“Ah. Two missing people. Did the mother take the girl with her?”
“No,” Chelsea said. “According to the letter, the child disappeared the day after she was born—in 1992. Our research people concluded the mother must have given her up for adoption. But they hit a roadblock. Did you know Texas won’t let you look at anything that has to do with adoption or foster care? I mean, like, nothing. That’s where you come in. You know the ropes here.” She giggled. “Hey, Stu. Ropes? Texas? Get it?”
He offered a tight smile.
Meanwhile, I sat back and took a deep breath, considering all this. I had to admit I was interested, but I might not have any better luck than the TV researchers. Texas keeps the safe securely locked when it comes to adoption. And the thought of working with Chelsea Burch was about as appealing as sticking my hand in a bucket of leeches. Hell, I probably would be sticking my hand in a bucket of leeches if I met her entire production crew.
I said, “I don’t think I can help you, Chelsea.”
“But I need you. You specialize in this kind of investigation.”
“Indeed, I do.”
Chelsea stared at me, her contact-blue eyes shiny with anger. “But you’re refusing to help me?”
“That’s right.”
She snatched up her notebook and shoved the pictures inside. Meanwhile, Stu stroked Diva one last time and picked up his camera.
“Come on, Stu,” Chelsea said, marching past me. “I knew Mr. Mayo’s idea was stupid.”
“Where are you going?” I asked.
“Out the way we came in,” she said over her shoulder.
“Too bad. Because I need more information.”
She turned, her narrow jaw slack. She stared at me in confusion for a second. “But ... I thought—”
“I won’t help you, but I sure do want to meet Emma. What happens after that is in her hands.”
2
Turned out, Chelsea Burch was far less annoying with her binder open in front of her. She told me Emma’s story in more detail, and before she and Stu left, I made copies of Emma Lopez’s home and work addresses, her history and all the photos in the file, not just the ones I’d already seen. Erwin Mayo, Chelsea’s boss, gave a reluctant phone okay for these copies after I refused to sign a contract or be videotaped. I not only needed to talk to Emma before deciding to take the case. I needed their notes to get as much history as possible.
When they were gone, I made a pitcher of sweet iced tea, then took a big glass with me and sat down at my desk, ready to call Emma and set up an interview. But before I could pick up the phone, I heard Kate calling my name from the kitchen. She’d come in through the back door as usual.
“In the office, Kate,” I shouted.
I could hear her coming, and that was what got me out of my chair to see what was going on. Sounded like she was wheeling in one of those flatbed carts from Home Depot.
Not a flatbed. Two suitcases. Big suitcases. But that wasn’t what concerned me. My sister’s swollen eyes and pale face grabbed at my heart. Her gorgeous shoulder-length brown hair was pulled into a tight ponytail, something she does only when she’s cleaning ovens and toilets. Her border collie, Webster, was with her, and even he looked sad.
“What’s wrong, Kate?” But I had all the clues I needed. Your sister does not arrive looking like she’s been up all night listening to sad country tunes, suitcases and dog in tow, unless she needs a place to stay. And that meant trouble with Terry, the guy she’s lived with for the last two years.
She bit her lip ... looked at the floor. “Terry and I are done.”
I hurried over and wrapped my arms around her, nearly stepping on Webster’s front paw in the process. He had his body pressed to her leg and wasn’t about to budge—not even after Diva appeared from some hiding place and sniffed him all over. My cat’s buddy was here. At least someone was happy.
Kate released her suitcase handles and clung to me like a two-year-old to her mother after the babysitter arrives.
Things had been rocky between Terry and Kate for the last month—probably even longer. He wanted to get married and have kids. Soon. Like, tomorrow. Kate did not. She simply wasn’t ready. And though Terry can be sweet and empathetic and all kinds of wonderful things, he can also dig in his heels when it comes to playing emotional tug-of-war.
I held her while she cried, and when she seemed done I sat her down in my living room and gave her a big glass of tea, tea too sweet for a health nut like her, but today she didn’t complain. There is something to be said for the comfort of pure cane sugar.
Webster settled at her feet, and Diva cuddled by the dog like she used to do when we all lived together in our daddy’s River Oaks mansion. Kate spilled her guts about the breakup while I sat next to her on the sofa, my hand on her knee. I’m usually the gut-spiller when it comes to stuff like a major boyfriend event. After all, she’s the true listener in the family—a professional one. She’s a shrink.
Kate had been telling me for a while that Terry was becoming more and more insistent about their getting married and starting a family. Apparently he wouldn’t quit, kept up the marriage talk every day.
“Guess what he brought home from the drugstore yesterday afternoon,” Kate said. “A Modern Bride magazine. I asked him if he thought that if I looked at wedding gown photos for an hour I’d change my mind. He didn’t have a good answer, Abby. He got this strange expression, and I knew then that he truly believed I’d be swayed by pictures of dresses and cakes and flowers. Are you kidding me? It’s like he forgot who I am in this freaky role-reversal game he’s been playing.”
“Terry has always been a very focused person. He has a plan for his life,” I said. “And for yours, too, I guess.”
“He’s totally lost sight of us as a couple. We used to have fun. We used to talk about the movie we just saw, go to the museums, talk about our careers, discuss what books we’re reading, but this? This is all he can talk about. What I need is a partnership with compromise and discussion, not a contract to have X number of kids in X number of years and then retire to a house in Arizona big enough to accommodate twenty grand-children.”
I rested my hand on her cheek. Her face was warm with anger. “Charlie Rose’s girls were raised to do their own thinking, thank you very much.”
“He even had the nerve to give me an ultimatum. A time line. We have couples’ therapy for three months, and then if I don’t change my mind, we split. Well, guess what. He doesn’t get to make that decision. So ... can I stay with you until I find a place of my own? I won’t get in your way with Jeff, I promise.”
Jeff is my boyfriend, an HPD homicide cop I met when he worked on the murder of our yardman in River Oaks.
“Of course—you’ll stay here as long as you want. And don’t worry about Jeff. He took this mysterious trip to Seattle—where he was born.”
“Mysterious how?”
“He won’t tell me why he went, how long he’ll be gone or anything else except that he’ll be back.”
“He is a man of few words. Does he have any family left there?”
“Not that I know of. Maybe something came up with his parents’ estate. They’re buried north of Seattle. Could be he wants to move their bodies to Houston. I mean, he does have a certain attachment to bodies.”
“That’s not something to joke about,” Kate said.
“Sorry. You know me. If I can’t figure something out, I make jokes. I simply don’t get the secrecy thing, and it kinda ticks me off. Makes me feel like I should worry about our relationship.”
“Because he doesn’t trust you?”
“Right.”
“Could be he’s feeling vulnerable about family issues. Jeff would have a hard time with vulnerability.”
I cocked my head, looked into brown eyes so much like my own—the only twin thing we shared, aside from our identical birth date. “Jeff does seem ... nervous or something. I thought he clammed up because I kept bugging him before he left to tell me w
hat was up. Maybe I should let him do what he needs to do and keep my insecurities to myself.”
“Good idea. Now, can you help me take my stuff upstairs?”
“Sure. Then maybe you’ll feel up to hearing about a new case,” I said.
Kate does psychological assessments on all my prospective clients, just like the Texas Adoption Registry does for the state. The kind of adoption reunions I specialize in can be happy, heartrending, stressful or sad, and I don’t take a case if Kate believes the client can’t handle both good news and bad. Sometimes reunions don’t work out the way the client fantasizes they will.
Kate almost smiled after I mentioned the possibility of a new client. “I would love to hear about a case, if only for the distraction. Can you believe that I nearly called up tomorrow’s clients to cancel their appointments?”
“A day off might not be a bad idea,” I said.
“No. That would only give me time to question my decision—and I don’t want to do that. After this last argument, I had to make a clean break with him. Today.”
I hugged her again. “You have great instincts. And you’ll know in time this is the right decision.” Despite her words, I had my doubts. Terry and Kate seemed perfectly matched—both shrinks, both generous and sweet people who had seemed very much in love for most of their three-year relationship. Maybe they could work this out.
But after I lugged one suitcase upstairs and into a guest bedroom, I decided my sister was serious about the split. She must have brought everything she owned, because the suitcase was as heavy as a bear rug with the bear still attached. I rolled the suitcase toward the closet, aware that there was hardly space for Kate in this room. I hadn’t organized anything except to have clean linens on the bed. Both walnut dressers were piled with boxes, Christmas ornaments, stacks of framed pictures, and who knew what else.
I’d moved into this amazing old home in the West University part of Houston more than a year ago. The River Oaks house had been too big and too overflowing with memories of our late daddy for me to stay after he died. Kate had already moved in with Terry by then but agreed with my decision to sell the mansion. Maybe I hadn’t unpacked because I was afraid I’d see too much of Daddy inside those boxes, get depressed all over again. God, I missed him, even though he’d been gone almost four years.
Once we’d moved several boxes into the closet so Kate could have her suitcases handy, she and I went downstairs to my office and I laid out the new case.
“Wow,” she said when I was finished. “Very interesting.”
I liked seeing the spark back in her eyes. Kate is always anxious to evaluate new clients. The adoption investigation business seemed like a good move for me after Kate and I learned Daddy lied to us about our own adoption—a way to work through my anger and a way to help others. But Kate’s involvement in my cases was becoming almost as passionate.
She said, “Do you think this girl Emma will meet with you?”
“Not if I mention the production company. So ... since you’re in the market for a new home and since I’ve learned Emma Lopez is a Realtor, maybe we should check out some real estate.”
“You think she works on Sunday?”
“I’ll bet they do their best business on the weekend,” I answered.
I felt like I needed to apply to Saint Peter for a passport after I’d called Green Tree Realtors, got Emma on the phone and arranged for Kate and me to meet her in her office on the pretext of a possible house hunt. I mean, the girl sounded plain nice.
Kate and I left Webster and Diva still sleeping and took off in my Camry. Green Tree Realtors was a small operation occupying the corner spot in a strip mall on Bellaire Boulevard. I recognized Emma immediately from her photo after Kate and I walked in. She was staring at a computer screen in a glassed-in office a few feet beyond the receptionist. True to the company name, we were surrounded by “green trees.” Buckets of Nor-folk Island pines were everywhere. The larger ones sat on the floor in corners and between the two simple leather chairs by the front windows. The houseplant-size trees occupied every desk and counter. This was like a trip to a miniature version of the East Texas piney woods.
“We have an appointment with Ms. Lopez,” I told the smiling receptionist.
“Yes. Abby and Kate Rose, right?”
I nodded.
She turned and called to Emma, who’d already seen us. She came out offering a brilliant smile, her hand extended. The bottle-green summer-weight suit and matching shoes complemented her creamy brown skin.
We shook hands and I felt strength in her grip—strength and confidence, two assets, I imagined, that had served her well over the past decade. Once we cleared up which sister was which, we sat near Emma’s computer. The chair arrangement was such that prospective home buyers could check out properties on the Internet.
“What can I show you two today?” Emma said.
Time to get real. “Though my sister may soon be in the market for a home, that’s not why we’ve come. To be honest, I had a visit from a television producer this morning. Venture Productions asked me to work for them, and—”
Emma scooted her rolling chair farther away from us, eyes narrow, the dark brown irises going nearly black with anger. “Oh, my God. I can’t believe you people.”
“Hear me out, okay?” I said quickly. “I think you and I might have similar opinions of Venture. I enjoyed about all I could stand of Chelsea Burch.”
“Oh, she’s the nice one. What’s this about, Ms. Rose?”
“Abby wants to help you,” Kate said. “And so do I.”
“You think I haven’t heard that bullshit about a thousand times since I was stupid enough to sign a contract with them? Me with my degree from Rice—you’d have thought I’d know better.”
“Smart people don’t always make smart decisions, but we’ll discuss that later,” I said. “First, you need to be assured I haven’t signed any agreement with Venture. After reading through the documents they gave me, I believe your story is important. I want to help.” I pulled a card from my purse and handed it to her.
“Yellow Rose Investigations,” she read aloud. She looked up. “You’re a private investigator?”
“I specialize in adoptions, and from what Burch tells me, there is a missing child. Your sister, right?”
“They told you about her, too. Figures.” She shook her head in disgust.
“Chelsea Burch mentioned they only told you they knew about your sister recently. Is that why you wish you’d never signed on with Venture?”
“You know something? I was absolutely on cloud nine when they first approached me several months ago. They were offering us the world on a platter. I should have no known there is no free lunch.”
“You felt misled?” I asked.
“Lies by omission are still lies, so yes, I was very upset when I discovered the person who wrote the letter mentioned my missing sister. Anyway, Mayo thought bringing that out on the TV show would make me look even more sympathetic—his word, not mine. I think that’s exploiting me and ridiculous and ... and ...” Emma bit her lower lip, her eyes bright with tears.
“What bothered you most about this?” Kate said softly. “The fact that they knew, the fact they didn’t tell you they knew, or that you realized this man wasn’t as sincere as you thought?”
Emma blinked away the sheen of tears, and considered the question for several seconds. “All those things, I guess, but something even more important. I never shared the information about Mom’s last baby with anyone—not even my brothers and sister. I had to sit down and tell them one more piece of our mother’s sorry history. Had to dredge up things from my past that I had almost blocked out because I never wanted to remember. And Mr. Mayo, the producer who’d been so nice to me up to that point? He could have cared less how that affected my family.”
Kate nodded. “You have good insights, Emma. How did the kids handle this new information?”
“Amazingly well. They’re great kids. And now
I think we’re done here. I have no money to pay a private investigator, and if you let Mr. Mayo pay you to find out about a secret better left buried, don’t expect much cooperation from me.” Emma grabbed at the dark wavy hair that had slipped over the right side of her face. She pulled a handful away from her forehead, her knuckles white with tension.
Obviously a very proud woman. I’d seen this reaction before when clients asked about my charges. Most decent, honest people prefer to pay something, anything, I’d learned. I said, “As far as my fees, my sister is in the market for a new house. Maybe we could use the barter system?”
Emma looked away, but at least she didn’t say no.
Kate said, “Emma, I’m a psychologist. I work with my sister on cases like this, and I can promise you Abby will dedicate herself to your cause, whatever that cause may be. She will be your advocate, not reside in the pocket of a TV show producer. But first we need to know—do you even want to find out what happened to your sister?”
Emma turned to stare into Kate’s eyes and softly said, “To be honest, I want nothing more.”
3
Since Emma had houses to show, we didn’t have time to do much more than agree to continue our talk that night. She agreed to bring her brother and sister to my place in the evening so Kate and I could interview all three of them together. Her other brother was away at school, but Emma said she would call him hoping he’d participate via speakerphone.
For my part, I promised to send a copy of the contract Emma had signed with Venture Productions to a lawyer friend. Because she now mistrusted Erwin Mayo for failing to reveal up front that he knew about her missing sister, Emma was willing to give up everything he’d promised her in order to reclaim her privacy. Mark Whitley, my attorney friend, is a defense lawyer, not a contract specialist, but I was hoping he could get an opinion from a colleague, see if there was any way Emma could escape from the deal she’d made.
The minute we arrived home from Green Tree Realtors, Kate went straight upstairs for a nap. She probably hadn’t slept a wink last night. Me? I was hungry, and PBJ sounded good. Either that or a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Cherry Garcia. I chose the healthier option and I made the sandwich, spreading peanut butter on both slices of bread. I was already feeling Kate’s holistic health presence and could only hope I wouldn’t be force-fed organic bulgur wheat “meat loaf” or a tofu stir-fry for dinner. Diva jumped on the counter and sniffed my sandwich, offered me a look of disdain, then scurried away to parts unknown. But Webster? He was at my side, anxious as a kid on Christmas Eve for any crumbs to fall his way.
Shoot from the Lip Page 2
