Lineage Most Lethal

by S. C. Perkins

  Seeing her interested expression, I said, “Want to see it, too?”

  Mrs. P.’s lips twitched. “You kept that man’s pen in your sunglasses case?”

  I gave a sheepish grin. “I know myself, and I’d lose it otherwise.”

  I popped open the case and, at that moment, two streaks of child-size lightning rushed out from behind the window’s heavy curtains, just holding in their squeals. It was Claire and her cousin Marilyn, playing some game of their own making. Surprise and fear of accidentally bonking them on the head made me jerk the case away, sending the pen flying over my left shoulder.

  “Oh!” I cried as Mrs. P. stumbled backward, nearly losing her balance. I reached out and steadied her.

  “I think you dropped this,” came a deep voice from behind me.

  It was one I knew well, and it made my heart soar, even before I spun around and looked into the handsome face and blue eyes.

  “Grandpa!”

  TEN

  I threw my arms around my grandfather’s neck and hugged him tight, breathing in the mixture of cold air, leather jacket, soap, and equal hints of aftershave and pipe tobacco. “What are you doing here?” I asked.

  “I was in the area and stopped by to see you, my darlin’,” he said, pressing his cheek against the top of my head before pulling back, catching my hands, and looking me square in the face. “Oh, how time flies,” he said. “I’d swear you’re prettier every time I see you.”

  I blinked in surprise, though my smile stayed in place. Grandpa was invoking his favorite code phrase from my childhood. One I hadn’t heard in years. One he relied on to get out of trouble with Gran, often after taking my sister and me to get ice cream before dinner.

  “Oh, how time flies,” he’d say to Maeve and me when we walked into Gran’s kitchen to find him with his hands in his pockets, rocking back on his heels with a guilty smile. “You two get prettier every time I see you.”

  It meant we were to play along with him. It meant we had permission to deny everything.

  Then when Gran would ask Maeve and me directly if we’d just had ice cream, we’d solemnly shake our heads, as if our sticky hands and the telltale drips down our T-shirts weren’t in plain view. We figured out quickly that Gran didn’t believe any of us, but she was too much of a pushover for her granddaughters—and despite the look of infuriated exasperation she’d throw at Grandpa, she was still a pushover for him, too. Grandpa’s code phrase had stayed in regular, cheeky action until my grandmother’s passing, and I hadn’t realized how much I’d missed hearing him saying it.

  Suddenly, I was glad Maeve wasn’t here. We’d probably have burst into tears thinking about how much we missed Gran, spoiling Grandpa’s subterfuge in the process.

  But why was Grandpa giving me the “play-along” signal now? There was nothing weird going on that I could see. Nevertheless, I gave his fingers two quick squeezes to show that I understood.

  “Well, now, who is this handsome man with the silver tongue?” Mrs. P. said, clearly recovered and looking my grandfather up and down with a hint of flirtation.

  “Mrs. P., this is my grandfather, George Lancaster,” I said. “Grandpa, this is Mrs. Pollingham, the Hotel Sutton’s amazing front desk manager.”

  Mrs. P. offered her hand slowly, as if surprised. Grandpa took her hand and shook it firmly, not just clasping her fingers in the way many men, especially those of his generation, often did.

  Mrs. P. looked from me to Grandpa and back again in clear confusion. “Your grandfather, Lucy? Not your great-grandfather? But you’re barely thirty—” She heard her own gaffe and stopped, looking mortified.

  Grandpa put his hand to his heart in mock injury. “And just when I thought I could still pass for a spry eighty-five.”

  Mrs. P., blushing furiously, started to say, “Oh, no, Mr. Lancaster. I didn’t mean—”

  I put my hand reassuringly on her arm. “It’s okay, Mrs. P. We get this all the time, and Grandpa’s just messing with you.” I playfully swatted my grandfather’s hand, then linked my arm through his. “See, my grandparents married right after World War Two, in 1945, but didn’t have my father until nineteen years later.”

  Grandpa chimed in, “He was a happy surprise after we’d been told over and over we couldn’t have children.”

  “Then my parents married relatively young—right out of college—and had my sister and me by the time they turned twenty-five,” I said. “So, I’m one of few people my age whose grandfather is a World War Two veteran.”

  “And still kicking and going swing dancing once a week,” Grandpa added, taking my hand and giving me a deft, tight spin.

  “But you must have been very young during the war,” Mrs. P. said, looking at him as if she still didn’t quite believe the math.

  Grandpa nodded. “You’re correct, and very astute, Mrs. Pollingham. I was one of those wild young boys who lied about his age so he could sign up and fight for his country. I was tall and had muscles from working on my uncle’s cattle ranch, so they believed me when I said I was eighteen.”

  “And how old were you really?” Mrs. P. asked, her expression finally showing some measure of acceptance.

  He leaned forward and said, sotto voce, “Sixteen and three quarters, but don’t tell the feds.”

  “Oh, go on,” she said, eyeing him with much humor. “You’re pulling my leg.”

  “Would you like to know how I did it?” Grandpa asked, clearly enjoying his harmless flirtation with Mrs. P., who was nodding eagerly. “They didn’t cotton on to me because there was another George Lancaster and I passed myself off as him—at least initially.”

  Mrs. P. looked well and truly shocked. “No,” she breathed.

  “I tell you the truth,” Grandpa said with a solemn air. “We were both from Houston, though we went to rival high schools. He was two years older and a star football player, so I knew of him, but he didn’t know of me. We had the same eye color, and were about the same height”—Grandpa grinned roguishly—“only I was much better-looking. All in all, the army just assumed someone had done the paperwork incorrectly, which was hardly a shock to anyone, and both of us ended up working for Uncle Sam.”

  Mrs. P.’s eyes had grown round, her lips parted in surprise. “But … you didn’t really let the army believe you were he, did you?”

  Grandpa was unabashed. “I did, and I don’t regret it one jot. My commanding officer eventually found out my age, though, and that’s how I ended up a war correspondent, traveling with various outfits until I turned eighteen, ending up in the Fourth Infantry.”

  “Did you ever meet the other George Lancaster?” Mrs. P. asked, enthralled.

  My grandfather’s eyes were practically glowing. “I did, in fact. One night, George and I both turned up at the same USO dance and I introduced myself, telling him what I’d done. George got a kick out of me using him to con my way into the army.”

  If possible, Mrs. P.’s eyes went even rounder, then she burst out laughing. “Och, Lucy, your grandfather’s a live one, isn’t he? I can see where you get your sass now, oh yes.”

  “I don’t have a clue what she’s talking about, love, do you?” Grandpa asked me with exaggerated innocence, making Mrs. P.’s cheeks brighten by giving her a wink.

  “I just can’t believe the coincidence,” she said, still chuckling. “Does the other George Lancaster have a granddaughter named Lucy, too? Wouldn’t it be a hoot if that happened?”

  Grandpa grinned. “Now, that I don’t know, but when he died some years back, a few friends thought it was I who had passed and sent my wife condolence cards. My wife joked that she should get to take a boyfriend, since I’d left her a desirable widow.”

  “I can see Gran saying that,” I said.

  Grandpa put his arm around my shoulder. “If you think I have cheek, Mrs. Pollingham, you should have met my wife.” Before she could reply, though, he turned to me.

  “Now, my beautiful Lucy. I think this is yours.” He held out his palm, pres
enting me the Montblanc.

  My hand nearly jerked back as I reached for it, but I managed to cover it up with a theatrical flourish as I picked up the black fountain pen with gold bands on the cap. Only instead of four gold bands—three thin ones and one thicker—there were only three bands total. The snowcap on the end was different as well.

  This was why Grandpa had said the code phrase. He’d switched the Montblanc I’d found with a different pen and he wanted me to pretend not to notice. But why?

  My thoughts raced. It had already been strange when Grandpa had practically hung up on me this morning. Then to appear at the Hotel Sutton out of the blue? That was even stranger. And how did he even get here? Grandpa still had his driver’s license, but preferred not to drive long distances. So why was he here? It had to be about the pen—the real one, which was presumably somewhere on Grandpa’s person. But could it be that special?

  If I had to guess, it was worth a pretty penny, and Grandpa knew it. He would never ask me to keep it from the police, but I figured he’d want to do what he could to establish provenance for it after it was released from evidence—and maybe be the first in line for it, if no other next of kin could be found for our dead man.

  Regardless, the best thing I could do was keep my mouth shut and follow Grandpa’s lead until he explained everything.

  Opening my sunglasses case again, I tipped the stunt-double Montblanc into it, and then turned the case around so Mrs. P. could see. “It’s pretty much an ordinary fountain pen,” I said with a casual shrug.

  She bent over the pen, looking at it from all angles. “It does look rather ordinary, but lovely in its own way.”

  Grandpa had pulled his glasses from the inner pocket of his jacket, and I held the case where both he and Mrs. P. could see.

  “It’s definitely a Montblanc,” Grandpa said, even though we’d already established this earlier. “A Meisterstück, from the looks of it. From the mid-1940s, I’d wager.”

  Mrs. P. gave Grandpa a curious look, and I explained, “My grandfather collects Montblancs. The Meisterstück is his favorite type. He has probably thirty of them.”

  “My, that’s quite a collection,” she said to my grandfather, before asking me, “You did say it was ‘pretty much’ an ordinary pen. What makes it different?”

  I was about to start stuttering and make something up, but Grandpa did it for me. “I think I know. You see the snowcap emblem?” he said, pointing to the stylized white snow-covered mountain peak on the cap. “There were a small number made after the war where the snowcap is slightly bigger than normal. They were trying it out, but the buyers didn’t care for it, so they went back to the smaller version.”

  Mrs. P. studied it. “How interesting. And this makes it more expensive?”

  Grandpa cocked his head. “Well, not for your average person, no. But for an avid collector, yes, being as they’re so rare.”

  Nodding, Mrs. P. looked at me. “Is the writing part,” she fluttered her hands, searching for the word, “you know, the pointy part—?”

  “The nib,” offered Grandpa.

  “Yes, the nib. Is it engraved like I’ve seen on some pens?”

  Grandpa looked at me, raising his eyebrows like he’d never seen it and would be just as surprised as Mrs. P.

  This was getting weirder, but I picked up the pen and took off the cap. Briefly, I wondered how we were going to swing this with Pippa and Uncle Dave, who were waiting for their very own look at the pen and who knew it supposedly had feathers on it. A few moments ago, I’d seen them watching us curiously from across the ballroom, but they’d made no move to come over—yet.

  Desperately trying to think up some excuse for why the nib wouldn’t have feathers, I looked down and stood flabbergasted. It indeed had a feather engraved on it. One single feather instead of two crossed ones, but it was there.

  “I thought you said it had feathers, plural,” said Mrs. P., who’d come up with some reading glasses, looking closely at the nib.

  “Did I?” I said, feeling like my voice went up to a pitch only Boomer could hear.

  “Did you have your glasses on when you looked at it last night?” Grandpa asked, giving me another significant look while Mrs. P. continued to peer at the nib. “Because maybe you thought the scrollwork around the feather made it look like more than one.”

  “Come to think of it, I didn’t have my glasses on,” I said, catching on just in time. “And it was dark, too, so I guess I didn’t see it well at all.”

  Grandpa sent me a wink over Mrs. P.’s head, who was still studying the nib intently. “If you look really closely, Lucy, it’s actually a quill,” she said. “You know, as in the early writing instrument made from a feather?”

  “Is it, now?” Grandpa said in feigned wonder. He took a closer look at the nib. “Well, I’ll be dashed. You’re right.”

  “Holy moley,” I said, wondering if anyone could see the sweat beads on my forehead yet. “I got it all kinds of wrong, didn’t I?”

  “Still, it is quite beautiful,” Mrs. P. said, looking over her readers at Grandpa. “No doubt this is a valuable pen.”

  He grinned. “You, my dear Mrs. Pollingham, have the eye of a collector.” When she blushed prettily, he said, “And I think you might be right.”

  “Maybe Mr. Eason will know,” I said, as I saw Uncle Dave craning his neck over the shoulder of another family member to see where I’d got to. “He’s my client’s first cousin once removed, and an antiques dealer,” I explained to Grandpa.

  “Yes, he is,” Mrs. P. said, but added in an undertone, “Though I would be careful inquiring about the value of this pen, Mr. Lancaster.”

  “Please, call me George,” Grandpa said. “And why do you say that?”

  Another flush of pink came to her cheeks. “I apologize, George. I shouldn’t have said anything. It’s just that—” She glanced at me, then at my grandfather, looking agonized as to whether she should continue. Finally, with a furtive look toward Uncle Dave, she said, “It’s not a secret Mr. Eason is on sabbatical from his job as an antiques dealer.” She rested her hand on my arm. “I assume Pippa told you this, Lucy dear, or otherwise I wouldn’t say it to your grandfather.” Without waiting for my reply, she squared her shoulders. “Mr. Eason lost his job over a year ago at the company where he worked for many years. He was accused of stealing a valuable item. What few know is that he believes I had something to do with his firing merely because I was in the shop the day the theft happened. And when I was interviewed, I told the truth—that I’d seen him wearing the item in question.”

  I stood there, nonplussed. Actually, I hadn’t known that part, and now I felt embarrassed that she’d told us such private information.

  “What was the item?” Grandpa asked, looking only politely interested.

  “An Omega CK2129 watch,” Mrs. P. said.

  I looked blank. I knew Omega watches were a very nice brand, but the model number meant nothing to me. Grandpa, though, let out a low whistle.

  “That was a damn fine watch made for RAF pilots who took part in the first wave of the Battle of Britain,” he told me. “They called it the Weems model. Only around two thousand were ever made. There’s likely very few in existence today, especially ones that are working and in good condition.”

  “Which this one was, from what I was told,” Mrs. P. said.

  “If you don’t mind me asking, Mrs. P.,” I said, “how did you know Mr. Eason was wearing that particular watch?”

  “Simple,” she replied. “He showed it to me as he was putting it on. Then I saw him leave and he was still wearing it.”

  I didn’t know how to respond to this, so I was glad Grandpa took charge.

  “The heads-up is appreciated, Mrs. Pollingham,” he said, inclining his head.

  “You’re most welcome,” Mrs. P. said, picking up the Burleigh mugs again. She gave us a dazzling smile, then disappeared through a crowd of Sutton family members.

  ELEVEN

  “Well, t
hat was a mite uncomfortable,” Grandpa said once Mrs. P. was out of earshot.

  Uncomfortable? The past few minutes had been downright bizarre, and I had a slew of questions for my beloved, upstanding grandfather.

  As he and I fell into step, maneuvering around another group of Sutton cousins toward Pippa and Uncle Dave, I began firing off questions.

  “Want to tell me what that was all about? What did you do with the real pen? How did you even get here? And why are you here? Not that I’m not thrilled to see you, of course.”

  “I took the shuttle from our senior center, naturally. I’ll need to be dropped off downtown by three thirty to make it back. I’ll tell you everything else later.” He said this cheerfully, looking cooler than a cucumber in an ice bath.

  Pippa and Uncle Dave, however, seemed a little strained in each other’s presence, though Pippa quickly brightened when I introduced her to Grandpa. If she thought it strange that my grandfather would show up unannounced at the tail end of her family’s event, her manners and years of being in the service industry precluded her from saying so.

  “Lucy’s told me a lot about you over the weeks we’ve worked together on my family history,” Pippa said to Grandpa. “Including one very cute story about how you got Lucy’s grandmother to notice you by always being the guy who was reading a book whenever she walked into your local soda shop.”

  Grandpa beamed. “My Elinor had about ten suitors at the time, all who kept trying to impress her with their muscles. I knew she had a thing for brainy men, so I tried to look the part.”

  I said, “But she saw through Grandpa, even then.”

  My grandfather’s smile grew. “It’s true. It wasn’t until the day I was truly engrossed in the adventures of Allan Quatermain in King Solomon’s Mines and didn’t even notice her come in that Elinor finally talked to me. She walked up and asked me, ‘Do you like to read now?’ and she could tell I was being truthful when I said yes.” He sent Pippa a genial wink. “That day, I got the girl and a love of books—couldn’t have been luckier on both counts.”