Table of Contents
Praise
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication Page
Acknowledgments
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
More Praise for Leann Sweeney's
Yellow Rose Mysteries
''I adore this series.'' —Roundtable Reviews
''A welcome new voice in mystery fiction.'' —Jeff Abbott, bestselling author of Cut and Run
''Will leave mystery fans eager to read more about Abby Rose.'' —Bill Crider, author of Dead Soldiers
''Pick Your Poison goes down sweet.''
—Rick Riordan, Edgar® Award–winning
author of The Lightning Thief
''A witty, down-home Texas mystery . . . [a] fine tale.'' —Midwest Book Review
DEAD
GIVEAWAY
A YELLOW ROSE MYSTERY
Leann Sweeney
A SIGNET BOOK
SIGNET
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario M4P 2Y3, Canada (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.)
Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India
Penguin Group (NZ), cnr Airborne and Rosedale Roads, Albany, Auckland 1310, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa
Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Copyright © Leann Sweeney, 2005
All rights reserved
The Edgar® name is a registered service mark of the Mystery Writers of America, Inc.
REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA
ISBN: 1-101-08415-4
Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.
PUBLISHER'S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
The scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated.
For Mike. I love you.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
A writer needs the support of so many, and I have been blessed with the best writer's group on the planet: Kay, Amy, Laura, Linda, Charlie, Bob and Mary, your support and insights make me work hard every week to write the best book I can. I thank you from the bottom of my heart. Susie, Isabella and Spicey, you are like family. Thanks for sharing your home. Jeffrey Cranor, my webmaster and publicity man, you do a fantastic job. A special thanks to Tim Carter, retired death row guard, who answered my endless questions with enthusiasm. To all the readers who have e-mailed saying they love Abby, you have no idea what joy I feel knowing I brought someone the treasured escape of a book. Thank you, Carole Mann, for your help and commitment. I love you, Mike, Shawn, Jillian, Jeffrey and Allison. Lastly, Claire, you are the best advocate I could have ever imagined, my dream-come-true editor. Thank you.
1
If Daddy were alive and standing beside me tonight, he'd say we've got a skunk down the well. A situation. I was in a parking lot on Houston's south side, leaning against the driver's-side door of my Camry and sipping on a Diet Coke. I wouldn't be getting near the espresso bar to meet with a witness in my new case. Not with crime scene tape strung in front of the building and red, white, and blue police cruiser lights electrifying the night sky like a patriotic carnival.
Folks from the sports bar farther down in the strip mall had wandered out to see what was going on, too. From the number of cars in the lot, the bar must have been packed for the Friday night NBA play-off game. Then a TV station news van pulled into the lot just as the faint mist dampening my hair and bare shoulders turned into a warm June drizzle.
Patches of fluorescent oil from departed cars slicked the blacktop separating me from Verna Mae Olsen, my witness. That's assuming she was inside the coffee joint and trapped by whatever event brought the police here. Maybe someone strung out on a caffeine high had foam in their mouth rather than in their coffee. Those five-dollar brews will piss you off some days. I sure hoped nothing serious had happened in there.
I'd interviewed Verna Mae several days ago in Bottlebrush—a town about an hour from here and as different from Houston as a toy poodle is from a coy ote. My newest client, Will Knight, hired me to do what the police couldn't accomplish nineteen years ago—learn who had abandoned him on Verna Mae's doorstep. He and his adoptive parents hoped I'd uncover information about his birth family, and since I'm a PI who specializes in adoption issues, I took on Will's case.
Verna Mae seemed the logical starting point, and I thought I'd heard all she had to tell the other day, but she surprised me by calling tonight. I invited her to my house in the West University section of the city, but she insisted we meet here. Why at this coffee bar, I had no idea, but I'd agreed, and we'd exchanged cell phone numbers in case we missed each other.
Missed each other? Isn't that what just happened? If she were inside the cafe´ or sitting in her car watching this police show like I was, I'd feel a whole lot better if I heard her voice. I opened the car door, put the soda can in the cup holder and reached across the seat for my phone. Then I dug in my shorts pocket for her number. When I punched in the digits, it only rang once.
''Why are you calling this phone?'' said a familiar male voice.
I opened my mouth but nothing came out. It was Jeff, Sergeant Jeff Kline of Houston PD Homicide. My Jeff. The guy I love. He'd recognized my caller ID.
''Talk to me, Abby,'' he said.
''You-you have her phone,'' I said. ''That's not good.''
/>
''Whose phone?''
''Verna Mae Olsen. A witness I was supposed to meet. From what I'm seeing in this parking lot, I'm guessing that might not happen.''
''Where are you?'' he asked.
''Look out the window and you'll see me.''
''I'll do better than that,'' he said.
The line went dead, and a second later he pushed open the glass door, ducked under the crime scene tape and strode in my direction. He held something in one latex-gloved hand and the badge clipped to his belt glinted in the halogen lights that had been set up to better illuminate the lot and storefront.
My heart was hammering now. Jeff's presence, plus his possession of that phone, equaled more than skunk trouble. By the time he reached me, my mouth was so dry I wasn't sure I had enough spit to talk.
Jeff wore his cop face—tired and all business. I'd seen that look when we first met, the awful day when my yardman was murdered and he drew the case. He held up a small black cell phone enclosed in a Baggie. ''Who is this Olsen woman?''
''I-I interviewed her a couple days ago and she asked me to meet her here.''
''You can ID her?'' he said.
''ID her? You mean . . .''
''I need you to look at a body,'' he said, his tone less brittle, tinged with genuine regret.
''Oh, no. What happened, Jeff?''
''I'm guessing a robbery got out of hand. Guessing. That theory could change.'' He gestured for me to follow and led me toward the coffee bar, a.k.a. the Last Drop. As we walked, he put the cell phone in his pants pocket, removed his gloves and balled them up. Those went in his other pocket.
The rain had picked up by the time we passed the crew of cops on the sidewalk outside the shop. Several nodded at me in greeting. I'd met them when I went with Jeff to one of Houston PD's favorite watering holes. DeShay, his new partner, was talking to a tall young woman with grape hair, low-riding capris and a nose ring. I knew DeShay better than the others, and he looked my way, saying, ''Hey, Abby. What's up?'' like it was no big deal I'd show up at a crime scene.
We did not enter the Last Drop as I expected. Instead, Jeff led me around back to a wide alley that ran behind the shopping center, probably for delivery truck access. More halogens had been set up, and jumpsuited crime scene workers were canvassing the area around the back door of the coffeehouse. On the other side of the alley, a huge grassy ditch for floodwater collection was illuminated, too. Down in that ditch I saw a figure kneeling beside a dark mound I assumed was the body.
Telling me to follow exactly behind him so as not to disturb any uncollected evidence, Jeff walked carefully down the bank, taking a path where the grass had already been flattened by footsteps.
''How could you find anyone back here?'' I asked.
''Pure luck. Guy tied up his dog outside while he went in for coffee. Black Lab with a helluva nose. Dog got loose, and here we are.''
The crouching figure was in a blue oxford shirt, the fabric on her shoulders splattered with rain. As we drew closer, I could see the victim's feet. The once white tennis shoes were stained brown, and the wide small feet certainly could have belonged to Verna Mae, a short, plump woman around five feet tall. The day we met, I was struck how round and small she seemed in contrast to my client, who checks in at a lanky six-foot ten. Will's a college basketball player and went with me to Bottlebrush to meet with Verna Mae.
The woman in the oxford shirt stood and turned to face us. She had a round face, stringy gray hair, and held up her gloved hands like she was ready to do surgery. ''What do you want, Sergeant?'' she asked, not acknowledging my presence.
Her gruff manner and the fact she was standing over a dead person made my shoulders tighten.
''Dr. Post, this is Abby Rose. She can possibly ID the victim,'' Jeff said.
The woman smiled at me. Her teeth were yellowed and her eyes were sharp with interest. She refocused on Jeff. ''You found family without having any ID? You have skills I didn't know you possessed, Sergeant.''
''She's not family,'' he answered.
''Oh.'' The detached, cold expression returned.
''Well then, have a gander. I've cleaned off her face.'' She waved a hand at the body.
At first I thought the body was covered with fire ant hills, but the smell told me different. They were coffee grounds. Jeez.
I recognized Verna Mae, mostly because of her distinctive gray eyes. They were glassy and wide now, and her chubby face looked like she'd been hammered with a meat mallet. Her broken nose lay against one bruised and swollen cheek, and her bottom lip was split. Blood covered her teeth and chin.
I stepped back. Tried to swallow the hot, sour Diet Coke that rocketed into my mouth.
Jeff grabbed my elbow and pulled me back away from the body. Good thing, because I bent over and vomited everything but my toenails.
He rested a hand on my back as I rid myself of the last ounce of bile, then he put his mouth to my ear and whispered, ''You okay?''
I nodded, wiped my lips with the back of my hand.
When I was upright again, Jeff said, ''If you're not able to continue, Ms. Rose, we understand.'' This formal attitude was apparently for the benefit of the doctor, who was again kneeling by the body.
I made myself take another good look, willing my stomach to behave. ''That's her. Verna Mae Olsen.''
Dr. Post looked over her shoulder at me. From her expression, pukers were obviously a pain in the ass. She dug into the pile of coffee grounds and lifted one of the dead woman's pudgy arms. Wet coffee clung to Verna Mae's skin like dirt. ''No rigor or lividity. This corpse is fresher than the grounds they dumped on top of her. Why do you think they did that, Sergeant?''
''Great way to hide a corpse,'' Jeff said.
''Made a helluva mess,'' she muttered. ''Murderer probably has the stuff all over their shoes. Forensics can probably even match coffee brands these days.''
''Yeah,'' Jeff said. ''We bagged grounds already.''
''Good, Sergeant. Now, could you take your witness somewhere else? I've called the van to remove the body, and she'll be in the way. And get one of your police friends to clean up her vomit. I don't want me or my people to step in it.''
''I'm really sorry about getting sick,'' I told Jeff as he guided me back up the incline and across the alley.
''No problem.'' He used the walkie-talkie feature on his phone and said, ''Hey, Rick. There's vomit by the body.''
''You need me to collect it?'' Rick responded.
''Don't bother. Not evidence. A witness lost it. Just wanted you to be aware if you happened to wander up that way again.''
''Gotcha,'' the man answered.
Seems there was a little animosity between the ME and HPD, just as the press liked to speculate. As we arrived at the back entrance to the Last Drop, Jeff clipped his phone on his belt and held open the door for me. I went into a narrow hallway. By now, my shorts and white blouse were soaked, along with my sandaled feet, so the blast of air-conditioning had me shivering from bottom to top.
I noticed a restroom on the right and a storage area filled with huge, clear bags of coffee beans on our left. The aroma was unbelievably strong, and the room might as well have been a goat pasture—that's how pleasant the smell was to me at the moment. With gritty grounds between my toes and the churning in my gut, I wasn't sure I'd ever love coffee as much as I used to anymore.
Jeff rested his hands on my cold shoulders. ''You did good. Sorry you had to go through that, but you've really helped us out.''
''I feel so bad for her, Jeff. She must have been terrified before . . . before she died. What could she have possibly done to deserve that beating? She was just this oddball, small-town woman obsessed with a baby she found years ago.''
''Let's sit, talk a little more about what you know about her,'' he said.
''Can I rinse my mouth first?''
''Sure. Want some gum, too?'' He patted his shirt pocket where he kept his ever-present pack of Big Red.
''No. I don't want an
ything even marginally connected to the food pyramid.''
''Okay. I'll meet you up front.''
I stepped inside the lavatory, closed the door and leaned back, my hand on the knob. I closed my eyes, but that only made me see Verna Mae's battered face again, the face that had been so happy when I'd brought Will to see her.
I caught my reflection in the smudged oval mirror across from me and saw that my skin was the color of concrete and my hair so wet it looked black rather than auburn. I stepped over to a sink that resembled the bottom of a dirty coffeepot, turned on the faucet and splashed my face. After I rinsed away the taste of bile, I stared again in the mirror, ran my fingers through my hair and pushed back my bangs. I looked like I'd been through a car wash without a car, but this was as good as it was gonna get. I went back out into the hallway and walked the short distance into the coffee shop to give my statement, thinking about Verna Mae lying dead so close by and wondering if her death had some sad connection to my client.
Dead Giveaway Page 1
