Nobody's Child (Georgia Davis Series)

by Libby Fischer Hellmann

  Her voice still had a southern lilt, Vanna thought. Even after all these years. She shrugged.

  “I suppose you’re not going to tell me where you were,” her mother said coolly.

  Vanna tilted her head. Better to play offense. Strike the first blow. Maybe this time her mother would be different. “What do you care? It’s no sweat off your back.” Money was tight since her father was gone, and her mother had started to complain how expensive it was to raise a child. Especially a girl. “I wasn’t mooching off you.”

  “No. I guess you weren’t,” her mother said after a pause. “You were probably in someone’s backseat working for your lunch.”

  Vanna sucked in an unsteady breath. This was different. Was her mother actually putting up a fight? Vanna decided to test it. “Like I said, why do you care?”

  “I’ll tell you why. We’re running out of cities to live in. Why do you think we’re always moving?”

  “Because ever since Daddy died, you can’t keep a job.”

  “We’re not talking about me.” Her mother’s expression was calm. “You can’t seem to keep your legs closed. Or your head clear. Your juvie file is getting pretty thick. I wouldn’t be surprised if the cops gave us a personal escort to the edge of town.”

  She crossed her arms, matching her mother’s stance. “Well then, won’t you be happy when I turn eighteen? You won’t have to deal with me anymore.” She paused. “Or me with you. I haven’t seen you sober for nearly a year.”

  Her mother spent her days in a kind of trance, guzzling wine or rum until she passed out on the couch. A good day was when her mother waited until after dinner to start drinking.

  “Alcohol is legal,” her mother replied.

  “So it’s okay to be an addict? As long as it’s legal?”

  Her mother swayed and grabbed the edge of the counter. Was she going to collapse? Vanna almost took a step forward to steady her, but her mother abruptly straightened on her own. A wave of humiliation rolled over Vanna. Why had she even tried? Her mother didn’t need her, didn’t want her, didn’t love her. Vanna was nothing more than a useless appendage.

  But she didn’t know how to stop pushing. “What are you going to do? Lock me in my room? Then apologize and tell me how sorry you are when you let me out?” She let her arms fall to her sides. “Go ahead. I don’t care. I want to die.”

  Vanna had no time to prepare for the sudden clap, the stinging flesh, the tears that involuntarily welled up when her mother slapped her across the face. Vanna’s hand flew to her cheek. “The fuck you do that for?”

  “I wish you’d never been born,” her mother said.

  Vanna massaged her jaw with her fingers. “I’ve known that for a long time.” But inside she was almost elated. She’d forced a reaction. Finally, after how many months, her mother had actually shown some emotion. It briefly occurred to Vanna how low they’d both sunk if provoking her mother gave her pleasure. She pushed the thought away. “Yeah, well, you should have died along with Daddy.”

  “Maybe you’re right.”

  “You’re a shitty mother.”

  Her mother pressed her lips together. Another show of emotion, Jobeth-style. This was a big night. Vanna shot her mother a defiant look.

  “At least Georgia never talked back.”

  Something registered. This was new information.

  “Georgia? Who the fuck is Georgia?”

  Her mother blinked. Then she bit her lip, as if she knew she’d said too much.

  Vanna caught it. “Who the fuck is Georgia?”

  “No one.” Her mother’s voice went flat. She turned away.

  But Vanna was in no mood to let her mother skate. She closed in, grasped her mother’s shoulders, and shook her. Actually shook her. “Who is Georgia?”

  Her mother didn’t flinch, and she didn’t turn around. “Pack your things. We’ll leave tomorrow. We’ll go to New Mexico.”

  Vanna dropped her hands and tried to steady her breathing. “No. Not this time. I’m not going.”

  Her mother shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  Vanna spun around to the kitchen drawer where her mother kept the cooking stuff. She slid the drawer open, grabbed the biggest knife inside, raised it, and went back to her mother. “Turn around, bitch. Who is Georgia?”

  This time her mother did turn around. When she saw the knife, she blanched. Fear shot across her face, but her voice remained chilly and dispassionate. “Put it down.”

  “Who’s Georgia?” Vanna said sharply.

  Her mother kept her mouth shut.

  Vanna aimed the knife at her mother. “Who is she?”

  Her mother kept her eyes on the knife for what seemed like forever. Then, as if she knew she had lost the battle, her entire body sagged. She averted her gaze, dropped into a kitchen chair, and covered her eyes with her hands. Vanna heard a long exhalation.

  “Georgia—Georgia is your sister.”

  “What?”

  “Your half sister.” Her mother wouldn’t meet her gaze.

  “I have a sister?”

  Jobeth didn’t reply.

  “Look at me.” Vanna brandished the knife.

  Her mother raised her eyes to Vanna. Vanna didn’t know whether it was because Vanna had a weapon or because she had forced a confession. Still clutching the knife, she moved in. “Where is she?”

  Still no reply.

  “Where?”

  Her mother swallowed. “I think she lives in Chicago.”

  Vanna’s mother had lived in Chicago. She’d been married to a cop. Charlie Davis. But he’d been a drunk, and a mean one, her mother had admitted. He beat her regularly. But now there was a daughter. “You have another daughter and you never told me?”

  “What difference would it have made? Do you think our lives would be any better?” Her mother’s lips curled up, but it wasn’t a smile. “Your father saved me. He made my life worth living. And now he’s gone and I’m back where I was years ago.”

  “Why haven’t you talked to her? Called her? Had her come out and visit?”

  “It wouldn’t make any difference. I haven’t spoken to her in twenty years. I don’t know where she is…” She shrugged. “She won’t want to hear from me, anyway. I walked out on her.”

  And now you have me, Vanna wanted to say. It’s just you and me. But she didn’t. It wasn’t true anymore. There was someone else. Her sister. Even if she was just a ghost. Vanna would never have her mother to herself. The old familiar rage bubbled up. “I should kill you.”

  Again her mother’s lips formed that weird imitation of a smile. “I wish you would. Neither of us has anything worth living for.”

  But Vanna didn’t kill her mother. She did something worse. She decided to sever the cycle of hot rage and icy distance that ricocheted between them. It had given them both nothing but pain and grief. And now it would be finished. Vanna had an out. Another chance.

  After her mother passed out, an empty bottle of wine on the floor, Vanna put a change of clothes into her backpack and lifted fifty bucks from her mother’s purse. She hoped it was enough for a bus ticket. If not, she’d have to work it off. She slipped the bills into her pocket and crept out of the apartment. Then she went back inside, opened her mother’s closet, and took out her peacoat. It would be cold in Chicago. She took one last look. Her mother was still sprawled on the sofa, unmoving. She wouldn’t wake up for hours. And when she did, Vanna would be a thousand miles away.

  Chapter 23

  Georgia picked up the phone Monday morning.

  “Is Georgia Davis there?”

  “Speaking.”

  “Hi, Miss Davis. This is Rick Martin.”

  Georgia frowned. “Who?”

  “Rosebud Restaurant Supply?”

  Comprehension dawned. The roly-poly guy she’d visited down in God’s country. “Sure. How are you?”

  “Good, good.” He giggled. Actually giggled. “Hey, I hope you don’t mind, but I’ve been doing a little sleuthing.”


  She groaned inwardly. When a civilian got involved in an investigation, it usually blew up. They thought everything worked the way it did on TV. The evidence would be clear. The bad guys would be caught. Justice would be served. Then she reminded herself that, technically, as a PI, she was a civilian.

  “I’m not sure that was a great idea,” she began. “You could do more harm than good.”

  “I figured that’s what you’d say. But I couldn’t help myself. You know.”

  She didn’t, and his presumed intimacy grated. She’d met the guy only once.

  “You wanted to track down that sandwich wrap,” he said. “Right?”

  “I still do.”

  “Well then, I think we’re good.”

  “We?”

  “Well, you know what I mean. You.”

  “Uh-huh.”

  He cleared his throat. “I checked through my catalogues, and I found a couple of companies that were in the ballpark. They had paper and a design that was similar. I was about to call them when I found the exact wrap.”

  “You’re kidding.” Georgia figured it was a long shot.

  “Nope,” he chirped. “It’s a company right here in the Midwest. In Michigan.”

  “You’re sure it’s the same?”

  “Absolutely. It wasn’t in the catalogue. I found it online in a little corner of cyberspace.”

  “Impressive.” She had to give him that. “Thanks, Rick. What’s the name of the company? I’ll give them a call.”

  “Macomb Paper. But—um—you don’t have to call them.”

  Her stomach tightened. “Why not?”

  “I already did.”

  “Why the hell did you do that?” She knew her tone was sharp.

  Suddenly he sounded tentative. “I—er—I just knew you’d be looking for restaurants in Chicagoland that used their paper and I wanted to save you the trouble.”

  That’s what you get when you deal with amateurs. Georgia ran a hand through her hair, unsure whether to laugh or cry. She forced herself to breathe. To center herself.

  “So what did you find out?” Her tone, however, veered toward acid.

  “There were—are three.”

  “Three what?”

  “Three restaurants in the area that use the wrap from Macomb’s. Or did.” He paused. “I thought you’d want to know which ones.”

  “You thought right.” She took a pen from an empty can of beer on her desk where she kept pens, pencils, scissors, and a matt knife.

  “One is Tony’s, a joint in Joliet. But they closed six months ago. The economy, you know.”

  “Go on.”

  “The other is in Oakbrook. Susie’s Sandwich Café.” He paused again. “And the third is downtown. Just off Roosevelt Road. Benny’s Deli.”

  “Benny’s? Really?”

  Benny’s was a well-known lunch place, popular with Chicago power brokers as well as truck drivers. The owners claimed to have the best corned beef in town, and they were right. She’d been there.

  “Yup.” She heard the pride in Martin’s voice. “’Course the wrap could be different than the scrap you saw. Place like Benny’s probably customizes theirs.”

  She didn’t have the heart to scold him. Instead she thanked him. “But, Rick, don’t meddle anymore. It could be dangerous.”

  “I guess that means you don’t want me to go with you to Benny’s.”

  “That would be a good guess.”

  He sighed theatrically. “Okay. But when they publish the book, I want to be in the acknowledgments. Okay?”

  Chapter 24

  Although Benny’s had been around since the 1940s, they’d moved several times and their present incarnation was in the South Loop. The place wasn’t much more than a one-story shack with a red sign outside; inside were two rooms with a lot of tables crammed together. There was no pretense at decoration, and the food was served cafeteria-style. Still, by the time Georgia pushed through the door at lunchtime the next day, the place was teeming with cops, aldermen, lawyers, and other Chicago VIPS, all of whom jostled each other good-naturedly.

  The staff at Benny’s were notorious for a smart-ass attitude, but customers gave as good as they got, and the hot, steamy air was filled with cheerful put-downs, one-liners, and verbal jabs. The best part, though, were the smells. Part garlic, part corned beef, grease, and soup, nothing was better than the aromas wafting through a good deli, Georgia thought. She’d inhale them all day.

  She approached a counter that ran the length of the room where about a dozen people stood in line. Three men behind the counter were making up sandwiches, dishing out latkes, coleslaw, and soup. At the end of the counter was a neon “Carry-Out” sign, below which two Hispanic women assembled meals and slid them into paper bags. On the counter between the two women lay a box of wrappers with the familiar red and yellow stripes down one edge. She watched as one of the women drew out a wrapper. Now that she could see the whole piece, she noticed the name “Benny’s” printed in red letters in the center of the paper. Rick Martin had been on the mark. They’d customized their wrap.

  Even so, she couldn’t loiter too long; the place was geared for a speedy turnover. She waited near the carry-out sign, and when it was her turn she ordered a corned beef on rye to go. She watched as they layered more than three inches of meat on the bread. Enough for a week. She asked for extra coleslaw and Russian dressing, and one of the women snapped, “Why you not ask for a Reuben?”

  She apologized with a smile and said, “Don’t forget the latke and pickle.”

  The woman shot her a look. “Whaddya wanna drink?”

  “Diet Coke.”

  The woman retrieved a small plastic container with coleslaw, another with Russian dressing. Then she wrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle, put everything and the drink into a white bag, and handed Georgia a yellow receipt. Georgia took everything up front to pay, winding around a couple of aldermen she regularly saw on TV. She also passed a man who looked remarkably like Senator Dick Durbin.

  Back in her car, she unwrapped the sandwich, latke, and pickle but made sure to save the wrap. She bit into the sandwich. It was just as good as she remembered. It was a clear but frigid day, and she’d almost ordered matzoh-ball soup too, but the sandwich alone was so hearty she could eat only half. She had no room for soup. She finished the pickle, took a bite of the latke, then slipped everything else back into the bag. Dinner.

  She’d snagged a space across the street from the restaurant on Jefferson where she could watch people going in and out. She fished out her camera and took pictures of anyone exiting with a takeout bag, although she didn’t expect any leads. Still, she had to be thorough.

  The sun was slanting toward the horizon when a gray Hyundai with a placard on the roof that said “Benny’s” pulled up in front of the restaurant. Georgia straightened. A delivery guy.

  An average-sized man in a down jacket and a wool Bears hat climbed out of the Hyundai and went inside. Georgia got out of her car and stationed herself in back of the Hyundai, shivering in the arctic chill. The guy came out ten minutes later, carrying two cardboard boxes filled with bags with tickets stapled to them. He looked to be somewhere in his twenties. His face was pale, his eyes bloodshot, and he needed a shave. Guy had a rough night. He got in his car and drove away.

  Ten minutes later another car, a Corolla like Georgia’s, also with a placard on the top, pulled up. She watched a young African American man trot into the restaurant, emerging a few minutes later with a box of white bags. He stowed the food in his backseat and pulled out.

  She went back to her car and watched him pull away, but not before she’d scrawled down his license plate, just as she’d done with the first guy. She’d wanted to question both about their deliveries over the past few weeks, but they had no incentive to talk to her. Even if they did, they might tell those customers that a detective had been nosing around asking questions. Plus, she didn’t know which delivery guy knew what. She had a fifty-fifty chance of p
icking the right guy. Which meant a fifty-fifty chance of choosing the wrong one too. It was time to go home and start digging.

  Chapter 25

  Two hours later Georgia knew enough about one of Benny’s delivery guys to make a return visit. Kroll’s and FindersKeepers revealed that Bruce Kreisman, the owner of the Hyundai, had fled the state of Florida six months earlier for kiting checks. Overdrawing on accounts at several banks, he’d made off with twelve grand. Miami still had a warrant out for his arrest. She was surprised Benny’s hadn’t picked it up during a background check. Unless they didn’t do one.

  She wolfed down the rest of her corned beef sandwich. The guy in the Corolla was clean. Dropped out of high school but was taking a correspondence course online. Worked as a night janitor downtown. The car was registered to Selma Hunter, who could have been his mother, aunt, or girlfriend.

  The next morning she was back at Benny’s before lunch. The gray Hyundai pulled up around eleven.

  “Hey, Bruce!” she called as she slid out of her car. “Is that you?”

  The guy whipped around. Even though she was twenty yards away, a look of panic overspread his face.

  As she trotted across the street, Kreisman appraised her, and some of the panic faded. He was trying to figure out whether he knew her.

  “It is you, isn’t it?” She pasted on a grin and kept her voice friendly, almost flirty.

  But when she was within a few feet of him, his eyes narrowed, and he began to turn away. “Sorry. You’ve got the wrong guy.”

  “You’re not Bruce Kreisman?”

  “I don’t know who you’re talking about.” He headed for Benny’s door.

  “You sure you’re not the Bruce Kreisman with an outstanding arrest warrant in Miami?”

  He froze, his back to Georgia. Then he turned around slowly. A cagey look came over him. He had to be thinking that she was “just” a woman. Less of a threat. She was used to it. He backtracked in her direction, a determined look replacing the fear. The asshole thought he had a plan.

  She stood her ground and blew on her hands. The cold, battering wind fell just short of the Hawk.