Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  “Luce?” Ben was still holding out the key to his car, but I didn’t take it. I shifted in my seat to look at him straight on.

  “I need to change my mind,” I said. “Um, the last thing I want to do is put either of us in any kind of danger, but if someone should try to break into the car again or whatever, you are a trained law-enforcement officer and I’m just your basic, everyday citizen.” I splayed my hand and made air circles over my frame, then did the same toward Ben’s. “You are quite a bit bigger than I am, too.”

  “You’re right, I should have thought of that. Of course I should be the one to stay with the painting.” He gave me a sidelong look. “But are you okay going into the proverbial lion’s den of former coworkers? We could take the painting to your parents’ house and then I could come back to the library and try to find Gaynor, if you don’t want to mess with having to talk with him, or see Roxie and Patrice.”

  I smiled at him. “Thanks, but Howland University is not far from here, and my parents are all the way across town—and you saw what Houston traffic is like. Plus, I’m not concerned about talking to Neil Gaynor if I’m in the safety of the library. And I’m certainly not afraid of Roxie and Patrice—not that they ever did anything that was intended to make me fear them. They just gave into their own petty jealousies, which made for a very unhappy workplace environment for me.” I straightened my shoulders. “I’m willing to let bygones be bygones, though. Maybe they’ll turn out to be like Camilla—never going to be my best bud, but better than I remembered.”

  I expected Ben to laugh, so I was surprised when he gave me another appreciative look. “If you handle them the way you handled Savannah Lundstrom, then I think you’ll be all right. Same goes for Gaynor.”

  I felt like he’d just given me a gold star to put on my shirt. “I do think I need to learn some interview techniques, though,” I said.

  “The fact that you’re not an expert is probably better, in your case. You don’t come off as slick, and it makes people trust you more,” Ben said.

  “Not in Savannah’s case,” I returned with a laugh. “But then again, I was questioning her work, even if nicely.” Determined not to worry either about Savannah or the fact that I was about to face Roxie and Patrice again, I changed the subject, adding briskly, “All right, then, Agent Turner. Our next mission is to get me some food so I don’t eat my former coworkers alive. There’s a really good Greek place not far from here. What do you say?”

  Instead, he pulled me into a long kiss that was only interrupted when we noticed a car had drawn up beside us. Feeling eyes on us, we looked over to see an elderly lady in the passenger seat sending us a big wink. Chuckling, Ben started the car, and we were soon on our way to lunch, then my former workplace.

  * * *

  An hour later, I was walking along a pretty, tree-lined walkway, admiring the classical buildings of Howland University just like I always used to. The university’s buildings and layout had been modeled after Yale University in Connecticut, and the campus continued to be one of the prettiest areas in Houston. As such, I saw more than one person taking selfies in front of the ivy-covered buildings and another couple of people taking photographs of the equally beautiful university library.

  Officially named the Barbara A. Kazen Library, with its grand columns and Beaux Arts architectural style, it was often likened to a much smaller version of the New York Public Library when viewed from the Fifth Avenue entrance. Built in 1913, when Howland University opened to its first batch of students, there were even two statues flanking the stone steps—one a lion and the other a lioness, both wearing wreaths around their necks. The lion’s wreath was of elm leaves, representing inner strength, and the lioness’s was of birch, signifying new beginnings. Supposedly, the two statues didn’t have names, but everyone called them Nick and Nora, as they were both put on their plinths on May 25, 1934, the day the Myrna Loy–William Powell hit comedy The Thin Man came out, bringing to life Nick and Nora Charles from the Dashiell Hammett novel of the same name.

  I stopped at the base of the stone steps, taking in a deep breath, just as a tousle-headed student trotted down them, after stopping to put a penny at the base of Nora’s left front paw. He saw me watching him and gave an embarrassed smile before hurrying on.

  I smiled, too. There were traditions surrounding the two statues. If someone left a penny at Nick’s feet, it was for good luck for one or more of Howland’s sports teams to win their upcoming match. Nora was the one who got all the pennies, though. Leaving one by her right front foot was for good luck on exams. A penny next to her tail was for inspiration, and one at either of her back feet was for safe travels on a journey. But as for leaving a penny at Nora’s left front paw? That was to wish for good fortune in matters of the heart.

  Digging into the side pocket of my crossbody purse, I came up with the penny Ben had given me yesterday afternoon. Placing it alongside the others at Nora’s left front paw, I smiled, inhaled another deep breath, and marched up the steps and through the ornately carved double doors into the library.

  As soon as I did, a voice hissed from the direction of the welcome desk to my left. “Lucy? What the hell are you doing here?”

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  I froze in mid-step after crossing the short, empty foyer onto the carpet of the library. No matter what I’d told Ben earlier, I turned with a slight feeling of doom, only to get another surprise at who I saw.

  “Helen?”

  Before I could say anything else, Helen got up from the desk and jerked her head for me to follow her back outside, slinging a large tote over her shoulder as she did so. I hesitated for a moment, glancing around at the area we’d always called the bullpen, where the reference desk stood. A few students were milling around, but I couldn’t see any of the library staff, or anyone resembling Neil Gaynor. Turning, I hurried to follow Helen as she sailed down the steps, past a couple of students walking by the library’s entrance, and aimed toward an empty stone bench underneath a sprawling oak tree. Reaching it, she whirled around. I braced for a dressing-down, but instead, she pulled me into a hug.

  “Please forgive me for not calling you earlier. I was upset at the police showing up and questioning me,” she said in my ear as she gave me an extra squeeze, “but only for a little while.” Pulling back, she tilted her head back and forth, and her brown eyes had humor in them. “And most of it was because Detective Dupart showed up when I was talking to a very important new client about their artwork. It was super awkward, let me tell you. And then having to verify my whereabouts and all that stuff wasn’t a ton of fun, either.” She cast me a mock glare. “And everything was on the up-and-up, of course.”

  “I never doubted it,” I said. “Oh, Helen, I’m so sorry.”

  “Don’t be, Luce. I would have done the same thing in your position. It was just weird for a while, that’s all.” Extracting her phone, she brought up a half-started text to me. “I was replying to you when you walked in, actually. Now that’s what I call serendipity.” Then she grabbed my arm in excited anticipation. “But never mind all that. What did Cisco say about the painting?”

  “Oh my gosh,” I breathed. “I’ve got so much to tell you.” Pulling out my own phone, I showed her photos I’d taken of Charles Braithwaite’s long-hidden painting, and related our meeting with Cisco as she went through the photos with fascination. When I got to the part where Camilla had said she wanted to hire Helen to do the restoration, she blinked at me for a moment, then threw her arms around my neck again in delight.

  Pulling back, she said, “Wait, did you come here to the Howland library to tell me this?”

  I gave her a sideways look. “How would I have known you were here?”

  “Detective Dupart didn’t tell you?”

  “Are you kidding? He doesn’t tell me squat,” I said in exasperation. “He’ll give Ben the occasional bit of information—like the fact that you were cleared in the investigation—but only out of professional courtesy.” Pulling he
r down to sit on the bench, I said, “Now, spill, please. And don’t forget to explain the part about why you were at Charlie Braithwaite’s house in the first place.”

  Helen turned in her seat to face me, her dark hair swinging forward in front of her shoulders. “I’m here to pick up some rare maps of Texas that a Howland University student brought here a couple of days ago, thinking the library would like them. They’re from Spanish colonial times, and one is particularly interesting. Anyway, one of the librarians, Patrice Alvarez—did you work with her?—regardless, she convinced the kid to gift them to the Harry Alden museum instead, but they need some conservation work first. I was hired to do the job and offered to drive down here and pick them up. I called Detective Dupart to make sure I was free to do so, and that’s when he told me I was cleared.”

  “That’s really interesting about the maps,” I said, “but why were you sitting at the reception desk?”

  Helen rolled her eyes. “Even though I confirmed with Patrice that I would be here by eleven forty-five and she said she goes to lunch at noon, apparently she decided that was not the right journey for her today and went to lunch early.” Glancing at her watch, she added, “Another staffer, whose name was Trent, if I remember correctly, told me Patrice would be back by twelve thirty, so I said I’d wait and welcome people to the library. He looked at me like I was bonkers—clearly he doesn’t get my sense of humor—but told me to knock myself out.”

  I grinned, but my impatience was getting the better of me. “But Helen, I have to know—what happened the night Charlie Braithwaite died?”

  My words seemed to remind her that something much worse had occurred than her being interrupted by the police at work or being inconvenienced by one of my former coworkers. “I’m so sorry about Charlie. I didn’t know him, but it’s still such a terrible thing.” When I agreed that it was, she said, “Remember me telling you I would call him to make an appointment to see the triptych piece?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, I did, and left him a message. He called me back a while later, apparently after being taken to the doctor by Camilla. As it turned out, Charlie felt so much better after seeing his doctor that he asked if I wanted to stop by to chat while Camilla was out running some errands and picking up food.” Helen shrugged. “It worked perfectly with my schedule, so I drove over to his house at about ten till seven. I expected Charlie to open the door. Instead it was a woman who introduced herself as his next-door neighbor. Excellent posture. Looks to be in her late seventies or so, but she’s very well preserved.” Helen tapped her chin with her finger. “I would bet there’s a picture of her somewhere that’s aging, because she’s clearly not, except for the gray hair.”

  Though I was interested to hear Elaine Trudeau had indeed been in Charlie’s house the night of his murder, the thought of Elaine having a Dorian Gray–like painting somewhere almost made me laugh. Nevertheless, I wanted Helen to get on with it, so I only nodded.

  “Anyway, she let me inside for about five seconds put together. Basically just long enough to tell me I should be ashamed of myself for forcing my way onto Charlie’s schedule when he was so frail and ill. When I told her he had invited me, she said that he always updates his calendar and she’d just been dusting in his office and my name wasn’t on there. I tried to protest, but she told me I had two choices. I could leave right there and then, or I could try to get past her and see where that got me.”

  I opened my mouth in shock. “She threatened to fight you?”

  Helen shrugged, her eyes fiery with indignation. “I’m not saying we were destined for a cage match or anything, but there was a framed photo in her hand that had four very sharp corners, and she was holding it in a defensive position. She may have been thinking she could bean me on the side of the head with one of those corners and it would take me down. Regardless, I decided it was best to just leave.”

  “Well, you certainly told her how you felt with that look,” I said with an amused grin. “If looks could be an equally sharp-cornered picture frame to throw at her, yours did the job.”

  Helen snorted. “Until I turned around and tripped on one of those bags of soil lying on the walkway and nearly ate dirt—literally. One of the bags was opened and I landed inches from it.”

  Now I laughed. “We didn’t see that part. Dupart stopped the playback at your dirty look and missed the eating-dirt bit.”

  “Yeah,” Helen muttered. “‘Soils from Heaven,’ my left foot. Should have been ‘Soils from Hell.’”

  Even as I snickered, another piece of knowledge was playing hide-and-seek in my brain, like it had when Mom and I had been talking about Mrs. Hocknell having been gardening. What was the connection? I recalled Grandpa’s and Ben’s advice to try not to think about it and let my subconscious work it out, but it turned out I didn’t need to. Images were already flashing in my brain.

  Uncle Charlie, soil, spots on his arms, weakness. Mrs. Hocknell—Charlie’s cousin—with the same issues, only on a lesser scale. Both had been gardening.

  The image of the brown paper bag with the name Soils from Heaven in its swirly font swam before me. I hadn’t seen Mrs. Hocknell’s bags close up, but I recalled that they’d looked like the same type of industrial brown paper as the bags at Charlie’s. I gripped my phone. I needed to check with Mom.

  “Helen,” I said. “Can you hang on a minute?”

  “Sure thing,” she said, crossing her legs and taking out her phone. “I’m just waiting for Patrice to decide to come back to work. Might as well do it here as in the library.” She looked up at the gorgeous blue sky. “Houston hasn’t let loose the dogs of heat and humidity yet, so it’s quite pleasant out here.”

  Being the weirdo I was, I thought the current sixty-five degrees was cold, but I stood up and walked around the other side of the immense oak tree, typing “Soils from Heaven” and “Houston” in the search bar of my phone. A simple but well-designed website came up. The site explained how their land’s long-fallow ground had been found to contain optimal organic potting soil, and that packing and distributing the soil gave young men and women a great job that allowed them to work outside and learn about gardening. Packaging was kept as simple as possible to keep plastic waste to a minimum. And the land was located in a nearly uninhabited part of a tiny, nearly deserted town just outside Houston by the name of Potter’s Hill, Texas.

  My mind was really clanging with another memory now. Another internet search led me to just the information I needed. I called up the favorites on my phone and tapped the one for my mother’s cell phone.

  “How’s it going, hon?” Mom asked upon answering.

  “Great,” I said. “Ben and I have lots of fun things to tell y’all, but that’s not what I’m calling about.” Looking around to make sure no one could hear me, I said, “Mom … about Mrs. Hocknell and her weakness, rash, and spots on her arms. Her cousin Charlie had similar issues.”

  “Did he?” Mom asked, concerned. “You didn’t mention it.”

  “I sort of forgot about that aspect in the moment,” I explained. “But the point is, do you remember seeing the brand of potting soil Mrs. Hocknell had at her house? There were bags of it in the wheelbarrow at the corner of her porch.”

  Mom’s voice was musing as she said, “No, I don’t recall seeing the name, but I know they weren’t the same brand your dad and I bought from the garden center because the packaging was different.” Then excitement came into her tone. “Want me to sneak over there and see?”

  “I’m not sure you have to ‘sneak,’ necessarily, but if you could go over there and take a photo of the bags, that would be great. If they happen to say ‘Soils from Heaven,’ then ask Mrs. Hocknell if you can take one—and tell her not to touch any of the soil or any of her plants until she hears from us.”

  “Ten-four,” Mom said smartly, making me grin.

  “And take some gloves with you, okay? Be sure and use them when handling the bag or the soil.”

  Now Mom sounded
concerned. “Do you think there’s something wrong with the soil?”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think the company got at least some of the soil from an old, abandoned cemetery on the outskirts of Houston. A cemetery that’s virtually unknown now and is privately owned, but it’s where a number of Civil War soldiers from poor families or without families were buried after the war. It’s possible the company doesn’t even know they’re getting soil from an old cemetery, especially if they’re not digging deep enough to unearth bones.”

  I could practically see my mother’s baffled expression in my head. “Why would the soil from this cemetery be an issue—other than the fact that they are digging up graves, of course?”

  “Because when Civil War soldiers died on the battlefields, their organs were removed from their bodies,” I explained. “Then, before being sent back home to their families via train, the body cavities were stuffed with sweet-smelling herbs and arsenic.”

  “Arsenic?” Mom said. “Really?”

  “Really,” I confirmed. “The arsenic acted as a preservative, while the herbs helped fend off the smell. And as the bodies decayed over the intervening years, the arsenic leached out into the soil. It naturally occurs in soil, of course, usually to a low degree that doesn’t cause issues to the casual gardener. However, this company is unwittingly selling potting soil that has it in a higher concentration—and Mrs. Hocknell spends a lot of time in her garden. Mom, I think Mrs. Hocknell might have low-level arsenic poisoning.”

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  I felt a sense of relief when Mom assured me that, after confirming the name of the potting soil Mrs. Hocknell had purchased, she would make sure her friend saw a doctor immediately. Hanging up, I turned and walked back to where Helen was still sitting on the bench.