Murder and Mistletoe

by Barb Han

  “The whole situation is a lot for a teenager to take in.” She softened her voice even more. Being a detective, she was used to choosing her words carefully and using tone to manipulate the suspects she interviewed into giving more details than they’d planned or getting a confession out of them. Talking to Dalton, she wanted to take her investigator/interviewer hat off and be a woman. He’d been through so much, too much, really. No one should have to endure it, although she’d seen this and worse in her job so many times.

  She admired the strength in the man sitting next to her.

  Most people, her sister included, reached out to find pain relief in the wrong places and in turn piled more problems on top of a bad situation. Problems like addictions to drinking, narcotics or both. Chemicals were the express train out of pain that most people took.

  Not this man.

  And she respected him for it.

  “There was no sign of a struggle in my niece’s case. I’m guessing with your friend, too. That’s partly why the sheriff is reluctant to call this a homicide. So, I’m wondering how this guy could manage to pull that off. I know my niece and she would fight if someone came at her,” she said.

  “Unless she knew him personally or he disarmed her in some way,” he said with an apologetic look.

  “You’re right. Now that I really think about it, she would also help anyone in need. The person could’ve been familiar to her,” she said. “I wonder who would know both victims fourteen years apart?”

  “Good question.” Dalton used his thumb to flip through pics, giving enough time to study details. Most of them were of the ground or the tree. “Off the top of my head, they went to the same school. Could be a bus driver or male teacher. Even an administrator.”

  “True. I wish I had access to her laptop. She might’ve been communicating via email,” she said on a sharp sigh.

  “Maybe the link between them is location,” he offered. “Alexandria and I were supposed to meet at the tree. How about you and Clara?”

  “I expected to pick my niece up at her house,” she admitted. “Although, she didn’t like to be there more than she had to.”

  “Maybe she needed air.” Dalton took a sip of coffee. “Could she have gone for a walk and ended up there? Where does Bethany live?”

  “That’s possible, but how much do you believe in coincidence? Even if I miraculously put them at the same tree fourteen years apart to the day and then suppose they both knew the person responsible, where’s the struggle?”

  “The first location might’ve been by accident but the second could’ve been chosen,” he conjectured, thumbing another picture of the base of the tree.

  “There are no marks going up the trunk to the branch.” She pointed.

  “With Alexandria,” he thumbed another pic but didn’t turn to look at her, “I assumed she was already knocked out and that’s why she didn’t put up a fight.”

  “There are drugs like ketamine that could’ve come into play,” she offered and when he lifted a dark brow she added, “It can be crushed up and put in almost anything. It knocks them out and is easy enough to get.”

  “The date-rape drug?”

  “Yes.” She needed to ask this next question delicately. “Do you remember if the sheriff tested your friend to see if she’d been...abused...in any way?”

  “No. Guess he didn’t think he needed to,” he said after a thoughtful pause.

  “Meaning there were no indications of forced acts,” she clarified.

  “From the so-called interview, I found out that there were no signs of struggle, nothing under her fingernails, no marks on her arms. It’s why the sheriff initially hauled me in. I was the last person who was supposed to have seen her alive and she had no marks or bruises to indicate she’d been in a fight,” he said. “When they figured out that I was telling the truth, he shifted gears to suicide.”

  “Based on what else?”

  “Alexandria had problems at home. Her parents weren’t getting along. They were having marriage problems, serious financial problems, problems with her older brother. She wouldn’t let me tell anyone. We’d been fighting about that and my drinking,” he informed.

  “The family was on the verge of losing everything. She could’ve believed it was her fault somehow.” She brought her hand up to her face. “Stress could be a factor, but...”

  He stared at her and she couldn’t tell if he was looking at her or through her, but she already recognized that look he got when he had an idea. “What is it?”

  “I was just thinking that suicide by hanging seems like something a guy would do,” he said.

  “You’re right. Statistics put death by hanging as a far more common method of suicide for males than females. The latter usually rely on something less violent like taking too many pills. When they are violent, they normally take an object to their wrists. I’m glad you brought that up. That struck me as odd about these cases and I meant to mention it before.” Everything had been moving so fast they’d barely had time to think.

  “Which makes two in the same location, by two teenage girls, even less likely.” He picked up his coffee mug but held it midair.

  “Even so, if I look at this purely from an investigator’s point of view, I walk up to a body hanging in the air, no sign of struggle. In your friend’s case, I talk to a few people and find out that she was supposed to meet you, so you hit the top of my suspect list. Keep in mind the biggest threat to any woman is the person closest to her. Oftentimes that means we look hardest at the person the victim was in a relationship with. I’m guessing threatening you with charges was the sheriff’s way of trying to get at the truth. I’m also assuming he believed it had most likely been a suicide from the onset. And if that’s the case, he wouldn’t truly have treated it as a murder investigation aside from trying to shake you down.”

  “Meaning?” Dalton asked, and he was following what she was saying with renewed intensity.

  “There isn’t going to be a whole lot of evidence that has been collected in either case, which will make it even more difficult to tie these two crimes together.” She studied the picture of the tree trunk again, wishing it could speak. It held the answers, and there wasn’t anything anyone could say or do to dig out the truth.

  “Then we solve the current case,” he said.

  The waitress showed with the brown-rimmed coffee carafe and topped off their twin cups.

  “Thank you,” Leanne said as the waitress seemed to be waiting around for acknowledgment. The place was empty and she was most likely bored, Leanne thought, until Dalton glanced up and offered a polite smile.

  The waitress’s face flushed. “You’re welcome. Anything else I can get for either of you?”

  Leanne read the name tag. “No. We’re fine. But thanks, Makayla.”

  Makayla lingered, like she was expecting Dalton to speak. When he didn’t, she said, “Holler if you need anything else.”

  “We will,” Leanne said, hearing the defensiveness in her own voice.

  Makayla moved on and quickly disappeared behind the counter. Leanne shouldn’t have cared one way or another if the waitress flirted with Dalton. But she did.

  Her phone buzzed. She checked the screen. The call was coming in from her babysitter. Her heart stuttered.

  “Excuse me while I take this,” she muttered, scooting out of the booth as she answered on the second round of her ringtone.

  “Everything okay?” she asked, skipping right over niceties, needing to know the answer. Her hands shook. Her blood pumped. And her internal alarms sounded.

  “Fine here. How about on your end?” Mrs. Blankenship must’ve picked up on the stress in Leanne’s voice.

  “Sorry. I didn’t mean to make you worry,” she responded. “My niece’s case is a bit more complicated than I’d expected. I’m most likely going to need to stick around for a fe
w days. Is that a problem?”

  Mrs. Blankenship lived on the same block as Leanne in Dallas. The grandmother of seven almost always had a grandchild being picked up or dropped off at her house and she always said how much she loved children. But Leanne didn’t want to impose on her kind neighbor or overstay her generosity.

  “No. Mila is just fine. She’s been a little fussy. Might be getting in one of those teeth we’ve been talking about,” Mrs. Blankenship said in her usual pleasant tone. She was the ideal image of a grandmother: white hair, generous stomach and gentle nature. That, and she loved to bake. If Leanne had had a grandmother, she would’ve wanted her to be like Mrs. Blankenship.

  Mila loved her and she’d been a godsend when Leanne had returned to work, unable to drop her six-week-old baby—because that was all the leave she’d accrued—off with strangers at the day care she’d meticulously vetted. All it had taken for Mrs. Blankenship to offer her services was to see Leanne sitting on her porch step, cheeks and eyes soaked with tears while she held on to her baby in that little pink blanket when she was supposed to be back at work.

  Mrs. Blankenship had taken the sleeping baby from her arms and told Leanne to go on. After a quick tutorial in her formula and feeding schedule, Leanne had handed over her daughter and a decent portion of her paycheck ever since. Her neighbor was worth every penny and more. Mrs. Blankenship was the rare neighbor who still baked cookies and personally delivered them on most major holidays. She had a knack for remembering birthdays, too. Every May 2, a card with a homemade treat was waiting for Leanne on top of the chair on her porch. The older woman had a quick smile and more energy than Leanne had ever seen. With her grandkids, she’d throw a ball or hop into the pool with them. Mila was lucky to be counted as one of her flock.

  “I hate to impose with your grandkids coming over this weekend, but I might not be back until Monday,” she said into the receiver, wishing her daughter was in her arms. “Can you hold on until then?”

  “Don’t worry. I just hope you find the person who did this,” Mrs. Blankenship said in a hushed voice. It was the softest Leanne had ever heard the woman speak and there was so much sadness. Her husband of thirty-two years still held down his day job. Although, he had been threatening to retire for the past couple of years, according to his wife. Mrs. Blankenship had chuckled when she told Leanne. He’d taken an early pension from the force and worked as a security guard detail at a high-rise in Turtle Creek. The man had no plans to retire, no matter how many times he’d said this year would be his last.

  “Thank you, Mrs. B.” It was the nickname the fifty-nine-year-old woman had asked to be called the first time they met. “This means a lot.”

  “Find the person who did this to her. She was a good kid.” Mrs. B’s voice started to break, but she seemed to quickly catch herself. She was one of the few people who understood law enforcement types.

  “Give the baby a hug and a kiss for me?” Leanne asked, trying not to focus on just how much her heart ached at being away from her daughter this long. Other than an occasional late night on a case, this was the longest Leanne had been away from Mila. She’d underestimated how powerful that pull would be after going a full day without seeing her baby.

  A grunt came through the line before Mila’s unmistakable cry.

  “She’s waking up. I bet she’s hungry. Be careful out there,” Mrs. Blankenship said.

  “You know I will.”

  Leanne ended the call and took a moment to breathe in the cool air outside. She turned and saw the waitress had wasted no time returning to the table. Why did a pang of—jealousy?—strike Leanne? She had no ties to the handsome cowboy and he certainly had none to her. The two of them were trying to solve a murder case, two actually, which reminded her that she needed to ask for his friend’s file from fourteen years ago. Surely, there was some obvious link between these cases.

  Makayla threw her head back as though cracking up at something the cowboy had said. Leanne’s feet jutted forward and before she could say the words, Back up, she was standing next to the waitress and politely asking her to move so she could reclaim her seat.

  Making a show of being put off by the request, the waitress blew out a breath and walked away from the table.

  “Who were you talking to out there?” Dalton asked, picking up his phone and where they’d left off.

  “The person who’s taking care of my daughter while I’m here,” she supplied.

  “Everything all right?”

  She nodded. “But I’ve been thinking about what you said.”

  Leanne pulled out a couple of twenties and tossed them on the table. Dalton sat there, a surprised look on his features.

  “Take your money back. I already paid,” he said, and she figured he was operating from some cowboy code, which meant arguing would do absolutely no good. He picked up the twenties and handed them to her.

  “I’d ask you to at least let me leave the tip, but I’m guessing that’s already taken care of, too,” she said.

  “It is,” he confirmed.

  “Well, if we want to figure out who murdered Clara we need to start with my sister.” She issued a sharp breath. “Ready?”

  Chapter Six

  Dalton didn’t pry in other people’s business. He couldn’t help but notice the strained relationship between the detective and her sister earlier. This visit should be interesting if she allowed them past the porch, which he doubted based on the way the pair had left things. Deception pushed people away from each other. It didn’t matter how good the intentions might have been.

  Several taps on the door to the small redbrick bungalow netted zero on the other side. It was well past noon and there was no sign of activity in the house. For all he knew, Bethany had taken her young child and disappeared. There was a chain-link fence around the property. The house sat on about a quarter of an acre of land if he had to guess. And there were no cars under the porte cochere.

  Leanne knocked again, harder this time.

  Just when he was about to urge Leanne to come back later, the door cracked open.

  “Are you trying to wake Hampton?” Bethany spoke in the same quiet, angry tone May, the Butlers’ longtime nanny and housekeeper, had used to keep young kids quiet in church. It was the one that said he’d be more than damned if he didn’t get his act together. Bethany’s eyes were dry. The tip of her nose was red, giving the impression she’d been crying earlier. She wore pajamas.

  “Please let me in, Bethany. We need to talk,” Leanne insisted.

  “Why should I?” The fire in those words didn’t reach Bethany’s eyes.

  “Because I want to find out who killed Clara and bring him to justice.” Leanne’s voice was composed, but a flood of anger stood like barking dogs behind a fence and threatened to unleash if her half sister didn’t comply.

  “You can’t help with that.”

  “Don’t be—” The door slammed shut in Leanne’s face.

  “Want me to give it a try?” Dalton figured he couldn’t do much more damage than Leanne. Her sister might see him as neutral.

  The detective stepped aside. “It can’t hurt.”

  He rapped on the door of the modest house, using his knuckles. He’d need to take a lighter tactic than the bull-in-a-china-shop approach Leanne had used. “Mrs. Schmidt, this is Dalton Butler. I’d appreciate it if you’d open the door and hear me out. Your daughter’s case could be tied to one close to me and I’d very much like to find out if there’s a connection.”

  She complied. But, again, she peeked through a small crack.

  “Thank you for—”

  “You were in the back of the car with us earlier,” she cut in. “And at the sheriff’s office.”

  “That’s right. I couldn’t be sorrier for your loss, ma’am.” Every word was true and he could tell by her slightly softened expression that she sensed it. “I lost
someone a few years ago in the same spot. Any chance you’ll let us in and hear me out on this?”

  “I don’t know. Gary could be home any minute and he won’t like the two of you here,” she hedged, and there was a nervous twitch above her left eye.

  Leanne took an impatient-sounding breath—the bull returning—so he touched her arm, ignoring the frissons of heat scorching his fingertips.

  “We certainly wouldn’t want to cause any problems between you and your husband, especially now while you have so much to deal with,” Dalton said sympathetically.

  His approach was working. He was gaining ground and he could see it. She shifted her weight from her left to right foot and chewed on her chapped bottom lip.

  She swept the outside with her gaze, cracked the door open enough for them to slip through and said, “You can only stay for a few minutes. Hampton’s sleeping and he doesn’t know what’s going on yet. If Gary sees your car out front, he’ll freak out so make it quick.”

  All the honor codes that made Dalton the man he was, one who respected women and took it upon himself to protect anyone or anything smaller or weaker than him, flared up.

  Was Gary physical with Bethany?

  If he was, Dalton had to consider the possibility that he could’ve been involved in her daughter’s murder.

  Dalton followed the frail woman into the living room. He couldn’t see into the kitchen with the boxy layout but a square dining table with four chairs, one with a booster seat that he presumed was for Hampton, filled the room. Based on the layout, he imagined the kitchen was to the left of the dining room.

  A well-used sectional anchored the room with a matching ottoman that held several remote controls along with a few magazines. It was clear by the reading material that Gary owned guns. If Clara had been shot, the case might have been a no-brainer. Dalton filed the information in the back of his mind. It wasn’t exactly unusual for a household to have a hunting rifle or shotgun in Texas. Most folks kept them for protection from animals.