Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  “So, I know why I’m here, but why are you?” she asked, looking up at me. “If not to tell me the fabulous news that I’ll get to restore a very cool piece of art, that is.”

  I explained my thinking that it might be worth interviewing my former coworkers and the PhD candidate who was suing Camilla’s family. I grinned. “And Ben didn’t think I’d be interfering too much, so here I am.”

  Helen rose and we strolled back toward the steps of the library together, my friend listening intently to my tale of working with Roxie, Patrice, and Camilla, though I watered down my experiences significantly. I didn’t want anyone’s pity, even from a friend who was definitely on my side. But she’d picked up on my pained expression as we aimed for the library doors and I had to give her the gist.

  Specifically, she said, “Luce, you look like you’re about to face a firing squad, not just talk to a couple of people you used to work with. What gives?”

  Now, after hearing my reasons, she said, “How about I do my best to keep Patrice engaged while you go hunt down Neil Gaynor? That way, you’ll only have to deal with Roxie at most.”

  “You’d do that for me?” I said. “I mean, I plan to talk to both Roxie and Patrice, but I think it would be best to find Neil first. I don’t want to give him time to find out I’m asking questions and hightail it out of the library.”

  “Of course,” Helen said. Then she added with a wicked grin, “It would be my pleasure to waste some of Patrice’s time after she left for lunch when she knew I was going to be here. What does she look like, so I can spot her without having to go through that Trent guy again?”

  I whispered, “I don’t have to describe her. There she is.” I nodded my head to the walkway in front of us. A good twenty feet away, Patrice was walking and typing on her phone at the same time. She wore a black pencil skirt and cranberry-hued sweater that flattered the warm tones of her skin, and her thick dark hair was pulled up into a high ponytail. She seemed oblivious to everything but what was on her phone’s screen.

  “I wish I could text and walk that well in heels,” Helen said as we watched Patrice expertly ascend the stairs and disappear through the main doors, all without looking up once.

  “Tell me about it,” I agreed. “I’d be stumbling into people and tripping over everything in sight if I tried.”

  “No kidding. So, what about the other librarian you worked with? What does she look like?” Helen asked.

  “Roxie? She’s just a bit taller than me, fairly curvy, with an upturned nose,” I said as we walked the last few yards to the library at a leisurely pace. “I can’t tell you what color her hair will be since she’s always changing it.” I explained that Roxie’s longtime girlfriend, Layla, was a hairstylist. “Layla likes to experiment with bolder looks, too,” I said. “In the six months before I quit, Roxie’s hair was a chocolate brown with chunky purple highlights. Before that, it was a dark red with blond streaks around her face. And when I first started working here, her hair was ombré—you know, darker on top and gradually lightening so the last few inches are a couple of shades lighter—only her girlfriend gave her two shades of gray.”

  “Was that attractive or hideous?” Helen asked.

  “Believe it or not, that one looked really nice. You might not think so, but it did.”

  “All right, then,” Helen said, lifting her chin as she took hold of the brass bar that served as a door pull. “Give me one minute to engage Patrice before you come in.”

  “Ten-four,” I said with a grin.

  I spent my sixty seconds checking to see if Neil Gaynor had a Twitter account. I found him easily but didn’t read through his tweets. When I finally walked into the library, Patrice was near the reference desk, talking to Helen, who had indeed positioned herself so that Patrice’s back was to me. Her ponytail bobbed in acknowledgment of something Helen had said, and she gestured toward a nearby hallway, where the staff offices were. I knew they would go to Camilla’s office first, however, as it also housed the vault where anything important was secured.

  A few feet away was a wide set of stairs leading up to the second floor, and I locked onto Roxie walking downstairs. She was dressed in a black wrap dress, and her hair was now cinnamon brown with subtle blond highlights, and cut to just below her shoulders. I had to admit, it flattered her coloring, though the effect was lessened by the bossy, supercilious look on her face.

  She was holding a couple of books and talking to a harried- looking student who was following in her wake. From having witnessed this scenario many times, I could tell Roxie was lecturing him, likely about his research techniques. Or, perhaps, simply for asking what she considered to be a silly question. Both gave Roxie that distinctly smug glow.

  As they were nearing the bottom step, Roxie looked my way. Luckily, at the same time, two tall students passed between us, conveniently shielding me from my former coworker’s view.

  Ducking my head, I made a fast ninety-degree turn, passing a set of kiosks holding pamphlets ranging from campus maps to tips on stress relief before pushing open another set of doors. I entered the reading room, and reveled in the weighty yet calming hush you found only in a room where the loudest sound was the occasional turn of a page, creak of a book spine, or shuffling as a student sat down, stood up, or arranged their belongings on one of the twenty long wooden tables. I felt myself relax and, after passing the fifth table, made a left to another door and up another set of stairs to the second floor. Bypassing several seating areas occupied with students, I made my way purposefully toward the southwest corner, where another, much smaller, reading room was situated. This was where Camilla told me Neil Gaynor would likely be working.

  Just before the door was a sign on a brass stand reading The Duchess Reading Room is reserved for PhD candidates only. Usually called simply the Duchess Room, the funds to create it had come from the mother of the library’s namesake, who, though not actual royalty herself, was known as “Duchess” by her family. The room—with eight smaller tables, ornate crown molding, dark wood shelves, huge picture windows, and walls painted a classic library green—was my favorite room in the library, and apparently Neil Gaynor’s usual haunt.

  At the door, I looked through the glass panes of the reading room. It was empty.

  “Rats,” I murmured. I’d been hoping Neil would already be there so I wouldn’t have to spend more time tracking him down.

  I texted Ben to tell him my plan had fallen through. Shortly, his reply came in, reminding me that it was worth a try, and that Dupart would soon be questioning Neil anyway.

  I texted back that I’d wait ten more minutes, then I’d go downstairs to tackle Roxie and Patrice. Metaphorically speaking, of course, I joked.

  Ben’s reply was a funny tackling-themed gif featuring characters from The Office. Then he wished me luck and asked if he could pick me up in an hour, adding cryptically that there was something he wanted to check on.

  By this time, I’d already leaned up against a shelf of reference books and opened Neil Gaynor’s Twitter feed. He hadn’t posted for weeks, but I clicked on “Likes” and found he was still very active on the platform, just mainly in liking others’ tweets. Many were about beer, which was unsurprising. A few were posts about poverty or growing up in poverty. He’d also liked posts on everything from movies to politics to one feed featuring nothing but cute puppies. I kept scrolling, and then my eyebrows rose. A week earlier, Neil had liked two tweets from a series posted by an art museum in England. Both contained links to articles about art and recognizing potential value in a painting.

  “Huh,” I murmured. “Maybe he’s not such a decent guy after all.”

  Checking the time to find it had been ten minutes already, I walked toward the glass doors of the stairwell, looked through them, then immediately whipped around and rushed back behind another row of bookshelves. Moments later, the wiry form of Neil Gaynor came through the doors and strode past me, a black messenger bag slung around his shoulders, aiming for the Duche
ss Room. Much like Patrice earlier, he’d been concentrating on his phone as he ascended the stairs and hadn’t seen me. Quickly, I replied to Ben’s text.

  An hour is fine. Gaynor is here. I’m going in.

  Ben’s reply was swift, and made me smile.

  Go get ’em, Tuppence.

  But I didn’t go in right away. I began to pace the row, realizing I hadn’t thought properly about how I would handle the issue of surreptitiously questioning Neil Gaynor now that Ben wasn’t here to play off. And now that I knew Neil had been reading art-related articles, I was even less sure of how to approach him.

  Should I go in and try to charm the information I want out of him? Or confront him head-on, hoping that a surprise attack might shock him into speech? Or maybe just use the honest approach, and appeal to his sense of decency?

  Still pacing, I decided to go with straight-up honesty. Being an honest person myself, I felt like I would be able to carry that off best. Taking a deep breath, I walked with purpose into the Duchess Room, the heavy door opening with silent smoothness. Neil’s name was already on my lips, but I stopped myself before uttering it.

  The room was still empty save for Neil, who was standing at one of the windows with his back to me. He was on a phone call, though using wireless earbuds. Strictly speaking, calls were frowned upon in the Duchess Room, but, as a former staffer, I knew the PhD students often took phone calls in here if they were alone, and promptly got off if another person walked in. It was clear, however, that Neil hadn’t heard me come in. Staring out the window, he had one hand on his forehead as if he was hearing bad news.

  “What? God, no, I didn’t know that.” His voice then went sharp. “This detective is going to interview me? Why?” A pause, then, “I mean, yeah, one of the library staff told me about the painting a while back.”

  At this, I stilled, standing just inside the room.

  His voice went thoughtful for a moment. “I mean, it’s cool and all, but—Wait, what?” I glanced at his reflection to see his mouth agape as he said, “No, it didn’t even cross my mind that it could be really valuable. I mean, I read a couple of articles and figured maybe ten grand or so. Incredibly valuable, though? Not for a second—but I don’t know much about art, Dina, you know that.”

  He’s talking to his sister, I thought, remembering the photo of the young woman with blond hair from Neil’s Instagram account. He was still so utterly focused on a point outside the window that he had yet to notice me. I debated whether to take a seat like someone showing they deliberately meant to be there, or to continue standing at the door like some odd, snooping statue. Regardless, I decided I could use overhearing his conversation as a reason to introduce myself. It would be easy, natural. And yet I didn’t move.

  Dina had evidently asked him another question, because Neil flung up a hand and replied, “I don’t remember telling anyone about the painting. I think it may have come up again later with one of the other library staff. I was asked if I’d heard the story—I said I had—we both said it was a pretty cool find, and that was about it.”

  There was silence for a few seconds and I surreptitiously watched as Neil once more put his hand on his forehead. He sounded weary now.

  “Look, Dina. I’ve been having second thoughts about this for a while now, but what you told me about Camilla Braithwaite’s great-uncle being murdered kind of seems like a sign. I know we decided to go through with this lawsuit. I mean, yeah, if we win, the fifteen grand or so will be helpful in paying Aunt Frieda’s caregiver bills. In reality, though, it really won’t help for much more than a month or two.”

  Dina must have argued, but Neil stood his ground. “I don’t feel right taking money from the Braithwaite family to help ours when they’ve just had one of their own murdered. Not even if her painting turns out to be worth a fortune.”

  Dina had apparently begun arguing again, but Neil cut her off.

  “Yes, our family has financial issues because of Camilla’s ancestor. But, Dina, our family has had a lot of years—almost a hundred total—to rectify that, and they haven’t. You and I are the first ones to even give a damn about our education. I just don’t think the right way to start on a better path is through a stupid lawsuit that we might not even win. It won’t look good for either of us going forward. I think we’ll feel better about ourselves if we go about this the right way—yes, I mean earning our own money.” He sighed, and I heard a tightness in his voice when he continued. “On that note, I’ve made up my mind. I was offered a job recently. It’s a good one, and I’m going to take it.”

  Now, for the first time, I could hear Dina’s voice issuing from his phone, and her tone wasn’t happy.

  “Yes, I know that means leaving my PhD unfinished, Dina,” Neil replied, “but it also means I’ll have a good salary with enough left over to take care of the woman who helped raise us so she doesn’t have to go into a home. It also means you can stay in law school.” His voice strengthened and there was a finality to it. “Tell your professor friend thank you for being willing to represent us pro bono, but that we’re backing out.”

  Turning, I slipped out of the reading room as he continued to argue with Dina, who didn’t seem to want to back down. After the door closed, I turned and peeked through the glass panes, half expecting to see Neil Gaynor looking back at me, shocked and angry to discover someone had been listening to his private phone call. But the only thing I saw was Neil rubbing his forehead, looking strained as he continued to stare out the window.

  It was I who experienced the shock, as a whispered voice came from directly behind me.

  “Lucy Lancaster, I presume?”

  TWENTY-NINE

  I whirled around, my heart pounding. In doing so, my shoulder bumped the sign reminding everyone the Duchess Room was reserved for PhD students. I reached out and grabbed the brass stand just before it toppled over. Glancing back through the door’s windowpanes to the reading room, I saw that Neil Gaynor was still on the phone, looking resolved, and completely oblivious to anything else.

  “You okay there?” asked the man who’d said my name, a hint of amusement in his voice nonetheless as he watched me struggle to steady the sign. He’d continued to keep his voice at library levels but was no longer whispering.

  He was tall, thirty-five or so, and had wide-set gray eyes, thinning wheat-colored hair, and a narrow face that was somehow balanced by a close-cropped beard. “I’m Trent Marins,” he said. “It’s nice to meet you.”

  It took me a second, but then his name clicked in my brain. “The new genealogist.”

  “Well, not so new anymore. I’ve been here over six months now,” he said, and there was a slight note of something mocking in his voice. “But I guess I’m new to you.”

  “Yes, that’s what I meant,” I said, tamping down a prick of irritation. “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Trent. Camilla tells me you’re a very good genealogist and the students like you.”

  Trent tried to look modest, but then his face split into a wide grin. “I’ve heard much about the famous Lucy Lancaster as well.” I looked up at him questioningly, but he was peering over my shoulder. “Were you in a rush to get away from Mr. Gaynor?”

  I craned my neck and saw that Neil was now pacing the length of the small reading room, gesticulating, wireless earbuds still in his ears. I turned back around, thinking fast.

  “Not a rush, no,” I said. “I know I’m no longer a staffer here, but I’ve always loved the Duchess Room. I thought I’d go in there to make a few notes on some things I wanted to look up for a client while I’m here, but that man was on what sounded like a private phone call, so I left.”

  Trent smiled in an understanding way that felt a little patronizing. “I came up here to rescue you from him, actually.” He leaned in slightly and put his hand up to the side of his mouth, then whispered, “We’ve had more than one woman complain that Mr. Gaynor’s a bit of a creeper.”

  I didn’t truly know Neil Gaynor from the man in the moon, but I
had a feeling Camilla would have mentioned it if he were the creepy type. And after what I’d just overheard Neil telling his sister, somehow Trent’s assessment didn’t seem to fit. I decided the students here at Howland University might like Trent Marins, but I wasn’t so impressed with him thus far.

  “How did you even know I was here, Trent?” I asked, keeping my tone light as he and I began moving toward the stairwell.

  “Roxie,” he said. “She saw you walk in and watched you on the monitors as you came upstairs. Then she saw you seemingly hide from Mr. Gaynor. She said it looked like you may have been texting someone for help, so she sent me to find you.”

  Well, hell’s bells, Roxie had seen me earlier. I’d forgotten the librarians had access to security feeds and could see just about everywhere on the monitors. It irritated me that she’d sat there and watched me, even if she did think I might have felt unsafe. Oh well, time for another fib, I thought.

  As Trent held the door open for me, I gave a tinkling laugh, and it echoed in the stairwell. “Oh my goodness, I can’t believe she saw that. I’m so embarrassed.” I grinned up at Trent as we took the first steps down. “I saw Mr. Gaynor, and he looked like a guy who used to ask me out all the time. I did indeed hide from him—or from the guy I thought he was—and I texted my boyfriend. But when Mr. Gaynor actually came upstairs, I realized I’d mistaken him for someone else. That’s why I felt safe going in the Duchess Room.”

  We reached the landing and I gave another laugh, letting my eyes crease with feigned mirth so I could assess Trent’s face without letting on that I was staring at him. Good, he seemed to be buying it. I topped it off with a philosophical shrug. “But then, like I told you, Mr. Gaynor was on what sounded like a personal call. I thought about reminding him that he shouldn’t be on the phone, but I’m not on staff anymore, so I kept my mouth shut and waited for a minute or so to see if he would hang up.” I gave another unconcerned hitch of my shoulder. “When he didn’t, I left. Plus, he seemed upset and I felt like I was interfering, you know?”