Dead Giveaway

6

Though I'd hoped Kate and I could get inside Verna Mae's house Sunday—Kate didn't see patients on Sunday—Burl Rollins said it would be another day or so before the property would be turned over to Will. After this disappointment, my sister convinced me to take a day off, and we spent Sunday shopping on the Kemah Boardwalk, then overdosed on shrimp and crab at Pappas Seafood Restaurant. It was a good distraction, one I needed.

My appointment with Molly Roth, the social worker who had worked Will's abandonment case, was for nine a.m. Monday, so I was on the Southwest Freeway heading toward Roth's office in Sugarland by eight-thirty. Houston freeways at that time of day? Basically a cuss-off with hand signals.

I'd researched Roth and discovered she'd left Children's Protective Services many years ago and currently ran a private agency that supplied parents with certified nannies—that according to the sales pitch Roth had insisted on delivering over the phone when I called her for an appointment. I wasn't even sure I'd convinced her I had no interest in hiring anyone from her agency unless they wanted to babysit a spoiled cat.

Her tenth-floor office was housed in a smoked-glass high-rise right off the freeway. When I entered suite 1012, a woman in her late fifties wearing glasses and a vintage navy suit with pale blue piping on the lapels flew into the waiting area the minute I arrived. She nearly tripped over a child-size table and chairs piled with books and puzzles.

"Hi," I said, extending my hand. "I'm—"

"You're late. You must never be late in this business. Now get in here." She grabbed my wrist and pulled me through the waiting area into an office populated by enough stuffed animals, cartoon posters, dolls and toys to rival a Disney World gift shop.

The woman squinted at me through lenses so thick they magnified her dark eyes and made her look like a koala bear.

"What's happened to you?" she said. Her voice sounded like the Molly Roth I'd spoken with the other day but with the frantic button turned on. "You did something different to your hair. And we talked about clothes. No clingy T-shirts like this." She pulled at my pink V-neck and appraised the rest of me. "The khakis are okay, but—"

"Ms. Roth, I think you've mistaken me for someone else. I'm Abby Rose. Remember, we spoke on the phone and—"

"You're not Julie?" She craned her neck and moved in so close we were practically nose to nose. "God, you're not. Okay, you're new. Do you have a criminal background? And don't lie to me, because if I get you this job and find out later you lied, I'll—"

"We have an appointment, Ms. Roth," I cut in. "About a case you worked for CPS."

Roth blinked, her jaw slack. Then came the dawn of realization. "Oh. That's today?"

"Yes, ma'am," I said.

"I really don't have time for you. A nanny hasn't shown and—"

A cell phone twirped from its resting place on Roth's cluttered desk. Papers went flying everywhere when she swooped down on the phone. She flipped it open and said, "Julie? Where in heaven are you?"

I saw color rise up the woman's pale neck and scorch her cheeks. "Oh. Yes. Of course. That's right. Thank you for checking in."

Roth closed her phone and then her body went slack, her arms limp at her sides. "Today is Monday. Did you know that?"

"Um, yes. That's when you told me to be here."

"And Monday is not Tuesday."

"Not last time I checked." Why did I have the feeling I'd be getting absolutely nowhere with this interview?

Roth smiled, adjusted her glasses. "But that's a good thing, Ms. Rose. No child is without their nanny because today is Monday. Now. How can I help you?"

"Um, could we sit down?"

"Yes, certainly. Absolutely." She glanced around in what I assumed was her usual agitated fashion and scooped up a pile of folders and neon stuffed fish off the chair that faced her desk. Then she opened a closet to my left and tossed them inside, quickly shutting the door before the other thousand things inside fell out.

She gestured at the empty chair. "There. Sit. Coffee?"

"No," I said quickly. Besides the fact that I'd sworn off coffee, she might need a year to find the pot.

She took a seat behind her desk and started stacking papers, her nervous fingers less than effective at organizing them into piles. She finally shoved everything to one side and rested folded hands on the desk in front of her. "Now, what are we here for today?"

"Do you remember our conversation last week when I called?" I asked.

"It's been so hectic, Ms. Rose. You sell yellow roses or something, right? I suppose if one of my nannies showed up with roses her first day on the job that would be a nice touch, so I'm listening." She blinked and smiled and blinked those big eyes a few more times.

Definitely no one home in there. Funny how phone conversations just don't give you the full picture. "Ac tually, I work for Yellow Rose Investigations. I'm a private detective who specializes in adoption cases. You once worked for CPS in Liberty County. My client, Will Knight, was in your care for—"

"The Knights! Yes! Sweet people. Good foster parents."

"They ended up adopting a baby you placed with them. But you knew that, right?"

"Certainly I knew that." But Roth looked more confused than a mosquito in a nudist colony. "Why didn't we do this over the phone? I mean, it's not like I know much more than you seem to know."

"You were busy when I called the other day and said you'd rather speak in person. Said you'd be able to recall the case better if I gave you some time."

"That's right. Well... hmmm. Let me think." She bit her lower lip.

"Did you happen to save any old notes?" I asked, so full of hope and so kidding myself.

She pointed at me and smiled. "Yes. Old notes. I could have done that. Where would they be?"

Obviously this woman couldn't pour pee out of a boot if the instructions were printed on the heel. "Maybe I could ask you a few questions and the memories will begin to flow." I said this sweetly, rather like a nanny telling a bedtime story.

"Yes. That might work." More blinking.

"A baby was left on a doorstep. A mixed-race child."

"Right. The police called me, but I couldn't get out that night. My car wouldn't start. To this day I have a problem with the whole gas, oil change, maintenance thing. But I'm learning."

"Burl Rollins, the officer you spoke to, took care of the baby overnight."

"Yes. Nice man. His wife was a doll, too. We played bunko together. Did you know that?"

"Interesting," I said. And irrelevant. "Did you ever meet the Olsens, the people who discovered the child on their porch?"

She thought for a second. "I did meet her. She came to my office, but, what was that about?"

"I'm hoping you can tell me," I prompted.

Molly Roth squeezed her eyes shut, her expression pained. "Recalling conversations from years ago is very difficult. Maybe you could tell me what Mrs. Olsen has to do with any of this, because she was never a part of that child's life aside from calling out the authorities. The baby was placed in foster care, adopted and gone from Bottlebrush quickly."

"I hate to tell you this, but Verna Mae Olsen was murdered Friday night, right after she met with that now grown-up abandoned baby. She knew all about him—had for years, as matter of fact."

Roth leaned back in her chair, her face blanching with shock. "My heavens. What a way to start the week."

"I'm working with the police on this case, and we really need your help. Please think hard, tell me everything you can recall."

"Okay. Help me out. What year was the child abandoned again?"

"Late in 1987."

She rubbed her index finger under her bright red lips. "Hmm. What did Mrs. Olsen want with me that day she came to the office?"

"Did she want to talk about Will? Maybe learn where he would be placed?"

"No. Besides, I wouldn't have told her. Not that I was the best caseworker on the planet, but there were things I could and couldn't say to people."

"If she did ask about his foster care placement perhaps you told her that was confidential information?"

Roth's face brightened with realization. "Foster care! That's it. She asked about becoming a foster parent."

"Because she wanted to be Will's foster parent?" I recalled how Verna Mae had bristled when I brought up the subject.

"No... it was after he'd been placed, and if I recall, she never mentioned him. I don't think we ever put a child in her home, though."

"Why was that?"

"Could be we lost her information during the breakin, along with the other things those vandals destroyed. Yes. In fact, I'm sure that's what happened. Funny she never reapplied..."

"Break-in?"

"I kept cash in the office—to help families buy diapers or groceries or pay rent. Emergency fund. Couple hundred dollars. CPS really does do good work trying to keep families together. Anyway, someone, or maybe more than one someone, broke in and stole the money. It wasn't a big secret I had petty cash, considering I handed out quite a bit throughout the county. Had to be young people responsible, because they trashed the place. Burned things, wrote graffiti on the wall. Adolescent acting-out, we presumed."

"Must have been upsetting," I said.

"Yes. What a mess they made. Even delayed that abandoned child's permanent placement. Everything was nearly finalized. His file went missing along with several others—probably burned, since we found a pile of ashes to go along with the spray-painted walls and overturned file cabinets."

Now this was important. "This happened after your visit from Verna Mae?"

"After. Like I said, her paperwork probably was destroyed, too."

Destroyed because Verna Mae applied to be a foster parent to size up the place? Though I couldn't see her breaking and entering, she could have paid someone to steal Will's information. "The police believed juveniles were the culprits? You don't think Verna Mae could have had anything to do with it?"

"She couldn't have knocked over those heavy cabinets. And those curse words on the wall? Had to be adolescents."

"Other paperwork went missing, you say?"

"Yes. What a nightmare. Delayed several placements. I wasn't very good with all the paper I generated, anyway. Then to have files crumpled, destroyed, burned. Well, it set me back awhile. It's not like they give caseworkers a secretary."

I asked a few more questions, but concluded I'd squeezed everything I could out of her. Besides, when she asked if I might like a job caring for children, I got out of there as quick as chained lightning with a snapped link. After I got behind the wheel of my car, I hunted in my bag for Burl's business card. I wanted to ask him if he had any knowledge of this so-called vandalism in the CPS office.

A dull throb had begun at the back of my skull, and I had a feeling the coffee withdrawal was beginning despite the green tea fixes. The thought of drinking even one sip of java still made my stomach flip over. Once I got back on the road, my first stop would be for a Diet Coke.

I found Burl's number, dialed his cell and said "Hi" when he answered on the second ring. "I could use a little help."

"Shoot," he answered, "but make it quick. Got a court date in thirty minutes."

"Do you remember a break-in at the CPS office sometime after Will was placed with the Knights?"

"No, but the CPS office isn't in Bottlebrush. I wouldn't have been involved. I can try to find out, though. When was this?"

I told him about my conversation with Molly Roth.

"Come by later today and I might have something on it."

"Come by?"

"Yes, ma'am. And bring Will. I have the keys to the house."

"Already?"

"There's still a few legalities, but Verna Mae used the lawyer as the executor and that sped things up. He says Will can take possession."

"Okay. We'll be there."