''I have no idea how she'll manage. I only know I don't want to see her carted away by paramedics again.''
Jeff got up. ''How about wine for us? We're not diabetic—at least not yet.''
''Sounds good to me,'' I answered.
We walked into the kitchen and while Jeff took an unopened bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, I gathered the letters that I'd left on the kitchen table and dumped them into the file box without bothering to put them back in their correct folders. Maybe Aunt Caroline would take on that thankless task when she felt better.
As Jeff poured our wine, he said, ''What were you doing with those files?''
''That's an interesting story,'' I said.
He walked over and handed me my glass, then picked up Cooper Boyd's copy of my business card. ''Have anything to do with this?''
''Yes, Sergeant Kline, super detective.'' I reached for the manila envelope where I'd put JoLynn's letter, and then handed it to him. ''Also has to do with this.''
After he'd read the letter through its plastic protection, he looked at me quizzically. ''I'm missing something. Want to share?''
''Most certainly.'' I took his hand and led him to the sofa.
We settled in, my legs draped over his lap, and I told him the whole story.
''Sounds like an interesting case,'' he said when I'd finished.
''No one's actually hired me, but—''
''You don't need to explain. You do what you have to do and no one had better get in your way. Now, put down that glass and come closer. I have a few things to share that have nothing to do with our jobs.''
I crawled into Jeff's lap, ready to forget the stress of the 911 call I'd had to make earlier today.
5
The next morning, Jeff woke early and took Doris home while I went to my office computer to do a little research before Kate and I visited both hospitals. But searching for the name JoLynn Richter gave me no results in any database, not even the DMV. Either she was driving without a license or she was from out of state.
Then I tried to find a Pineview newspaper online to see if they'd run an article on the accident, but nothing there, either. A small piece had appeared in the Houston Chronicle yesterday morning reporting that an unidentified woman had been life-flighted to Houston after a crash in north Montgomery County, but that was it. I had one more option—a search for any other Richters in Montgomery County, hopefully leading me to information on the family Cooper had referred to.
Finally I was in business, and Diva must have sensed this because she jumped down from her perch on the windowsill and into my lap. I stroked her, excited by all the hits related to the Richters. Now I understood a little better why Cooper had reacted to the name the way he had. They seemed to be the prominent family in the area, even though they didn't live right in Pineview. Elliott Richter, a widower, owned a ranch about ten miles north of town. His daughter, Katarina, had died at age twenty and I immediately checked for obituaries on Richter's wife and daughter. I learned they were both buried in Glenwood Cemetery right here in Houston—a very famous old graveyard dating back to the nineteenth century. Then I found something that really caught my attention—an article from a Montgomery County news paper with the title ''Mysterious Katarina Richter Succumbs to Cancer.''
Mysterious how? I wondered as I printed out what I'd found.
The mystery turned out to be a two-year disappearance right after the girl graduated from high school— which at first had been considered a kidnapping. Weeks of searching had turned up nothing and no ransom request was ever received. Then, Katarina returned two years later, unharmed and refusing to talk about her absence. The sadness the community had expressed at losing one of their own had turned to speculation—not very nice speculation, either. The locals decided she'd become a street person in Houston, a crack addict, a stripper or a wanderer trying to find herself in Europe or Africa. Indeed, plenty of Pineview folks voiced their opinions for the reporter, all of those opinions apparently not supported by any facts, as far as I could tell. My daddy always said gossip travels over grapevines that are sour and right now I totally agreed with him.
Since Katarina was buried here in Houston, I figured Glenwood might be the resting place of generations of Richters. Wouldn't hurt to pay a visit to their family plot. Katarina had been only twenty when she died, and I'd learned in my short career as a PI that the younger people were when they died, the more words on their tombstones.
The article mentioned Elliott Richter's son, Matthew, born six years after Katarina—which would make him around thirty-three now. His recent wedding had been written up in the Chronicle and was probably a lavish affair, since the reception site was the Four Seasons Hotel. Matthew's wife, Piper, was a Baylor grad, just like her new husband. I loved how much information they gave away on the wedding pages—names of friends and relatives, where the bride and groom went to school, where they planned to honeymoon and live. I printed out the article. Never hurts to be prepared, even if this wasn't officially my case.
Matthew and Piper, I read, would be working for Richter Oil and Gas in executive positions when they returned from their honeymoon in Tahiti. Since the wed ding had been several months ago, they were probably home and doing their jobs.
Richter Oil and Gas? I thought. Never heard of them. I Googled the company and discovered it was a very healthy business with new prospects in West Texas as well as down near Corpus.
But where did JoLynn fit into this family? I'd found absolutely nothing on the Internet about her. Was she a cousin? Was she Katarina's daughter? If so, why had she written to me saying she was adopted? She might not be a blood relative. Maybe Elliott Richter adopted her. She had signed her letter ''JoLynn Richter,'' which made me believe that was the case. Was she a substitute for the daughter he'd lost? But this was speculation on my part. I really knew next to nothing yet. I needed more.
I glanced at my watch. Only eight thirty. I had time to check out that graveyard before meeting Kate at the hospital. I remembered the Glenwood Cemetery from a Halloween graveyard tour I'd taken as a teenager—an outing Daddy encouraged because he said it would teach me about Houston's deliciously scandalous history. Kate had refused to go with me. She considered the whole idea ''gross.'' But I had a blast, especially since I met the geeky but very cute guy named Andre who would become my boyfriend for the next two months. Did I learn much about Houston? I did remember Howard Hughes was buried in Glenwood and that there were all these creepy angels all over the place, their concrete skins scarred by lime deposits and mildew. It was an upscale cemetery in the Heights section—upscale considering that we'd visited some graveyards that had been no more than overgrown fields.
Figuring the mosquitoes would be out in droves this morning, I put on nylon cargo pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Traffic was its usual nightmare, but no one seemed interested in visiting a cemetery on a Saturday morning. Everyone was probably headed for the beach in Galveston or the mall. I parked my car and, hoping to check out the directory, walked to the Victorian cottage that formerly housed the caretaker. I soon discovered it would be quite a trek to the Richter plot.
As I wound my way around tombstones and crypts, I
was mindful of all the statues of cherubs and huge angels surrounding me, some of them missing arms or hands thanks to vandals or accidents or simply time—and all of them more damaged by the elements than I recalled. They still gave me the creeps, even in the intense morning sunshine, sadness seeping from them and lingering in the humid air. Despite the heat, I shivered. Even the brilliantly colored mounds of fresh flowers lying on several graves couldn't effectively oppose the gloom.
The Richter plot was maybe twenty feet square and enclosed by a low wrought-iron fence, which I stepped over. I counted ten graves. A few of the tombstones were simple and lay flat—early deaths dating back to the 1920s. Several markers were upright, but the ones for the people I had come to see—mother and daughter— were far more elaborate. Elliott Richter's wife's site
was marked by a black granite tombstone with etched flowers on the beveled upper borders. The lettering was elegant and flowing and below the name Richter were the words:
Mary, beloved wife of Elliott, mother of Katarina and Matthew, a star in the darkest night, an angel who brought joy to all who knew her.
Katarina's white marble marker was arched on the top with a weeping angel clinging to the tombstone. The brown, dry remnants of a bouquet of flowers lay at the base. Her etched name and birth and death dates curved along the upper part of the tombstone and were followed by several lines about the daughter who had died so young.
Beloved Katarina. Taken to sit beside the Lord, taken from the secretive world, taken from the pain of life, and when taken, to our hearts a knife.
I swallowed, reread the words. Graveyard poetry isn't all that good—and damn depressing. I turned and walked away, glancing at the other tombstones before stepping back over the fence. They were older markers with nothing more than names and dates. While I hurried to my car, several grackles squawked at me as if to admonish me for trespassing. And I did feel like an intruder.
I'd almost made it to my car when I heard the buzz of a Weed Eater. I walked around a border of hedges and saw a groundskeeper working away at overgrown grass along a fence. He had earplugs in and wore a widebrimmed hat, khaki pants and a matching shirt.
I didn't want to startle him, since he couldn't hear me, so I took a wide path around him until I was in his line of vision. I smiled and offered a small wave.
He turned off the Weed Eater and pulled out the earplugs. He had to be in his sixties, his skin darkened by years in the sun. White stubble sprouted along his chin and on his cheeks. He said, ''There's a directory in the cottage near the front if you're looking for someone in particular.'' He gestured that way and started to put the earplugs back in.
''That's not what I need,'' I said quickly before he could start up the noisy equipment again. ''Can I ask you a few questions?''
''I'm no tour guide and I ain't got time to teach you about this place, if that's what you want.''
Grumpy old guy, I thought. But the temperature was already approaching ninety and he probably wanted to get this job done before the heat sizzled him like a sausage on the grill. ''Just a few questions, I promise.'' I removed a business card, walked over and handed it to him. ''I'm a private detective and I'm working on a case.''
''Cemetery's a funny place to be huntin' up privateeye stuff. Ain't many folks to talk to here—unless you fancy yourself some kind of ghost whisperer.''
I laughed and this seemed to crack his stoic facade because he smiled.
''No, sir,'' I said. ''I don't believe in ghosts.''
''I'm glad for that. All kinds of weird people trample through here who do. What you want to know?''
''Does anyone visit the Richter plot? I saw flowers on one of the graves.''
''Richter plot, huh? Those flowers are from the girl. Pretty thing. Started coming here a year ago. She visits every week on Friday—Katarina Richter's grave—but she was a no-show yesterday. None of them other Richters come regular except the mister. He's here 'bout once a month and a'course always on Katarina's birthday.''
''The mister?'' I asked.
''Mr. Elliott. Always slips me a hundred, tells me to take care of his Katarina. And I do spend extra time keeping her grave tended to.''
Elliott Richter, huh? ''This girl who visits. Do you know her name?''
The man shook his head no. ''Never talked to me. Seemed afraid, if I read her right.''
''Small? Blond hair?'' I asked, considering whether Katarina could indeed be JoLynn's mother.
''Yeah. She send you here?''
''In a way,'' I answered. ''Thank you so much, Mr. . . . ?''
''Sam. Everyone calls me Sam.''
I pulled a twenty from my purse and handed it to him. He smiled and nodded, then plugged his ears and went back to work.
I drove a little too fast on the way to Methodist, the poem on the tombstone replaying in my brain. By the time I arrived outside Aunt Caroline's hospital room, I'd managed to quit silently repeating those words and was now wondering about these weekly visits to the grave. Had to have been JoLynn unless there were more petite blond Richters in the family.
Kate met me at Aunt Caroline's door and kept me out with a raised palm. I looked past Kate into the room and saw a striking young woman with silky black hair deep in conversation with our aunt.
Kate looked me up and down. ''It's supposed to reach a hundred degrees today. Why are you wearing—''
''I'll tell you later. What's up?''
She took my arm and led me out into the hall. ''That's Nancy Song, the dietitian. The doctor's releasing Aunt Caroline today. She'll be on oral medicine and a diet that doesn't sound all that strict. But she will have to test her blood sugar every day and I think that might be a problem.''
''Why?'' I asked. ''She knows she's diabetic and that's what diabetics have to do.''
''Not so simple when you're in denial,'' Kate said. ''Sticking herself with a sharp object and keeping a record of her sugar levels means she has to accept reality.''
I nodded. ''And accepting a reality she hasn't created herself will be challenge.''
''You get the picture.''
''Can we hire someone to stick her finger? At least for now?'' I asked.
Kate grinned. ''Do you really want to put someone through that kind of torture?''
Nancy Song came though the door then and said to Kate, ''There you are.''
''Sorry. I wanted to fill in my sister. How did that go?''
''She's an interesting woman,'' Nancy Song said. ''Intelligent but perhaps a little strong-willed.''
''You mean as stubborn as a rusty pump,'' I answered.
Song smiled. ''Texas has such an interesting language. She will learn and accept eventually. But be prepared for a few bumps in the road.''
''Oh, we're used to those,'' I answered.
Song handed Kate a stack of diet plans. ''These will help. I gave your aunt the same ones. After the nurse trains her for blood sugar testing, the doctor will probably release her. I urged her to attend the hospital's diabetic support group as well and she told me she would think about it.''
''Great.'' How I wished they'd keep her one more day. But I should be glad Aunt Caroline had rebounded quickly. Once Nancy Song left us, I turned to Kate. ''Guess we'll have to wait on the doctor. Want to slip over to Ben Taub and pay JoLynn Richter that visit? You should see her. It's awful what someone tried to do to her.''
''I do want to go, but let's clear it with General Caroline.''
Aunt Caroline was more than happy for us to leave. She wanted to shower and put on her makeup before the doctor arrived. On our fifteen-minute walk to Ben Taub, Kate told me Aunt Caroline seemed quite taken with her new endocrinologist.
''What is he? About thirty?'' I asked as we stopped at a corner.
''More like forty, but age has never mattered to Aunt Caroline when it comes to flirting.''
During our walk—a far easier option than changing parking spots—I filled Kate in on what I had learned about the Richter family and how I had nothing on JoLynn. When we entered the lobby, I was grateful the place was as cold as a knothole in the North Pole because I was sweating bullets.
''Why don't you know anything about JoLynn?'' she asked. ''You're the queen of finding out anything on anybody.''
''Not this time. And that's very strange. If I can find baptismal records on someone born in the seventies— which I've done before—why can't I find anything on her?''
As we entered the elevator, Kate said, ''Sorry, but I kind of like that. Apparently Big Internet Brother hasn't been watching everyone.''
We rode in silence and then visited the restroom so I could run a comb through my sweat-dampened hair. Turned out I didn't have a comb, but Kate is always prepared.
''I like this cinnamon color. You should stick with it.'' She was watching me try to make her comb work a mira
cle—a miracle that wasn't about to happen.
When she saw my frustration, she tousled my crown. ''Go with the natural look.'' Then she handed me a lipstick—Mocha Pink. ''This will help, too.''
The lipstick did make me look more normal, especially since my flushed cheeks were less pronounced thanks to the AC. I no longer felt like I'd just emerged from a rain forest tour. We then walked down the corridor to the neuro ICU. Two men sat in the waiting area. One was a Montgomery County sheriff's deputy and the other a young man in his twenties.
The deputy must be here for JoLynn, too. I smiled at him, but he didn't react. I stopped a nurse assistant about to enter the ICU and said, ''We'd like to visit JoLynn Richter for a few minutes. I'm working with Chief Boyd on her case.'' Not completely true, but how would she know?
Pushing Up Bluebonnets: A Yellow Rose Mystery Page 4