From Here to Paternity

was probably never worn again. In fact, Jane could imagine him ripping it off and flinging it away as soon as the photographer snapped the shot.
    And yet, for all his fierceness, he rested one hand gently on his wife’s arm. It was a tender gesture— protective, supportive—and obviously spontaneous rather than posed. Perhaps he suspected that she would not grow old with him. Maybe that was why a man who wouldn’t permit a photograph of himself had shaved and put on his good suit—probably his only suit—and posed for this. Not to have a picture of himself, but to have one of her before it was too late.
    The studio name printed on the cardboard surround was located in Denver. So this thin, frail, doomed wife must have persuaded him to have the picture taken (perhaps not so very much against his will), not locally, but in the city where no one would know them. In those days, before I-70 and the Eisenhower Tunnel, the trip must have been a long, arduous one. Jane tried to imagine driving up over the Continental Divide in a 1920s vintage automobile and shuddered. Maybe there’d been a train instead.
    “Jane?“ Shelley elbowed her.
    “I’m sorry. My imagination was running away.“
    Jane answered. “Tenny, are you sure this is Bill and his family?“
    “Yes. There is another picture, a wedding picture, of this woman that is labeled. It’s clearly the same person. And there are several other pictures of Uncle Bill as a child, and they are the same child as this little boy.“
    “But this isn’t labeled?“ Jane asked, turning it over.
    “No. We slid it out of the folder to look, and there’s no writing on the back.“
    “Your uncle certainly took more after his mother than his father,“ Shelley said.
    “And he doesn’t look Rasputin-ish in this picture,“ Jane said. “In fact, he’s quite good-looking.“
    They chatted for a while about the details of the pictures; then Tenny carefully put the photograph back into the envelope. “I’m glad we found this and I appreciate having someone to show it to, but I’d be very grateful if you didn’t tell anyone from the Holnagrad Society about it,“ she said. “I understand their enthusiasm and interest, but I don’t want them harassing Aunt Joanna just now.“
    “Tenny, we wouldn’t mention it to anyone, even if you hadn’t asked,“ Jane assured her.
    “Thanks, Jane. Now I’ve got to get going.“
    “Tenny, just one question before you run off,“ Shelley said. “I noticed the announcement in the lobby about HawkHunter doing a reading Monday.“
    “Yes,“ Tenny said grimly. “Another clever arrangement of Pete’s. Before he and HawkHunter fell out. I’d love to find a way to cancel that, but HawkHunter is so damned litigious, I don’t dare.“
    “Has Pete turned up?“ Shelley asked.
    “Oh, yes. About eight this morning. Hung over. Apologetic. Inclined to weep,“ she said contemptuously.
    Shelley watched Tenny as she threaded her way through the tables and out of the dining room. “What are you thinking?“ Jane asked her.
    “Bad thoughts,“ Shelley said. “Very bad thoughts.“ She glanced around, making sure nobody else was close enough to overhear them. “You know, we’ve been trying to figure out how Pete, for example, could be the murderer. Mainly because we don’t much like him and because he’s pretty much of a moral weakling. But we don’t know that, really. We know only what Tenny has told us about him. And we believe it because Tenny says so and we like her. She’s us , if you know what I mean. She’s a fortyish woman, speaks our language, and appears to be quite forthright.“
    “Agreed,“ Jane said, suspecting she knew what was coming next.
    “But murderers can, in theory, be quite pleasant, normal-seeming people. You’re always hearing people say, when someone’s arrested for murder, “We never suspected! He seemed so normal!“ So—“
    “So maybe we’ve been taken in by Tenny? I’d hate to think that.“
    “So would I, but it’s possible, Jane. And she’s certainly involved in everything here and might be a good deal more involved than we suspect.“
    Jane nodded reluctantly. “I bet the same thing triggered this in you as it did in me. The mention of that jewelry.“
    “Exactly. It’s hard to tell in a black-and-white photo, but it looked to me like the jewelry Bill’s mother was wearing was worth a king’s ransom. It really could have been some of Russia’s—or Holnagrad’s—crown