Murder Once Removed

by S. C. Perkins

  A muscle in Agent Turner’s cheek flickered when I announced this nugget of information I probably shouldn’t have known, but I forged ahead.

  “I think this woman demanded the photo, Winnie stood her ground, a fight ensued, and the woman bashed Winnie’s head in, then took off with some other daguerreotypes—possibly ones that were closed, where she couldn’t see the images—in hopes one would be the image of Seth.” My voice choked up a little. “I think Winnie died protecting the daguerreotype’s hiding place, and when this woman realized she didn’t have the right one, she came here to find it, thinking Winnie gave it to me.”

  Clearing my throat, I rolled my shoulders back and said, “But I have no idea what Winnie saw in it, Agent Turner. It’s a really cool historical photo that proves the murder of Gus Halloran’s great-great-grandfather, yes, but its value is more emotional than monetary. Believe it or not, if you could have seen even one building from 1849 San Antonio in the photo, it might be worth a pretty penny to collectors of historical architectural photos. Maybe a hundred thousand dollars or more, at the right auction. But Jeb Inscore’s daguerreotype only showed Seth, his wounds, and a whole lot of dirt street. Even with the provenance of Jeb’s journal entries, explaining the photo and the mystery behind it, I’d be surprised if it went for more than a couple thousand on the open market.”

  When Agent Turner looked like he was wondering how much one of the Hallorans would pay for the photo, I added, “In fact, I doubt any member of the Halloran family themselves—even Gus—would consider the daguerreotype worth all that much in relative terms. Especially since they all now have copies of it and Jeb’s journal entries. I bet they’d pay a few thousand, maybe up to ten grand, and that would only be if Gus or some cousin really wanted the original returned and were offering a reward.”

  “Then what about the gardenia plant?” Agent Turner asked. “You said it was the ‘unofficial, official’ flower of the Halloran family. But from what you told me, only the Hallorans know that fact. So why bring in a plant that was all the way on your balcony, just to destroy it?”

  “I don’t know. Frustration, maybe? A way to make an extra big mess to tick me off?”

  “Or maybe it’s a calling card, Ms. Lancaster,” he said. “Torn up in frustration, yes, but one flower carefully placed on your chair to make sure you know a Halloran is still out for revenge.”

  Seeing me bristle, Agent Turner circled back to the point before I could accuse him of being out to get the Halloran family for no solid reason.

  “In short, you think this woman seen on the tapes believes Dr. Dell gave you the daguerreotype, so she came here looking for it.”

  “I don’t know if it’s a good theory, Agent Turner, but it’s all I have.”

  Something in his eyes hinted that he’d appreciated the steel he’d heard in my voice, but I could have been imagining it since his face was still working the stony look.

  One of the crime-scene techs then came in and offered me the number for a cleanup crew, which I accepted gratefully after looking at the mess.

  Agent Turner handed me his card, which until now he hadn’t done. “Remain on alert, Ms. Lancaster. Don’t go anywhere alone if you can help it, and be careful.”

  He left. Feeling the elephant trying to sit on my chest again, I locked the office door, leaned against it, and called the number the tech gave me. The cleaners could come to the office later this afternoon, as it happened.

  “Great,” I said. “Give me a call when you’re twenty minutes out. I’ll be down at Big Flaco’s Tacos, investigating the social phenomenon known as day drinking.”

  * * *

  The next morning I woke to the paw of a large tabby cat pressing on my cheek.

  “Good morning, sweetness,” I murmured.

  “Mrowr,” NPH responded, blinking his yellow-green eyes at me.

  As soon as Jackson brought him over last night, NPH had seemed to sense something was wrong, that his normally cheerful human was uncharacteristically vulnerable. He’d curled up next to me almost instantly, his purr eventually lulling my eyes into closing. I’d slept so much better knowing he was there.

  Sensing I was feeling more like myself again, he kicked in a rumbling purr that reminded me of my dad’s fishing boat when it idled. I gave him a kiss on his striped forehead and lots of under-chin scratching as thanks for his company. When I padded out of my bedroom to let him out, he trotted ahead of me, fluffy tail aloft, to the French doors of my back balcony.

  “Taking the tree down today instead of the stairs, are we?” I asked through my yawn.

  NPH responded with a gargle-infused meow and stepped out onto my balcony when I opened the door. I did the same and checked the soil of Winnie’s gardenia while NPH alternated between rubbing against my legs and pausing to give his tail a morning bath.

  “Winnie’s gardenia doesn’t need water yet, but I think it might need more sun,” I told him. “Think Jackson will plant it somewhere for me?”

  NPH blinked up at me, purring. I took that as a yes. I watched, amused, as he began some stretching moves, first bowing down and reaching out his front legs until his paws were spread out and claws were extended, then kicking out one back leg after the other, giving each one a little shake. Kitty warm-up accomplished, in two graceful leaps, he hopped up onto the railing, and then a short way across to a large limb of the post oak that gave my balcony ample shade during the hot Austin summers. In seconds, his floof and tabby stripes became invisible among the leaves. He’d spend a little time checking out his territory and chasing a lizard or two, then head home, where Jackson would have his breakfast waiting.

  Knowing Jackson would be awake, I made some tea, then called to ask if he’d plant the gardenia on my balcony.

  “Darlin’, I love gardenias,” he replied. “I’m happy to plant it for you. Just leave it on your balcony and I’ll get it in the next few days.”

  “Thanks, Jackson. I appreciate it.”

  “Any time, my sweet.” I took a big slurp of my tea, hearing an extra layer of cheekiness come into my condo manager’s voice. “How’s that handsome man of yours? Ben, wasn’t it? The tush on him … oh my. Honey, you are one lucky girl.”

  I choked on my tea, but managed to splutter out, “What? No, you’ve got it all wrong.”

  “If you say so, darlin’,” Jackson replied with a wicked laugh and hung up.

  There’d be no convincing Jackson otherwise, I realized with some amusement, and I needed to get ready for my day. Having received an email from the Hamilton Center that a memorial service would be held for Winnie today at noon, I shook my thoughts free of Jackson’s commentary on Agent Turner—as well as the cranky federal agent’s tush, oh my as it might be—and laid out an outfit. I chose a pair of wool pants in a dove gray and a sweater in a pretty lavender hue I knew Winnie would have loved, then hopped in the shower.

  Our office had been cleaned to sparkling by the company the crime-scene tech had recommended, and Mateo had worked overtime last night installing a security camera in our office, allowing Serena, Josephine, and me to feel safe once more—but not so safe that we weren’t keeping our office continuously locked and had a call in to a locksmith to add extra deadbolts.

  I came in with grand visions of concentrating on my work until it was time to go to Winnie’s memorial, but instead I sat at my desk, brooding, and looked out my bank of windows at the crystalline blue skies. Familiar sounds washed over me of Josephine speaking French on the phone and Serena’s rustling noises as she added, smoothed, and adjusted outfits on her dress forms, which thankfully hadn’t been dirtied by the fingerprint powder. The outfits that had protected the forms were goners, of course, but Serena had waved my offer to pay for them away.

  “Please, Luce. No one was hurt and that’s what’s important. Plus, I can write it off.”

  I couldn’t, however, write off the feeling I was missing something when it came to Winnie’s death. What possible reason would any person have to kill Winni
e Dell just to find a photo that proved murder over a hundred and sixty years ago? It was absurd. Last night, with NPH purring at my side, I’d even gone over my copy of the photo with a magnifying glass for what seemed like the hundredth time, in case there was a clue I was missing that would make the photo of value to someone. Either valuable for the images in the photo, or for what the photo might represent to either the Hallorans or someone else. I’d found nothing.

  I’d then reread every copy I’d made of Jeb’s journal pages, twice, looking for more clues. Still nothing new.

  I turned back to my computer and brought up my Halloran files. The only thing that seemed minutely plausible was that, somehow—over a century and a half later—this was still about Seth Halloran and the mystery man known as C.A., be he Caleb Applewhite or Cantwell Ayers.

  I started poring over everything I had on Seth. Letters, newspaper clippings, and family stories that had been passed down. An hour later, I was rubbing my tired eyes and sighing.

  “What’s the matter?” Serena asked as she draped a tartan blanket scarf into a chic style before adding it to her dress form that was sporting a winter work-appropriate outfit.

  “Did you not find any connections between Seth and the two other men?” Josephine asked.

  “Kind of,” I replied. “But they’re more in the territory of history than genealogy. I’m a good genealogist, sure, and I love doing historical research, but I need to talk to someone more knowledgeable about Texas history, who knows all the nuances that the rest of us nonexperts tend to forget.” I frowned. “It would have been something I talked to Winnie about. Now, I’m drawing a blank as to who to ask.”

  “Why not try one of your grad school professors?” Josephine said as she typed up an email.

  “Yeah,” Serena agreed as she started photographing the outfit from all sides. She’d add the photos to her Shopping with Serena website, along with links to where her readers could find each piece. “Why don’t you go talk to that one you liked so much? You know, the one who’s the poster man for goofy, frumpy, pipe-smoking professors.”

  “You mean Dr. Millerton?” I said, standing up with renewed energy. “Yes! You’re both geniuses.”

  Josephine beamed and Serena tipped her imaginary deerstalker. “It was elementary, my dear Lucy.”

  The idea got even better. It was currently nine thirty, and Dr. Millerton’s office hours had been the same for the past two decades: Wednesdays at ten o’clock. The Hamilton Center, where Winnie’s memorial service would be held, was about a twenty-minute walk across campus. If I left now, I’d easily have time to do both.

  The sun warmed me as I walked UT’s tree-lined sidewalks on my way to Garrison Hall and Dr. Millerton’s office. Though I didn’t need a coat today, the day was cool enough that the backpack-carrying students had changed from their usual spring-summer attire of shorts and T-shirts to the fall-winter look of jeans and sweatshirts.

  Ahh, college life … I felt downright overdressed (and totally officially thirty) walking among them. Thinking about Winnie and how much I would miss our friendship, I had to look skyward and pretend to admire the architecture of the buildings in order to not be the weird, blubbering adult wandering around campus. I breathed a sigh of relief when I saw Garrison Hall ahead on my right.

  I made my way to office 206 and rapped on the door. Usually there was a line of people outside of Dr. Millerton’s office by 10:00 A.M., so I was surprised to be the only one. I knocked again after a few seconds.

  “Are you looking for Dr. Millerton?” asked a frizzy-haired girl who was walking past me.

  “He’s usually in his office by now. Any chance you’ve seen him?”

  “He’s in Germany,” she replied. “On a publish-or-perish research trip. He’s writing about the first German settlers to come to Texas. You know, what their lives may have been like that prompted them to leave Germany for an uncertain future over here … that sort of thing.”

  I smiled. “How wonderful. He talked about doing that for ages. Do you know when he’s coming back?”

  Dr. Millerton hated to be away from his home and wife for more than a weekend; it was a well-known quirk of his. Ergo, I expected to hear her say, “A few days,” or even, “He’ll be back tomorrow.”

  “January,” she replied instead.

  I gaped at her. “January? As in two months from now?”

  She nodded. “His classes are being taught by Dr. Liening and Dr. Anders.”

  “Okay. Do you know which one is teaching his graduate-level Texas history classes?” I asked.

  “That would be Dr. Anders.” She jerked her thumb over her shoulder. “He’s in two-twenty, down the hall.”

  I thanked her and started in the direction she’d pointed, but turned back when I heard her call to me.

  “I just realized the time. He’s teaching right now. Waggener Hall, room one-oh-one. It ends in five minutes. After that, he won’t have office hours until four thirty.”

  I thanked her again and made for the stairs. I needed to catch the professor now because I didn’t have time to come back in the afternoon.

  Waggener was a building I’d had many classes in, so I knew exactly where 101 was, and arrived as the students were filing out of the room. I could see through the open door that a couple of students were waiting to speak with Dr. Anders, so I decided to stand outside in the hall and check my email messages for a minute or two.

  “Oh. My. Gawd,” I heard one girl say as she and her friend passed me. “He is, like, so hot.”

  “Totally gorgeous,” said the other girl with a nod, as she stopped a few steps away to put a laptop into her backpack. “Those tortoiseshell glasses of his are so retro sexy. I think he’s single, too.”

  “That’s because I told you he’s single,” snapped the first girl, who had long, curly red hair and blue eyes. Her accent was mildly nasal with a hint of a clenched-jaw drawl. I guessed Connecticut.

  “No need to get pissy,” said the other girl, whose own thick drawl said she was definitely from West Texas.

  “Well, I’m not waiting to see him in the halls again,” the redhead said, pulling out some lip gloss and a compact. She gazed at herself in the small mirror while applying the gloss, fluffed her hair, and then gave a quick kiss to her reflection.

  At that moment the two students who had been talking to the professor came out into the hall. I caught the door before it closed, and entered at the top of the small, theater-style classroom.

  The classroom was dim, with the main light coming from over the podium where the professor stood. He stood at an angle to me as he slid his laptop into a leather messenger bag. He had dark blond hair, parted on the side, and wore blue jeans, square-toe cowboy boots, and a navy blazer over a white oxford. It was a look I called Texas preppy, and he wore it well. From his clothes alone, I could tell he was significantly younger than Dr. Millerton’s sixty-two years.

  “Dr. Anders?” I asked.

  “Yes, come on down,” he said with a friendly wave, though he didn’t turn around. “How can I help you?”

  I concentrated on walking down the steep steps in my heels so that I wouldn’t embarrass myself by tumbling down the aisle. “Dr. Anders, I’m a genealogist looking into two well-known Texas families and their connections to other events in Texas’s history. I was wondering if you might be able to shed some light on a few things for me.”

  Dr. Anders went still, and I stopped five steps from the bottom of the stairs. He turned around and stared up at me through tortoiseshell glasses.

  Holy cow, he was cute. He was reminiscent of Harrison Ford in Raiders of the Lost Ark in the scenes where Indiana Jones was just Dr. Jones, professor of archaeology. In my opinion, no professor, real or fictional, had ever been sexier than Dr. Jones.

  Dr. Anders moved a step—out of the overhead spotlight that was shining down and making his hair look lighter than it was—and took off his glasses.

  What the hell?

  “Special Agent Turner
?” I asked. “What are you—I mean, why did—”

  He grabbed his laptop bag and was up the first few stairs before I could even finish. With me in my heels and him on the step below me, our faces were even. He was close, incredibly close, and he looked angry.

  Which made me instantly annoyed.

  He opened his mouth to say something when the classroom door above us opened. A Connecticut-bred voice, inflected with a big dose of come-hither, called out, “Dr. Anders?”

  Agent Turner’s eyes went from angry to apprehensive in a heartbeat as he, too, recognized the voice and all it was offering.

  “Play along,” he whispered. As I heard the redhead call his name again, Agent Turner put his free hand up to my face and pulled me into a kiss.

  THIRTEEN

  The kiss went a little deeper and lasted a little longer than it maybe should have. We only pulled apart when the redhead cleared her throat loudly.

  My cheeks were burning, so I was thankful for the dim lighting. Then I realized my heart was skipping like an old record. Really? I ordered them both to cool it, but neither listened when Agent Turner slid his arm around my waist and pulled me close so that my nose was almost nuzzling his neck. He faked an embarrassed chuckle as he addressed the pretty redhead. “Pardon us, Kristi. It’s been a couple of weeks since my girlfriend and I have seen each other.” He flashed me that charming grin, then looked back to the top of the stairs. “What can I do for you?”

  “I thought…,” she began, her perfectly glossed lips moving into a frown.

  His expression was all innocence. “Yes?” he asked.

  “Never mind,” she said, before turning and rushing out again.

  I was pushing him away before the door even closed.