Pushing Up Bluebonnets yrm-5

by Leann Sweeney

  I tried not to look too surprised. He'd checked me out thoroughly, so why hadn't he investigated someone he'd invited to live with him, someone he now admitted was adopted, before she showed up here? Something wasn't right. "She didn't tell you anything about her past?"

  "None of that mattered at the time." I started to speak, but he held up a hand. "If I researched JoLynn's life as I did yours—as if she were a prospective hire— that information would find its way into the hands of one or more of the vultures who call themselves my family—and it would find its way, believe me. I feared they might chase her off. You see, she was like one of my magnolia blossoms, hearty but prone to bruising if handled too roughly. She was part of Katarina and I wasn't about to let them ruin something very special."

  "You know nothing about her past aside from the fact that Katarina was her mother?" I said.

  "From the moment I met JoLynn, I knew she belonged here and that was enough for me. She had Katarina's eyes, Katarina's soft-spoken ways." He raised his chin and rested his elbows on the round glass table, leaned forward and whispered, "And if one of the people I support with homes and jobs and a secure future had anything to do with harming her, I will kill that person."

  "But—"

  He sat back in his cushioned wrought-iron chair. "You see why I need your help? That's not exactly something I could say to Chief Boyd."

  I stood, shook my head. "That's not something you can tell me, either." I didn't bother to hide my anger. "I'm sorry, but you'll have to hire another detective for this job if you expect me to—"

  "Good for you. That's what I hoped you'd say." He stood as well, his smile broad.

  I wasn't amused. "What's that supposed to mean?"

  "You're as ethical as everyone has told me and you've shown as much with a vigor I admire. I'll admit I was concerned when I discovered you're wealthy. I wondered if you gather people's secrets for some perverse reason other than altruism."

  "What?" I felt my face forming what Kate calls the "Are you nuts?" expression. Richter must have a screw loose in his thinker assembly.

  "You don't know my family," he said, obviously recognizing that look. "They love to gossip and some of what they say about other people, well, it's less than pleasant. They play with secrets like children play with toys. I had to know if you might be even a little bit like them."

  "You judge the rest of the world by the way they act? No sir, this is not the job for me." I turned and started to walk away, thinking he should take a good look at himself if he wanted to know how his relatives got that way.

  "I'm sorry I offended you," he called after me. "I need your help, Abby. And I promise you, I could never murder anyone. I truly regret that remark."

  I stopped, took a deep breath. This had to be the strangest case I'd ever considered taking on. But Richter reminded me of my daddy in a way. Older money in this family, yes, but both men had that same attitude of invincibility and confidence that comes from having enough power and cash to think you can get anything you want. Daddy and I went a few rounds on living the privileged life. I didn't like his "events" and the business meetings and the parties and I sure as hell hated playing dress-up. I got rid of the big house with the greenhouse, tennis courts and pool when I decided to take on my first independent venture—creating Yellow Rose Investigations. Dealing with someone like Richter might be a good reminder of why I do what I do and might also be a way to make a little peace with my past and my father's flaws.

  I faced Richter again. "You're a man who wants control. But I can't work with you pulling my strings. Is that clear?"

  "Very. JoLynn needs a bulldog to take charge of this investigation."

  "Hold on. Chief Boyd is in charge and he will require everyone's cooperation. As for my role, there will be a few ground rules."

  "Certainly. In my business dealings I would never agree to be bound by your rules, but this is not business. This is personal."

  Personal enough for him to forgo his usual background check on JoLynn last year, something I found very difficult to understand or even believe. Yet now he wanted me to do what he might have already done himself.

  I returned to the table and sat, waiting in silence while another servant, an older woman with clear eyes and a stocky build, asked if we wanted anything more to eat or drink.

  Richter looked at me questioningly and I shook my head no.

  "Danke, no, Eva," Richter said.

  She said, "Bitte," and left us alone.

  "Your ground rules?" Richter asked.

  "Give me access to anything connected to JoLynn. I'll need to search her room and interview you and your family, ask any questions I decide are important. And I want to know about Katarina and why you think JoLynn is your granddaughter despite no concrete evidence aside from the lies JoLynn told you and Scott."

  "Lies? Scott? I'm confused."

  "JoLynn told him that she'd hired Yellow Rose Investigations to find you. You've already discovered that I am Yellow Rose Investigations."

  Confusion was turning to what almost looked like panic. "She told Scott she hired you?"

  I nodded. "And I know that's not true, though she did have my card and did write me a letter."

  His eyes narrowed and his brow furrowed. "All right, here is what she told me. She said an adoption registry informed her about me. A registry that Katarina had provided information to before she passed on. According to JoLynn, the people she went to for information at this agency said Katarina informed them she was dying and wanted to give up her baby. If one day JoLynn came looking for her birth parents, which she did, Katarina wanted her daughter to know she gave her up because her daughter deserved a normal, happy family with two loving parents. That's definitely something Katarina would do, so I never questioned this story."

  I sat back. Was this the truth? JoLynn went through the registry? Why did she tell Scott something different, then? And why write me that letter about wanting to find her birth parents? Richter was looking at me expectantly and I said, "Why didn't she stick with one story?"

  Richter stiffened. "I'm sure she had a good reason to lie to Scott, though he is the most rational and trustwor thy of the bunch. I did tell her to be careful what she said to family members."

  I said, "There is a Texas Adoption Registry and guess what? I inform folks all about it in those tip sheets I send out—and I sent one to her. Here's the problem. They might have told her Katarina was deceased, but if you never registered with them, they would never have given JoLynn your name. Reunions must be requested by both parties when you skip court petitions and go through them."

  "I certainly didn't register," Richter said, "but every bureaucracy has its cracks. There are ways she could have learned about me through them."

  "Does the fact that she may have lied twice about her search for her birth family tell you something?"

  "Obviously she was afraid to tell the truth. Someone harmed her for a reason and that's what you need to focus on. Not on her missteps," Richter said. The more I'd pressed him, the redder his neck had become.

  I leaned toward him and in a quiet voice said, "I'll bet you're used to folks kowtowing to you. For the record, I focus on what I consider important to getting at the truth, and the truth may not be what you're ready to hear." That was my short version of the "You can't handle the truth" speech because I feared this was the case.

  Richter closed his eyes and calmed himself before speaking. "I have handled many difficult events in my life, the death of my wife and Katarina being the worst, of course. I apologize if I sounded arrogant. I'm simply remembering JoLynn in that hospital bed and I'm sick at heart to think someone would do that to her. If this murder attempt is connected to her past, I need to know—so I can continue to protect her after she gets well and comes home. Name your fee. I'll pay whatever you wish."

  After I quoted him the highest price I'd ever charged anyone—ten thousand dollars, which would go toward my dream of building the most fabulous user-friendly group home f
or folks like Doris—I said, "Let me get to work. Her bedroom?"

  9

  When I'd first arrived, I hadn't fully taken in the grandeur of the Richter home, but grand was everywhere. Pillars of dark wood separated the living areas from the hall that led to the back of the house. These were double living areas separated by the longest dining table I'd seen outside a wedding reception. Vases sat on little shelves; paintings that probably cost a small fortune hung on the walls; thick Oriental rugs protected polished oak flooring. As we headed back toward the way I'd come in, I glanced at rustic leather furniture and end tables with fresh flowers in the less formal living area. Up ahead to my right, brocade and satin upholstered chairs faced a grand piano. Richter led me to another hallway off the foyer.

  We'd had no shortage of expensive art and antiques in our home while I was growing up, but this place was more well dressed than you'd expect a "ranch" to be. We turned left and seemed to travel for minutes, passing closed door after closed door. What was behind all of them? Bedrooms? Studies? Offices? Maybe a media center or a billiards room? Finally we reached JoLynn's room and Richter produced a ring of keys from his pocket and used one to open her door.

  Locked? Hmmm. Who is he keeping out?

  He caught my expression and said, "I only added the lock this weekend. I didn't want the others snooping around in her things."

  "The others? You mean your family?"

  "That's right." Richter widened the door. "This is it."

  I expected more expensive decor, but the room, though large by non-master-bedroom standards, seemed, well, plain. The linens on the four-poster were beige. The two mahogany dressers had no photos on top. Two brown upholstered wing chairs with a small round table between them sat in front of a window that looked out on a fenced-in garden and fountain. I felt like I'd walked into an upscale hotel room—pleasant but impersonal.

  Just then Eva appeared in the doorway. "Herr Richter? The policeman is here. He's asking for you." She had a thick German accent that hadn't come through when she'd spoken so few words earlier.

  "Did he say what he wanted?" Richter said impatiently, never taking his eyes off me as I walked into the middle of the bedroom. I was taking in every corner, hoping to see something—anything—that might give me a hint of JoLynn's personality.

  Eva said, "He says nothing except that he wants to speak with you, mein Herr."

  "Go ahead. I'd prefer to work alone anyway, Mr. Richter," I said.

  "I'm not sure—"

  "My ground rules, remember?"

  Richter turned on his heel and left with Eva.

  I sighed and closed my eyes, the tension leaving my body. I hadn't realized how strongly his presence affected me. I kinda liked the guy who'd been charming and intelligent at lunch, but the intensity when he spoke about JoLynn seemed, well, scary. This little room search would be a welcome distraction. Maybe Kate could help me make sense of Richter when we talked this over later.

  Since nothing in plain sight struck me as informative, I hit the nightstand and found a Bible with a gold-tasseled bookmark in the drawer. I opened to the marked page. Ecclesiastes, the fourth chapter. Not the chapter about how everything has a time and a season, but rather the one about how wealth cannot bring happiness, how you need a friend to help you up when you fall. We'd done Ecclesiastes in my adolescent Bible study and if I remembered right, these passages were about oppression and friendlessness. Her saving this particular page could be telling me something about JoLynn, or it could simply be the spot she'd stuck the thin gold ribbon attached to the Bible.

  I moved on and found a half dozen pairs of shorts and T-shirts and some simple cotton underwear in one dresser. The drawers below the television armoire were filled with jeans, lightweight sweaters and pajamas. No trendy clothes like you'd expect from someone her age— not even in the nearly barren closet. Two black dresses, a few pairs of shoes, a pair of slacks and a shirt still in their dry-cleaner bags—that was about it. Her wardrobe pretty much resembled mine.

  But then I went into the adjoining bathroom. The ledge of the corner whirlpool tub looked like a candle and bath-salts store. JoLynn apparently liked some luxury in her life, after all. I picked up one candle and sniffed. Vanilla. A jar of bath salts was brown sugar and, again, vanilla. And there was a coconut-vanilla foot scrub. Loofahs, bath pillows and a basket of French-milled soaps sat on the tub's marble seat. Nice and inviting, I thought. This was someone who took relaxation seriously.

  The sink and vanity revealed a minimum of makeup— higher-end department store brands. Nothing you could buy at Walgreens. I knelt and opened a cabinet beneath the sink. Shampoos, a hair dryer and a curling iron. Again, everyday stuff. I was about to close up the cabinet and leave when I spotted a grocery-style plastic bag in one dark corner.

  I sat on the floor and opened the bag. Here was the drugstore makeup, the cheap moisturizer and threedollar shampoo. Interesting. And three boxes of washin hair color. Black, chestnut and ash-blond. What was this about? My first thought was that she could grab this little escape kit, change her looks and disappear.

  But before I could think of any other explanation, I heard voices in the bedroom and then Richter called my name.

  I emerged from the bathroom after returning the bag to where I'd found it.

  Cooper Boyd said, "Hi, Abby. Good to see you again." His melancholy smile and raspy voice were more welcoming than anything offered by Elliott Richter once the topic had changed to JoLynn.

  "Chief Boyd has something to tell you," Richter said. "But can we talk in the great room? I find it rather uncomfortable in here."

  "Uncomfortable without JoLynn, you mean?" I swore I was gonna get more out of this guy than perfect manners and a possessive attitude when it came to his granddaughter.

  "Y-yes," he stammered. "I suppose there is a certain emptiness in the room that I find prickly."

  As we followed Richter back down the hall, I decided I got at least some of what I was hoping for. He was flustered by the question, but prickly? I don't think I'd ever heard anyone use that word other than when describing a walk through a dewberry patch.

  We went to the less-formal living area closer to the back of the house, the one with a giant stone fireplace, a distressed-leather sofa and matching club chairs. I took one of the chairs facing the sofa; Cooper sat across from me. This forced Richter to take the other chair.

  Estelle appeared without Richter summoning her. All this hovering, kind of creeped me out—and she must have been hovering, since I didn't see Richter press any magic button or ring any bells to summon her. She asked what we wanted to drink and Boyd asked for iced tea. I declined and Richter spoke a German word. Not being up on my foreign languages, I didn't understand.

  Once the drinks arrived—turned out the German word was the brand name of a beer—Richter said, "I'd like you to tell Abby everything you've told me. I've hired her to look into JoLynn's adoption. I fear someone from JoLynn's past has committed this crime against her and since I know nothing about her family or acquaintances prior to her arrival here, it's wise to find out about them."

  "I agree," Cooper said. "Now, here's what I've—"

  "One more thing." Richter stood and started pacing in front of us. "If by the grace of God JoLynn awakens soon, I ask that you do not discuss anything either of you have learned once you are in her presence."

  Cooper pressed his lips together, looking pissed off. Then he took a long, slow drink of tea before carefully setting the glass on the end table next to him. "With all respect, Mr. Richter, when that girl wakes up, I will be interviewing her about anything and everything. A good lawman doesn't make promises like what you're asking."

  Even though this disagreement didn't exactly involve me, I felt my shoulders and neck muscles tense. Cooper definitely had his back up and that voice made him sound meaner than he was.

  Meanwhile, Richter's expression reminded me of someone who'd taken a slug of sour milk, and he might actually have felt that way because he
grabbed up his beer from the end table and drank, perhaps to wash away the distaste of being challenged by yet another person today.

  Richter finally said, "You're saying I can't be in the room?"

  Cooper cocked his head. "Why do you need to be, sir?"

  "B-because she's . . . fragile. She was that way when she came to me and this horror will only make her more vulnerable. I won't have you upsetting her."

  "Well, guess what? You're making me think there's something you need to convey to this girl before she answers my questions. Is that a possibility?" Cooper's smile was long gone and his East Texas twang had grown stronger with each exchange.

  "What's that supposed to mean?" Richter shot back. "Because if you think I had anything to do with JoLynn getting hurt, you'd better check your facts. I would never harm that girl. Never." Richter's face was florid with anger.

  His emotional escalation seemed to please Cooper for some reason, because his half smile had returned. "I'm short on facts, Mr. Richter," he said. "I need plenty more. It's my job to find out who did this and why. Not your job, not even Abby's job, though I do appreciate her help. We on the same page?"

  Richter had finished off the beer and set the bottle back down. He appeared more composed. "Certainly. Now, if you would inform Abby about the automobile and show her the driver's license, that might be useful information in her research of JoLynn's past."

  "Sure." Cooper looked at me and now that he'd won the top-dog contest, he was relaxed, too. I realized he had generous laugh lines that had to have been created during another time in his life. He looked younger when he smiled, maybe forty tops.

  "What have you got?" I asked.

  "It's more what I haven't got—but that tells me something. The inspection sticker and registration sticker? Both fake. Good ones, I'll admit. No record of insurance that I could find."

  "What about the plates?" I asked.