by Lakota Grace
Silver paused, listening to the early morning quiet. No sounds of human activity. At the end of the kitchen was a doorway, half-ajar. Silver paused, alert, but heard no sounds of breathing or smells of sleeping humans.
She stepped inside, quietly closed the door, and switched on a penlight. She held the light low, sweeping the room once. No sign of recent occupancy. Robbyn must not welcome houseguests. She’d try to be considerate.
Silver clicked off the flash and rotated the door thumb lock. She flung herself on the bed. Wonderful! Stripping her clothes off, she moved to the bathroom.
The shower’s hot water washed away the tensions of the climb and social engagement. Silver had taken one of those personality tests in high school that labeled her an extreme introvert. But she felt better when she found out most actors were in that category, too. Maybe she’d explore an acting career once she connected with her real parents, the rich ones.
She yearned to linger in the shower but disciplined herself to a military routine. Get wet. Turn off the shower. Lather down. Turn it on. Rinse. Sometimes the sound of water running carried, but if she were quick, most people she “visited” assumed it was the toilet and went back to sleep.
Silver sat on the bed in the fluffy guest robe and dug the change and bills from her jeans pocket. With the ten the last couple had given her, she had ninety dollars. Not enough to hire this private eye guy she’d talked to on the phone. Maybe he'd take a down payment?
His help was critical to her future career plans. During those years of foster care, hope had kept Silver alive. Briefly, she’d had a dream of helping kids, like a clergy or a social worker. She’d heard too many drunken confessions, that was sure. Unfortunately, she found out what a counselor was paid—virtually nothing!
Then, she considered prostitution, one of those ritzy call girls, until her best friend in that trade was beaten and landed in the hospital. No, Silver wanted the status of a high-paying job and the ability to boss other people around. No more taking other people’s orders.
L.A. was a dead end. Silver needed to start over. And the unsealed court records she discovered when she turned eighteen offered an opportunity.
She had the name of her mother and an address here in the Verde Valley. With luck, the old broad would be rich, and Silver could lean on her. Or if not her mother, there was always the absent father out there someplace.
Silver had been a nobody long enough. Money could buy her a fake college degree. Why waste four years sitting on her behind listening to some jerk-off telling her what she knew already?
But that was in the future. Right now she needed cash to front the private investigation to convince her rich mother to talk to her. Perhaps there was money in this big house? It went against her principles—you didn't steal where you slept. On the other hand, she could return it when her ship came in.
That's what Silver always told her cons—that she’d pay it back. Did Robbyn qualify as a con? Somehow, the lines were blurring, and she wasn't thinking clearly. That got you in trouble. And Silver didn't intend to get caught. She'd never been arrested, never spent a night in jail, and she wasn’t starting now.
But if she were careful? It wouldn’t hurt to assess if there was cash lying around. Quietly Silver donned her last pair of clean jeans and a T-shirt. She crept through the kitchen once more and up the stairs to the main sleeping area.
The first bedroom was the child’s room, silhouetted by a dim nightlight. A big stuffed giraffe guarded a play table stacked with toys. A soft whistling noise came from a railed youth bed where a toddler in footed jammies slept with his thumb in his mouth. The little kid had kicked off the covers.
Silver touched his hair, pulled the blanket up, and tucked a teddy bear under his arm. How would it feel to have a kid like this?
She’d like to be an aunt and visit. But to actually have a child? Not likely. Kids tied you down, and Silver had plans.
She paused outside the next door, smelling Robbyn's expensive perfume. In their friendly talk at the coffee shop, the girl confided that she and her husband had separate bedrooms. So Robbyn slept alone. Silver pushed open the door and stood gathering her bearings.
Where would Robbyn keep her purse, that huge Coach bag Silver had seen at the cafe? She tripped over a shoe and froze, listening. But Robbyn’s sleeping-pill induced sighs continued uninterrupted.
Silver detoured around a pile of clothes on the floor. Messy! People should pick up after themselves instead of expecting others to do it for them.
If Silver had been at one of her foster homes, she would have found the other shoe, lined them up precisely, and folded the clothes into a neat pile. She'd done that at the houses she’d lived at, taking care of whatever man her current foster-mother had brought home, while always staying an arm's length out of reach. But here, reluctantly, she left the mess exactly as it was.
The purse wasn't on the chair or the dresser. Ah, there it was, near the bed where Robbyn had dropped it.
Silver noted the exact position of the bag and then drew it carefully toward her. She retreated to the far side of the room and stuck a hand in it. She hated touching other people's things, their private, personal stuff, but sometimes it was necessary.
Her nimble fingers identified the contents by feel. Makeup bag, cash receipts on thin paper, a book—Robbyn read? A smartphone. A tampon. Silver's fingers recoiled from that, then dug deeper. Her hand touched a leather wallet.
Silver withdrew it carefully, felt past the plastic credit cards—never bother with those—for the raised-paper surface of currency. No telling what denominations. She left a few, hoping Robbyn might not notice until later that some were missing. Silver stuffed the money in her pocket, placed the wallet back in the purse and tiptoed across the room. There she returned the purse to the exact location it had occupied.
What next? Tackle the husband’s room? It was a risk, but Silver wasn't sure how much cash she had so far. She needed a bunch. Private detectives were expensive.
She moved cautiously into the hall and nudged the master bedroom door open. The snoring in this larger room continued unabated. Where would an old guy like Robbyn’s husband keep money?
Silver halted in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the moonlight streaming through the window. A money clip glinted on the nightstand. Could she reach it without his notice? The man snorted and flopped to the other side of the king-sized bed.
Silver jerked. Was he waking up? No, the snores resumed.
Silver crept to the nightstand and grabbed the money clip. A hard grip trapped her wrist.
The man switched on the bedside lamp and glared at Silver in the light. In his other hand was a revolver, pointed straight at her heart!
“Got you,” the man snarled. “Let go the money clip.”
Instead, Silver twisted the gun, hard toward the ceiling and away from her. The old man was stronger than he appeared and they wrestled for a moment. Finally, Silver let go, dropped the money clip and backed away.
“Now sit in that chair where I can see you.”
Silver glanced in the opposite direction where escape lay.
“Don't even try it,” he said. “I'm a dead shot, and that's what you'll be, dead. Now move!”
Silver sat on the chair, her mind whirling through possible scenarios, none of which she liked.
“I'm so sorry. I got into the wrong room. I'm a friend of Robbyn's and she—” Sometimes if you spun an elaborate web of half-truths they’d get confused.
“Robbyn doesn't have any friends,” he said. “And that was my money clip in your hand. You're a thief.”
Silver let the tears form in her eyes and swiped at them with an I’m-so-sorry gesture.
“I haven't eaten in days. I was just so—so hungry.” She threw in a catch for effect.
“You could stand to gain a few pounds,” he admitted, his tone softening.
Then his voice tightened with resolve. “But I'm not buying that either. Give me one reason why I shoul
dn't call the police.”
Silver heard a small hesitation in his voice and played the Curiosity Card. “I need the money.”
“For?”
For nearly the first time in her life, Silver told the truth.
“I'm trying to get my mother to acknowledge me. She refuses to talk to me.”
“And my money is going to change that?”
Silver gestured impatiently. Sometimes folks were so dense.
“No, of course not. But I have to hire a private eye to convince her.”
“And you need my money to do the hiring.”
Silver ducked her head and looked at him shyly through tear-wetted lashes, using her carefully practiced Princess Diana look.
“Only twenty more dollars will do it. I'll pay you back,” she promised.
The man hesitated and then tossed the entire money clip at her feet. It landed with a dull thud.
“There, take everything. Folks shouldn't be without family.” His own eyes glinted with moisture. “I had a son once. I lost him, and I’ll never have the chance to fix that.”
He waved at her with the pistol. “Go. Get out of here before I change my mind.”
He raised the gun and shot directly over her head, the slug hitting the wall behind her with a thock.
This guy was crazy! Silver grabbed the clip and darted out the door. She ran down the stairs, grabbed her daypack, and dashed into the woods.
Silver thrashed blindly through the underbrush for several moments, and then stopped, breathing heavily. Her mind retraced her footsteps through the house.
Had she left anything incriminating? Damp towels, hung neatly in the guest bath, the guest bed carefully remade. She was fine. Her luck had held.
Leaning against a pine tree, she dug the money clip out of her pocket and pulled out the bills. The moonlight identified the denominations. The four on the outside of the thick wad were fifties—Silver approved. Easier to cash than hundreds.
But the rest were an assortment of fives and ones—cheapskate! And then a two-dollar bill—did anyone still accept those? Silver crumpled it into a ball and dropped it to the dirt. Not safe to use. Too memorable.
She automatically smoothed the bills as she sorted, putting like denominations together, face-side forward. That way you didn’t pull out the wrong one at the local convenience store and get cheated by a clerk who swore the twenty you gave him was a fiver. She knew about those things. Had helped a few happen, in fact.
A rising wind swirled around the hill, and Silver pulled her jacket tighter. Her still-wet hair chilled in the desert night air. Since her first choice of sleeping arrangements hadn’t worked, she needed to find a crash pad.
What about that nice house with the stack of not-canceled newspapers on the porch? Just the place for a home-insecure person. Silver crept like a hungry mountain lion down the rocky hill to shelter.
A New Client
~ 14 ~
Pegasus
The next morning, there was a message on my phone from Shepherd. He had a new client and wanted me to sit in on the meeting. It was a cold case, he said. A person or persons unknown that we needed to trace.
I knew his offer was make-work, and I didn’t care. It felt good to have a friend in my corner. I pulled my best navy suit out of the closet, added a pink silk blouse and sensible flats in case the client was short and sensitive about it. I took a quick shower and arrived early, a first for me.
When I showed at Shepherd's office, a homeless woman sat on the curb, her feet sprawled out. You can always tell them: thrift store clothes, the too-deep tan, too skinny—from drugs, I supposed—and that dejected expression. Part of me hated my stereotyping, but there it was.
This one had tattoos up her arm and brilliant white hair. I thought she was an old lady at first and then she gave me a burning, contemptuous look. Just out of her teens it looked like. But still homeless, that much was certain, from her well-worn daypack and raggedy jeans. Probably a run-away. She looked like she’d been left out in the rain too long and shrunk a size or two.
I was startled when she rose to her feet and followed me toward the door. Shepherd didn’t need any panhandlers when he was getting ready for a new client.
“The office is closed,” I said, blocking her entrance.
“You're going in,” she pointed out.
“I work here.”
I did, sort of. Shepherd had promised me this consultation.
“Wait here a minute,” I compromised.
She slumped back on the curb and I entered the room, closing the door firmly behind me. She might steal the stapler off the receptionist's desk if nobody was watching.
“Hi, Shepherd. Somebody out there to see you.” I jerked a thumb toward the street.
“My new client!”
Shepherd sounded excited. I guess when you're starting a business you take whatever comes across the transom.
“You sure she can pay?” I asked. “She looks a little skaggy.”
This was my new client, too, and baby needed new shoes.
Shepherd gave me a scowling look. “Peg, I'm surprised at you. Everybody deserves a chance to tell their story. Let's hear her out.”
“Fine.”
I felt chastised like a little kid. First Rory pulling rank because of Chas, and now Shepherd. It wasn’t fair.
The young woman shuffled into the office and plopped into a chair in front of Shepherd's desk. She dropped the daypack beside her, catching my right foot in the straps.
“Ow!”
“Sorry,” she said.
I could tell she wasn't in the least, from the hard glance she slashed my direction. Then she turned a wide-eyed admiring stare on Shepherd.
I knew that look—Gone with the Wind, that was it—the opening scene where Scarlett O'Hara is charming the southern gentlemen. Fake! Like this one was.
Shepherd chuckled at my discomfort. Not much gets past him. Then he directed his attention to the young woman.
“Now then, you’d mentioned a missing person over the phone. Why don't you tell me and my associate what's wrong, Miss...”
“Delaney. But you can call me Silver.”
That remark was directed toward Shepherd. Where that left me I wasn’t sure. I’d just call her “hey you” until I found a better substitute.
“I want you to find my parents,” she said. “I know they live around here.”
“Maybe your parents are in whatever place you're running away from.”
I was surprised at the hostile tone that crept into my voice. It had to be my throbbing toes talking.
“I was raised in a foster home,” she announced, unfazed by my assertion. “They don't want me. I can prove it.” She dug a ratty looking piece of paper out of her pack and poked it at Shepherd.
“Here. Got it when I came of age.”
Shepherd dug his reading glasses out of his pocket.
“This letter mentions an unnamed baby girl—that's you?”
She nodded.
“Born in Anasazi County. That's here.” He peered at the paper. “Manresa Snow, mother. Father unnamed.”
“Yes. I want you to find both of them.”
“Hard to find a father with no name,” I pointed out.
The young woman squirmed. “My mother knows who he is. I know she does. He’s some rich bastard, probably.”
“Why don't you contact her?” Shepherd asked.
“I tried. She wouldn't give me the time of day. Said I needed to forget it.” She snorted. “Well, I won't. She owes me.”
“Owes you what?” I interjected.
The name Manresa was unusual, and my memory was searching for where I’d heard it before. Then I had it: Henry Fisher speaking of his second wife. But if she was this girl’s parent, this fake-waif was out of luck. Manresa Snow was an artist. No money in that occupation unless you were that one-in-a-million who got discovered.
Silver Delaney was undeterred. “She owes me restitution for abandonment. I'm her daughter.�
��
Tears filled her eyes, and they didn't look fake.
“If you've already made contact,” Shepherd said, “I don't see what more we can do.”
“And,” I added, “Private investigators don't come cheap.”
“I figured you'd say that.”
She dug into the pack once more and produced a silver money clip tightened around a folded wad of cash. “I can pay.”
She waved it under my nose and then dropped it on the desk in front of Shepherd.
He carefully undid the clip and counted out the bills.
“Two hundred and twenty-five dollars,” he announced. “Pegasus, please make a note of that so we can write Miss Delaney, here, an official receipt.”
That dinky amount bought a single day’s good investigative work if a client was lucky. Why was Shepherd even considering this charity case? I hated the way I felt. Usually I’m all heart for people in need, but not for this snit.
Shepherd looked sharply in my direction. I pulled a notebook out of my purse and scribbled diligently. I pasted a fake smile on my face.
“That amount will do for an initial investigation. Peg will contact Manresa Snow on your behalf and get back to you.”
Silver appraised me doubtfully.
“I don't want her. I want to hire you.” She gave Shepherd the wide-eyed look again.
“Peg's had years of helping people. She's a Family Liaison Officer with the sheriff's department.” He held up a hand to forestall her next question. “She is currently on a hold status. She’ll have time for your case.”
“I suppose you'll have to do. When can you start?” Her tone demanded instant action.
“What about this afternoon? I can't guarantee results, but we'll give it a try. Where are you staying? Phone number?”
The young woman hesitated. “Gimme your card. I'll call you.”
“Fine.” I dug one out of my billfold and handed it to her.
She grabbed the empty money clip off the desk, jammed it in her pocket, hoisted the daypack to her shoulder, and stalked out the door.
