Dead Giveaway yrm-3

by Leann Sweeney

  I felt a chill. Hearing such things from her lips had been creepy enough, but holding the proof of her fixation was even more disturbing.

  "I'm not sure if her being so stuck on a kid she knew only for a few hours has anything to do with her death, but something's not right," Burl said.

  "You mean with these albums?" I asked, not understanding.

  "That boy wasn't a stranger to her. It's obvious she loved him."

  "No kidding." But then it dawned on me where he was headed. "You don't think he was her baby?"

  His smile was back. "You may be green, but you're a thinker. If Jasper Olsen's wife bore another man's child, a black man's child, then Verna Mae was lucky to escape with her life. Knowing that nasty SOB, he mighta killed her."

  "You think she made up the story about finding Will? That she was forced to give away her own child?"

  "I never explored that possibility. Not once. She was so... well, hefty, she could have hidden a pregnancy. What a stupid, greenhorn fool I was." He banged his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  I put the album back in the box and noticed something beneath the stack of scrapbooks—the corner of a brown paper sack. "What's this?" I said, lifting out the albums and setting them on the carpet.

  I pulled out the sack and started to peek inside.

  "Let me do that." Burl took the bag and stood.

  Carefully he slid the contents onto the bed. Baby clothes. Tiny white shirts and one-piece sleepers. And a blanket of creamy, soft wool. I rose and fingered the blanket, turned a satin corner over to check the label.

  "HANDMADE FOR POSH PRAMS," I said.

  "About nineteen years old, I'd say." He stared at it, his lips tight with anger. "She lied to me, withheld evidence, and I never once questioned her about the kid possibly being hers. Sloppy police work, is all I can say."

  "Is the blanket really evidence?" I asked. "She could have bought it herself."

  "Right. When? You won't see a fancy blanket like this in Bottlebrush. She probably had to go to Houston to buy it. Did she rush there on that Sunday evening, buy the blanket, then keep it when Jasper called me to pick up the baby? Doesn't make sense, Abby." He carefully placed the blanket back in the sack, his shoulders slumped, his expression haggard. "You or HPD need any assistance, call me. Meanwhile, I'll just hang on to this."

  "Giving me that blanket would help," I said.

  "I'm thinking I'll ask around. Someone in town might know where Verna Mae got it."

  "But—"

  "This is evidence collected during the execution of a warrant," he said. "The blanket stays with me. Time you went home, Abby. Get some sleep. We'll talk again."

  4

  I arrived home from Bottlebrush about three a.m. Although I was so tired I could have slept in a barrel, I had one irritated cat to deal with. Diva had been without a warm body to cuddle up to, and she wanted a Fancy Feast bribe before she'd make up with me. She made this very clear by hissing when I picked her up, jumping from my arms and racing through my small living room to the kitchen beyond.

  The answering machine was bleeping, too. She wasn't the only one who wanted my attention. While I pried open a can of Seafood Dinner, I punched the PLAY button and heard Will's voice.

  "Hey, Abby. It's Will," he said in his slow, soft voice. "Me and the parents had a call from some police guy. He told us Mrs. Olsen passed on. Give me a call right away, 'cause my parents are kinda bent. You got my cell number."

  I didn't blame his parents for being upset. Murder is not what they signed up for. Since Jeff had already made his contact, I decided I was free to call my client—but not in the middle of the night. After dumping the cat food in Diva's dish, I trudged upstairs, stripped and fell into bed. I did set the alarm for seven a.m. If I wanted to speak to Will and his parents before my appointment with Jeff at headquarters, I needed an early start.

  It seemed like only seconds later that I was hitting the snooze button. I punched it twice more before I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and called Will. He answered after a few rings, obviously roused from sleep.

  True to the Will I was getting to know, he was far more polite than I would have been. "Uh, hi, Abby."

  "Sorry I woke you." I sat cross-legged, my back against the headboard.

  "No big deal. What's going on with this murder? I mean, that cop who called was stone serious, so it must be true."

  "Oh, it's true." I gave him a condensed version of what happened to Verna Mae, though I omitted my visit to Bottlebrush.

  "The officer wanted to know where I was last night. Here with my friends and my parents is what I told him. Then he talked to Dad. They don't think I'd hurt her, do they? I mean—"

  "Listen, Will, your parents would probably like to be around when we talk this over. How about I drop by in, say, thirty minutes?"

  "Sure, okay. I'll let Mom know you're coming so she won't think you're some reporter knocking on the door. She is super-stressed about reporters, anyway. They're always hanging around during the season, and this sounds like something they'd love to dig into."

  "I'm sure they would. See you at eight." I disconnected.

  Eight... jeez, I thought as I closed my phone and set it on the nightstand. I got up, headed for the bathroom and stumbled over Jeff's running shoes. I couldn't complain: Mine were a few steps beyond his. I picked up both pairs and tossed them into a corner, saying, "Cold water, work some magic. I need to get my brain in gear fast."

  I realized the coffee aversion that had surfaced last night after seeing Verna Mae buried in wet grounds was persisting, this enlightenment coming after I made an optimistic stop at a Starbucks drive-through on my way to the Knight home. The strong coffee smell waft ing out the window made me want to puke, so I ordered chai tea. Never had it before, but Kate swears by the stuff—not that I'd ever tell her I'd voluntarily ventured to the fringe of her organic, all-natural, soyfilled world. I needed caffeine if I planned to have a coherent conversation with anyone, and the girl at the window said the tea worked as well as a tall latte.

  Will's parents lived in an older, redbrick house on a wooded street in Bellaire, a city that blended with Houston on the southwest side near the Galleria shopping mall. Since it was Saturday morning, a few joggers manned the sidewalks, but most of Bellaire was still waking up. The air was thick with humidity after last night's rain, despite the early morning hour. So much for my refreshing shower. My skin felt sticky when I pressed the doorbell at the Knight home, and I wished I'd worn shorts and a tank top rather than jeans and a stretchy green shirt. This spandex fashion fixation was not created with Houston weather in mind.

  Mrs. Knight answered the door, and the cheery face I recalled from the last time we'd met was darkened by concern. "Good morning, Ms. Rose. Will told us you were coming." She widened the door for me to enter.

  "Like I said the other day, please call me Abby," I said.

  "Sorry. I forgot. We're having breakfast and I made plenty. Can I fix you a plate?"

  "Uh, sure. Sounds good." Hungry or not, I knew better than to refuse a meal. I didn't know Will's mom well enough yet to determine how hardcore Texan she was.

  She led me through a home eerily similar to my own with its small foyer and living area, but an overstuffed sectional sofa and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace offered the homey touch that my place lacked. I definitely needed a house makeover.

  The kitchen was larger than mine and obviously the center of family life. An additional fireplace with a love seat in front filled one corner. A curving breakfast bar separated the kitchen area from an alcove with built-in seating bordering the bay window. Will was sitting on the farthest edge of the cushioned bench so that his legs could stretch out unhindered by the pedestal base. His sandy-haired father sat across from him with the metro section of the Houston Chronicle spread out on the table. Probably reading about last night's murder.

  "Sam, fetch Abby a chair from the dining room, would you?" Annabelle Knight said.

  Sam Knig
ht stood and smiled, as did his son. Weird seeing them together. Mr. Knight couldn't be more than two inches taller than me, which put him at about five-six or -seven. Then there was monster Will. He was so muscular and tall, he could have picked up his dad under one arm and his little bit of a mom under the other and jogged a couple miles.

  "Morning, ma'am," Mr. Knight said before leaving to get the chair.

  "Hey, Abby," Will said, his voice sleepy, his lids heavy with fatigue, though not heavy enough to mask his pale amber eyes. Bet the UT girls liked having this guy on campus.

  "William Knight, is that how you address a young woman?" his mother said.

  "I told him to call me Abby, so it's fine," I said quickly.

  "Then it's 'Good morning, Abby.' Not 'hey.' " But she smiled a loving smile in her son's direction when he offered his sheepish "Yes, ma'am" reply.

  Mr. Knight arrived with a maple dining chair and placed it facing the window and next to Will.

  "Thanks," I said.

  "My pleasure." Mr. Knight sat back down. I saw that his scrambled eggs and sausage were untouched, and the paper did indeed have a headline atop the metro section that blared WOMAN FOUND MURDERED BEHIND ESPRESSO BAR.

  Mr. Knight tapped the paper. "Terrible thing. When he was in high school, Will and I used to catch college hoops on cable at a sports bar right near this place."

  So that's why Verna Mae chose the Last Drop for our meeting. She'd probably been there watching for a glimpse of Will more than once, if I had her figured right.

  "Abby," Mr. Wright went on, "do you know anything more than what the newspaper says? The policeman who called last night mentioned you were at the scene."

  "I was. Verna Mae phoned me to meet her, but unfortunately I never found out what she wanted to talk about," I said.

  Mrs. Knight moved a plate with eggs, toast and two sausage patties in front of me. "This is awful. That poor woman."

  Her husband slid over so she could sit beside him.

  Mrs. Knight said, "Will and several of his old high school friends were watching the NBA play-off game when the officer called. I have to say, I was a little upset when the sergeant asked if Will had been out during the early evening. He hadn't, of course. He'd been looking forward to this get-together with his friends all week." The doorbell rang, and Mrs. Knight squeezed her eyes shut. "It's those awful reporters. I know it."

  "Let me handle this," Mr. Knight said.

  Will's mother let her husband out. As he jogged from the kitchen, his small potbelly jiggling under his warmup jacket, she called, "Tell them to leave us alone."

  "Mom, chill, okay?" Will said. "They're just doing their job."

  "Tough living with a celebrity, huh?" I said.

  "The reporters don't bother me all that much," Will said. "Since we didn't win the Big Dance, they've pretty much left me alone."

  "Big Dance?" I said.

  "The NCAA tournament," Will answered.

  Mrs. Knight said, "Didn't win it this year. Will's heading for UT for basketball camp in a couple days. He'll do weight training and meet with a nutritionist, so he'll be a force to reckon with on the court. Then they'll go all the way next season."

  "Mom, we're a team. It's not only about me," said Will.

  Mr. Wright returned, but not with a reporter on his heels. It was Jeff.

  My chair made an awful scraping sound when I pushed away from the table and stood.

  "Uh, hi," I said.

  Jeff looked me square in the eyes for what seemed like a long time but was probably no more than a second.

  "I got an invite for breakfast," I said.

  "I see." His expression told me he was sure they hadn't called me on a whim at this hour. He looked back and forth between Will's parents. "Just wanted to meet you folks face-to-face and apologize for upsetting you last night."

  "You're Sergeant Kline? The one who phoned?" asked Mrs. Knight.

  "Yes, ma'am." His tie was loosened, his sports jacket wrinkled, and he looked so damn tired I felt guilty for my four hours of sleep.

  "You have nothing to apologize for," she said. "You didn't murder that poor woman. God knows, I've been praying for her soul. If not for her, Will might never have come into our lives." Her eyes filled with tears.

  "Mom," Will said. "I was supposed to end up with you no matter what."

  She smiled sadly and nodded.

  Jeff reached out a hand to Will. "Jeff Kline."

  I noted that despite his exhaustion Jeff had enough energy for a huge smile and a vigorous handshake. Plus he'd introduced himself with his first name. Hmmm. I think the man is smitten.

  "Fantastic last game in March despite the loss," Jeff said.

  Oh, yes. This was a love story in the making.

  "Thanks, but we've got an awesome point guard. 'Course you know that."

  "You had thirty-four points, right?" Jeff went on. "And how many blocked shots?"

  I cleared my throat. "Um, my breakfast is getting cold."

  Mrs. Knight held out another loaded plate for Jeff, and Mr. Knight had snuck off for an additional chair.

  We crowded around the table and ate and talked about basketball. It was sort of like the first day of my immersion Spanish class at the University of Houston, the one I dropped after a week. I didn't understand a word of what Jeff and the Knights were saying. I only knew they all spoke the language but me.

  When we were through eating and Mrs. Knight refused my offer to help her clean up the dishes, Jeff addressed Will and his dad. "As you probably know, Ms. Rose identified Verna Mae Olsen's body last night. I assume she informed you that Mrs. Olsen left her property to you, Will."

  "I did no such thing," I said. How I wanted to punch Jeff about now. I'd hoped to ease into that particular revelation.

  Meanwhile, Mr. Knight's jaw had dropped, and I heard utensils crashing behind me in the kitchen.

  Will said it all with his astonished, "What?"

  Jeff looked genuinely surprised, and maybe even a tad embarrassed now that he realized I hadn't already spilled these particular beans. Beans. Yuck. I'd never before considered that expression might be a reference to coffee beans.

  Mrs. Knight came rushing back to join us, wiping her reddened hands on a checkered dish towel. "That's why you're here? To recheck our son's alibi because you think he expected to inherit money from a stranger? Money he knew nothing about until this minute?"

  "Ma'am, I have to contact or interview everyone who spoke with the victim recently," Jeff said. His throat was all blotchy above his collar. "A phone call isn't enough."

  "Will would never harm anyone," a red-faced Mrs. Knight said.

  Jeff had regrouped and returned to his calm cop mode. "I never said he did."

  He had slipped up by not talking to me first, though. Maybe it was the lack of sleep, but I suspected his mistake had more to do with Will the Sports Hero. Seems I had plenty to learn about this aspect of the man in my life.

  Mrs. Wright said, "I think you should apologize to—"

  "Annabelle," Mr. Knight cut in with an admirable take-charge tone. "You're jumping to conclusions. Let the officer talk."

  Jeff nodded at Mr. Wright. "No problem, sir. I do apologize. Your son obviously was with you and his friends last night. We'll speak with the other young men present, but I'm sure they'll confirm what you've told me. My main purpose in coming was to ask a few questions about the meeting Miss Rose and Will had with the victim the other day."

  "Oh. That makes sense," Mrs. Knight said. By her embarrassed expression, you'd have thought I'd just told her that her dress was tucked into her panty hose.

  "I believe I told you all about our meeting with Mrs. Olsen, Sergeant Kline," I said, trying to sound as patient and composed as Jeff.

  Will squinted and cocked his head. "I get the feeling you two know each—I mean, aside from what went down last night."

  "How could you ever guess?" I said. "We know each other quite well, as a matter of fact."

  "From other c
ases?" His eyes were bright with curiosity.

  Smart, intuitive kid. No wonder I liked him so much.

  "We're colleagues," Jeff said. He offered out his gum, and getting no takers, unwrapped a few sticks and folded them in his mouth. "Back to why I'm here. Did Mrs. Olsen contact you after you met with her the other day?"

  "No, sir," said Will.

  Jeff looked back and forth between the Knights. "Either of you speak to her?"

  They both shook their heads, and Mr. Knight said, "Never."

  "Please be honest, Sergeant," Mrs. Knight said. "Do you think her death is somehow connected to our son?"

  "We don't have evidence aside from her bequest to support that theory right now," Jeff answered.

  "Very strange to leave everything to Will," Mrs. Knight said, half to herself. "And you knew about this, Abby?"

  "I only heard late last night—one reason I came here this morning. I drove to Mrs. Olsen's house after I left the crime scene. Since she'd called me to meet with her at the espresso bar, I felt—"

  "Could we save that discussion for later?" Jeff said. "Right now I'd like to hear Will's take on the victim. Did anything in particular stand out about her?"

  "Ask me, she'd been smoking weed or taken some major head pill," Will said.

  "William," his mother said. "The woman is dead, for heaven's sake."

  Jeff held up a hand, chewing hard on his gum. "It's okay. This is exactly the kind of thing I need to know. What made you come to that conclusion?"

  "She knew everything about me, from the time I was a kid. It freaked me out. She never said anything about leaving me her stuff or anything, though. That is so crazy." He looked at his mother. "Not crazy crazy. Sad crazy, Mom. She may have been weird, but—"

  "She didn't deserve to die," his mother finished. "Why didn't you tell me she knew things about your childhood?"

  "I'm the one who should have told you," I said. "That's why you hired me. I was concerned about her obvious knowledge of Will, especially since she shouldn't have even known his name. That's why I've made an appointment with the social worker who handled the original CPS case—to find out how Verna Mae got so much information."