''They might have had questions,'' conceded Verna Mae. ''But folks in town knew we wanted to adopt. It's not like I didn't talk to everyone and their stepcousin about our desire for children.''
''Did you apply to be Will's foster parent after he was taken from you?'' I asked.
''That's not something I wish to discuss.'' From her brusque attitude and the little twitch near her eye, I figured I'd better leave the subject alone.
According to my amateur psychological analysis, this woman was angry at her dead husband and mad at the system that took Will away—grudges she'd held for nineteen years. Focusing on her old wounds wouldn't help Will find his birth parents. I needed to know what had not appeared in the newspaper articles, anything that would give me a place to start looking for clues. I said, ''The articles Will's parents kept about the abandonment were pretty sketchy. Did Will come with a note? Or a special formula or baby bottle? Anything?''
''Nothing but the little T-shirt and diaper he arrived in,'' she said.
''No blanket?'' I asked.
''Maybe a flannel receiving blanket. I don't really recall.''
''Did he arrive in a box or a car seat or . . . what?'' I asked.
''One of those plastic infant seats that you could buy anywhere back then. Officer Rollins took everything with him that night. Said he needed them for evidence. Evidence. Like it was a crime God left Will here with me.'' Her eyes filled and she blinked hard to fight back the tears.
Explaining to this woman that child abandonment was indeed a crime back then, and still is if you don't drop the baby off at a hospital or other safe haven, would have done no good. I chose another direction. ''Did you hear anything about the baby in the days that followed?''
''Only that CPS got custody. Ridiculous arrangement. He already had someone to love him. But look at him,'' she said, beaming at Will. ''He's turned out beautifully despite all those mistakes.''
She put her hand on Will's forearm and kept talking, rattling off stories about championship games he'd played in, starting with Little Dribblers. Little Dribblers, I learned, was not a team of bib-wearing toddlers but rather a youth basketball league.
Will and I may have been squirming before, but this was the Twilight Zone moment—when we realized she'd followed Will around, maybe even with a camera. ''And . . . how did you learn all these things about Will?'' I asked. Because she shouldn't have known anything, not even his name.
She stared at me, color rising in her cheeks. ''Why does that matter?''
''Probably doesn't,'' I answered quickly. Getting her more agitated than she already was did not seem like a good plan, so I decided to keep my thoughts to myself about how Will's adoption information should have been better protected.
''It's been very difficult since he went away to college, though,'' Verna Mae went on. ''That drive to the university in Austin is simply awful.''
The drive to the university? She was still stalking him today, and right there I should have quit worrying about the woman's mainspring popping and pressed harder for how she got her information. But did I? No. Stupid me changed the subject, asked about how the town reacted to the excitement of an abandoned child. And that's where I failed as an investigator. She was practically admitting to stalking the kid, but the idea made my stomach do little flip flops, made my skin prickle. I moved on, asking questions that didn't provide us with anything new.
The Coke I'd been sipping had made my hand cold. I quit pacing and set the can on my coffee table. How I wish I'd probed further the other day, gotten past my own discomfort at Verna Mae's obvious obsession with a kid who, by law, was supposed to have remained anonymous to her. The only other thing I learned of value was the name of the policeman who took Will away—Burl Rollins—currently chief of police in Bottlebrush. My calls to him yesterday and today had not been returned, but maybe, with Verna Mae dead and a county deputy sent to hunt up her relatives, he might talk to me tonight.
Yes. That's what I could do now. Jeff didn't say anything about my contacting the police in Bottlebrush.
Diva followed me into my office—a converted study right off the front foyer. Once the cat was settled in my lap, I powered up my computer and within two minutes had Burl Rollins's home phone number. An unlisted number would have taken a little longer, but his was right there in the white pages.
A sleepy woman answered on the fifth ring.
''Is this Mrs. Rollins?'' I asked.
''Yes, ma'am. And who might you be?''
''My name is Abby Rose, and I'm an investigator calling about a local woman named Verna Mae Olsen. Could I speak to Chief Rollins, please?''
''What kind of investigator?'' she asked warily.
''Private. Unfortunately, Mrs. Olsen passed away this evening and—''
''Oh, I know she's dead, and so does the Chief,'' Mrs. Rollins said.
''Terrible thing,'' I said. ''I identified her body and . . . it was very . . . upsetting. I'm hoping to find out what happened to her, and maybe your husband can—''
''You identified the body and now you're asking me what happened? Somehow that doesn't compute. Had she hired you for some reason?'' Mrs. Rollins asked.
''No. She was simply a person of interest in a case I'm working.''
''Person of interest? Aren't you slick with your cop lingo? Listen, Ms. Rose, you want to talk to Burl, you better be straight with me.''
''I would, except I'm not sure the Houston police would want me discussing what I saw tonight.''
''Burl tells me everything and the reporters will be saying plenty tomorrow, so why don't you just tell me what the hell happened?''
If I'd learned one thing in my short career as a PI, it's that you have to give to get. So I gave. ''Mrs. Olsen was severely beaten. That's all I know.''
''Beaten? My heavens, that is not a nice way to go. Who'd be mad enough at a middle-aged country woman to beat her up? And I'm not just asking to be nosey. Burl would be asking you the same question.''
''The police think she was robbed. I take it Mrs. Olsen was well-off?'' I made it a question. It was her turn to give now.
''Listen, Ms. Rose. You're not getting another thing out of me until you tell me what's going on. What kind of case are you working on?''
I explained about Will, how he was the baby found on the doorstep so long ago.
''The baby? You don't say?'' She sounded genuinely surprised and a whole lot friendlier all of a sudden. ''Now that's pretty interesting. I'm certain Burl would like to talk to you. Give me your number and I'll have him call you in the morning.''
''I-I'd kind of like to speak with him tonight.''
''You're out of luck. He's picking up the warrant to get inside Verna Mae's house. Deputy Sheriff called for his help about thirty minutes ago.''
''He's at her place?''
''He will be, I expect. Said he'd get the warrant and meet the deputy there.''
''From what Verna Mae said the other day, I assumed she lived alone. Why would he need a warrant?'' I asked.
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 furnit
ure 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?''
3
''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 t
he 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.
Dead Giveaway Page 3