Cloris. Also known as Connie. Also known as my mother.
I shook my head, sprinkling the windshield with water from my drenched hair. Don’t think about that part, Abby. Not now.
Rain pummeled my car anew, and for some silly reason—maybe denial was kicking in—I entertained the notion that Daddy could have been honoring a friend’s request when he forced Hayes to resign—simply been helping some friend protect their adopted children, not his own. After all, he had powerful business connections and measurable influence in political circles.
But I knew the truth, and the more I tried to push it away with implausible explanations, the more its presence grew. But that voice in my head came back with, You don’t have solid proof. All you have is an overheard sentence spoken by a cruel old man.
And I had to be one hundred percent sure.
Eugenia Hayes knew everything. At least, she used to know. Could I drag the truth from the cloud of confusion fogging her mind? Maybe if I could hear the words from her, from the woman who sealed the deal, I could accept that I was raised by a man who then spent a generation lying to my sister and me.
The same curly-haired woman sat filing her nails at the information desk at the nursing home. When I marched past her, she spotted me and called out, “You can’t go up there!”
Over my shoulder I said, “I’ll only be a few minutes. I need to talk to Eugenia Hayes.”
I continued toward the elevator.
“Don’t make me call security. No visitors for her.”
I turned and went back to the desk. “Has something happened? Is she sick?”
“You upset her last time, and her son had a fit. Seems she called him and rambled on about bribes and crooked lawyers. She got so worked up she had to have three breathing treatments. After that, Mr. Hayes told the doctor not to let in anyone else.” She lifted her eyes, her withering gaze intended to shame me. “The son doesn’t come here much, you know. Of course, after you explained to me about Eugenia’s operation, I could understand his shame, but—”
“Wait a minute. I never said anything about any operation.”
She kept on talking, ignoring me. “Then I knew what had upset her son so much. Mr. Hayes was worried that little tidbit about his mother’s operation would get around town, don’t you know.” She paused, glanced around the deserted lobby, then whispered, “About her sex change.”
She resumed her normal tone. “I told him I wouldn’t tell—but he kept denying Eugenia started out as his father, Eugene. But we know better, don’t we?” She winked. “So you’re the one who got him so mad.” She smiled, pleased with this logic, and started buffing her index finger.
I had to talk to the judge. Now. So I did what lately seemed to come so naturally to Charlie Rose’s daughter: I lied.
Leaning on the desk, I said, “Eugenia told me about her son, how he keeps visitors away. How he’s embarrassed by her. She’s lonely up there. Craves company. Do you want to contribute to making her last days on earth totally miserable? I don’t think that’s why you work with the elderly, is it?”
She set her nail buffer down. “Well . . . no.”
“Please let me talk to her. I’m begging for a few short minutes.”
“Maybe I could call the nurses’ station . . . say you’re an out-of-town relative and have the son’s okay to visit.” She pointed a finger at me. “But you have to give me your word you won’t upset her.”
“I promise.” And that was probably another lie. But I didn’t care.
Judge Hayes sat with the head of the bed propped up, her eyes clear and alert. “It’s about time you showed up,” she said. “I told that man who keeps insisting he’s my son to find you, get you back here,” she said. “Did you locate him?”
“Your son?” I asked, dragging a chair to the bedside.
“No, that snake Feldman. Don’t tell me you forgot already?”
Judge Hayes was chastising me about forgetting? “Yes, I found him. But something he said troubles me. Do you remember the man who pressured you to resign?”
“Resign? I’ll never resign. I’ve done things I shouldn’t, but always in the best interests of the children. So many children . . . beaten, forgotten, neglected . . .”
I sighed. Reality lasted for only the tiniest interludes with her. I had another trick I’d thought of on the way up in the elevator, though, and took my address book from my purse.
“What’s that, counselor?” she said, obviously curious.
“This is evidence,” I said.
“Evidence? You’d better mark it as an exhibit, then.”
“I submit this as exhibit A. Proof Charles Rose illegally adopted the twin children of Cloris Grayson and forced you to resign when she came looking for them.”
“That’s inadmissible. Inadmissible!” Her face flushed to an unhealthy shade of purple, and she grasped the siderails of her bed.
I placed a hand on her bony knee. “It’s all right,” I said. “I’ll keep your secret.”
She collapsed against the pillows, closed her eyes, and inhaled feebly. “If I didn’t resign, Rose told me the truth would come out about the forgeries.”
“Were all the adoption papers Feldman presented in your courtroom forged?”
“No. But Rose would make sure every placement I’d made would be investigated.”
“And children might be returned to their mothers?” I said.
“To mothers who didn’t want them. Or they’d be forced back into orphanages.” Her cloudy eyes were filled with sadness.
“So if you resigned, he’d make sure that didn’t happen?” I said.
Her features hardened again. “He promised that snake Feldman would be out of business, too.”
“And the twins’ documents were forged?”
“Yes, yes.” She tossed her head and kinky gray wisps of hair fanned out on the pillow. “He said if his girls had to go back to their mother, their hearts would break.”
I closed my eyes, tears burning against my lids.
Judge Hayes touched my arm. “Bobbie? I’m tired. This has been hard on an old woman.”
I blinked hard, pushing down the emotion. So I was Bobbie now. “Can I get you anything before I leave?” I said.
She nodded at the water pitcher and I filled her glass. She took a sip, then handed the glass back.
“I don’t blame the man for wanting to protect those children, do you?” she said.
I shook my head no, not wanting to upset her any more than I already had. But I was lying again. I did blame him. God, how I blamed him.
I returned to P Street and waited for Steven, no longer doubting that my father had deceived my sister and me all our lives. I paced in front of the window, trying not to think, wondering how I would tell Kate, and realizing that working through the emotions that had flooded me in the last few hours might take me a lifetime. First I had to come to terms with the knowledge that Daddy could have had a hand in murdering my mother. Yes. He might have murdered her to keep her from staking her claim on her own children. Or had he helped Feldman do the job? They certainly both would have benefited from her death.
My head throbbed and I still couldn’t seem to arrange the facts in logical order. Did I know for certain Daddy had had anything to do with killing Cloris? Or did I merely fear he might have been involved?
I wasn’t sure. I only knew I would stick to this investigation until I had enough hard proof to bring Feldman and the ghost of Charlie Rose to justice. Nailing Samuel Feldman was now the most important thing in my life.
I stopped pacing and took a deep breath, aware of the stuffy room, my clenched fists, and the awful headache. Darkness had descended early, the smoky-black clouds transforming the late afternoon into night.
And that noise? What was that noise coming from above me?
I had been so distracted, I had no clue whether the sound had just begun or had been going on since I arrived. The way the wind was blowing, and with all Steven’s construction work, s
omething could be very wrong upstairs. The repetitive banging persisted, so I climbed to the second floor to investigate. I smelled rain. A window must be open.
But when I reached the landing, the mystery was solved. The door to the bathroom was swaying back and forth, and every few seconds it swung hard enough to hit the wall.
So where was all the wind coming from? The tiny window in there couldn’t possibly be allowing these huge gusts. I walked over, grabbed the door as it swung toward me, and peered into the bathroom.
A gaping hole replaced what had once housed a commode, sink, and tub. All those fixtures were below me now, a pile of rubble resting on the mudroom ceiling. As Steven had predicted, the bathroom had collapsed and the far wall had crumbled into the yard.
Just then a violent cracking and crunching started beneath my feet. I had no time to grab for the door frame as the damaged entrance gave way.
Down I plummeted, into the saturated mound of broken wood and insulation, the journey a horrible aberration of a water-slide ride. Then everything went black.
24
I stared up at the house, feeling groggy and disoriented. How had I landed here? I remembered climbing the stairs . . . the floor was wet, the door was swaying in the wind, and—
What was that noise? It sounded like my name. Or had I damaged my brain and now suffered from hallucinations?
No. I definitely heard a human voice coming from above me.
“Abby?”
“I’m in the bathtub,” I croaked.
And I was in the bathtub. Well, half in the bathtub. One leg dangled over the mangled faucet, and my backside rested in three or four inches of muddy water. I rose up on my elbows.
Steven was standing above me where the bathroom used to be. “Are you okay?” he said.
“Yes, but we’ll definitely start here with the redecorating.” I attempted to extricate myself from the pile of jagged porcelain and shattered lumber. But moving wasn’t as easy as it had been prior to my plunge into renovation hell. I hurt. Everywhere.
“How did you end up down there?” he called.
“Obviously I fell, idiot.” But I was the one who felt like an idiot.
“Don’t move. I’m coming down!”
At that point I became aware of the persistent and extremely annoying rain, which, despite the summer heat, was probably contributing to the chills threatening to shake me silly.
After bringing the ladder from the garage and propping it on the side of the house, Steven hoisted me carefully from the tangled pile of beams, fixtures, and broken ceramic tile, then helped me climb down.
“You’re bleeding,” he said quietly, wiping my forehead with the heel of his hand once we stood on the soggy lawn.
“That’s probably mud,” I argued, but then my knees buckled. He caught me, saying gently but firmly, “Shut up. I know blood when I see it.”
My teeth started chattering and waves of tremors began in my shoulders, spreading to my arms and legs as he lifted me and carried me to his truck. After a few minutes passed, I noted with relief that all limbs remained attached to my body and I had all my teeth.
The drive back to Houston was a blur. Thank goodness he didn’t take me to the hospital. Injuries aside, I would have died of embarrassment. Most folks fall in the bathtub, not into it.
Kate paled when she opened the front door and saw Steven supporting me. I could imagine how I must have looked. Luckily I seemed to have sustained only a puncture wound to my butt from a nail and a gash on my forehead. Nothing seemed to be broken, but my hero insisted he had to help me upstairs, and I didn’t have the energy for a dispute.
“Despite appearances, I’ll survive,” I reassured Kate as Steven walked me up the stairs. “To the bathroom. Okay?”
“Sure.” He steered me left at the landing, with Kate following close behind.
“Let’s be real careful before we go in, though. I discovered today that bathrooms have this strange way of disappearing.”
“This is all my fault,” Steven said. “I knew that section of the house was unstable. I should have blocked off the stairs so you wouldn’t go up there.” He helped me sit in front of the vanity.
Webster appeared, wagging his tail. Apparently he considered mud and blood a delightful combination and began licking my legs.
“I’ll be picking up tarps to seal off the damage as best I can,” said Steven. “Otherwise the rain will saturate the entire second floor. I’ll tow your car back, Abby, but before I leave, are you sure you don’t want to reconsider and visit a hospital?”
“Positive. Thanks for everything,” I said.
He left.
I gratefully took the towel Kate offered and wiped my face.
“Tell me what happened,” she said. “Looks like a bomb exploded in your immediate vicinity.” She stooped and pulled my shoes off.
“The bathroom succumbed to the fatal allure of gravity, requiring only my one hundred and twenty pounds to reach that decision.” I took off my shirt, and thank goodness Webster enjoyed sniffing that filthy, tattered remnant better than running his snout over my body.
Kate turned on the bathwater.
“Bubbles. I need lots of bubbles.” I stood on unsteady legs and finished undressing.
“Once I help you in, I’m calling the doctor.”
“I don’t need a doctor. I’ll sit in this wonderful, fully appointed tub—a far cry from my previous experience in the bath—and recover immediately.”
“Abby, for God’s sake, you just fell off a house!”
“Don’t remind me.” I slowly descended into the hot, soapy water and knew what heaven was about.
“I’m calling. I don’t care what you say.” She stomped out, pulling a reluctant Webster, who bade a fond farewell with a longing look at the offensive shirt on the floor.
If calling the doctor would occupy Kate for a while, that was fine by me. I didn’t want to slap her with the truth about Daddy. Not yet. I had a row or two to hoe with someone else first.
I had just settled into bed when Kate entered and handed me a snifter half-filled with amber liquid.
“What concoction is this, Dr. Kate?”
“Brandy,” she said.
“Where’s the chamomile tea? The feverfew? The valerian root?” I said, accepting the glass. I was thinking that all this attention for a few bumps and bruises was making me more uncomfortable than I already was.
“This occasion requires something more potent. And brandy is medicinal.”
I sipped, and since I rarely drink alcohol after my experience with Steven’s problem, the brandy had an immediate effect, both soothing and warm. I set the half-empty snifter next to me and readjusted the quilt over my knees.
“When I explained to the doctor what happened,” Kate said, “he thought you should go to the emergency room, but I told him you wouldn’t cooperate. He insisted you come to his office tomorrow for a tetanus shot, though.”
“He insisted? And will he have a medical tantrum if I don’t obey? Or maybe send me to noncompliantpatient jail?”
“Humor me if not him, Abby. I’m guessing that was a very nasty, dirty nail that stabbed you in the patoot.”
The doorbell saved me from pronouncements of the fate awaiting me if I refused medical care, although I had to admit a tetanus shot was probably a good idea.
“That’s Terry,” Kate said. “Mind if he comes up?”
“Invite the neighbors, if you want. But they may have to watch me sleep, because I’m damn tired.”
As it turned out, Terry wasn’t alone. Jeff Kline was with him, and he definitely looked irritated once I explained about my fall without grace.
Terry hadn’t eaten, which was closer to an emergency than my own accident, so he and Kate went down to the kitchen, offering to bring me up something in a few minutes. They left Jeff and me alone, and he wasted no time getting to the point.
“Busy today?” he asked, propping his feet on the tapestry-covered footstool near my bed. His in
quiring eyebrows, not to mention the snide slant to his tone, confirmed this would not be a pleasant conversation.
“Besides examining the plumbing on P Street?” I said, trying to sound innocent.
“Before that.” Out came the gum.
I was beginning to understand about the gum—how the quantity and chewing speed increased proportionately with his level of agitation. I shifted off my aching rear end and said, “This sounds like an interrogation, Sergeant.”
“Darn right, Abby. Or should I call you Police Consultant Abby? I had no idea we had an Unsolved Crime division. Very creative.”
“Oops.”
“I could have come here with a warrant for your arrest.”
“How did you find out?”
“All you care about is how I found out?” he said. “You’re not even sorry? Not even grateful you won’t be arrested? You’re just bothered by getting caught?”
“Arrest me if you think I’ve committed a crime,” I said, surprised I had the energy to raise my voice. “But if you’d done your job, I wouldn’t have been at Feldman’s house in the first place.” I snatched up the snifter and downed the rest of the brandy in one gulp. And choked.
Not content with my failed attempt at self-destruction earlier in the day, I now threatened to drown in my own secretions. What an attractive picture I must have presented—bruised and scraped practically beyond recognition, and now turning blue from lack of oxygen.
Jeff pounded my back, and when it was obvious I’d survive another brush with death, he switched to rubbing circles and massaging my neck. I relaxed against his strong, kneading fingers.
“Are you sure you’re okay?” he asked. “Kate said you didn’t break anything, but you look miserable.”
“I’m okay. And I’m sorry for flying off the handle. I should never have taken Terry’s business cards, and I probably deserved to fall off the house, and—”
“Quiet, Abby.”
“But Jeff, you don’t understand. I can’t drop this investigation until I find out—”
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