Aztec Sword

Excerpt:

While Octavia spoke to Catherine, Naomi moved in her mother’s wake. “I’m Naomi Hendrickson,” she said to Jackson. She offered her hand, and he took it. “I guess I have to introduce myself since ‘dear Calvin’ isn’t doing it.”

“I was getting there,” Carter said with a bit more irritation than he intended. “This is my partner, Thomas Jackson.”

The look Naomi offered Jackson was one that carried multiple meanings. “I certainly hope you’re not a sniveling bastard like Carter is.”

Surprise registered on Jackson’s face, but was soon smoothed over. “I most certainly am not. Tell me: what makes Cal a bastard?”

“How long do you have?” was Naomi’s retort, complete with a pointed look at Carter.

Inwardly, Carter sighed. Ever since he had made the acquaintance of Octavia Hendrickson during his acting days, she had made herself something of a patron. Before his father was murdered and he opted to track down and bring the killer to justice, Carter had been a freewheeling actor, frittering around from role to role. Often he traveled with a company, and it was in this situation where he performed in Austin and came into the orbit of Octavia. She had taken a shine to him, and, despite their age difference, had taken him into her bedroom. Carter, never one to turn away the affections of a beautiful woman, had gone along with her. They had an understanding: she knew she couldn’t own him and he knew the acting business brought him into contact with other ladies. This understanding, however, had one impediment: Naomi. She was generally miffed that her mother paraded her catch of Carter in front of her daughter, a man closer to her own age.

Jackson grinned. “I have all night.”

At that moment, Octavia signaled a man who stood off to the side of the small raised dais at the center of the room. The man nodded once, then rang a hand bell. The high-pitched sound permeated the room and quieted the crowd within seconds.

Octavia signaled Carter and he dutifully offered his hand for leverage as the hostess climbed the short steps to the top of the stage. She basked in the eyes and attention of all the assembled guests, turning around once to take in all she surveyed.

“Ladies and gentlemen, I’m so glad you could come to the opening of my new museum tonight.” She waited for the polite applause to start and stop. “As many of you know, my dearly departed husband, Gunter, made a name for himself in the early railroad business. His generosity and prosperity made me able to pursue one of my lifelong passions of acquiring art from the savages who once roamed this land. And now, with the Hendrickson Museum, I am able to share some of these pieces with all of you.”

More polite applause while Octavia sipped her champagne. 
Next to Carter, Naomi had wedged herself between Carter and Jackson. Under her breath, she murmured, “As if the people even care about pottery and old tools.”

Carter leaned over near her ear. “I wouldn’t knock it. You can learn a lot about a culture from what they leave behind.” His close proximity to her enabled her perfume to enter his senses. It was a delicious, musky scent that instantly captivated Carter.

In earlier encounters with Naomi over the months and years, Carter rarely found himself this close to Octavia’s daughter. He had all but dismissed her when he determine she was generally irritated with him. Now, however, he surreptitiously gave her another appraisal.
She caught him. “What are you looking at?”

Momentarily caught off guard, Carter replied, “I have to say, you look very nice tonight.”

Naomi masked whatever thought she truly had with a sarcastic sneer. “Don’t look now, but I think you’re about to be on.”

At her comment, Jackson turned. “What does that mean?” He looked at Carter, concern registering on his face. “Oh no, are you going to speak?”

Carter gave the pair one of his lopsided grins. “Octavia has asked me to say a few words.”

“For all our sakes,” Naomi said, “say as few as possible.”

From onstage, Octavia was still speaking. “And now, for part of this evening’s entertainment, I would like to invite renowned actor”—Jackson rolled his eyes at that comment—“and current railroad detective, Calvin Carter, to come up on stage and speak. Calvin?”
Any time Carter got up on a stage, a certain part of him lit up. It never mattered if the stage was in an opera house, a gazebo in the center of a small town, or even this small dais in a museum. A stage was a stage. He rarely experienced what they called stage fright. In some ways, he longed for the stage more than he longed to wear a badge. But the badge brought with it justice, and after Carter’s father was gunned down and he hunted down the killer, justice won the day.
Passing a hand over the front of his jacket to ensure it was smooth as possible, Carter ascended the stairs to mild applause. Some in the crowd knew him as a detective, but few likely knew him as an actor. Chances were that most of the folks here tonight didn’t know him at all.

He came to stand next to Octavia, humble being the visage he presented. She had asked him to make a performance of a couple of his favorite Shakespeare sonnets or poems. He had selected a few, ran them by her, and she okayed them. She also had asked him to prepare a short little speech. “I just love the sound of your voice, Calvin dear,” she had told him once. “You could read the train schedule and I would listen with rapt attention.”

Calvin Carter had smiled at the compliment. Now, as he opened his mouth to thank her publicly, his words died in his mouth when the doors to the museum slammed open and five figures charged into the museum.

Each man welded a drawn pistol.