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.”