Ben was still looking at the phone screen. “From the time stamps, it looks like this woman left exactly one minute later.”
“And she looks angry,” Camilla said. “Do y’all see her expression? She looks like she could spit nails.”
Dupart asked, “Is it possible Mr. Braithwaite got out of bed and answered the door?”
Camilla considered this. “It’s possible, I guess. He was feeling better after seeing the doctor, who told him that while she didn’t know what was causing his current issues, they didn’t seem connected with the heart problems he has. But then, like I said, he worked the rest of the afternoon with his photos and making phone calls, and he was exhausted after that.” Finally, she shook her head. “Honestly, I don’t know. If he did answer the door, what could he have possibly said to this woman to make her so upset? Uncle Charlie was unfailingly polite.”
“I can attest to that,” I said.
“And if he didn’t answer the door,” Ben said, “that meant someone was already inside.”
Dupart checked the camera log again. “The camera doesn’t show anyone coming in through the front door prior to this, so if someone else was already in the house, they would have come in through the side door or the garage door, correct?”
Camilla nodded.
“Does Ms. Trudeau or anyone else have the key code to that door?” Dupart asked.
“Elaine does, yes. I told Uncle Charlie that wasn’t a good idea, but he said he trusted her.” Frowning again, she looked back the phone screen. “I want to know who this woman is, though.”
Dupart played the video again, and this time, I moved to Camilla’s side to watch it.
“Yes, Ms. Lancaster?” Dupart said, his eyes trained on me. “Do you know the woman in the video?”
I hadn’t realized that I’d sucked in a sharp breath. She’d let her hair down, and was wearing glasses, but I recognized her easily.
“She’s my art restorer friend. That’s Helen Kim.”
FIFTEEN
I got up from my desk and leaned against the windowsill, staring out of the tall, paned windows of my office into the bright morning. A mockingbird fluttered down onto the railing of the balcony while across the room Josephine was listening to a conference call on a headset, every so often breaking in to clarify something in French to one client or in English to another. On my computer screen were the scans of Charles Braithwaite’s Civil War journal, but I hadn’t been able to concentrate on them. Instead, I was thinking about Camilla and her uncle Charlie.
Last night, as Ben and I had walked out of Charlie’s house and headed to the car, we could still see the rear lights of Dupart’s sedan with Camilla inside, taking her to the station to make her formal statement. Before they’d left, I’d told her to call me if she needed anything, even if it were at some ungodly hour of the night. I’d taken the chance and reached out to squeeze her fingers, whispering with emotion, “I’m so very sorry about Charlie, Camilla.” Her eyes had shimmered with tears, but she’d only nodded before turning away.
“You’re worried about her, aren’t you?” Ben had asked me as he started his Explorer.
“You overheard what the tech said to Dupart,” I replied. “While they have to run the prints, it looked like there were only two sets in the bedroom, which are likely hers and Charlie’s. She could really be a suspect.”
“Dupart’s a good cop,” Ben said, taking my hand. “He’ll flush out every lead before doing anything.”
“I know,” I said, thankful for the warmth of his hand in mine because I’d begun to feel cold all over as we drove into the night. “But there’s also the question of Helen. What on earth was she doing there? And if Charlie answered the door, what could he possibly have said to her to make her give him such an angry look when she left?”
“And if Charlie didn’t answer the door, then who did?” Ben said.
“True.” I shook my head in consternation. “I wish Dupart hadn’t told me I couldn’t contact Helen.”
“He said he would prefer you didn’t until he spoke with her,” Ben reminded me. “Not the same thing. He’ll have interviewed her by noon tomorrow. You can call her after that.”
At a stoplight, I’d loosened my seat belt to lean over the console and kiss him. If there was one thing I’d learned in encountering death so much recently, it was to not forget to enjoy the lovely things in life, like being with someone you care about. I’d only known Charlie Braithwaite a short time, but I felt like he would want me to smile and kiss the man who treated me well.
Something featherlight hit my back and I jerked back to the present and the sunny morning outside my window. I swiveled around; Josephine had just shot a rubber band at me. Headset still on over her curls, she said something in French to her clients and then laughed at their response. Then, to me, she mouthed the word Tea? and theatrically mimed sipping from a teacup before mouthing, And toast? and acting out the buttering of toast and then biting into it with such relish that I had to grin. Giving her a thumbs-up, I was turning toward our break room when our office door opened and Serena breezed in.
“Why are you here?” she demanded, though she was careful to whisper so as not to interrupt Jo’s conference call. “Why aren’t you at home doing all sorts of heavenly things with Ben?”
“Ben and I are definitely not slacking on the heavenly things,” I replied as we moved behind the upholstered screens that separated our break room from the rest of our open-floor-plan office. Then I gave her the shortest possible explanation of last night’s events while filling the tea kettle and cutting two pieces of scratch-made sourdough bread and popping them in the toaster oven.
“That’s awful,” Serena said. “I truly feel sorry for Camilla, but even still, it’s you I care about. You doing okay?”
“I am, but you’re wonderful for asking,” I assured her as I added a pat of butter to each piece of bread as it toasted.
Serena eyed me, then nodded, convinced I wasn’t pulling the wool over her eyes. “All right, then. I’m only here for another minute. Hasana Pritzger asked me to be her personal stylist for an episode of Making a House a Home. I have one hour to get everything I need before I drive to the Hill Country with a car full of outfits and shoes.”
“Where exactly is the house in question that will be made into a home?” I asked, pulling down the teapot and filling the strainer with English breakfast tea leaves.
Serena had pulled a short, lightweight wool wrap coat in petal pink off the mannequin she used to test outfits for her blog. “It’s in the town of Junction,” she said, slipping on the coat and tying the belt in an expert way that I’d never mastered. “Somewhere on a gorgeous stretch of the Llano River. I’m at the Whitehurst B-and-B for two nights, and I’ll be back on Thursday.”
“You look smashing. Have a safe trip,” I said before she hustled to the door again, looking chic with the soft pink coat over her smart-looking all-black travel ensemble that flattered her curves and made her blond hair seem brighter.
Josephine covered her headset’s microphone with her hand and whispered, “And have a lovely time!”
“I always do,” Serena replied with a wink, and then she was out the door, blowing us an air kiss as she left.
I arranged teacups, saucers, a little pitcher of milk, apricot jam, and extra butter on the antique cherrywood rolling cart we’d found during our last trip to the Round Top Antiques Fair. Then I rolled it out so it sat between Jo’s desk and my own. Pouring her a cup, I added a splash of milk like she preferred it, and then handed it to her with her toast, which I’d also prepped to her liking—slathered edge to edge with apricot jam.
Thanks, love, she mouthed, then spoke into her headset in a torrent of fluent French.
Taking my own toast and tea, sans milk, to my desk, I tried to focus on Charles Braithwaite’s journal entries. It’s not that they weren’t interesting—they definitely were—it’s just that my mind was simply elsewhere. A moment later, my computer flashed a notif
ication of a couple of new emails, and I saw that one was the latest digest from Chronology of their ten most popular recent articles. Clicking on the email, I read with some dismay that the article on Charles Braithwaite was coming in as their fourth most-read.
Rats. For Camilla’s sake, especially after the tragedy of last night, I was kind of hoping the article would be a dud for the magazine and no one would care. I felt a renewed surge of determination to research Charles Braithwaite’s military service with an open mind. I didn’t know if contacting Savannah Lundstrom to understand why she had chosen the direction she did in her article would help me or not, but I figured it would be worth a try. Plus, I needed to ask her for her source citations as well, so I had double the reasons to call her.
I looked over toward Josephine; she was still on her call, concentrating on what her clients were saying as she chewed on a piece of toast. Snagging my own piece, I went out on the balcony, looking up the number for the Chronology office in Washington, DC, as I bit into one buttery, jam-covered corner.
I was surprised to find Savannah Lundstrom’s direct office line listed on the magazine’s website. I was less surprised to have my call go straight to voice mail. I listened to her message, noting a hint of a Texas accent in her confident voice.
“This is Savannah Lundstrom, senior journalist for Chronology magazine. Please note that for the first three weeks in March, I will be traveling in Texas and Louisiana for articles I’m researching, along with two speaking engagements. However, I check my messages regularly and will return your call at my first opportunity. If you are calling to suggest a story to our magazine, please email our offices at—”
I was gearing up to leave her a polite message explaining who I was and requesting a callback regarding her most recent article on Charles Braithwaite when my call-waiting beeped in my ear.
It was Camilla. Hurriedly, I ended the call just as the tone sounded for me to leave a message on Savannah’s voice mail.
“I was hoping you’d call,” I told Camilla. “How are you doing?”
Camilla’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Well, let’s see. My great-uncle was murdered last night, I’m still a person of interest, and, as I understand it, the person who I think killed him simply waltzed down to the airport and left on a plane. How do you think I am, Lucy?”
Suppressing a sigh, I took another bite of toast and said through my mouthful, “I take it you’re talking about Elaine Trudeau?” I certainly understood Camilla’s stress, and I had immense sympathy, but I didn’t need the attitude. If I was going to be snapped at, I deserved carbs.
“Of course I am. I overheard Detective Dupart telling one of his minions,” Camilla replied tightly, before adding, “What are you eating? Oh, never mind.” I heard a door open. From the whirring sound of a lock retracting, I guessed she was at Charlie’s house.
“Did Dupart say where Elaine went?”
“No,” Camilla said in an acid tone. “I asked, but it appears they don’t tell murder suspects information like that.”
“Right,” I said, taking another bite of toast.
My suspicion that Camilla was in her great-uncle’s house was confirmed when I heard her curse and say, “Stupid, disgusting fingerprint powder. It’s everywhere.”
I told Camilla I had some experience with the stuff and had the name and number of a service that could clean the house for her. After forwarding her the contact, I said, “Did Dupart tell you anything of note?”
“Yeah, he implied that because of how Elaine’s timeline played out, the chances she could have killed Uncle Charlie are slim, but I call bull crap on that.” Camilla’s voice was becoming heated. “You watched the doorbell camera footage, Lucy. We saw Elaine speeding off in her car. Before that, she could have come in the house, smothered Uncle Charlie, and been gone with the painting in under ten minutes. I called a friend of mine who’s a doctor and she confirmed that with Uncle Charlie’s health issues and weakened condition, three minutes is all it would have taken to suffocate him.”
I had to admit, Camilla probably had a point, and cool, efficient Elaine Trudeau seemed like she could smother someone, artfully trash an office to make it look like someone else had done it, and walk out with a large painting without appearing remotely ruffled. Not to mention having a discerning eye that would lead her to pick out the Vietnamese jade dragons and a few other expensive items to steal.
But there had also been the jade horse in Charlie’s bedroom, so why wasn’t that taken, too?
My phone tucked between my ear and my shoulder, I leaned on the iron railing of our balcony, looking out over Congress Avenue, chewing my toast, and thinking about timelines and what items could have been carted off in a hurry. The jade dragons were small enough to fit in a pocket, unlike the horse. If I had only a few minutes and I knew I had to risk walking outside holding a big painting, I wouldn’t go for a heavy figurine that couldn’t easily be concealed, either. Nope, I’d take smaller ones that I could stash in my pockets as I traipsed out, brazenly holding a potentially valuable piece of art.
“Lucy, are you listening?” demanded Camilla. “I said, can I ask you to do me a favor?”
“Of course,” I said automatically.
“Detective Dupart requested I not leave the city until they verify my alibi, and I need to make sure my third of the triptych is safe,” she said. “Since I can’t go, will you go get it for me?”
SIXTEEN
It took me a moment to realize what she meant, and once I did, I nearly choked on my toast. “You want me to drive to Houston and take the painting from your house?”
“Yes,” Camilla said, an edge to her voice. “I know Detective Dupart will be able to confirm everything I told him soon, but I’m worried that Elaine”—the reasonable side of Camilla seemed to be coming back because she sighed and amended it with—“okay, fine, that whoever killed Uncle Charlie will go after my painting next. My ex has been staying at the house with my boys. But, it’s their school’s spring break and they’re leaving this afternoon for a camping trip, so the painting will be unprotected. And I don’t have an alarm system.”
Turning so the railing was at my back, I saw the deep frown on my face reflected in the big windows of my office. Working my expression into a more relaxed one, I strove to do the same with my reply.
“Camilla, we don’t yet know whether what happened to Charlie was a deliberate act by someone wanting to get to the painting or a robbery gone terribly wrong. It’s possible someone had noticed Charlie was in a weakened state and therefore targeted his house for a robbery, then resorted to murder when—and I’m only guessing on this—Charlie woke up and threatened to call the police. That would make it an extra-heinous act, yes, but still a random one.”
I heard the sound of our balcony door opening and looked up, then smiled as Ben stepped over the threshold. Another guy, this one with smiling brown eyes and thick dark hair, stuck his head out the door as well and waved at me. It was Ahmad, Josephine’s boyfriend. I grinned and waved back, all the while keeping track of my point to Camilla.
“So, with a random act being a possibility, why do you think your part of the painting is at risk?”
“I just do, okay?” Camilla said.
“I’m afraid that’s not enough for me, Camilla,” I said, as Ben leaned up against the railing and wrapped his arms around my waist. I turned my phone out a little so he could hear, too, and added, “Especially if you want me to drive all the way to Houston for you.”
I heard Camilla make a frustrated noise. “Okay, look,” she said finally, “a couple of weeks back, when Uncle Charlie told me he thought there might be another painting underneath his piece of the triptych, I remembered that my panel had a small bit of damage along the left side of the frame. It happened ages ago, when I was a kid, courtesy of my cat trying to use the barnwood frame as a scratching post and catching part of the painting in the process. It was so minor you couldn’t really see under the canvas at the time, but since the
damage to the canvas was already there, I just made it a bit bigger—and I found the same thing Uncle Charlie did.”
“Oh, wow, that’s cool,” I said, the little part of me that was art obsessed perking up again.
“Yes, it is,” Camilla said, “but as I didn’t quite realize what we might have on our hands, I went and told everyone I know about it. About both Charlie’s find and mine.”
I glanced up at Ben, who was listening intently.
“Everyone?” I echoed.
“Yeah, pretty much everyone,” she replied. “My ex-husband, my coworkers, my brother, my hairstylist, two other cousins …” She paused. “And Neil Gaynor.”
So much had happened, it took me a second to recall the name. “You mean the PhD candidate who is trying to sue your family for monies his family lost back in the 1920s?”
“That’s the one,” Camilla said, a bleak note in her voice. “I told him about a week before I was notified of his lawsuit. After that, I quit talking about our paintings and didn’t mention them to another soul until I told you.”
But it was possible the damage had already been done, I thought, and one of the people she told could have set their sights on obtaining all three triptych pieces, even if it meant killing to get them.
“Did Neil Gaynor seem unduly interested in this news?” I asked, and felt Ben nod his approval at my question.
“Yeah, he did,” Camilla said. “Who doesn’t like the idea of stumbling upon a bit of history and then possibly making money off it?” She let out a dry laugh. “You see stories about that all the time on Antiques Roadshow and in publications like Chronology, and I don’t know anyone who doesn’t find them fascinating.”
She was right. I followed the magazine on all its social media platforms, and every so often there was a post about an exciting find. I couldn’t resist reading them each and every time.
“That’s true,” I said. “Did your brother and two cousins have the same reaction as the others when you told them about the hidden paintings?”
Fatal Family Ties Page 10