Lord of the Wings by Donna Andrews Page A

and Arabella lived on to see the millennium.”
    I noted on the sign beside the dress that it was on loan from Arabella Pratherton Walmsley.
    â€œSo the owner is a descendant of the once-wicked Billy and Arabella?” I asked. “Nice that she appreciates her family’s colorful history instead of being embarrassed by it.”
    â€œShe was their great-granddaughter,” Dr. Smoot said. “Poor young woman—she was killed only a couple of months after she brought me the dress.”
    â€œKilled?”
    â€œVery sad,” Dr. Smoot said. “Hit-and-run. Not here, of course—out in California.” His tone implied that such dire consequences were only to be expected if one foolishly left the safety of the Old Dominion for the Wild West.
    â€œSo the Prathertons also left Caerphilly for California,” Michael said.
    â€œOh, no!” Dr. Smoot shuddered. “They moved to Richmond. And the Walmsleys are an old Chesterfield County family. Early on they made their money in tobacco, but they switched over to banking and insurance long before tobacco became problematic. Big donors to the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts and the Library of Virginia.”
    â€œAnd you’re hoping they’ll add the Caerphilly Museum to their charities?”
    â€œAlas, no.” Dr. Smoot’s face fell. “Not now. I’m afraid they rather blame me for their daughter’s death. Apparently she came home from her visit here all fired up to track down her ancestry. That’s what she was doing when she was killed. I’m not sure they’d ever be willing to donate to the museum. I’m more than half expecting them to yank away the dress any time now. I wrote them a letter of condolence when I first heard the news. They haven’t responded, so we’re rather in limbo. I’d like to clarify the dress’s status. But one doesn’t like to press at such a difficult time.”
    He gazed sadly at the dress for a few moments. Then he shook himself and put on a deliberately cheerful expression.
    â€œOn a happier note, here’s another prize.” He pointed to a painting that hung in a place of honor with its own little light shining down to illuminate it.
    A prize? Clearly whatever value or interest the painting had was in its historical value rather than any artistic merit. It was a family portrait from the Colonial era, and although all the people in it looked awkward and misshapen, I was pretty sure this was as much the painter’s fault as theirs. The father, stern, large-jawed, and jowly in a powdered wig and a fawn-colored coat, sat at the far left of the canvas, while the mother sat to the far right, leaning away from the rest of the family as if hoping to slip off the canvas when the painter wasn’t looking. Between them were seven or eight children—all girls, with the possible exception of the infant who was about to slide headfirst off his mother’s lap. Most were seated behind or playing in front of a table that formed the center point of the painting and all shared their father’s unfortunate jawline. The oldest daughter stood behind her father, plucking the strings of a lute and looking soulful, which might have been charming if she hadn’t had the profile of a pit bull. The other children were all holding flowers or wearing headdresses made of flowers, and they all looked stiff, lumpish, and uncomfortable. Well, who could blame them? I had a hard time getting the boys to stand still for my camera. I couldn’t imagine what would happen if I asked them to pose for a painting.
    â€œThe Paltroons,” Dr. Smoot said with pride. “A very distinguished old Virginia family.”
    I noticed he didn’t call them a very distinguished old Caerphilly family, probably because at the time the painting would have been done, Caerphilly was occupied mainly by cows, sheep, and a few early ancestors of the Shiffleys.
    â€œColonel