Sherlock appeared in his doorway. “She’ll knock ’em dead, Dillon. The way she reads people, not to mention that brain of hers—it’s all good. I’ve come to haul you off to lunch. I’m thinking maybe some Chinese—”
His cell belted out Jessie J’s Bang Bang.
He answered and heard a whispery voice, thin as old parchment. “Dillon?”
“Venus? Is that you? What’s wrong?”
“Yes, Dillon, it’s Venus. I daren’t speak louder. Someone might hear me, the wrong someone.”
“Venus, I can hear you fine. What’s going on? What’s wrong?”
“Dillon, someone’s trying to kill me.” Dillon stared at his cell. Kill Venus Rasmussen? Was she losing it? No, not Venus. At eighty-six she still had her shark brain, still ran Rasmussen Industries with an iron fist. He’d spoken to her a couple of weeks before, and she’d been fine.
“Talk to me, Venus.”
Her voice sounded a bit stronger now, but still muffled. Was she hiding in a closet, a handkerchief over the phone, so no one would hear her? “Last night we were celebrating Alexander’s acquisition of some quite-valuable Japanese watercolors from the Fukami collection for the Smithsonian. Well, of course I did some groundwork for him, helped him convince Mrs. Fukami to donate the watercolors, but he pulled it all together, well, mostly. We had champagne after dinner and I only drank enough for two toasts. An hour later, after I was in bed, I began shaking, my stomach cramping, and I threw up. Veronica—you know Veronica, my companion—she called my doctor and he was there in fifteen minutes. He said it was an old lady’s stomach, sensitive to food I’m not used to. That’s what he said the first time too.” She snorted. “Dillon, the thing is, the first time wasn’t bad, but then it happened again a second time, and then this third time. And I keep getting this ‘old lady’s stomach’ tripe from him. Dillon, I know it wasn’t because I’m a sensitive old lady. This time it was really bad, much worse than before. I felt ill for three hours. I told Dr. Filbert I wasn’t allergic to anything—he already knows that, of course—that it had to be something else. I reminded him I’m eighty-six years old and after all these years I know my body. This wasn’t old lady’s stomach; this is something else entirely. I told him I believed I was being poisoned. He didn’t laugh, smart man, even said I could go to the hospital and be tested, but I wasn’t about to do that. You know what the media would do if they got hold of a tidbit like that.”
He heard her draw in a deep breath. “I looked up some poisons on the Internet by myself. Dillon, I think it may be arsenic. And whoever is feeding it to me came close to killing me this time.”
He couldn’t get his brain around what he was hearing. He knew Venus wasn’t an alarmist. She was solid as a rock, and sharper than his dad’s hunting knife. “Have you told anyone in the household of your suspicions?”
“Of course not. I’m old, but I’m not a moron.”
Good, that was the Venus he knew, tough and no-nonsense.
“Dillon, I’ll admit it, I’m frightened, but more than that, I’m angry. Someone close to me, someone in my household, is trying to kill me. I mean, it’s not like I’m tight-fisted with Guthrie or Alexander. For goodness’ sake, Alexander is my heir apparent. He will eventually run Rasmussen Industries after I step down. Or I’m dead. As you know, both Alexander and his father live with me, so neither of them have any big expenses to deal with. They both have all the money they need. And Hildi, I’d bet my last dime she’s happy, painting to her heart’s content. Years ago I settled a lot of money on her, hired a manager to see to both her and little Glynis. Well Glynis isn’t so little now, is she?”
“We’ll talk about all that when we get there. Twenty minutes, Venus.”
“Thank you. I’ll tell Veronica and Isabel that you’re coming for lunch. I don’t want anyone to know why you’re really here.” She paused, then she spoke through her pain, loud and clear, “I can’t bear it, Dillon. What if it’s one of my family? Could any of them hate me so much they want me dead?”
After he punched off, Savich told a puzzled Sherlock exactly what was going on as they walked to the garage. Neither of them wanted to accept it. If it was true, if Venus was being poisoned, it was a betrayal they couldn’t imagine.
Sherlock said as she fastened her seat belt, “Your plate’s full, Dillon, but there’s no way you can say no to your grandmother’s best friend. Do you remember that article about her in the Washington Post a couple of months back? They called her a local treasure.”
“That fits her well,” Savich said as he pulled the Porsche out into traffic. “Can you imagine how she feels thinking one of her own family wants to murder her? I know Guthrie and Alexander are both, well, not exactly selfless, loving human beings, and I know there’s resentment there on Alexander’s part. I’m afraid what this would do to her if it turns out to be poison and one of the family is responsible.”
“Venus is tough, one of the toughest people I’ve ever met. Whatever happens, she’ll deal with it, she always does. Don’t worry, Dillon. We’ll help her figure this out. We won’t let anything happen to Venus.”
5
* * *
RASMUSSEN MANSION
WASHINGTON, D.C.
MONDAY
The Porsche was impatient to move out on this bright warm day in June, but Savich couldn’t let his baby roar, not in the city. When he turned onto 19th Street NW, Sherlock said, “Venus may be wrong, Dillon, about the arsenic. Her symptoms weren’t very specific, and you know how easy it is to get misled about medical problems on the Internet.”
“You’re right, for most people. But remember I told you Venus regularly beats my mom at Scrabble? And Mom’s a whiz. I have to doubt Venus would ever be misled. We’ll have Dr. Amick in the forensics lab test her for all the toxins and poisons he might think could have caused this.” And Savich made the call, got the ball rolling.
Five minutes later, he pulled the Porsche to the curb in front of what Realtors everywhere called the Grand Chateau, Venus Rasmussen’s home for more than fifty years, the A-list Washington property.
Sherlock always loved visiting this house. Venus had told her a famous architect, Andre Pellier, had built the three-story pale yellow brick French chateau in 1911. He’d been lavish with terra-cotta and limestone floors, a sweeping staircase, a mansard roof, and tall dormer windows. Full-grown oak trees were thick around the house, their leaves shading all but the double front doors. Several embassies had asked to purchase the house over the years, but it was always a nonstarter.