Pushing Up Bluebonnets yrm-5

by Leann Sweeney

  He answered before the phone rang even once. "Yes." One word as intense as the man himself.

  "Sorry I didn't call earlier, but we had an emergency and then I had to—"

  "You got something?" he said. I could hear music in the background.

  Blues, maybe? That would be about right. "I have a phone number and you'll probably want to get a professional handwriting expert to check this letter I matched to the scrawl on the card."

  "Like we got a dozen graphologists around here. What's the name and address?" He cleared his throat. Maybe he had that gravel voice because of a cold or something.

  "JoLynn Richter, but I must have sent her the card and my tip sheets without recording her address—she sent a self-addressed envelope. Once I send the card, folks usually call me, so I don't keep track of addresses."

  A long silence followed. "Richter? You're sure?"

  "If I'm not, there isn't a white tooth in Hollywood," I said.

  "I'll be damned."

  4

  "Do you know JoLynn Richter?" I said. If so, why hadn't he recognized her in the hospital?

  "I'm familiar with the family name, but I've never heard of her. Listen, I have to get out to the Richter place, see if they have a relative who's missing. Thanks."

  He hung up, leaving me staring at the phone and thinking I might never hear from him again. That bothered me. I felt connected to JoLynn Richter since she'd once asked for my help, and I wanted to know more about why she'd written to me. Not your case, Abby, a voice in my head said. But it seemed to be my case, even though no one had hired me. I wanted—no, needed—to know why someone had wanted her dead.

  I rode the elevator up to Aunt Caroline's floor, switching my thoughts to her. She was asleep when I walked in—it was past ten p.m.—and Kate was curled up in an armchair reading a magazine. She looked up and put a finger to her lips.

  I tiptoed over to the bed. Aunt Caroline had on her own lavender nightgown. Five containers of various skin creams sat on the bedside table and her hospital pillow was encased in pink satin. Aunt Caroline must have kept Kate busy running back and forth to her house for things she simply had to have—which meant she was in better shape than when she'd left my house in an ambulance.

  Kate stood and motioned toward the door.

  Once we were in the hallway, she whispered, "Her blood sugar has dropped to around three hundred, thanks to the insulin. She is a diabetic."

  "That's what I figured. Three hundred is still high, right? During my last physical, mine was about ninety and the doc said that's normal."

  "Considering it was over five hundred when she got here, I'd say she's made plenty of progress," Kate said.

  I gasped. "No way."

  Kate shushed me. "Keep your voice down. Patients are sleeping."

  But one of them wasn't sleeping anymore, because Aunt Caroline called, "Abigail? Is that you?"

  We both reentered her room.

  I said, "Sorry I couldn't get here earlier, but—"

  "Katherine took good care of me." She smiled at Kate as if to say at least one of her nieces cared.

  "Since she's taken the first shift," I said, "I'll stay with you tonight."

  "That's ridiculous. If you think I'm dying, you're sorely mistaken, Abigail. Both of you will go home and let me alone to bother the nurses all night. That's what they get paid for."

  I said, "But Aunt Caroline, I—"

  "Before you go, Abby, I need to know if you called the police with that girl's name. She needs to be identified in a timely manner."

  "Of course I called." Maybe not in a timely manner, but I didn't share that piece of information.

  "Have her people arrived, then? And if so, do they have any idea who might have done this to her?"

  Kate rescued me by saying, "You and Abby can catch up on—what's the woman's name?"

  "JoLynn Richter," I answered.

  "Tomorrow," Kate said firmly.

  "You sure you don't want me to stay?" I said to my aunt.

  "No. Both of you need your sleep. Especially Abigail, since she has a new case to solve."

  Funny how "snooping" now seemed acceptable, probably because she'd helped me all afternoon. "This isn't my case," I said. But I was protesting too emphatically.

  "Abigail, if your daddy were here, he'd say you must think I don't have as much sense as God gave a sack of flour. This surely is your case." She offered her best semblance of a smile, considering her cosmetic limitations.

  I hated when she was right. "If the chief asks, I'll be more than happy to help."

  "Don't I know that," Aunt Caroline said. "Now, go home and leave me to harass the night staff."

  So we left and once we were in the elevator, Kate said, "Is she right? Do you have a new case?"

  "You know Aunt Caroline. If the truth isn't available, she makes up her own version." But like my aunt, Kate can read me like a label on a can of soup at Whole Foods Market—her home away from home.

  "She is right," Kate said. "I'd like to be involved, if that's okay. I thought I'd be better off not consulting on your cases, since you've proven to be far braver than me. But I've missed the work. Dangerous or not, I want things back the way they were." Kate smiled and I saw the first real light in her eyes in almost a year.

  "Good, because I always need your help. But be warned, I'm prying into a situation without an invitation. Ought to be interesting." I went on to tell her about Cooper's phone call and what I'd discovered with Aunt Caroline's help.

  "Abby, they'd be foolish not to want you working on this."

  I put my arm around Kate and squeezed her to me. "Thanks." We stepped off the elevator and I said, "What about Aunt Caroline? From what little she said, she's not exactly understanding how serious her diagnosis is."

  "She thinks if she cuts out chocolate and Mocha Frappuccinos, problem solved."

  "I feel sorry for the dietitian who gets to teach her about her new diet and the nurse who gets to show her how to give herself an insulin shot. She'll be on insulin, right?"

  "The doctor thinks she can go on oral medicine once she's stable. Now, when can I see JoLynn? That convention I went to in Atlanta had a few sessions on therapy with head-injury patients. I'm no expert, but I did pick up a few things."

  "She's in a coma, Kate. I don't think she's ready for psychotherapeutic rehab."

  "Just anxious to get started. I'd like to see what kind of shape she's in."

  "Not pretty. You have anything planned for this weekend?" I asked.

  "Oh, sure. A speed-dating session," Kate said sarcastically. "In other words, nothing besides laundry and taking care of Aunt Caroline."

  "And you're sure you want to help?" I said.

  "I'm ready as long as we don't have any role reversals—like you shrink my head while I find some dark alley where I can teach a bad guy a lesson with a Lady Smith and Wesson."

  "It's just called a Lady Smith."

  "Whatever. A gun is a gun and I don't like them," she said.

  "There's a news flash. I'll meet you here tomorrow morning. We'll see Aunt Caroline first, then head over to Ben Taub."

  "Sounds good," she said.

  I pulled her to me and we hugged. "Thanks for doing ditzy-aunt duty."

  "No problem. Are you parked in the garage next to the hospital?" she asked.

  "Yeah, up in a hole in the ozone."

  "I'm in my contract spot way in the other direction. Good night, Abby."

  I found my way back to where I'd parked. The night was sticky hot and seemed to amplify the smells in the garage—the vomit, the discarded remnants of fast food, the oil leaks. No security around, or none that I'd noticed. I'm not usually bothered by being out late alone, but I felt jittery tonight. It had to do with JoLynn, of course. There are so many easier ways to murder someone than to mess with a car. Her killer wanted to make sure she knew there was nothing she could do since her brakes were gone; wanted her to know a terror like she'd probably never known before. This seemed like
a rage crime to me. I've always had nightmares about dying in a car wreck, which is probably why this bothered me so much, why evil seemed to linger in the dank air. I felt relieved when I climbed behind the wheel and locked my doors.

  I arrived back home to find Jeff asleep in the recliner. Doris must have gone upstairs to one of the two guest rooms, because she was nowhere to be seen. I walked quietly past him toward my office, thinking I'd see what I could discover about the Richter family before my hospital visit tomorrow.

  But I wasn't halfway across the living room when I heard Jeff's sleepy voice. "How's your aunt, hon?"

  I turned to him and smiled. "As feisty as ever and probably in denial she's diabetic. But she does look a whole lot better than when she left here on a stretcher. She was all confused then and it scared me."

  "Diabetic, huh? How will that affect her lunches and dinners at the club? The few times we've gone there to eat with her she always has at least three glasses of wine and something chocolate for dessert."

  "I have no idea how she'll manage. I only know I don't want to see her carted away by paramedics again."

  Jeff got up. "How about wine for us? We're not diabetic—at least not yet."

  "Sounds good to me," I answered.

  We walked into the kitchen and while Jeff took an unopened bottle of chardonnay from the fridge, I gathered the letters that I'd left on the kitchen table and dumped them into the file box without bothering to put them back in their correct folders. Maybe Aunt Caroline would take on that thankless task when she felt better.

  As Jeff poured our wine, he said, "What were you doing with those files?"

  "That's an interesting story," I said.

  He walked over and handed me my glass, then picked up Cooper Boyd's copy of my business card. "Have anything to do with this?"

  "Yes, Sergeant Kline, super detective." I reached for the manila envelope where I'd put JoLynn's letter, and then handed it to him. "Also has to do with this."

  After he'd read the letter through its plastic protection, he looked at me quizzically. "I'm missing something. Want to share?"

  "Most certainly." I took his hand and led him to the sofa.

  We settled in, my legs draped over his lap, and I told him the whole story.

  "Sounds like an interesting case," he said when I'd finished.

  "No one's actually hired me, but—"

  "You don't need to explain. You do what you have to do and no one had better get in your way. Now, put down that glass and come closer. I have a few things to share that have nothing to do with our jobs."

  I crawled into Jeff's lap, ready to forget the stress of the 911 call I'd had to make earlier today.

  5

  The next morning, Jeff woke early and took Doris home while I went to my office computer to do a little research before Kate and I visited both hospitals. But searching for the name JoLynn Richter gave me no results in any database, not even the DMV. Either she was driving without a license or she was from out of state.

  Then I tried to find a Pineview newspaper online to see if they'd run an article on the accident, but nothing there, either. A small piece had appeared in the Houston Chronicle yesterday morning reporting that an unidentified woman had been life-flighted to Houston after a crash in north Montgomery County, but that was it. I had one more option—a search for any other Richters in Montgomery County, hopefully leading me to information on the family Cooper had referred to.

  Finally I was in business, and Diva must have sensed this because she jumped down from her perch on the windowsill and into my lap. I stroked her, excited by all the hits related to the Richters. Now I understood a little better why Cooper had reacted to the name the way he had. They seemed to be the prominent family in the area, even though they didn't live right in Pineview. Elliott Richter, a widower, owned a ranch about ten miles north of town. His daughter, Katarina, had died at age twenty and I immediately checked for obituaries on Richter's wife and daughter. I learned they were both buried in Glenwood Cemetery right here in Houston—a very famous old graveyard dating back to the nineteenth century. Then I found something that really caught my attention—an article from a Montgomery County news paper with the title "Mysterious Katarina Richter Succumbs to Cancer."

  Mysterious how? I wondered as I printed out what I'd found.

  The mystery turned out to be a two-year disappearance right after the girl graduated from high school— which at first had been considered a kidnapping. Weeks of searching had turned up nothing and no ransom request was ever received. Then, Katarina returned two years later, unharmed and refusing to talk about her absence. The sadness the community had expressed at losing one of their own had turned to speculation—not very nice speculation, either. The locals decided she'd become a street person in Houston, a crack addict, a stripper or a wanderer trying to find herself in Europe or Africa. Indeed, plenty of Pineview folks voiced their opinions for the reporter, all of those opinions apparently not supported by any facts, as far as I could tell. My daddy always said gossip travels over grapevines that are sour and right now I totally agreed with him.

  Since Katarina was buried here in Houston, I figured Glenwood might be the resting place of generations of Richters. Wouldn't hurt to pay a visit to their family plot. Katarina had been only twenty when she died, and I'd learned in my short career as a PI that the younger people were when they died, the more words on their tombstones.

  The article mentioned Elliott Richter's son, Matthew, born six years after Katarina—which would make him around thirty-three now. His recent wedding had been written up in the Chronicle and was probably a lavish affair, since the reception site was the Four Seasons Hotel. Matthew's wife, Piper, was a Baylor grad, just like her new husband. I loved how much information they gave away on the wedding pages—names of friends and relatives, where the bride and groom went to school, where they planned to honeymoon and live. I printed out the article. Never hurts to be prepared, even if this wasn't officially my case.

  Matthew and Piper, I read, would be working for Richter Oil and Gas in executive positions when they returned from their honeymoon in Tahiti. Since the wed ding had been several months ago, they were probably home and doing their jobs.

  Richter Oil and Gas? I thought. Never heard of them. I Googled the company and discovered it was a very healthy business with new prospects in West Texas as well as down near Corpus.

  But where did JoLynn fit into this family? I'd found absolutely nothing on the Internet about her. Was she a cousin? Was she Katarina's daughter? If so, why had she written to me saying she was adopted? She might not be a blood relative. Maybe Elliott Richter adopted her. She had signed her letter "JoLynn Richter," which made me believe that was the case. Was she a substitute for the daughter he'd lost? But this was speculation on my part. I really knew next to nothing yet. I needed more.

  I glanced at my watch. Only eight thirty. I had time to check out that graveyard before meeting Kate at the hospital. I remembered the Glenwood Cemetery from a Halloween graveyard tour I'd taken as a teenager—an outing Daddy encouraged because he said it would teach me about Houston's deliciously scandalous history. Kate had refused to go with me. She considered the whole idea "gross." But I had a blast, especially since I met the geeky but very cute guy named Andre who would become my boyfriend for the next two months. Did I learn much about Houston? I did remember Howard Hughes was buried in Glenwood and that there were all these creepy angels all over the place, their concrete skins scarred by lime deposits and mildew. It was an upscale cemetery in the Heights section—upscale considering that we'd visited some graveyards that had been no more than overgrown fields.

  Figuring the mosquitoes would be out in droves this morning, I put on nylon cargo pants and a long-sleeve T-shirt. Traffic was its usual nightmare, but no one seemed interested in visiting a cemetery on a Saturday morning. Everyone was probably headed for the beach in Galveston or the mall. I parked my car and, hoping to check out the directory, walked to the Vic
torian cottage that formerly housed the caretaker. I soon discovered it would be quite a trek to the Richter plot.

  As I wound my way around tombstones and crypts, I was mindful of all the statues of cherubs and huge angels surrounding me, some of them missing arms or hands thanks to vandals or accidents or simply time—and all of them more damaged by the elements than I recalled. They still gave me the creeps, even in the intense morning sunshine, sadness seeping from them and lingering in the humid air. Despite the heat, I shivered. Even the brilliantly colored mounds of fresh flowers lying on several graves couldn't effectively oppose the gloom.

  The Richter plot was maybe twenty feet square and enclosed by a low wrought-iron fence, which I stepped over. I counted ten graves. A few of the tombstones were simple and lay flat—early deaths dating back to the 1920s. Several markers were upright, but the ones for the people I had come to see—mother and daughter— were far more elaborate. Elliott Richter's wife's site was marked by a black granite tombstone with etched flowers on the beveled upper borders. The lettering was elegant and flowing and below the name Richter were the words:

  Mary, beloved wife of Elliott, mother of Katarina and Matthew, a star in the darkest night, an angel who brought joy to all who knew her.

  Katarina's white marble marker was arched on the top with a weeping angel clinging to the tombstone. The brown, dry remnants of a bouquet of flowers lay at the base. Her etched name and birth and death dates curved along the upper part of the tombstone and were followed by several lines about the daughter who had died so young.