“Relax, Roy. This ain’t no robbery and I ain’t no queer or nothing. I jes want show you somethin’. Then I’ll drop you back off right here, safe and sound. Unless, of course, you try something stupid. In which case, I’ll drop your sorry ass off – dead! Unnerstand?”
Klume nodded, looking scared shitless. Huntoon loved scaring people shitless. The army shrink told him it was because he had deep-seated hatred for certain kinds of people. The shrink was wrong. He had a deep-seated hatred for everyone, except Inez, the crippled Bob Evans waitress who gave him extra bacon.
Keeping his gun aimed at Klume, Huntoon drove out of the lot. Minutes later, he stopped in front of a normal, single-level ranch style home with shrubs, red flowers and a large picture window. A very pregnant blonde lumbered past the picture window. Twin girls, about three, toddled along behind her.
“Home sweet home, right Roy?”
Klume paused, then nodded.
“Your wife’s damn purty. And them little girls is cute as buttons. And looks like mama’s got one cookin’ in the oven. Betcha you wanta keep ‘em all alive and well, ain’t that right?”
Klume’s eyelids fluttered like a spinning window shade.
“Right, Roy?”
Klume nodded.
“Well, there ain’t but one way you can do that.”
Klume swallowed. “How?”
“Pay back a favor what you owe.”
“Owe who?”
“That’s a secret, Roy.”
Huntoon explained in detail what he wanted Klume to do.
Klume shook his head. “It won’t work.”
“Bad answer ‘cuz you’re gonna make it work!”
“But our sophisticated quality control processes prevent that.”
Huntoon smiled. “Now Roy, you’re a real smart scientifical guy. You’ll find a way.”
“But they’ll fire me.”
“No buts, Roy. I’m thinkin’ you got A’s in yer chemistry tests, right?”
Klume looked confused, but nodded.
“True or false, Roy. Carbolic acid is nasty shit when it gits on yer skin?”
Klume nodded.
“Wonder what that acid would do to your wife’s purty face and body? And them little girls’ faces? Yuk! Makes me wanna barf!”
Klume’s face turned crimson as he stared at his family in the window.
“Roy, did you know them fuckin’ Nazi doctors injected carbolic acid right into them prisoners’ bodies? Little kids even. You can look it up! The pain was so bad them prisoners up and begged to be kilt.”
Roy Klume looked at his family again, then closed his eyes.
“So, Roy, we got us a deal or what?
Klume nodded.
FORTY
Quinn sat in the Brandeis Law Library, hunched over his Trusts & Estates casebook, preparing his presentation on the Leland T. Radford probate case. Behind him, loud heel clicks. Angry clicks maybe. Turning, he saw Jennifer, her face scrunched up in her all too familiar pout.
“I can’t believe it!” she said.
“Believe what?”
“That you’re not coming to my sorority’s quarterly Gamma Gala tonight?” She sounded like he’d flushed a million dollar lottery winner ticket down the toilet.
“Jenn, like we discussed yesterday, I just can’t make it.”
“No! You choose not to make it, even though everyone who matters will be there.” Her face twisted into a major sulk.
Patience, he told himself. “Jenn, early tomorrow morning I’m making my Leland Radford presentation to class. I’ll be up all night finishing it and trying to catch up on my chapter outlines.”
“All because you spent so much time with Daisy Mae or whatever the hell her name is.”
“Her name is Ellie Stuart.”
“Whatever … .”
“And now I have to spend time with her.”
“Have to?”
“Yes.”
“That’s absurd! Why on earth would – ?”
“ – because she’s part of the Radford case.”
Jennifer stared back like he’d lost his mind. “How the hell can The Turnip Queen be part of the Leland Radford case?”
He held his anger, then said, “Because she might be his daughter and sole heir.”
Jennifer’s mouth opened wide enough for a root canal. She was obviously having difficulty processing the idea that a girl who bought her clothes at a thrift shop could soon buy out a Neiman Marcus store.
Her face was crimson and she crossed her arms. “Oh, so now that she might inherit lots of money, she’s more interesting than me?”
Quinn couldn’t stop himself from thinking, flat broke she is! but said, “Jenn, please try to understa – ”
“ – I understand that even though this is my important quarterly sorority party, and even though my debut is coming up, you could care less! It’s like I don’t exist for you anymore.” She was mushrooming toward a major hissy fit.
“Jennifer, that’s not true.”
“Well, do I exist for you or not? Do you care? I want to know now!” Her voice was loud.
Students looked up from their law books.
“Of course I care – ”
“But not enough to come tonight?”
“Because tonight I have no time.”
“No – because you won’t make time for me like you do for her.”
She had fire in her eyes as she leaned over the table toward him. “I have just one thing to say, Quinn Parker!”
He waited.
“If you don’t come tonight, we’re done! I mean it! Finished! It’s over! Understand?” Without waiting for his response, she turned and stormed out of the library.
He watched her go, saddened by her outburst, and embarrassed his classmates heard it. But the confrontation had been brewing. He should have spoken with her weeks ago. But exams, the Radford presentation, the free clinic hours and part-time job left him with little time. Still, he should have made time.
From the beginning, he’d been fascinated by Jennifer’s animated personality. Her wealthy parents had accepted his middle-class origins. Her father, owner of Kentucky Whiskeys, had even helped him get a terrific job offer from Wagner, Hoffman and Musterman, one of Louisville’s top law firms. With Jennifer, he’d be set for life.
But what kind of life? he’d been asking himself.
Because a different Jennifer had emerged after a few months. A less likeable elitist who needed to control others … a trait probably learned from controlling Mother Dubois.
Jennifer was friendly with her kind of people, but dismissive of those from the wrong, or lesser zip codes – which included most of his friends. When he’d mentioned this to her, she’d said he was mistaken and just didn’t understand her yet.
He understood her well enough now to know he would be deceiving himself, and her, if he believed their relationship would work out long term. It just wouldn’t. And the final proof was today’s ultimatum – come to tonight’s party or else.
He chose or else.
And he felt lighter, like he’d inhaled helium. Tomorrow, he’d calmly explain to her how he just didn’t think things would work out. And why.
But the truth was, he was also at fault. The reason was simple. When he really wanted something, he went for it full throttle – sometimes before he got all the facts. When he met Jennifer, her beauty blinded him to any possible flaws and limitations.
And when the team doctor told him he should stop playing football because of his two concussions, his desire to play the last three games blinded him to the serious risks. He played anyway. Macho stupid!
Now, as he looked down at the Radford presentation, he noticed Ellie’s name. So different from Jennifer. Ellie treated everyone – from the homeless to the McMansioned – the same. Her attitude didn’t change a bit when she learned she might possibly inherit Radford’s massive estate. And her thrift-shop clothes somehow enhanced her natural beauty. He found himself attracted to h
er more each day.
But how did she feel about him? Obviously, she was thankful he’d helped her get close to finding her birth parents. But beyond that, did she feel anything? Was she waiting for him to share his feelings? Did she think Jennifer and he were a committed couple? Probably. He almost talked to Ellie about how he felt last night.
Maybe it was time he did … .
But only after he sorted things out with Jennifer.
FORTY ONE
Finally, The Big Day!
Ellie could barely contain her excitement. In minutes, her DNA would reveal whether she was the biological daughter of Jacqueline Moreau and Leland Radford. She’d thought of nothing else for the last forty-eight hours.
Quinn and she were in Lexington, driving past the University of Kentucky campus, heading to Southern Genetics Labs, one of the state’s most respected DNA testing facilities.
“Are we anxious?” Quinn asked.
“We are vibrating like a tuning fork!”
“Relax. DNA will prove you’re the daughter of Jacqueline Moreau and Leland Radford.”
“Why’re you so sure?”
“Like I said before – all indications are with you.”
“I’d rather have facts.”
“You’ve got facts.”
“I do?”
“Sure.”
“What facts?”
“Well, first, did Leland Radford’s housekeeper, Irene, swear that Jacqueline and Leland were deeply in love and only had eyes for each other?”
“She did.”
“And did Irene say that you are the spitting image of Jacqueline, and you have Mr. Radford’s eyes?”
“She did.”
“And did Loretta Mae at House of Grace also say that you are the spitting image of Jacqueline?”
“She did.”
“And did both Loretta Mae and Irene say that Jacqueline named her baby Alex.”
“They did.”
“And did a lady named Drucilla deliver Jacqueline’s baby Alex from the House of Grace over to Harold and Joyce Stuart down in Harlan?”
“She did.”
“And did the Stuarts rename her Ellie?”
“They did.”
“And finally, there’s the most compelling evidence of all!”
“What?”
“Is there, or is there not, as Loretta Mae pointed out, a birthmark shaped like Florida on your left butt?”
She laughed. “There is!”
“As your legal advisor, I’m required too verify this alleged buttmark!”
“Verify that Kroger truck first!”
Quinn swerved around a Kroger semi backing out of an alley.
“As I said before, there’s one other possibility,” Ellie said.
“What’s that?”
“My mother had an affair with someone else at The Pines. A chauffeur, a butler, a traveling salesman, a moonshiner.”
“Not according to Irene!” Quinn said, as he pulled into Southern Genetics and parked. They stepped out into the warm humid morning air filled with the sweet scent of lilac. She felt anxious and clutched Quinn’s arm as they approached the sprawling, glass-and-brick three-story building.
One minute later, they were led down a hall and into a large, wood paneled conference room with light display boxes mounted on the walls. She saw the Estate Executor, Fletcher Falcone, and three other men chatting around a large gleaming wood table.
When Falcone saw her, he hoisted his three hundred pounds onto his small loafers and smiled. “Ellie, Quinn, good to see y’all again.” He waved them toward two empty leather chairs at the table.
A thin man with ruddy cheeks, rimless glasses and a toothy smile stood and shook their hands.
“Welcome to Southern Genetics folks. I’m Doctor Lester Atkins, Director, and this is my associate, Doctor Chester Paul, Director of Laboratory Services.” He pointed to a small man who smiled up from a motorized wheelchair plastered with NASCAR stickers.
“Folks call us Lester and Chester,” Chester said with a grin.
Ellie and Quinn smiled back.
“Would y’all like some coffee, water, soft drink?” Dr. Atkins said.
“No, thanks,” Ellie and Quinn said.
Ellie felt tension crackling around her like static electricity. Her knees trembled beneath the table. Perspiration beaded on her lips. She wondered if she’d used enough Arrid Extra Dry? She wondered if she’d used any?
Fletcher Falcone smiled and said, “Doctor Atkins here was just explaining about DNA. Lordy, Lordy, all the maternal DNA stuff, and the father’s Y-DNA, and Haplogroups and DYS values. And how the mother’s DNA gets passed down from mother to daughter to daughter, down through thousands of years without ever changing a lick! Amazing, but way too scientific for this old county lawyer.”
The door swung open and a thin man in a white lab coat walked in carrying three large envelopes. Watery blue eyes and scraggy blond hair dominated his face. He handed the envelopes to Dr. Atkins who unsealed them, pulled out a report and some flimsy films. Dr. Atkins placed one film on a light box and flipped the switch, backlighting the film.
“If you walk over here, Ellie, you’ll see your very own DNA blueprint.”
She walked over and looked at the rows of letters and little smudge-like marks, some darker and larger than others.
“Your DNA is unique to you, Ellie. Everyone’s is unique!”
“And here,” he said, placing another film beside hers, “is the DNA of Jacqueline Moreau.”
Dr. Atkins stared at both films, then leaned close and studied them further, his face revealing nothing. Then, he checked the written report and turned back to Ellie.
“Ellie, without question, these DNA films prove that Jacqueline Moreau gave birth to you. She is your biological mother.”
Ellie felt an incredible sense of calm wash over her … a sense of finally coming home … of being embraced by the woman who gave birth to her … Jacqueline Moreau … whose ancestors came from France to Martinique. Ellie felt part of a family, probably still had family in Martinique, maybe her grandparents were alive. Some day she’d go see them.
“Congratulations, Ellie!” Fletcher Falcone said, smiling.
“Thank you.”
“Doctor, how accurate is this test?” Falcone asked.
“99.9% accurate. No question about it. Jacqueline Moreau gave birth to you, Ellie!”
Quinn smiled and placed his hand on hers.
Dr. Atkins unsealed another envelope, pulled out a film and clipped it to the light box. “And this is Leland T. Radford’s DNA that I’m placing alongside your DNA.”
Ellie’s heartbeat pounded in her ears. Dr. Atkins studied Radford’s film for several seconds, then Ellie’s film, then Radford’s again. He paged through the written report, then looked back at Radford’s films and hers again. He seemed to study certain long smudges in particular. Then he looked at a series of three-letter combinations for several seconds. His face revealed nothing.
Everyone leaned forward, waiting.
“Well, Doctor?” Falcone said.
Dr. Atkins paused. “Quite clearly, Ellie, these test results show that your DNA and the DNA of Leland T. Radford … do not match. I’m sorry, but Mr. Radford can not possibly be your biological father.”
Ellie felt like she’d been kicked in the stomach.
Looking shocked, Fletcher Falcone stood up, clearly jolted by the news. “But Doctor, just how certain is this result?”
“When proving who the father is, DNA is even more certain. 99.9999 percent accurate.”
The room went silent.
“Look, Ellie,” Dr. Atkins said, “you can see the differences here and there.” He pointed them out and she saw them.
“We use the 16 DNA markers, including the critical 13 CODIS markers.”
Fletcher Falcone shook his head and looked at Ellie. “I just can’t believe this! Your hair and eyes look like Leland’s. I was certain you were his daughter. I even began revisi
ng his probate documents to that effect.”
Quinn also looked shocked. “Doctor Atkins, is there any chance Mr. Radford’s DNA sample was accidentally switched with someone else’s?”
Dr. Atkins seemed a bit taken aback. “Fair question, Quinn. But there’s virtually no chance. Our ISO and AABB accreditations assure the absolute highest quality in sample-to-name monitoring by our distinguished PhDs … at seven checkpoints in our process.”
“But, Doctor,” Falcone said, “let’s be absolutely certain about this. I’d like to request that we run the test again.”
“A second test makes sense,” Quinn said, looking at Ellie.
Ellie agreed and nodded.
“No problem,” Dr. Atkins said, as he turned to the lab assistant who brought the DNA films. “Mr. Klume, do we have sufficient DNA specimen samples for a second test?”
Klume paused, then nodded slowly.
“Good. Then let’s do it. And we’ll expedite it as well.”
“Thank you,” Ellie said.
The meeting broke up.
Ellie and Quinn stepped outside and headed toward his TrailBlazer. As they drove away, Ellie noticed Quinn shaking his head.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
“The DNA.”
“The DNA says I’m not Radford’s daughter.”
“That DNA test says you’re not.”
“Are you suggesting the lab – ”
“ – I’m suggesting lab technicians are people … and people make mistakes … or sometimes are forced to change the results.”
“But Southern Genetics has an excellent reputation.”
“Maybe one of their employees doesn’t.”
They drove in silence for a while.
Then Ellie said, “I think we should do our own independent DNA test.”
Quinn nodded. “We’re crazy if we don’t.”
And crazy if you do, Huntoon Harris thought to himself. He was delighted at how well the tiny listening device in Quinn’s car worked.
FORTY TWO
After the disappointing DNA news at Southern Genetics, Ellie had phoned her good friend, Jessica Bishop, and explained what she needed. Jessica, a U of K pre-med student and lab researcher, told her to drive immediately to nearby Gen-Ident. Minutes later, Ellie and Quinn entered Gen-Ident’s lobby, and found themselves surrounded by lots of glass and chrome, elevator music, avantgarde artwork. All very modern … except for the receptionist’s 1960 orange beehive hairdo and puffy bracelets that jingled like Santa’s sleigh as she filed her nails.
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