Deadly Blessings

by Julie Hyzy

  DEADLY BLESSINGS

  An Alex St. James Mystery

  Julie Hyzy

  Smashwords Edition

  Copyright 2010 Julie Hyzy

  Smashwords Edition, License Notes:

  This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then you should return to Smashwords.com and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form or by any mechanical means without permission in writing from the author. This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to any businesses or locale, is purely coincidental.

  Dedication

  In memory of Mom and Dad,

  Whose words of wisdom I miss every day.

  Acknowledgments

  Believe me when I tell you there are more people to thank than I have pages in this book. Far too many to list, but a few notables:

  Memories of a cold Hell Night served to inspire a key scene in Deadly Blessings. Thanks to my fraternity brothers, the Gamma Pi chapter of Delta Sigma Pi—You know who you are.

  My heartfelt thanks to my wonderful family: Curt, Robyn, Sara, Biz, and Paul. Your support, encouragement, and love have given me wings.

  Chapter One

  The problem was, I couldn’t leave.

  My cell phone chirped, shattering the awkward, magazine-reading silence of the crowded waiting room. In the quick moment it took me to haul my purse from the floor to my lap, the phone chirped again, and the two strangers flanking me shook their heads in annoyance.

  As the phone continued its high-pitched signal, I scrambled out of my seat, dug for the handset, and headed toward the wall-mounted display of blank adoption file requests in the far corner. The space afforded me a modicum of privacy as I checked Caller ID, then answered.

  “What’s up, Jordan?”

  Back in Chicago, my assistant talked fast. I could tell by the hollow sound of her voice that she kept a hand cupped over the mouthpiece. “Bass is furious. He wants to know where you are.”

  Bass was always furious about something, but the tension in Jordan’s voice—practically pinging over the connection—had me worried.

  “Why? What happened?”

  “Don’t know. He isn’t saying much except for bugging me to find out where you are.”

  “What did you tell him?”

  I could almost see her dark face grimace. “I sure as hell didn’t let on you were in Springfield, if that’s what you’re asking,” she said. I could always count on Jordan for sass. A beat later, her conspiratorial tone returned. “What do you want me to say?”

  My mind raced. “Tell him I have a doctor’s appointment. I’ll be in as soon as I can.”

  “A doctor’s appointment? Girl, you’re four hours away. He’s not going to believe any doctor’s appointment takes that long.”

  “Tell him it’s female troubles. That’ll make him squirm.”

  She let out a short laugh, then sobered. “You best get back here as soon as you can. I think it’s something to do with that priest story of yours.”

  “Oh, shit,” I said, hoping no one nearby heard me, cupping my own hand over the phone now, too. “Did Milla change her mind about talking to us on camera?”

  “Bass hasn’t told me squat about what’s going on. All I know is, he’s been on the phone all morning, screaming at people. He’s flipping out, let me tell you. And he says you better get back here, pronto. Otherwise…”

  “Otherwise what?”

  A stern voice from behind the far desk called out my name. “Alexandrine St. James?”

  “I gotta go, Jordan,” I said. “They just called me.” I waved to the woman, who acknowledged me with an absent-minded nod. Making my way toward her, I spoke into the phone again. “I’ll call you when I’m done here. Hold him off as long as you can.”

  “You got it, Alex, but he said if you aren’t back by lunch time, your ass is grass.”

  * * * * *

  With a tight smile stretching my face, I waited in the warm cubicle, seconds ticking by like years. I sat up a little straighter, allowing trickles of perspiration an express path down my back. “Guess I’m getting a late start on this search compared to most folks, huh?” I said, trying to both break the ice and quicken my caseworker’s pace.

  My fingers drummed a silent beat against my leg as the woman scanned my adoption request.

  I wore a khaki skirt and white sleeveless blouse, hoping my look said “trustworthy.” In any event, I was glad to have chosen something cool. It was unseasonably warm for October, and I’d debated wearing a business suit.

  “No,” she answered, not looking up. “We get all kinds.”

  All kinds. Like me.

  I was living on borrowed time and I knew it. Bass expected me back in our Chicago office any minute while I sat—trying to look patient—two hundred miles south, in Springfield, Illinois. The realization made my smile muscles ache. I was on borrowed time in another sense too. Every day I waited made it ever more unlikely that I’d find the man and woman who’d put me up for adoption more than thirty years ago.

  The woman seated across from me had all that information at her fingertips. And maybe if I played this right, I’d be heading back to Chicago with my biological parents’ names in my pocket in plenty of time to keep Bass happy.

  Jordan had mentioned the Milla feature story. I hoped to God the girl hadn’t gotten cold feet about appearing on camera. I knew I should try to put it out of my head, just for now, but found that impossible to do. I needed to get back to Chicago, post-haste.

  I smiled harder. Never too proud to suck up.

  My caseworker, Marlene, looked like someone who might be swayed by a little apple-polishing. Her sausage fingers, with their gleaming pearlescent nails, hit the keyboard with a vengeance, now that she’d perused my file.

  I released a sigh of gratitude. We were starting to move.

  Clicking at the keyboard so fast I thought the letters might start bouncing up, she glanced at me. “Give me your name again, honey.”

  “Alex,” I said. “Alexandrine St. James. Also Szatjemski.” I spelled it for her. Polish last name, dark-Irish looks. An adoption office was the one place where unusual combinations like that wouldn’t raise eyebrows.

  “Szatjemski your maiden name?”

  “No, I’m not married. My dad had it changed.”

  She glanced over the rims of her half-moon glasses. “I’ll deal with that later.” I didn’t think that bode well for me. She seemed the sort of person for whom rules were everything. Her smiles were doled out at prescribed intervals—when she introduced herself, and again when she sat down behind her desk. My fear was that she’d have another ready, a sad smile this time, when she told me that there was nothing she could do to help me.

  She looked up again.

  “Middle initial?”

  “P.”

  “Thank you.” Her tone was automatic, without inflection, and she moved into a rhythm. Typing while wrinkling her nose at the computer, she’d stop, hands poised over the keyboard, and tilt her head up to peer through her glasses at the screen, while making a little “o” with her mouth. Type, stop, type, stop. Tiny beads of sweat formed a perfect outline of her upper lip. The cubicle was warm, making me doubly glad I’d chosen something sleevele
ss. They say women don’t sweat; they glisten. Blowing out a breath to calm myself, I knew I was glistening but good.

  I scooted forward till I perched at the edge of my chair, hoping for a glimpse of the computer display, but it was blocked from my view by a gizmo I’d never seen before. Much like the blinders they put on horses before a race, the side of the monitor near to me had a plastic barricade. Set on a hinge, it was designed to flip across the front of the monitor with a quick push of the fingers, should the need arise.

  I imagined they got a lot of adoptees craning their necks to catch a glimpse of otherwise classified information.

  Marlene didn’t seem to notice my eyes make their futile stray toward her monitor. “You know …” She typed a few more characters, her tiny clacking movements slower than before. “I should run two separate inquiries here. As if I’m following two cases. To be sure that we cover both last names.”

  I nodded encouragement and thanked her. It wouldn’t hurt for her to know I appreciated her efforts. The nose wrinkled again. I was getting used to it.

  If I could only get access to the computer system. For just one minute.

  She turned to me. “I’m sorry,” she said. My heart dropped before she added, “This computer is so slow today. And we have the problem about your last name. It makes things much more complicated.” This last admonishment was accompanied by a little shake of her head, as though it had been my fault that my parents had changed it.

  But at least she was still looking.

  Margot and Ed Szatjemski, my adoptive parents, had recently retired to Arkansas with the hope of enjoying those much-advertised bubbling hot springs. They didn’t know I was here today, didn’t know I’d taken some extra time after my visit with them before heading back to Chicago. But my mother might have suspected something. She asked me at least four times why I hadn’t brought Lucy along.

  Lucy didn’t know I’d made the trip, actually. My parents’ biological child, and three years my senior, Lucy suffered from Williams Syndrome. As handicaps go, it’s a cheerful one, but its ravages left her without the necessary skills to live on her own. Pulling her out of the group home to have her tag along would have jeopardized my quest, so I’d lied and told my mother that I was under deadline this week. No time.

  “Hmmph,” Marlene said again. But this time, she pushed her chair back and lifted a finger to her lips. “I can’t get this to tell me if your birth mother is open to contact. Let me get the file and I’ll check. Just a minute.”

  I sat back as she got up, listening to the quiet hum and murmurs of conversations in the cubicles around me. The place was hopping. Most of the others in the waiting room had been in their late teens, early twenties. I was a late bloomer where this investigation was concerned. My parents would be crushed if they knew I was here today. Until they’d retired and moved out of state, I hadn’t even risked an attempt for fear they’d find out.

  I peered around the corner of Marlene’s cubicle to watch her depart. I lost sight of her just about the same time I could no longer hear the slapping of her sandals against the bottoms of her feet. No one was walking the short corridor she’d just left, everyone busy in small conversations and smaller cubicles of their own.

  I eased into her seat and adjusted the monitor toward me. It squeaked on its plastic stand and I held my breath for a moment, worried that some matron-like administrator would pounce on me, slap my hands for sneaking around, and banish me from the records office forever.

  The blinder that Marlene had flipped across the front of it opened with no problem, but she hadn’t simply minimized the file, she’d exited.

  I grabbed the mouse, moving to access most recently viewed files. It had to be there. And it was. Szatjemski, A. P. My breath fell out in a whoosh so loud that it echoed in my ears.

  With what seemed like slow-motion movements, I double-clicked, my foot tapping out a staccato rhythm of nervousness under the pressure of Marlene’s return. The little timer came up and I know I made a sound of frustration, keeping one ear open even as the cheerful cybersand thing turned one way, then another. “C’mon,” I whispered.

  Beep. Beep. Beep.

  My pager blared, clanging like a gong on my belt.

  I panicked. My fingers flew to my side and I hit the silent button. It took all of a second and a half but it felt like forever.

  Breathe, I told myself.

  In those scant seconds that I silenced the alarm, the timer stopped turning and the computer sounded an indignant beep. A tiny gray box appeared mid-screen, asking me for the code to access this record.

  My file was password protected.

  Damn.

  Frustrated, I closed the request, and returned the squeaky monitor back to its original position before moving back to my own chair. I wouldn’t have guessed Marlene would have had the foresight to close it so quickly. But she probably dealt with dozens of us every day. And desperate people do desperate things.

  After checking the number on my pager, I dug my cell phone out and put in a quick call to Bass. His assistant, Frances, was no help. After he beeped me, he’d apparently walked away. She transferred me to Jordan, and I got her voicemail. I left a message to call me only if it was life or death.

  Something was up.

  Tucking the phone into my purse, I sat back to wait.

  Having my parents out of state gave me latitude in my adoption quest. Caring people, my parents, they were also just a bit protective. I’d gotten used to it, the way people get used to annoying habits of people they love. You either accept them the way they are, blowing off their idiosyncrasies, or you learn to live without them in your life. For me it was an easy choice.

  Of course, when eccentricities become annoying to the point of distraction, it might be time to rethink a relationship.

  Which reminded me that I hadn’t spoken with Dan for two days.

  My pager sounded again. This time, without fear of getting caught snooping, I didn’t jump. But I’d inadvertently buried the thing in my purse and the beeping mocked my unsuccessful efforts to dig it out quickly.

  Marlene’s backless shoes made their slapping sound as she returned from the back room. She took her seat again, her eyebrows raised as I fumbled through my purse, finally hitting the silent button. A quick look at the display confirmed that it was work calling me again.

  I knew I should have called back that moment, but Marlene had a manila folder in her hands. My manila folder—with at least a half-inch worth of papers and forms. I decided to wait.

  She opened it on her lap, in front of me, careful to keep one side up so that I couldn’t read any of the papers inside. “Let’s see here,” she said.

  In my job, I’m calm. Cool. I have to be. Our weekly broadcast of Midwest Focus Television News Magazine, brings us situations that run the gamut of feel-good to make-your-skin-crawl. My job is to investigate, to find the story that will touch the hearts of the viewing public. To interview, to evaluate, to winnow through the chaff to find wheat worth disseminating.

  I talk to hundreds of folks every year. I hear their stories. Some will do anything for that fifteen minutes of fame. Others will break your heart with their willingness to share their lives. But I maintain an even keel. Always. I have to. It’s a defense mechanism, most likely. But it’s also an effective tool to getting the job done well.

  But right now my hands were sweating. My feet, crossed and shoved far beneath the chair, were wiggling to the beat of fear. I wasn’t about to rush Marlene.

  “We-ll,” she finally said, stringing the word out into two syllables, “I don’t see that either of your biological parents have filed the ‘Open to Contact’ form.” She let the thought hang as she flipped through the file again.

  This was the moment of decision for her. I knew it. I just knew she was considering throwing me a bone. Something small. The town where I was born? The name of the hospital? Maybe even a hint about my mother’s last name? I said nothing, but tried my best to look hopeful and
sincere.

  “Legally,” she said, her eyes meeting mine, “there’s nothing in here I can tell you …”

  I returned her nod. Her eyes were a watery shade of brown. Eyebrows carefully penciled into tadpole shapes over draped lids.

  “… but you’ve made this long trip down, and I understand how hard it has to be …”

  I wanted to shout, “Yes? Yes?” but my cell phone shattered the moment. My face must have registered both my frustration, and my moment of indecision.

  “Do you have to get that?” Marlene asked.

  Digging through my purse again, I nodded. The timing couldn’t be worse, I thought, mentally cursing whoever was calling. At the same time I knew that I needed to sound pleasant, or risk ruining the impression Marlene had of me, thus far. She still smiled. Maybe all wasn’t lost, yet.

  The caller ID number told me it was Bass. “Alex here.”

  His voice boomed over the tiny handset and I knew Marlene could hear every word. “Where the hell are you?”

  “I’m at an appointment, Mr. Bassett.”

  That took him aback, I knew. I never called him Mr. Bassett.

  “Well, how long till your return, Ms. St. James?” Oh, he was in a rare mood. “We got a situation here.”

  Marlene shook her head in a commiserating way. I was engendering sympathy. Good.

  “It might be a couple of hours.”

  “Why, where the hell are you?”

  “I’m on personal time, Mr. Bassett.”

  “I don’t give a rat’s ass what kind of time you’re on. Get moving. This one ain’t gonna wait. It’s that case you were following. The one we’ve been waiting on?” He ended his sentence as a question. I knew Bass didn’t trust cell phones. He thought there was a network of satellites that singled him out and paid attention to every one of his personal conversations. So I wasn’t going to get anything specific from him here. As though to make his meaning clear, he enunciated his next words with care: “The one with your unique perspective?”