From the other room, I heard my mother’s laugh. I turned in my seat to find Mom walking back in with Mrs. Hocknell, who looked a bit pale, but was smiling at whatever my mother had just said.
I stood up, reading an almost imperceptible glance from my mother that said it was time for us to head out. Tor Braithwaite stood as well, and after one assessing look, offered me his hand.
“Thank you for speaking with me,” I said as we shook. “I apologize if—”
“Water under the bridge,” he said with a rueful smile and a wave of his free hand. “I promise.”
“Lucy?”
I turned around. Mrs. Hocknell was coming toward me, both her hands held out. Surprised, I took them.
“I just want to say that I appreciate the fact that you were with Camilla when she found Charlie, and that you were willing to help Charlie when you owed him nothing.” She squeezed my hands a bit tighter and lowered her voice. “That goes for my grandniece, too. Oh, I know she’s paying you and all, but you didn’t have to take the job. Thank you.”
Mom waited until we were halfway down the street, headed toward home, to laugh at my expression. “You look like I could knock you over with a feather.”
I laughed, too. “I’m not sure it would even take that much. Mrs. Hocknell, being nice to me, and thanking me? Who would have imagined it?”
“Wonders will never cease,” Mom said, and I smiled at her. I always loved how she said it as a statement she was stubbornly sure of rather than posing it as the traditional sarcastically surprised question.
Glancing at her hands, I asked, “So, where’s the recipe for the chocolate Bundt cake? Is it on your phone?”
Mom gave me a confused look, then nodded in recollection, saying, “Oh, right. I’m afraid that was just a ruse.”
“Why?” I asked. “Did Mrs. Hocknell need to have a good cry about her cousin Charlie?”
“Yes, and no,” Mom replied. “We both saw Jensen looking a bit weak earlier, and I noticed it again after her nephew—but he’s her grandnephew, correct? And why isn’t it ‘grandaunt,’ when Jensen is the sister of Tor and Camilla’s grandfather? We say ‘grandfather’ and ‘grandmother,’ so why not ‘grandaunt’ and ‘granduncle’?”
“Technically, it should be ‘grandaunt,’ and all the other ‘grands,’” I said. “With the next relationship being ‘great-grandaunt’ and so on. Only somewhere along the way, it got corrupted, and ‘great-aunt’ and ‘great-uncle’ stuck around, confusing everyone forevermore.” I held my hands up in mock surrender when Mom looked exasperated. “Don’t ask me how. I don’t know.”
Mom grinned. “All right, then, to get back on the subject. I figured Jensen wouldn’t want me to make a fuss, so I covered with the Bundt cake story.” I saw Mom’s brows knit. “I’m worried that she’s not feeling well. She has a bit of a strange rash on her arm and stomach. But I got her to at least promise me she would make an appointment with her doctor.”
“I noticed that she was doing some spring planting like most everyone else.” I pointed to another neighbor’s yard, which looked much the same, with freshly planted flowers, crepe myrtle trees just beginning to leaf out, and a mound of fresh soil ready to be spread. Then I recalled seeing the shrubs and empty bags of soil in Mrs. Hocknell’s wheelbarrow. I frowned. Something flitted through my brain, but I couldn’t hold the memory. Shaking it off with a shrug, I said, “Maybe she’s allergic to one of her plants.”
Mom nodded. “Yes, that’s definitely possible. Anyway, we argued a bit about her taking care of herself, and after that, yes, she did have a brief cry about her cousin. I think it made her feel better, though.”
“I’m glad,” I said, and I meant it.
Mom hooked her arm though mine as we turned in to my parents’ driveway. “I’ll be checking in on her later—but speaking of things to make you feel better …”
We’d arrived to find Ben and my dad putting together two raised vegetable planters that Maeve and I had bought my mom for Christmas. They seemed to be engrossed in their work, and Ben was laughing at something my dad was saying. Even nicer, Ben’s muscles were rippling under his shirt and he looked like he was happy—always an attractive combination.
“Amen to that,” I said.
TWENTY-FOUR
It was my phone dinging with a text that made me look away from Ben—just before my father noticed, luckily. I may be an adult, but practically salivating over my boyfriend was not something my father likely wanted to see, or something I wanted him to see, thank you very much.
“Is it from Cisco?” Ben asked, jutting his chin in the direction of my phone.
I nodded. “He said the painting is ready for pickup. We can come by any time after ten a.m., except for between noon and one p.m.”
Dad, who had been tightening a bolt on the planter, asked, “Did he say what was under the painting?”
“No, darn it,” I replied.
Mom looked at Ben and me like we were nuts and flung up her hands. “Why are you two just standing there? It’s already after nine and it takes almost half an hour to get to the museum district with our Houston traffic. Go, get dressed and see what he found!”
A little while later, we were at Ben’s car, both of us having taken quick showers and dressed in jeans. I’d just thrown another blanket borrowed from my mother in the back seat for extra protection for Camilla’s painting when I realized Ben was standing at the driver’s-side door, looking down and frowning. He ran his finger along the edge of the window, his blue eyes irritated.
“What’s wrong?” I asked as he finally opened the door and slid in.
“It looks as if someone tried to break into my car last night,” he growled. He looked up at the motion-activated floodlights my father had installed near their front porch, where Ben had parked his Explorer. “I guess the lights came on and scared them away.”
I put my hand on his arm just as he jabbed the button to start the car. “You mean it wasn’t there before? The damage to your weather stripping?”
His head turned my way. “You saw it? When?”
“Yesterday, at the cookie place. You took a work call and I went to look at Camilla’s painting. I noticed it then, but I guessed it had happened at some other point because you didn’t mention it when we got in the car.” I grimaced. “I’m sorry, Ben. I figured you already knew, and I guess I forgot all about it with the excitement of meeting Cisco and finally getting to know what’s underneath the painting.”
“You noticed it yesterday afternoon?” Ben asked. “Are you sure? And did you see anything suspicious at the time?”
I said I was sure and told him about the black Suburban and gray BMW trying to leave the lot at the same time. “I didn’t see anyone standing outside your car or anything that indicated they’d been doing anything underhanded, though.”
“Any chance you caught any license plates?”
I shook my head. Now I was feeling irritated on Ben’s behalf. “You know, I kind of wondered if Camilla’s ex, Gareth Fishwick, might have done it. He seemed angry enough at being walked out of Camilla’s house like a criminal. And you and I spent, what, almost ten minutes getting the painting out of the house after that. He would have had time.”
“I’m thinking not,” Ben said, shaking his head as he reversed onto my parents’ street. “I don’t think Fishwick did it, I mean. I watched him drive away, and I stood there until I was sure he was gone.”
“That doesn’t mean he didn’t come back,” I said.
Ben tapped his driver’s-side window with his knuckle. “Agreed, but why would he try and break in?” He made a gesture around the inside of his car. “I don’t keep anything of value in here.”
It was true. The only things visible were two half-drunk bottles of water in the cup holders from our drive into town yesterday and a roll of mints. Even in his glove compartment, which he’d popped open yesterday to store his Glock while we drove, there had only been the requisite car manuals, plus a pack of latex
gloves for, as he put it, “the occasional crime scene.”
“I thought Gareth might have done it for some sort of unspecified revenge,” I said with a shrug. “Just because he was ticked off.”
Ben seemed to consider this, then shook his head again. “I don’t think so. He was angry, yes, but he also seemed glad to get away from the whole situation.” He switched lanes as we merged onto Loop 610. “Plus, I ran a check on him, and he was clean other than some debt that’s a hair’s width away from being serious.”
I laughed. “You know, you could have led with that part.”
He flashed me a quick grin. “Hey, it’s never a bad thing to talk out the ideas that are swimming around in your head, especially when they’re negative. It can help you make sense of things faster.”
I had to agree with that, but then remembered something else. “Speaking of Gareth and checking on things, did you find out who sent him that text that was supposedly from Camilla?”
Ben’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “Burner phone,” he replied. “I checked in with Dupart while you and your mom were at Mrs. Hocknell’s. It was sold at a Walmart in Quincy, Massachusetts, three weeks ago, and then an app was used so that the text looked like it came from Camilla’s phone number.” He glanced my way, anticipating my next thought. “And Dupart checked both Camilla’s and Gareth’s recent whereabouts using what’s called ‘historical pings’ from each of their phones. It’s location data taken from nearby towers and can give us a good idea as to where they’ve been lately. Neither Gareth nor Camilla has been anywhere near Massachusetts in the past month.”
We’d just navigated an interchange when my phone beeped with a text.
“Is it from Helen?” Ben asked.
“No, unfortunately,” I said. “I texted her again this morning to check in, but she hasn’t answered back.” My face must have looked as gloomy as I felt on the inside, because Ben replied in a voice that was both soothing and confident.
“Hey,” Ben said. “Don’t worry. I don’t have any further updates on her from Dupart, but, like I told you, I didn’t get the impression he thought her a viable suspect. And if she’s upset with you about having to ID her, she’s smart and she’ll eventually understand.”
“Yeah, I know,” I said. “I just wish she’d call me, even if it’s to chew me out, you know what I mean?”
“Maybe she’s really busy and she can’t call right now,” Ben suggested. Giving me a wink, he added, “I know how frustrating that feels.”
“Let’s hope that’s the case,” I said, then explained that the message was actually from Camilla. “I texted her this morning, saying I was thinking of talking to Neil Gaynor. She thinks it’s a good idea. She’s been recalling that he showed a lot of interest in what she had to say about finding another painting under her piece of the triptych.”
I typed a reply and my phone soon dinged again with another text. “I asked where he usually hangs out in the Howland library and she said he goes to the Duchess Reading Room nearly every day. It’s reserved for PhD students only.” I looked over at Ben. “What if we show up and just so happen to engage him in conversation?”
At first, I thought Ben might decide this came too near interfering or maybe suggest a different approach, but instead he nodded approvingly, glancing at me as he exited the freeway. “You’re liking all this investigative stuff, aren’t you?”
I thought about it. “You know, I am, actually. Though it’s with mixed emotions. I wouldn’t be doing this if someone hadn’t been killed, and, I’m not going to lie, that part tears me up inside.” At this, Ben reached out and took my hand. I squeezed it gratefully, adding, “That being said, being able to help right those wrongs in some way, shape, or form feels good, especially when it involves using my talents as a genealogist. I think the helping suits me.”
“It does suit you,” Ben said, casting an assessing look my way.
“But don’t worry,” I said with a toothy grin. “I’ve no desire to go into law enforcement. I’m happy to stay a genealogist who just swoops in with awesomely helpful information from time to time. Your and Detective Dupart’s jobs are quite safe.”
Ben let out a bark of laughter. “I’m going to be sure and video his reaction when I tell him you said that.”
“Oooh, tell him right when he’s taking a drink. Ten bucks says it makes him do a spit take.”
“I think you’ll win that bet,” Ben said. “Anyway, your suggestion about showing up and engaging Neil Gaynor in conversation isn’t a bad one. Ask Camilla if she knows what time he’s likely to be at the library. If it coincides with what time we have before we need to head back to Austin, we can find Neil and play off each other and see what we can get out of him.”
“Like good cop, bad cop?” I asked, frowning a little. I was hoping for something more subtle than that.
“Actually, I was thinking more like a Tommy and Tuppence Beresford act. Play the affable couple and pull him into conversation and then steer him in the direction we need. Sound good?”
I felt a thrill of excitement, both at the idea of actually teaming up with Ben to interview a suspect and at doing so in an improvisational style that was reminiscent of two of my favorite Agatha Christie characters. Oh, yes, it definitely sounded good.
“I’m in,” I said, and got to work texting Camilla for more details on Neil Gaynor’s schedule.
TWENTY-FIVE
I didn’t have much time to think about ways in which Ben and I could engage Neil Gaynor in some breezy conversation that would naturally segue toward Camilla’s painting because Ben was soon dropping me off at the side entrance to Morris Art Conservation. Abbie, Cisco’s assistant, was waiting for us with a smile.
“I’ll go park and meet you in a few minutes,” Ben said, raising a friendly hand to Abbie, who said she would come back to let him in after escorting me inside.
“Cisco has some great stuff to show you,” Abbie told me, pulling her key card out of her white lab coat and touching it to the scanner. “He’s been jumping out of his skin for y’all to get here.”
“Oh, now you have to give me a hint,” I said, giving her a pleading look as we made our way through the security door and into the hallway that would take us to the workroom.
She laughed. “No way. Cisco would demote me if I did.”
“Hey, Abbie!” called a voice from an open doorway we were passing. “Can you come help me for a mo’?”
“Sure, Fazil, just a sec,” she called back. With another smile, she pointed me down the hallway. “You remember where to go, yes? Down this hallway and then hook a right. First door after that. If Cisco doesn’t answer when you knock, he’ll be back momentarily. He knows you’re here, but he had to run upstairs for a minute.”
I smiled. “No problem. Thanks, Abbie—and thanks for letting Ben in, too. He shouldn’t be too long.”
She nodded, the pink tips of her hair swinging forward. “I’ll be back to get him in a jiffy.”
Abbie disappeared into the doorway we’d just passed and I continued on down the hallway. Rounding the corner, I saw another woman in a lab coat was holding her key card up to the scanner at Cisco’s workroom. Her graying fair hair was pulled into a sleek bun and one hand was holding a cart like we’d used yesterday to transport the triptych piece. The scanner beeped obligingly, and she turned the handle, pulling the door open.
Another beep sounded, but this was from the phone in my hand. It was a distinctive two-tone I’d set up to alert me to emails from my various genealogical societies. Glancing at the notification, I noted the email as being from the North American Genealogy Conference, with the subject line Conference Panel Invitation. A zing of excitement coursed through me as I flipped the little side switch to silence my phone. I’d never been asked to be on a panel before.
Grinning, I looked up as I was steps away from the workroom, already intending to help hold the door open for the employee, only to see her pushing the cart away again, toward a service eleva
tor at the far end of the hall. She twisted her right wrist up to read a message on her smartwatch, shaking her head in an irritated way at the same time. Though she moved swiftly, the workroom door was closing at a more sedate pace. Seeing my chance, I dashed the last couple of steps and caught the door just before it shut.
“Cisco?” I called into the cavernous room, but it was quiet except for some unidentified humming that sounded like the air-conditioning system.
I was all alone, it seemed, so I wandered over to a worktable where a painting lay under a drop cloth. Beside it was a folder labeled Untitled Triptych Piece, 1866, Charles Braithwaite, artist. I was about to open the folder when I heard the door beep again and Cisco walked in, stopping to hold it open for someone else as he called out, “Ah, Abbie found you, then.”
I jumped guiltily, accidentally making the folder slide halfway under the drop cloth.
“Now, no peeking, Lucy,” Cisco admonished me. “I at least get to do the big reveal.”
“I’m backing away from the table,” I said, holding my hands up in mock surrender and stepping back two paces. Following Cisco into the workroom was a woman with intelligent green eyes, high cheekbones, and brown curly hair streaked liberally with blond. She wore slim trousers, a pair of feminine penny loafers, and a dusky pink blouse with the effortlessness of a runway model, and she looked at me with interest until a noise made her turn around. It was Ben, and her mouth dropped open in surprise.
“Well, Ben Turner, as I live and breathe,” she said, her voice infused with Southern charm.
Ben, whose eyes had gone straight to me, turned toward the woman. “Savannah? Er … hi. It’s been a long time. How are you? And what are you doing here?”
Cisco shot me a look to see my reaction, but if he expected me to be jealous, he was in for a disappointment. I’d recognized Savannah Lundstrom the moment I saw her. Even better, while yesterday’s attempt at leaving a message on the Chronology reporter’s voice mail had been truncated, I’d been considering trying again as I really needed to talk to her regarding her article. Now—hot damn—I could talk to her in person.
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