Sins and Needles (17 page)

J
AN
went straight from Crewel World to her mother's house. She rang the doorbell rapidly three times, her usual signal of arrival, then walked in—Mother never locked her door when she was at home.

Susan was in the living room, working on a counted cross-stitch piece, a square magnifying glass leaning out from her chest on two cords. She looked up and smiled. “Hello, dear,” she said.

“Mother, I have something to tell you.” Despite her effort to speak calmly, Jan's tone was almost frightened, and her mother immediately put her needle into a corner of her framed fabric and took the magnifying glass from around her neck.

“What's the matter?” she asked.

“Remember that woman from Texas I told you about? The one who looks like me?”

“Yes, Lucille somebody. What about her?”

“Lucille Jones. She has proof that she's related to me.”

Her mother frowned. “What kind of proof?”

“You know how both you and I had problems carrying babies to term? So did she. And the reason for her problem was a translocation on two of her genes. She found the same translocation on the same genes in me, and that makes her think we may be sisters or cousins or something.”

Her mother turned her head a little sideways. “And just how did she discover this same genetic translocation in you?”

“It's kind of an involved story.” Jan sat down on the couch and explained about the medical conference, the stolen hairbrush, and the genetic test performed on the hairs found in it. “One thing the test could have done was shown we could not be siblings, and it didn't do that.”

Her mother's eyes had been growing wider and wider during Jan's story. “So if she's telling the truth—which you don't know—she's a confessed thief!”

“Oh, for heaven's sake, a hairbrush—that's not important! She was afraid to talk to me directly, because she didn't know what kind of person I am and because she didn't have any evidence that we were related. But she was desperate to connect with her genetic relatives. And she was afraid that if she just walked up and asked me to help her find out, I'd think she was some kind of nut.” Susan raised a hand, wanting to interrupt, but Jan said, “Just listen one more minute, please. She's adopted, and now that she's found out I have the same genetic flaw she does, on the same two genes, she suspects we're related. There's a high probability that we are. Mother, am I adopted?”

“No, of course not! Why on earth—”

“If I'm not adopted, then is she right? Are you her mother?”

“No, I am not!” So fierce was Susan's denial that she looked close to tears.

“She is absolutely sure she's related to me—and to you, because of this translocation thing. So where did she come from?” Jan felt her face squinch up as she fought tears of her own. “She just wants to know—and she's got me wondering. I do have the translocated gene—”

“Lucille
says
you have the translocated gene.”

“You think she's lying?”

“All I know is,
she is not my daughter
. You say she looks like you, and she says she likes a lot of the same things you do. Well, good for her. I have no doubt there are a great many blondes in Minnesota and Texas who like to stitch and ride in boats and take business trips, and not one of them is related to you, or me, or anyone else in the family.” She gestured in a spiral upward. “For all you know, she may be lying about liking those things, just as she may be lying about that translocated gene business. Has she shown you any documentation about it?”

“No, she hasn't.”

Susan made a dismissive sound and added, “I think you should talk to your brother the lawyer. Ask him what we need to do to protect ourselves. Because I foresee a lawsuit that can tie things up for years if we don't cut this off right now.”

Jan was hurt at this assertive dismissal of her trust in Lucille, as if she were a naïve child. Jan had worked with the public for many years and considered herself a shrewd judge of character. And Lucille had seemed perfectly sincere and honest. “Well, suppose she's not lying?”

“Fine. Then she's got the proof. Ask her to show it to you.”

“And if she does? Then what? Her next step will be to ask that you be tested. Would you be willing to have a DNA test?”

“Certainly, and thank God there is such a thing to disprove her claim once and for all.”

 

S
TEWART
was in the kitchen preparing lunch. Lexie, Bernie and CeeCee were weeding the gardens—vegetable and flower. Minnesota's growing season was short, but there were already lettuces, radishes, and green onions for the salad he would make. The cucumber he was slicing was store bought; the garden wouldn't offer cucumbers until July.

The phone interrupted him, and he grabbed the receiver, laying it on his shoulder and holding it in place with his chin while he cut up leftover chicken to add to the salad. “Speak to me,” he said in a cheerful tone.

“Stew, it's Susan.”

He closed his eyes briefly, took a breath and said in a good imitation of that same tone, “Hello, Sis! What's up?”

“Jan just left me. She came by to talk about that new friend of hers, Lucille Jones.”

“I don't think she's told me about Ms. Jones.”

“Well, brace yourself, because we're probably going to hear a whole lot about her. She's from Texas, and she's up here trying to prove she's related to us. In fact, she wants Jan to think she's my daughter.”

The telephone jumped out from under Stewart's chin, and he had to drop the knife and grab it before it hit the floor. “Wait a minute, I don't think I heard you right. Did you say there's a Lucille Jones who wants Jan to think that she—Lucille—is your daughter?”

“Yes.”

Stewart began to laugh. He couldn't help it. “What does Jan say about this?” he managed after a bit.

“She says that Lucille got access to some of Jan's hair and had a DNA test performed on it that seems to indicate they are siblings.”

That killed the amusement, stone dead, instantly. “Holy cow! So Jan believes her, then?”

“I don't know if she still believes her, after the talking-to I administered. I think at least now she has some doubts. She likes this Lucille person. They've become firm friends. It is my opinion that Ms. Jones is a liar and a con artist. Jan asked me if I'd submit to a DNA test, and I said of course I would.”

“Can you pass it?”

“Why does everyone keep asking me that?”

“All right, all right, calm down. I guess we ask because of what it means. If this woman can prove she's your daughter—I don't know how; can these things be rigged somehow?—if, as I said, she can prove she's your daughter, then she's going to cut herself a slice of Aunt Edyth's fortune.”

“She can try, but she won't succeed,” said Susan grimly. “If we do the test, I want it photographed, recorded, surveyed, supervised, and overseen by an attorney every step of the way. I won't have a cuckoo in our nest. Not if I can prevent it.”

 

S
ERGEANT
Rice was at lunch when his cell phone rang. He sighed and pulled it from a pocket. “Rice here,” he said.

It was a colleague from the Orono Police Department. “Sarge, you got two calls, one from a Ms. Devonshire at Crewel World in Excelsior; and the other, marked urgent, from one Stewart O'Neil. He's very anxious that you should call him back right away.”

Rice took both numbers but finished his tuna on rye before choosing which one he'd call back first. “Mr. O'Neil?” he said, when the phone was answered. “Sergeant Mitchell Rice, Orono PD, here. Is there a problem?”

“Sergeant Rice, I'm glad you called me back so promptly!” came the genial voice. “I've got some interesting news for you. It's about the case you're working on, you know, the murder of Edyth Hanraty?”

“Yessir,” said Rice, preparing to be patient with a foolish citizen.

“Well, it seems there's this woman in town—in Excelsior, really—who came up from Texas, came here on purpose to make the acquaintance of my niece, Jan Henderson, and she's trying to convince Jan that she's a long-lost sister, so she can cut herself in on the inheritance.”

Rice managed to confine himself to a snort of disbelief. Long-lost heirs already? Miss Hanraty was barely settled in her grave. Anyhow, claims like that were becoming rare with the advent of DNA testing. “What kind of story is she telling?” he asked.

“I don't know,” said Stewart, “or not exactly. Something about transplanted genes and a test done on a stolen hair-brush. No, not transplanted, something else, some kind of trans thing. Anyway, this woman has that kind of genes and Jan has them, too, and she thinks that proves they're sisters.”

“Is it possible?”

“Hell, no! I talked to my sister, and she says absolutely not. But it seems this woman believes it. She's been up here for a couple of weeks, making friends with Jan. And she knows about Edyth being Jan's great-aunt. I mean, that's obviously the real reason she's up here. Her name is Lucille Jones. Can you go talk to her?”

“Oh, yes, I am definitely going to go talk to her.”

Rice asked some more questions, thanked him, and hung up. So not some idiot who hadn't heard about DNA, then. Some other kind of idiot. Or worse.

He called Betsy Devonshire next and was amused to find she had the same information to share with him. Better, she had the phone number where the Joneses were staying—they'd opted to rent a cottage.

So they'd been here for several weeks already and knew on arrival they'd be here a while—cottages were rented by the week or month, not by the day. They'd been here since before Edyth Hanraty had been murdered. So very likely, Stewart O'Neil was right—they knew before they got here about the wealthy old woman. Why else try the con?

But were they responsible for her death? That was the question.

 

T
HE
cottage was one of four in a row set behind two ordinary houses on adjoining lots. They all were tiny, made of white boards with dark red trim around the doors and windows, but each had a different color door. The Joneses were staying in the cottage with a pale orange door, second from the one nearest the lake. The color reminded Lucille of Dreamsicles, her favorite summer treat when she was a child.

But she and Bobby Lee were not talking of Dreamsicles over lunch. “What if Jan's mother won't agree to a DNA test?” he asked.

“She will. There's too much at stake for her not to agree.”

“What if it proves she's not your mother?”

Lucille smiled. “I don't see how that's possible. There's no one else in that family it could be.”

“Sure there is. Jan's father.”

She considered that briefly while she nibbled on a potato chip—they were having chicken salad sandwiches, chips, and milk for lunch. “I suppose that could be,” she said. “But Jan told me her mother had the same problem bearing children, so the link is more likely through her. Though she did say she looks more like her dad than her mom.”

“Hell, I look more like my stepdad than my dad. I'm sorry to keep bringing up the negative, but I just can't help thinking something is gonna go wrong here. It pretty generally does for us, you know.”

Lucille sighed. Bobby Lee was right—but things wouldn't go wrong so often if they could just get ahead of the money flow. And they could get ahead if Bobby Lee would stay away from the casinos.

“Have you called to see if there's a GA in the area?” Gamblers Anonymous meetings were everywhere. Bobby Lee was supposed to contact one up here—that was their agreement.

“Not yet,” he mumbled, and took a big bite of his sandwich.

She got up and went to the phone. “I'm going to call the landlady and tell her we're leaving at the end of the week,” she said.

“Don't do that!” he said, his words barely understandable around the mouthful of food. He stood, chewed fast, and swallowed hard. “You don't want to do that,” he said, more clearly.

“No, of course I don't.” She turned and saw the bright relief on his face. She erased it by saying, “But I will. This is much, much too important for you to mess it up by going on a gambling binge.”

“Darlin', I promise, I'll call them this afternoon.”

“No, you'll call them right now.” He studied her for a few moments, and she let him see that this was not negotiable.

He wiped his fingers on his paper napkin, making a job of it while he looked at her, a smile slowly building on his face. Only when she began to smile back did he put the napkin down and go to gently push her aside and lift the receiver.