Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  The cookies, however, proved to be the right move, as the easygoing personality I now knew to be more Ben’s regular temperament began to resurface. But then, cookies are pretty fail-safe for improving anyone’s mood.

  Ben’s phone buzzed with a work call he’d been expecting. Kissing his cheek, I said, “I’m going to go check out Camilla’s painting.” He handed me his keys with a wink, though his voice was all business as he answered the call.

  I got up and strolled back to Ben’s car, slowing further as the two vehicles on either side of Ben’s Explorer tried to back out of their respective spaces at the same time and nearly collided. A guy in a black Suburban made a rude hand gesture at the person in the other car, a gray BMW. Then the BMW tore out of the parking lot, music blaring. The Suburban gunned it to the edge of the lot, too, but then turned the opposite direction, nearly cutting off another driver at the same time.

  “Jeez. That’s all we would have needed today, a road rage incident,” I muttered. I was glad to see them go, however, as it left only Ben’s Explorer and two other cars on the opposite side of the small parking lot, giving me space to inspect Camilla’s piece of the triptych without having to worry about anyone bothering me.

  A rush of cool wind hit me as I neared the car. Rain was forecast for the overnight hours, and the sky had gone from gloriously sunny to moody and cloudy in the last half hour. As a safety precaution, Ben had backed the Explorer into the parking space. The back window was just touching a tall stand of holly shrubs lining the edge of the parking lot, keeping anyone from being able to easily access the trunk. I unlocked the car and was about to hop in the driver’s side and pull the car forward enough to pop the trunk when I noticed the rubber weather strip that helped keep air and water out of the driver’s-side window was damaged. It looked like something had been wedged between it and the window, taking a tiny nick out of the hard rubber.

  Had someone tried to break into Ben’s car? I grimaced as I ran my finger over the damaged strip, then looked around as if the culprit might be standing a few feet away, holding up a confessing hand. I considered the two vehicles I’d just seen reversing out of their spots at the same time, but I hadn’t seen anything untoward before they drove away, so I thought about other culprits.

  Could it have been Gareth Fishwick? I asked myself. After all, Ben had walked him outside, but had then come back up to Camilla’s office to help me wrap the painting and take it downstairs. It had been, oh, about another ten minutes before we made it to the Explorer with the painting. If Gareth had been attempting to use a slim jim to open Ben’s car for whatever reason—to get back at Ben for tackling him?—only to be interrupted when he heard us coming outside, he could have been in his own vehicle and gone before Ben and I could have witnessed his attempts.

  Starting the Explorer and driving it forward a few feet, I also reasoned the damage could have been there for ages. Maybe Ben had lost his keys at some point and used a slim jim to spring the lock. Deciding Gareth was guilty before I’d even shown the issue to Ben was not fair.

  Popping the trunk and getting out, I turned back toward the picnic tables and caught sight of Ben. He was still on his phone call, running his thumb thoughtfully along the healed cut over his eye, from which I’d removed the stitches just before we’d left on our road trip. I made a mental note to show him the damage to the car. Then, pulling from my purse a small flashlight and pair of tweezers I’d brought with me, I went to inspect the painting.

  Carefully, I loosened the blanket until I could lift it up over the front of the canvas. It was framed in the same wide barnwood as the piece I’d seen at Charlie Braithwaite’s house. It didn’t matter that I’d seen the photo of all three panels in Charlie’s house and knew they were all similarly painted, it was different seeing it up close. The rectangular soldiers looked almost like LEGO figures and the horses like Play-Doh creations, but all in one-dimensional paint. Then there were several white cloud-blobs, something looking like it might be a mountain, and the blue, snakelike thing that I’d already guessed was supposed to be a river.

  I bit my lip to keep from laughing as I took it all in. It really was truly horrible.

  Yet then my eye caught a two-inch piece on the leftmost side where Camilla had carefully made a hole in the canvas. Using my tweezers to lift up the edge, I angled the flashlight into the crevice, and all my laughter disappeared.

  The detail of the soldier’s face was astounding. He was looking back over his shoulder and upward. It seemed his eyes were looking straight into mine. Every plane of his unwashed, unshaven face—down to the dirt and the scraggly beard—was depicted in stark detail. What made me unable to look away, however, was the fear etched across his face. It widened his blue eyes and flared the nostrils of his nose. His brow was sweaty, and the kerchief he wore around his neck was darkened and limp with perspiration as well. He wasn’t a boy like the young man named Powers whose tragic death Charles Braithwaite had supposedly witnessed and then written about in his journal. No, this soldier was very much a man, and he was plainly terrified.

  “Everything all right, Lucy?”

  I turned to see Ben approaching, looking concerned.

  “Come look at this,” I said, moving aside so he could bend over to see where I was shining the flashlight. He took it in for several long moments, then met my eyes.

  “I mean, wow,” he breathed. “That soldier has incredibly realistic detail, like the people depicted in Norman Rockwell’s paintings.” He peered once more at the soldier’s face. “He almost looks alive.”

  I ran my finger along the edge of the frame, wanting to touch the face, but not daring to. “And it’s as if he’s, I don’t know, beseeching you to understand the horrors he’s witnessing.”

  Ben nodded, still in awe. “No kidding. I’m really glad Helen made an appointment for us with a conservator. I can’t wait to see what else is under here.”

  I glanced at the time. “Speaking of, our appointment is in twenty minutes, so we’d better hustle.”

  Soon, Ben and I were driving east down Bissonnet Street toward the museum district, passing two of Houston’s independent bookstores within seconds of each other. Morris Art Conservation was just a few blocks farther on, within walking distance of the Museum of Fine Arts.

  “If we have time on the way back, I want to stop in at Murder by the Book,” I told him. “It’s pure heaven for anyone who likes mystery and crime fiction.”

  Ben smiled, keeping his eyes on the road. “First stop is to find out what secrets this painting has been hiding. Next stop is pure heaven.”

  TWENTY

  A stocky man in his thirties wearing a white lab coat met us at the side entrance to Morris Art Conservation. He had a cart for transporting the painting and a wide, friendly smile.

  “I’m Francisco Ramos—but please, call me Cisco,” he said.

  After quick introductions, Ben hopped back in his car to move it to the parking lot at the back of the building while I followed Cisco, who pushed the cart holding Camilla’s piece of the triptych into the loading dock. In no time, Ben was rounding the corner and striding our way as a gust of wind blew back part of the blanket protecting the painting. I gave Cisco a peek at the soldier’s terrified face and Cisco’s eyebrows rose in a way that told me he might be impressed despite himself.

  “I think I’ll be as interested as y’all are to see what’s under there,” he said. “Though I don’t know if Helen told you, but I can’t start on this until later today or tomorrow morning.”

  Ben and I exchanged glances. Helen hadn’t mentioned this in her text, and it made me more concerned than ever that she was still angry with me. Or, worse, that Dupart had actually found a reason to keep Helen on his suspect list.

  “I’m sorry,” Cisco said, misreading my expression, “but Helen’s request was last-minute and I’ve got another painting I absolutely have to finish up today.”

  Without going into details, I told him that we were grateful for his willin
gness to look at the painting on such short notice, but we were hoping to keep it in our possession.

  Cisco smiled. “No need to worry. I’ll be able to keep the painting safe. Do it all the time, and with paintings far more valuable than what’s under here, even if it’s a Civil War masterpiece.”

  It wasn’t hard to believe, but I still hesitated. After what had happened to Charlie Braithwaite, and then the possibility that someone had found a way to fake-text Gareth Fishwick and make him believe his ex-wife had asked him to take the painting, I truly believed someone was after it because they knew something special was underneath. I really didn’t want it to leave my sight. Ben looked like he was thinking along the same lines.

  Cisco, sensing our hesitation, launched into the security measures at Morris Art Conservation, which were considerable and made me feel a bit better. “I’ll be giving you documentation for your painting as well.”

  “Thanks, Cisco, we’d appreciate that,” I said, and we followed him though the loading dock, where he touched a key card on a retractable lanyard to a scanner. It beeped and he opened the door. Ben held it open as I walked in, followed by Cisco with the cart.

  From the direction Ben and I had come, Morris Art Conservation appeared to be a small, two-story office building. However, it felt much bigger on the inside, with large workrooms on either side of a long center hallway that made a right turn near the far end of the building.

  As we walked down the hall, Cisco told us there were a total of ten workrooms, all specializing in different types of conservation, from paper artifacts to paintings to sculptures, earthenware, and other artistic mediums. Each workroom had a security door that could only be opened by a key card and every door had a small window set in the upper third. Craning my neck as we walked past, I caught a glimpse of two conservationists in white lab coats lifting a modern-art sculpture from a protective crate. Through another window, I saw what looked to be equipment for digital photography. The whole time, Cisco was telling us about everything Morris Art Conservation offered.

  “Besides treatments, retouching, and all kinds of restoration, we can do various reports on your art’s condition for insurance purposes and the like, help get rid of pest infestations, and even make mounts and displays for collectors to best display their art.” As Cisco rolled the cart around a corner, he pointed to a staircase at the end of the hallway. “Then the second floor is part art gallery and part museum. We have a couple of docents and everything, and we often host small, but really well-curated exhibitions.” His enthusiasm for his job was infectious as he led us to the first workroom on the right after the corner.

  Inside the bright, clean room were three huge tables. Two had paintings on them in various states of conservation. Working on one was a smiling young woman sporting lavender-tinted hair tipped with pink at the ends and very short bangs going straight across her forehead. Cisco introduced her as Abbie, his assistant. She smiled at us and then went back to what she was doing, gently applying what looked like a long-handled cotton swab dipped in a clear liquid to the surface of a painting of three racehorses galloping toward the finish line. When she saw me looking interested, she explained.

  “I’m doing a cleaning of what we call accumulated surface grime on this eighteenth-century painting. Different paintings require different types of cleaning, so I performed a couple of patch tests until I found the right solution to best remove the smoke, dust, and whatnot. Then I wrap cotton around a wooden stick and use small, circular strokes, letting the solution and the swab do the job instead of pressure.” She waved the swab over the haunches of a dark bay horse that was in the lead. “See? He’s two shades lighter under all the years of grime. You can now see the flashes of coppery red in his coat that have been hidden for so long.”

  “That’s amazing,” I said, and Abbie beamed.

  Cisco then rubbed his hands together with a cheerful expression. “All right. Let me get some paperwork going for y’all.”

  I caught Ben watching me as Cisco moved off to another desk. “Are you sure you’re okay leaving the painting here?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said, nodding. “But should we have some extra safety measures, just in case?”

  Ben grinned. “I like the way you think, Ms. Lancaster. Why don’t we set up some security questions? You know, a question that Cisco is required to ask of anyone calling about the painting or attempting to come get it?”

  I nodded. “Good idea.”

  Again without going into too much detail, I explained to Cisco that some weird things were happening around the pieces of this triptych, and that no one except for Ben or me was allowed to come collect the painting once it had been uncovered and assessed.

  “If you get a phone call or a text message—even if you think it comes from Helen, or Ben, or me—you need to be suspicious,” I said.

  “Can do,” Cisco said. “We won’t let it out of our sight, will we, Abbie?”

  “We’ll take good care of it,” Abbie agreed.

  After spending a few minutes setting up some security protocols, Ben and I left the painting with Cisco and Abbie showed us the door to the parking lot. Ben received a work call as he and I got in the car, leaving me a few minutes to stew in my thoughts.

  Earlier, while we were enjoying our cookies and coffee, Ben had forwarded Dupart information about Gareth’s bogus text. Ben said that it was best to let Dupart handle looking into it, as it was his case, and I agreed, but there was nothing against thinking over other details, right?

  I was now sure someone knew there was another potentially valuable painting underneath the unsophisticated artwork both Charlie and Camilla Braithwaite had been proudly displaying for so many years. But who could it be?

  Camilla had admitted she’d told many people of her and her great-uncle’s finds, including Roxie and Patrice, PhD candidate Neil Gaynor, her brother, Tor, and others. All of them, presumably even Neil Gaynor, could have known Camilla was going to Austin to see her great-uncle. Yet Camilla hadn’t left her house empty and vulnerable. Instead, her ex, Gareth, and her two teenage sons—three tall, healthy males—had been there, making targeting Camilla’s house to steal her piece of the triptych a less-attractive idea than having to contend with her eighty-four-year-old great-uncle who was known to have a bad leg. Did they also know Charlie was weakened from other health issues? It was possible, of course. Whoever this person was, they clearly knew some level of detail about both Camilla and Charlie Braithwaite.

  So, could one of the people Camilla told be looking to steal the paintings and profit off the potential Civil War art underneath? Could they have driven into Austin Monday night, murdered Charlie Braithwaite, stolen his computer and various other items, and then driven back to Houston in time for work the next day?

  Even though it sounded ludicrous, timing-wise it was possible. The drive was only two and a half hours. And with Camilla in Austin for a few more days, the murderer-slash-art-thief would have had the opportunity to dupe Gareth into stealing the second painting. All the other suspects on my list, save for Neil Gaynor, had closer relationships with Camilla than I had and could have known about her ex-husband’s money problems. Heck, they probably even knew about Gareth’s habit of not putting names with the phone numbers in his contacts.

  As for who was the least likely to be in Camilla’s confidence, and therefore the least likely to know her plans, whereabouts, and details about her ex-husband, that was Neil Gaynor. However, Camilla said he was constantly in the Howland library, right? That meant he was no doubt friendly enough with the staff to ask a few questions.

  A rustling noise made me come back to the here and now. As Ben pulled out of the parking lot, he’d dug into his cup holder and was handing something to me. I looked down and saw it was a penny. “I understand it’s still the preferred currency for thoughts,” he said. I hadn’t even noticed he’d gotten off the phone.

  With a smile, I took it. “I’ve been thinking. Before we go back to Austin tomorrow, it m
ight be worth it to try and talk to some people.”

  “We could do that. Who do you have in mind? Though, remember, we only have until tomorrow afternoon, so not a whole lot of time. Also, Dupart will be interviewing people associated with Camilla, especially the ones she talked to about the painting. We need to be careful not to interfere.”

  “Of course,” I said. “I’ve no desire to incur Dupart’s wrath, believe me—and I’ll just ignore that snort, Agent Turner. Anyway, I was thinking the city council member might be worth talking to.”

  Ben, however, shook his head. “We can cross her off. Dupart hasn’t mentioned any other potential suspects here in Houston, but he did say the city council member had checked out.”

  This was actually a relief, as talking to her would have meant tracking her down first, and with only a few hours to play with tomorrow before heading back to Austin, finding her would cut into our limited time.

  “All right, then. My next thought was Neil Gaynor, because Camilla mentioned he’s at the Howland library all the time. And possibly even Camilla’s brother, Tor Braithwaite.”

  Ben mused on this, then said, “Because Tor’s a family member, Dupart will be checking him out fully, so I think we should worry about him only if we have time.”

  “Then Neil Gaynor it is,” I said. Rubbing my thumb over the penny, I added, “And hopefully this baby will bring me luck, because while I’m at my former workplace, there’s no reason not to have a chat with my two other least-favorite former coworkers as well.”

  TWENTY-ONE

  I’d been so caught up with everything concerning the triptych that I hadn’t had time to stress out about the crucial first true meeting between my parents and Ben. It wasn’t until after we’d left Murder by the Book—Ben and I having bought two mysteries each—and were headed in the direction of my childhood home that I felt butterflies erupt in my stomach. My parents were wonderful, caring people, but not easily impressed when it came to my boyfriends. Not even the fact that Ben had literally saved my and Grandpa’s lives would be enough to make them like him in the long run if they didn’t feel he was worthy. I cast a sidelong glance at Ben. While Grandpa had pegged him as “a keeper” almost instantly, I could only hope my parents would feel the same.