Dead Giveaway yrm-3

by Leann Sweeney

  She yawned. "Because Burl does things by the book. Now give me your number. When he gets home, I'll tell him you want to talk to him."

  I gave her my cell number and said, "Sorry to have disturbed you" before I hung up.

  My brain was swirling with questions, and I knew I wouldn't be getting any sleep tonight. Stroking the purring Diva, I wondered if I could reach Bottlebrush before Burl Rollins was finished at Verna Mae's house.

  The drive took far less time than when Will and I had made the trip, partly due to a deserted interstate—though a speedometer hovering at eighty helped, too. I arrived before midnight and found a county sheriff's patrol unit parked in Verna Mae's curving front drive along with a dark-colored Land Rover.

  I pulled up behind the Rover, killed the engine and slid from behind the wheel of my Camry. The air was rich with country smells—the sweetness of honeysuckle in the night breeze layered over the scent of new-mown grass. When I climbed the porch steps and passed the wicker furniture where we'd sat and chatted, I looked away. I didn't care to see that bassinet again.

  The front door stood ajar, the entire lock removed and lying on the porch slats. I pushed the door wider with my toe and heard male voices in a far-off room.

  "Hello?" I called.

  No reply, so I stepped inside. The same overpowering gardenia smell I remembered from the other day about slapped me in the face. Verna Mae must have a punch bowl full of potpourri somewhere. I slipped off my still gritty sandals, suddenly feeling the need to respect her white carpet. Whoever had just come in had not done the same. I easily followed two sets of dirty shoe prints that led to two men standing in a study. I noticed a gigantic rolltop desk and wall-towall mahogany bookshelves. The men's backs were to me, looking in desk drawers. One wore a black police uniform.

  I cleared my throat.

  They both turned in surprise, the deputy's hand on his weapon.

  "Good evening, ma'am. Are you looking for Verna Mae?" the older cop said, apparently nonplussed by my arrival. His uncombed, gray-streaked hair tufted out over his ears, reading glasses sat low on his nose and he had brown eyes that sagged like a basset hound's.

  "I'm not looking for her," I said. "I know she was murdered."

  "Is that so? How did you find out?" asked the man. I noted a Bottlebrush gold police shield pinned to his shirt pocket.

  "What's your business here?" the deputy piped in. He looked about twenty, with chiseled cheeks, a military haircut and biceps the size of world globes.

  The older man put a hand on the deputy's arm. "Now, Glen, this is a friendly town and I'd like to maintain that reputation, if you don't mind. I doubt this little lady came here in the dead of night to cause us any trouble. Are you a reporter, miss?"

  "No, sir. My name is Abby Rose and I'm a private investigator." I started to unzip my bag. "I can show you my license if—"

  "We'll get to that later. I'm Burl Rollins. Chief of Police in town," he said. "Your name sounds mighty familiar. Why is that?"

  "I left you several messages over the last few days. I wanted to interview you for a case I'm working, one that involved Mrs. Olsen."

  "Hmmm. And now she's departed this life. There's only one case I can think of that involves her and me, and that was a long time ago."

  I nodded. "Abandoned child."

  "How does that explain what you're doing here?" Muscleman Glen asked. I could tell he was making an effort to be "friendly" this time, but he didn't quite pull it off.

  "Son," the chief said, addressing the deputy with a stern look. "You never mind about that. I think your job is to help find Mrs. Olsen's kin. Keep looking through the desk for any contacts while Ms. Rose and I get better acquainted."

  "Yes, sir," the deputy said. He turned and went back to work.

  Despite the attitude, I had to admire Glen's physical attributes. He had the nicest butt I'd seen since... well, since Jeff and I had that long hot shower together the other morning.

  Chief Rollins and I went to the kitchen, a room I had not visited the other day. I felt smothered by the overabundance of ornate Victorian furniture in the rest of the house, but the kitchen seemed to calm me, despite the clutter of spice racks, hanging pots and new appliances made to look like antiques. Maybe it was my imagination, but the room still smelled like the blueberry cobbler Verna Mae lovingly watched Will consume.

  We sat at a small oblong table draped with a crocheted cloth and I said, "Could I ask you something that may sound dumb, Chief?"

  "Sure." He smiled. The guy had the small-town charm act perfected, but there was a wariness in his sad eyes. No, sir, Chief Rollins did not fall off the stupid truck. He was sizing me up good.

  "Why would you need a search warrant to come in here? I mean, Mrs. Olsen is dead. She can't object."

  He folded his hands on the table, and I noted knuckles thick and twisted with arthritis. Bet he'd have a hard time firing a weapon these days.

  "Who said we had a search warrant?" he asked.

  "Your wife. I called your house before I came here."

  He grinned. "Ah. How'd you enjoy talking to the Missus?"

  "She's... very straightforward," I said.

  "Aren't you tactful? Good quality for an investigator. As for the warrant, what do you think would have happened if we came barging in here without one and whoever killed Verna Mae was sitting in her parlor enjoying her satellite TV?"

  "Oh, I get it," I said. "Since the killer stole her purse and keys, maybe even her car, he could have come here to get more stuff. Should have figured that out myself."

  He nodded. "The police don't ever want to be SOL in court. I've answered your question and now you need to return the favor. Tell me why you're here, Miss Rose."

  "Call me Abby," I said.

  "Okay, Abby. And I prefer Burl as long as we stay friendly. See, friends are honest with each other, isn't that so?"

  "We're friends?"

  "For now. Why are you here?"

  "To talk to you. I suspect you're a busy man and that's why you didn't return my calls."

  He pulled a small tape recorder from his pocket. "You wanted to discuss the baby case, huh?"

  "Yup."

  "If we're gonna go there, first tell me about your interview with Verna Mae the other day—and you don't mind if we save this conversation for posterity, do you?"

  He was smiling, but obviously he was working this case, despite the fact that Verna Mae died in Houston. I wondered how Jeff would feel about this small territorial issue.

  "I don't mind at all if you tape me."

  He turned on the recorder, and I explained about my visit to Verna Mae and how my client had come with me.

  When I finished he said, "You're telling me your client is that baby I took away from this very house?"

  I nodded. "That baby is now six-foot-ten and plays college ball. His name is Will Knight."

  Burl smiled broadly. "That Will Knight? Plays for UT?"

  "None other." I needed to get up to snuff on my college hoops. Everyone seemed to know the kid.

  "I'll be jiggered," Burl said. "You brought him here? To see Verna Mae?"

  "Not sure I should have, but yes."

  "You regret it, huh? Guess you figured out what most of us in Bottlebrush know. Verna Mae Olsen never forgot about the kid. Can't say I have either."

  "That's exactly what I wanted to talk to you about. Can you—"

  "Chief Rollins?" The deputy was standing in the entry to the kitchen.

  "Yes, son?" Burl said.

  "I think I found a place to start." He was holding a thick business-size envelope. "It's her last will and testament, sir."

  "I assume you've had a look?" Burl said.

  "Yes, sir," he answered.

  "Well? Who gets what? Is it someone we can contact right away?"

  "She left everything to a man named William Knight," he answered.

  Burl Rollins blinked then leveled his wise eyes on me. He was not smiling when he said, "Is that so?"
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  "Don't look at me, Burl," I said, scrambling to answer while trying to gulp down my surprise. "I didn't know anything about Mrs. Olsen's will. My client didn't either."

  "You know for sure, do you?" he said.

  "What's going on?" the deputy asked.

  "Nothing. I'll handle things from here," Burl said. "You've been a big help, but you can get back to your regular watch."

  "You'll call HPD with this?" Glen held up the envelope.

  "That's right," came Burl's smiling response. But his gleaming charm was tarnished by a hardness in his voice.

  Before the deputy left, the chief got the name of the HPD officer who had made the original request to the Liberty County Sheriff's Department.

  Thank goodness Jeff gave that chore to someone else, I thought, remembering his request to one of the policemen at the coffee place. I watched the chief flip open a cell phone and punch in the number.

  After a few seconds he said, "This is Chief Rollins of the Bottlebrush Police Department. I understand you need information for a notification on a victim named Verna Mae Olsen?" Another short pause as Burl listened, then he said, "I'd be happy to discuss what we've learned with whoever's in charge of the investigation."

  I sat back in my chair, stomach in my throat. Damn. He wanted to talk to Jeff. I might be up a creek in a wire boat after all.

  "Hold on." Burl looked at me. "Got something to write on?"

  I took a deep breath and pulled the crumpled paper with Verna Mae's phone number from my pocket.

  The chief smoothed it out, pulled a pen from his shirt pocket and said, "Go ahead."

  Meanwhile, I marveled at how cooperative I was being at assisting in my own demise. Even upside down I recognized every digit he wrote. Jeff's cell number.

  Burl thanked the officer, disconnected and started to dial again. I reached across and grabbed his thick wrist. "Could we talk before you make that call?"

  He closed the phone. "About what?"

  "The detective who's in charge is... a friend of mine. Got me my PI job, as a matter of fact. I don't think he'd be too happy if he knew I'd driven here tonight."

  Burl sat back, arms folded, that stupid, evil phone tucked under one armpit. "Bet he won't be happy. So?"

  "Is there some compelling reason he needs to know?" I asked.

  "How would you answer that question if you were in my position, Abby?"

  I hung my head. Bit my lower lip. "I'd say I had to give the investigators everything I knew. This is a murder case, after all." I stared him in the eyes. "But I could tell Sergeant Kline myself when I see him. It's not like my trip here has anything to do with the murder. I just had questions for you, questions about a woman who wanted to talk to me tonight and never got the chance."

  Burl placed the cell phone on the table between us. "Tell your friend now that you're here at Verna Mae's, and then we'll continue our conversation."

  "Now?" I stared at the phone, the little palm-size instrument of torture seeming to grow larger the longer I looked at it.

  "If this pisses your friend off, work it out later. Right now we owe Verna Mae Olsen our best effort before more time passes."

  I sighed. He was right. I was being totally selfish. Still, my hand trembled when I picked up the phone. The chief pushed the paper toward me, but I shook my head. "Don't need that."

  Jeff answered on the second ring with "Sergeant Kline."

  "Um, hi again," I said.

  "Abby?" He sounded even more stunned than when he got the last weird call from me.

  "As you can probably tell from the caller ID, this is not my phone," I said quickly.

  "You're full of surprises tonight. Whose number is on my screen?"

  "Burl Rollins. He's the Chief of Police in Bottlebrush."

  A few seconds passed before he said, "Okay. What have you got for me?"

  I couldn't tell from his tone if he was pissed, or glad to hear from me, or just totally confused.

  "Some surprising information," I said.

  "Great. I love surprises in a murder investigation. Especially when they involve you." He might as well have added, "Because about now, you've got more problems than a mailman at a rottweiler show."

  "I'm at Verna Mae's house, and the police have discovered Will is her sole beneficiary," I said.

  A long silence followed before he said, "Please tell me you just found out, that you didn't know this when we talked earlier."

  "Of course I didn't know," I snapped. "I'm sure Will didn't know either."

  "Why? Because he would have told you?" His tone was ripe with sarcasm.

  "That's right," I answered.

  "Maybe there's a few things you don't know about your client aside from who is birth parents are. If the chief is there, let me talk to him."

  I handed the phone to Burl, and while he reported to Jeff in more detail, I wiped my sweaty palms on my shorts and wondered how I would clean up this little mess I'd just made.

  When Burl flipped his phone shut, he said, "The sergeant said you should meet him at HPD headquarters at ten a.m. tomorrow."

  I checked my watch. It was after one already.

  "Sharp," Burl said as he stood. "Which means you better get yourself back to the city if you want to sleep tonight."

  "But you said we could talk about the baby case after I called Jeff... I mean Sergeant Kline."

  He pushed his wire-frames up on his nose and sighed heavily. "You sure you want to do that now?"

  "I've got a client who needs answers."

  "Sounds like your client needs to provide a few of those himself."

  "Yes, and he'll do that. But could you tell me more about your investigation into Will's abandonment?"

  Burl lowered himself into the chair. "Not much to tell. About wore me out hunting for clues."

  "What happened after you took Will from Verna Mae?"

  "Turned the kid over to CPS the following day. Couldn't get a caseworker out that Sunday night. Me and my wife, Lucinda, kept the baby overnight. It's not like we didn't have two cribs going already—a nine-month-old and a two-year-old. That kid sure had a set o' lungs on him. And he was big. The wife put him into one of the little snap-up pajamas our youngest had outgrown. I remember her saying she had to use the three-month size. She figured he wasn't newborn, but now that I know he turned out to be a giant, maybe he was."

  "Maybe. You asked questions around town, I presume?"

  "Sure. Thought it would be easy to find the parents, since the kid looked to be mixed-race or black. The Missus is a retired nurse and said another reason she didn't think he was newborn was because she could tell he had some African-American in him. Seems black newborns look white at first, so she thought the boy had to be at least a couple weeks old. Jasper mentioned the baby was black, too. All I saw was a great-looking, healthy kid with curly dark hair. Real shiny. Handsome as he was loud."

  "Did you hear any rumors about mixed-race couples at, say, the high school?"

  He shook his head no. "We only had about five hundred kids total in the schools here. A mixed-race couple would have been noticed, there or anywhere. Would have been talk around town, too. There wasn't."

  "You think someone came a ways to drop off the baby, then?"

  "I guess, but Verna Mae's house isn't exactly right off the highway. That bothered me. Made me put some credence in her going on and on about how God brought the baby to her for a reason. Hell, maybe she was right."

  "She told me the same thing. The clothes, the infant seat? No leads there?"

  "I checked, but they weren't bought in this town. We didn't have the Wal-Mart back then, only a grocery store. Couldn't plug brand names into a computer and trace the purchases, either."

  "Did those personal items go with him when CPS took over?"

  "I suppose. Can't say as I remember." I read discomfort in Burl's tired eyes.

  "Frustrating case, huh?" I said.

  "You betcha. Verna Mae hounded me for information about the
baby for days afterward. Then she quit calling after the family court hearing that placed the child in state custody." He shut his eyes, seemed to be thinking hard. "But we know now she found out about him somehow, considering she left him everything."

  Burl rose suddenly, saying, "Wait a minute." He shot out of the kitchen, his fatigue apparently gone.

  I followed, jogging to keep him in sight as he ran down the hall and took the stairs.

  I caught up to him in Verna Mae's bedroom. He was on his knees, pulling a lidded cardboard box from under a four-poster bed decorated with enough ruffles and tassels to supply a fabric store for a year.

  "What's going on?" I asked, hurrying to his side.

  FOR W.K. was printed in black marker on the lid he now removed.

  Inside were stacks of scrapbooks and photo albums.

  "Glen told me he'd found books under her bed filled with a bunch of old newspaper articles about basketball. Said he thought it was peculiar Verna Mae was interested in sports, what with the frilly house and all. I told him she was peculiar and said he should keep looking for what we came for."

  He opened one album. On the first page was a year-old Houston Chronicle article about the state high school basketball championship. The next pages contained clippings from other newspapers around the state covering the championship from two years ago. Several had photos of Will—not shaved bald like he was now, but with plenty of wild dark hair—a basketball in one huge hand, and jumping high for a layup.

  "I'm betting those books go back even to his elementary school days from the way she talked the other day," I said.

  Burl looked up. "You're sure your client didn't know about her interest in him before then? Or about her will?"

  I knelt and picked up a different album. "If he did, he's a damn good actor." I flipped open the page and saw a photo of Will in a stroller, recognized his adoptive mother, Annabelle Wright, wheeling him in the park. Telephoto lens? Probably. There were more articles, these from the smaller paper that served the community where Will grew up, stories from the days when he played in Little League baseball and the youth basketball program Verna Mae had mentioned. Seems Will had been an all-star no matter what sport he played. Made the honor roll and had been inducted into the National Honor Society, too. It was all there. Page after page chronicling his young life.