All God's Promises (A Prairie Heritage Book 7)

by Vikki Kestell

  “I am Owen Washington, in-house investigator for Brunell & Brunell, Attorneys at Law, New Orleans, Louisiana. I agree to the conditions of this meeting as laid out by Ms. Sanchez.”

  Judy Sanchez nodded as she turned off the recorder and replaced it in her purse.

  “Mr. Esquibel and Mr. Washington, Gary and I knew what kind of man our father was. We may not have known the depths of his depravity, but we had our suspicions and our own experiences with him.

  “Let’s say that we grew up in a pretty abusive family, but our mother got the worst of it. Aunt Marge told us that Dad was the spitting image of their dad, which explained a lot to us.”

  She shifted, clearly uncomfortable with what she was revealing. “After Dad passed away, we found a few curiosities—a separate bank account in his name, for one, and records of substantial cash deposits over the years. These things confused and concerned us. We asked Aunt Marge about them, but she put us off.”

  The woman cleared her throat. “We actually threatened Aunt Marge, told her we would bring the police in to sort things out, but Marge was ready for our threats. She fired back, ‘If you get the police involved, your mother will lose everything: She will lose your dad’s pension, all that money in the bank, and her reputation. What will she have then? What will she live on?’”

  Judy Sanchez looked from Owen to Anthony. “To tell you the truth, our mom only started living after our dad died. For the first time that we could remember, she was happy. She had enough money to travel a little, fix up the house the way she wanted, buy nice clothes. We knew she would have enough for her old age. And what exactly did we actually know about Dad’s suspected illegal activities? Nothing.”

  Judy sighed. “Then Aunt Marge died two years later. I’ll let Dot tell you what she found.”

  Dot stared at the two investigators. “My mother got pregnant with me when she was fifteen. As you can imagine, life after that was not easy for her. Somehow, she provided for me and managed to leave me a nest egg and a home that was paid off. I couldn’t figure out how she’d done it, but Gary and Judy and I knew that whatever Mother and Uncle Gary were involved in, they were in it together and it had to have been illegal.

  “I am so sorry. So sorry for the pain they caused Kari? Kari is her name?” Dot sniffed into a napkin. “A while after Mother died, maybe a year? I found a notebook. I couldn’t make heads or tails of it, but I knew it was important, because every entry had a dollar amount beside it. I-I made a copy of its contents.”

  Owen and Anthony exchanged a glance.

  “We’d like to have that copy,” Anthony said.

  “Its contents are covered by this meeting’s privacy agreement,” Judy added.

  “Of course. Only to be used to locate Kari’s missing siblings.”

  Judy nodded, and Dot removed a sheaf of papers from her bag. She handed the stapled papers to Owen.

  “I hope this will help you find her sister and brother.”

  —

  MISS DAWES’ RICH, DULCET TONES wafted through the phone line. “Good morning, Miss Kari.”

  “Good morning, Miss Dawes! How are you today?”

  “I am fine. I thank you for asking. Miss Kari, if you are available tomorrow morning, Mr. Washington and Mr. Esquibel request a meeting to brief you on the results of their inquiries.”

  Kari’s heart thudded into her shoes. “Brief you on the results” had the ring of finality. Unsuccessful finality.

  She stuttered her response. “I-I, of course. W-what time?”

  “Nine o’clock, if that is convenient for you?”

  “Yes. I will be there. Is-is Mr. Washington home then? Has he returned from New Mexico?”

  “He and Mr. Esquibel are flying in this evening, Miss Kari.”

  Drat. So no genteel way of preempting the meeting, of getting the “skinny” from Owen in advance.

  Kari sighed. “Thank you, Miss Dawes.”

  —

  KARI ARRIVED EARLY THE FOLLOWING MORNING. She was not surprised to find Clover seated at the conference room table with Owen and Anthony.

  Seems like I have sat at this table a thousand times, Kari thought. She looked for good news in their faces, but did not find it.

  “Can you give me the bottom line, Owen? Anthony? I can’t bear the suspense.”

  Owen’s eyes filled with sympathy. “The bottom line, Miss Kari, is not what we hoped for. We have reached a dead end.”

  Kari stared at the table. She willed herself not to cry.

  I’m done crying at this table, in front of these fine men, she told herself. I am more mature than I was six months ago. I need to act my age.

  Taking a firm grip on her emotions, she cleared her throat. “Thank you for your candor, Owen. I’m ready now to hear your report.”

  “We found your ‘Marge S,’ Kari. The woman whose name tag you remembered was Marge Showman. She was not a social worker, as it turns out. She was the business administrator of a boys’ ranch not far from the scene of your parents’ accident. The name tag had to have been from the ranch.”

  Kari nodded her understanding.

  “She lived her last years in Thoreau, New Mexico, and passed away in 1984. We interviewed her daughter. She had kept a footlocker of her mother’s things. In that footlocker she found a notebook, a kind of coded ledger.”

  Anthony looked up from his notes. “Apparently, Marge Showman had a longtime relationship with a pregnancy center located in Grants. She was, herself, an unmarried mother in her early teens and the center had helped her. In return, Marge had volunteered at the center during summer breaks, first while finishing high school and later while going to college.

  “After she graduated with a degree in social work, Marge began to work with the center to arrange private adoptions for the center’s clients. Back then private adoption was more common than not and quite without restriction. We think Marge’s work with the pregnancy center may have begun with the best of intentions, but Marge’s intentions look to have changed as time went on.”

  Anthony picked up the thread. “We don’t know how or when Marge ‘branched out’ and began arranging her own private adoptions. Raising a child alone had to have been difficult financially.

  “What we think is that she figured out how to use the center’s name and resources but cut them out of the loop. Once she managed to put herself solely in charge of an adoption, she upped the price for healthy infants, and gave the birth mother only a small portion of the payment for expenses.

  “We think that occasionally the birth mother may have asked questions or demanded more money. Marge had a brother who was a state policeman, and we believe that when Marge needed a little muscle to bring the birth mother into line, she paid him to provide it.

  “We believe Gary Showman grew bolder over time. He referred young pregnant women directly to Marge, who represented herself as being employed by the pregnancy center. Many of their new ‘clients’ came from the Navajo or Pueblo reservations and were desperate for secrecy.

  “Apparently, the people at the center never had suspicions about Marge—and why would they? They never saw the children she brokered on the side.”

  Anthony took a sip of water. “As we mentioned, Marge kept a ledger of all the adoptions she brokered. Her daughter gave us that ledger.”

  Kari fidgeted.

  “According to the ledger, shortly after the date of your parent’s accident, Marge noted the transfer of two children, a girl, approximately age three, and a boy, six months, to a J.B. Cole. The only other notation under the same date was the word ‘Portland,’ which we think must refer to a city.”

  Excitement bubbled up in Kari and she stirred. Owen’s expression quelled her.

  “Kari, we found ‘J.B. Cole’ in Marge’s ledger five times and a total of three other sets of initials with no last name. “We did more digging and we think ‘J.B. Cole’ refers to a married couple, a Joseph and Belinda Cole. However, this man and his wife could not have been the adoptive paren
ts—they never had any children.

  “We believe Joseph Cole acted as a cutout. A middleman. His role was to put distance between adoptive parents and Marge Showman, so that the children could not be traced back to her. As far as we can tell, Marge never entered the names of adoptive parents in the ledger—only the initials of the go-betweens. Yes, we found J.B. Cole, but we have been unable to find names for other three sets of initials in the ledger.”

  Kari stilled as implications began to come clear.

  Anthony continued. “Marge retired in 1965 and she stopped volunteering at the pregnancy center at the same time. Entries in the ledger spanned a period of fifteen years but ceased when she retired.

  “When we tracked down the Coles, Belinda had passed away in 1969. When we finally located Joseph Cole, he, too, was deceased. No one where he had lived out his last years remembered him. We could not locate any family or friends. Like I said, he and his wife had no children.

  “In short, we believe Joseph and Belinda Cole passed Elaine and Samuel to an adoptive family that paid well for them. Unfortunately, we have no record of that family and no way to trace them.”

  Every fear Kari’s research had raised in her heart grew larger. “What if . . . what if a family did not adopt them?” she whispered. “What if instead . . .”

  Clover looked confused, but Owen and Anthony did not.

  “Kari, we have no way of knowing if they were brokered other than to a family,” Owen said, keeping his voice steady, “You can’t let your fears rule you on this. And please remind yourself that Elaine and Samuel are both grown now.”

  Clover muttered, “I am not following,” and looked from face to face.

  Anthony chimed in. “Kari, the one thing that gives me hope over that kind of thinking is the dollar amount Marge Showman applied to her ledger.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “She logged four thousand dollars for Elaine and Samuel. For herself. The Coles had to have received as much. Eight thousand dollars. That was a lot of money in 1956. A wealthy adoptive couple—a couple who could not have children, who longed for a family, and who had the means—they would have paid that for two beautiful children. Uh, we think other buyers . . . would not have paid as much.”

  “How-how-how does that amount compare to other entries?” Kari’s stomach clenched as they discussed with dispassion the cost of buying children.

  “It was pretty high, actually,” Owen admitted. “I had noticed that but hadn’t come to any conclusions. However, Anthony is right. And, most, er, traffickers don’t want infants because of the care they require.”

  “Traffickers?” Clover frowned and then reddened. “No!”

  “But there’s nothing to say they wouldn’t pay and then resell them!” Kari’s heart was breaking. “You have to keep looking. You have to!”

  Owen and Anthony exchanged disconcerted glances.

  “What would you have us do next, Kari?” Owen asked as gently as he could. “Where would you have us look?”

  “Well, how many Portlands can there be in the U.S.? Portland, Oregon? Portland, Maine? How many families in these cities have two children with the first names of Elaine and Samuel?” Kari demanded. “Can’t you look at school records? Maybe census records?”

  “Between twenty-five and thirty towns and cities in the United States are named Portland or have the word ‘Portland’ in their names. We would have to visit every Portland in the country and every school in every city—with no guarantee that the adoptive parents retained the children’s given names. In fact, it is likely that they changed their names.”

  “Well, what about newspaper ads in those cities? And I don’t care what it costs!”

  Anthony answered. “That’s not a bad idea. We can do that. It will cost a lot, but since you are willing and able to pay, we can arrange them and target Portland towns and cities.”

  “Well, do it! And what about those milk cartons?” With every moment, Kari’s tone grew harsher. She was angry, angrier than she had been in a long time.

  If she did not restrain herself, she would soon be throwing a major fit in front of people she loved, whose respect she valued.

  “Kari,” Owen’s voice was patient, but Kari heard the caution in his tone. “Do you remember when we went to brunch together—you, Clover and Lorene, Mercy and myself—the Sunday you told us all about your recovered memories?”

  Kari nodded, but like mercury in a thermometer, the rage coursing through her veins was rising higher.

  “Do you remember we talked about God’s peace? His contentment?”

  “Yes.” Kari grated the word through clenched teeth.

  “Peace acts like the Holy Spirit’s umpire,” Owen said, his words soft. “Peace helps us to determine if we are working in God’s will or under our own power, our old, uncrucified flesh.

  “Right now, you are disappointed and upset. Understandably so. But you don’t want to go off and do or say things while you are upset. That is not how our Lord leads us. He leads us in peace—not in frustration.”

  Kari bit back the hot words that fought to flood her mouth. She made herself recount how dear Owen was to her, how kind and gentle his manner was, and how consistently steady and stable his behaviors were. He was a godly man, filled with the fruit of the Holy Spirit.

  Lord, please help me! These feelings are not leading me in “paths of righteousness.” Please help me to calm down. Please help me to surrender my disappointment to you.

  She took a deep breath and blew it out. And again.

  “But what do we do now? What can I do?” Kari felt like her heart was crumbling.

  Anthony looked away. Owen did not. “We can pray for Elaine and Samuel, Kari. We can pray for them. As your family prayed for your father, even after he had had been gone decades.”

  “But I—” The words choked her. “But I want them! I have already waited my entire life for them and I want them! I—”

  Kari broke.

  She laid her head on the table and sobbed.

  ~~**~~

  Chapter 9

  THE NEXT MONTH DRAGGED BY, and Kari struggled each day to find and keep her emotional footing. Her activities became tasteless chores; she lost interest in many things. She grew short-tempered and surly with those around her.

  Kari was depressed and, somewhere inside, she knew it.

  She hadn’t realized how emotionally dependent she’d become on finding Elaine and Samuel—not until Owen and Anthony had reached a dead end. She hadn’t recognized that she’d hung all her hopes on finding them—not until Owen and Anthony told her that every avenue had been exhausted.

  With mulish determination, she pushed ahead and refused to give up the search. Underneath her stubborn persistence was a growing resentment.

  —

  KARI’S FORTIETH BIRTHDAY ARRIVED, and with it more depression. She had planned to ignore the day, but Søren, Max, and Ilsa called to wish her a happy birthday. Kari thanked them for the flowers they sent, and made an effort to express her appreciation—even if she was faking it.

  They shouldn’t have bothered. They can’t afford luxuries like florists! And for what?

  When Clover and Lorene asked to take her to lunch, Kari pretended she had a cold and asked for a raincheck.

  I can’t fake a whole lunch. Besides, I need to keep Anthony and Owen on task.

  Then, over her protests, Anthony returned to New Mexico, saying Owen could handle any follow-on tasks she assigned.

  Fine!

  Kari had not spoken with him since.

  She labored for days to script the newspaper ads, but was outspokenly disgusted when Owen told her that dairy farmers no longer ran missing children’s faces and stories on the backs of milk cartons. The milk carton project had died when a number of prominent child psychologists proclaimed that children “might be traumatized” if they read about kidnapped or missing children at the breakfast table.

  Idiots.

  Against Owen’s advice, Kari
reached out to the host of a popular television program whose son had been abducted and murdered in 1981.

  “Look, Kari, we have a legally binding agreement with the Showman family not to publicize their parents’ part in the abduction,” Owen warned her. “Going on national television will lead to questions that you cannot, ethically or legally, answer.”

  “I’ll keep them out of it,” Kari insisted.

  But the television host declined to document her case for his program. “I’m sorry I won’t be able to help you,” he said, “but you have no pictures of your sister or brother, you won’t provide any of the background information about their abduction and, frankly, too much time has passed. I can’t base an entire program on two names and an event that occurred thirty-some years ago. Perhaps I can do a small spotlight on the newspaper ads at the end of the show.”

  The quarter-page ads ran in twenty papers for four weeks and cost Kari several hundred thousand dollars.

  Owen set up a call center and staffed it with a half-dozen people.

  More money.

  Owen and two investigators from his new firm reviewed and followed up on the calls.

  Much more money.

  The call center received hundreds of calls in response to the newspaper advertisements—and opportunists and charlatans galore came crawling out of the woodwork.

  Not one lead panned out.

  “You’ve re-created a scene from that movie Annie,” Owen grumbled. “I expect Lily St. Regis and Rooster Hannigan to show up any day now. You know—with half of a locket.”

  Kari’s face blazed red. “That’s not funny, Owen. I don’t appreciate your making light of something so serious.”

  Owen straightened and smoothed his ebony features into stiff, dignified lines. “No, it’s not funny. I apologize, Miss Kari.”

  As he walked away, Kari knew she was the one who should have apologized.

  —

  KARI CALLED RUTH THAT AFTERNOON and spoke of her mounting disappointments. She sat at the desk in her redone office. Her desk faced the window now instead of away from it. She stared out the window at her favorite view as they talked.