Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  * * *

  Jackson and NPH were both waiting for me at the gate, and as I walked up, NPH trotted to me, then pounced on my feet, batting at my ankles for a split second before racing off with his tail held high and springing up onto the nearest tree. In a trice, he was sitting on one of the lower branches, tail swishing, eyes already on a bird fluttering away.

  “Lucy, my God, what happened to you, darlin’?”

  Jackson’s Mississippi drawl, always a charming sound, nevertheless deepened when he was stressed, making it sound like “mah gawd.” In his usual cashmere sweater, jeans, and driving moccasins, he ran a hand agitatedly through his thick auburn hair as he covered the distance to me.

  “Someone shoved me, nearly into a tree,” I replied, explaining what happened. Jackson fussed over me all the way back up to my condo, insisting on coming in with me to make sure it was safe.

  “Ben was just here two minutes ago,” I said, unlocking my door and pushing it open with more force than was necessary. I was angry now at what had happened. Angry that someone had had the nerve to do that to me, and even angrier that I hadn’t been observant enough to get any tiny shred of a hint as to who they were. I recalled Ben telling me last year that details would come back to me, but in this case, I wasn’t so sure.

  “Be that as it may, sugar, I’m coming in and making sure all your locks are working.” Jackson breezed past me, and after a quick thunderous sound that heralded NPH following us up the stairs, he streaked in after Jackson. I, however, was frozen on the spot.

  “Jackson,” I said, shutting my front door. “Are you wearing a new cologne?” He’d always favored a sandalwood-based men’s fragrance, and it smelled heavenly on him. Today, however, it was lighter, more flowery.

  He was checking the French doors that opened onto my balcony, and replied with amused exasperation. “Oh, that. My niece and I went shopping yesterday and she made me help her find a new scent.” He gave the neck of his aqua-hued cashmere sweater a tug. “I wore this sweater, not realizing until I got home how much I smelled like I’d been bathing in perfume. I decided I’d better wear it again today to let it air out some.”

  “What perfume is it?” I asked.

  He told me the brand, which was a very famous and popular one. “It’s their hot new scent, called Magnolia and Red Plum, or something like that. Why? Do you like it?”

  “Not really,” I answered. “But the person who pushed me does.”

  Jackson stared at me for a full two seconds before clearing his throat loudly.

  “Lucy, darlin’, you know being kept in suspense isn’t a good look for me. For the love of God, who was it?”

  “My client and former coworker,” I told him. “Camilla Braithwaite.”

  THIRTY-FIVE

  “Camilla, good morning,” I said, gesturing to the booth seat across from me in the far back corner of Big Flaco’s Tacos. “Thank you for coming so quickly. I ordered you some coffee, but Ana should be back around any second to take your order.”

  Camilla sat down, her jaw set in irritation, no doubt at my insistence that she stop what she was doing and come meet me, pronto—and especially because I’d refused to tell her why. Over her shoulder, in the next booth, Josephine grinned at me from under the baseball cap covering her dark curls. She gave me a thumbs-up. Serena, whom Camilla had never seen before, didn’t need to be incognito, and sat calmly sipping her coffee. I could see only the back of her blond head, but noted that she’d shifted so as to better listen in on our conversation.

  Yeah, I wasn’t going to confront Camilla alone, even in a place as safe for me as Flaco’s. I wanted witnesses. Jackson had offered to come with me to the taqueria after I’d explained that Camilla had worn that flowery scent with a hint of something fruity underneath when she’d appeared at Flaco’s last Saturday and then hired me. She’d also been wearing it when we went to the Harry Alden Texas History Museum, though it had been much more subtle then. In the end, though, we’d decided that Jackson should stay alert for anything strange happening at my condo complex and I would call upon my best friends to meet me at Flaco’s to witness my takedown of my former coworker.

  Flaco and Ana were in on what was happening, and would be on the alert for Camilla attempting to run out or, worse, do something silly. Flaco’s dark eyes had flashed when he heard someone had tried to hurt me, and he’d muttered something menacing-sounding in Spanish.

  After Josephine, Ana, and I nodded our heads in stern agreement, Serena had put one hand on her hip and said, “Um, hello? We’ve been through this before. Y’all know I don’t speak Spanish. Is someone going to translate for me?”

  “In essentials?” Jo said. “Woe betide anyone who tries to hurt his Lucia, or tries any shenanigans in his taqueria.”

  Then Flaco had to ask what the term “shenanigans” meant, and our whole tough-sounding vibe went to hell in a handbag as we all defined it a little differently. Finally, Flaco shooed us away with a flick of his kitchen towel, though his mustache was twitching as he encompassed all of us in an indulgent “Ay, chiflada,” before going back into his kitchen.

  Camilla had walked in ten minutes later, however, and any lightheartedness disappeared. Especially when I saw what she was wearing.

  “I don’t care for it that you summoned me here, Lucy,” she said, pulling her steaming mug of coffee toward her and adding a packet of sugar. “Nor do I care for your tone when you did so.” She picked up the plastic spoon that was on a paper napkin by her coffee, along with a plastic fork. “Why do I have plastic silverware and you don’t?”

  Ana arrived at that moment, giving Camilla a falsely warm smile. “Our dishwasher broke. My apologies, miss. May I take your order?”

  Camilla began stirring her coffee with an unimpressed expression. “Two bacon-and-egg tacos. I’d like the bacon extra crispy.”

  Ana waited for a “please.” When it didn’t come, she wrote the order, her expression turning frosty. “And you, Lucia?”

  I smiled. “I’ll do the same, please. Muchas gracias, Ana.”

  I was graced with one of her sassy winks as she tucked her pen behind her ear. “De nada, chiquita.” Unbeknownst to Camilla, Ana gave her a brief, hard stare before walking by Josephine, who held out her hand for a quiet high-five as Ana breezed past.

  “So?” Camilla said. “Why did you call me? And what happened to your face?”

  Though it hadn’t bled, per se, the nearly two-inch-long area where my cheek had grazed the rock was now red, smarting, and streaked with small scrapes. Nothing I did made it look better, either. Even the outfit I’d chosen in anticipation of Savannah Lundstrom’s event this afternoon—a pair of crisp navy trousers, heels, and a pretty blouse the color of a robin’s egg that made my eyes bluer—hadn’t taken away from the slightly swollen look of my cheek.

  I stirred cream into my own coffee, feeling my anger rising like the steam, but my voice was ice cold. “That’s what happens when you shove someone down, Camilla. Only, I’m sorry I didn’t hit the tree like you intended. Instead, I went down in the dirt.” I pointed to my cheek, “But there was this one rock that still caught me, so bully for you.”

  Camilla had taken a sip from her mug, and I saw her clear brown eyes widen with confusion as I spoke. Now she was choking on her coffee, covering her mouth with her napkins.

  “What are you talking about?” she sputtered.

  I leaned across the table, my voice bristling with anger. “I know it was you who pushed me this morning at Little Stacy Park, Camilla. I could smell your perfume. Before I report you to the police, I just want to know why you did it, and if you planned it in advance. Or was it just happenstance, and you took your chance when you saw me running alone?”

  My former coworker stared at me, napkins clutched tightly in one hand. I kept going.

  “I also found out, as I’m sure you know, that there were two people in Charlie’s house the night he died. Two people who were related, as evidenced by a DNA match. Were you one of
them? Did you kill your great-uncle, Camilla?”

  Now the color was draining from her face. I’d never seen her so pale, and it almost frightened me.

  “How can you say such things?” she whispered. “I loved Uncle Charlie. Why are you being so horrible? Is this some sort of payback for the fact that you never got along with Roxie, Patrice, and me? God, Lucy, do you really hate me that much?”

  Now I was stunned. “Excuse me? I didn’t get along with y’all?” Then I stopped abruptly, shaking my head. She was trying to direct the conversation away from what mattered. “No, that’s not what this is about, Camilla.”

  “Then what is it about?” she asked, her color beginning to rise again. “Because I don’t know what the hell you mean, Lucy.”

  Her voice had risen, too, and I looked around to see a few patrons watching us. This issue was quickly quelled by Ana and two of the other waitresses, who bustled around, checking on the diners and drawing their attention away from us. I noticed Flaco had also turned up the music that was coming through the loudspeakers, which was apparently Julio Iglesias’s greatest hits. Suddenly, “To All the Girls I’ve Loved Before,” Julio’s duet with Willie Nelson, was in my ears. Flaco had actually started singing in his kitchen, though with one eye firmly on Camilla and me in the back booth.

  Camilla, though, was too angry to notice any of it.

  “Are you going to answer me? Why the hell are you accusing me of pushing you? For heaven’s sake, I don’t even know where Little Stacy Park is.” She plunged her spoon in her coffee again, then cursed as some of it splattered out onto her hand. Her eyes were fiery as she snatched more napkins from the dispenser. Then she thrust out her wrist. “And I’m not even wearing perfume today, either.”

  This stopped me for a moment. I hadn’t been able to smell the perfume on Camilla like I had this morning—but I reasoned this was because it had worn off as she’d run.

  “Yeah?” I said anyway, still angry enough that backing down wasn’t a clear option yet. “Then explain your outfit to me, because the person who tried shoving me into a tree was wearing both the perfume you wear and an all-black outfit. You have clearly been exercising. Explain that, Camilla.” I gestured toward her face, which, having regained some of its color again, had a healthy glow and was free of makeup, making the smattering of freckles across the bridge of her nose stand out. Her reddish-brown hair was up in a ponytail, the finer hairs around her face having come loose in the windy morning.

  Now Camilla was looking at me like I was certifiable. “Of course I’ve been exercising. I’ve just come from running at the park by Uncle Charlie’s house with my friend Sarah. Then you called me, got all”—she made her voice sound prissy and demanding—“‘Camilla, you need to meet me now,’ and I got in my car and came.”

  Over Camilla’s shoulder, I could just see Josephine’s look of scandalized shock at the way Camilla had imitated me.

  “Can you verify that?” I said.

  “Are you kidding me?” she returned.

  “No, I’m not kidding,” I snapped. I leaned forward again. “Camilla, I talked to you yesterday and confirmed that there were three—three—separate times where someone attempted to steal your piece of the triptych. The first time through spoofing your phone number and texting your ex-husband to take it from your house. The second, by trying to break into Ben’s car.” I swung my arm up in irritation. “And the third, by audaciously attempting to take the painting from the freaking Morris Art Conservation building in broad daylight.”

  A lock of hair had dropped onto my face, touching the scrape on my cheek and making it smart. Hastily brushing the hair away, I added, “And then this morning, with my FBI boyfriend only a couple of minutes down the path from me, someone shoves me down so hard that I was nearly slammed into a tree. So you’d better believe I’m not kidding when I say I want you to verify where you were.”

  Once more I made an emphatic gesture with my hand, though I lowered my voice. “And this doesn’t even include the fact that your poor, sweet uncle Charlie—someone who was so kind to me during a not-great night in my life—was murdered three nights ago. He’s dead, Camilla, and it’s because of something to do with that triptych. And now my life has been put in danger, too. So if you weren’t responsible for what happened today, I want proof.”

  Camilla, who’d been looking outraged, had paled again when I spoke of her uncle Charlie, tears filling her eyes. Without speaking, she found her phone and pulled up some text messages, then handed it to me.

  They were between Camilla and her friend named Sarah from this morning. Camilla wrote of just needing to get out, because planning her uncle’s funeral, and living in his house while doing so, had been emotionally horrible. Sarah immediately offered to meet her at the park by Charlie’s house. Camilla took the phone back from me and pulled up an Instagram account for her friend, who had posted a photo less than an hour ago. The two were standing on a little footbridge I knew to be in that park. Sarah’s arms were around Camilla’s shoulders in a comforting hug, and Camilla was in the exact same outfit she wore now, with no makeup and tendrils of her hair already escaping her ponytail. In the caption, Sarah wrote of seeing her friend and how strong Camilla was staying with what she was going through. She’d tagged Camilla’s account.

  “Satisfied?” Camilla said, her voice tight. She’d been dabbing at her eyes the whole time, and they were still welling up. Hers were no crocodile tears.

  I nodded, handing back her phone. “I apologize for accusing you,” I said, “though I hope you can see how I came to the conclusion I did.”

  I felt like Camilla was going to snap back at me and tell me what an awful person I’d been, but instead, she nodded, albeit a bit stiffly. Glancing toward the scrape on my face, she said, “I’m sorry someone did that to you because of me.” I saw her swallow. “I never should have hired you for this, Lucy. Ever since Uncle Charlie announced he was willing his piece of the triptych to me, I’ve had a bad feeling, like I knew something was going to happen. I just expected it to be some relative who would come out of the woodwork and challenge me for rights to the panel, though.” She gestured toward my face, then made a sweeping motion as if to encompass the last few days. “I never dreamed of anything like what’s been happening.”

  But I was staring at her. “I’m sorry—what did you say? Charlie announced that he was willing it to you?”

  Camilla frowned. “He told you, that day in his office. You knew he’d willed it to me.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but neither of you said anything about announcing it. Did he put out a press release or something?”

  For the first time since she walked in, her expression lightened. “No, nothing like that. He just sent out emails to various members of our family, informing them of his decision so it would be official. The emails were sent to those in his line and mine, but he requested that the email be forwarded if anyone had connections with the third branch descending from Charles’s daughter, Henrietta. No one in his line has wanted the painting, including his actual nieces and nephews.”

  I leaned forward on the table, the smarting irritation on my cheek nearly forgotten.

  “Camilla, do you know if he received any responses to those emails? And was this before or after he discovered the painting underneath?”

  “Uncle Charlie told me that nearly every cousin replied,” she said. “As for the timing, this all happened last June, so nearly, what, nine months before the incident with the toddler that caused the hole in the canvas.”

  Briefly, I wondered if one of the descendants in Charlie’s line would contest his will once they realized what was under the top painting. Then I course-corrected my thoughts, deciding that wasn’t something I needed to be worrying about.

  “Dang it, Charlie’s laptop was stolen, though, wasn’t it?” I said. “So we can’t get a look at the emails.” I tapped my fingers on my coffee cup, thinking out loud. “I wonder if Ben could convince Dupart to hack Charlie’s email ac
count.”

  “There’s no need,” Camilla said. “Uncle Charlie printed the emails out.”

  I goggled at her. “Are you serious? Do you know where they are? Will you show them to me?”

  Camilla nodded. “I found them yesterday. They were in that box of letterhead, underneath a few blank sheets. I only found them when I went to print some letters on Uncle Charlie’s official stationery to send to his wine distributor contacts.”

  “That’s probably why the police didn’t notice,” I mused. “And why the box wasn’t rifled through by the killers, because they thought it was merely blank letterhead.” Picking up my coffee, I said, “Can we go get them after breakfast?”

  Next to me on my seat, my phone pinged and I looked down at it. Serena, who’d been listening, had sent me a text.

  You’re not going anywhere with her without one of us. Just in case.

  I felt a warming knowledge that my friends had my back and sent back a heart emoji, even as Camilla asked, “Why? Do you think they might be important?”

  “Yes, I do,” I said. “This morning when Ben told me there were two possibly related people in Charlie’s house the night he was murdered, it confirmed something that’s been going around in my brain.”

  “Which is?”

  “Which is, whoever murdered Charlie, they’re also related to you.”

  THIRTY-SIX

  Once Ana had brought our breakfast tacos with a smile and extra-crispy bacon for both of us—easing up on Camilla once she’d seen that I was no longer acting like my client was the enemy—Camilla and I had eaten, and began to both feel and act like normal humans again. Later, when Serena and Josephine popped up from the booth next to us, Camilla had taken it with relatively good grace that I’d brought friends along for backup.

  “I guess I would have done the same thing,” she said, and wisely didn’t question it when Serena said she was coming with me to Charlie’s house.