Pick Your Poison

13

On the drive back to Houston, I thought about all I had learned in the last two days, trying to fit these new pieces into the puzzle. One thing linked Ben with Kate and me—adoption. Was that why Ben showed up at our house? Was our adoption and Cloris’s giving up her own baby somehow connected? And since these events happened around the same time, could Parental Advocates be that connection?

I always assumed Willis handled our case, but perhaps Ben sought out Daddy after learning they shared the same adoption broker. And maybe he was in Houston not to find his wife’s killer, but to find a child given up years ago. I had to get with Willis on this. He hadn’t reacted to the name Feldman when I told him all I had learned, but maybe Parental Advocates would ring a bell.

I turned on the radio, pleased with how far I had come with such few clues, just in time to hear the weather report. It seemed our summer drought could end soon. A tropical depression was forming in the gulf, though the disturbance was currently stationary. Since only fools made light of Texas weather, I would have to keep an ear tuned to the news.

When I turned onto my street in Houston forty-five minutes later, I realized I’d forgotten all about Aunt Caroline’s planned visit today, but the U-Haul in the driveway reminded me. She and a muscular escort were just leaving, and I couldn’t help but focus on my aunt’s tiny white shorts and chartreuse halter top.

“Hello, Abby,” she said when I greeted them on the walkway. “Have you met my trainer, Hans? He’s been helping me load.” She gazed up at him with her surgically correct smile.

“Nice to meet you, Hans.” I looked at Aunt Caroline. “I forgot you were a woman on a mission today. Take everything on your list?” As if she’d miss a straight pin if it took her fancy.

Hans gazed down at me, or should I say at all my body parts, beginning at my feet and ending with my eyes.

“Caroline has told me so much about you,” he said, his voice deep and accented.

Where did she find this one? At the Arnold Schwarzenegger look-alike contest at Cyclone Willy’s Nightspot?

He massaged Aunt Caroline’s naked shoulder, but never took his eyes off my chest.

“Where’s Kate?” I stepped past them.

“She’s in the study with Willis,” said Aunt Caroline. “But where have you been, Abby? You smell like you’ve got goats under each arm.”

I faced her. “Thanks so much for embarrassing me in front of someone I’ve just met. You can be sure I wasn’t over plundering your house.”

“I think we’ll leave before this turns nasty.” She started down the walkway toward the U-Haul.

Hans called over his shoulder, “I like a woman who doesn’t mind getting dirty.” He winked and then followed after Aunt Caroline.

I shook my head as I entered the house. I swear the inscription on Aunt Caroline’s tombstone will read, The only time she has ever slept alone.

Willis and Kate were bent over Daddy’s desk in the study, documents spread in front of them. Kate seemed harried, her hair a tangled mess, a fist on her hip. She was holding a paper in the other hand.

When our eyes met, I realized she might be more than a tad cranky.

“This is not my idea of fun, Abby. Not after a morning of trying to keep Aunt Caroline from calling Allied Van Lines and stealing everything in sight. What took you so long?”

“Glad to see you, too, Kate.”

Her eyes flashed. She had to be the nicest, most flexible soon-to-be therapist this side of the Mississippi, but she was at her irritable worst right now.

“I’m not apologizing,” she said. “Not this time. You deliberately avoided dealing with Aunt Caroline, didn’t you?”

The last time Kate was this pissed off at me was when I went to the prom with the biggest flirt in the senior class just because the guy had a great ass. She believed I’d compromised my values. Actually, I had compromised her values. Great male asses rank right up there with chocolate and French-kissing, as far as I’m concerned.

The tension between us seemed to make Willis uncomfortable, probably because he’d never seen Kate have an almost-tantrum before. I had, of course, but not in a long time.

“Answer me, Abby. Did you purposely stay away?” she said.

“Well, Kate, you’ve spent a gazillion dollars at Rice University so you can call yourself an expert on unconscious motivation. You figure out why I didn’t want to witness the pillage. And by the way, what’s that?” I pointed at the paper in her hand.

“The stupid contract. We had an offer on the house.” She threw the paper on the desk.

I looked at Willis. “Is this the real reason she seems ready to chomp a chunk out of my butt?”

Willis cleared his throat again, impatiently thumbing through other papers. “Bad offer. I’m guessing the prospective buyer wants to see how low you’ll go. The small matter of the recent, uh... death in the greenhouse does affect marketability.”

“With Kate’s plans for a serious lifestyle adjustment, maybe we’ll have to cut our losses,” I said.

“Oh,” she said sarcastically. “So if we make a mistake about selling, it’s all my fault?” Her chin jutted a few inches, and her cheeks now raged scarlet.

What in the heck was wrong with her?

I kept my voice level. “You’re entitled to a life of your own with Terry, so maybe we shouldn’t be selling merely to spare me having to care for such a huge place alone. In fact, maybe Willis and Aunt Caroline are right on this one. Selling so soon after the murder could be a mistake.”

Her shoulders relaxed and the tension around her mouth eased. “Good. Because I feel the same way.”

Willis said, “I’m glad you’ve come to your senses about something.” His hazel eyes narrowed behind his glasses. “Where have you been, by the way? You’re sunburned.”

“In Galveston, trying to find out about someone. Pretty frustrating day, though.”

“Did this frustration concern Ben’s death?” Willis asked.

“What if it did?”

“You’re carrying this too far, Abby,” he said. “What if you ended up face-to-face with Ben’s killer?”

“Good question.” One I was too tired to consider. I picked up the contract and looked at Kate. “Can we trash this?”

“Please do.” She pushed aside the hair flopping on her forehead. “I’m sorry I overreacted. I’ve been worried about leaving you alone when I go live with Terry.”

“I’ll be alone, whether here or in a smaller place. About time I fended for myself,” I said.

Willis cleared his throat. “If you ladies will excuse me, I’m meeting Simon Holloway for eighteen, though he probably won’t be able to finish nine holes in the afternoon heat. He eats porterhouse steaks and slurps Manhattans for lunch. No wonder he can’t even walk back and forth to the golf cart.”

“Thanks for coming over,” said Kate.

Kate and I walked Willis to the front door and I said, “By the way, who handled our adoption, Willis?”

He stopped at the door, looking like he’d just put on barbed-wire Jockey shorts. “What? Where did you pull that question from?”

“Just wondering.”

“I handled the legalities,” he said, his tone curt.

“So you didn’t go through an agency called Parental Advocates?”

“We dealt with your biological family’s lawyer directly after the plane crash.”

“And that lawyer’s name wasn’t Samuel Feldman?” I said.

He stared at me, eyes narrow. “Oh. I remember you mentioning Feldman and how he was somehow connected to Ben’s past. Is that what you’ve been up to today? Digging up skeletons?”

“I was thinking Ben may have sought Daddy out because Cloris used the same adoption agency years ago.”

“Cloris used an adoption agency?” Kate said. “When did you find that out?”

“I’m not sure she even did. And the adoption angle might have nothing to do with why Ben came here, but it’s better than no explanation at all. I have another question, Willis.”

He checked his watch. “I really should have left here by now.”

“This won’t take a minute. Do you need a license to run an adoption agency?”

“No license is required that I’m aware of. Texas has more liberal adoption laws than most states.”

“What do you mean by liberal?” I asked.

“Can we leave this alone? I have to go.” He turned the knob.

“Does liberal mean it’s okay for someone to pay a birth mother?”

“Is this a roundabout way to ask about your own adoption? Because I assure you, Charlie and Elizabeth did everything in their power to provide you and Kate with a good home. If you start questioning their—”

“Who says I’m questioning anything they did?” But his defensiveness had me wondering. Now was not the time to press him, however. I’d already flustered him enough. So I said, “Actually, Willis, I’m asking all these questions because I’m thinking of adopting. I figure I’ve had plenty of experience raising Steven.”

“I take it you’re joking, but whatever you’re up to, I advise you not to upset the wrong people. Adoption means money to some, and when you mess with their money, they often react unpleasantly. I’ll see you Sunday for dinner.”

He left and Kate closed the door. “What have you been up to, Abby? Because if I know you, you didn’t get that sunburn on a Galveston beach.”

“It’s a long story, and I’m dying to share the details.”

We went arm in arm back to the kitchen, fixed iced tea, and moved out by the pool so we could enjoy the tiny breeze that blessed us today. I recounted my interview with Hamilton and my first attempt at shadowing someone.

“That kid who tried to steal your car could have had a gun, Abby! What were you thinking?”

“Obviously I wasn’t thinking.”

“And I suppose you’re not done with Helen Hamilton?”

“She’s connected to Feldman, and Feldman is connected to Cloris and Ben.”

“Sounds like you made her plenty suspicious with all your questions.”

“I figure she’ll get less suspicious when I return with a husband and some cash.” I smiled.

Kate didn’t.

“He won’t go for this,” said Kate as we pulled into Terry’s driveway a few hours later. His small brick home was on a tree-lined street in one of my favorite sections of the city, near Rice University.

Kate hopped out of the SUV and went around to open the back gate on her 4Runner. She let Webster out and he bounded toward the front door, stopping briefly to lift his leg and spray the huge oak in the front yard. He likes Terry’s house. Not as much square footage to wear him out.

“I know Terry will be reluctant to help me, and that’s why you have to convince him,” I said.

“I’m willing, but I’m not guaranteeing anything,” she said.

We entered the house after a cursory knock, Webster leading the way through the narrow hall to the living room. Terry had been slowly modernizing the old house, but he had yet to work on the living room. Brocade drapes and floral wallpaper clashed with his black leather sofa, contemporary end tables, and sleek entertainment center.

Terry, dressed in his usual khakis and polo shirt, emerged from the kitchen, and Webster greeted him by barking and doing a few whirligigs.

“Hi, fella,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head. Terry grinned at me. “And hello, Abby. Didn’t know you were coming for dinner, too.”

“Never miss a chance to visit with my favorite soon-to-be brother-in-law,” I said.

His eyes turned in amused inquiry to Kate. “What does she want, Kate? More police info, I suppose?”

“Me?” I said. “Ulterior motives? Never.”

He laughed. “I’ll set another plate for supper.”

He had fixed fruit salad, grilled chicken, and poppy-seed muffins, and we ate in the dining room, whose walls bore the scars of recently stripped wallpaper.

While we ate, I told him about Feldman, Hamilton, and the plan I’d devised to learn more about Parental Advocates. Once we’d finished the meal, Terry sat back in his chair, considering what I’d said.

I pushed pineapple tidbits around my plate, feeling his resistance, even though he hadn’t come right out and said he wouldn’t help me. Kate wasn’t doing any generous lobbying in my favor, which bothered me. But she loved the guy and certainly knew how to handle this situation better than I did.

Indeed, the affection and respect between Kate and Terry was obvious. Love and respect. If I’d only weighed their importance before I married Steven. Passion and Bud Light weren’t exactly the best foundation for a lasting relationship.

Kate picked up the pitcher and we passed the iced tea around, refilling our glasses.

“Why didn’t you ask me for help before you went wandering around Galveston?” Terry finally said.

I added a lemon slice to my drink, saying, “Are you in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, Terry? Remember that day in your office when you said you couldn’t help me?”

He said, “I was a little ticked at you, remember?” “I know. I’m sorry.” I attended to the frayed edge of my napkin.

He went on, saying, “And you’ve gone a little overboard again. I mean, is it a good idea to follow a woman who may have been conducting an entirely legal business transaction?”

“She didn’t know she’d been followed,” I said.

“There’s no give-up in you, is there?” He sighed. “I suppose I could check a couple of sources at HPD and see if they know anything about this Feldman guy.”

“Maybe he’s been dead for years,” said Kate. “Or he moved away.”

“Hamilton said he was retired. And if he’s still in the area, maybe I can find him.”

“Okay,” Terry said. “So you find him. But if the man’s guilty of anything, he certainly won’t tell you.” Terry’s tone, edging closer to condescension, reminded me of an earlier conversation with Willis Hatch. Why did all the men in my life think they had to protect me?

Figuring I needed a time-out before I shot myself in the foot with Terry, I said, “Talk to him, would you, Kate? I’m going to the bathroom.”

“Use the one in my bedroom,” said Terry. “That hall bath is torn up.”

And so was Terry’s bedroom, though not from re-modeling. He was plain messy, something Kate might have a problem adjusting to. The comforter was wadded at the end of the bed, and dirty clothes littered the floor.

I, however, considered this a point in the man’s favor. I never trusted neat men. Neat men called their mothers on odd-numbered days and collected stamps. Dodging a trail of towels, I made my way to the bathroom. A minute later, when I moved a shirt strewn over the sink so I could wash my hands, three or four business cards fluttered from the pocket. I picked them up.

Police-issued business cards. An embossed gold shield was prominent in the upper center, and beneath this was printed, Terry Armstrong, Ph.D., Houston Police Department, Consultant.

Hmm. These could prove useful. I pocketed them and returned to the dining room.

“Guess what?” said Kate. “Terry’s agreed to help with your plan to find Feldman.”

“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised. “How’d she convince you?”

“By being Kate.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I think she’s right, though. There’s nothing illegal about checking out Parental Advocates by pretending to seek their services. Investigative reporters do things like this all the time. A little playacting, right? Besides, you are practically family. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there, Abby.”

“Thanks... I’ll call you when I’m ready to execute the plan.” I ran my fingers over the edges of the small rectangles in my pocket. “But are you absolutely positive?”

“Sure,” he said. “It’s not like I’ll be impersonating a police officer or anything. Now, that can get you in big trouble.”