Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  I moved to stand beside Cisco as Savannah Lundstrom held out her arms to Ben, saying, “I’m here to interview Mr. Ramos. Now, come here, you, and give me a hug.”

  She was only a couple of inches shorter than Ben’s five-eleven and didn’t have to stand on tiptoes as she wrapped her arms around his neck and pulled him into an affectionate embrace. When she released him and turned my way again, Cisco was already hastening them into the room, explaining, “I’m being interviewed about my conservation work by Ms. Lundstrom for Chronology magazine. She showed up a bit early to take a peek at the museum upstairs and asked to see some of the workrooms. I thought I’d give her the ten-cent tour before y’all showed up, but I misjudged my timing. Looks like it all worked out, though.” He looked back and forth between Ben and Savannah. “You two know each other?”

  Savannah’s eyes sparkled. “Yes, Ben and I took some classes together one summer at UT.” She turned to Ben, a reporter-like gleam in her eye. “I understand you’re with the FBI now. Is that true?”

  Ben’s smile was all friendly politeness. “It is. White-collar division, though. I mostly handle fraud cases, so fairly uninteresting.”

  Before she could reply—or I could snort at hearing pretty much the same brush-off he’d used with me last year, which had been true at the time but had since become a lie—Ben turned, gesturing to me.

  “Savannah, this is my girlfriend, Lucy Lancaster,” he said. “Lucy, this is Savannah Lundstrom, my former classmate, and currently a reporter for Chronology.”

  Savannah’s voice was warm as she walked to me, holding her out her hand. “It’s really lovely to meet you, Lucy.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, too, Savannah,” I said, smiling. “I’m a longtime subscriber to Chronology—it’s one of my favorite magazines. I’ve read some of your work recently, and Ben recognized your name in the byline. You’re an excellent writer.”

  “Oh, thank you,” Savannah replied with a big smile. “Which piece did you read?”

  “It was actually the one on Charles Braithwaite,” I said. “I found it very thought-provoking, and I’ve been hoping to get in touch with you to see if I could talk to you more about it.” When Savannah raised her eyebrows in question, I explained, “I’m a genealogist, and I was just curious as to what made you take the angle you did with the story.”

  Though her smile was holding, I sensed a reserve coming over her at the idea that I might be criticizing her article.

  “Well, after extensive research, it was simply how the story presented itself,” Savannah began as we moved closer to the table where Camilla’s piece of the triptych lay, still covered. “If you’re a longtime reader of Chronology, then you know it’s our job to unmask the parts of history that have presented a facade to our nation and our world for so long. Sometimes it makes for pieces that are thought-provoking in a good way, and sometimes in a way that ruffles a few feathers. Yet when the true history is uncovered, it always ends up being better for us all going forward, don’t you agree?”

  “Of course,” I said, taking the tactful approach. While I agreed with much of the sentiment, if Savannah and I had been alone, I might have challenged her on the part where she used the “unmasking of history” to belittle a family that, while no doubt imperfect, had remained an upstanding part of the Houston community for decades. However, while Ben’s eyes were registering admiration for my gumption, I’d caught Cisco looking slightly uncomfortable out of the corner of my eye. Now was not the time to continue this conversation.

  Savannah seemed to sense it as well and changed the subject.

  “You know, I’ve actually been wanting my genealogy done,” she told me. “Do you happen to have a card, Lucy?”

  “Of course,” I said, reaching into the crossbody purse for my green card case. “I’d love to work on your family tree. Which side are you considering focusing on first?”

  “Hmm?” Savannah said, her attention already distracted by the covered-up painting and the folder that was peeking out. “Oh, my mother’s side, I think.” She plucked the card from my fingers and gave it a quick read. “My dad’s side is mostly Scandinavian and the family’s kept pretty good records, but my mom’s family didn’t, so I don’t have as much information on that side.” She’d seen the folder, including the words Charles Braithwaite, artist, on its label. She gestured toward the covered painting, looking a little stunned.

  “This was painted by Charles Braithwaite? I mean, I know from my piece on him that he did some artwork, including that marvelous drawing of the Texas Emancipation Day announcement, but I didn’t know he did any actual paintings. Is this why you wanted to discuss my article?” She looked at me, her fingers already taking hold of the covering. “May I see it?”

  Cisco was there in a flash, his hand preventing any further lifting of the drop cloth. His tone became polite, but professional. “I’m so sorry, Ms. Lundstrom. It’s for Lucy’s and Ben’s eyes only at the moment, as they are the agents for the owner. If, after I give them my report, they wish to contact the owner and obtain permission to tell you about it and let you see the results, that’s their prerogative.” He smiled almost apologetically, and held out an arm to gesture her back toward the workroom door. “If you wouldn’t mind waiting upstairs until I’m finished here and they take possession of the painting? I’ll be, oh, thirty or so minutes, I think. Then I’ll be ready for any questions you might want to throw at me about conservation work.”

  For a second, I thought Savannah was going to argue, but she merely gave him a beatific smile, gracing Ben and me with it as well, and said, “Of course. I shouldn’t have been so presumptuous—and it was my fault for showing up early in the first place. Where would be the best place for me to wait for you in the meantime?”

  “Oh, you should enjoy more of the museum, of course,” Cisco replied genially. “Let me get my assistant, Abbie, to take you up through the staff doorway.” He pulled out his phone, which was ringing.

  “Talk of the devil. Hey, Abbie …” As she spoke, he began rubbing his brow wearily. “She can’t find it anywhere? And she’s sure she had it on her when she arrived?” He listened to Abbie’s response, then sighed. “All right. Have security revoke the access for that card and issue her a new one—and tell her no one’s going to chew her out for it. It’s happened to all of us.” He let out a wry chuckle. “Including me, a couple of weeks ago. She just needs to be more careful. Nope, don’t worry about what I was going to ask. I’ll do it. Thanks, Abbie.”

  “Someone lose their key card?” Ben asked, moving to my side, subtly blocking Savannah’s access to the painting at the same time.

  Cisco gave a rueful grin, nodding. “New intern. Hardworking, but hasn’t quite got the hang of things yet. She will, though.” He looked expectantly at Savannah, who smiled, inclining her head in acquiescence.

  “And this is my moment to exit stage left—until our interview, at least,” she said.

  I piped up in an attempt to subtly remind Savannah that I would be calling her. “If you like, I’m happy to contact the painting’s owner to see if we can share the information we find with you when you and I talk.”

  Savannah’s reporter’s intuition sharpened her gaze, and one eyebrow lifted. “Do you think it might change the conclusions I drew in the story I wrote on Charles Braithwaite’s life in some way?”

  Though I felt a subtle tension emanating from Ben at the question, I was about to answer that it could. Yet it was Cisco, out of Savannah’s eyeshot, who stopped me with an emphatic shake of his head.

  “Honestly, I have no clue,” I replied, turning my palms over for emphasis. “I’m only acting on the owner’s behalf.”

  Savannah persisted. “Is this owner a Braithwaite?”

  I raised my upturned palms and shoulders at the same time, but didn’t answer. Though since her eyes warmed with success, I figured my nonanswer was as good as a yes in her book.

  Her smile was as innocent as mine. “Will you at least give me
a hint as to why the panel is here? Is it to be evaluated for sale?” She whirled to look at Ben, excitement coloring her voice as she asked, “Wait. Is the FBI involved? Is this a painting that somebody stole?”

  At this, Ben laughed, tucking his thumbs in the belt loops of his jeans. “You haven’t changed a bit, Lundstrom.” He shook his head in amusement. “I commend your persistence as a journalist, but no, the FBI is not involved in any way, shape, or form. You’re welcome to call and check up on that, if you like.”

  The truth was ringing through his words, and I could tell Savannah heard it, too.

  “All right, all right,” she said with a laugh. “I give.” Smiling at Ben, she tilted her head to the side, saying, “It was really good to see you again, Ben Turner. You look happy, and I’m glad.”

  Ben smiled back at her. “It was good seeing you, too, Savannah.”

  She turned to me. “You’re a lucky woman, Lucy. I hope to work with you on my genealogy in the future and I’m happy to talk to you about my article whenever you like.” Then she added in a humorously dramatic stage-whisper, “And maybe you’ll tell me about the Braithwaite painting at the same time.”

  I grinned, but she followed Cisco out the lab door without waiting for a reply.

  TWENTY-SIX

  “Holy frijoles,” I said in a half whisper.

  “You said it,” Ben agreed.

  We were both turned around in our seats, looking at the inconspicuous dark blanket spread across the laid-down back seat of Ben’s Explorer. Underneath it was Camilla’s painting, lying there silently as if it hadn’t just given up some rather mind-blowing secrets.

  “It’s like finding a dusty black rock, washing it off, and realizing you’re holding a seriously big diamond,” I said.

  “And knowing that it’s one of three,” Ben said. “It’s just incredible.”

  “The whole scene,” I breathed, one hand going to my heart. “Oh my stars, it’s so detailed, so beautiful, and so heartbreaking all at the same time. The look of fear and desperation on some of the soldiers’ faces—from both sides of the battle—as they did their best to simply survive the chaos of the fighting around them. It was palpable.”

  “I think Charles Braithwaite was trying to show the absolute pointlessness of the war,” Ben said. “He did one hell of a good job, too.”

  I nodded, looking into Ben’s blue eyes with the green around the pupils, remembering another set of blue eyes, those of the terrified soldier we’d been able to see in the painting yesterday in the spot Camilla had uncovered. When I’d finally seen all of that soldier, witnessed his the tautness in his neck, the strain of his muscles, and almost felt the lurch of his body as another soldier bore down on him, I was so moved that tears had briefly welled in my own eyes. Thankfully, Ben’s blue eyes were smiling as he added, “And the piece has Braithwaite’s signature and the date he painted it, too.”

  Cisco had been like a kid in a candy store when he’d shown us Charles Braithwaite’s signature—the same bold, forward-slanting “C. Braithwaite” with the long horizontal stroke over the second “t” that I’d seen when Helen had found the example in her art database. Just underneath the distinctive “t,” almost as if it were directing the eye, was the year 1866. Charles had painted his triptych likely not long after returning home, when the war and its horrors were still very fresh in his mind.

  “I was floored to see that—the whole thing is just amazing.” I put my hand on Ben’s arm. “Oh, I’m so hoping I can find proof that Charles didn’t desert his regiment. You heard what Cisco said—an appraiser has to confirm it, but if Charles Braithwaite really remained a soldier and painted the triptych from his memories of battle, that could make it significantly more valuable.”

  “And maybe even more so because Robert E. Lee is in the painting,” Ben added, the excitement in his voice increasing. “I’m no art expert, of course, but I think that was one of the best likenesses of Lee I’ve ever seen.”

  “Charles had such a talent for painting faces and expressions,” I said. “And he was a dab hand at horses, too. Lee’s horse was magnificently done.”

  We turned to face forward, staring out to the street, in awe of all we’d just learned.

  “What I really can’t believe,” Ben said, “is that the artwork on top was simply another piece of canvas that wasn’t prepped well and was laid over the first painting. It was literally just sitting on top. To know there’s likely to be little or no damage to the painting underneath—except for where it was gouged by that brass elephant—it’s simply unreal.”

  I smiled. “I’m so glad Camilla has agreed to let Helen do the restoration—if Helen still wants to, of course. It would be a huge boost for her business. And thank goodness Dupart cleared her of any wrongdoing so she could be offered the job.” I smiled at Ben. “Thank you for texting Dupart and asking, by the way.” Then I frowned. “Though I wish he’d given you more details in his reply.”

  Ben had received the text as Cisco was escorting Savannah to the staff stairwell that would take her upstairs to wait in the museum. Showing me the text chain, I saw that Ben had messaged Dupart about Helen earlier in the morning, when Mom and I were at Mrs. Hocknell’s house. Dupart had replied with only one word, but it was a good one: Cleared.

  Then, when Ben and I realized the importance of what Cisco was telling us about the painting, we’d called Camilla on FaceTime so she could hear all the details herself. Though she still looked like Uncle Charlie’s death was weighing heavily on her, Camilla had been breathless with excitement. Afterward, when I’d suggested Helen do the restoration and Cisco had assured Camilla that Helen would do a bang-up job, Camilla had agreed that supporting a small, woman-owned business would make her happy.

  “Ben,” I said, turning to him, worry now entering my voice, “what if we can’t find the other two pieces? One’s stolen, and the other is who knows where. What if they’re gone forever?”

  He held out his hand and I took it, relaxing somewhat as he rubbed the back of my hand with his thumb. “I’ve already called Dupart, when I went to get the car. He’ll make finding Charlie Braithwaite’s piece of the triptych a high priority. He’ll also alert the FBI and put it on the NSAF—the National Stolen Art File.”

  “Good,” I said forcefully. Using my finger, I made air circles at his expression, which had taken on a look of forced seriousness. “What’s with this look, though?”

  Ben worked his jaw, but a twinkle was coming into his eyes. “As far as finding the third piece, Dupart requested that I ask you to research the Braithwaite family to locate who might have inherited it.”

  My own jaw dropped as if on a hinge. “You’re joking. Dupart’s actually asking me to get involved?”

  Ben tilted his head to one side. “Well-l-l-l, I don’t know if ‘involved’ is the right—”

  I put my finger over his lips. “Shhh … I want to savor this moment.” Closing my eyes in satisfaction, a grin spread across my face. I heard the rumble of laughter in his chest, and felt his breath tickle my finger. Then my eyes flew open, another thought having occurred to me. “So what are we going to do with the painting now?”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Well, we’re going to go interview Neil Gaynor, remember? You even had me ask Camilla if she knew his schedule, and she said he’s usually at the library from about twelve thirty to two thirty.” Jerking my thumb over my shoulder toward our concealed treasure, I said, “We’re toting around what’s likely an extremely valuable piece of art. One of the pieces has been stolen, resulting in a murder, and yesterday someone tried to break into your car and steal this piece. I don’t think we can leave it in the car.”

  “You’re right,” he said with a grimace. “One of us needs to stay with it while Gaynor is being interviewed.”

  “It might need to be you who goes in,” I told him. “Roxie and Patrice aren’t my favorite people, as you know, but both of them are extremely intelligent, and they notice everything. If I man
age to slip by them when I’m walking in, they’ll no doubt find me talking to Neil Gaynor, and they’ll know something is up.”

  Ben fished in his pocket, pulling out the key to his Explorer. “Happy to do it, then. Show me the photo you found of him again?”

  I opened my phone and found Neil’s Instagram account, having checked with Camilla via text to make sure I had the right guy. He was short and wiry in his photos, with dark brown hair, eyes that could have been hazel or brown, and a long nose. I’d read several of his posts, most of which were reviews of the latest craft beer he’d found. However, scattered throughout his photos of ales, lagers, and hefeweizens, were photos with various friends, the occasional anecdote about his PhD studies—usually accompanied by a photo taken at the Howland library—and a handful of humorous posts about searching for the best pizza in Houston with his younger sister, Dina. The most recent one, posted ten days earlier, showed Dina, who was a blonde but resembled her brother in stature and nose, enthusiastically gesturing toward a pizza topped with ground beef, olives, jalapeños, and pineapple. In the caption, Neil had both teased his sister about her pizza-topping choices and praised her for her hard work getting into law school, writing that he and his sister were the first two people in his immediate family to even go to college in the first place.

  In general, Neil Gaynor seemed, well, like a decent guy. But I’d had to remind myself that people often showed only their best side on social media. Neil could have posted this tidbit about his family history in an attempt to add credence or sympathy—or both—to the lawsuit alleging that his family had experienced decades of hard times as a result of Charles Braithwaite’s so-called greed back in 1925. Heck, Neil could have possibly been the person to try to steal the magnificent painting lying quietly behind me, too. I had to remember anything was possible.