Fatal Family Ties

by S. C. Perkins

  “What? Why didn’t you say so sooner?” Ben asked, getting out of the car with renewed vigor as I grabbed the blanket in which we would wrap Camilla’s painting.

  As directed by Camilla, we walked up the driveway, then let ourselves through a wrought-iron gate just before the garage. It led into a back courtyard that had been marked up to resemble a small basketball court, with a hoop at the far edge. Through another gate was the backyard and a trampoline.

  I went to the door and punched in the 1-8-3-6 code, then the pound sign, and the dead bolt retracted. We walked into a mudroom, which held a long picnic bench, painted white, with several pair of shoes underneath, most of them athletic shoes. From the size of them, and from the men’s-size coats hanging on two of the pegs, Camilla’s boys were no longer little.

  We moved into the kitchen, which had been left clean and fairly tidy by her boys and ex-husband before they left on their camping trip. It had been remodeled sometime in recent years with granite countertops, a large island with upholstered barstools, and walls in that gray-beige color that had been dubbed “griege” when it was the chicest neutral and being touted on every design show and website. A basketball sat on the middle barstool, a wicker basket held mail and a few odds and ends, and two six-packs of Dr Pepper were on the counter, waiting to be put in the fridge. The floors were wood and looked original to the house.

  “Watch for the floorboard,” I told Ben, a moment too late. An eerie moaning sound filled the quiet of the house as Ben’s weight found just the right spot, but stopped just as quickly when he removed his foot.

  “Yep, that was just as creepy as advertised,” he said after we stared at each other for a second with equally wide eyes and then started laughing.

  Next up was the living room, where big, comfy sofas in an L shape dominated and a television was mounted on the wall above the fireplace. Much like her great-uncle, Camilla had photos everywhere, though on a more reasonable scale. I finally got a look at her two boys courtesy of a series of professional photos, similar to the ones my parents made Maeve and me take every couple of years. Taken in a pretty green parklike setting, the photos showed the boys posed by themselves, together, and with Camilla.

  They were tall and lanky, with tousled dark hair and blue eyes. The taller likely took after his father, but the younger one—I determined that by the bit of youthful plumpness still in his cheeks that made me guess he was thirteen or fourteen years old—took decidedly after Camilla, getting the Braithwaite high forehead, cleft chin, and reddish tint to his dark, curly hair.

  We glanced around, but didn’t linger. Even though we were here at Camilla’s request, Ben and I both felt awkward looking around her house without her express permission.

  “Come on, this way,” I said, just managing to steer him away from the edge of the area rug, which was indeed curling up at just the right spot for someone to trip over it.

  “This house has its own security system,” he joked as we went through and found the staircase in the front part of the house. He put his hand on the banister. “Second-floor study, right?”

  We climbed the carpeted stairs and found the study next to Camilla’s bedroom, as promised. I glanced into Camilla’s room as we passed it, but all I really saw was a queen-size sleigh bed with a flowered duvet, lots of pillows, and a painting above the headboard.

  “More frilly than I would have imagined,” I said to Ben as I followed him to the study. Turning in, he barely managed to duck as a nine iron came swinging at his head.

  EIGHTEEN

  I wasn’t as quick as Ben and stood, oddly frozen in place, as the nine iron went whooshing just over my head before lodging in the drywall with a deep thunk.

  Occasionally, there are advantages to being short, and this turned out to be one of them.

  Ben charged like a linebacker going in for a sack. With a guttural cry, he tackled our assailant, his shoulder going into the solar plexus of a tall, dark-haired man, who emitted a loud “Oof.”

  They landed in a heap on the floor, both struggling for the upper hand. Dropping the blanket, I lunged to where the golf club was embedded in the darker-griege-toned wall, and yanked it out. Wielding the nine iron over my head, I took two swift steps and stood over the stranger, bellowing, “Cut it out, or I’ll conk you right on the head!”

  He looked up at me, fright and anger mingled in his features, and continued to struggle against Ben, who had managed to pin him. Then I saw it.

  “Ben—stop!” I said. “I know who he is!”

  Both men turned to stare at me in shock, breathing heavily.

  “Y-you do?” said the dark-haired man.

  I kept the nine iron ready. “Do you have ID on you?” I asked. He nodded.

  I looked at Ben. “This is Camilla’s ex-husband. I don’t know his last name, but his first name is Gareth.”

  The man’s eyes, almost navy blue in color, went wider. “How do you know Camilla? And what are you doing here, sneaking around the house? How did you even get in?”

  Something on Ben’s face changed, from a suspicious, well-trained FBI agent to a person resigned to having likely given himself sore muscles for nothing.

  “I’m going to let you go,” he told Gareth. “My name is Special Agent Ben Turner and I’m with the FBI. But if you make any sudden movements, she’ll conk you with the nine iron.” Ben jerked his head at me, and I tightened my grip on the golf club, just in case.

  Ben continued, “I want you to sit up and pull out your ID. Slowly, please. Understood?”

  Gareth nodded. Ben released him and swiftly got to his feet. As directed, Gareth slowly reached into his back pocket and pulled out a wallet. He handed it up to Ben, who found the driver’s license. “Gareth Louis Fishwick,” he read.

  I had a feeling I now knew why Camilla had gone back to using Braithwaite for her surname.

  “It’s pronounced the French way,” Gareth said from his position on the floor. When Ben and I both looked blankly at him, wondering how “Fishwick” could possibly be made French, he said, “Lou-ee, not Lou-iss.”

  “Right,” Ben said, managing to stay perfectly straight-faced. “My apologies, Mr. Fishwick.”

  Gareth looked up at me, suspicion all over his lean features. “How do you know who I am? And how do you know Camilla?”

  “I used to work with her at the Howland library, over four years back,” I said, lowering the nine iron. “I’m a genealogist, and Camilla hired me to research her ancestor’s Civil War service.” I leaned on the golf club, realizing I was breathing almost as heavily as they were. “As for how I recognized you, we just passed through the living room, with the portraits of Camilla and your two sons. The eldest is practically your spitting image.”

  Gareth’s face, which had retained a hard look, softened somewhat as he went to get up.

  “Before you do that,” Ben said without heat, but holding up a hand to stop him. “If you would, please explain why you’re here, and what you were doing taking down the painting done by Camilla’s ancestor.”

  I looked to where Ben was gesturing. Sure enough, Camilla’s piece of the triptych was on the floor, propped up against the wall and partially covered by a patchwork quilt.

  “Since I heard what y’all were saying in the hallway, I could ask the same thing,” Gareth said, though his tone was calm as well and he didn’t try to rise again.

  “We’re here at Camilla’s request,” I said. “We’ve come to take the painting for safekeeping.”

  Pulling out my phone, I found the texts Camilla had sent me with her address and a request that if we saw any mail in the front foyer, could we please pick it up and put it on the kitchen counter? I turned my phone around so he could read them.

  Gareth’s eyebrows came together. “Funny,” he said, “because she asked me to do the same thing.”

  We stared warily at each other.

  “When?” I asked. When Gareth looked confused, I said, “When did she ask you to do this? Did she call you? And whe
re is your car? Because we didn’t see anyone parked in the drive.”

  He shrugged. “It was about two hours ago, I guess. I’d have to check my phone. The boys and I were just about to head out of town for our annual camping trip with my brother and his kids when I heard from her. I left the boys with their cousins and came back here and parked in the garage. But Cam didn’t call me, she just texted.” His mouth twisted a little in what was either sadness, annoyance, or both. “Cam and I are in a much better place than we used to be, but she still doesn’t call me unless she has to.”

  I’d never heard Camilla called “Cam” before, not even by Roxie or Patrice. It sounded odd to my ears. It must have to Ben’s as well.

  “Would you show us the text, please?” he asked Gareth, his tone still one of easy politeness.

  Gareth jerked his head toward my right. “It’s on the desk.”

  Camilla’s desk turned out to be a glass table with a straight-backed upholstered chair covered in a chintz fabric adorned with red and pink cabbage roses. Looking around the room as I picked up the phone, I noticed the plethora of feminine touches that seemed incongruous with the Camilla I knew. Maybe my vision of her needed to be revised? I decided the jury was still out on that.

  At a nod from Ben, I handed Gareth his phone. He opened it, tapped the screen a couple of times, then turned it around and handed it back to me. With Ben looking over my shoulder, I read the text.

  I’m worried about my ancestor’s painting being stolen. Please do me a favor and go get it. Will send a friend to pick it up from you. Thx

  Camilla’s last text to me had been in much the same tone—to the point and without much emotion—and had ended with her typing “Thx” instead of spelling out “Thanks” as well. Still, I hovered my thumb over the top of the text. Where Camilla’s name should have been, there was only a phone number. “Didn’t you think it odd that the text came up with Camilla’s phone number instead of her name?”

  When Gareth shook his head, Ben said, “No? I’m not sure I’m buying that.”

  “Look at my other texts,” Gareth said. “You’ll only see a few names. I use it as a privacy measure because—well, I recently lost my job, but at the last place I worked, there was this one guy who would watch other people’s phones for clients calling, get their names, and then try to steal those clients.” He lifted one hand, turning his palm up in almost embarrassed supplication. “I’ve got a talent for remembering phone numbers, so I started removing my clients’ names from my contacts list. I did the same with Cam’s so that on the occasions she would call, I could act like she was a client. It drove the guy crazy.”

  Gareth glared into the middle distance with satisfaction for a moment, then back at us. I’d shown Ben his other text messages in that moment. Sure enough, there were only three or four that actually had names.

  “I think the best way to check this is to call Camilla,” Ben said.

  “I agree,” Gareth said, clearly confident that his story would be corroborated. Using my phone, I tapped on Camilla’s contact, then put it on speaker.

  “Hey, Lucy,” Camilla answered, her voice sounding strained and rushed. I could hear elevator music in the background. “I’m on hold with the funeral home,” she explained, and I guessed she was using the landline I’d seen in Charlie Braithwaite’s office. “Is everything okay?”

  “Yes,” I said automatically, then amended the statement. “Except when we got to the house, Gareth was here. He said he got a text from you to get your third of the triptych.”

  “What?” Camilla said, and I could hear the confusion in her voice. “I never texted Gareth to go to my house for the painting. I told you why I wasn’t going to do that.”

  “Cam?” Gareth called from the floor. “What the hell do you mean by that?”

  “Is he there? He’s listening?” Camilla hissed through the phone. Then she groaned and uttered a couple of frustrated oaths. “Why the hell did you call on speakerphone, Lucy?”

  Gareth was looking angry now, and went to get up again, but Ben said firmly, “Sit down, Mr. Fishwick.”

  “What’s going on?” Camilla said. “Did your boyfriend arrest him?” She called out, “Gareth? Are you all right?”

  Now I was irritated. “Of course he wasn’t arrested,” I snapped. “Though he probably could have been, since he tried to take Ben’s head off with a nine iron.”

  “Only because I thought you two were robbers,” Gareth shot back loudly.

  “Um, hello?” A timid, unfamiliar voice could just be heard on Camilla’s end. “This is Dot from Shady Hills Funeral Home. May I, ah, assist you with something?”

  I heard Camilla politely ask Dot From Shady Hills to please hold on a moment. Then her voice came through my phone clearly again. “I hope all three of you are listening,” she said to us. “Look, I don’t know what happened there this afternoon, but I didn’t send Gareth to get my painting.” She addressed her ex with a growl. “Gareth, if this was some ploy of yours to take my ancestor’s painting and hock it like you did my grandmother’s opal necklace this past Christmas, I won’t be so forgiving this time.”

  On the floor, Gareth was sputtering, a flush creeping up his neck. “I got the necklace back, Cam, and you know it! I explained the situation to you. Are you really going to keep throwing that in my face?”

  Still holding my phone out like a conduit between the feuding exes, I glanced at Ben. He looked like he was forcing himself not to roll his eyes.

  Camilla ignored her ex-husband and continued. “Lucy, I have to go. Please do as I’ve asked you, and please show Gareth the door. If your boyfriend wants to frisk him for other objects before he leaves, I wouldn’t tell you it was unwarranted. Now, I have to plan a funeral for Uncle Charlie. Goodbye.”

  My phone screen went black. Gareth had gone red in the face and was looking mutinous. Ben looked like he could do with some of those warm cookies I’d told him about, only with a double scotch instead of a coffee to wash them down.

  “You can get up now,” he said to Gareth. “Only, the Austin PD will want to be in touch with you about investigating the origin of this text message. If you’ll allow me to take a photo of the text and give me your information, I would appreciate it.”

  Gareth got to his feet. It was only then that I realized how tall he was. Possibly six foot four or more. Though lanky, he was muscular, like a basketball player. It was lucky Ben hadn’t waited to use his center of gravity and a football tackle because, had they started a fight now, Gareth looked like he wouldn’t be so easy to take down.

  Luckily, though, Gareth didn’t seem to want to do anything but get out of the house. Mutely, he turned his phone around and let Ben snap a photo of the text, then he handed Ben a business card.

  However, it appeared he was still smarting from Camilla’s remarks, because he made a show of turning out his pockets, saying, “See? Look, completely empty.” He even lifted up his shirt to show he wasn’t storing anything in the waistband of his jeans.

  Ben nodded his thanks and gestured for Gareth to walk in front of him. “I’ll see you out, as Ms. Braithwaite requested.”

  Gareth shot him an angry look, but Ben stayed calm and courteous. It occurred to me then that Ben had his service weapon hidden in that clever pocket of the T-shirt under his button-down, but his hand had never gone near it.

  “Fine,” Gareth said in an aggrieved tone. “If that’s how Camilla sees me, as a thief, then at least I know not to try to do her any favors in the future.”

  He went to exit with dignity, but I stopped him with a light touch to the arm.

  “Gareth, I think Camilla is just stressed out after what happened to her uncle Charlie,” I told him. “I’ve no doubt she’ll feel terrible for saying those things when she’s calmed down.”

  He’d been scowling down at me but, at my mention of Charlie Braithwaite, his expression faltered.

  “I’d ask you to tell Camilla that I loved Charlie like an uncle myself, and if she needed
any help with his funeral arrangements, that I would do it in a heartbeat. But now I know she’ll think I’d show up just to steal something, so I won’t bother asking you to pass along the message.”

  He was out the door, with Ben a pace behind, before I could reply.

  NINETEEN

  “Feeling better now?” I asked Ben as he polished off his second chocolate chip cookie. We were sitting side by side at one of the small picnic tables by the walk-up cookie window. My lips twitched with amusement when he grunted through a sip of his black coffee and eyed the last half of my second cookie.

  I broke it in two, giving him one piece as I stuffed the other in my mouth. That got a small grin out of him, though I could tell his mind was elsewhere.

  “I hate having to do that,” he muttered.

  “Which part?” I asked dryly. “Having to do a quick dodge of a flying nine iron? Or the subsequent tackling of my ex-coworker’s ex-husband? Or was it the lovely speakerphone spat we had to witness?”

  He rolled the shoulder he’d used to plow into Gareth Fishwick. “If I have to use my training to defend myself or someone else,” he said on a weary sigh, “I always prefer that it be the absolute last resort and for a very good reason.”

  “Like last fall, when you tackled the guy who tried to hurt me and was looking to throw a knife into Senator Applewhite’s chest,” I said.

  Ben nodded, a frown on his face. “If Gareth hadn’t swung the club, especially with the force that he did, I wouldn’t have rushed him. I would have tried reasoning with him first.”

  I put my hand on his shoulder and used the heel of my palm to gently rub circles into the deltoid muscle. “I never doubted it for a second,” I said, smiling a little when he made a sound of relief at my massage techniques. I smiled more with the knowledge that Ben loved using his brain, but that being forced to use his brawn, of which he had a considerable amount, was not to his liking.