Deception in Strange Places (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery)

by Judy Alter

  “I know that, but she’s a baby in a lot of ways.” Then she changed the subject abruptly. “We got to go shopping,” Keisha said, “and then we got to go see Ms. Lorna. She’s been asking me a lot of questions. You got to help me find some answers.”

  “I think we have to get them together soon. There are so many questions I want to ask Ms. Lorna.”

  We went to Academy and bought armfuls of clothes, most in bright colors—no gray sweats for Sheila. We bought extra-large T-shirts and sweat shirts—while they’d hang on her slim frame, they’d fit over her immobilized right arm. I almost giggled thinking of “My son John/One shoe off/ One shoe on.” We realized too late we didn’t ask about shoe size, so we bought one-size-fits-all socks and guessed at some moccasins that would be forgiving and could be exchanged if they were too far from the mark. I was as excited as a little kid on a shopping spree.

  After we loaded everything into the car, with Keisha driving, we headed from southwest Fort Worth back to Fairmount. But she didn’t go to the office. She went to Ms. Lorna’s.

  I glanced at my watch. “Can’t stay long. I just have time for a late lunch before I get the girls.”

  Keisha didn’t say a word, just marched up those slanted stairs. I followed reluctantly and she took out her own key and let herself in.

  “You have a key?” I whispered.

  “Sometimes she don’t like to be bothered answering the door.” Then in a louder voice, “Ms. Lorna? You got time to visit?”

  “Perhaps,” came the answer from upstairs. It seemed to echo through the house. We stood at the foot of the stairs, both of us looking upward as though mesmerized. In due time Ms. Lorna floated down the stairs, fixed me with those piercing eyes, and demanded, “Have you found my daughter yet?”

  “Let’s sit, shall we?” I suggested.

  Keisha and I arranged ourselves on the one couch, while our hostess—if that term of cordiality applied—sat in a chair, her back ramrod straight, hands folded in her lap, and waited.

  “Yes, I think I have,” I said and saw out of the corner of my eye Keisha was shaking her head as if I’d done the wrong thing. I may have jumped boldly, but we’d all been so worried about Sheila, we’d pussyfooted around Ms. Lorna. I decided it was time. I could deal with Keisha later.

  “Her name,” I said, “is Diane Hollister, and she’s married to a televangelist in San Antonio. I’m pretty sure it’s a match.”

  “Diane? My daughter’s name is Sheila.” She honestly looked like she thought I was an idiot.

  “People change their names for various reasons,” I said.

  “Does that mean she doesn’t want me to find her?” An actual look of disappointment crossed her face.

  “Not at all. I think from what I’ve been able to learn”—okay, a small white lie—”that she would like to meet you. I can’t arrange it quite yet but I’m working on it.”

  In an uncharacteristic move, the older woman got up and began to pace, hands behind her back. Suddenly, she turned to Keisha. “Would you get me a glass of ice water, please, Keisha? And one for yourself, if you wish.” She looked at me, but I shook my head.

  Keisha bustled off, and Ms. Lorna turned to me. “How long before I can meet her? Days? Weeks? It’s important that I know.”

  “I think within a week,” I said and then I followed my hunch. “Ms. Lorna, where was Sheila born?”

  “California, of course. I came back from China, didn’t want to deliver a child there. I wasn’t sure about the medical care.” She’d been telling the same lie for so many years that she believed it and repeated it without hesitation.

  “Ms. Lorna, it’s important that I know the truth. It may mean the difference in making sure Diane Hollister is your daughter.”

  “California, I told you. Why would I lie?”

  I waited, watched her take the glass from Keisha, and drink a large swallow.

  “What are we talkin’ about?” Keisha asked.

  Neither of us answered. We just stared at each other.

  Ms. Lorna broke first. “Oh, all right. She was born in Fort Worth. Are you satisfied?”

  “Completely,” I said.

  “I came to the Edna Gladney Home, even though I was considerably older than most of the girls there. They gave me a separate apartment in the complex, so I didn’t have to live in a dormitory. Stephen made special arrangements to adopt the child from them, said he preferred it not be a direct transaction between the two of us.” She sat down abruptly and put her face in her hands. After a minute she looked up. “It was all so businesslike, like we were selling a bag of groceries. He paid more than the usual adoption fee of the time, although I suspect what he paid was a pittance compared to the cost of adoption today. And then he sent me a huge check. Well, it seemed huge at the time. I put it away and haven’t touched it, in case Sheila ever needed anything.”

  Wow! Forty years of collecting interest. No wonder Ms. Lorna didn’t worry about money in her search.

  The money wasn’t what I was interested in. The information I latched on to was that Sheila had been born here. “Is that why you came here?” I asked softly.

  “I am not, as you know, a superstitious person, but yes. I felt some connection to her here, and by the time my career took a dive—that’s what happened, you know. I grew too old, and I hadn’t had any successes. I had some money, and Stephen kept on sending me monthly checks until he and Sheila disappeared. I invested them, and that’s how, all these years later, I am able to live pretty much as I want, if I live simply. This house,” she waved an expansive hand, “was affordable because it was in poor repair even then.”

  One more question, I asked, “What is the exact date of your daughter’s birth?”

  “July 22, 1970,” she replied without hesitation.

  As though the long speech—and admission—had tired her out, she was silent for a minute.

  Very softly, I asked, “Did you ever go to China?”

  She was startled and then stared at me a long time before answering. “No, I never did. But it made a good story. And I was always interested in China.” She fingered the silk of her gown. “I studied about it while I was here, found all the books I could in the public library, and read for five or six months. When I went back to California, it made a good story. Made me more interesting to some casting directors. I began to collect Chinese porcelain and passed it off as things I’d brought back with me. I developed quite a distinctive lifestyle, and it set me apart from the other girls.”

  “No opium?” I asked, making my tone as light as possible.

  “No,” she shook her head and smiled slightly. “No opium. That too made a good story. But the marijuana is something I learned in California. I developed arthritis at an early age, and it eased my pain.” She looked angry for just a minute. “That’s why I was so angry when Mike had someone tear up my plants.”

  And that was why she walked and moved in such a rigid manner. I was learning a lot.

  Since we were getting the whole story, there was one more question I had to ask. “One more difficult question, Ms. Lorna. Did you ever do anything more than bit parts in movies, any other kind of work?”

  Keisha jerked her head and frown at me, but I didn’t cringe.

  Her head jerked. “Yes,” she said bitterly, “I waited tables. Most aspiring actresses do. But I know what you really meant. I may have ended up on the couches of one or two casting directors, but I didn’t make it a habit. And I never was on call.”

  Someone has fed Sheila Hollister some infamous information about her mother. And I’m pretty sure who the someone was.

  “Thank you for telling me that,” I said.

  We sat in silence for a long moment. It wasn’t a good time for Keisha and me to leave.

  Finally, Ms. Lorna spoke again. “I know you want this house, Kelly, because you want to see it saved. If Sheila is interested, I might be willing to fix it up. Until now, there’s been no point. But it’s important that I see her soon.
”

  I told her I thought I could make that happen, and we stood to leave. The most amazing thing happened—Ms. Lorna put her arm around my shoulders. She didn’t exactly hug, but it was an affectionate gesture. To Keisha, she said, “I have my grocery list.”

  “Tomorrow,” Keisha said. “I can’t do it today.”

  The old Ms. Lorna would have been affronted, but I think her long confession, unburdening her of the falsehoods she’d been living with, had changed her. She’d gotten a long-held secret out of her system, and all she said now was, “Fine.”

  Once in the car, I said, “My head is reeling. Too much information. Just think of the charade she’s been living with all these years. And the heartache…and guilt.”

  “Kelly, I don’t know anyone else who could have done what you did just now, break through the stiff shell that woman has built around herself. Even me, with all my no-nonsense talk, could never have gotten her to tell us all she did.”

  “I hope I did her a favor and didn’t damage her,” I said. “So many secrets.”

  “So many lies,” Keisha said. “But we swore we’d never mention that casting couch business to her. Why’d you bring that up?

  “It just came out,” I said. “It’s part of the whole story and part of the deception. I had to ask.”

  She harrumphed, and then, suddenly said, “Kelly, let’s drive the neighborhood a bit.”

  “I told you I barely have time for lunch. Why would we drive the neighborhood?”

  “So you can twist in and out of side streets, and I can tell if that black SUV is following us like I think it is.”

  I looked in the rear view mirror and sure enough there was a black SUV behind us. I can lose anyone in the back streets and alleys of Fairmount, and this day, because I was hungry, I intended it to be a short and brief escapade. But the black SUV hung on, not making any effort to hide its presence. “Can you see the driver? Is it the rat man?”

  “They shade the damn windows too much,” Keisha said. “Mother Theresa could be driving, and I wouldn’t know it.”

  After fifteen minutes of driving, I was frustrated and getting hungrier by the minute. “Let’s just go to lunch. If he follows us, he follows us. I think he’s just trying to send us a message.”

  “It ain’t a love note,” she muttered. “It’s the same message as from the panhandler. We’re under surveillance—and not by the good guys.”

  We got to Lili’s for lunch at two, just as they were about to end lunch service. I immediately ordered a glass of wine and the vegetarian sandwich—that way I could take out my frustration and still feel righteous. Keisha laughed at me and had King Ranch casserole and iced tea.

  As I ate, I had this feeling of being watched constantly. We were seated by a window, and I kept glancing out, looking for a black SUV. No one came into the restaurant since it was so late, but I scrutinized everyone who walked by, especially those who glanced in the window. When I finished my sandwich, I was no wiser about the black SUV and I’d eaten too fast, giving myself a slight case of indigestion.

  “Time to get the girls,” I announced, and we left.

  Chapter Seven

  There were too many dots to connect. I couldn’t keep track. I talked to Mike about all of it that night, remembering our vow that we would have no secrets from one another.

  He grilled steaks and some corn and squash just for the four of us, while I threw together a tomato and cucumber salad. I took a glass of wine out in the yard to talk to him, while he grilled and the girls did their homework at the kitchen table.

  “How was your day?” he asked, a blah beginning for a heart-to-heart if I ever heard one.

  But I wasn’t about to be deflated. “We saw Sheila—I guess you know her husband was there and forcibly escorted from the property. She showed a bit more spunk today, but remember, she’s still on medication. Anyway, Keisha and I went shopping for clothes for her. She has all these expensive outfits and silky nightwear but nothing comfortable….”

  Mike glanced at my stretched-out cotton pants and big T-shirt that said, “Vote for Ann Richards.” A bit outdated but I liked the sentiment.

  “I hope her T-shirts aren’t quite as dated as that one,” he said with a grin.

  “Nope, no slogans, but bright colors. Her wardrobe tends toward beige. She said her husband picked it all out for her, told her what to wear when.”

  “Just like me,” he quipped. “What else?”

  “We went to see Ms. Lorna, and she made a huge admission—her daughter was born here in Fort Worth. The Edna Gladney Home. That’s why she came here when she left California. I think that clinches the match, but I have to talk to Sheila tomorrow.” My excitement at all that I revealed bubbled over, and Mike regarded me with amusement when I finally asked, “How was your day?”

  Instead of answering, he left the grill, pulled me to my feet, and gave me a long, passionate kiss, just as Maggie stuck her head out the door and said, ‘Yuck. Do you guys have to do that all the time?”

  “Your mom doesn’t know it, but I was congratulating her.”

  “Well, you better stop before the vegetables burn. Then you can tell me why”

  With a “Yikes,” he rescued the corn and squash from the grill. Then he turned to Maggie, “Are you starving?”

  “Not really, I still have to walk Gus.”

  “Good. Before you do, would you refill your mom’s wine glass and bring me another beer. We have to talk.”

  Were those words ominous? “I’ll get my own wine, Mag.” Not sure how I felt about making her a cocktail waitress at thirteen. And I did just that, well aware that I was stalling the conversation.

  When I arrived back at the grill, Mike said, “Steaks need about five more minutes. Long enough for me to congratulate you.”

  “On what?” I asked warily.

  “I think we’ve finally reached the working arrangement I’ve hoped for all along—you’re taking care of the humanity end, and I’m involved in the police work, though I wouldn’t be if it weren’t for the change in assignment.”

  I was still a bit wary. “What do you mean?”

  “You’re taking care of Sheila—I’m learning to call her that—and Ms. Lorna, and I’m on the police end, looking for the driver of the car that ran Sheila down, investigating Hollister, all that stuff that has to do with the law.”

  I thought about it and saw maybe he was right, but… “I can’t promise to stay out of your end if I stumble across something,” I said softly. I hadn’t told him yet about the black SUV.

  “We welcome citizen involvement,” he said righteously. “Now let’s have dinner before the girls mutiny, and then I’ll tell you what I’ve found out.”

  At the dinner table, Maggie said, “Wow, steak! What are we celebrating?”

  While I said, “Back to school,” Mike said, “Our good life.” Both girls giggled, and then Em brought up the subject I’d been waiting a while for.

  “We didn’t have a back-to-school potluck supper like we usually do. Can we do it Sunday?”

  This was already Wednesday and my plate seemed full, but why not? “Sure,” I said. “I’ll call people tonight.”

  “Can Jenny come?” Maggie asked, and I replied, “Of course. She and her mom are family now.” Jenny was Mona’s daughter, the emotionally abused child of one of my previous adventures. Once freed from her drug-dealing husband (by his murder, unfortunately), Jenny’s mom had opened Bun Appetit. We’d seen both of them go from cowering, fearful people to two who thoroughly enjoyed life and each other.

  While the girls did the dishes, I called everyone—Anthony, my carpenter, Mona, my mom Cynthia, Keisha, Theresa, and Claire. They were all excited except for Claire, who said, “No can do. I have a date.”

  “Oh, Claire, we’ll miss your good cooking.”

  She laughed and said, “I’ll send a vegetable casserole. Maybe Megan or Liz will want to join you. I’ll ask them and get back to you tomorrow.”

  “Okay,
but don’t lose your heart on the first date.”

  “I’m too hard-hearted these days,” she said.

  But I worried. Claire had made some bad choices in men before, and I hoped she wouldn’t leap into anything. She had a good life now—reunited with her girls, living in the big house I once owned, working as marketing manager for a local bank. Besides, I surely made a bad choice when I married Tim Spencer. Maybe she’d get lucky, like I am with Mike Shandy.

  In the end, Mom opted to bring one of her creative desserts—and, of course, Otto, her companion. Anthony said he’d bring Greek salad—I wondered where he’d get it, because I doubted he’d cook. Theresa and Joe would bring chips and salsas—Anthony’s daughter, Theresa, had been learning Mexican cooking from her mother-in-law. Keisha drawled, “My southern grits weren’t a big hit before—I’ll bring a pot of sweet beans.”

  “Northern beans!” I exclaimed. “You don’t even know how to fix them.”

  “Oh yes, I do, but I’m like that dog on TV. I’m not telling my secret recipe.”

  She’d bring Bush’s Beans.

  Mona said she’d bring her chocolate chip cookies, which had been a real hit before.

  And Mike would cook hamburgers. All pretty much our standard menu.

  ****

  After the girls were in bed, I waited expectantly for the rest of Mike’s conversation, and he didn’t disappoint me. “I think, Kelly, you’ve overlooked that Sheila’s accident is a police matter, an ongoing investigation. The district headquarters is keeping me in the loop. No sign of the guy you call the rat man, though the car that he drove was found. It was also stolen and will eventually be returned to the owners. It wasn’t damaged badly enough to total, I don’t think, but they’re pulling every bit of evidence they can off it. Should go for repair soon. Somebody’s talked to the owners, and their insurance is ready to step in.”

  “I don’t know that I’d ever want to drive that car again,” I said. Who could drive a car that had been used to try to kill someone? Not me!

  “They apparently didn’t say that, but they were nice people, wanted to know what they could do to help the victim. Since we’re not going public with her identity, somebody thanked them and said they would convey their good wishes. In fact, I haven’t seen anything about the accident in the paper, have you?”