braithwaite family, of course. Camilla descends from the younger son, and Charlie descends from the older son. Those branches have stayed in touch somewhat. The third branch, however—”

  “Branched out?” Helen offered, grinning.

  “Oh, that was a really bad genealogy pun,” I said, and Helen affected a bow from her seat. “So, yes, that side of the family went off in their own direction. Presumably, they still have the painting, but we don’t know.”

  Helen picked up her cappuccino. “Let’s hope they haven’t already found the painting underneath it and sold it sometime in the past.”

  I blinked at her. “I didn’t think about that. Would we know if that actually happened?”

  Helen went back on the website she’d showed me earlier, explaining that the database kept track of what paintings were sold and the prices they fetched. She tried several key words, but there weren’t any matches for a painting that could possibly match what she believed was under Charlie’s piece of the triptych. She tried other databases as well, with the same result.

  “So does that mean it’s never been sold?” I asked hopefully.

  “Possibly,” Helen said. “But it could have been sold to a private collector, or there’s the faint possibility it could have been stolen ages ago and sold to a collector who lives in Japan.” When I asked what she meant by that, she explained, “Most countries have reciprocal treaties to return stolen art. Japan, however, does not. If the third piece happened to end up there, then it’s unlikely it will ever come back stateside—but I think it’s less probable because there’s not a demand for American Civil War art in Japan.”

  Angling my coffee cup to my lips, I said, “Then let’s hope the third piece is still around and no distant Braithwaite cousin has decided it’s so ugly, they’re willing to sell it at a garage sale for ten bucks like Camilla’s brother nearly did.”

  Helen laughed, then looked at the photo of Charlie’s painting once more. “You know, I’ve always loved triptychs, so I can’t wait to see this hot mess of a painting up close and personal. Plus, if it looks like any amount of restoration or conservation is warranted once I see it, I’ll hint to Charlie Braithwaite with the subtlety of, oh, say, a freight train that he should use me for the job.”

  “High-five to that,” I said, and she slapped her palm to mine.

  ELEVEN

  Ben took my hand as we strolled across Pfluger Pedestrian Bridge. Charming carriage lamps illuminated the wide walkway that spanned Lady Bird Lake and spring flowers were bursting out of large planters set at intervals along the railings. A few other couples were doing the same thing we were, along with the inevitable joggers and bicyclists who used the bridge to cross to the other side of the reservoir.

  Leaning against one handrail was a guy strumming a guitar. He had a full beard and gold hoops in each ear, and wore surfer shorts, hiking boots, a fisherman’s sweater, and a silver-belly felt cowboy hat with a hatband made of old bottle caps. He was doing his best to keep Austin weird as he entertained us with an acoustic version of the Heart classic “Crazy on You.”

  The night air was cool, so I was glad I’d chosen to wear a cropped jean jacket over my sleeveless A-line little black dress. Ben and I had just come from a romantic dinner at a nearby French Vietnamese restaurant. Seeing as our meal had ended with coffees and—despite my cupcake with Helen earlier—two macarons each, we’d decided a constitutional was in order.

  “I’m so full,” I said with a laugh, my hand over my stomach. “But that was amazing. Thank you for taking me there.”

  “I’m glad you liked it. I’m not nearly as addicted to that place as you are to Big Flaco’s Tacos, but I’m happy to go there any time you like.”

  “Which will be often, I think,” I said. “Only, if Flaco finds out, I’m blaming you hard.”

  “Oh? Willing to throw me under the bus, are you, Ms. Lancaster?” Ben said.

  “When it comes to keeping my standing as Flaco’s favorite customer and honorary fourth child? Heck yeah, I’ll hand you to him hog-tied and on a silver platter.”

  Ben’s eyes crinkled as he laughed. “Somehow, I don’t doubt it.”

  I walked sideways just long enough to rake my eyes up and down his lean frame like I was picking out choice cuts at my local butcher’s. “You don’t have enough meat on you to make more than a few tacos al carbon, I’m afraid,” I said, and gave his firm backside a little pat, “but he could make some good carnitas off of this rump roast.” Tapping my lips with one finger, I gave him a final, salacious once-over. “Oh yes, you’d do quite nicely.”

  Ben’s face had smoothed into a blank mask. He pulled out his cell phone, clicked on the voice memo app, and said, “Note to coworkers: If I go missing, check walk-in freezer at Big Flaco’s Tacos, and immediately slap handcuffs on my girlfriend.”

  This was heard by a passing couple, who looked at us in such shock, Ben and I burst out laughing. “All taco-themed cannibalism jokes aside,” he said, pulling me in close, “I’ve no doubt Flaco would do anything for you.”

  “He does take his duties as my second father seriously,” I agreed.

  “No kidding,” Ben said, grinning, as we started walking again. “This morning at breakfast, when you went outside to take that call from one of your other clients, he grilled me about my intentions. He’s a damn good interrogator, let me tell you, and he made it very clear you’re special to him and that I’d better ask for a transfer to another city if I screw this up.”

  I giggled, then stopped in my tracks, gaping up at Ben. “Wait. Are you serious?”

  He nodded. “Yeah, but I didn’t mind.” He turned me to face him again, rubbing the back of my hand with his thumb, which I was fast learning was his sweet little quirk. “Look, Lucy, you’ve proven you can take care of yourself, but I have to admit it felt goo
d to know that when I’m, ah, out of town for work, there’s someone else here in Austin who cares about you and would go to every length possible for you.”

  I blinked, digesting what he’d said and all the sweet things it implied, before I used the lapels of his tweed sport coat to pull him down to my level for a passionate kiss.

  The surfer-cowboy switched to another song as Ben and I stood there, wrapped in each other for a long moment.

  Though he and I had spent some quality time together back in January, his next assignment had called him away just as we’d begun getting into that groove of how two people are around each other when you take out the romantic bits—and, in our cases, the fraught-with-danger bits. I think we’d both been happy and relieved to find our personalities still fit nicely together when we were just being the regular, everyday versions of ourselves.

  Eventually, my mind pulled back to the here and now, and I glanced over to where the guy in the cowboy hat was crooning. “Huh. You wouldn’t think Def Leppard’s ‘Rock of Ages’ would make for a good acoustic ballad, but it kinda does. Surfer-cowboy dude isn’t a bad singer.”

  “Actually, that reminds me,” Ben said. “Mrs. Singer made me promise I’d tell you she wants to talk to you about doing her family tree.”

  For a second, I drew a blank, then the name rang a bell. “Mrs. Singer, your neighbor who stocks your freezer with desserts?” I asked.

  “Yep. She’s been wanting her genealogy done for years, and now that her eldest son is married and expecting his first child, she’s decided the time is perfect.”

  “I’d be happy to, then,” I said. “Do you want to just give her my number?”

  We turned and started walking again. “I offered,” Ben said, “but Mrs. Singer is old-school. She likes business cards so she can put them in her alphabetized business card binder. She told me she hasn’t decided whether to put you under ‘G’ for genealogist, ‘A’ for Ancestry Investigations, or ‘L’ for Lucy. She’s going to wait to meet you to decide.”