“Huh,” Cisco said. “That description doesn’t fit anyone in conservation, but I kind of think it fits one of the docents in the second-floor museum. They only work part-time and I rarely deal with them, so I don’t know any of them well. I don’t know why this woman would be down in the workrooms, or wearing a lab coat, though.”
I glanced at Ben. As smart as Cisco was, I didn’t think he was putting the pieces together.
“Cisco, I think this woman might have stolen the intern’s key card in order to try to steal the Braithwaite painting,” I said.
Sure enough, this elicited a loud exclamation from him. “I’ll need to talk to security. This is terrible.”
Ben, though, had been looking thoughtful. “I wonder if Savannah Lundstrom noticed anything.”
“Why? Did she mention something like that?” Cisco asked, his voice now sounding anxious through my phone’s speaker.
“No,” Ben replied, “but you said she’d arrived early for your interview and had been looking around the upstairs museum for a bit while she waited for you to give her a tour, right? She may have seen this docent doing something suspicious.”
Cisco’s voice was wry now. “Well, you’re going to have to be the ones to ask her, because after I finished telling y’all what we’d found under the painting, I went upstairs for our interview and she’d left me a note telling me something had come up. I’m now supposed to contact the Chronology offices to reschedule our in-person interview as a phone call. I have a feeling that when she saw we had the triptych panel and there was something special about it, she decided there would be a bigger interest in a follow-up story on Charles Braithwaite than one on art conservation.” Sounding glum, he said he’d get back to us on the name of the docent, and hung up.
Ben and I exchanged a glance. I said, “I mean, let’s face it, Savannah could tell there was something up with the triptych painting. Do you think she really is on the hunt for another Braithwaite story?”
“That’d be my guess,” Ben said, glowering as he watched the road. “Why don’t you call the Chronology offices, ask for Savannah’s editor, and see what you can find out?”
Deciding this was a good idea, I looked up the magazine’s number online and made the call. The main receptionist listened to my request to speak with Savannah’s editor, and said, “That would be Sal Ferrara. He’s on vacation, but I’ll put you through to his assistant, Danica.”
She forwarded my call before I could even thank her, and a voice picked up almost instantly. “Sal Ferrara’s office, Danica speaking, how may I help you?”
I introduced myself, keeping my tone easygoing and respectful. Unlike a lot of people, I knew never to be rude or dismissive to the boss’s assistant, and my polite inquiries on what Savannah Lundstrom might be working on next earned me the reward of two tidbits of information.
“I don’t know if she’s planning a follow-up to the Braithwaite article,” Danica said, “but since she pushed hard to have the first article published in March instead of May, when it was supposed to run, I kind of doubt Sal will be willing to shift things around again to accommodate her if she is writing a second story.”
Why March? I thought, and I asked the question. “Do you know why she wanted the article to run in March, specifically?”
“Couldn’t tell you, especially because she didn’t tell me,” Danica replied with disapproval in her voice. “But you can ask her yourself. You said you’re in Austin, right? Well, she has a speaking engagement there tomorrow, before she comes back here to DC. I’m looking at her calendar. It’s at the Hamilton American History Center, do you know where that is?”
“I do,” I said with a smile.
“Great,” Danica said. “It’s for a lecture series titled ‘History Then Happy Hour.’ From three to five p.m. She goes on at three thirty. It’s in the Brownsville Room.”
I thanked her profusely, then hung up, though I barely had time to tell Ben what she’d said before I got a text from Cisco.
“Cisco says that security is backed up because they’re expecting some high-profile dignitaries for the opening of a new exhibit tomorrow,” I said. “He’ll get back to us as soon as he can.”
To me, this was frustrating. It would be so simple to check into the whereabouts of their docents earlier today and why one of them had stolen—presumably stolen, at least—a key card. To Ben, however, the delay was nothing new or unusual. Perhaps sensing my annoyance, he took my hand and we drove on, talking of other things. Then a work call came in, which he’d warned me to expect. I pulled my noise-canceling headphones and iPad from my tote bag, put the headphones on, and used the time to resume my look into Charles Braithwaite’s war records.
Since I didn’t yet know which Braithwaite descendant owned the third piece of the triptych and I couldn’t figure out who was after the pieces themselves, I was determined to find something—anything—that would prove definitive regarding Charles’s Civil War service. Good or bad, I didn’t care. I just wanted to feel that something about this project was going right.
THIRTY-FOUR
“Think you’ve put on enough layers?” Ben teased as I pulled the zipper of my fleece-lined yellow jacket up to my neck. It covered a sweatshirt that was itself over a long-sleeved T-shirt.
“I don’t understand you people who like the cold,” I grumbled, shivering, as I fit the key into the gate that would take us from the back of my condo complex to Little Stacy Park.
On a whim, we’d decided some fresh morning air would be good after so many hours, utterly enjoyable as they were, holed up in my condo. We’d been so ensconced in our own little romantic world last night that we hadn’t even noticed it had rained and a minor cold front had come through. Our glimpses of warm spring weather now seemed like a memory, as the temperature dropped to fifty degrees and the wind chill made it feel even colder. As the stiff breeze blew my ponytail into my face and made my eyes water, I somewhat regretted agreeing to this venture—even more so because it was only seven o’clock in the morning.
For Ben’s part, his only concession to the weather was a half-zipped running vest over his T-shirt and shorts, and I was pretty sure he wore the vest to hide his service weapon rather than to keep out the cold.
“I think I’m with the majority in saying the temperature’s perfect for a run,” he said, gesturing toward the number of joggers already out and seemingly enjoying the cold, most of them wearing nothing heavier than a fleece jacket.
It’s hard to pull off lifting your chin defiantly and holding your gloved hands over your ears to warm them at the same time, but I managed it. “I should have brought my beanie,” I added for a touch of extra dramatics.
Ben tugged on my ponytail with a grin. “Let’s get going, then. Work could call at any minute, and I’m hoping we can get in our run and a trip to Flaco’s for breakfast before I have to go in.”
The idea of breakfast got me going, and a few strides later, we were settled into a nice pace. The rising sun was already brilliant, sending beams through the trees and then making me squint and wish I’d brought my sunglasses when we ran through an open stretch, the grass glistening with last night’s rain. We talked about meeting up with Camilla yesterday afternoon at Helen Kim Art Restoration. There, Camilla had gotten her first true look at the gorgeous battle scene her ancestor had painted in 1866, which had been covered up for an untold number of decades. As we all gazed at it, Helen had explained what restoration processes would need to be undertaken, all of them minimal.
“I don’t know that I’ve ever seen Camilla smile like that in all the time I’ve known her,” I told Ben as we jogged. I recalled Camilla even looking somewhat misty by the time it was all over, and I heard her tell Helen that she wished her uncle Charlie could have seen it, which made me a bit misty, too.
“I think anyone would be moved by that painting, but Camilla’s reaction was a great one, no doubt,” he agreed. “I have to admit, I’m still amazed by the fact that so little restoration nee
ds to be done, and also really relieved that Helen has the ability to store the painting safely and properly while she works on it.”
Helen had showed us the temperature-controlled walk-in vault where Camilla’s piece of the triptych would be stored at night. She also explained her shop’s extensive security system and introduced us to the security guard who would be watching the place overnight. The guard—polite, well-muscled, and a former member of the special forces—promised to be extra vigilant until the painting’s restoration was completed.
“Helen is so excited about working on the painting,” I told Ben earnestly as we jogged. “And being hired by Camilla will also help dispel any issues with any clients as to her being questioned about Charlie Braithwaite’s murder. Speaking of, I’m sure you and Dupart talked over more details about the case last night …”
After waiting several long seconds, I began casting blatantly expectant looks at Ben every few strides. When he remained silent, I finally huffed, “Okay, now this is not fair. You got an update on Charlie Braithwaite’s murder from Dupart last night, and you haven’t spilled the details. And I was being super obvious that I wanted the latest, too. What gives?”
Ben turned around, jogging backward for a few steps and giving me a wink. “As for last night, I got distracted—and I think you remember why, Ms. Lancaster.” Turning back around, he said, “Plus, you never told me what you uncovered in your research yesterday, either.”
“Fine, we distracted each other,” I said, trying and failing to keep a straight face as he laughed. “But tell me what Dupart said. You know it’s not cool that you have access to this information and Dupart would laugh and hang up on me if I tried to get it.”
Ben looked highly amused at this, and I had a feeling it was a pretty funny scenario in his mind. When I reached out and playfully smacked his arm, he laughed. “Okay, okay,” he said. However, a second later, he was slowing to a walk, pulling his lit-up phone from the pocket of his vest. He answered, “Turner,” listened for a second, then put his hand over the speaker. “Give me five minutes?”
I nodded, indicating that I’d run down the path, then back to him.
After checking my phone for the time, I zipped it into my jacket pocket and moved off, finding my stride again and finally enjoying the cold air on my face since I’d warmed up a bit, even though I continually had to squint from both the brisk wind and the bright, rising sun.
A woman with a stroller ran past me the opposite way, followed by a guy running with a pretty German shorthaired pointer. As I rounded a bend, I thought about how Gran and Grandpa had owned German shorthairs when I was growing up. Seeing one always brought up lovely memories of my sister and me visiting our grandparents.
As I came upon a huge oak tree, I was still happily musing on how that dog had looked like Grandpa’s favorite named Belle Starr when, out of nowhere, two hands reached out and shoved my shoulder, hard, sending me twisting and flying sideways. The world was a transitory blur, and then I was facedown in a sprawling heap on the soft, wet ground.
* * *
For a second, I was too stunned and out of breath to move. Then, gingerly, I turned onto my side, doing a mental check of my body.
The rain-soaked earth, thankfully, had made my fall a softer one, though I could feel a burning on my cheek. I’d scraped it on the fist-sized rock protruding from the ground. Touching the scrape with the back of my hand, there wasn’t any blood, so I hadn’t hurt myself in any significant way. When I looked up, I shivered, but not from the cold. I’d missed the tree trunk by mere inches. Had it not been for chance or physics or a combination of both, I might be unconscious—or with a broken nose, at the very least—from a forced face-plant into the tree.
With a grunt, I rose to my feet, looking around for my assailant. There wasn’t a single person anywhere near me. In the distance, I could see two college-age girls walking toward me from the direction I’d just come, talking animatedly to one another, but that was it. Soon they were passing me, too absorbed in themselves to give me a second look.
The ground being more wet than actually muddy, and my jacket being water- and dirt-repelling, I mostly had to brush off damp leaves. Equally fuming and frightened, I pulled my phone from one pocket and, from the other, my set of keys, which also held a whistle and a tiny canister of pepper spray. Threading the keys through my fingers, I began walking stiffly back toward Ben, eyes darting everywhere, looking for who might have pushed me.
Think, Lucy, I told myself. What did you see or hear?
I racked my brain to recall any snippet. My eyes had been half closed against the sun and wind, and my mind had been on memories of Grandpa’s favorite hunting dog. The pounding of my feet on the ground, the sound of the wind, and the rustle of my jacket had dampened any approaching footsteps. Really, I’d glimpsed nothing but a flash of running shoes and black running tights. I had a vague recollection of arms clad in black running gear as well.
A runner sped by me on the path and I jumped, then stared after him, my senses heightened as I looked around for more danger. The runner had been dressed in all black, including black running tights. Turning around, I looked back to the girls who’d passed by without noticing me—they were both wearing all-black gear as well. It was a pretty common look, and one that would allow my assailant to simply blend in with half the other runners out here.
“Dang it,” I whispered with heat, then I started again as my phone rang. It was Ben.
“That was work,” he said. “I have to go in, and, ah, they need me there in thirty. Have you already turned around?”
“I have,” I said, making my voice sound calm and unconcerned. I really wanted to run to him and have him wrap his arms around me, but I couldn’t keep him from his work when I was just fine. “I’m not far, and I’ve got my pepper spray, just in case. I’ll be all right. You go ahead.”
“Good thing you gave me your extra set of keys,” he said. “But while I’m heading back, want to hear what Dupart said?”
A wash of relief came over me that he would stay on the phone with me as I walked back home. “Yes, spill it,” I said. Hearing someone coming up behind me, I whipped around, but it was just two elderly ladies walking together, hand weights in each hand. They met my eyes and smiled. I returned their smiles weakly.
“Whoever did this was really careful,” Ben began. “They wore gloves and protective booties on their shoes, like crime scene techs do. However, there’s evidence that there were two people in the house at the time of Charlie’s murder, not just one.”
I was coming up on a stretch where there were multiple people around, which made me feel a little safer. “Well, one must have been Elaine Trudeau, right?”
“Nope. She admitted to being in Charlie’s house to check on him, just after she got a call from a friend who works for one of the airlines. She was able to get a last-minute seat on a flight to go see her grandkids in California. She said she nearly just called Charlie on her way to the airport, but decided instead to stop in for a proper goodbye at the last second.”
“That must have been why the doorbell camera caught her driving out of Charlie’s driveway,” I mused.
“That’s what she told Dupart. She evidently pulled out of her driveway, then backed into Charlie’s when she changed her mind. She said she spent a few minutes with Charlie, answered the door to find Helen, turned Helen away immediately, and then took off for the airport. Security footage at the airport’s long-term parking lot shows her arriving right within the most likely time frame that Charlie was killed.”
“Okay, then how do they know there were two people in Charlie’s house?” I asked.
“Evidently, in his struggle, Charlie scratched one of them. Not enough to draw blood, but enough that there were skin cells under his fingernails.”
For a brief second, I closed my eyes, feeling heartsick for Charlie. “And the other evidence?” I asked.
I could hear Ben jogging up my steps to my condo. “One of them bump
ed into the corner of the doorframe in Charlie’s office. Likely whenever they were taking the painting out. Again, it wasn’t enough to do much, but there was a tiny speck of blood and some skin cells, and they didn’t match the first set of cells. However …”
He stopped, and in the background I heard a voice say, “Mornin’, Ben. How’s our Lucy today?”
“Good morning, Jackson,” Ben called out to my condo manager. “I have to go into work, but Lucy is on her way back from the park. I’m on the phone with her now.” Then, to me, he said, “What’s your ETA?”
The adrenaline was draining away now, leaving me colder than ever, but I kept my voice strong. “Less than five minutes, I think.”
Ben relayed this to Jackson, who said, “I’ll keep an eye out for her.”
Through the phone, I heard Ben unlocking my door. I stepped up my pace, looking around me while I listened to Ben explain that one of Charlie’s neighbors said they noticed a car pulling into Elaine’s driveway sometime after seven p.m. But the neighbor couldn’t remember a thing about the car and noticed Elaine’s driveway was empty not long later, so they didn’t think it was suspicious at all. “And Elaine doesn’t have any cameras at her house and no other neighbor saw a car pull in or out of her driveway.”
“Damn,” I said. “Was there something else you meant to tell me about the skin cells?”
“Oh, nearly forgot,” Ben said. He’d put me on speaker phone to change his clothes and I heard him unzip his running vest. “Dupart’s people used a forensic method called FDS. Have you heard of it?”
I had heard of it, actually. “It stands for familial DNA searching, right? I read an article a few months ago about how it’s used to help with cold cases, among other things.”
“Correct,” Ben said. “Not all states use FDS, but Texas is one that does. Anyway, a match on some level was found in the DNA from the two sets of skin cells. There’s a high probability the two people who were in Charlie’s house are related.”
Fatal Family Ties Page 23