“Can you show me your emailed invitation, ma’am?” Oscar asked politely. He held up an electronic device for scanning bar codes and QR codes.
“I’m afraid I don’t have one,” I said, affecting an embarrassed grin. “I just need to have a few words with Savannah Lundstrom, the speaker, but I won’t take long. Would that be all right?”
Oscar shook his head, though I could tell by the way he was looking at me that he wasn’t liking having to say no. “I’m really sorry, but I can’t let you in. This particular ‘History Then Happy Hour’ is a charity event, and only those who bought tickets are able to be admitted.”
Briefly, I thought about calling one of my friends who still worked here at the Hamilton Center to see if they could get me in, but I decided against using my connections in that manner. I also mulled over trying to sweet-talk Oscar. I had a strong feeling that I could convince him if I played it just right.
I was just about to attempt some mild flirting when, from over Oscar’s shoulder, I saw Savannah, walking with another woman who had the air of a professor. Savannah’s head was turned away from me, but I heard the professor say, “The ladies’ room is just down the hall if you’d like to freshen up before you go on.”
Smiling at Oscar, I shrugged. “Well, I tried. Thank you so much.” Then I turned on my heel and wove through a group of guests as they lined up to present their cell phones with the invitation’s QR code showing.
Within seconds, I was in the lounge area, with a long mirror over a counter on one side and two armchairs on the other. A swinging door at the far end would take me into the bathrooms themselves.
Catching my reflection in the mirror over the countertop, I made a face. The lighting in the Hamilton Center bathrooms was notoriously bad, and with my scraped cheek starting to bruise, it didn’t flatter me at all. Even the pretty blue blouse I was wearing looked a little sickly in this lighting. My hair was pulled back at the crown to keep it from touching my face, but I thought about letting it down to help distract from the scrape. I had other things to discuss with Savannah than how I came to be banged up.
I went to release my hair clip just as my phone dinged. Pulling the phone out to silence it, I read the text. It was from Cisco.
Dang. Siri misheard me. Just noticed. Not Behrens. Marins.
My breathing felt stifled and I read his words again, just to be sure I hadn’t imagined them. Hurriedly, I googled the name “Renee Marins,” though of course I already knew where I’d heard the last name. And since Renee had referenced having two kids in her email to Charlie Braithwaite—one who was a stepson or -daughter—I’d bet my last dollar that Trent was her son.
I itched to call Dupart to alert him, and to call Patrice and Roxie to warn them they were working with someone dangerous, but I knew I needed to verify my hunch first. As much as I didn’t care for Trent Marins, I couldn’t accuse him of being an art thief—and likely one-half of a murderous duo—without making sure of my facts. I hadn’t yet come across the surname Marins in any of my checks into the Braithwaite family tree, so I aimed for the easiest route to researching her first: social media.
“Hot damn, there she is,” I whispered and clicked on the link that would take me to Renee’s account. I’d barely seen her that day in the Morris Art Conservation building, but in her profile, she listed herself as a docent at the Morris Art Museum in Houston, Texas, convincing me I had the right person. She posted regularly and it took me scrolling through a few posts before I murmured, “Bingo.”
It was a throwback photo from a year earlier. Trent, tall and grinning in a cocky way, his fair hair a little less noticeably receding, was clean-shaven, but clearly the same person I’d met at the Howland library. Something else caught my eye, though. Enlarging the photo, I focused in on what his beard had hidden.
“Well, would you look at that,” I whispered. “He’s got the Braithwaite cleft chin.”
I took a screenshot of the photograph, then scrolled further. Several posts later, I was staring at the screen, my thumb hovering over another photo from ten months ago, of Renee Marins and two other people sitting in deck chairs on the edge of a lake, cocktails in hand. Her caption gushed about spending time with her two kids—and she’d tagged both of them.
“I can’t believe it.” I breathed as I read the words that were automatically generated when the account holder tags someone.
Renee Marins is at Canyon Lake with Trent Marins and—
I looked up at the sound of the door opening. The other person tagged in the post, Savannah Lundstrom, had just walked into the ladies’ lounge.
She stopped when she spotted me. Looking utterly glamorous in a red sheath dress and heels, the bad lighting seemed not to affect her it all. Her curly hair was free and hanging to her shoulders, and the matte red lipstick she wore emphasized her lips even more as she pursed them, her expression confused for a moment, as if she couldn’t quite place me. The action, I now noticed, emphasized her own cleft chin, though hers was much more subtle. Then realization appeared to come to her and she said, “Why, hello, Lucy. Are you here for my talk?”
“No, but I did come to see you, Savannah,” I said, my tone mild. My thoughts were racing as I slid my phone into my purse. It suddenly hit me that Trent knew I was working for Camilla, and thus, he would have told Savannah. I needed to change my whole plan of action to be able to walk this particular line. And I needed to change it on the quick.
“Oh? And you felt the best place to wait for me was the ladies’ room?” she said with a touch of sarcasm, turning toward the mirror and putting her purse on the counter so she could fluff her hair and check her lipstick. Then she glanced at me in the mirror with a put-upon expression. “Is this about Ben? Are you jealous that I hugged him or something? Look, he’s gorgeous, yes, but there’s nothing between us. We were just classmates, that’s it.” She shrugged and resumed checking her makeup, each movement of her arms sending a whiff of her perfume my way. It was floral, with a fruity undertone.
Almost in response, the scrape on my cheek started to smart again. Savannah hadn’t even asked what had happened to my face, though her eyes had lingered on the contusion. I steeled myself against the anger threatening to rise up inside me. Instead, I kept my voice calm. A plan was forming in my mind.
“No, it’s not about Ben,” I said, waving off the notion. “It’s about Charles Braithwaite, and his descendants, of course. Cisco told me that you ditched him and his interview after you noticed the painting in the workroom at Morris Art Conservation was done by Charles.” I then gave her a decidedly worried look and blurted, “Savannah, are you going after another Braithwaite family story for Chronology?”
For a moment, Savannah had stilled, but when her eyes flicked back to me, my expression as earnest as they come, she seemed to relax.
“And if I am?” she replied, the reporter’s gleam back in her eye.
Something about that look made me flash back to Cisco’s workroom, and how Savannah, after attempting to peek at the covered-up piece of the triptych, had asked, Will you at least give me a hint as to why the panel is here?
She’d called it a “panel,” not simply a “painting” or “piece of art” as any other regular person would who thought there was only one canvas, total. Until recently, while Charles Braithwaite had been somewhat known as an artist, only the Braithwaite family had known he’d painted a three-paneled piece of artwork. Plus, while Cisco’s folder had been labeled Untitled Triptych Piece, 1866, Charles Braithwaite, artist, the word “triptych” hadn’t been visible, because I’d accidentally pushed some of the folder under the drop cloth. Yet Savannah had already known the painting was one of three panels, hadn’t she?
She wasn’t at Morris Art Conservation to interview Cisco at all. No, she was there to help Renee—her stepmother—steal Camilla’s piece of the triptych. Was it Savannah who stole the intern’s key card and passed it off to Renee? Or did Renee steal it, and Savannah was there to pick up the painting when her ste
pmother rolled it outside? Though Savannah had no doubt made a real appointment to interview Cisco, just in case, mind you.
Now Savannah was eyeing me. I leaned forward in conspiratorial fashion. “Look, my client—”
“Your client is a Braithwaite. I’m right, aren’t I?” Savannah said, a note of triumph in her voice.
“Okay, yes, you’re right,” I said, as if I were conceding the point to a worthy opponent. “My client is Camilla Braithwaite, and the painting at Morris Art Conservation was part of a triptych painted by her ancestor that’s been covered for decades by another canvas that looked like a bad folk-art painting. The painting underneath—a battle scene—was discovered by accident.” Now I inflected my voice with insistence. “Look, Camilla is adamant that you not write another follow-up on her ancestor and her family. She wants her family’s name preserved, not further questioned, and she’s hired me to look into Charles’s Civil War records to prove your assertions wrong.”
“Has she, now?” Savannah asked with a smirk.
I nodded and gave a sigh. “I’ll admit, I haven’t found anything thus far that verifies Charles Braithwaite wasn’t a deserter, so I’m up against a wall there. But since you still seem interested in writing about the Braithwaites, what if you wrote about the triptych instead, and the mystery surrounding it?”
“Which is?” Savannah asked, turning back to check her reflection again as if she didn’t care.
I glanced at my own reflection, pleased to see my wide-eyed, earnest look was pretty darn Oscar-worthy.
“Well, the other two pieces are missing—one’s whereabouts have been unknown since the eighties and the other one was recently stolen and its owner murdered …” I made an isn’t-that-shocking face in the mirror at Savannah, whose eyes had cut over to me. “Anyway, this kind of thing is right up Chronology’s alley, right? How a family has been thinking some hideous painting was done by their ancestor, only to have an accident uncover the true painting underneath that could be worth a fortune? And now there’s a hunt for the other two pieces?” I affected a hesitant smile. “So, what do you say? If you’re going to write about the Braithwaites again, why not make it about the triptych?” I leaned in toward her, my hand to my heart. “And the painting is amazing, Savannah. Oh. My. God.”
My countenance was lit up now, but it wasn’t that hard because I was recalling the painting and its astounding detail. “You should see the scene that’s underneath. It’s just incredible. We brought it back here to Austin. It’s at my friend Helen Kim’s restoration shop near the Harry Alden Texas History Museum. There’s only minor work that needs to be done—can you believe it? Helen’s doing it now, of course. She’ll be finished by this afternoon and then the painting is going to a secure location after that.” I bit my lip, then said in an excited whisper, “And Helen called me this morning. She had Camilla’s piece appraised and it’s likely worth—”
At that moment, the door to the ladies’ room opened and the professor who’d been talking to Savannah earlier walked in, looking a little harassed.
“Oh, Ms. Lundstrom, there you are. Dean Trezzi of the history department would love to ask you a couple of questions about your presentation, so I told him I’d come find you. Do you need more time to freshen up?”
Savannah’s eyes had been laser focused on me, hungry for my next words. I saw her jaw tighten, but when she faced the professor, her calm demeanor was intact. “No, not at all. I’m ready,” she replied. Briefly turning back to me, she graced me with a smile. “It was good to see you again, Lucy. I’ll think about what you said. It might just be the angle I’m looking for.”
I gave her a hopeful smile in return, holding it until the door to the hallway beyond had closed once more before saying under my breath, “Yes, let what I’ve said really sink in, Savannah. I’ve no doubt you’ll find the temptation irresistible.”
I waited until I was in the elevator, riding down to the first floor, to call Detective Dupart.
“You’re suggesting what, Ms. Lancaster?” he said after listening to my tale.
“An undercover op, detective. Mark my words. Savannah Lundstrom is going to try and steal that painting again. How fast can you get a team over to Helen Kim Art Restoration?”
THIRTY-EIGHT
I sat next to Helen, watching her do a gentle surface clean of Charles Braithwaite’s painting.
“You know this will be pretty boring for you, right?”
“No way,” I said, my eyes glued to her process, watching as the rich golden tones of one soldier’s hair—a soldier with a cleft chin, I noted—took on even more dimension with the removal of the dust that Helen said had likely been on the painting before it was covered by the second canvas. “I’m utterly fascinated.”
Helen laughed, but I noticed her eyes flicked back and forth to the front door, and I answered her unasked question.
“Officer Park should be here in about twenty minutes,” I said. “And several undercover officers with her, including one to follow you home and stay with you until this is over.”
Helen glanced up at me. “This is surreal, Lucy. You’re so calm.”
“I’m not really,” I said, and it was the truth. I was nervous as hell, but this time was different. This time I wouldn’t be in danger, nor would my friend. This time, the police were going to be handling the bad guys. I was just going to be watching the takedown.
“But you look like butter wouldn’t melt in your mouth,” Helen said on a laugh. With one hand, she gestured toward the door. “It’s crazy to think someone is going to stand in for me, pretend to be me, while the police set a sting to catch Savannah Lundstrom attempting to steal this painting.” She looked down at Camilla’s triptych piece, then back up at me. “Speaking of, tell me what Savannah did to make you figure out she was doing something that was more than reporting.”
I explained it to her as I’d figured it out. “First, there was the article. It was well-written, but as I began to research Charles Braithwaite’s military records, there were a couple of places where her fact-checking was tenuous, especially when she claimed he deserted.”
“Yeah, but didn’t you say that there was an actual card in his CM-whatever—”
“CMSR—it stands for ‘compiled military service record.’”
“Yeah, that. Wasn’t there a notation that listed him as deserted?”
I nodded. “There was, but what you have to understand about Civil War records is that you’ll see a lot of soldiers with notations like that in their files. And then the next record will say they’re back on active service. The record keeping—for Union and Confederate forces alike—was fairly shoddy. They only took roll call—called a muster report—every two months. With the exception of the Bowie List, which is a list of soldiers who died during three battles in Maryland, including Antietam, and the exact locations where the soldiers were buried, there’s nothing in any Confederate records that will definitively tell you whether a soldier actually fought in a particular battle or skirmish. So basically, there’s not a ton you can rely on one hundred percent within the CMSR files.”
“Sounds like some of the provenance records I see,” Helen said wryly as she wrapped fresh cotton around a long stick and began to work her way onto the fair-haired soldier’s face, which was distorted with pain from a bloody gash on his upper arm.
“I would expect the discovery process can be quite similar at times,” I agreed. “In Civil War cases, I have to carefully work from the outside in. In general, that means finding other records that prove, say, that Charles was or wasn’t in the hospital at the time—because, let me tell you, these soldiers were always in and out of hospitals. Or maybe Charles mentioned certain other soldiers in his journal and they were proven through other means to be at a particular battle. I basically work my way inward, fitting puzzle pieces together, until I can make the best case I can that Charles was in one place or another at a given time.”
Helen nodded thoughtfully as she worked. “So, Sav
annah didn’t make a good enough case?”
“Not in my mind,” I said. “Though, I will admit it was done well enough that I might not have thought twice about it if it hadn’t been for Camilla hiring me to prove the article wrong.”
Helen continued to work on the painting, but asked me what else made me think something was up with Savannah. “Was it that she showed up at the Morris Art Conservation building in Houston?” she said.
“Actually, not really. At least, not until today,” I replied. “She’s from Dallas and other stories I’ve read of hers prove that she writes about the South and Southwest quite a bit. She claimed she was there to interview Cisco on what sounded like a legitimate article at the time—though when I called the Chronology offices as I drove over here, I confirmed that, while she was in Houston to research a story, she’d never cleared writing an article about art conservation.”
Helen made an indignant sound on my and Cisco’s behalf.
“Anyway, what seemed weird, thinking back, was that she really seemed more interested in looking around the workroom than she did in talking to Cisco. Also—and, again, I didn’t recognize this until much too late—but when she saw the painting, she specifically used the term ‘panel,’ making me fairly certain she knew the painting was part of a triptych, even though we never told her as much.” I explained how there was a folder label that had identified the painting as a triptych piece, but Savannah couldn’t have seen those words.
I added, “Plus, the woman I saw trying to wheel a cart into the workroom, and then rushing off when she heard someone coming, made everything even more odd.”
“And that woman was Renee Marins?”
I nodded. “She was the first wife of Savannah’s father, and the mother of Savannah’s half brother, Trent Marins. Trent and Savannah have the same father, and are therefore both Braithwaite descendants, but Trent goes by his stepfather’s surname.”
Fatal Family Ties Page 26