Kate didn’t.
“He won’t go for this,” said Kate as we pulled into Terry’s driveway a few hours later. His small brick home was on a tree-lined street in one of my favorite sections of the city, near Rice University.
Kate hopped out of the SUV and went around to open the back gate on her 4Runner. She let Webster out and he bounded toward the front door, stopping briefly to lift his leg and spray the huge oak in the front yard. He likes Terry’s house. Not as much square footage to wear him out.
“I know Terry will be reluctant to help me, and that’s why you have to convince him,” I said.
“I’m willing, but I’m not guaranteeing anything,” she said.
We entered the house after a cursory knock, Webster leading the way through the narrow hall to the living room. Terry had been slowly modernizing the old house, but he had yet to work on the living room. Brocade drapes and floral wallpaper clashed with his black leather sofa, contemporary end tables, and sleek entertainment center.
Terry, dressed in his usual khakis and polo shirt, emerged from the kitchen, and Webster greeted him by barking and doing a few whirligigs.
“Hi, fella,” he said, rubbing the dog’s head. Terry grinned at me. “And hello, Abby. Didn’t know you were coming for dinner, too.”
“Never miss a chance to visit with my favorite soon-to-be brother-in-law,” I said.
His eyes turned in amused inquiry to Kate. “What does she want, Kate? More police info, I suppose?”
“Me?” I said. “Ulterior motives? Never.”
He laughed. “I’ll set another plate for supper.”
He had fixed fruit salad, grilled chicken, and poppy-seed muffins, and we ate in the dining room, whose walls bore the scars of recently stripped wallpaper.
While we ate, I told him about Feldman, Hamilton, and the plan I’d devised to learn more about Parental Advocates. Once we’d finished the meal, Terry sat back in his chair, considering what I’d said.
I pushed pineapple tidbits around my plate, feeling his resistance, even though he hadn’t come right out and said he wouldn’t help me. Kate wasn’t doing any generous lobbying in my favor, which bothered me. But she loved the guy and certainly knew how to handle this situation better than I did.
Indeed, the affection and respect between Kate and Terry was obvious. Love and respect. If I’d only weighed their importance before I married Steven. Passion and Bud Light weren’t exactly the best foundation for a lasting relationship.
Kate picked up the pitcher and we passed the iced tea around, refilling our glasses.
“Why didn’t you ask me for help before you went wandering around Galveston?” Terry finally said.
I added a lemon slice to my drink, saying, “Are you in the early stages of Alzheimer’s, Terry? Remember that day in your office when you said you couldn’t help me?”
He said, “I was a little ticked at you, remember?” “I know. I’m sorry.” I attended to the frayed edge of my napkin.
He went on, saying, “And you’ve gone a little overboard again. I mean, is it a good idea to follow a woman who may have been conducting an entirely legal business transaction?”
“She didn’t know she’d been followed,” I said.
“There’s no give-up in you, is there?” He sighed. “I suppose I could check a couple of sources at HPD and see if they know anything about this Feldman guy.”
“Maybe he’s been dead for years,” said Kate. “Or he moved away.”
“Hamilton said he was retired. And if he’s still in the area, maybe I can find him.”
“Okay,” Terry said. “So you find him. But if the man’s guilty of anything, he certainly won’t tell you.” Terry’s tone, edging closer to condescension, reminded me of an earlier conversation with Willis Hatch. Why did all the men in my life think they had to protect me?
Figuring I needed a time-out before I shot myself in the foot with Terry, I said, “Talk to him, would you, Kate? I’m going to the bathroom.”
“Use the one in my bedroom,” said Terry. “That hall bath is torn up.”
And so was Terry’s bedroom, though not from re-modeling. He was plain messy, something Kate might have a problem adjusting to. The comforter was wadded at the end of the bed, and dirty clothes littered the floor.
I, however, considered this a point in the man’s favor. I never trusted neat men. Neat men called their mothers on odd-numbered days and collected stamps. Dodging a trail of towels, I made my way to the bathroom. A minute later, when I moved a shirt strewn over the sink so I could wash my hands, three or four business cards fluttered from the pocket. I picked them up.
Police-issued business cards. An embossed gold shield was prominent in the upper center, and beneath this was printed, Terry Armstrong, Ph.D., Houston Police Department, Consultant.
Hmm. These could prove useful. I pocketed them and returned to the dining room.
“Guess what?” said Kate. “Terry’s agreed to help with your plan to find Feldman.”
“Really?” I said, genuinely surprised. “How’d she convince you?”
“By being Kate.” He smiled and squeezed her hand. “I think she’s right, though. There’s nothing illegal about checking out Parental Advocates by pretending to seek their services. Investigative reporters do things like this all the time. A little playacting, right? Besides, you are practically family. Tell me where and when, and I’ll be there, Abby.”
“Thanks . . . I’ll call you when I’m ready to execute the plan.” I ran my fingers over the edges of the small rectangles in my pocket. “But are you absolutely positive?”
“Sure,” he said. “It’s not like I’ll be impersonating a police officer or anything. Now, that can get you in big trouble.”
14
The following morning I was finishing a bagel in the kitchen and listening to the Weather Channel reporter banter about the possibility of the tropical storm becoming a hurricane. She bubbled with anticipation as pictures of those upper-level disturbances and low-pressure systems came in via satellite. She was orgasmic about potential ratings, rather than the storm, was my guess. Folks would be glued to their televisions up and down the coast. When she got to the important part, I jotted down the coordinates of the storm, making a mental note to check our supply of batteries and bottled water.
Kate had gone out for the Sunday paper, and when she returned, she noticed what station I was tuned to. “When should we expect the duck drencher’s arrival?”
“Not sure. It’s a slow mover. Meanwhile, I have more pressing concerns.”
“Like what?” she said. “I was hoping we’d loaf by the pool today.”
“Sergeant Kline called, and in his best evil-mannered delivery, he suggested I come and see him. Today.”
“Doesn’t sound like fun,” Kate said. “Did he say why he wants to talk to you?”
I shook my head. “Maybe I’ll be calling you from jail for bail money.”
“Should you phone Willis? Have him meet you downtown?”
“I was kidding. I can handle a few questions without benefit of counsel.”
“I could go with you for moral support,” she said.
“I’m a big girl. By the way, have you seen Diva? She’s pulled another disappearing act.”
“She always comes back when she gets hungry,” said Kate, gathering up the newspaper and her green tea before heading for the pool deck.
I hope she comes back before bedtime, I thought, heading for the stairs to dress for my trip to police headquarters. One night without her was enough.
With my visitor sticker plastered to my cotton camp shirt, I made my way down a narrow carpeted aisle bordered on both sides by partitioned cubicles in the Homicide division at HPD. Phones were ringing, computers whirring, and I heard more than one pager beeping as I made my way to where Sergeant Kline sat behind a desk piled with folders and papers. He indicated a plastic chair and I sat across from him, again confronting that unwavering stare.
Af
ter I refused the gum he offered, he folded a stick into his mouth, chewed a second, and said, “I have a few concerns. This shouldn’t take long.”
“Shoot,” I said. “Or is that a bad word to use in a police station?”
He didn’t smile. “First off, this case has few leads.” He leaned back in his chair and rested one foot on the edge of the desk.
“So no one’s confessed. That won’t stop you, right?”
“No. But it takes an awful lot of legwork, paperwork, and brainwork to solve a whodunit like this. From what Sheriff Nemec tells me, digging around in thirty-year-old dirt might not even lead us anywhere. Even if I’m not the one to dig that dirt up.” He raised his eyebrows.
So the sheriff had gone and told him about my visit to Cloris’s attic. “Why not be direct, Sergeant? Might save us both some time.”
“Okay,” he said, “I want whatever evidence you took from the Grayson house.”
“Have you decided to investigate Cloris’s death, then?”
“Maybe. Two people in the same family dying from cyanide poisoning—even if the murders were years apart—is no coincidence,” he said.
Ah. There was intelligent life in the police universe after all. “That’s exactly what I thought, and I figure—”
“So,” he interrupted, “either you cooperate and turn over what you found, or you could be investigating the inside of a Harris County jail cell.”
I sat back, my enthusiasm melting like a chocolate bar left on the dashboard. “When have I not cooperated?”
“I don’t call taking away evidence cooperation. But if you had a motive to kill Mr. Grayson, I haven’t found one. Not even blackmail. And now, with the similarities between Ben’s death and Cloris Grayson’s, I—”
“Wait a minute. Blackmail? Why would Ben blackmail me?”
“I don’t know. Yet.”
“So you still think I might be hiding something?” This was ludicrous. Clearly Ben’s death was related to a murder that occurred fifteen years ago, one I knew nothing about until last week.
He chewed languidly for a few seconds before speaking. “Ben Grayson was probably living on your property because he had a good reason to be there—which logically might involve the people who live in your house. Your father’s dead, your sister spends every waking hour in the library when she’s not with Terry Armstrong, and you . . . ? Well, I’ve learned you have a less restricted schedule.”
My cheeks tingled. “And what, exactly, do you know about my so-called schedule?”
He said nothing.
“Oh. I get it. You’ve been watching me. Following me.”
He shifted in his seat, looking uncomfortable for the first time since we’d met.
“Has this been going on since the day of the murder?” I knew I was glaring, but hell, this pissed me off.
He put both feet on the floor and squared his shoulders. “Routine stuff. Nothing personal.”
“You haven’t answered my question. How long?”
“After Nemec phoned and said he screwed up and let you take stuff from the Grayson house, we had to watch you more closely. And that’s the reason I brought you down here. Following people can get you in lots of trouble. You nearly got more than you bargained for with that car thief in Galveston.”
“So the big black dude who nailed James Franklin wasn’t merely some good Samaritan, huh?”
“Not exactly.”
Another tension-filled silence followed before I said, “You’re wasting time and taxpayers’ money pursuing me. You could have been up in Shade, where you might actually find answers—like I did.”
His neck was blotched, the fire spreading up to his ears. “Carting off evidence before the police have a chance—”
“Nemec came to Ruth’s house earlier and chose not to take anything, so I figure she could give me whatever she wanted.”
“You figured wrong. I’m dropping the polite approach with you, Ms. Rose, so quit—”
“You actually believe you possess a polite approach?” I said with a laugh.
He leaned toward me, arms folded on his desk. “Okay. You think you’re a detective? Why don’t you just tell me what you know about the cold case?”
I took a deep breath and exhaled, realizing this was not about egos—his or mine. This was about murder. And if I could help, I wanted to. More than anything.
“Here’s what I know.” I told him what I had taken from the attic, then said, “I think Cloris Grayson was actually a teenage runaway named Connie Kramer. She may have had a child out of wedlock that she gave up for adoption thirty-odd years ago. I believe she was looking for the adoption agency when she was murdered.”
“She waited fifteen years to look for her kid?” said Kline.
“No Internet back then. And from what I can tell, the lady was poor. It might have taken her that long to get a lead.”
“So maybe Ben killed her because of this baby rather than for the insurance money?” he said. “That doesn’t work for me.”
I wanted to shake the man by his ears, but I stayed calm. “Read my lips. Ben did not kill Cloris.”
“If I accept that as fact, tell me how this ancient history relates to his murder. You think he started looking for his dead wife’s child after all these years?”
“Yes. He had money after the insurance paid out.”
He nodded, seeming to consider this. “And someone didn’t want him snooping around in old business. Not out of the realm of possibility. Still doesn’t explain why he showed up at your place using a fake name.”
“I’m working on that,” I said.
“See, that’s a huge problem,” he said. “You have no business working on this. I can’t afford to keep a man on you.”
“You didn’t need one ‘on me’ to begin with.”
“You just don’t get it. I can foresee arriving at a crime scene to find you’ve become the victim of an ingenious new method of killing with cyanide. And I wouldn’t like that, okay?”
I crossed my arms. “So now I’ve gone from suspect to potential victim?”
He closed his eyes, looking frustrated and tired. “There’s a whole lot about this case neither of us knows. But let me explain something. I’ve got six fresh homicides right here.” He slapped a stack of folders. “That means I can’t spend all my time on one case. Especially one with ancient connections.”
“Oh. So you’ll slide this case over to the ‘too tough to solve’ column and move on to another murder?”
As soon as the words left my lips, I knew I’d gone too far.
He stared at me for a full ten seconds, chewing the life out of that gum. “You know,” he finally said, “you’ve got way too much time on your hands. I have priorities, Ms. Rose, and I’m sure you do, too. Difference is, no one’s judging yours.”
Sometimes I can accept the truth, even when I’m upset. This happened to be one of those moments, but I wasn’t willing to give Kline the satisfaction of knowing that. Instead, I stood and turned to leave.
“I like that,” he called after me.
I stopped, still facing the other direction. “You like what?”
“A woman who knows when she’s wrong.”
I whirled. “I never said I was wrong.”
“Bet you never do, either. I can’t spend any more time and manpower watching you, even if you might need protection.”
“Protection?” I craned my neck toward him. “Why should I believe you care one ounce about my safety, Sergeant Kline?”
“Because I called you here to warn you. Not to arrest you for interfering in an official investigation, like I could have. Do me a favor and stick to computers. Something you know about.” He removed two more sticks of gum, unwrapped them, and aimed the wadded-up papers at the neighboring trash can. He missed.
“You hate it, don’t you?” I said.
He smiled. “On the contrary. This sparring match is the best time I’ve had in a while.”
And that was when I really
noticed him for the first time—through this, his first real smile. Those tiny creases surrounding his eyes probably signaled too many sleepless nights and his having been the bearer of bad news day after day. But right now his smile was young and his stare had softened to one more simple and honest.
In a quiet voice I said, “No . . . I mean you really hate giving up on something, even though you may have to close this case.”
The smile faded. He averted his eyes and grabbed a handful of papers, shoving them angrily into a manila folder. “This case will not be closed. And what the hell, do you know about it, anyway?”
“More than you could hope to comprehend. I had to give up on my marriage, a decision that still keeps me awake nights. I appreciate your concern for my safety, Sergeant, but I have priorities, too.”
Later that evening, when the doorbell rang, I was actually looking forward to Aunt Caroline’s and Willis’s arrival. I usually went along reluctantly with these Sunday dinners Kate planned, but I’d been examining canceled checks for hours, hoping to unearth a clue to the mysterious safe-deposit box, a task that had progressed from downright humdrum to seriously tedious. Visiting with Willis and Aunt Caroline seemed a stimulating alternative in contrast.
“Abby, leave this stuff and join us for a drink,” Kate said when she entered the study with Willis on her heels.
“You won’t have to twist my arm.” I rose from the desk chair.
“Whatever are you doing?” Willis took in my pile of checks.
“I figured I could locate the bank where Daddy rented that safe-deposit box by hunting through these. He had to pay for the lease, right? Unfortunately, Kate and I didn’t put the checks back in chronological order after the break-in on P Street, so those from 1960 to the present are all mixed together. A rabbit in a frying pan could have more fun.”
“What will you glean from all this sleuthing, Abby?” said Willis.
“ ‘Gleaning’ and ‘sleuthing’? Is that what I’m doing? Gosh, that sheds a much more interesting light on this thankless task. They never taught you about gleaning and sleuthing in East Texas, did they, Willis?”
Pick Your Poison Page 11
