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  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.

  Venus had remodeled the mansion in grand style in 2006, and now she shared it with her eldest son, Guthrie, and his son Alexander, as well as her long-term companion, Veronica Lake. Together they occupied only four of the eight large bedroom suites.

  “I wonder exactly how large this place is, Dillon.”

  “Around fourteen thousand square feet, if I remember correctly.” He came around and opened her door, as was his habit.

  Sherlock said, “I hope Alexander isn’t here. He’d blow his stack if he believed we suspected him.”

  “We won’t have to deal with Alexander today. Venus only wanted the three of us. Also, neither Alexander nor Guthrie know about this yet.”

  She sighed. “To want to kill your own grandmother? I don’t see even Alexander doing that. Still, if it is arsenic, and it is one of the family, my money’s on him. But it would break Venus’s heart if it were any of them for that matter. I sure hope she’s mistaken about the arsenic.”

  “If she’s not, it could be someone outside the family, who, for whatever reason, wants her dead.”

  Isabel Grant, Venus’s housekeeper since Moses, Isabel would say and laugh, opened the door, welcomed them in. Isabel was tall and thin, her salt-and-pepper hair worn in a severe chignon, showing very pretty ears with diamond studs. She was dressed as she usually was in a plain dark dress and sensible shoes. Sherlock remembered Isabel had once told her the original thirteen fireplaces still worked, but now they were seldom used, what with central heating installed in the sixties.

  Isabel shoved her glasses back. “Agent Savich. Agent Sherlock. I’m so glad you could come so quickly. Ms. Venus is very upset, why, she won’t tell me. I do know she was ill last night. If you’re here, it’s something bad, isn’t it? No, no, I can tell it’s not for my ears yet.” She eyed both of them. “You two look very professional and very dangerous.”

  Sherlock blinked and patted her arm. “That’s good to hear. Isabel, how are your daughter and the twins?”

  Isabel smiled so widely they saw her gold molar, so pleased she was to be a grandmother. “Yvette called me last night, said she was so tired, she’d fall asleep in the babies’ bathtub if she’d fit. But she’s happy as can be. Follow me. Ms. Venus is in the living room waiting for you. Whatever is wrong, I know you will fix it.”

  They followed her through the large terra-cotta foyer and turned right into the grand living room. Venus was alone, holding what looked to be a glass of iced tea in her hand. Where was her companion, Veronica? Venus didn’t rise. It looked to Savich as if she’d been crying. That shook him. He’d seen her cry only two times—at his grandmother’s funeral, and when he’d been a small boy, at the funeral for her husband, Everett Rasmussen.

  Savich had known her all his life for the simple reason that Venus and Savich’s grandmother Sarah Elliott had been girlhood friends. He remembered Venus breaking down at his grandmother’s grave site, and he’d held her, swallowing his own tears.

  Savich and Sherlock each leaned down and hugged her. Sherlock looked closely into her eyes for signs of lingering discomfort. Thankfully, she didn’t see any. Sherlock sat beside her, Savich on the chair facing them.

  “It’s nice to have you both together with me again, under your grandmother’s painting, Dillon. I wish the circumstances were different.”

  He looked up at the large painting by his very famous grandmother that hung over the fireplace. “I remember as a boy looking up at that windswept coastline of Brittany, wondering what it would be like to be right there, the seawater cold and wet against my legs, the wind tearing at my shirt, and bowing the trees—” He broke off the familiar poignant memories.

  “Half a dozen museums have come around to woo me, buy me outrageous gifts, to get me to bequeath that painting to them. But no, Sarah’s painting will remain in the family. She gave it to me after Everett died, to help me feel again ‘
the boundless energy of life,’ as she put it.” It was Venus’s turn to fall silent, and then she said, “I miss her, Dillon, every day when I look at that painting, I think of her and her immense talent, and everything we shared throughout the years—the laughter, triumphs, the tragedies. I suppose she told you stories of our time in Paris back in the bad old days?”

  “Yes, she did, but I always thought she edited out the good parts.”

  Her sharp green eyes turned bright. “I certainly hope so. I’ve always believed that’s why we’re all young once, to do stupid, wicked things that will amuse us until we die.”

  In her younger years, after her husband had died in an industrial accident in one of his steel plants in Pittsburgh, she had overcome the shock and grief and filled the breach and taken over his kingdom. She’d earned the title of Queen Rasmussen, and soon no one doubted she was in charge. She made all her business decisions without sentiment. One made enemies wielding that much power. For decades she was an undisputed mover and shaker in Washington. Now, at eighty-six, she was an icon.

  Savich said, “Venus, our forensics lab is sending over a tech within the hour to take a sample of your blood and hair. Dr. Amick requested a urine sample as well. We’ll know very soon if indeed someone is trying to poison you. But I want to proceed on the assumption that you’re right. So tell Sherlock and me about the first time you got ill. Where you were and who you were with, and when.”

  Venus opened up a small black notebook, thumbed to the first page. “Guthrie, Alexander, and I were at the Ambassador Club on K Street three weeks ago, Wednesday. No celebration, only a simple dinner out. I ordered the lobster chasseé, a specialty of the chef there who invented it. I do remember it was a bit too spicy for my taste, but their champagne cocktails were divine. I drank two, but spread out over two hours, then I had a cup of decaf coffee.”

  Savich leaned toward her. “At the club, did anyone come by, stay any length of time to visit?”

  “When I’m out in public there are always people who want to schmooze. Check to see if I’m senile yet, I suspect.”

  Savich laughed. “Not much chance of that. Did any of them get near your food?”

  “Frank Zapp—you know him, Dillon, he’s been one of my accountants for a dozen years or so—he stopped by, and I asked him to have a seat. He had a cocktail with us. I asked after his wife, and he told me she was leaving him. Not much to say to that except to commiserate, and he soon left. I believe two others came by—a city councilman I met at the mayor’s office and a member of the board of regents at the Smithsonian whom I’ve worked with, but the visits were short, too short for any of them to slip poison into my lobster.”

  Sherlock said, “When did you get ill, Venus? What were your symptoms?”

  “We got home about ten o’clock. Veronica helped me to bed, but I had a lot on my mind. There’s a merger we’re working on with a family-owned company outside Boston. They’re not happy, but they need our money desperately and they’re having trouble understanding the consequences. I got a sudden terrible headache that made my head spin, an upset stomach with cramping pain. And I felt nauseated. The worst of it lasted about thirty minutes. I didn’t even buzz Veronica, simply took some antacid and some Tylenol. Then everything was fine again. I called my personal physician, Dr. Filbert, in the morning, and he told me it was probably from the lobster chasseé, too much for my eighty-six-year-old stomach. It made sense. I hated it, but I accepted it.”

  “Did you tell anyone you were ill?”

  “Certainly. I mentioned it to Guthrie and Alexander. I was concerned they’d gotten ill as well, but they hadn’t. Veronica agreed with the doctor. I believe she phoned the chef at the Ambassador’s Club, asked if the lobster had made anyone else ill. But no one else had called.”

  “Tell us about the second time.”

  “That was last Friday evening. I was with Guthrie and Alexander again. Hildi and Glynis should have been there, but Glynis wasn’t feeling well and her mother stayed with her. We had dinner at the Wallingford Bistro over in Foggy Bottom. I had some consommé and a house salad, basically a Cobb with some roasted pine nuts artfully scattered on top. Nothing at all iffy, not after my experience with the lobster.

  “I started feeling nauseated and shaky when we arrived home. I had some terrible abdominal pains and an upset stomach. The room was spinning. This time, Veronica wanted to call an ambulance to go to the emergency room. I called Dr. Filbert instead, and he thought it was my old lady’s stomach again—but to cover himself, he wanted to order a hundred tests, all of them unpleasant and undignified. I told him I’d think about it, see if the symptoms passed. Guthrie and Alexander were at home with me. Like Veronica, both of them wanted to call an ambulance, but I was feeling better by then. They both seemed satisfied with what Dr. Filbert said.”

  “My daughter, Hildi, called the next day when she found out, but she wasn’t too worried, said I was an iron horse. As for Glynis, her headache was gone and she was out shopping.”

  Savich knew Venus’s granddaughter, Glynis, was the jet-setter in the family. She never seemed to be happy, no direction in her life, always racing to fill her time with buying designer clothes and globe-trotting to the latest “in” spots. She’d been divorced twice, had no children. Had she really been ill? Who knew.

  And Hildi, her mother. Savich remembered his grandmother grinning and shaking her head over Hildi. “Venus never imagined birthing a hippie artist, yet she did, all the way down to her tie-dye and Birkenstocks.” He also remembered his grandmother telling him that Venus had paid off a man she called a “creep,” who’d married Hildi for her money after getting her pregnant with Glynis, to disappear from the Rasmussens’ lives without so much as a by-your-leave. How had Hildi felt about that?

  Venus paused a moment. “Do you know, Dillon, Hildi turned fifty last month? Can you imagine? My own child turning fifty! Of course, Guthrie’s fifty-eight, but people of my generation never really think of men as getting old—they simply fall over of a heart attack at some point.” She fell silent, looking down at the rich nap of the Persian rug beneath her feet.

  She looked up finally. “A lot of politicos have dinner at the Wallingford, so we spent most of our time meeting and greeting, which is why I rarely go out to a restaurant anymore. It’s exhausting, but Guthrie urged me to go, said he really liked the chef’s way with artichoke risotto. No, none of our visitors from the first time at the Ambassador Club were there, as I recall.” She raised eyes drawn with strain to Savich’s face. “And then this last time. Last night. It was horrible, much worse. I was here, at home, with Guthrie and Alexander. Hildi and Glynis dropped by. Mr. Paul served us coffee and apple pie. It happened fast—after ten minutes, I could hardly stand, the room was spinning so. And I noticed my urine was dark, almost black. And that’s when I researched poisons on the Internet and found my symptoms perfectly fit arsenic poisoning. Then I knew someone, maybe someone in my family, someone of my blood who lives with me, and claims to love me, is trying to kill me.”

  6

  * * *

  Sherlock said, “Venus, let’s go one step at a time.”

  Isabel appeared in the doorway. “Agent Savich, there’s a Bill Carlson from the FBI here.”

  “Good. He’s arrived earlier than I thought. He’ll draw your blood, Venus, take a couple of strands of your hair and the urine sample Dr. Amick from our forensics lab requested. We may know in a couple of hours what we’re dealing with.”

  “I do hate needles,” Venus said. “Always have. Still, it’s better than an ambulance ride.”

  “That’s the truth,” Savich said, and patted her hand. As he spoke, he studied her elegant face, saw she was in control again. She was looking back at him, her eyes sharp, determined and intelligent. He knew she had to be focusing on her son and grandson, Guthrie and Alexander, as the ones trying to murder her, impossible for her not to since they’d been there with her on all three occasions. However horrible such a betrayal might be
for her, he saw she would pull through this. She would go on.

  Savich rose. “Come on in, Bill. We’re ready here.”

  The blood draw was quickly over. Bill was good with a needle and stuck her vein on the first try with hardly an intake of breath from Venus. “Beautiful veins you have, ma’am,” Bill Carlson said as he patted down a cotton ball over the puncture site and pressed on it. “Now, a couple strands of your hair. You press on the cotton pad and it’ll be over in a flash.” And it was. “Now we need a urine sample.” He handed her a small plastic container, her name written on it in Magic Marker.

  Venus took the container, nodded to Savich and Sherlock, and left the living room. She returned a few minutes later with a small paper bag, handed it to Bill Carlson.

  “Thank you, ma’am. Agent Savich, I’ll put a rush on this and call you as soon as I know.”

  They heard Isabel speaking to him in the entrance hall, heard the front door open and close.

  Sherlock said, “With your permission, Venus, another team will arrive later to pick up the ingredients from what you ate last night and to go through the kitchen and pantry. If there’s anything questionable there, they’ll find it.”

  Venus laughed. “I can only imagine the look on Mr. Paul’s face.”