Pick Your Poison

22

The next day a steady, slow rain fell, foreshadowing tropical storm Carl’s assault on the Gulf Coast. I delivered to CompuCan the contracts I’d signed, this time passing on a visit to Willis’s office. But I ran into him on the elevator. He said he was meeting Aunt Caroline for lunch and asked me to join them.

Why would I want to willingly subject myself to double torture? But the words no, thanks hadn’t made it past my tonsils before the doors slid open and there stood Aunt Caroline.

“Abby! Just the person I wanted to see.” Her smile was as wide as that of a small dog with a large bone.

“How scary,” I said. “You hardly ever want to see me. Kate maybe. But not me.”

“I need to speak with you about the business, so let’s talk over lunch.”

Business. Couldn’t very well wiggle out of that one, so I agreed. We ate at Carrabba’s Italian Grill, and between bites of linguini I soon found out what this “business” involved. Monkey business. She wanted me to hire that muscle-brained Hans person.

We haggled through the meal, and Willis kept silent for the most part, concentrating on his pollo Marsala. I couldn’t help wondering what would have happened had I not shown up at CompuCan today. Would the manager have found some job for Hans?

When reasoning with Aunt Caroline didn’t work, I suggested Hans could work for Willis as a courier, but this idea didn’t pass muster with either of them. So finally I played my trump card: I mentioned all the valuable items Aunt Caroline had taken from our house.

“I’ve put off selling for now, Aunt Caroline, so if you persist in your demand that I hire Hans, I insist you return everything. Sort of a trade, you see, because I’m certain I’d lose money trying to create a job for him. About the only thing he’d be good at is squeezing naphtha out of mothballs.”

This got her wheels spinning. Hans might not be around forever, but the art and antiques would only escalate in value. She knew the fishing expedition was over. Time to cut bait.

Then Willis said, “How’s my little detective doing? Have you moved on to more sensible endeavors?”

“Little detective? Could you be more condescending, Willis? But I’ve made progress, thank you very much. In fact, after I leave here, I’m following up on a lead. I’ve finally confirmed that Feldman and Helen Hamilton are linked. She happens to work in a house he owns.”

“So what does that prove?” asked Aunt Caroline, now staring at her pouting lips in the compact she’d removed from her purse.

“That proves the man is still doing what he did thirty years ago—making money off human tragedies.”

Willis said, “Aren’t you being overly dramatic? Things aren’t as one-sided as you may think. These days pregnant women can shop around for agencies that provide the best financial support if they want to give up their baby. This Parental Advocates operation sounds perfectly legal to me.”

“I don’t care if they have an endorsement from Dr. Spock’s ghost. Something’s not right there.”

“So what is this lead, Abigail?” Aunt Caroline asked.

“Feldman or Hamilton or both of them are connected to some sort of home for expectant mothers, and I’m betting the place isn’t exactly the Westin Galleria Hotel. I’m going to pay them a visit. And by the way, Willis, this Hamilton woman may start asking questions about Kate or me. If by chance she reaches you, tell her nothing.”

“Why would she be calling me?” he asked.

This perked Aunt Caroline up. “Yes, why, Abby? What have you done?”

“She managed to get Kate’s real name, and I’m afraid she may be resourceful enough to find out everything about us, including our lawyer’s name,” I said.

“And you think this woman might be a criminal? How did you let this happen?” said Aunt Caroline.

I should have never agreed to do lunch with them. Having Hans take laptop orders for CompuCan would have been a less painful alternative. I took a deep breath and managed to say in a fairly controlled voice, “It’s been pleasant. And now I have to go.”

The gray-haired woman who answered the door at the Ellen Fulshear Home for Young Women smiled back at me and nodded at the bouquet of flowers in my hand.

“For Susan, right?” she asked. She was large, with soft, fleshy arms folded on a wide stomach.

“Yes,” I answered, then squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed the space between them, leaning on the door frame for support.

“Are you all right?” She opened the screen door, concern replacing her laugh lines.

“It’s this weather. When the barometer dips, I suffer with horrible sinus headaches.”

“I have some aspirin. Would that help?” She stepped back so I could enter.

Like Daddy would have said, easy as stepping in East Texas mud. Can’t slam the door in someone’s face if they’re already inside.

She led me down a hallway, and I managed to catch a peek in the living room, where three very pregnant young women sat on a worn-looking velour sofa watching television.

We entered a country kitchen, and the smell of something wonderful cooking in a giant pot on the stove enveloped me. Chicken and dumplings maybe? The woman unburdened me of the flowers I had picked up at the local grocery store, and I sat at a gigantic table covered with a red-checked cloth. The woman placed a tall glass of lemonade in front of me. She then started struggling with the childproof cap on the aspirin bottle she’d pulled from a cupboard near the sink.

“My five-year-old grandnephew opens these things in a flash,” she mumbled. “The only ones they keep from the medicine are the arthritics like me.”

“Please don’t bother with the aspirin,” I said. “See, I have a confession. I don’t really have a headache, and I’m not delivering flowers.”

She stopped fiddling with the cap, her face wary, her smile gone. “How’s that, young woman?” she said sternly. “Are you selling something or fixing to rob me? Because if that’s the case, I don’t have much to take.”

“Nothing like that. If you can spare a few minutes, I’d like to explain.”

She poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat opposite me. “Are you in trouble? Is that it?” Despite her irritation, she seemed genuinely concerned.

“I’m troubled, yes, but it’s not what you think. And so complicated, I’m not even sure where to start.”

“The beginning usually works.” Her smile returned.

“I’ve made up so many stories lately, the idea of simply telling the truth seems... strange,” I said.

“If I can, I’ll help you. There’s still a few people in this world you can trust, and I’d like to think I’ve lived long enough to understand most of what human nature is capable of. Tell Sally Jean about this trouble.”

“It’s odd. I’ve never lied this easily before the murder.”

“The murder?” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t murder someone, did you?”

“Of course not. It has to do with Samuel Feldman. I got your number off the Parental Advocates office phone, and I want to ask him a few hard questions, but the only phone number and address I could come up with were connected to the office.”

“I can tell you where he is, but first you need to tell me why I should.”

“You know where he is?” I sat straighter in my chair.

“You must want to see him real bad to sneak in here with your daisies and your fake headache.”

“I think he murdered my yardman. And maybe someone else... a long, long time ago.”

She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit. It’s a sad thing to believe that about another person. He’s a cold one, he is. But start at the beginning, Miss... What’s your name, honey?”

“Abby. Abby Rose. And yours?”

“Sally Jean Daniels. All the girls call me Sally Jean, and you will, too. Explain about this murder you say Sam did, may God have mercy on him.”

“I don’t have hard proof, but the story began in a little town north of Houston called Shade....”

By the time I finished my narration, I could tell nothing I’d said surprised her.

“I’ve lived here ages and ages caring for pregnant girls,” she said. “Making sure they eat right and get enough exercise and all that. But not until Melvyn—he was my husband—not until he died did I begin to suspect the only light at the end of my tunnel was an oncoming train.”

“What do you mean?” I said.

“I’m not good with math... figures... you know. I never saw the bills. Melvyn worked with Feldman on the business end of running this place. The Doc—that’s what the girls called my husband—treated the girls; then Sam Feldman paid him for services rendered. But after Melvyn’s funeral, I discovered that even though I’m bad with arithmetic, Melvyn missed more of the basics in addition and subtraction than I ever did.” She shook her head. “A financial nightmare, let me tell you.”

“Wait a minute. Young women giving up their babies for adoption stay here, right?”

“Going on thirty-five years now,” she said.

“And you work for Parental Advocates?”

“That’s what I was trying to explain. If you had said ‘Parental Advocates’ to me six months ago I would have looked at you like you were as nutty as a Corsicana fruitcake. But as I waded through those legal papers after the Doc’s death, I learned how the whole thing works.” She crossed her arms, barely spanning her broad bosom.

“You don’t seem thrilled,” I said.

“This business has changed, nothing like it used to be when Melvyn was alive, that’s for sure. But he left me nothing but a bunch of worthless stock, so I gotta keep working, and this is all I know how to do.”

“I take it Mr. Feldman hasn’t been the best employer.”

“He’s just in it for the money, of course. But he stopped coming here a while back. Grew to be a hermit. We talk on the phone, but I don’t see him anymore, which was working fine for me. But he married that skinny, fast-talking woman right before he took to his house. She’s young enough to be his daughter, mind you. Anyway, she started bringing the girls over here and handling the business. She expects me to run this place like a prison, and I hate her ways. These youngsters have made mistakes, but it doesn’t mean they’ve lost their rights as human beings.”

“Are you talking about Helen Hamilton?” I asked.

She nodded. “The two of them live in the fancy section of town. Do you realize what people pay to adopt a baby these days? Thousands and thousands of dollars, that’s what. Yet my salary’s not much more than when we first started here. Of course, Melvyn and I never did this only for money—not like those two.”

“You’ve been doing this for thirty-five years?” I asked, wondering if Cloris had come here to have her baby.

“That’s right. I’m not a registered nurse, just vocational, and Melvyn was only a GP, but I think we did okay. Only lost two babies in all those years.”

“You and your husband delivered them?”

“Sure did. Not in the last ten years, though. Times have changed. Not that I don’t know how to deliver, but I’d need a midwife certification from the state. We gave the girls the best, most inexpensive care for a good many years, though. After the Doc died, I discovered most of them could have had the finest room in any hospital for what those adopting families paid Feldman, but he cut costs and pocketed most of the cash.”

“Ben’s wife, the one I told you about from Shade? Her name was Cloris. Do you remember her?”

“Cloris? Let me think.” Her lips moved in and out as she concentrated; then she said, “Yes! Yes! I do remember her! Unusual name. Right after she gave birth she changed her mind about the adoption. Took one look at those beautiful twin girls and said she couldn’t give them up.”

“Twins?” My heart hopped. “But I never realized—”

“Wait a minute,” said Sally Jean, holding up a restraining hand and shaking her head vigorously. “It’s all coming back. Cloris got real bent out of shape once she realized she’d never see them again. Not that some girls hadn’t balked before. But if they wouldn’t sign the adoption papers, Sam Feldman would hire a family to keep the baby for a few days. That way the girl could reconsider without an infant snuggled up to her. Oh, Mr. Sam was slick, all right. He’d come and talk to those girls about how there’d be no more dancing or movie shows and how they wouldn’t be having fun anymore; they’d be changing diapers. And I’ll admit, I didn’t argue with that approach. Those infants deserved a decent life, one that probably wouldn’t happen with mothers who were little more than children themselves. After a few days, sure enough, they’d forget and sign whatever Sam wanted them to sign.”

“But Cloris was different?” I asked, a strange tightness constricting my chest. Twins. Cloris gave birth to twin girls.

“Way different. She came here with only the clothes on her back. A sad young woman, and bearing some trouble she wouldn’t talk about. Had worried eyes, same color as yours.”

“But she signed the papers?” I asked, my voice sounding small and faraway. Twins. This couldn’t be real. There had to be an explanation other than the one I couldn’t push from conscious thought.

“Well, see, I don’t know. I assumed she did. But after the birth she took sick. Got to coughing so, and I couldn’t get her fever down. She nearly gave up when she came ’round and found out Feldman had taken the babies already. But I wouldn’t let her die. Uh-uh. No, ma’am. But though her body finally healed, her heart wasn’t mended. She left the money behind, the five hundred Sam gave her to start over.”

“She tried to get those children back,” I said quietly. “Tried for a long time. And was murdered for her trouble.”

“And you think Sam killed her because she came too close?”

“Yes,” I said, then lapsed into silence.

I heard Sally Jean saying, “I could kick myself from here to Lufkin for trusting the Doc and Sam so completely. As far as my husband’s concerned, he probably didn’t think he’d done anything wrong. And me? I cooked and cleaned and cared for the girls, thinking I was doing good works all those years.”

I blinked, forcing myself back into the present moment. “You won’t tell Feldman I came here, will you?”

“Do I look like I fell off the stupid truck?”

“Good.” I stood. “If you’ll give me his address, I’ll be on my way. I can’t thank you enough for the information.”

“If he’s killed two people, seems to me getting rid of you would be easy, girl. Best to call the police, don’t you think?”

“Maybe,” I said. But I would not be calling the police. Not yet.

“You be careful then, little lady.” She took a piece of paper and wrote the address, handing it to me just as a voice echoed down the hallway.

“Sally Jean! It’s me,” a woman called through the latched screen at the front of the house.

The door rattled. Thank goodness Sally Jean had fastened the hook, because I recognized that voice. Helen Hamilton.

“Is there a another way out?” I whispered.

She nodded and gestured for me to follow her.

I hurried out the back door, then drove two blocks before calling Sally Jean on my cell. She picked up on the second ring.

“It’s me, Abby. Is she still there?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Sally Jean.

“Standing near you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” she replied cheerfully.

“Can you delay her so I can visit Feldman?”

“I’ll try. Friday sounds fine,” she said, covering for me.

“Thanks.” I disconnected and sped west. I had to make a move while Sally Jean was delaying Hamilton or miss my chance at Feldman—even though I was no longer sure I wanted to know the truth.

No, I wanted to believe in coincidences. And the kindness of the only father I had ever known and the invalid mother I had not.

But I’d been fishing in troubled waters for more than a week, and it was time to reel in that shark Feldman.

An older man answered the door after I knocked, then backed up six feet inside. He looked seventy or close to it, with thinning silver hair and piercing blue eyes. Though I’d realized Feldman would be old, a geriatric murderer didn’t quite jell with my image of a criminal.

“Terry Armstrong, Houston police,” I said, extending one of the business cards I’d been hanging on to for a moment like this. “Are you Samuel Feldman?”

I’d told the big lie this time. The illegal kind. But with the word twins battering my brain unmercifully, I really didn’t care.

“Yes, I’m Samuel Feldman,” he said, stepping forward and snatching the card before retreating again into the shadowy foyer.

I was now face-to-face with this slimeball, and though he looked frail, his voice sounded strong and self-assured. I would have preferred weak and wavering.

“I’m a consultant in the Unsolved Crimes division, and I have a few questions,” I said. “Can I come in or should we go down to the precinct?”

He hesitated a second, then replied, “What’s this about?”

“It’s about murder, sir. Would you like to discuss this here or go downtown?” I didn’t stop to consider what I’d do if he actually told me to take him “downtown.”

“I can give you a minute, but I know nothing about any murder.” He turned abruptly and I followed him inside, wondering if he’d noticed my trembling hands or an expression that surely must have relayed how sick I felt inside.

A winding staircase rose to my right, and the foyer ceiling opened up to the second floor. A gleaming chandelier hung above our heads, and this hallway alone could have housed a family of four. I couldn’t help thinking that all this wealth had been achieved thanks to exorbitant fees paid by hundreds of desperate people over the past thirty years. Had I known one of those desperate souls? Lived with him all my life?

Feldman walked briskly to the left, into a formal living area furnished with an expensive-looking modular sofa and heavy white drapes on the picture window with a bay view. A palatial room, one that reminded me of winter.

“What’s this about?” he said curtly.

He sat on the sofa near the fireplace, and I sat opposite him, seemingly a football field away. A heavily varnished coffee table fashioned from the trunk of a redwood filled the U space between us.

“I’m investigating the deaths of a couple named Grayson,” I said. “You may remember the wife. Her name was Cloris, and her children were placed in an adoptive home through your agency many years ago.”

He crossed his legs and leaned back against the white cushions. “Thousands of children came through my agency, and by the way, I don’t own or operate that business any longer.”

Maybe not on paper, I thought. He’d no doubt covered himself there. “Let me refresh your memory. Cloris Grayson caused a bit of trouble in your life... before someone murdered her.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I think you do. We know you placed her twins, and we know she tried to find them. If she succeeded, then you would have lost. Big-time. I’d call that motive, sir.”

He shifted his thin frame, paying considerable attention to his fingernails. “I think you’re mistaken. I don’t remember this woman.”

I guess I had expected him to fall on his knees and confess. I should have planned this confrontation better, but I was too distracted by what Sally Jean had told me to even make much sense right now. Still, I couldn’t leave without getting something out of this asshole. Maybe if I threw out a line about the judge, he’d squirm.

“You cooperated with a judge named Eugenia Hayes. We believe you made some shady deals with her, threw a few bribes her way. Is that not a fact, sir?”

“I told you I don’t know anything about your murder, nor about bribery. Frankly, I’d categorize your information as flimsy innuendos. I haven’t been in a courtroom in a long time, and I don’t recall anyone named Hayes.”

“Suffering from selective amnesia, sir?”

He got up. “I won’t be insulted in my own home. Obviously you’re grasping at straws.”

I had forgotten he was a lawyer, a “professional liar,” like Judge Hayes said.

“This isn’t the end, Feldman,” I said, knowing this was true, even if everything else I’d said was a lie.

“If you show up again,” Feldman said, “you’d better have more than speculation.”

He marched ahead of me, and I heard the phone ringing beyond a door across the foyer.

“I’ll find my way out,” I said.

He waited until I was out the front door, but didn’t come too close... almost as if he were afraid of what was out there. He certainly wasn’t afraid of me.

It was raining like God opened the drain, and I hesitated before closing the front door behind me. Just then a gust of wind blew me backward and the door opened, horizontal rain spraying into the foyer. I stepped back inside, deciding to wait a minute or two for the weather to let up.

That was when I realized I could hear Feldman talking in the other room. He said, “When do you think you’ll be here?”

Silence followed. I moved closer to the half-open door.

Feldman said, “I’ve had a visitor. Houston Police.”

His voice drifted closer, as if he might be walking toward me.

Damn.

I hurried across the foyer and crouched behind a large statue of some naked Greek god. I sneaked a peek and saw Feldman step out, his attention on the open front door. He maneuvered around the puddle on the floor, shut the door, and practically jumped away after doing so. As he went back into the other room, I heard him say, “Stupid woman left the door open.”

Taking a path close to the wall, I tiptoed back, stopping outside the room just in time to hear him say, “I understand. But they’re putting things together.”

Another pause before he said, “I know they don’t have any evidence, but she mentioned Eugenia Hayes, and she was one of the judges. If they dig deep enough, they’ll find out Rose made her step down and—Hold on; I’ve got another call.”

My knees almost gave way, and I steadied myself against the wall. Then, not caring whether Feldman knew I’d been listening in, I opened the door and ran out into the stinging rain. I didn’t remember starting the car or navigating through the downpour, but soon I found myself on P Street.

I parked in the driveway and sat there in the Camry, not bothering to even turn off the air-conditioning, my soaked clothing molded to my cold, shivering body. Rain still poured in unrelenting intensity from the swirling slate sky.

I clutched the steering wheel, my knuckles protruding white and sharp through the stretched skin of my hands. The truth, the thing that was supposed to set you free and all that crap, ricocheted between the confines of my skull, cruel and punishing.

Then tears began sliding down my cheeks and under my chin.