The second email was a report from an environmental laboratory. A total of thirty samples of dirt, each representing a plot from five acres of land, had been sent in by Soils from Heaven for specialized arsenic testing.
“As you’ll see,” Trent said, “only two plots have higher-than-normal concentrations of arsenic. They believe the ones marked ‘P1’ and ‘P7,’ for plots one and seven, respectively, are the only ones affected. This is likely due to erosion and runoff over the decades, since they’re located directly downhill from the grave sites in question.”
“Plot seven has the higher concentration of the two,” I said, checking all the numbers again. “Why is that?”
“It’s because there’s a dip in the land at plot seven,” Trent replied. “If you look at a topographic map of our acreage, the areas that form plot seven look like they may have been the site of a man-made watering hole or something similar back in the day. Regardless, it seems the runoff accumulated most in that area, increasing the arsenic levels.”
I wished I had a good reason to take photographs of the email and the report, but since I couldn’t come up with one, I handed him back the sheets of paper.
“Do you know from which plots of land you got the soil that went to Camilla’s great-uncle Charlie Braithwaite?” I asked.
Trent blinked rapidly at me, and then his expression smoothed into blankness. Somehow, I knew what he was going to do. He might know the answer to my question, but he wasn’t going to give me any more specifics that could incriminate him or his company. And I wasn’t disappointed.
“Was Camilla’s great-uncle having symptoms of arsenic poisoning?” he asked instead. “She never said as much, if so. All Camilla told us before she went to Austin was that he hadn’t been feeling well. And all she told us when she called yesterday was that, before the tragedy, she’d taken him to the doctor for some tests and he felt better when she brought him home.”
I blanched as Trent began picking up papers from his desk, straightening them, and putting them into piles. Dang it, he had me there. Camilla didn’t even know that Charlie had been feeling unwell until a few days ago. It was possible his doctor hadn’t received any test results back yet as to what had been causing Charlie’s symptoms. I was the one who recognized that Charlie could have had arsenic poisoning. Hell, I hadn’t even told Camilla.
My phone vibrated with a message from Ben—he was parked on campus, waiting for me—just as Patrice buzzed Trent’s intercom.
“Trent,” I heard her say in a bored voice, “there’s a student here for your office hours.”
I’d completely forgotten Trent had professor duties and, hence, would have office hours for genealogy students to visit him. For a second, it seemed he’d forgotten as well, as he muttered a curse word before hitting the intercom button and saying, “Thank you, Patrice. Please tell Ms. Paredes I’ll be there in just a minute.”
Patrice didn’t reply. Trent and I looked at each other, neither of us smiling. He seemed as frustrated at the situation as I was.
“Look,” I said, keeping my tone even, “I know Roxie and Patrice have bought bags of your soil—”
“Theirs isn’t from the affected areas,” he interrupted tersely. “We’ve stopped working the soil in those two plots. Also, you have to remember, most soil has some level of arsenic in it. It occurs naturally. Our soil just has a higher concentration in those two areas.” Gesturing at me with a handful of papers he added, “But, if the customers wear proper gardening gloves like our employees do, there’s not an issue. None of the teens and college kids we employ have had any health problems.”
“Thank goodness for that,” I said. “And, yes, that’s true, arsenic is naturally occurring. But even so, you need to tell Roxie and Patrice, as well as your other customers. You’ll need to put out a press release or something to alert them all. I don’t know, of course, but I expect you’ve shipped out a lot of soil from those two plots. If others aren’t using gardening gloves when they work with the soil, then they may be experiencing issues as well.”
Trent looked unhappy about this, but didn’t refute it. Finally, he rubbed his brow again and said, “This will be the end of the company. We’re too small to recover. And we’ve given a lot of underprivileged kids some good work.”
“Truly, I’m sorry about that,” I said, feeling like a heel at the thought of some kids losing a good place to work, out in the fresh air and sunshine. “I mean it. However, if I don’t see a press release on your website telling your customers about the issue and giving them options for how to handle it—whether that means y’all refund them or pay for soil tests or what have you—I’ll have to report it.”
Trent gaped at me, clearly shocked that I would go this far.
Clasping my hands together, I thought of Mrs. Hocknell, but chose my words to be deliberately vague. “Trent, I happen to have another friend who’s been using your soil recently. Shall I tell my friend that Soils from Heaven will be emailing their customer list about this issue?”
He didn’t look at me now. His face was turning red with frustration. Nevertheless, he nodded.
Just then a pretty brunette came walking up to the door holding a genealogy textbook I recognized as one I’d used myself in grad school.
“Professor Marins?” she said tentatively. “I was told to come back. Is this not a good time for office hours?”
I gave her a smile, mutely thanking Patrice for ignoring Trent and sending the student anyway. “No, no, I was just leaving.” Turning to Trent, I said, “Thank you for your time, Professor Marins. I’ll let my friend know to expect your email.” Then I strode out of his office, through the bullpen, out the doors, and past Nick and Nora the lions into the crisp afternoon air, gulping it like I’d been suffocating in that library.
Then I realized it wasn’t the library that was the issue. The toxicity had been coming from the people I’d been dealing with.
Down the tree-lined walkway, I could see Ben’s Explorer parked with its hazards on. Feeling relieved, I texted Grandpa to tell him his advice had worked and I’d update him soon, and smiled when I immediately got a thumbs-up emoji from him in return.
“Lucy! Hey, Lucy!”
I whipped around. “Patrice?” I said, pushing my hair out of my eyes.
She rushed up to me, looking uncertain.
“What’s wrong?” I asked. “Did I leave something in the library?”
She shook her head. “I wanted to tell you something, but I didn’t want Trent or Roxie to overhear.”
I just stopped myself from rolling my eyes at the mention of both their names.
Patrice glanced back at the library, then said, “I don’t know where either of them were two nights ago.” She wrung her hands for a moment, then seemed to decide to continue. “What I do know is that the two of them have been even more tight than normal recently. I think … I think they’re planning something.”
Frowning, I said, “Like what?”
“I don’t know. A couple of weeks ago, I overheard Trent tell Roxie that she would definitely be getting a commission. Roxie seemed to think her split wasn’t high enough, and they argued over it, but they were smiling afterward, so I guess they came to a good number.”
“This was probably about Trent’s soil business, don’t you think?” I said.
“That’s what I’ve been thinking, too,” Patrice said. “But you know when you asked if anyone had talked about Camilla’s painting?” When I nodded, she said, “Well, during that conversation, I overheard, very clearly, the words ‘Camilla’ and ‘the painting,’ At the time, I guessed it was a side conversation because I only heard parts of the whole thing, but now I’m not so sure.”
I felt a chill come over me. Roxie and Trent had both known about Camilla’s and Charlie’s finds. Were they working together to somehow get ahold of one or both paintings? Had Trent lied to me about when, exactly, he had discovered his company’s soil had higher levels of arsenic? Did he deliberately send bags of
poison-laced soil to Charlie Braithwaite’s house in an attempt to sicken Charlie, or even to kill him? And had Roxie encouraged him to do so, then demanded a higher cut from the sale of the Braithwaite paintings for her part in thinking up the plot?
Despite the fact Trent and Roxie were definitely not people I enjoyed being around, something about the scenario I was floating in my mind wasn’t ringing true. I didn’t want to fuel any more fires in Patrice, though, so I just said, “Thanks for letting me know.” When she nodded, seeming relieved to have said her piece, I looked at her questioningly. “But why did you decide to tell me this?”
Patrice’s mouth twisted in thought for a moment, then she said, “I’m not sure, really. I heard about the case you were involved in last fall—how you helped save a senator. Back in my office, you told me you were trying to help Camilla, and, well, if something underhanded is going on, I guess I felt you were the best person to tell.”
She nodded to me, this time with a genuine smile, then turned and went back into the library, leaving me staring after her in complete surprise.
THIRTY-THREE
Ben and I were soon on the road back to Austin, but not before first filling my parents in on the day’s events. After Mom and Dad listened intently to the exciting news of what was under Camilla’s painting, then about my adventures at my former workplace, Dad hugged me fiercely, gave Ben a hearty handshake, and then left to buy some more potting soil. “Only not from Soils from Heaven,” he joked. Mom, on the other hand, declared that we needed something sweet after all our running around and made sure Ben and I were loaded up with baked goods for the trip home.
“I made y’all some of Lucy’s favorite cinnamon-pecan coffee cake cupcakes,” she’d told us, handing me a bakery box that made Ben’s eyes light up. “I’ve also put travel mugs in the car for you. Lucy, yours is Darjeeling tea, and Ben, yours is dark-roast coffee with a dollop of cream.”
This earned my mom a second hug from both Ben and me, especially once he got a whiff of the heavenly scented mini coffee cakes, each topped with a swath of glaze and a single pecan half.
Once we were on the road, I took one out and peeled back the pleated cupcake liner halfway. “Oh, you’re going to love this, Ben. Mom makes the best sour cream coffee cake. It’s got a cinnamon-butter swirl in the middle and just enough pecans, and they’re absolutely scrumptious. She started making small ones in a muffin tin a few years ago, and I actually think they’re better this way.”
Ben was only too happy to taste test. He bit in and, casting me a stunned look, held up the rest of it like he’d discovered the pinnacle of coffee cakes and it deserved to be on a pedestal.
“Oh my god,” he said through his mouthful.
As I was about to select one for myself, I stopped, staring at him, as he brought his right arm down to bring the coffee cake back to his mouth. Why was that move familiar? I began thinking of everyone I’d spoken with yesterday.
Trent Marins? No.
Roxie or Patrice? Hmm, not them, either.
Had it been when I’d been listening in on Neil Gaynor’s phone call? Nope.
I thought for a second that it might have been Tor Braithwaite, but that didn’t seem right, either. I found myself mimicking Ben as if doing so would make the little snippet of film in my memory bank flow out into the short film I knew it was.
“What are you doing?” Ben asked with a grin, before taking another bite.
Rats; it simply wasn’t coming. I shook my head.
“I saw someone doing that same move you just did, but I can’t remember who.”
“Do you think it’s important?” Ben asked.
“I don’t know. Possibly?”
“All right, then,” he said. “Let’s talk about other stuff while we let your subconscious try to spit it out.” He finished the last bite, licked a bit of glaze off his thumb, and said, “We spent most of the drive back to your parents’ house updating your grandfather on what was going on, so we haven’t been able to go through everything we’ve both learned.”
I nodded. This was true. After Ben had picked me up on the Howland University campus, I called Grandpa using FaceTime. I loved it that I could see my grandfather’s smiling face as he sat in the little sunroom of his house in Wimberley, his blue eyes crinkling with impish excitement that he’d caught me in the throes of another adventure. After recounting my semi-disastrous attempts at interrogating my former coworkers and then my completely terrible attempt at searching Trent’s office, I’d felt buoyed when Grandpa commended me on how I’d sold my confrontation with Trent. Seeing the proud and delighted look on my grandfather’s face had made every second I’d spent at my former workplace worth it, let me tell you.
Grandpa had signed off just before Ben and I arrived at my parents’ house, saying, “I’m off to the senior center, my darlin’. Some of the ladies are teaching me how to play mah-jongg.” He sent me an exaggerated wink, adding, “And if I tell them the latest on my beautiful granddaughter, they usually forget to collect the money they’ve won from me …”
Now, as Ben and I cruised west on I-10, I peeled off the wrapper of a coffee cake muffin for myself and said, “Okay, you go first. While I was at the library, you went back to the cookie place to check out those two cars I saw. What did you find out?”
Flicking on his turn signal, Ben moved into the other lane to pass a slower vehicle. “After you told me how those two cars left in a hurry when you walked out to look at Camilla’s painting, I realized it was strange they chose to flank my car when almost no one else was in the parking lot at all. Why did those two cars feel the need to park on either side of mine when there were at least fifteen other open spaces?”
I hadn’t even thought about that. “And what did you find out?”
“Well, since I had the painting in the car and wasn’t willing to leave it, even just to go into the restaurant and ask to see their security camera footage, I had to call in a favor from a local buddy. I doubt you’ll ever meet him, though. He does hush-hush stuff.” When he saw me perk up at this information, he laughed. “Your grandfather has been a bad influence on you.”
“Heck yeah, he has,” I said proudly.
“Anyway,” Ben said, “my buddy went into the restaurant and asked to see the security footage. The two cars arrived within minutes of each other, but the guy in the gray BMW was just there to pick up a to-go order. He’s a regular and the staff know him.”
“And did you see the driver of the Suburban?”
Ben nodded. “Somewhat, at least. Looked to be an older white male. He was mostly hidden by the Suburban, but the camera caught him raising a slim jim with his back to his car, which meant he was facing my driver’s side window. Then a passenger in the Suburban alerted him to your approach. In the footage, my buddy could just see the person’s shadow, and he could tell the passenger warned the driver because of the driver’s body language. The driver then hopped in and drove away, as you know. We think the passenger would have been the one to drive off in my car had the driver been able to open my door.”
“Were you able to run a license plate?” I asked.
Ben shook his head. “The vehicle had paper plates. We’re giving the footage to Dupart, but it looks like a dead end.”
“Only partially,” I corrected, licking glaze off my finger. “We already guessed that someone was after the pieces of the Braithwaite triptych, especially after a burner phone was used to send a fake text to Gareth Fishwick so that he would inadvertently steal Camilla’s piece. Now we’ve all but proved that someone tried to break into your car to get to the painting. To me, that says there’s a person who knows the value of the triptych and they’re going to great lengths to find all three pieces.” I paused, then said, “And even scarier, they were watching us as we took it from the house and followed us to the cookie place. I wonder if it was the same person who sent Gareth the fake text. Or maybe that person hired professional car thieves.”
As I’d said this, Ben had be
en encouraging my thoughts, making a keep-going hand gesture that had his watch glinting when it hit the afternoon sunlight. I went to take a sip of my tea and stopped.
Ben had just set me up, hadn’t he? By giving me information and then claiming it was a dead end, he’d encouraged me to think about what other facts we’d learned from it, and to put those facts into play within my mind.
It made me want to kiss him. You know, even more.
“And?” Ben prompted, making another encouraging wave with his hand. “What next?”
“And so now we have to think about who would be the most likely to know about the painting’s importance.”
“Which would be whom, in your estimation?”
“Someone in Camilla’s family, or someone she worked with,” I said automatically, but my eyes were on his watch as it glinted.
“Let’s keep talking it out, then,” Ben said. “Who would be your first guess?”
But instead of answering him, I reached out and grabbed his wrist. “Hot damn, my subconscious spit it out,” I said. “I remember what I saw, and I have a wild hunch. I have to call Cisco.”
Cisco picked up on the third ring, his friendly voice coming though my phone speaker so Ben could hear.
“Lucy, hi. Are you and Ben back in Austin yet?”
“We’re on our way,” I replied, “but I have another question for you.”
“Hit me with it, then,” Cisco said.
“Remember how your intern lost her key card? Do you know if your security people looked up the last time it was used before it was reported lost?”
Cisco’s voice was curious as he said, “It’s standard procedure, but they never mentioned it to me as being suspicious. Why?”
And I told him about how I got into the workroom at Morris Art Conservation without a key card. How there had been a woman with a cart opening the door, but when I looked up from my phone, she was rushing off. “I only saw her briefly and from a distance, but she was taller than me, in a lab coat, with graying blond hair pulled back into a bun. I’d say she was in her fifties at least.”
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