Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  I sat on the floor and packed up his clothes, feeling sad and also a little angry at how the police had discarded his belongings. I then folded the quilt and remade the bed before turning to the Bible. For some reason, I didn’t want to even touch the book. Bibles seemed such private things.

  Feeling like I was somehow betraying Ben, I opened to the first page. What I saw made me blink hard and swallow that tennis ball in my throat. The inscription read, To Ben from Connie. All my love. July 24, 1971.

  Connie? Not his beloved Cloris? Was this the Connie mentioned in the newspaper article? The one who had disappeared? Seemed a logical conclusion. So what happened to Connie? And why would an article about her be packed away with Cloris’s belongings?

  I quickly boxed up Ben’s things and hurried back to the house, anxious to research the newspaper article. I took the clipping into Daddy’s study and booted up the computer. The byline in the Marysville Sentinel clipping belonged to a Larry Kryshevski. The small newspaper did have a web site, but the archives went back only a year. I called the phone number provided on the site, but the young woman who answered had never heard of the author. Heck, the article was probably written before she was born.

  With so much time having passed, the writer seemed like my best bet to learn more than what meager facts were provided in the article, so I plugged Larry K’s name into a search engine. It seemed he was a syndicated freelancer, and I found pages and pages of Web articles from newspapers all over the country. And I also found his mother’s obituary, which offered the name of his hometown. Finding his phone number was as easy as catching fish with dynamite.

  After I dialed, he answered with, “Kryshevski here. I don’t want any.”

  “I’m not a telemarketer,” I said quickly. “I’m calling about a story you wrote years ago.”

  “Years ago I might remember; just don’t ask me about anything I wrote yesterday.” His raspy, gruff voice sounded like he was a smoker.

  “My name is Abby Rose, and the article in question concerned a teenager’s disappearance. Very brief story in the Marysville Sentinel. I’m hoping you know more than what appeared in the paper.”

  “Hold on a second.” He didn’t bother to cover the receiver when he started yelling at whoever was in the room with him. “Can you tell I’m on the phone? Or have you added deaf and blind to the hypochondria list?”

  I heard a female respond, but couldn’t make out what she said. Larry answered her with, “Now I understand why you sneeze all the time. To remove the dust from your brain.” He cleared his throat. “Sorry, Ms. Rose. Continue.”

  “The teenager’s name was Connie Kramer,” I said, hoping to end this conversation quickly. Larry K wasn’t exactly my kind of guy.

  “Yeah. Connie. She disappeared.”

  “So you do recall the story?”

  “The kid, more than the story. In places like Marysville you get to know people.”

  “And what do you remember about her?”

  “Hold on again,” he said, then barked, “Chicken again? Are you hoping to put enough salmonella in my system to kill me, Phyllis?”

  Sounded like a decent plan to me, I thought.

  This time the woman’s response was audible. “Kryshevski, you’re living proof there are more horse’s butts than horses. Eat your dinner and shut up.”

  It seemed she didn’t need anyone’s help to handle this jerk.

  Larry said, “I’m having a conversation with someone far more interesting than a fucking chicken. She wants to know about something I wrote, which of course would never interest you.”

  “Uh, maybe I should call you back later?” I said.

  “No. Me and the chicken will go in the other room—if that’s okay with you, Phyllis?”

  Another muffled response that I was glad I couldn’t understand.

  “Women,” said Larry K, and then I heard a door squeal shut. “Okay. Blessed privacy. Now why are you asking about Connie Kramer?”

  “I was cleaning out an attic after a friend died and found the article. Looks like it came from one of those ‘police beat’ sections,” I said. “The last line is what caught my interest. You wrote, ‘Foul play is not suspected.’ ”

  “Ah, yes,” said Larry K with a laugh. “Snuck that past the night editor and got in trouble with the big boss when he read the copy.”

  “Why would that get you in trouble?” I asked.

  “Back then,” he answered, sounding like he had a mouthful of food, “you weren’t supposed to confuse gossip with the news. See, I was ahead of the times.”

  “And do you remember the gossip?”

  “Depends on why you’re asking. Dispensing information is my bread and butter, and it sounds like you want me to work for free.”

  “How much?” I said, stifling my irritation and hoping there really was salmonella in his chicken.

  “You tell me why this is important to you and we can work something out. If it’s a good enough story, it won’t cost you a dime. My newspapers will pay me.”

  No use shooting myself in the foot just because I didn’t like the man. What harm could it do to tell him the truth? So I began with Ben’s murder and ended with finding the inscription in the Bible.

  “Hmm. Interesting,” he said when I was finished. “Maybe we can work together on this. You say you found sketchbooks?”

  “Yes, but I’m more interested in—”

  “And you have a photograph of this woman, Cloris?”

  “I do.”

  “Can you scan one of the drawings and the photo and send it to me, along with a signed commitment that I get first shot at doing a piece on this?”

  “Okay, sure,” I said. Obviously the guy knew something, and I wanted what he had. He gave me his fax number and I hung up.

  Thirty minutes later I had him back on the line.

  “Okay, here’s the deal,” Larry explained. “Kid ran off because someone knocked her up. And in Marysville, seventeen-year-old unwed mothers were about as welcome as piss in a punch bowl.”

  “And they never found her?”

  “Not that I heard. Anyway, when you mentioned the sketchbooks, I remembered something else about Connie. She’d won this little art contest sponsored by our paper. I was one of the judges. She was good.”

  “Are you saying Connie and Cloris are the same person?”

  “That’s her in the picture you faxed. That’s Connie.

  And that sure as hell is her artwork.”

  I didn’t speak for a few seconds, wondering how this might connect to Cloris-a.k.a.-Connie’s murder.

  As if he’d read my mind, Larry K said, “When and if you find out what exactly happened to that girl, you remember we have an agreement, Ms. Rose.” He was all business now. No attitude, no sarcasm. In fact, he sounded downright excited. And I was, too.

  I hung up, thinking how everything I’d learned so far seemed to lead to a bigger mystery. Ruth had never mentioned any baby born to Cloris and Ben, in fact, I clearly remembered Sheriff Nemec saying there were no children, no other relatives period.

  Okay. So maybe the man’s name that Cloris had written in the sketchbook and on her calendar would shed some light on why she felt compelled to flee town and change her identity. I turned my attention to Samuel Feldman and plugged him into the same search engine I’d used to find Larry K. Ten pages of hits popped up. Not bad. Could have been a thousand. And I soon discovered a number of these hits showed one particular Samuel Feldman lived in Galveston. After scrolling through all the pages, I could find no other Texas connection. So I visited the yellow pages on-line and typed in Feldman’s name. When a number carrying a Galveston area code popped up, I dialed and was greeted by an answering machine.

  “You have reached Parental Advocates,” said a soft, professional-sounding female voice. “Our business hours are nine A.M. to five P.M. Tuesday through Saturday. If you would like to leave a message, please do so at the tone.”

  I hung up, wondering if I had the rig
ht number. But when I tried several other on-line phone books, the same number appeared. So was Parental Advocates Feldman’s business?

  The message said they were open tomorrow, and I decided I’d pay a visit. Who knows? Maybe I’d get lucky and come face-to-face with someone from Cloris’s past.

  11

  I dragged myself from bed early the following morning and had little memory of the drive to Galveston, despite the double espresso I picked up at Starbucks. I found Parental Advocates without difficulty, located in a restored house in the doctor-lawyer-accountant section of town. I’d been considering what kind of business Parental Advocates might be. The most common options for unwed mothers back in the 1970s were adoption or abortion. Didn’t sound like abortion, not with that advocate word, so I figured adoption was the most logical explanation.

  The building was freshly painted, and gold-leaf lettering on a sign next to the leaded-glass front door confirmed I had the right place. The door chimed when I entered, and a woman was seated behind a sleek walnut desk across the large once-foyer-now-office. She looked to be around my age, close to thirty, with stylish straight hair and wearing an expensive-looking summer-weight pale green suit. I took in the burgundy velvet window seats, gleaming oak floors, and expensively draped bay window. No cheap store-front operation, that was for sure.

  “May I help you?” she asked.

  “I was looking for Mr. Feldman. Is he in?”

  “Mr. Feldman?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did someone refer you to him for an adoption?”

  Why did the woman sound so surprised? I didn’t know, but she seemed so darned suspicious I found myself saying, “Uh . . . yeah. I was referred here.”

  “To Mr. Feldman? How odd. I’m Helen Hamilton, by the way.” She gestured to a leather chair in front of her desk. “Please have a seat. I’m very curious to know who referred you, Ms. . . . ?”

  “Deer. Jane Deer. Actually, the person asked me not to use their name.”

  “I see.”

  Whatever she “saw” wasn’t sitting too well, so I decided to say nothing, hoping she’d offer more. Meanwhile, I scanned the walls for a framed state license confirming this was indeed an adoption agency, but there were only prints of sailing ships and the more famous Galveston mansions.

  Finally she succumbed to the silence and said, “Mr. Feldman has . . . retired. I run Parental Advocates now. How can I help you?”

  Retired could mean the man was old enough to be Cloris’s Feldman. “So has he moved to Florida or Arizona to play golf every day?” I said, trying to probe and sound lighthearted at the same time.

  “I don’t see how that information could possibly help you. I, on the other hand, arrange adoptions and would be happy to assist you. That is why you came here, correct?” she said.

  “The fertility drugs just haven’t worked,” I answered. Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, as Daddy used to say.

  “Let me inform you first, Ms. Deer, that we’re reluctant to place children with single parents. You’re not single, are you?” She was staring at my left hand—my ringless left hand.

  Couldn’t manufacture a wedding band, so I just plowed on. “My husband couldn’t come with me. He’s out of town.”

  “If you want to proceed, then I’ll meet with you both when your spouse returns. What’s his profession?” She slid a stack of papers across the desk.

  “Uh . . . computers. He owns a computer business.” I glanced at the heading on the top sheet. It said, Family History, but nothing on the top page identified Parental Advocates as an adoption agency, either.

  Hamilton rested her elbows on the chair’s arms and smiled. “I hope you understand that finding the right child can be expensive.”

  “Money’s not an issue.” I leaned toward her, shaking my head sadly. “We’ve exhausted all other alternatives.”

  My response seemed to erase Hamilton’s paranoia. Her body language—relaxed shoulders, welcoming smile—struck me as hugely sympathetic and accepting now.

  She said, “I assure you, we’ll do everything to find you the perfect child, but first we’ll need your husband’s input. If you’d like, I could arrange a meeting in a less formal setting. Dinner, perhaps? Say at the Galvez Hotel?”

  So she wanted to meet me and my fake husband at an expensive restaurant, where no doubt she’d offer a smooth sales pitch. For a human life. I forced a smile and said, “I’ll discuss this with my husband when he returns, but could you answer a few questions now?”

  “If I can.”

  “How does Parental Advocates work? See, we’ve been through so many agencies and talked to so many—”

  “We’ll clarify everything after we receive the processing fee.” She floated an elegant hand at the forms lying in front of me. “For purposes of confidentiality, all our transactions are in cash.”

  Cash? Definitely a fox in this chicken coop. I decided to mention Feldman again, since his name had provoked such a strong reaction earlier. “Are you sure Mr. Feldman is permanently retired? I really hoped to talk to him.”

  Did her cheeks lose a little color or was it my imagination? “Mr. Feldman no longer practices law,” she said coldly. “We have several very good attorneys on board. Now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Deer, a client is due here any minute.” She stood, extending her hand. “Call us in the future and we’ll see if we can proceed with your application. A pleasure meeting you.”

  Her gray eyes were as icy as a pawnbroker’s smile, and her “please let me take your money” attitude had transformed to “let me think about taking your money,” all after my bringing up Feldman again.

  She led me to the door and offered a frosty good-bye.

  After I climbed into the Camry and turned the key in the ignition, I sat there wondering why the mere mention of a name had caused the ambient temperature in that room to drop twenty degrees. These thoughts were interrupted, however, when I spotted Hamilton in my rearview mirror. I pulled out and started down the street, still keeping an eye on her in the mirror. She took off in a silver BMW, heading in the opposite direction.

  And I made a U-turn.

  12

  Helen Hamilton’s hot little Beamer steamed through Galveston at an urgent clip. As I followed, I wondered if Daddy and Mom were forced to pay a “processing fee” when they adopted us. And worse, had they dealt with someone as mercenary as Hamilton seemed to be?

  And why, if Hamilton had a client coming, as she claimed, did she leave her office? Had the mere mention of Feldman sent Hamilton speeding through town? Because she was speeding, weaving between cars on Broadway and passing on the right. I kept my distance, but the main street is long and wide, and I had no trouble keeping her in sight.

  She made a right turn, and at first I thought she might be taking a shortcut to Seawall Boulevard. I made the same turn just before the light changed, knowing I had to be careful now. We were in a residential area with little traffic, and she might spot me. I let her have a two-block lead. We drove into a rundown neighborhood, and a minute later she made a left, lurching to a halt in front of a small yellow house.

  I drove on past the intersection and parked by a sagging beige two-story on the corner. I adjusted my side mirror and saw Hamilton walking briskly up the walkway to the yellow house.

  I waited, considering whether I should continue to follow her once she came out. I guess I thought she’d simply lead me to Feldman, but this was certainly no retirement community.

  Then, five minutes into my self-appointed stakeout, I learned another little detecting lesson. I’d never make a good cop. I was stir-crazy. What was going on over there?

  Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’d be sorry, knowing I’m about as patient as a two-year-old in front of a birthday cake, I slid from behind the wheel into the humid morning air. Maybe the drapes were open and I could see what she was doing. Or maybe I could listen at an open window.

  I started for the corner, noting that even the lawns looked defeated. Clumps of Saint
Augustine grass choked the life out of the gentle Bermuda, where there was any Bermuda, and not merely blemishes of dusty ground.

  “You selling something?” called a voice from behind me.

  My heart skipped. Some surveillance expert I was. I hadn’t noticed anyone within a block of here. I squinted back at the house I’d parked in front of, but through the screen door all I could see was a shadowy face and the whites of his eyes.

  “Not selling,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I park here, but I want to surprise a friend, and if she recognizes my car, it would ruin everything.”

  He opened the door about six inches. He was a tall kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. “If your car’s gone when you get back,” he said, “don’t go telling the police I had anything to do with it.”

  A small child appeared at the teen’s knees, peeking out at me with giant brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than five. “Yeah, white lady, don’t go telling the po-lice.”

  “Get back in the house, man,” the teenager said. “Didn’t Momma tell you about talking trash like that?”

  The little boy answered this by running out onto the porch, skipping in circles, and chanting, “William can’t get me. William can’t get me.”

  William did get him, however, with a rapid swoop of one long, gangly arm. To the delight of the child, he was lifted to a horizontal position on William’s hip, well above the slatted, uneven porch.

  I smiled, then started off again, saying, “No one will have the time to steal my car. Besides, Camrys are hard to break into.” I had no idea if this was true, but it sounded convincing. Their front door clattered shut as I walked away.

  Sweat already soaked the back of my T-shirt and dampened the waist of my khaki shorts by the time I reached the yard surrounding the yellow house. It had to be a hundred degrees though not even ten A.M. yet.