It was also the key to solving the senator’s brainteaser. He agreed he had Applewhite blood, yet implied he shouldn’t have the Applewhite name. That three generations ago, his great-grandfather was given the prestigious last name, but was only connected to it by a genetic loophole. Therefore, the only way the senator’s great-grandfather could have inherited both Applewhite regular DNA and mtDNA would be if that man’s mother was an Applewhite by birth, instead of by marriage.
“You’re saying you actually descend from Caleb’s daughter, Jane Applewhite, not one of his two sons. That your great-great-grandmother was the last person in your direct family line to be legitimately born to the surname Applewhite. Her son, your great-grandfather, would have inherited her mitochondrial DNA, but he shouldn’t have inherited the last name.” I paused, then said, “In effect, you’re telling me that your great-grandfather was born out of wedlock and was given his mother’s surname—Applewhite—instead of his biological father’s.”
“That’s correct, on all counts,” he said. “I carry the name Applewhite, as did my father, grandfather, and great-grandfather, but none of us were rightfully born into it.”
“Conventionally speaking, at least,” I reminded him.
“Agreed,” he said.
I said, “Historically speaking, giving the child the mother’s surname was the normal thing to do in such cases. In some places it was even a legal mandate.”
He smiled. “But with a well-known family that’s highly into politics such as mine, convention is still the norm, so…” Before I could reply to that, his face became serious again.
“Lucy, the fact that my great-grandfather was born out of wedlock has been a secret in our family almost since the day he was conceived. To keep the circumstances from being a scandal to the family, Caleb sent Jane away to the Hill Country to live with her oldest brother and his wife, who was also pregnant. The two women gave birth within a week of each other in 1849. Each of them had a boy, too, and Caleb fixed it so the birth was recorded as twins, not cousins. My great-grandfather was raised believing his uncle was his father. He wasn’t even told the truth until he was in his fifties, and a U.S. senator himself.”
“That’s amazing,” I said. “How did you find out?”
“My great-grandfather insisted that the truth be known to someone in his line from there on out, so the secret has been passed down to the oldest son since then. He wanted it known because he understood that, in politics, some people would use any information they could to undermine you, even if it was something that happened a long time ago and you had no control over it. Do you understand what I’m saying?”
I nodded, feeling guilty. Knowingly or not, I’d helped Gus use similar politically undermining information about the senator a few days prior in front of the Texas state capitol. It had been about Caleb potentially being the man who ordered Seth Halloran killed in 1849 and not the senator’s right to be called an Applewhite, but still. It was a low blow.
The senator shrugged, giving me a wry look. “Of course, like you said, nowadays paternity is less of a big deal, but only if you’re not the scion of one of Texas’s longest political lines. Consequently, I’m an Applewhite as far as anyone knows.” He rubbed the back of his neck. “I’ve broken tradition and told my wife and both children, but that’s because I didn’t feel right lying to them. Beyond them, I’ve only told one other person not related to me besides you. Even my cousins, uncles, aunts, and one still-living female cousin of my great-grandfather’s don’t know the truth, so I hope you will give me the courtesy of not broadcasting this information to anyone.”
My reply was solemn. “Of course, Senator.”
“Thank you.” Then his face brightened with humor as he held out his hand for me to shake. “As the story goes, not even my great-grandfather knew who his real father was. So, it seems that Gus Halloran is not the only one who has a mystery in his family, no?”
“True,” I said, shaking his hand on autopilot, still a bit amazed by what he’d told me.
“Despite it all, Lucy, I hope you succeed in identifying C.A.,” he said. “I really do. Both for Winnie’s sake, and for the history books, too.” He paused, then his voice lowered once more. “If you find out my true ancestral surname, would you let me know? As much as I believe my ancestors have little to do with me as a person, I won’t say I’m not curious as to what my surname might have been.”
I grinned. “Even if it’s one of those last names that’s kinda funny? Like Hogg, Smellie, Tugnutt, Butters, Windass, or—”
“Halloran?” he said with a wink.
I laughed, he laughed; it was all good.
I waited until I saw the senator walk out through the taqueria’s glass doors, then I dialed Agent Turner. He answered before the first ring completed. It was now 5:11 P.M.
“My phone was on silent,” I said, apology in my voice. “I’ve been doing research at home and lost track of time.”
I expected to hear relief in his voice. I should have known that I would hear measured anger instead. “You’re at your condo…”
“Sure,” I said breezily. Damn it, I should have left out my location. Otherwise, I had been totally truthful. Sneakily truthful, but still.
“What you’re saying is you aren’t at Big Flaco’s Tacos.”
I freaked out for a second. Did he find me? What’s worse, did he witness the senator walking out of the taqueria?
I looked out the glass doors. The little parking lot was empty save for Ana picking up the CLOSED FOR INVENTORY sign. Since the taqueria was at the corner of Ninth and Colorado, I had a clear view of a good bit of street parking as well. I saw no sign of Agent Turner’s silver Ford Explorer. I knew he could be out of sight, but I felt like he would have deliberately parked where I could see him, just to tick me off.
That means he’d tracked me through my cell phone.
“You traced my call?” I said.
“Of course I traced your call. You were attacked last night and the police haven’t found the guy yet. When you didn’t answer my call more than once, it was the fastest way to find you.”
He was right, so I bit back my retort.
“I apologize,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”
“Good,” he replied. “Can you come to my office in Garrison Hall tomorrow morning at nine?”
“Why?” I said, not bothering to hide my suspicion.
“I’m sure you’ll figure it out as soon as you stop questioning my every motive.” Then he hung up.
It only took a moment to realize he was going to let me pick his history-loving brain. Would wonders never cease?
I found Flaco in the kitchen, where he was turning meat with his trusty tongs.
“I can’t thank you enough for helping me,” I told him. “But I’m upset with you, too.”
“¿Yo?” he asked, pointing at himself with his tongs.
I put my hands on my hips and stared him down. “Yes. The senator said you had to make a deal with him. You didn’t have to do that! What did he make you promise him?”
Flaco started laughing so hard that he leaned up against the counter for support.
“Ay, Lucia. I promise him I would go to Washington, D.C., next April and cook my brisket for his staff party. That is all.”
“Really?”
“Sí,” he confirmed. “The senator has been bugging me for years to cook my brisket for him. I always say no.”
Flaco’s brisket was probably the best I’d had anywhere and I didn’t blame the senator for wanting it, but I knew what Flaco really gave up for me. “He wants to fly you there, doesn’t he?”
Flaco’s daughter Stella once told me that her father was only afraid of one thing: flying.
Stella had laughed. “Well, that and earthworms. He’s got this weird thing about them. He says they look like little, wiggly, pink aliens from another planet.”
“Bah!” he said, waving me off. “You need to get out of here, Lucia. Go home. Get out of my hair.�
� He turned his back to me and flipped a slab of sizzling meat.
“Flaco,” I said, “you name the date of this party and I will fly with you on my own dime to D.C. to act as your sous chef or waitress, or both. It would be my honor.” He knew I wasn’t the biggest fan of flying, either, so my gesture was not a small one.
“Bah!” he said with another grumpy Go away wave that left me grinning.
TWENTY
Somewhere in the wee hours, another cold front came in, making for brisk winds that bit at my nose and blew puffy clouds across the morning sky. The temperature claimed to be forty-six degrees, but it felt like it was below freezing as I walked the UT campus to Garrison Hall bundled up in knee-high boots, jeans, a navy roll-neck sweater, and my warmest wool scarf and coat.
Nevertheless, I arrived at Agent Turner’s office on time bearing two of Serena’s freshly made whoopie pies—the classic this time, sans red food coloring and sparkly sanding sugar. She was doing a photo shoot for her blog outside the capitol building later this morning and had made them for her two-man photography team.
“They’re far more accepting of my obsessive, nitpicky moments if I load them up with sugar first. Want a couple for you and that cute Agent Turner to share while you geek out over history stuff?”
History, schmistory. I planned to use them to distract him from the fact I’d outright lied to him yesterday.
“Feeling guilty for lying to me, huh?” he said as I held out my offering.
So much for a distraction. Still, he took the container with the air of one who finds sweets really hard to resist, giving him a begrudging point in my book.
“Hey, Agent Turner, one of those is for me, thank you very much.”
He moved the container farther from my reach. In an instant, his tiny moment of playfulness was gone as he assumed his Fed voice again. “While we’re on campus, you need to call me Dr. Anders.”
“Yeaaaah, no,” I replied. “But I’ll be happy to call you Ben.”
We held an epic three-second staredown.
“What information do you need?” he finally asked, rolling up the sleeves of his white oxford shirt.
I shifted a stack of books from the chair nearest me to the one next to it, which was already piled high with them. “Is your office always this messy or was it like this when you moved in as the temp professor?” I replied instead. His desk, which I couldn’t see for all the papers and maps, abutted the far wall. Running the length of the wall were two shelves crammed with history books and scholarly journals. Behind him were windows; the blinds were open, revealing the cold, gray day outside. There wasn’t enough space to swing a dead cat in the entire room and it had the yellowish lighting and slightly musty air of professors’ offices the world over in old buildings with inadequate air circulation.
“Both,” he replied without even looking around. “Ms. Lancaster…”
“Lucy,” I corrected. “C’mon, Ben. You know you want to give up the whole formal shtick.” I made bring-it gestures with my hands. “I dare you. Call me by my given name without me experiencing bodily harm first. I promise I won’t call the Hoover Building in D.C. and rat you out for not following G-man protocol to the nth degree.”
His response was to give me the Fed stare for good long moment then move the Tupperware container closer to him, out of my reach.
“Hey!” I protested.
He ignored me and copied my bring-it gestures. “The missing Inscore letter. Stuff about Applewhite and Ayers. Whatever it is you want my help with. C’mon. Let’s hear it.”
“I see how you are,” I replied with narrowed eyes. But when he nearly smiled, I started talking. Wouldn’t want him to go all soft on me or anything.
“I want your help researching Seth Halloran, Cantwell Ayers, and Caleb Applewhite, to see where they crisscrossed in their lives, and if there’s any historical significance to their interactions that may be resurfacing today. History is one of my loves, but it’s not my forte. That’s where you come in.”
He put on his tortoiseshell glasses. They were kinda retro sexy. “What do you know so far?”
“I know all three men had neighboring lands and Cantwell was in sheep ranching like Seth for a brief time before going into politics, but that’s about it.”
“And you’ve looked into Halloran family correspondence for connections? Did Gus give you access to any of that?”
“Definitely. In fact, he and his immediate and extended family—save for Pearce Halloran—gave me complete access to anything they had. One of his cousins let me borrow a handful of Seth’s letters that had been kept through the years. I scanned them and used them in the family record I told you about. I had one made for Gus and every relative who requested one.”
“This is the report-slash-scrapbook you mentioned the day I first interviewed you.”
Why was I not surprised he could recall my exact words?
Oh yeah, because he’s insufferable, and insufferable people do that kind of thing.
“It’s a sophisticated and professionally printed scrapbook, if you will,” I replied with a touch of pride. “My clients love it. It’s their family tree, the DNA and mitochondrial analysis, photos, letters, anecdotes, coats of arms, and military records. Even things like recipes or traditions that have been passed down are in there. Everything related to their family line all consolidated into one place, where any family member can access it. Also, if it’s requested, I even include proof for any person who qualifies that would give them access into any of the organizations for descendants of certain wars, like the Daughters of the American Revolution.”
“Remind me not to let you near my mother,” he said. “She’s been trying to find her DAR link for years.”
“My success rate in finding the ancestral link, if it exists, is extremely high,” I replied.
He blanched and I almost laughed. He was probably scared his mother and I would get along a little too well for his taste and all his authority over me would be lost in a heartbeat.
He cleared his throat. “Was there anything interesting in Seth’s letters?”
“Well, most of them referenced his work, in which he took great pride. Seth started a textiles business before he was killed, but, like I mentioned, he began as a sheep rancher. That’s actually what brought him and people like Cantwell to the San Antonio area, did you know?”
“If you’re asking if I knew sheep ranching was big in the area from pretty much the time the Spaniards began exploring Texas, then yes.”
“Must you always be a know-it-all?” I asked.
“If I know what I’m talking about, then yes,” he replied.
If I ever met Mama Turner, I was surely going to bring up this particular maddening trait her son possessed.
“Anyway,” I said, “Seth had relationships with all the local sheep ranchers, and when he decided to work the wool instead of shear the sheep, he utilized those relationships to create his textiles business. He took care of the ranchers and they all did well.”
“A bit of a sheep-wool monopoly, huh?”
“It may have been, yes.”
Ben rubbed his chin. “I wonder if he got into price fixing or something and made either Applewhite or Ayers angry in the process. Maybe it was an early version of the Sheep Wars, only with wool instead of grazing land.”
I held up a hand. “Wait. I’m sorry. Did you say Sheep Wars? Sheep Wars. As in armed conflicts. More than one. With sheep.”
His eyes crinkled. “It was more about sheep, and cattle. It was around thirty years of tensions between the sheepherders and cattle ranchers over lands on which their animals could graze. The problems started in the 1870s and were mostly situated in Central and West Texas.”
“Interesting,” I said. “And good to know they weren’t strapping weaponry to unsuspecting ewes and rams, catapulting them over barbed-wire fences, and expecting them to do some sort of Braveheart-esque battle with the bulls next door.”
I’d acted out the catapulti
ng of an armed ovine as I said this, amusing myself to no end. Ben just stared at me, so I continued.
“I, too, wondered if there had been something untoward going on in the world of Halloran wool, but none of the family stories, papers, or letters I saw supported my theory. The closest I got was seeing a couple of replies to letters Seth wrote to his brother Ephraim in Richmond, Virginia. Apparently, another man who had a textiles business back in Massachusetts had moved down San Antonio way and married a local girl who was never named. The Yankee, whose surname was Gerber, and his business partner tried to create ties with Seth’s ranchers and some ugly words were exchanged between Mr. Gerber and Seth. They even had a fistfight about it at one point.”
“Who won?”
“Seth did. His brother Ephraim spent several sentences congratulating him on knocking Gerber out cold and suggesting the next time Seth should consider giving the Yankee a nice punch in the family jewels before he lays him out.”
A quick grin came to Ben’s lips. “Do you know what became of this Mr. Gerber?”
“I saw no other mentions of him after that, and his name didn’t show up in the Handbook of Texas, which is the who’s who of Texas history as you know, so I doubt anything of great political or historical significance did. But the story did make me wonder if Seth ever got into an altercation with anyone else.”
“Someone with the initials ‘C.A.,’ I take it?”
“Yes. I began to wonder if one of them wanted to enact legislation of some sort that would have prevented Seth’s business from thriving. Maybe Seth confronted C.A. Maybe his ego had skyrocketed from confronting Gerber—and winning—and he threatened the same to C.A.”
Murder Once Removed Page 19
