Pushing Up Bluebonnets yrm-5

by Leann Sweeney

  He raised one eyebrow, offered his best photo-shoot shy smile. "You won't believe this, but she never told me. We hooked up instantly. The attraction didn't last for her, but I still care. Anyway, after she moved in, she would introduce herself as Elizabeth Dugan to people we met."

  "You're right. I don't believe you. In fact," I said, "I don't like you, I don't trust you and I'm leaving."

  I started to go, but he stopped me with his next words. "I thought you wanted to ask me questions, Abby Rose— adoption PI. You're that Abby, right?"

  I tried to will down the flush creeping up my neck and attacking my cheeks. Didn't work.

  He went on, saying, "Yellow Rose Investigations, right?"

  I hate nothing more than smugness and he was full of himself now. But I smiled when I said, "As my daddy would have said, you're sharper than a pocketful of toothpicks, Kent. You have a computer and actually know how to get on the Internet. I'm so impressed."

  "Not hard to find out stuff about a superstar like you," he said.

  Since I'd seen no computer in my pass-through with Georgeanne, I was guessing it wasn't visible from the angle I'd had into the locked room. "I'm sure you've learned plenty more about me. What does that have to do with your wife . . . excuse me, your un-wife?"

  "Do they teach that in detective school, Abby? How to never answer questions?"

  "Did you try to kill Elizabeth, Kent?" Maybe the direct approach was best, especially since I felt so uncomfortable. I didn't like the way he kept using my name. Maybe familiarity does breed contempt and it's an immediate birth.

  "You've been talking to Roberta too much, Abby. To answer your question, I didn't have a clue where Elizabeth went, so I sure as hell couldn't have tried to kill her. Now it's your turn. Did you find out about Elizabeth's past? Is that your connection to her?"

  "I'm not telling you anything." But despite how much I disliked Kent, maybe I had let Roberta's assessment color my thinking. He could be telling the truth, at least about the murder attempt.

  He stood, came closer. "I've got you wondering—and that says a lot about you, Abby. You're thinking about giving me the benefit of the doubt and I appreciate that. Your eyes are intelligent. No secrets there. Very nice eyes."

  Was this how he charmed people? With his acting skills? Or was he being sincere? The fact that he was a check forger and a thief was enough to tip the scales. Jeff was right. I needed to be careful around this guy. "I'll be going now. Sorry about our little set-to outside." I could keep my enemies close, too.

  As I left, he called after me, "Don't be following me around after this, brown eyes. It would be a waste of time."

  I walked to my car, making an effort not to sprint, because hell, I wanted to. I started the ignition, mentally running through a list of unkind words directed mostly at myself—ones like dufus and damn fool. I should have researched this guy before I ever got in the Camry this morning for the ride over here. Man, did I screw up today.

  I waited until I returned home to call Cooper and tell him the whole story, including how I'd messed up and alerted Dugan about a tail.

  "Don't beat yourself up, Abby. You learned some important information. We figured Dugan for a liar and we were right. How far the lies go is the question," he said.

  Pacing in the kitchen, Diva winding between my legs, I said, "Do you believe he knew where JoLynn was and, like stalkers sometimes do, decided to kill her—maybe simply because she left him?"

  "It's a thought. Or maybe he was afraid of what she knew about his 'consulting' business, what she might spit out one day that could bring him down. That guy is smart and the smart ones worry me. No more tails. Keep your distance."

  "No problem there. Besides, he'll be looking for me now and I'm sorry about that."

  "You followed your gut and no detective should apologize for that. With this guy's background, I'm guessing the laminator and high-end printer are part of an ID shop. HPD forgery division might be interested in following up on what you saw through that window."

  "ID shop? Could that be where JoLynn's fake ID came from?" Thank God I could still put two and two together.

  "You got it. But a crook like Dugan wouldn't have expensive equipment for a small operation. He could be raking in lots of money supplying documents for illegals or identity thieves. That fake driver's license of JoLynn's was top-notch. The hologram was nearly perfect."

  "But that might mean she was in on this ID shop. Maybe Richter's relatives are right—she did come to the ranch to scam Elliott Richter out of his money." And if Richter found out, I thought, maybe he had that car fixed up to get rid of JoLynn.

  "I know what you're thinking, Abby. But Richter had plenty more options than to kill a scammer. Like coming straight to me. Or sending JoLynn packing."

  "True," I said, still trying to make sense of this. "We don't know enough, do we?"

  "No," he said. "Let me bug the forensics people about any more evidence from that smashed-up car, alert HPD to Kent Dugan's so-called job, and then we'll see where we stand."

  We said good-bye and I hung up. But I kept pacing, trying to think this through until the phone still in my hand jangled and startled me. It was Kate.

  "Sorry, Abby, but I need your help—and I know you won't like the request."

  "Have I ever turned down a request from you?"

  "It's Aunt Caroline. I made arrangements for her to join the diabetic support group on a trip through the grocery store today. The dietitian will be teaching her and a few other newly diagnosed diabetics about their food choices and how to shop for the right foods."

  I instantly regretted my eagerness to help. "And you want me to go with her?"

  "I planned to take her during a break in my schedule, but two patients called for emergency appointments. I had to fit them in. Can you pick her up about twelve forty-five?"

  I tried to sound cheerful when I said, "Sure. No problem. Where do I take her?"

  Kate told me and when I hung up, I looked down at Diva and said, "This day is unraveling faster than that sweater I tried to knit for my seventh-grade boyfriend."

  19

  On the drive to the grocery store, Aunt Caroline was as edgy as a hungry coyote, fidgeting, snapping at me, telling me my driving was atrocious—which it was not. Just getting her out of her house and into my Camry took plenty of persuading and when we pulled into the Kroger parking lot, I was afraid she might balk again.

  But with a "Let's get this silly exercise over with," she ignored my extended hand to help her out of the car, got out and strode ahead of me, her Prada handbag swinging on her arm. Maybe they'd give out a "bestdressed-diabetic-on-tour award" after this meeting ended and make her happy.

  A checker directed us to the in-store coffee shop. We were running late thanks to Aunt Caroline's earlier stalling, so if she'd hoped to be the center of attention here, she got her wish.

  A lean, dark-haired woman smiled broadly when we took our places at one of the small round tables. The woman was the only one standing and I assumed she was in charge.

  "You must be Caroline. And who have we brought with us to help today?" she asked.

  "I have brought my niece Abigail, and perhaps you are woefully misinformed, young woman, but a plural pronoun to describe a solitary person is very condescending. Exactly who are you, anyway?" Aunt Caroline said.

  I cringed, wanting to crawl under the table. No one did imperious better than my aunt.

  The woman didn't even blink. "I'm Judith, the dietitian. You spoke with my assistant on the phone. Can we all introduce ourselves to Caroline? Remember, first names only, unless you prefer to waive anonymity."

  "That wasn't me on the phone," Aunt Caroline called out, interrupting the first person who tried to give her name. "It was my other well-intentioned but overprotective niece. This better be worth my time."

  Now I wanted to slither under the floor tiles. Or shake some sense into you-know-who.

  But Judith, bless her heart, didn't miss a beat. "You may
not be happy about coming here today, but we're happy to have you. At some point I hope you will appreciate what you learn. Now, introductions, please?"

  There were seven other people, and all but Aunt Caroline and a woman named Esther were carrying around way too many pounds. I'm bad with names, especially when they're dumped on me all at once, and I didn't remember anybody but Esther. One of the men was sitting in a store electric cart and checked his blood sugar at least twice since we'd arrived. I guessed his weight had to be more than three hundred pounds. This must be so hard for him, I thought. Harder than for Aunt Caroline. I'm very familiar with the comfort that food can offer and felt fortunate to be blessed with an overactive metabolism. My guess was that this man and I probably shared the same love of white bread and junk food.

  Judith said, "We'll begin in the bakery to our right. We'll be reading a lot of labels today, so I hope you've all brought your bifocals."

  Hmmm. Actually Judith was pretty condescending, but I decided to let Aunt Caroline bring that up again. Once the group started moving toward the bakery, that left only a lone man sitting and reading a newspaper near the deli display case. As the group moved out, he looked over the top of his paper at their retreating backsides. I hadn't noticed him when we first sat down and since I could see nothing but his eyes, I wondered if he was amused or interested or just plain confused by this meeting.

  The diabetic group's first task involved searching for whole-grain and low-fat breads. Anything white and with a butter split top was apparently a no-no. Sorry, but a PBJ on nine-grain bread wasn't the same, but maybe I could learn, set an example for my aunt and for Doris, who was still trying to understand her new diet—the healthy one Loreen was teaching her about.

  Judith led us up one aisle and down the other, stopping at the pickles and olives to remind everyone that most diabetics are at higher risk for heart attacks and should watch their salt intake. I felt myself blush, recalling my recent olive binge. Aunt Caroline, meanwhile, was offering dramatic sighs and, when those were ignored, kept interrupting Judith's spiel to ask how much longer this would take.

  We were headed to frozen foods, where I was sure I'd hear about a ban on pizza, when we passed the wine and beer aisle. "Wait a moment, young woman," Aunt Caroline commanded.

  Sheesh. Could I pretend I wasn't with her?

  "What about the diabetic wine?" she asked. "They do make that, right?"

  While everyone giggled, I turned my back on my aunt, probably an unconscious attempt to find a hiding place. That's when I noticed the man who'd been reading the paper. He'd been watching me . . . or us, but quickly grabbed for the nearest end-of-the-aisle object when our eyes met. It happened to be toilet paper.

  Something about him made my antennae go up. Maybe the fact that the only thing in his basket was a travel-size bottle of shampoo. He kept staring at the toilet paper as if it bore one of those healthy-lifestyle bread labels that were about as long as War and Peace.

  What the hell was this? Could he be related to or be a friend of one of the diabetics? Was he following me? Or was he just a plain old creepy shopper? His blondmixed-with-gray hair was chin-length and stringy; his pale eyes were frosty. The three-day growth of beard and less-than-clean clothes pushed me toward creepy shopper rather than follower. Maybe he wanted to hit on one of the diabetic ladies for a handout.

  I refocused on Judith, who was lecturing on the danger of alcohol consumption for diabetics. "Alcohol translates to pure sugar, ladies and gentlemen. It can use up all your medication. See, your medication doesn't differ entiate between the alcohol sugar and the rest of the digested food feeding your cells. Your medicine will attack that alcohol and eat up everything with it, and perhaps leave you dangerously hypoglycemic. We do all remember what hypoglycemic means, right?"

  Aunt Caroline rolled her eyes and waved her hand in the air. "Oh, for crying out loud, let's get this over with. Move on, young woman."

  I heard murmurs of agreement and thought, Oh my God. If Judith doesn't wrap this up soon, Aunt Caroline might just lead a diabetic rebellion.

  Kate owed me. Owed me big-time.

  After we left the store, the torture continued in the car and ended only when I dropped Aunt Caroline off. I breathed a sigh of relief as I headed for home. My aunt had told me in no uncertain terms never to arrange anything like that grocery tour again without her approval—an approval that would never come, of course. I didn't even bother to remind her that Kate set this up. Aunt Caroline wanted a scapegoat and I allowed her the privilege just to cut her diatribe short. I was lucky I didn't get pulled over for speeding in a residential neighborhood, but I couldn't get away from her fast enough.

  My paranoia about the strange shopper hadn't gone away and I watched my rearview and side mirrors plenty during the drive. Houston traffic, unfortunately, makes it very difficult to pick up a tail. But in West University Place, where I live, it would be a lot harder for someone following me to remain anonymous. But I never saw any suspicious-looking vehicles and pulled into my driveway extremely glad to be home.

  I called Kate as soon as I got in the door, and her receptionist, April, said she was in session, but she'd give her the message to call me. After sampling cheese, nectarines and chips and salsa at the store, I wasn't hungry. I decided to check my e-mail while I waited for Kate's call. I was hoping she and I could do dinner and I could bring her up to speed on my interesting, if flawed, day, maybe get her take on Kent Dugan's behavior.

  Diva appeared from some hiding place as I went to my office. She stretched, blinked away sleep and then followed me to the computer. When I connected to my server and my e-mail box came up, I saw Penny's message with the attachments. The foster-kid pictures. Damn, I'd forgotten all about them.

  After I downloaded the photos, I viewed them in a slide show. I examined face after beautiful face, black, brown, white in equal numbers, the kids' first names and case numbers beneath their pictures and alongside little biographies. Sometimes brothers and sisters appeared together and their bio stated they wanted to be adopted to the same home. I felt so sad, even though most of these kids were smiling for the camera. What had they gone through? What had they seen or experienced that children shouldn't have to endure? Did these kids ever find permanent homes or had they aged out of foster care?

  And then, when I got to the 2003 pictures, there she was. Elizabeth. Case number 48932.

  I stopped the slide show and stared at a teenage JoLynn . . . or rather Elizabeth. No smile on her young face. Her bio was brief. She was fifteen, loved books and wanted to be a librarian. She liked Brad Pitt and the beach and wouldn't mind a home where there were small children. She was a good babysitter.

  I sat back in my chair. Another piece of the puzzle? Or another mystery to solve? I picked up the phone and called Penny.

  Lucky for me, she was in her office. "Hi, Abby. Did the pictures help?"

  "Yes indeed." I gave Penny the name and case number. "Is there any way you can get me a last name? If she was adopted, that means she has a family who would want to know about her medical condition."

  "Hmmm. What year was that file from?"

  "It was 2003," I answered.

  "She could sign a release—but that won't work, will it? She's in a damn coma, poor thing."

  "Isn't this a special circumstance?" My tone was pleading, a little pathetic sounding, to be honest. "We need to know everything we can about this girl. Her past might have something to do with how she ended up nearly dead. Maybe she had a parent or guardian who abused her and that person didn't want her to ever talk about it to anyone."

  "Or didn't want her revealing why she ended up in the system," Penny said. "Okay, I've now made this a special circumstance. I'll get back to you as soon as I can."

  I thanked her and hung up, then returned to reading other e-mail so I wouldn't have to look at that heartbreaking picture of the girl we knew as JoLynn.

  When the phone rang a half hour later, Kate was on the other end, not Penny.
r />   I said, "I wanted to fill you in on the case and my absolutely wonderful experience with Aunt Caroline today. Are you free for dinner?"

  "I do have a break from seven to eight—I know that's late, but everyone in Houston seems to be having meltdowns today. Then I have group therapy from eight to nine. We can order in something, maybe from the vegetarian place I love?"

  "Can we compromise on the comfort of pizza? It's been that kind of a day." She agreed and I hung up, already thinking about parking in the Medical Center again. Might as well end the day on another frustrating note.

  We compromised on two medium pizzas, since Kate didn't want pepperoni "leaking" over to her vegetarian side of the pie. I enjoyed every slice and talked as we sat on one of the couches in Kate's family therapy room.

  "So you've figured out that Kent Dugan is not a nice man." Kate closed her pizza box and wiped her mouth with a napkin. I noticed she'd eaten only one small slice. "I hope you'll take the chief's advice and steer clear, Abby. Let Boyd handle him."

  "Even though Dugan knows more about JoLynn than he's telling, I'm definitely keeping my distance. I've already screwed up enough trying to investigate him."

  "You found out about the copy machine and laminator," Kate said. "That's important."

  "True. I'll bet he made the fake inspection and registration stickers as well as the driver's license for JoLynn."

  "Why would he make her a fake ID?" she asked.

  "That's what we need to find out," I said. "I only know it can't be a coincidence that she lived with someone who could have made those forgeries for her."

  "What if she really is Dugan's sister?" Kate checked her watch. We had only an hour together and our time was almost up.

  "Then why introduce herself as his wife?" I said. "And I'm not only taking Dugan's word on that. Roberta Messing believed they were married."