Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

“Are you saying that Roxie and Trent showed an undue interest in the painting?” I asked, and she nodded, before hesitating and looking nervously out in the direction of the hallway again. We could both hear someone heading our way.

  Quickly, I said in a bright voice, “So y’all enjoyed hiking in Big Bend National Park over the winter? How cold did it get?”

  For a second, Patrice looked confused. I gave her a slightly exasperated look and jutted my forefinger toward the photo of her kids. “That’s Balanced Rock, isn’t it?” I asked, indicating the rock formation in the background. “My parents took my sister and me to Big Bend a couple of times as kids, but I need to go back again as an adult.”

  Patrice cottoned on just in time. As Trent walked by, talking on his cell phone, she said, “Yes, it was lovely in the winter at Big Bend. It was about sixty degrees as the high and the kids adored it.” I could see Trent’s reflection in the eight-by-ten wedding photo on the credenza behind Patrice’s desk. He turned his head, looking at us with interest while holding the phone to his ear, but kept going. We heard a door open, then close, and the hallway was quiet again. I jumped right back in with my questions.

  “Patrice,” I said, “I know it’s a long shot, but any chance you know where Roxie and Trent were two nights ago?”

  “Why?” she asked, suddenly suspicious, and I realized I’d overstepped my boundaries. When it came down to it, Patrice was still more likely to side with Roxie than me. I’d been foolish to even ask.

  “Um, it’s just information worth knowing,” I said.

  Wow, that sounded really weak. My gold star for interrogation was fading real fast.

  Patrice’s eyes had narrowed as she correctly read into my question. “Are you seriously thinking one of them did something to Camilla’s great-uncle?”

  “Not at all,” I said, my voice a shade too high to sound believable. “I’m thinking that one or both of them may have … you know … opened their mouths to the wrong person about the painting, and that person targeted Camilla’s great-uncle.”

  Patrice stared at me, but didn’t reply either way. Her computer had dinged a couple of times thus far with the sound I recognized from my time on staff as incoming emails, and I’d seen her eyes straying back to her computer more and more. Now she’d clicked on one and started a reply.

  I understood what she wasn’t saying—she’d griped enough about Roxie to make herself feel better, but she wasn’t going to be a full-on sneak.

  Inwardly sighing, I gave up. Though when I stood, I remembered the other question I wanted to ask. “Patrice, did you buy some potting soil from Soils from Heaven as well?”

  She looked up at me, frowning. “Why?”

  Not wanting to alarm her until I knew more, I responded with valiant lightness. “Oh, I saw it at Camilla’s great-uncle’s house. It looks like good soil and I wanted to know if anyone had used it yet. Roxie said she just got her bags, so she couldn’t give a firsthand report. I’m thinking of buying some for my parents.”

  Patrice had already turned her attention back to her computer, but said, “I bought some for both my parents and for my house—but the company does things in such small batches, we won’t receive our shipment until next weekend, I think.” Her computer dinged again and sarcasm came back into her voice. “But who knows? It’s Trent’s brainchild, and he doesn’t feel the need to keep me updated.”

  She stood up as well. For a moment, she watched me uncertainly, a range of emotions skittering across her face, landing on a tentative smile. I felt like she was half regretting sounding snappish with me just now and she also half preferred the dismissive way she always used to treat me.

  “It was nice seeing you again, Lucy,” she said finally, sounding like the part of her that was regretful might have prevailed. “I hate to rush out, but I have to go relieve Roxie at the reception desk. She’s got a budget meeting in a few minutes. If you want some soil, you’ll need to ask Trent.”

  Before I could say anything else, she slipped out past me, her ponytail swishing behind her as she headed to the bullpen.

  THIRTY-ONE

  I rapped lightly on Trent’s door and called his name.

  “Trent? May I come in?”

  There was no answer. Turning the handle, I pushed the door open a smidge to find the room empty and dark, except for a bluish light emanating from Trent’s computer screen.

  Standing in the hallway, I wondered where he might have gone, since he hadn’t passed back by Patrice’s office. Then my eyes landed on the door just beyond his, which I’d nearly forgotten existed. It was a blank door the same color as the wall and served as a private stairway to the second and third floors, requiring a staff key card to get in. He must have gone upstairs.

  I heard a ding from his computer, and once more noticed the blue glow of his screen. He hadn’t locked the computer before he left, I thought, and sent him a mental tut-tut. That was a faux pas at any company, including a university library.

  Then my mind repeated the thought. His computer is unlocked.

  Quickly, I ducked into the office, forgetting the lights were motion-activated. They came on immediately, which would alert Trent as soon as he came downstairs, but I was already around his desk and at his computer before I could even really think twice about it. I’d been hoping to ask Trent if he knew about the arsenic in the potting soil he was peddling as a side job. But what if I could find the answer on his computer or in his office without having to deal with him again?

  I was just a moment too late. No sooner had I lunged for his mouse, hoping to reengage the computer’s internal sleep timer, than Trent’s computer recognized the allotted minutes of inactivity and the screen automatically locked, going black.

  Feeling unsettled by my unethical—and unfruitful—attempt at snooping, I turned to his paper-strewn desk.

  I spotted a notepad above his mouse. There were a bunch of doodles and scribbles, including a notation reading Katherine Sabom—10 bags and Heather Horwitz—15 bags and the words bill to credit cards. Underneath he had written Testing? Call A&M?

  Pulling out my cell phone, I snapped a photo of the notations. My alma mater, Texas A&M University, had a world-renowned agricultural extension service that did, among many other things, soil testing. That had to be what Trent’s last note was about.

  Just above the notepad was one of those refillable calendars with two U-shaped silver prongs holding the pages in place. On today’s date I saw he’d written Mary Paredes in blue ink, but that was it.

  I lifted my head, listening for footsteps in the hall. All I could hear were the murmurs of students talking and the soft burr-burr of the telephone out in the bullpen.

  Scanning the papers on Trent’s desk again, I noticed a familiar-looking logo with a swirly font sticking out from under a book bound in green leather. It was a printed invoice from Soils from Heaven. Lifting the book up carefully so as not to disturb the placement of the invoice, I saw that it was made out to Jensen Hocknell—Camilla’s great-aunt. She had bought thirty bags of soil, which had been delivered six weeks earlier. A code of some sort—P7—next to the quantity had been circled. Quickly, I snapped a photo of the invoice. I was just taking a second, close-up photo when I heard a sound.

  It took me a second to place it, then I realized it was someone coming down the stairs next to Trent’s office. With a little squeak of fear, I went to put the book back on top of the invoice. Wait … had one inch of the logo been showing, or two?

  The muted ringing of a cell phone—weirdly reverberating since Trent was in the stairwell—made me jump. Hastily, I tried the book a couple of different ways, but all that served to do was to shift the papers underneath more with each try. Dang it, now it was really obvious someone had been in his office.

  I heard the handle of the stairwell door slowly turn and the muffled sounds of Trent speaking to someone on the phone. There was nothing else I could do. I rushed out of his office, pulling the door closed quietly behind me, and streaked into
the next office down—Camilla’s, as it happened—just as the door to the stairwell opened.

  I clapped my hand to my forehead. What in the ever-loving name of all that was stupid was I doing?

  I heard footsteps, Trent’s door opening, and then a pause. He’d no doubt noticed his light was on, if not that his desk looked slightly rearranged. I gritted my teeth and leaned up against Camilla’s desk, fanning myself to try to calm down and not look so guilty. I heard Trent’s door closing, but no footsteps. He must have gone in.

  My phone buzzed with a call, making me start again, but this time my heart soared at the name and photo I saw on my screen. Hurriedly, I closed Camilla’s office door as I answered the call.

  “Grandpa!” I said excitedly, though as quietly as I could.

  “Lucy, my darlin’!” Grandpa’s voice was so reassuring, I nearly wilted with the sound of it. Then his tone sharpened. “You sound upset, love. What’s wrong?”

  Growing up, I’d always thought my beloved, now ninety-two-year-old grandfather was simply more perceptive than most grandfathers. Heck, more perceptive than most men of any age. It wasn’t until just before New Year’s that I discovered Grandpa’s extra-good perceptiveness came from the fact he’d been an honest-to-goodness spy. He’d begun his career with the Office of Strategic Services during World War II and then continued on as a handler with the CIA, as the OSS became, until just around the time my father was born.

  With a slightly hysterical giggle, I moved to the back of Camilla’s office, by the big standing vault, and said, “Oh, nothing at all, Grandpa. I just nearly got caught snooping in the office of a guy who I think is selling the public potting soil laced with arsenic from the bodies of Civil War soldiers—including some to my client’s great-uncle, who may have been dying because of it before he was murdered.”

  “Now, that’s one I haven’t heard,” Grandpa said without missing a beat. “Where are you?”

  “Hiding in my client’s office,” I said. I gave him the briefest of rundowns on what I’d been doing and why. The good thing about Grandpa being a former spy was that he didn’t require a lot of information to make a decision.

  “Well, love, that’s your first mistake. Don’t hide. It makes you look guilty. Open the door and act like you just closed it to take a private call.”

  This sounded good. “Okay, thanks, Grandpa.” I paused, biting my lip. “Then what?”

  Much like the other G-man in my life, Grandpa’s first thought was for my personal safety.

  “Are you in any danger from this man?” he asked.

  “No, I think I’m more embarrassed about being caught,” I replied with a wry laugh.

  “What about when you leave the library?” Grandpa asked. No doubt his levelheadedness had made him a good handler for his operatives out in the field. For a split second, I almost felt like I was a real spy making contact with my trusted handler, who was assessing the situation and giving me instructions that would take me to the nearest safe house.

  “Ben should be texting at any moment,” I said, checking the time on my phone. We were coming up on the end of the extra hour he’d said he needed. “He’ll be picking me up about five hundred yards from the library.”

  “Good,” Grandpa said. “Though I have no doubt you could handle yourself no matter what the situation. Here’s what you need to do.”

  I listened, then said, “Really?” At the same time, I heard what sounded like Trent’s office door opening.

  “Yes,” he said, “and do it with confidence.”

  “Grandpa, I think he’s coming,” I whispered, moving closer to the door.

  “Confidence, my love,” Grandpa repeated. I leaned up against Camilla’s desk again, hoping I looked casual, just as Trent pushed open the door, his expression no longer friendly.

  THIRTY-TWO

  My phone still to my ear, I held up a finger for Trent to be patient as I said, “Yes, of course, Mr. Halloran. I’m honored you asked me to research your wife’s side of the family. How about I call you when I’m back in Austin and we can set up a meeting? Yes, I’ll be back in the office tomorrow.”

  I paused, hearing Grandpa’s low voice in my ear. “Excellent, my love. Report back as soon as you can.”

  “Of course, Mr. Halloran,” I said. “It was great to talk to you again as well. I’ll call you tomorrow.” Keeping my phone turned toward me, I touched the screen to end the call and make Grandpa’s name disappear. Then I looked up at Trent with a smile.

  “What are you doing in here?” he asked. His eyes scanned the office for signs of snooping, including Camilla’s desk, which was free of anything except a stack of papers and a few other office odds and ends. I’d noticed there were still no photos of her family. I’d read once that the absence of personal details in a person’s workspace was an indication that they didn’t enjoy their job. It kind of made me wonder if Camilla truly liked working here.

  I held up my phone. “Just taking a call from one of my old clients who wants his wife’s side of the family traced.”

  Trent’s nostrils flared. “And were you in my office, poking around in my papers, before you took this call?”

  Thanks to Grandpa, I didn’t stutter. “I was,” I said.

  His eyebrows lifted. “You were? You don’t deny it? Want to tell me why?”

  I pushed away from the desk so I was standing up straight. Grandpa had told me to go on the attack, and that’s exactly what I did.

  “I think it’s you who needs to tell me why, Trent,” I said. My heart was hammering in my chest, but I pretended it wasn’t.

  His eyes went shifty. “What do you mean?”

  I said, “I know you’re selling soil that’s laced with arsenic, Trent. I know it’s because you’re taking the soil from an abandoned pauper’s cemetery where soldiers from the Civil War are buried. And from a notation I saw on your desk, it sounds like you’re aware of the affected soil. What I don’t know is how long you’ve known about it and whether or not you were going to tell Camilla that her great-uncle had possibly become ill from handling your soil.”

  Trent had gone still, his eyes watching me like a snake’s, and, suddenly, I was regretting telling Grandpa that I felt safe confronting this man. After all, I was backed into Camilla’s office. Much like Camilla’s ex-husband, Trent Marins was also tall and looked very fit. If he decided to become violent, I now realized, he might be able to overpower me quickly, render me unconscious—or even dead—and lock me in Camilla’s office. He could be long gone before anyone found me.

  Casually, I slipped my phone into the pocket of my crossbody purse, widened my stance, and gently curled my fingers toward my palms, ready to perform some of my new self-defense moves. So, it took me a couple of heartbeats to realize what I was seeing.

  Trent had brought his hands to his face. With a groan, he sunk down into one of the hard chairs opposite Camilla’s desk.

  “Oh my God,” he said, looking up at me with pleading eyes. “How did you know? We—my partners and I—just found out a couple of weeks ago about the higher levels of arsenic in our soil.”

  “Simple,” I said. “I noticed Charlie Braithwaite’s symptoms, read your advertising on your bags of soil and on your website, and did my research.” I squinted at him. “But what do you mean, ‘partners’? I thought the land was family owned.”

  “It is family owned,” he said with a hint of snappishness. “My partners are my family. My aunt and uncle bought the land nearly a year ago and had been giving the soil away to friends when they realized they could make a business out of it. When I changed jobs and moved here to Houston last August, they asked me to help with sales and billing.” With this, he momentarily closed his eyes and tipped his head back so it was resting against the office wall, then looked back at me. “You’re wrong on one count, though. The cemetery isn’t on our company’s land, it’s adjacent to it.”

  When I looked a bit disbelieving, Trent stood up slowly, as if exhausted, and motioned for me to
follow him. “Come to my office. I’ll show you an email. One that you clearly missed when you were looking through my things.”

  I bristled at this. What cheek to try to turn this around on me. I returned his gaze steadily. With a slight twitch that could have been an irritated shrug or another flash of guilt, he turned without further comment and led the way back to his office.

  At that moment, my phone buzzed with a text. Oh, thank heavens—it was Ben.

  Ready for an extraction? I’ll be at the drop-off point in 10.

  I texted back, in all caps, AFFIRMATIVE, as I followed in Trent’s wake. Once in his office, he lifted the leather-bound book and underneath the invoice I’d seen earlier were printouts of two emails. The first was from a woman named Perrie Wigglesworth.

  In the email, Mrs. Wigglesworth described taking possession of her shipment of forty bags from Soils from Heaven nearly five months earlier. An avid gardener, she began using it immediately in her greenhouse and had worked with the soil, without gloves, on a daily basis. It was her husband, a dermatologist, who noticed the first spot on her stomach about three weeks ago. She had thought it might be an age spot, as she was in her sixties and had had a few of them crop up on her face in the past. Mrs. Wigglesworth wrote that her husband then tested her for many things, with arsenic poisoning being the last, but it was the arsenic test that came up as positive. She went on to state that she knew trace levels of arsenic were naturally occurring in soil. However, she felt compelled to alert Soils from Heaven, because it was clear that there was a higher concentration in their soil, and did they know?

  Below Mrs. Wigglesworth’s email was Trent’s response. He had apologized profusely, explaining that they’d done soil testing on the land, but would be performing those tests again to a more extensive degree to determine how much land was affected. He offered her a full refund on her soil and said he would send two employees, at her convenience, to remove any unused bags and replace them with organic soil from a local landscape nursery.