As Ben navigated the Houston roads, I found myself studying him. He seemed a little nervous as well, which somehow made my butterflies chill out. It took Ben waving his hand in front of my eyes for me to blink and realize he’d asked me a question.
“Sorry, what was that?”
“Your dad’s initials?” he asked with a grin. “When I met him on New Year’s Day, he asked me to call him G.W. What do they stand for?”
“Oh, right,” I said with a laugh. “It stands for George Watson.”
“He’s named after your grandfather, then?”
“Only the George part,” I said. “Watson was my gran’s maiden name.”
“And your mother’s name? It’s Nita, of course, but is that short for Anita?”
“Right you are. High-five,” I said, holding out my hand, and he indulged me.
“Okay, then. G. W. and Nita Lancaster,” Ben said, as if he was approaching them as suspects in a case and committing their details to memory, all while absentmindedly using his left hand to rub the shoulder he’d used to do his linebacker impression on Gareth Fishwick. “Your dad is an architect, right?
“Yes, he’s a retired structural architect,” I said, reaching out and taking over for him, getting another little kick of satisfaction at the grunt of relief he let out as I massaged his arm muscle. “He specialized in designing things like bridges and skywalks, stuff like that.”
“That’d be a neat job,” Ben said, leaning into my massage after successfully navigating onto the freeway. “And what about your mom? You never told me what she does.”
I chuckled. “Well, let’s just say you have her to thank for my massage techniques.”
He blinked, then it sunk in. “Your mom’s a masseuse?”
“Massage therapist,” I corrected. “Specifically, a sports massage therapist. She’s basically retired, too, but still owns a small company that specializes in massage for athletes.”
Ben grunted again as I continued working his shoulder and upper arm.
“Remind me to bow and kiss her feet, then,” he said.
* * *
As I thought they might be, Mom and Dad were outside in the front yard when Ben and I drove up.
“Were they waiting for us?” he asked out of the side of his mouth.
“Yep,” I said, grinning, “but they’ll think we don’t know that, so act cool.”
My mom was on the porch with a glass of iced tea and a book, and my dad was pulling bags of potting soil out of the back of his pickup truck and stacking them to one side of the garage. There looked to be about fifteen bags of soil still left in the truck, plus a couple of flats of what were likely young vegetable plants. It seemed everyone was going crazy for spring planting.
“I’d forgotten just how much you look like your dad,” Ben said, glancing at my very blond mother with her pale Irish skin, then at my dad, with his dark hair and naturally tan skin from his mother’s Spanish and Mexican side. “Has anyone ever mentioned that to you?”
“Not one soul,” I quipped. He laughed and we both got out of the car. I grinned widely at my parents and called out, “Hi, Mom. Hi, Dad.”
“Hi, pumpkin,” Dad said, his arms wide to show that his light blue T-shirt was dusted in soil. “I’ll let your mother hug you for the both of us, as I got bombed by a torn sack of compost. Good to see you, Ben. How do you feel about helping me with some of these bags?”
“Daaaad,” I drawled in mock exasperation, but Ben was already heading to Dad’s tailgate, saying, “Happy to—and good to see you again, sir.”
My dad reminded Ben to call him G.W. Ben inclined his head respectfully and was reaching for a bag of soil when my mom called out, “Wait! Don’t you dare move a muscle!”
Ben stopped in his tracks, looking unsure. A second later, my mom was whipping around the tailgate and grabbing Ben in a big hug.
“Hello, Ben. I wanted to get in my hug before you got all dirty.”
Ben returned the embrace with a laugh. “It’s so good to see you again, Nita.”
That earned him a kiss on the cheek and then Mom released him and came for me, arms outstretched.
* * *
Dinner was my mom’s famous roast beef—or “Roast Beast,” as she always called it—with mashed potatoes, salad, steamed asparagus, and balsamic-and-red-wine-glazed mushrooms. The conversation, however, mainly centered around the Braithwaites, from Charles to his descendants Charlie and Camilla to the family members we’d never met, and the triptych that seemed to connect them all. My parents, being art lovers themselves, were riveted by what we’d found on Camilla’s piece of the triptych today, and couldn’t wait to hear what Cisco at Morris Art Conservation discovered when he removed the top canvas.
“I just wish I knew where the third piece of the triptych is,” I said, taking a sip of the excellent pinot noir Dad had selected for us to share.
“Why, you should talk to Jensen Hocknell,” Mom said, her face lighting up.
“Who’s Jensen Hocknell?” I asked, perplexed. “Are they related to old Mrs. Hocknell down the street?”
Mom, who was sitting to my left, reached out to push a lock of hair out of my face. “Jensen is old Mrs. Hocknell, dear.” Then she lightly slapped my knee. “And don’t call her old. She’s younger than your grandfather, for goodness’ sakes.”
“Yeah, but Grandpa is young at heart,” I said with a grin. “Mrs. Hocknell has never exactly been known for her light and carefree ways.” I turned to Ben. “She used to come out on her porch and yell at Maeve and me for riding our bikes past her house too loud. I’m still wondering how anyone could ride a bicycle loudly.”
Ben smiled, rubbing his hand over his chin in what looked like an effort to not laugh. Since pretty much the moment we’d arrived this afternoon, I could tell he’d been highly amused at the way my parents and I teased and joked with each other. My parents had noticed as well, which had served to increase the level at which we ribbed each other, almost as if the three of us were in an unspoken competition to see who could make Ben laugh out loud first. Would it be my sweet mother, who could surprise you with her devilishly cheeky comments? Or my dry-witted father, who was a true ham underneath it all? Or would it be me, the one who had bits of both their traits?
“But why would I need to talk to Mrs. Hocknell about the Braithwaites?” I asked Mom.
“Don’t you remember? She told us she was a Braithwaite. It’s her maiden name.”
I racked my brain while staring at my mother, then finally said, “When did she say this? I can’t even remember the last time I talked to her.”
Mom took Ben’s wineglass for a refill. “Oh, it was a while ago. You were twelve or thirteen, I’d say.”
“So, just seventeen or eighteen years ago,” I deadpanned, waving my hand around airily. “Like yesterday.”
Mom giggled at my sarcasm and Dad grinned broadly. He angled himself toward Ben, whose eyes had lightened two whole shades with suppressed mirth, and stage-whispered, “I commend you on your ability to keep your mouth shut. It comes in handy in this household.”
Ben just rubbed his face even harder and I pretended to give my father a withering look that he returned with an innocent smile very reminiscent of Grandpa’s. I turned back to my mother.
“Are you sure Mrs. Hocknell is a Braithwaite?” I said.
“Of course I’m sure. She’s mentioned it to me several times since then. She even has some family photos on the wall in her living room.”
I goggled at my mom. “You’ve been in her house?”
Mom smiled at me with infuriating calm. “Many times. I partner with her for bridge every couple of months, too, when her usual partner, Ruthanne, is out of town.”
Naturally, Mom mentioned Ruthanne like I should know who she was, but I asked the more pertinent question. “I know you love gin rummy and poker, but when did you start playing bridge?”
Mom smiled at me fondly. “Oh, I always played. Tried teaching you and Maeve when you were youn
g, but neither of you were interested. I just haven’t played much until the last few years.”
I looked at my dad. “Is she having me on? I don’t remember anything about her trying to teach Maeve and me bridge, or having Mrs. Hocknell as a friend, much less as a bridge partner.”
My father leaned back in his chair, crossing one ankle over his knee. “Oh, she’s serious, all right. It’s been another one of her secret talents all these years, and she and Jensen are quite the sharks. I’ve begun to suspect Jensen is lying about Ruthanne being out of town as often as she claims. Jensen wins much more often when she teams up with your mother.” He pointed to the pretty new wine decanter that was helping to aerate our pinot noir. “She won that decanter a couple of weeks ago. A few weeks before that, she brought home a very nice gift card to one of our favorite restaurants. We took Dan and Suzy out to dinner and had a great time.”
I stared at my father, then at my mother, who cheerfully poured Ben another glass of wine.
I turned to Ben, whose grin was wide as he raised the glass to his lips, and pointed to myself. “Am I in the Twilight Zone here?”
At this, he choked on his wine then started laughing, sending my mother into delighted giggles as well. My father handed Ben an extra napkin while sending me a wink.
“You think this is funny, do you?” I said to Ben, trying to give him a beady stare even as my own lips were twitching—not just because it was funny, but because I’d been the one to make him break. “You just wait until I meet your mother.”
This had no sobering effect on either him or my parents. Or me, when it came down to it. Honestly, it was right then that I knew Ben was in, as far as G. W. and Nita Lancaster were concerned.
TWENTY-TWO
Mom suggested that she and I walk to Mrs. Hocknell’s house after an early breakfast at my favorite diner the next morning.
“Another secret you’re keeping from Flaco?” Ben teased in my ear when the staff at Buffalo Grille greeted me like an old friend. I turned, batting my eyelashes up at him with my sweetest smile.
“Snitch on me, bucko, and I’ll let it slip that you raved about the corn tortillas at that new taqueria by your house. That’s right, you heard me.” I made bring-it-on movements with my hands before sidling up to the counter to order my favorite pancakes, eggs, and thick-cut bacon, Ben chuckling as he followed me.
It was just after eight a.m. when Mom and I set off, leaving my dad outside working in the yard and Ben in their library to take some work calls, yet not before Mom gave Ben’s sore shoulder a professional once-over. She declared him well on the mend, but nevertheless microwaved a heating pad for him to use during his calls.
Mrs. Hocknell lived on the opposite side of our street and seven houses down. Mom and I decided it wasn’t long enough of a walk to work off our breakfast calories, so we took an alternate route that first wended us around a couple of other streets in the subdivision.
When we approached Mrs. Hocknell’s house, she was standing out on her porch in knit pants, a white shirt, and a long gray cardigan with wide sleeves. Her hands were on her hips, staring grumpily in the direction we would have come had we taken the direct route.
“Jensen, yoo-hoo!” Mom called gaily, waving even though Mrs. Hocknell was still stubbornly looking the wrong way. “Over here, Jensen! We came from the other direction.”
Slowly, Mrs. Hocknell turned, glaring at me like she was determined to find something in my appearance or my approach for which to call me out.
“She’s all bark, no bite,” Mom said out of the side of her mouth, her smile still in place.
“Yeah, she’s looking like she remembers my ‘loud’ bike riding about now,” I muttered back, making Mom giggle.
“Anita, you didn’t tell me you would be coming from the opposite end of the street,” Mrs. Hocknell snapped as we made our way up her walkway.
I willed my face to not show surprise. The only person who had ever called my mom Anita was her late father, my maternal grandfather, and I’d never heard him say it in the brusque way Mrs. Hocknell had.
Yet my mom just grinned. “Oh, we just wanted a bit more of a jaunt. My, your hydrangeas are already looking like they’re producing flowers. They’ll be absolutely gorgeous in no time. And your azaleas!” Mom clapped her hands together, holding them to her chest. “I never cease to be jealous of how beautiful yours look. Mine always seem to look so thin and wimpy in comparison.”
“Acid!” Mrs. Hocknell fairly barked. “They need acidic soil to thrive. I keep telling you that, Anita. You’re not acidic enough.”
Mom swiftly grabbed my fingers to stop us both from giggling after I gave her a look that implied Mrs. Hocknell had enough acid for the whole street’s azaleas.
Luckily, Mrs. Hocknell didn’t seem to notice, as she was craning her neck over her porch to inspect her full and thriving purple azaleas. Clearly Mrs. Hocknell, or someone else, had been sprucing up the garden, as a recently added layer of fresh, dark soil was visible under her shrubs. A wheelbarrow stood just around the corner of the house; in it, I could see a couple of small boxwood shrubs in pots, ready to be planted, along with some empty brown bags of soil and gardening tools.
As we ascended the stairs and onto Mrs. Hocknell’s porch, Mom’s charm went up another notch. “Jensen, I’m sure you remember my daughter Lucy?”
I smiled. “Good morning, Mrs. Hocknell. It’s very nice to see you again.”
Mrs. Hocknell, who my mother had told me was now in her early eighties, frowned imperiously at me through rimless glasses. Her hair was arranged in the same one-length bob it had been for years, parted to one side and ending about an inch below her earlobes, only it had finally gone from a storm-cloud gray to a frosty white. Though her cheeks had a few broken blood vessels, her face wasn’t heavily lined until you got to her neck, which sagged with loose skin from a lifetime of a slightly hunched posture. With her thin, patrician nose, lines around her lips that gave her a look of perpetually sucking lemons, and eyes that had faded to the blue-gray color of sagebrush, she looked like the person I’d cast in a play as the modern version of the Dowager Countess of Grantham.
“So, you want to talk to me about my family, do you?” she asked me in lieu of pleasantries.
“I would, yes, Mrs. Hocknell. If you wouldn’t mind.”
Out of the corner of my eye, I could see my mother suppressing an indulgent smile that encompassed both her friend’s stubbornness and her daughter’s attempt to keep her inclination to be sassy at bay.
With a nod, Mrs. Hocknell gestured for us to follow her into the house. “Come on, then. I know your mother likes tea. I assumed you do as well? I’ve brewed some Irish breakfast for us to enjoy.”
“Thank you,” I said. “That sounds wonderful.”
Mrs. Hocknell’s house was a two-story colonial painted butter yellow, and had black shutters, white trim, and three dormer windows. I’d always loved the look of her house, and I told her so as we walked over the threshold.
“Have you?” Mrs. Hocknell said, a measure of doubt in her voice as we followed her through her entryway. “By the way you and your sister always tore past my house, either on your bicycles or on foot, I assumed you thought the Wicked Witch of the West lived here and my house was to be avoided at all costs.”
A minute shake of the head from my mother told me any reply I gave wouldn’t be good enough. Thus, I let Mom make small talk with our veritable crosspatch of a neighbor as I looked around the house. I took in the abundance of artwork around the room and how the morning sun highlighted comfortable furnishings in pretty fabrics, beams of light streaking across a large leather ottoman covered in coffee table books on various subjects. A tray with tea things straddled two of the book stacks, while a tortoiseshell cat was perched atop another stack, surveying us with interest as we filed in.
Mrs. Hocknell went around the ottoman, stroked the cat, who began purring loudly, and sat down in the armchair closest to the windows.
“Anita
, you sit there,” she said, indicating the other armchair, “and Lucy, you may sit on the sofa.”
I did as directed, and the cat immediately came to me, begging for attention.
“You’re a pretty thing,” I told the cat, scratching her behind the ears.
“That’s Turtle,” Mrs. Hocknell said before I could ask, and began to pour the tea. She glanced around the room. “There’s another one hiding around here somewhere named Dove. I adopted them on the same day two years ago, though they’re not related.” She passed Mom the first cup of fragrant tea. “Turtle never wants to be away from people, and Dove is more than happy to be in my presence only when it’s breakfast or dinnertime.” Handing the second cup to me, she added, “She’s not mean, you understand, just a loner.”
I smiled at Mrs. Hocknell, but she merely observed me for a moment before pouring her own cup. Mom and I briefly met each other’s eyes and she gave me a little wink.
“As I understand it from your mother, you know my grandniece?” Mrs. Hocknell said, getting down to business. “And you were with her when she found my cousin Charlie?”
I hesitated. Mrs. Hocknell was watching me, waiting for my answer, her expression giving me the idea she wanted facts, not sympathy. This morning, I’d texted Camilla about my discovery that her great-aunt had been my neighbor when I was growing up, and that Mom and I would be going to visit with her this morning. Camilla’s reply had been frustratingly brief—she was still dealing with the funeral home but encouraged me to talk to her aunt Jensen. I had no idea what details Camilla had given her great-aunt, if any at all. Thus, I decided that information regarding Charlie’s death should come from Camilla, and I would steer the conversation in other directions.
Fatal Family Ties Page 14