Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  “I was with her, yes,” I said, nodding. “Camilla actually came to me a few days ago regarding the article in Chronology magazine—” I stopped, then switched gears. “Have you read the article about your ancestor, Mrs. Hocknell?”

  “I read a great deal, Lucy, and Chronology is a magazine I pick up from time to time, but I have not yet read the article.”

  I went to explain it, but Mrs. Hocknell made a sweeping-away motion with one veined hand, causing her cardigan to draw back to the elbow and expose three large age spots I hoped she was getting checked by a dermatologist. “You do not need to explain it to me. Camilla has already done so. She called me the night before she went to Austin to see you and—” Her voice didn’t so much falter as go quieter. “And Charlie.”

  “May I say how very sorry I am about Charlie?” I said when the tiny crack in her armor gave me my chance. “I met him once at a wine tasting, and then, as you may know, I spoke to him a bit the afternoon before he was … well, before he died. He was a lovely man.”

  Mrs. Hocknell’s jaw shifted side to side for a moment and then she nodded. “Charlie and I were always close, even though we didn’t see much of each other. I knew he was unwell, but it’s still a shock. And that someone killed him and then robbed his house, stealing our ancestor’s painting?” She shook her head. “I’m still trying to wrap my head around it.” Her voice was quiet when she added, “I shall miss him terribly.”

  My mother reached out and squeezed Mrs. Hocknell’s hand, releasing it when the older woman’s chin lifted once more. Mrs. Hocknell took a sip of her tea, then looked at me.

  “If you’re wondering if I have any knowledge of the truth—or lies—of my ancestor Charles Braithwaite’s claims of continuing to fight in the Civil War and being promoted to corporal,” she said, “I’m afraid I don’t. All the artifacts from his life were handed down through the male heirs in my time and before.”

  She sniffed again, but this time it was out of derisiveness, not sadness. “Many of them cared, some of them didn’t, and no doubt some interesting things got lost along the way when they passed to a descendant who didn’t give two hoots about our forefather. All I can say is that I’m glad Camilla stepped in before her fool of a brother gave away all our ancestor’s things, including their piece of the triptych.”

  I wanted to ask about the triptych panel, but curiosity prompted me to ask a different question.

  “Did Camilla happen to tell you about the man looking to sue for monies his family lost back in the 1920s? And about the woman who’s looking to strip the Braithwaite name from the elementary school and the park?”

  Mrs. Hocknell’s eyes flashed, but she merely sighed. “Yes, I know about it. It makes me furious, of course. They’re just doing it for the publicity.”

  Luckily, I was already taking a sip of my tea, so I was saved from having to agree or disagree with her before she went on.

  “Don’t get me wrong, Lucy,” Mrs. Hocknell said, giving me a shrewd look. “For the past several years, I’ve been telling my family we should quietly ask the city and the school district to give up the Braithwaite name. I’m happy to say my relations finally agreed.”

  “Camilla mentioned as much to me,” I said, nodding.

  “Yes, it was time. Even though Charles’s true legacy was not that he lived to be the last surviving Civil War soldier, but that he was a man who worked his whole life against racial oppression—not to mention advocating for good things like education, proper medical care, and women’s right to vote—I can nevertheless understand the opinions of those who think his name might be more linked with the Confederacy than with the upstanding man he was after the war.” She leaned forward to put her teacup down on the tray. “I would love for his name not to be an issue for the park and the elementary school, but it is, and my mind was and is open to comprehending that. In fact, I strongly believe that my ancestor would be open to the change, too—and, luckily, my extended family felt the same.”

  I realized I’d been smiling at her without thinking, and I saw one side of her pinched mouth twitch a bit like she might actually be pleased about it.

  I couldn’t think of any other questions to ask about her ancestor, so I turned the subject to the triptych. “Do you remember seeing all three pieces together?” I asked.

  “Oh yes, but only once, at our last family reunion, in 1988,” Mrs. Hocknell replied with the first true hint of a smile. “Horrid, all three parts. I never liked it, but it was passed down, so it became like—” She pointed to a small table in one corner. It held a couple of fading photographs in silver frames, a candlestick lamp with a pleated shade, and a squat, misshapen flowerpot colored in varying shades of blue and holding a small dieffenbachia plant. “Like that flowerpot,” she continued. “It’s hardly a showpiece, but Camilla made it for me when she was about seven years old. She looks for it every time she comes over, so I keep it, and I cherish it. Our family cherishes those paintings for the same inexplicable reasons.”

  “It makes perfect sense to me,” I said, “and I hope Charlie’s panel will be recovered quickly so that it can be returned to your family.”

  Mrs. Hocknell considered me for a moment, then nodded, looking pleased.

  Across the ottoman, Mom gave me a smile. I’d done well. Then she gave a surreptitious movement of her left wrist and, hence, her watch. It was time to get back on track. Mom had things to do today, and Ben and I would be going back to Morris Art Conservation to pick up Camilla’s painting.

  Mrs. Hocknell was sharp, though. I was beginning to see how much she and Camilla were alike, even though they didn’t physically resemble one another. “Go on, Lucy. We all have busy days today and I know you have more questions for me. Ask away.”

  She sounded a little tired now. I cast my mom another glance as Mrs. Hocknell was adjusting the sleeve of her cardigan. Mom, whom I was using as a barometer of her friend’s energy levels, gave me an encouraging nod, but one that also told me not to go too far.

  I settled on the one question I really wanted the answer to: “Camilla explained how the triptych panels were handed down through the three main branches of the family. She said she doesn’t know any of her cousins from the branch descending from Charles’s daughter—which isn’t unusual at all after so much generational distance in the family tree. However, do you happen to know who in your family has the third piece?”

  “No, I don’t. I know who used to own it, though,” she replied with a touch of disapproval. “Back in the eighties, when we had the reunion, it was owned by one of my older distant relatives, though I only met him a couple of times. I don’t even recall his first name because he went by his surname, which was Smith. What I do remember was that he had more than one older sister, but he inherited the painting because he was the eldest male.” Mrs. Hocknell shrugged and glared at me, but this time I guessed she wasn’t seeing me, but her distant cousin who received the triptych panel because of patrilineal inheritance and nothing more.

  “Anyway, Smith died from some sort of cancer less than a year after the reunion. He had four or five children, if I remember correctly, though they didn’t attend the reunion so I’ve never clapped eyes on any of them.” She gave me a sidelong look and asked, “Incidentally, what would their relationship be to me?”

  “Well, you have to go back to your nearest common ancestors,” I told her, “which would be Charles Braithwaite and his wife. Camilla determined Charles was her fourth great-grandfather, which makes him your second. It depends on Smith’s generational relationship to Charles, but if he’s Smith’s second great-grandfather as well, then you two are third cousins. And therefore, his children are your third cousins, once removed.”

  “And if Smith was a generation older than me?” Mrs. Hocknell asked, one white eyebrow arching with curiosity.

  “Then he’s your second cousin, once removed, and his children are your third cousins.”

  Mrs. Hocknell turned to my mother. “Isn’t that interesting, Anita? A
nd she can do it in her head. I’m astounded, and impressed.”

  My mother practically glowed with pride, and Mrs. Hocknell turned back to me with a look that told me I could continue, if I wished.

  “So, Smith’s children … do you think one of them inherited the painting?” I asked.

  “It’s likely,” Mrs. Hocknell replied tartly, her mouth going back into a thin line. “But I don’t know any of their names or where they are now. You would be better at finding them than I would, I think.”

  I nodded, mentally filing the information away. I felt like Mrs. Hocknell was beginning to look tired, too, but when she raised her eyebrows once more, I said, “Did Charlie tell you about the incident with his employee’s young daughter accidentally gouging a hole in his piece of the triptych, and that he believed there to be another, more detailed painting underneath?”

  This time, as Mrs. Hocknell nodded, she blinked and I saw a wave of exhaustion come over her. My mother saw it as well.

  “Jensen, is everything all right?” Mom asked, reaching over to put her hand on Mrs. Hocknell’s arm, right over her wrist. I guessed she was checking her friend’s pulse and felt thankful my mother, as a massage therapist, had some medical knowledge.

  Mrs. Hocknell pushed Mom’s hand away and said in a tone that was reminiscent of the days when she’d groused at Maeve and me, “I’m fine, Anita. Don’t fuss. I’ve been up since five and I’ve been cleaning the house and working in some new soil into in my vegetable garden out back. I’m just a bit tired, that’s all.”

  “All right,” Mom said. “If you’re sure.”

  Mrs. Hocknell took a deep breath, then focused on me again. “Yes, Charlie mentioned that he saw another painting underneath. Camilla said she found the same thing under her painting as well.”

  “Did you happen to mention what they’d found to anyone?” I asked.

  “I haven’t, no,” she said. “Why do you ask?” Before I could answer, though, her doorbell rang. Turtle, who’d been purring next to me, hopped off the sofa and trotted to the window to look outside.

  “Now who could that be?” Mrs. Hocknell said, pushing herself out of her chair and walking to the front entry. My mom watched her with a trace of worry, but Mrs. Hocknell seemed to have regained her strength.

  A moment later, we heard the door open, then Mrs. Hocknell say wryly, “Tor. I should have known you’d show up here.”

  TWENTY-THREE

  “Aunt Jensen,” a deep voice said with warmth. “I was in the area, so I thought I’d drop by to see you. May I come in?”

  Now Mrs. Hocknell’s voice sounded amused. “Oh, of course. I know that your sister sent you to check on me, but you’re always welcome here, you rascal. I do have guests at the moment, though. Let me introduce you.” We heard the front door close, and Mom and I stood up, exchanging a look. Not two minutes ago, Mrs. Hocknell had called her grandnephew a fool, but now she seemed charmed to see him.

  I gave my mom a shrug. Families and family dynamics were strange and complicated things, and it wasn’t for me to decide how Jensen Hocknell should feel about her grandnephew.

  Though when Tor Braithwaite walked in the room, striding over to clasp my mother’s hand, I saw how Mrs. Hocknell could have been charmed just by his smile alone. Then there was also his tousled reddish-brown hair, lean build with broad shoulders, and eyes an even clearer shade of brown than his sister’s.

  As Tor moved to take the opposite end of the sofa and we both sat, I looked back up at the sound of my mother’s voice. “If you two will excuse us for just a few minutes, Jensen is going to give me her recipe for a double-chocolate Bundt cake I had at our last bridge game. We won’t be long.” She had her arm through Mrs. Hocknell’s, whose face was obscured by my mother’s angle.

  I nodded distractedly at her. I’d given up on the thought of trying to talk to Camilla’s brother after Ben said Dupart’s team would be checking him out thoroughly. But here was my chance—I felt like fate had smiled upon me, and I wasn’t going to waste time.

  “I used to work with your sister, actually,” I said as he languidly crossed one leg over the other. “And she’s hired me to look into your ancestor’s Civil War records. I’m a genealogist.”

  Tor grinned, but it wasn’t at my last statement. “You worked with Camilla?” He leaned back into the corner of the sofa to look at me head-on. “Good God. Don’t tell me my sister was a fun coworker, because I won’t believe you.”

  When I opened my mouth, then closed it, he chuckled. “Don’t worry, I’m just teasing you—and my big sister. She’s been a bossy, no-fun managerial type since the day I was born, and I love her for it.”

  I decided changing the subject away from my relationship with Camilla would be the way to go here. Folding my hands in my lap, I said, “Tor, may I say how sorry I am about your great-uncle Charlie? I didn’t know him well, but I liked him very much. It’s such a tragedy what happened.”

  Tor’s hand went through his hair and his smile disappeared, making him look older, and also showing me he had a cleft in his chin like his sister and his uncle Charlie. “Thank you. Yes, it was a great tragedy. Uncle Charlie was always in our lives. He was irreplaceable, and it will be really different without him.” There was a heartbeat of silence, then his face twitched with realization. “Wait a minute. If you’re the genealogist, then you’re the friend who was with my sister when she found him. The one who’s helping to get our ancestor’s painting checked out.”

  I nodded. I didn’t clarify that I was in the living room when Camilla found their great-uncle dead, so not exactly with her. Nor did I correct him that Camilla and I weren’t exactly friends. At least, not in the traditional sense. Instead, I latched onto the topic of the triptych painting.

  “I understand your sister told you a while back that she found the same thing Charlie did—that there’s another canvas under the top one.” When he nodded, I asked, “Did you happen to mention it to anyone? About what she or Charlie found, I mean?”

  “Why would you ask that?” Tor said. His eyes slid in the direction my mother and Mrs. Hocknell had disappeared to, then back to me. Part of me wondered if he was hoping his great-aunt would interrupt us, and the other part wondered if he was afraid she would and hear his answer. It made my suspicion levels jump up a notch.

  “Well,” I said, “there’s the possibility that whoever killed your great-uncle knew there might be a valuable painting underneath, you know what I mean? It just makes me wonder if anyone you or Camilla told might have been unduly interested in the story.”

  Tor turned one of his palms up. “I mean, sure, I told a few people a couple of weeks ago, and they all thought it was pretty cool, but they were my buddies—guys I go out drinking with and such. We talked about it, I joked about bringing the painting on Antiques Roadshow and having some antiques dude tell me it was worth millions, and how I’d be all, ‘Sold! To the first bidder who will take this piece of crap off my hands!’” Tor threw up his hand with a flourish, index finger up, and then chuckled at the memory. “Then my buddy’s girlfriend showed up and brought a couple of her friends with her. I hit it off with one of them, and let’s just say, the conversation didn’t come up again,” he added, flashing me a bad-boy grin.

  Fighting not to roll my eyes, I persisted. “Not with anyone else? It didn’t come up again later?”

  Tor watched me for a long moment, and I saw his flirty jocularity disappearing, though he kept his tone even. “You know, Lucy, you’re sounding like you might be working with the police, who have already questioned me. They showed up on my doorstep early this morning.” His eyes briefly flashed with irritation, though I couldn’t tell if it was directed toward me or the police. Probably both. Nevertheless, he remained polite.

  “Look, I don’t think I owe you any explanations, but since you’re helping my sister, I’ll tell you the two things you need to know. First, I would never hurt anyone, much less my uncle Charlie, who was like another grandfather to Camilla and m
e. Second of all, I’ve had the same alibi for the past week—all day, every day, and definitely all night.” Dipping his chin, he gave me a significant look.

  “Yep, I’m tracking your meaning,” I said dryly.

  “Her name is Mellie,” he added nonetheless, “and she’s the woman I hit it off with at the bar with my buddies. Since meeting her, I haven’t left Houston, and she’s been staying with me this past week. She sold her town house and can’t move into her new one for another couple of days. So my whereabouts are known and solidly confirmed.”

  Well, rats. I felt like I’d just failed my first test at questioning a potential suspect, and my frustration made me blurt out the first thing that came to mind.

  “Okay, then. Camilla told me you nearly sold your family’s piece of the triptych to someone for ten bucks at a garage sale. You knew this painting was created by your Civil War–veteran ancestor, right? Why on earth were you willing to practically give it away?”

  “Because it hung outside my bedroom my whole life,” he shot back. “I looked at it every day, ten times a day, and I couldn’t stand it.” He rubbed the back of his neck, seeming to deflate a little. “Plus, this was six years ago, and just a couple of months after my dad died and my mom moved to California to open a yoga studio with her best friend. I’d just graduated from college, Camilla was going through her divorce, so she was distracted, and it was up to me to clear out the house. I wasn’t thinking straight, okay?”

  I felt like a serious heel now, and it reminded me that there are often difficult moments hidden behind a person’s bright smile. “I’m sorry,” I said, my tone softened.

  “It’s okay,” he replied. “But for what it’s worth, I’m glad my sister saved the painting. It may be ugly as hell—at least the one on the outside is—but I get that it’s part of our family history.”

  I could see now why Mrs. Hocknell seemed to fluctuate between being exasperated and charmed by her grandnephew. The minute he seemed to be nothing but an overgrown frat boy, he said something that made you feel like he had a much deeper side. “I’m glad Camilla saved it, too,” I said.