“Ah, yes,” said Larry K with a laugh. “Snuck that past the night editor and got in trouble with the big boss when he read the copy.”
“Why would that get you in trouble?” I asked.
“Back then,” he answered, sounding like he had a mouthful of food, “you weren’t supposed to confuse gossip with the news. See, I was ahead of the times.”
“And do you remember the gossip?”
“Depends on why you’re asking. Dispensing information is my bread and butter, and it sounds like you want me to work for free.”
“How much?” I said, stifling my irritation and hoping there really was salmonella in his chicken.
“You tell me why this is important to you and we can work something out. If it’s a good enough story, it won’t cost you a dime. My newspapers will pay me.”
No use shooting myself in the foot just because I didn’t like the man. What harm could it do to tell him the truth? So I began with Ben’s murder and ended with finding the inscription in the Bible.
“Hmm. Interesting,” he said when I was finished. “Maybe we can work together on this. You say you found sketchbooks?”
“Yes, but I’m more interested in—”
“And you have a photograph of this woman, Cloris?”
“I do.”
“Can you scan one of the drawings and the photo and send it to me, along with a signed commitment that I get first shot at doing a piece on this?”
“Okay, sure,” I said. Obviously the guy knew something, and I wanted what he had. He gave me his fax number and I hung up.
Thirty minutes later I had him back on the line.
“Okay, here’s the deal,” Larry explained. “Kid ran off because someone knocked her up. And in Marysville, seventeen-year-old unwed mothers were about as welcome as piss in a punch bowl.”
“And they never found her?”
“Not that I heard. Anyway, when you mentioned the sketchbooks, I remembered something else about Connie. She’d won this little art contest sponsored by our paper. I was one of the judges. She was good.”
“Are you saying Connie and Cloris are the same person?”
“That’s her in the picture you faxed. That’s Connie.
And that sure as hell is her artwork.”
I didn’t speak for a few seconds, wondering how this might connect to Cloris-a.k.a.-Connie’s murder.
As if he’d read my mind, Larry K said, “When and if you find out what exactly happened to that girl, you remember we have an agreement, Ms. Rose.” He was all business now. No attitude, no sarcasm. In fact, he sounded downright excited. And I was, too.
I hung up, thinking how everything I’d learned so far seemed to lead to a bigger mystery. Ruth had never mentioned any baby born to Cloris and Ben, in fact, I clearly remembered Sheriff Nemec saying there were no children, no other relatives period.
Okay. So maybe the man’s name that Cloris had written in the sketchbook and on her calendar would shed some light on why she felt compelled to flee town and change her identity. I turned my attention to Samuel Feldman and plugged him into the same search engine I’d used to find Larry K. Ten pages of hits popped up. Not bad. Could have been a thousand. And I soon discovered a number of these hits showed one particular Samuel Feldman lived in Galveston. After scrolling through all the pages, I could find no other Texas connection. So I visited the yellow pages on-line and typed in Feldman’s name. When a number carrying a Galveston area code popped up, I dialed and was greeted by an answering machine.
“You have reached Parental Advocates,” said a soft, professional-sounding female voice. “Our business hours are nine A.M. to five P.M. Tuesday through Saturday. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the tone.”
I hung up, wondering if I had the right number. But when I tried several other on-line phone books, the same number appeared. So was Parental Advocates Feldman’s business?
The message said they were open tomorrow, and I decided I’d pay a visit. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky and come face-to-face with someone from Cloris’s past.
11
I dragged myself from bed early the following morning and had little memory of the drive to Galveston, despite the double espresso I picked up at Starbucks. I found Parental Advocates without difficulty, located in a restored house in the doctor-lawyer-accountant section of town. I’d been considering what kind of business Parental Advocates might be. The most common options for unwed mothers back in the 1970s were adoption or abortion. Didn’t sound like abortion, not with that advocate word, so I figured adoption was the most logical explanation.
The building was freshly painted, and gold-leaf lettering on a sign next to the leaded-glass front door confirmed I had the right place. The door chimed when I entered, and a woman was seated behind a sleek walnut desk across the large once-foyer-now-office. She looked to be around my age, close to thirty, with stylish straight hair and wearing an expensive-looking summer-weight pale green suit. I took in the burgundy velvet window seats, gleaming oak floors, and expensively draped bay window. No cheap store-front operation, that was for sure.
“May I help you?” she asked.
“I was looking for Mr. Feldman. Is he in?”
“Mr. Feldman?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did someone refer you to him for an adoption?”
Why did the woman sound so surprised? I didn’t know, but she seemed so darned suspicious I found myself saying, “Uh... yeah. I was referred here.”
“To Mr. Feldman? How odd. I’m Helen Hamilton, by the way.” She gestured to a leather chair in front of her desk. “Please have a seat. I’m very curious to know who referred you, Ms.... ?”
“Deer. Jane Deer. Actually, the person asked me not to use their name.”
“I see.”
Whatever she “saw” wasn’t sitting too well, so I decided to say nothing, hoping she’d offer more. Meanwhile, I scanned the walls for a framed state license confirming this was indeed an adoption agency, but there were only prints of sailing ships and the more famous Galveston mansions.
Finally she succumbed to the silence and said, “Mr. Feldman has... retired. I run Parental Advocates now. How can I help you?”
Retired could mean the man was old enough to be Cloris’s Feldman. “So has he moved to Florida or Arizona to play golf every day?” I said, trying to probe and sound lighthearted at the same time.
“I don’t see how that information could possibly help you. I, on the other hand, arrange adoptions and would be happy to assist you. That is why you came here, correct?” she said.
“The fertility drugs just haven’t worked,” I answered. Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, as Daddy used to say.
“Let me inform you first, Ms. Deer, that we’re reluctant to place children with single parents. You’re not single, are you?” She was staring at my left hand—my ringless left hand.
Couldn’t manufacture a wedding band, so I just plowed on. “My husband couldn’t come with me. He’s out of town.”
“If you want to proceed, then I’ll meet with you both when your spouse returns. What’s his profession?” She slid a stack of papers across the desk.
“Uh... computers. He owns a computer business.” I glanced at the heading on the top sheet. It said, Family History, but nothing on the top page identified Parental Advocates as an adoption agency, either.
Hamilton rested her elbows on the chair’s arms and smiled. “I hope you understand that finding the right child can be expensive.”
“Money’s not an issue.” I leaned toward her, shaking my head sadly. “We’ve exhausted all other alternatives.”
My response seemed to erase Hamilton’s paranoia. Her body language—relaxed shoulders, welcoming smile—struck me as hugely sympathetic and accepting now.
She said, “I assure you, we’ll do everything to find you the perfect child, but first we’ll need your husband’s input. If you’d like, I could arrange a meeting in a less formal setting. Dinner, per
haps? Say at the Galvez Hotel?”
So she wanted to meet me and my fake husband at an expensive restaurant, where no doubt she’d offer a smooth sales pitch. For a human life. I forced a smile and said, “I’ll discuss this with my husband when he returns, but could you answer a few questions now?”
“If I can.”
“How does Parental Advocates work? See, we’ve been through so many agencies and talked to so many—”
“We’ll clarify everything after we receive the processing fee.” She floated an elegant hand at the forms lying in front of me. “For purposes of confidentiality, all our transactions are in cash.”
Cash? Definitely a fox in this chicken coop. I decided to mention Feldman again, since his name had provoked such a strong reaction earlier. “Are you sure Mr. Feldman is permanently retired? I really hoped to talk to him.”
Did her cheeks lose a little color or was it my imagination? “Mr. Feldman no longer practices law,” she said coldly. “We have several very good attorneys on board. Now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Deer, a client is due here any minute.” She stood, extending her hand. “Call us in the future and we’ll see if we can proceed with your application. A pleasure meeting you.”
Her gray eyes were as icy as a pawnbroker’s smile, and her “please let me take your money” attitude had transformed to “let me think about taking your money,” all after my bringing up Feldman again.
She led me to the door and offered a frosty good-bye.
After I climbed into the Camry and turned the key in the ignition, I sat there wondering why the mere mention of a name had caused the ambient temperature in that room to drop twenty degrees. These thoughts were interrupted, however, when I spotted Hamilton in my rearview mirror. I pulled out and started down the street, still keeping an eye on her in the mirror. She took off in a silver BMW, heading in the opposite direction.
And I made a U-turn.
12
Helen Hamilton’s hot little Beamer steamed through Galveston at an urgent clip. As I followed, I wondered if Daddy and Mom were forced to pay a “processing fee” when they adopted us. And worse, had they dealt with someone as mercenary as Hamilton seemed to be?
And why, if Hamilton had a client coming, as she claimed, did she leave her office? Had the mere mention of Feldman sent Hamilton speeding through town? Because she was speeding, weaving between cars on Broadway and passing on the right. I kept my distance, but the main street is long and wide, and I had no trouble keeping her in sight.
She made a right turn, and at first I thought she might be taking a shortcut to Seawall Boulevard. I made the same turn just before the light changed, knowing I had to be careful now. We were in a residential area with little traffic, and she might spot me. I let her have a two-block lead. We drove into a rundown neighborhood, and a minute later she made a left, lurching to a halt in front of a small yellow house.
I drove on past the intersection and parked by a sagging beige two-story on the corner. I adjusted my side mirror and saw Hamilton walking briskly up the walkway to the yellow house.
I waited, considering whether I should continue to follow her once she came out. I guess I thought she’d simply lead me to Feldman, but this was certainly no retirement community.
Then, five minutes into my self-appointed stakeout, I learned another little detecting lesson. I’d never make a good cop. I was stir-crazy. What was going on over there?
Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’d be sorry, knowing I’m about as patient as a two-year-old in front of a birthday cake, I slid from behind the wheel into the humid morning air. Maybe the drapes were open and I could see what she was doing. Or maybe I could listen at an open window.
I started for the corner, noting that even the lawns looked defeated. Clumps of Saint Augustine grass choked the life out of the gentle Bermuda, where there was any Bermuda, and not merely blemishes of dusty ground.
“You selling something?” called a voice from behind me.
My heart skipped. Some surveillance expert I was. I hadn’t noticed anyone within a block of here. I squinted back at the house I’d parked in front of, but through the screen door all I could see was a shadowy face and the whites of his eyes.
“Not selling,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I park here, but I want to surprise a friend, and if she recognizes my car, it would ruin everything.”
He opened the door about six inches. He was a tall kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. “If your car’s gone when you get back,” he said, “don’t go telling the police I had anything to do with it.”
A small child appeared at the teen’s knees, peeking out at me with giant brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than five. “Yeah, white lady, don’t go telling the po-lice.”
“Get back in the house, man,” the teenager said. “Didn’t Momma tell you about talking trash like that?”
The little boy answered this by running out onto the porch, skipping in circles, and chanting, “William can’t get me. William can’t get me.”
William did get him, however, with a rapid swoop of one long, gangly arm. To the delight of the child, he was lifted to a horizontal position on William’s hip, well above the slatted, uneven porch.
I smiled, then started off again, saying, “No one will have the time to steal my car. Besides, Camrys are hard to break into.” I had no idea if this was true, but it sounded convincing. Their front door clattered shut as I walked away.
Sweat already soaked the back of my T-shirt and dampened the waist of my khaki shorts by the time I reached the yard surrounding the yellow house. It had to be a hundred degrees though not even ten A.M. yet.
That was when my impatience caught up with me. Helen Hamilton was coming out of the house she’d entered only a short while ago. I scurried to a nearby mimosa and stood behind the tree, but mimosas aren’t exactly live oaks and I’m not exactly Kate Moss. I definitely had a camouflage-deficit problem.
When Hamilton descended the porch steps and I saw what she was carrying, my hand flew to my mouth. A baby. A baby in a car seat. Guess the “client” couldn’t quite come to her. And then I wondered why she hadn’t told the truth. Adoptions and babies go together, so—
“Hey! White lady!” said the little kid from the beige house. His words seemed to echo through the waves of heat zigzagging off the blacktop.
Damn! Hamilton might hear him and spot me.
I grabbed the kid by his tiny shoulders and moved him in front of me, ducking so his chest was between me and her. I put my finger to my lips. “Shhh, I’m playing hide-and-seek.”
His dark eyes grew wide with the pleasure of conspiracy.
I peeked over his shoulder. She was putting the baby in the car and did glance our way, but quickly refocused on the infant, whose tiny wail drifted across the lawn. Her high heels clicking on the pavement, Hamilton then walked around to the driver’s side and opened the door.
The boy said, “Lady, you gotta listen!”
I covered his mouth with my hand and whispered, “Don’t give me away. It’s her turn to hide, and maybe I can see where she’s going.” I continued watching Hamilton, ready to head for my car and follow when I thought it was safe.
The boy twisted free, took my face in his small, square hands, and pulled my head so we were eye-to-eye. “But, lady,” he said, those soft, wide eyes close to my nose, “James Franklin is stealing your car.”
A second passed before I grasped what he’d told me; then I started running like Satan’s breath was on my neck.
I didn’t know if Hamilton saw me bounding across the grass. I didn’t know if she saw the kid right alongside me, taking three strides to my one. I wouldn’t be finding out where she was taking that baby, and about then I didn’t care.
I felt momentary relief when I saw that my car wasn’t gone, and was about to deliver a lecture about lying little brats when I noticed the open driver’s-side door.
A pair of what had to be size-fourteen athletic shoes rested on the curb. Shoes wit
h feet in them. And legs attached. The remainder of this person’s body was wedged under the dash of my car.
“Hey! You!” I shouted, hurrying toward the Camry.
Obviously James Franklin’s give-a-damner was broken. He kept right on with his hot-wiring activities.
“Get the hell out of my car!” I shouted, giving the nearest size-fourteen a good kick.
“Yeah. Get the hell out of her car,” came the small voice beside me. I noticed the kid had his hands on his hips just like me.
My kick got James Franklin’s attention—unless he was afraid of a five-year-old with an attitude. When his ugly mug appeared, his eyes bloodshot and looking in every direction at once, I should have known “Get the hell out of my car” would have about as much impact as a dart hitting an elephant.
Sure, he got out, but he was swinging my saddlebag of a purse, the one I’d left on the front seat.
I have reasonably sound reflexes. I ducked.
A mistake. My purse met the little guy on the downside, right on the head, sending him sprawling onto the sidewalk.
“Will-iam!” the kid screeched.
But apparently William had already heard the commotion, because while I knelt next to the screaming child, William tore after the retreating James Franklin, calling the thief a nasty name, which included references to a maternal parent. The car thief-turned- purse snatcher was running like a bullet with feet, my bag clutched to his chest.
I turned my attention to the whimpering boy, unsure how to handle him. “What’s your name, kid?”
He didn’t seem to be bleeding anywhere. But his nose was running, his face was streaked with tears, and his lower lip trembled.
“Sho... mar... i,” he said, the syllables separated by sobs.
“I’m sorry, Shomari, I shouldn’t have ducked.” And then, since I didn’t know what else to do, I hugged him.
His thin but strong arms came up and around my neck and I picked him up. Snot and tears joined the sweat on my shoulder as I carried him over to the much cooler porch and sat down.
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