Lineage Most Lethal

by S. C. Perkins

  “What a great story!” Uncle Dave crowed, his bonhomie at an unnatural level. When all our eyes swiveled his way, he cleared his throat self-consciously and mumbled an apology before turning to me with an anxious expression.

  “Lucy, Mrs. Pollingham didn’t try to buy that Montblanc off you, did she?”

  “No, not at all,” I replied, startled. “Why would you think that?”

  “She’s a collector,” he said, with what looked to be a lighthearted shrug, though it ended with a slight curling of his upper lip.

  “Uncle Dave…,” Pippa began, casting me an embarrassed glance before looking up at her cousin. “Mrs. P. collects pocket watches, you know that, and only very selectively. I don’t even think she’s bought one in years.”

  “Yes,” he agreed, “but collectors collect. She’s shown interest in other items before, and what she does collect, she gets the best.” Frustration grew in his voice. “I’ve seen her grandfather’s pocket watches. She could get a pretty penny for some of them, let me tell you, and she had her eye on the Weems that day.”

  I tried to look like the word “Weems” didn’t mean anything to me as Pippa tucked her arm through Uncle Dave’s, a gesture that was meant to show solidarity as well as shut him up. It worked, though he still looked tense. Pippa then smiled at Grandpa and me as if nothing odd had been said. “Lucy, we’d love to see this pen that’s been of such interest, both to that poor man who died and also to all the collectors in our midst. Would you show it to us?”

  “Of course,” I said. Grandpa, who was holding my sunglasses case, opened it, and I obligingly picked up the Meisterstück and held it where they could see every inch. The gold bands glinted, and I removed the cap to reveal the delicately engraved nib. If either of them recalled that I’d said there was more than one feather on the nib, they didn’t say so, thank goodness.

  For Grandpa’s part, he merely kept his eyes on the pen, nodding in agreement with the little descriptions Uncle Dave was murmuring, verbally cataloging the pen’s attributes and dating it to between 1942 and 1945.

  “You’re taking this to the police?” Uncle Dave asked when I put the pen away and shut my sunglasses case once more.

  I nodded.

  “Is there any need to?” he said. “I mean, I never saw the dead guy, but I heard Mrs. P. say he’d clearly been ill, so it’s not like he was murdered or anything. Does the pen really need to be turned in?”

  I didn’t need to look at my grandfather for a reminder of right and wrong. I was already hearing Special Agent Ben Turner’s infuriating voice in my head again.

  I said, “It’s highly unlikely they’ll need it, yes, but if they happen to find some kind of foul play in the man’s death, it’ll be considered evidence because he had it on him at the time. It’s the right thing to do.”

  “But surely Boomer carrying it around in his mouth wiped anything of use away,” Uncle Dave protested, his tone halfway between belligerent and petulant.

  “Uncle Dave…,” Pippa said again, albeit more gently. “I agree with Lucy—it’s the right thing to do. Even if it’s worth a couple thousand dollars, it’s not enough to—” She stopped, almost stepping back at the furious look that came over her cousin’s face.

  “Excuse me,” Uncle Dave said curtly, and walked off, his shoulders rigid.

  “Are you all right?” I asked Pippa, seeing her stricken face.

  She put her fingers to her mouth, then nodded. “Yes, I can’t believe I just said that.” Watching her cousin stride from the room, not even acknowledging his sister Melinda when she called to him, Pippa said, “Should I go after him?”

  “He’ll be all right,” Grandpa said. “Give him some time to cool off and then make your apologies.”

  Scraping her fingers through her blond waves, Pippa sighed. “Since I’ve already let the cat half out of the bag, let me explain before your imaginations run wild.”

  “You really don’t need to,” I said. Mostly because Mrs. P. already unceremoniously dumped the cat right on top of us.

  But Pippa held up a hand. “No, it’s okay. I know I can trust you, Lucy.” She smiled at Grandpa. “And you by extension, Mr. Lancaster.”

  I couldn’t look at Grandpa for fear I’d start coughing. The man I trusted most in this world had pulled off a sleight of hand right in front of witnesses, for pity’s sake!

  “Uncle Dave was accused of stealing a valuable watch—the Weems he mentioned earlier, which, as you might be aware, Mr. Lancaster, is a highly sought-after World War Two pilot’s watch,” Pippa said. “This happened about sixteen months ago, and as a result, he was fired from the antiques company where he’d worked his whole life. He swears he didn’t do it and the company agreed not to press charges because the only evidence they had was that of”—she hesitated for the merest of seconds—“one witness. However, the company stipulated he couldn’t work in the antiques business for a period of two years, so we’ve all been saying he’s taking a sabbatical.”

  She looked around for her cousin, but he was nowhere to be found. “It’s been hard for Uncle Dave, because he really loves what he does. I actually hired him as a creative consultant at our downtown hotel, the Sutton Grand, this past June, but, well, the hotel business is a particular one, and you either work well in it or you don’t.”

  “And Uncle Dave didn’t,” I said.

  Pippa nodded. “Let’s just say I allowed him to quit after six months, so he’ll be scraping by on savings until his forced hiatus is over. He’s already looking for items he can start selling, though.”

  “He’s hankering for something rare to put him back on the map, I take it?” Grandpa said.

  “If not on the map, at least on the right road again,” Pippa said, her lips twisting. “I feel terrible for him, but he’s almost acting like a shady used car salesman these days. He’s trying to get me to sell some of the Sutton antiques to get him going again, and, while he took my ‘no’ with good grace, he keeps hinting that one good piece could really help him out.”

  Grandpa gave Pippa a kindly smile. “If you wouldn’t mind an old man giving you some of the wisdom he’s picked up in nine decades, you were right to say no. I only walked through your lobby once and I saw more fine-looking pieces than you could shake a stick at. If you sell him one, he’ll want more. It will be like an addiction, and you don’t want to make an addict of anyone if you can. Trust me, I saw much of it in the war, and afterward.” He shook his head sadly, adding, “Addiction is an ugly thing that shouldn’t happen to anyone.”

  Over Grandpa’s shoulder, Roselyn had approached, her head turned slightly as if she wasn’t sure she was hearing correctly, and what she was hearing, she didn’t like. The fretful look on Pippa’s face was no doubt making her even more suspicious.

  “Pippa? Lucy? What’s going on here? Who is this man?”

  “Oh, hi, Mom,” Pippa said, her face easing into a smile. She made the introductions, but Roselyn continued to look wary until Pippa explained that we were discussing Uncle Dave and his desire for a rapid reentry into a successful career. At that point, I thought I saw Roselyn’s stomach muscles unclench beneath the fawn-colored cashmere dress that hugged her lithe frame. Now the smile she directed at my grandfather was Madonna-like in its mixture of warmth, understanding, and pity for others’ plights. The subtle hint of Chanel No. 5 only heightened the effect.

  “You’re so right, Mr. Lancaster—”

  “George, please,” Grandpa interjected.

  Sugary tones came into her voice, and she placed a hand on his arm. “George, then. And you must call me Roselyn. You are absolutely right that addiction is something that should never happen to anyone, no matter what form it takes.” Roselyn shook back her hair, which had been blown out to a sleek, golden sheet, and gave Grandpa and me her full-wattage smile. “George, Lucy, would you like some coffee? Or maybe one of Chef Rocky’s scones? He’s famous for them, you know.”

  Glancing around the room with pursed lips, she added, “I
was looking for him, actually, and wondered if he’d come in here.” Pippa looked around, but Roselyn had already turned back to Grandpa.

  “I wouldn’t say no to a scone to go,” Grandpa said. “I was just in the area and came by to see my beautiful granddaughter. I knew she had her presentation this morning, and it seems I gate-crashed the tail end of it.” He gave me a hopeful look. “But if you might be done now, I’d love to take you to lunch.”

  “I’d love that, too,” I replied, then turned to Pippa. “Unless you’d like me to stay longer? If anyone has any questions for me?”

  Pippa shook her head. “Absolutely not. Your video was incredible, Lucy, and if anyone has any other questions, they can ask them at the final presentation on New Year’s Day.” She made a shooing motion with a grin. “Go enjoy a nice lunch with your grandfather.”

  Roselyn had moved off, but now reappeared, holding out two triangles wrapped in blue-and-white toile paper napkins. “And here’s your to-go scones, one for each of you.”

  “Will you still come to dinner tonight with some of my family and me?” Pippa asked me. “Chef Rocky is doing a tasting menu for us, which should be incredible.”

  “Are you kidding?” I replied. “I wouldn’t miss it.”

  “Good.” Pippa turned to Roselyn. “Mom, you really should come with us tonight. Lucy has agreed to let us grill her about our genealogy. I’ve no doubt she could help you investigate your side of the family as well. I really wish you’d let her try.”

  Roselyn’s smile was still brilliant, but it had taken on the stiff quality I’d seen every time her daughter or I mentioned tracing her ancestral line. Not for the first time, I almost felt like I sensed fear in her, but I couldn’t imagine why.

  “Oh, no, darling,” she said, gracing both of us with her beatific look again. “I’ve got so much to do tonight with last-minute details for the New Year’s Eve gala. But I know y’all will have a fabulous time.”

  She told my grandfather how lovely it was to meet him before breezing away, leaving us with only a whiff of Chanel No. 5 and the memory of cashmere. When Pippa was hailed by her aunt Melinda, I laced my arm through Grandpa’s and we moved back toward the corner so I could get my tote and rolling cart.

  “Was it just me, or did Roselyn find the idea of having her family tree done the equivalent of a root canal?” Grandpa said.

  “You’re not wrong,” I said, “but I have no idea why, and neither does Pippa.”

  All thoughts of Roselyn disappeared when we neared where my tote bag stood. Two little girls were whispering and looking inside it, pointing.

  “That one?” Claire said to her cousin, who was nodding emphatically.

  Having older female cousins on my mom’s side, I knew the temptation of a purse belonging to a grown-up woman who wasn’t your mother. There was a glamour about her and all her belongings, and the contents of her purse seemed like magic.

  Catching Grandpa’s eye, I put a finger to my lips, then crept over to see Claire’s outstretched finger pointing at my makeup bag, the clear vinyl pouch showing off the myriad products inside.

  “Which lipstick color do y’all like better?” I asked. “The pink or the red?”

  They both started, guilt flooding their little faces as they looked up at me. When they saw me smiling, though, they both relaxed, and Claire called out, “Red!” while her cousin, a little more shyly, said, “Pink!”

  The two girls skipped off, and Grandpa tapped his chin with his finger. “Now, who do those two scamps remind me of…? I wonder who they could be…”

  Dropping my sunglasses case into my tote, I grasped the handle to my rolling cart and said loftily, “I’m sure Maeve and I would have no idea who you mean.”

  TWELVE

  It took every inch of patience inside me not to sit my grandfather down under the nearest bright light and interrogate him about the wild charade we’d just played out. As it was, I barely managed to hold in my questions until the moment Grandpa shut my car’s passenger-side door. Then they came bursting out of me.

  “Okay, what just happened back there? Where’s the Montblanc? Why did you switch them? And how on Earth did you do that without me seeing it?”

  Grandpa didn’t smile this time. He was looking everywhere but at me, and his expression had lost all its usual affability. In fact, it was eerily similar to Ben’s Fed Face, which was so not cool.

  “Start the car, if you would, Lucy,” he said. “Let’s go to your office and we’ll talk.”

  I glanced at the time—11:08. “Oh, good, Serena and Josephine probably won’t be at lunch yet. They’ll be so happy to see you.” Then I got a look at Grandpa’s expression. “Unless it matters if they’re there?”

  “It matters for explanations,” he said, still looking around as I pulled out and drove slowly over the crushed granite. “Let’s go to your condo first.”

  “I don’t have anything to eat at my place,” I said. “I did an end-of-year fridge-and-pantry cleanout before I came here for my staycation. Besides the scones Roselyn gave us, all I’ve got is instant oatmeal, a box of wheat crackers, and various condiments. Oh, and a jar apiece of homemade pickled okra and garlic dill pickles from Gus Halloran’s wife, both of which are really good.”

  Normally, my babbling would amuse Grandpa. Instead, he just kept glancing at my side mirrors as if distracted. “That’s all right, love. We won’t be there long and then we can go somewhere good to eat.”

  Turning out of the parking lot onto Delta Drive, I was picking up speed when I noticed glinting out of the corner of my eye. Out of seemingly nowhere, the Montblanc had appeared in his hand. The real one, with its three thin gold bands and fourth slightly wider band, the one that had been pressed upon me by a now-dead man less than twenty-four hours ago. Grandpa was unscrewing the inkwell from the barrel.

  “What are you doing?”

  He didn’t answer. Instead, he held up the barrel and tipped it over. A small black cylinder fell into his palm.

  I was glad we were the only people on the road, because I gasped and swerved into the oncoming lane before straightening out. “What is that?” I asked.

  “It’s what he wanted you to have,” Grandpa said. “Wanted us to have.”

  “Who?” I said.

  “Edmund Hugo Markman,” Grandpa replied. “Or Hugo, as we knew him.”

  “Wait, you knew him?” I asked, braking to a stop, my voice flooded with disbelief.

  My grandfather looked back at me with a grim expression. “Drive us to your condo, Lucy. I’ll explain then.”

  With the University of Texas college students off for winter break, there was far less traffic than usual as I navigated over to Congress Avenue and headed south toward the Travis Heights neighborhood and my little condo complex. I wanted to ask Grandpa a million more questions, but he was radiating a desire to keep a zipped lip, so I drove in silence. The whole time, Grandpa’s eyes never stopped glancing at the side mirror, watching every car that drew up behind us. I’d formed an extra two dozen questions by the time I parked in my assigned space and we began walking up the path to my section of the complex.

  At the steps that would take us up to the second floor and my little one-bedroom condo, a large flash of orange floof streaked up the stairs, nimbly hopping the last step to stand in an elegant pose that exposed a white chest and paws. Fluffy tail held high and twitching, as if beckoning us to hurry up, the big-boned cat waited for us, finally eliciting a grin from my grandfather.

  “He must remember you,” I said to Grandpa. “NPH isn’t the biggest fan of strangers. He’d never come out to greet me otherwise.”

  “And NPH stands for again?”

  “Neil Patrick—”

  “Housecat,” Grandpa finished. “Now I remember. I take it he still spends as much time with you as he does with Jackson?”

  I laughed. “He does.” NPH actually belonged to Jackson Brickell, my condo manager, but you’d never know it by how much time the big tabby cat spent wit
h me. NPH and I were attached to one another big time, so much so that he’d tried to protect me from a bad guy last fall—and when that bad guy had tried to hurt him in return, I lost all sense of self-preservation in order to protect NPH.

  We made it to the top of the stairs, NPH mixing happy little noises with his loud, welcoming purr. I knew he really remembered Grandpa when he rubbed against Grandpa’s legs for a moment before giving my ankles a light swat and accepting an ear scratch. He led us to my door, making more kitty talk, which was getting louder and more insistent after his initial happy greeting.

  “Bertie sounds like this when I spend the afternoon at the senior center playing bridge,” Grandpa said. “I think he’s chastising you for being gone.”

  To that, NPH let out a long, guttural meow that I took for, You’re darn right I’m miffed, human. How could you?

  “I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” I said to him when, once inside, he jumped up on one of my bar chairs to continue his fussing at eye level. “Please forgive me, your highness.”

  I followed this with a kiss to his striped forehead, which he seemed to deem an acceptable apology. The two cat treats I gave him didn’t hurt, either.

  “Now, Lucy,” Grandpa said, stroking NPH’s back, “if I may have your cell phone and iPad?”

  Wordlessly, I gave both to him. He pulled out his own cell and took them all back to my bedroom. He turned on the television in my room and closed the door.

  “It’s unfortunate to know our devices may be listening, but there you go,” was his only comment. I poured us both a glass of water, astonished at my own calm, and Grandpa gestured to the two remaining bar chairs, drawing in a deep breath as he sat down.

  “I have some things to tell you, my darlin’. Things your dad certainly doesn’t know, and most of which I never even told your Gran.” His lips quirked up. “Though I’m pretty sure your grandmother knew more than I ever told her.”

  “That you’re a spy,” I said.

  I was surprised that it came out so naturally. All throughout our drive to my condo, the notion had been coming to me, and it had seemingly settled into my understanding just in time to hear Grandpa begin his confession.