Pick Your Poison

by Leann Sweeney

  Walking up the path to the club with Terry and Kate leading the way, I smiled, breathing in the smog-free air. The night was almost cool. I glanced up at the tall trees and first few stars, thinking maybe I’d move up this way once I was ready to sell the house in River Oaks. But before I could consider this possibility further, a chance look to my right had me doing a double take.

  I saw the silhouette of a man I recognized, leaning against a tree on a small rise.

  “Uh, Kate?” I said.

  She and Terry stopped and turned.

  “Tell Aunt Caroline I’ll be in shortly. I’d like to enjoy this glorious night for a few moments by myself.”

  Kate looked at me skeptically. “Everything okay?”

  “Sure. Be right in. Promise.”

  They went on, and I strode over to confront the man.

  As I got closer, I saw his mouth working the ever-present gum. “Hi,” he said.

  “Hi? Is that all you have to say?” I stopped in front of Sergeant Kline, arms folded across my chest.

  “What did you expect?”

  “I want you to tell me why you’re still following me.”

  “I have a job to do. Let’s leave it at that. But since you spotted me, answer me one question. Why are you here?”

  “I do have a life,” I said.

  He raised his eyebrows, waiting for the real answer. “Okay,” I said. “If you must know, this is a business dinner.”

  “Ah. For CompuCan. I get it.”

  Smarting from the knowledge that he obviously still suspected me of something, I said, “Is there anything about my life you don’t know?”

  “I don’t know how you like your coffee.”

  “What does that have to do with anything?” I said, exasperated.

  “I thought maybe you and I could get coffee. The expensive kind, for the rich kid.”

  “That’s a pretty condescending way of asking me out. You are asking me out, right?”

  “You game?” he said.

  I didn’t reply, weighing his possible intentions. Did he think I had withheld something about Ben? Or could he possibly want to share my company?

  He grinned. “Please?”

  I had to smile, too. “Okay, but I have to make this dinner. I’m obligated.”

  “No problem. I can meet you right here in, say . . . two hours?” he said.

  I agreed and left, feeling his gaze on my back all the way to the front door—an uncomfortable, but at the same time interesting, feeling.

  When I entered the club, the maître d’ led me to Aunt Caroline’s table, the scent of designer perfume overwhelming whatever pleasant aromas might have wafted from the kitchen. Most of the time the food served here was excellent, but since most guests remained preoccupied with who was eating with whom, the cuisine went mostly unappreciated. The dimly lit dining room, its tables dressed in starched white cloths and crystal, hummed with quiet conversations.

  Aunt Caroline was holding court at the best spot in the room. Willis, the board of directors of CompuCan, and their spouses, along with Kate and Terry sat near the picture windows overlooking the lake. Aunt Caroline’s peek-a-bosom dress of black crepe—probably purchased at Nieman Marcus, or Needless Markups, as I preferred to call that particular store—seemed wildly inappropriate for a woman on the shady side of sixty.

  My late arrival didn’t win any points, and she made sure I knew it. Terry bailed me out with a story about how the SWAT team had recruited him this afternoon to help with a paranoid woman threatening to drop her child—a boy supposedly possessed by the devil—off the walkway spanning the freeway between the amusement park and the parking lot. Luckily, he’d talked her out of hurting the poor kid.

  Meanwhile, his heroic tale seemed to activate Aunt Caroline. Always willing to drop her line and troll for whatever she could hook, she now took what I considered a disturbing interest in Terry. Kate noticed, too. This flirtation continued on through appetizers and salad, and then finally managed to ruin my stuffed flounder. I even refused dessert.

  Once the last of the board people departed, I’d had about all I could stand. Aunt Caroline needed to be distracted, so I said, “You’ll be interested to know I tracked down the safe-deposit box.”

  Predictably, her gaze strayed from Terry to me. “And what did you find?”

  “A software program Daddy created back when such pursuits interested him.” I nodded as the waiter offered more coffee.

  “That’s all?” said Willis. Unlike Aunt Caroline, he didn’t seem the least bit disappointed.

  “Yes,” I answered. “A copyrighted program, Willis. We’re not looking at stolen software or any other cryptic explanation for his hiding this CD, are we? I mean, I’m certain we even have a duplicate of that on disk at the house.”

  “I have no clue why he would do such a thing,” said Willis.

  “Did this particular program generate exceptional revenues?” asked Aunt Caroline, leaning forward and revealing even more cleavage.

  “All Daddy’s software made a profit,” I said. “And you already got your slice of that pie.” I wondered then if she’d had help from her plastic surgeon with those extremely perky breasts.

  But before I could ask, Kate must have picked up on the edge in my voice, because she tried her own brand of distraction. “Abby was telling us in the car about the progress she’s made on Ben’s murder. Tell them about the judge you met today.”

  “Uh, Kate. Why would they care?” I said.

  “I’d love to hear, Abby,” said Aunt Caroline. “Is this someone I might know? Because several of my friends have husbands who are judges, and—”

  “I don’t think this is the time or place to discuss the murder case,” I said sharply. “Mainly because some of you”—I raised my eyebrows at Willis—“think I’m crazy to pursue Ben’s killer.”

  “I have never, for one minute, considered you crazy,” said Willis. “I may have cautioned you, but that doesn’t mean I’m not interested. Please tell us what you’ve found out.”

  He did seem genuinely interested, so I said, “The judge’s name is Eugenia Hayes, and she was elected to family court in Galveston several decades ago. Poor thing is living on borrowed time, with a couple late payments added on. Her son says she has Alzheimer’s and her story was fragmented, but she knew Feldman and didn’t much care for him.”

  “Feldman?” questioned Aunt Caroline. “You’ve lost me, Abby.”

  If only that were true, I thought. “Feldman may have arranged an adoption for Cloris Grayson—her real name was Connie Kramer—about thirty years ago. I think I told you about her.”

  “Oh, right. The day you showed me the key,” Aunt Caroline said.

  For some reason her demeanor had changed. Suddenly she seemed . . . almost subdued. Tired of holding her shoulders back all night so the entire dining room could appreciate her boobs, maybe?

  “Anyway,” I went on, “I met Judge Hayes and learned that the rumors Terry heard from some old bailiff might be true. Hayes could have been taking money from Feldman, and was perhaps involved in illegal adoptions. I’m wondering if both Cloris and Ben died because they tracked Feldman down and threatened to expose him as a baby stealer.”

  “But you said this woman has Alzheimer’s, right?” said Terry.

  I nodded.

  “How reliable can she be, then?” he said.

  “I only know I believe her,” I replied.

  Willis piped up with, “She’s basically senile?”

  “Well, yes, but—”

  “I have a question,” Aunt Caroline said. “Why did this woman change her name?”

  “You mean Cloris? I’ve thought about that myself, and I’m not sure,” I said. “But I filled out an application to acquire my own adoption records, and one question on the form asks if the birth mother used an alias. I’m guessing it’s not an uncommon practice. She did run away from her family, after all.”

  You could have heard an ant sneeze; that was how quiet it
got.

  Willis finally found his voice. “W-why did you request your adoption records, for heaven’s sake? I have everything you need in my office. All you had to do was ask.”

  “Just testing the system,” I said. “Wondering how the adoption registry worked and what you got back for your twenty bucks.”

  “Twenty dollars?” said Aunt Caroline, who looked like she’d been zapped by a stun gun. “Quite a bargain. You know I’m awfully tired. Willis, could you please take me home?”

  “Certainly,” he said, popping out of his chair like a jack-in-the-box.

  They were out the door faster than wind can snuff a match.

  Kate’s mouth hadn’t closed. She still looked shocked. “Why didn’t you tell me you’d requested those records?”

  I leaned back in my chair, surprised by everyone’s reaction. “I didn’t think it was all that important.”

  “You know how sensitive Daddy was about the adoption,” Kate said. “I remember once asking him about our biological parents, if he thought they died instantly in that crash, and even though he answered me, his next question was whether I thought he was a good enough father. He seemed so . . . hurt that I even asked about them.”

  “He’s past being hurt, don’t you think?” I snapped back.

  “Don’t you see that Aunt Caroline and Willis were reacting to what they consider yet another betrayal of Daddy?” she said.

  I stood, angry now. Maybe irrationally angry, yes. But Kate seemed to have jumped the imaginary fence to their side, and I was feeling betrayed myself. I said, “Daddy’s dead, and I refuse to feel guilty about wanting control of my life.”

  I marched away, Kate hot on my heels.

  “Wait,” she cried.

  I stopped, fingering my beaded bag and not making eye contact.

  “You’re right,” she said. “I’m sorry. Now let’s go home.”

  “I have a ride. Don’t wait up for me,” I answered. I whirled and left her standing there, knowing I’d feel guilty later, but for now, not caring.

  I had time for a few deep breaths before meeting up with Jeff Kline in the parking lot. We stopped for cappuccino at a tiny coffee bar on Montrose Boulevard. His beeper sounded as soon as we sat down with our cups, so he excused himself to make the call in a more private corner.

  I swirled a stick covered with rock candy into the foam, breathing in the wonderful aroma, watching the cinnamon blend into the coffee. I needed this reprieve from family interference.

  “Do you need to leave?” I asked when he returned.

  “No. My partner had a few questions about a case we’re working. I’m supposed to be off tonight, not even on call, but for Homicide cops, real days off exist only in theory. No one’s figured out how to actually make them happen.” He held the rock candy up for examination and instead added three bags of sugar to his cup.

  “You’re off duty? You aren’t officially assigned to follow me tonight?”

  “Did I say I was following you?”

  “Well, no, but—”

  “Let’s drop it,” he said. “I can’t discuss the case.” He took several swallows of coffee and then produced a new pack of gum from his jacket pocket and offered me a stick.

  I refused by shaking my head. “You know, I’ve learned a few things since we last spoke.”

  “And what have you learned?” he asked, smirking.

  I explained about the adoption angle, Feldman, and Judge Hayes, and finished by saying, “I really thought we could help each other out, especially since you no longer consider me a suspect, but I’m wondering now if you haven’t changed your mind.”

  “You’re not a suspect. You’re also not my partner. End of discussion.” He said this in a far friendlier tone than he would have on the first day we met, but I must have pouted anyway, because he leaned toward me and said, “I asked you out on an impulse, and I hate making mistakes probably as much as you do. Don’t turn this into one, okay?”

  “You keep saying you can’t tell me anything, but do you have any idea how frustrated I am?” Okay, I was whining, and thus had moved a rung below pouting. “Ben didn’t deserve to die, and he wasn’t a murderer, either. I’m not sure I can explain this, but for the first time in years, I’m certain of something . . . and if I let go of this investigation, it’s like . . . like I’m giving up on Ben.”

  “Very noble, but I’ll let you in on something. If a murder’s not solved in the first eight hours, twenty-four hours max, you’d have better luck faxing it to America’s Most Wanted and letting the media have at it. I can think of a few exceptions, but that’s the unpleasant truth.”

  “So this is already a cold case?”

  “No. Cloris’s murder is a cold case.” A tense silence followed; then Jeff said, “You know, I really do appreciate your concern. In fact, I’m amazed a privileged little heiress like yourself cares enough about a middle-class guy like Ben Grayson to go hunting up people from the past and pursuing the clues. Pretty impressive.”

  “Privileged little heiress? Is that how you think of me?”

  “Aren’t you?”

  “Well . . . I don’t think of myself like that. Sounds more like a description of Aunt Caroline.”

  “Yeah. Maybe you’re right.”

  “You know Aunt Caroline?”

  He smiled. “I know your whole life story. Parents died. Adopted with your twin by Charlie and Elizabeth Rose at the age of six weeks. Mom died when you were three. Auntie helped Daddy raise you. Graduated from the University of Houston. Married Bradley four years ago. Divorced last year.”

  I sat back. Hearing him recite these things made me feel so . . . strange. More surprised than angry, really. “What else do you know about me?”

  “That would take us into forbidden territory. So let me return to my lesson on murder in the big city. As I’ve told you already, I have to be selective about where I concentrate my energy. Usually you find relatives and neighbors out there destroying each other, and most of them leave plenty of evidence. But the Grayson murders? Hell, I spent a whole day finding out his real name. I can’t waste twenty-four hours on every murder. I’d never solve anything. We bank on percentages and statistics in Homicide . . . and the probability a perp will screw up or brag to half the city about the crime.”

  “Those priorities rear their ugly heads again.” I took my napkin and dabbed the cappuccino foam clinging to his upper lip.

  He took my hand when I finished and held on, his once-icy stare having warmed considerably since our first meeting. I was liking this little date. A lot. I mean, Jeff Kline was brainy and broad-shouldered, and I had the feeling I could learn a lot from him—about things not involving police work.

  About then the lone worker made enough sweeping and cleaning noises in the background for us to take the hint, so we left. After Jeff dropped me at home, I locked the front door, regretting the conspicuous lack of a good-night kiss.

  “Not even a measly peck on the cheek,” I lamented, climbing the stairs with Diva in my arms.

  I worried about my breath for a second, but knew he had to keep his distance while on the case. I also understood an important difference between Jeff and me. He had all the patience I lacked and then some. He took things slowly. But Sergeant Jeff Kline still appealed to my senses. Every single, tingling one of them.

  Fueled with the gallon of coffee I had consumed during the evening, my brain wasn’t ready to quit. As I brushed my teeth, I decided that just because Jeff could squeeze my toothpaste anywhere he wanted didn’t mean I’d leave the investigating to him. I had an idea of how to locate Feldman, but the plan needed refining. Like Daddy used to say, it would take a lot of river water to float this boat.

  20

  The next day, Kate’s guilt over our little spat at the club came pouring out over breakfast, but though I had planned to ask for her help finding out if a connection still existed between Feldman and Parental Advocates, Kate was too vulnerable right now. She felt so guilty she would have ag
reed to wear pajamas to the university, had I asked. Besides, I needed a little more time to think through my plan. Although Hamilton knew Feldman, I wasn’t sure exactly what their relationship was. And there could be plenty of information lying behind Parental Advocates’ leaded-glass door, information about Cloris Grayson’s baby. So maybe my sister, whose face was unfamiliar to Helen Hamilton, could help me find out what I wanted to know.

  Kate had only a morning session, and I heard her heading for her little office off the living room when she got home around noon. I followed her, and she smiled when I held my arms out and we hugged. “My turn to say I’m sorry for stomping out on you last night.”

  “We were both a little tense after that dinner. Did you see the way Aunt Caroline hung on Terry’s every word?”

  “Hard not to notice,” I said.

  She plopped down into her favorite overstuffed chenille chair and I sat behind her desk.

  “I could use your help,” I said, picking up a pen and doodling on her blotter. “I’m not giving up on the investigation. And the two of us might actually have a little fun with this.”

  “Like the fun we had when we were in first grade and you tied Buster the dog to the wagon and convinced me we could ride to school with him as our horse and you as the driver?”

  “That was fun,” I said, smiling.

  “Until Buster saw the cat.”

  “Well, I didn’t foresee cats.”

  “Four stitches.” She pointed to her eyebrow. “Do you know how traumatic four stitches are when you’re six years old?”

  “I told you I was sorry.”

  “Yes, you were sorry then and sorry now. My question is, are you tying dogs to wagons again?”

  “I want to say no. But—”

  “But you can’t.”

  “Please, Kate. Just listen?”

  “I’m listening.”

  “I need to get into Hamilton’s office. I’m sure I could find Feldman if I had a peek inside her desk. You get me in, and I’ll do everything else.”