Murder Once Removed

by S. C. Perkins

  Across the room, I saw Josephine toss her head back and laugh at something Lindgren said, who was puffed up like a rooster around the prettiest hen in the coop. Considering Winnie and I always thought he went for other Pauls instead of Paulas, it was an odd sight to see Lindgren flirt with a woman. I could almost hear Winnie’s voice saying in my ear, “Well, hell, don’t that beat all. I’m as surprised as you are, Lucy.”

  I’d once read how, if feeling choked up, it helped to sip on something, so I veered toward the drinks table and a plastic cup with still-bubbling ginger ale. I found I needed more than one sip to loosen the tightness in my throat.

  “I keep doing the same thing.”

  I turned to see Aya Sato had joined me, holding a plastic cup of her own. I knew Aya wasn’t much of a hugger, but she accepted the brief one I gave her after we’d exchanged a moment of silent pain over the loss of our friend. She motioned toward a space by the window, where we could talk without being overheard.

  “Lucy, who would want to murder Winnie?” she said as we looked out the window, watching students walking along the campus sidewalks to their next class. “And why?”

  “The police think Gus Halloran may have killed her in a fit of rage,” I said, only because I was curious to see how she would reply. Aya had always been a straight shooter and I’d never heard her beat around the bush about something when saying what she meant was the quickest way between two points.

  “That’s the most idiotic thing I’ve ever heard,” she said, scorn flashing over her face. “Gus drops by all the time and he and Winnie were always locking horns over something or another. They both loved it, and you could hear them bickering for a while, then laughing about other things later on. Winnie once told me the highlight of her week was when Gus would show up and she could get into some heated debate with him. She said it was better cardio than being on the treadmill for an hour.”

  We looked at each other and grinned. It was exactly the kind of thing Winnie would say. Later, I would let myself mourn for Gus that he’d lost his sparring partner as well as his friend, but for now I needed to keep on track.

  “Aya, did Winnie say anything to you yesterday? Do you know who she was meeting with or who she talked to?”

  She shook her head. “I’ve been busy finishing up another project, so I only saw her a couple of times.” The merest of flushes came onto her cheeks. “I know she talked to Senator Applewhite about clearing his ancestor’s name, though, because I walked in on the tail end of the conversation.” She met my eyes and the flush deepened. “I was the one who told Gus about it. He called me to ask how long the restoration of the daguerreotype would take and told me how Winnie had raked him over the coals for the whole press conference you two did.”

  Now it was my turn to look embarrassed, but Aya didn’t seem to notice. “I think that’s why the police thought Gus might have come back here to confront Winnie,” she continued. “Because I was the one who let the cat out of the bag.”

  “Was Gus angry about Winnie helping the senator prove him wrong?” I asked.

  “He wasn’t thrilled,” she admitted, “but I wouldn’t say angry. He said that if the tables had been turned and he didn’t have you on his side, he would go to Winnie for help, too. He understood someone wanting to keep their good family name, well, good.”

  “What about at the sponsor event yesterday afternoon?” I said. “Did you happen to see Winnie talking to a tall woman with dark hair to here?” Like Homer had, I motioned to just below my chin.

  Shaking her head, she explained, “I was over on the other side of campus at that time, teaching a graduate course on historical preservation. I told my students about the Halloran daguerreotype and how I was going to film the restoration so they could see such an incredible piece of history before, during, and after the restoration. Only now it’s been stolen, and I wish I’d gone to get it from Winnie earlier.”

  “How do you mean?” I asked.

  “She called me,” Aya said, her dark eyes shiny with emotion. “Just before I left for my class. She said that, after examining the daguerreotype, she realized it was more important than ever and the restoration needed to start immediately. I asked if I could come by after my class, which ended at six, and she said she’d meet me in her office.” She looked away for a moment, then back at me. “My students and I often go out for dinner after class to talk preservation in a more informal setting, though, and I forgot to go back to the office or call. It was around eight thirty when we all finally went home and I remembered, but by then I was sure Winnie had left the office. And since she didn’t call me, I thought…” Her voice went to a choked whisper. “I could have saved her, or helped her, Lucy.”

  Turning to face her head-on, I said, “In no way, shape, or form was this your fault, Aya. If you’d come by when you were supposed to, you might have helped, yes, but you could have also gotten killed. Winnie wouldn’t have wanted that, and neither would Gus or I.”

  Aya took a deep breath and nodded. She was a logical person and knew I was right.

  “Besides,” I said, my own voice turning to shaky jelly. “If anyone’s to blame, you’re looking at her. I’m the one who went searching for the truth about Seth Halloran’s murder. Whatever chain of events has happened, I started it.”

  We both looked at each other with sad grimaces and sipped more ginger ale.

  A few minutes later and composed once more, I made it back to Josephine’s side. She was still talking to a besotted Paul Lindgren, who didn’t seem pleased I’d interrupted their conversation. Nevertheless, before her spell on him could wane, I pounced.

  “Paul, I was talking to Homer and he said y’all looked at the security feed from last night for a tall, dark-haired woman carrying a big black handbag. Homer said he felt she’d acted strange and her handbag was overly full. Did you recognize her from the feed?”

  He sighed irritably, but said, “During last night’s event, I saw Dr. Dell briefly speaking to the woman from the security tapes. They were off in a corner, about twenty feet from me, and the only reason I noticed was because the woman had a similar build and hairstyle as Dr. Dell. I thought they might be sisters or something.”

  “Winnie didn’t have a sister,” I returned hotly. “As her boss, I would have thought you would know that.” His attitude was seriously putting my back up.

  Lindgren’s nostrils flared, but with another sexy smile from Josephine, he said, “The point is, the two women spoke for maybe a minute. Then I saw Dr. Dell respond quite rudely to the woman and walk away in a snit. I was shocked at her disrespect because we here at the Hamilton Center strive never to be rude to our guests, but soon Dr. Dell was talking to one of our esteemed donors with her usual manner—which was courteous, if not overly warm—and so I opted to overlook the transgression.”

  I felt my fists clench. Oh, Lindgren, you prissy, pretentious little ass, I’d like to show you what a not-overly-warm manner really looks like.

  “However,” Lindgren continued, oblivious to my growing ire, “after Homer and I finished looking at the security tapes from when the woman walked out of the building, I went through the feed from the actual event and only saw the woman at two other points.”

  “Could you see her face?” Josephine asked.

  Lindgren molded his expression into something resembling disappointment. “I’m afraid not well. Her hair mostly obstructed the view of her face both times. I can tell you she was tall, likely in her forties, and, shall we say, not of petite build.”

  “Charming,” I muttered.

  “Pardon me?” he snapped.

  Jo bit her lip to keep from laughing as I deflected, asking, “Have you spoken to the police yet about this mystery woman?”

  He shook his head. “I had to plan this luncheon to mourn Dr. Dell,” he said, sweeping an arm out, indicating the conference room, where Winnie’s coworkers tucked into our casseroles and talked quietly in small groups.

  I didn’t like the way he used the
word “had” as if it’d been a burden to do something to honor his intelligent and respected colleague, and Josephine could tell my patience was at the end of its rope and my tongue was about to turn into a sarcastic whip.

  “You’ll be sure and call the detective at your first free moment, I’m sure,” she purred to Lindgren.

  “Oh, of course. I’ll do it posthaste,” he said, smoothing back a few strands of thinning hair. Jo granted him another smile and he pulled out a business card, handing it to her.

  “I hope I’ll hear from you later today, Josephine,” he said, looking deeply into her eyes. I, however, got nothing more than a curt nod before he walked off. Luckily, Jo pulled me out of the Hamilton Center and into the cold but sunny day before I could take the rest of the King Ranch casserole and dump it over Lindgren’s snooty blond head.

  Once Josephine and I were back in her car, I pushed Lindgren out of my mind.

  “Did you find out anything worth knowing?” Josephine asked, glancing at me as we sat at a stoplight. I was chewing on my lip.

  “Aya told me Winnie called her and said the daguerreotype was more important than she realized, and I’m trying to think what Winnie saw in the photo that could have triggered her saying something like that. Or that would make her feel the need to protect it to the point she got bashed over the head for it.”

  “You think there’s something in the background that made it truly valuable?” my friend asked.

  I’d looked at the daguerreotype a hundred times, many of those times with a magnifying glass, and hadn’t seen more than poor Seth Halloran, his fatal wounds, and the dirt of Commerce Street in 1849 San Antonio, and I said as much to Josephine as she dropped me off at the Old Printing Office. She had an off-site appointment with a client that afternoon, but she handed me Lindgren’s business card as I got out.

  “You’ll figure it out, love. And toss this while you’re thinking on it, will you?”

  “With pleasure,” I replied. I ripped the business card in half as I walked up to the third floor, then checked my phone to find Gus had called during the luncheon.

  “Lancaster,” his voice boomed, “I’ve been liberated—and exonerated. It seems the medical examiner found that poor Dr. Dell had been clocked with that infernal crystal award a good half hour or more before I found her. Something about the blood coagulating where she was struck or something. Amazing what they can tell these days, though the fact that such a lovely, smart woman who I respected greatly and considered a friend lost her life makes me want to spit nails.”

  Frustration shook his voice. “I’m fit to be tied about all this, Lancaster. I want nothing more than to talk to Daniel Applewhite and clear up any mess I may have started, but the FBI, police, and even my dadgum lawyers all chewed me out six different ways to Sunday and told me I can’t have any contact with him until they find the black-hearted coward who killed Dr. Dell. And damn it, they’d better!”

  There was a long pause wherein I thought he’d unceremoniously hung up, but then I heard him clear his throat as I reached the third floor. “I’ve got the press hounding me for a statement and I’ve been advised to go radio silent for the next few days to let those vultures find another body to circle. But before I do, I wanted to be sure to tell you that you did the right thing, by telling the police what you’d seen and what you knew about my family. You handled yourself beautifully, Lucy. I’m proud of you, and Dr. Dell would have been, too.”

  The phone went silent and, not having any ginger ale, I had to dig out a tissue from my handbag as I tried to hold back the flood of tears itching to break loose again.

  However, the potential deluge was instantly dammed when I opened our office door and walked in.

  Papers were everywhere. Sticky notes, staples, and paperclips, too. Every drawer of my desk was pulled out and upended. Serena’s three outfit-covered dress forms were lying on the floor, as was our upholstered screen that blocked the main office from our break room. Josephine’s huge desk calendar was underneath her office chair, which had been dumped on its side. The occasional file folder, in various decorative patterns and colors, had landed on its opened edges, looking like a jaunty little hut along the banks of the River of Papers and Office Supplies. A dusting of something dark covered the bulk of the paper river, and on the seat of my office chair was a lone gardenia flower.

  TWELVE

  “Why are you here?” I said. “I called the police.”

  “Nice to see you again as well, Ms. Lancaster,” Special Agent Ben Turner replied as he walked into my office. He was wearing a dark suit with a striped tie in two shades of blue. “Detective Dupart is on another case, but since the FBI is part of this investigation, too, and I’ve already interviewed you twice, he handed this call to me. He’s sending his crime-scene techs, though. They should be here any minute.”

  I eyed him. “If you’re claiming to still be a part of this, why weren’t you at the police station last night? You disappeared after interrogating me at the Hamilton Center. It was Detective Dupart who took my statement.”

  “I was there, actually,” he said. He was looking around the office, but not seemingly at the crime scene, which was irking me for some reason. His eyes kept going to the ink blotches that graced our floors from its printing-press days and not at the black coating of potting soil that was covering half my stuff. “I got there just as you started recording.” He held up his index finger and swirled it around. “This building is the Old Printing Office, isn’t it?”

  I crossed my arms over my chest. “That’s what the sign on the front of the building says. Then why didn’t I see you at the station?”

  He met my gaze. “Ever heard of a two-way mirror? Most police stations have gotten rid of them in favor of cameras, but the APD still has a couple of rooms with two-ways. I was on the other side while you were having your statement recorded. When asked if you knew any of Dr. Dell’s relatives for notification purposes, you said she had a ‘patruel’ in Dripping Springs. You then explained that a patruel is the child of one’s paternal uncle, or Dr. Dell’s first cousin by way of her father’s brother. Satisfied?”

  “No,” I said, though I was impressed he remembered that. “You could have watched the recording later.”

  He gave me a put-upon look. “Fine. Afterward, when your statement was done and Dupart left the room, you redid your hair, putting it all up on the top of your head.”

  With his index finger, he pointed at his head, to the spot where I’d twisted my hair up after growing tired of it being in a ponytail.

  “It’s called a messy bun, Agent Turner.”

  “You mean you deliberately meant for it to look like that?”

  My jaw dropped, then snapped shut when he had the utter cheek to wink at me. The crime-scene techs walked in at that point, nipping my comeback in the bud—which was good, because I didn’t have one—and the examination of the crime scene began.

  Agent Turner left me sitting on the stairs outside my office while he checked out my building and interviewed my work neighbors. This included Mateo and his three-person tech company on the second floor and a small forensic accounting firm on the first floor with five very quiet accountants whom we almost never saw. I sat, mulling recent events, while inside my office every piece of evidence was being tagged, bagged, and dusted with fingerprint powder. Agent Turner, inscrutable once more, eventually returned and escorted me back into the office just as my stomach was starting to growl. I’d only eaten a cupcake at the Hamilton Center and my blood sugar was starting to drop like a stone.

  “As you might have realized, the reason none of the other tenants in your building heard anything is because the intruder mostly threw things like your papers and file folders—things that were light or soft,” he said. “He was deliberate in not causing any undue noise.”

  “That doesn’t make me feel any better,” I said. None of my work neighbors had seen anyone suspicious coming or going, either. My intruder had slipped in and out, undetected.
/>
  Agent Turner tilted his head toward the mangled gardenia plant, which had been taken off my balcony, torn from its roots, and thrown into the corner nearest my desk, spewing potting soil all over the place in its wake. “Your desk certainly took the brunt of that gardenia.”

  I gave him a baleful look.

  “But at least your coworkers’ desks were mostly untouched. You could have had a much bigger cleanup job otherwise,” he finished.

  “Do you mean before or after the crime-scene people dusted everything in sight with fingerprint powder?”

  “Both,” he said with a fleeting glimpse of that charming smile he’d showed me when we met yesterday morning. He took out a little notepad and pen and asked, “When you called me earlier, you said you didn’t know what the intruder could have been searching for. Any ideas now you’ve had some time to think?”

  You’re darn tootin’ I did.

  “I think she was looking for the daguerreotype of Seth Halloran.”

  “Wait, she?” Agent Turner said.

  “Yes,” I replied. “The woman whom Homer the security guard saw rushing out of the event at the Hamilton Center, carrying a big black hobo bag that was overly full. The same woman the director of the Hamilton Center saw having a short, heated conversation with Winnie.”

  Agent Turner arched an eyebrow. “You know these details how?”

  Damn. Note to self: information learned whilst snooping should be kept on the down low until someone in law enforcement mentions it first. Especially when the member of law enforcement standing in front of you thinks you’re signing up to be an amateur investigator.

  “I … um…”

  He sighed. “Just continue with what you were going to say, Ms. Lancaster.”

  “I don’t think the Halloran daguerreotype was actually stolen with the others,” I said. “I think Winnie had already put it somewhere safe before the woman showed up at her office. I think she did so because, after she examined the photo, she saw something more valuable than we first realized. She said as much to Aya Sato, the restoration specialist.”