We left the elevator and walked to our cars in the garage adjoining the Bureau of Vital Statistics. Megan had said nothing for several minutes, no doubt still trying to make sense of what she’d just heard.
“I don’t understand this, Abby,” she said when we reached our cars. “Why did my parents change the birth certificate?”
“We don’t know if they did,” I said.
She blinked twice, not understanding. “Who else would have done such a thing?”
She was still reeling and this wasn’t a discussion for a parking lot. “I live about fifteen minutes away. Let’s pick up something to eat, sit down at my place, and think this through.”
Megan looked at her watch. “But I have to get home and I have to find out when they’ll release Dad’s body and I—” She stopped talking, and I could see she was fighting tears.
“Are you okay? We could go in my car and I’ll bring you back here later.”
“I’m fine. Really. And I guess I should be happy we found this out, but...”
I squeezed her upper arm reassuringly. “Hey, it’s okay to be confused.”
“I do need time to think before I go home or I won’t be able to look my mother in the eye.”
“There’s a great bakery on the way to my place. We’ll stop there first.”
I didn’t know about Megan, but my kolache calories had dried up long ago and I was starving. Megan had told me she wasn’t hungry when we’d stood in line in the bakery/deli, but I bought her a turkey sandwich anyway. As for me, I couldn’t wait to bite into my shaved ham and cheese on Italian herb bread.
Diva greeted us when we came in through my back door, and Megan knelt to pet her. I set the deli bag on the kitchen table and pulled two Diet Cokes from the fridge. We sat down, and Diva immediately jumped on Megan’s lap.
“I’m still messed up about this, Abby,” she said. “I don’t understand.”
“We can safely assume someone altered your birth certificate to hide the fact that you were born in Jamaica. This new information may lead us to the truth, but we need to find out who made the changes and why.”
“Why is the big question. It doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re right. But it’s my job to find answers.” I removed our sandwiches from the bag and slid Megan’s in front of her. “Let’s eat. You probably haven’t had any real food since Saturday.”
“I don’t think I have.” She touched her fingers to her forehead, making no effort to unwrap her sandwich. She stared at it for a second, then looked at me. “If my mother deceived me all my life, how can I go home and pretend nothing has changed? How can I grieve for Dad if he lied and—”
“Megan, listen to me. We can’t be sure either of them lied to you. They could have been as much in the dark as you were.”
“Did this... this alteration occur sometime between when I was born and when they adopted me?”
“It must have happened about the time of the adoption or after. Sylvia and James named you, and that was correctly entered in the computer.”
“Oh. Right,” she answered. But I could tell she still was having trouble processing this information. She’d been through too much in the last week.
Just then Diva lifted her head over the edge of the table, sniffed at the sandwich, and planted one mottled charcoal and orange paw tentatively in the direction of the food.
“I’ll figure out what happened. That’s what you hired me for. And now, if you don’t eat, someone else will,” I warned.
Megan smiled, opened the wrapper and pulled off a piece of turkey breast. She set it in front of Diva before picking up her sandwich.
While we ate, I convinced her this new information was exactly what we needed if we wanted to find her birth mother and that I would follow every lead as far as it would take me. Soon she was on her way home, but not before we stopped by City Hall to get new notarized authorizations for release of medical information and a letter stating that Abby Rose of Yellow Rose Investigations was acting on Megan Beadford’s behalf in the matter of her adoption.
I returned home and went to my office after we’d parted downtown, hoping to handle a few inquiries by phone. I figured I could fax the authorizations to Jamaica if needed. But by the time I finished talking to the Adoption Board in Kingston, the Registrar General’s office, the Duchess of Kent Hospital switchboard, and the American Consulate, I had a giant headache and exactly zero information aside from my sincere belief that every living soul in that country had inherited the “we don’t know nothing, mon” gene. This pronouncement was always delivered with amazing goodwill and sometimes a laugh, but it still irritated the hell out of me.
I had just hung up after my fifth try at speaking with the hospital medical records department when Jeff arrived.
“You look... stressed out,” he said from the doorway of my office.
“Yah, mon. Maybe if I smoked some ganja like everyone else in Ja-MAY-cah, I could get unstressed.”
“What are you talking about?” He leaned against the doorframe, his wary blue eyes indicating he was unsure whether it was safe to approach a woman whose sanity might be slipping away.
“Do you have police friends in the West Indies?” I said. “Anyone who might be capable of utilizing a telephone as a communication tool rather than a weapon of mass frustration? I mean, every single person I talked to acted like they wanted to help and then they’d just go away and never come back to the phone.”
“New case?” he said, his expression relaxing into amusement.
“No, my ongoing case.” I rubbed my tired eyes, then ran my fingers through my hair. “Sorry, but I have been on the phone for—” I glanced at the clock. “Four hours.”
“So take a break.”
“Good idea.” I left the desk and went over to offer him a proper hello. After we kissed and hugged and kissed again, we went to the living room and sat on the only unencumbered piece of furniture, the green and red chenille sofa.
I quickly assumed the comfort position with my head in his lap. He began massaging my temples with his strong fingers, reminding me exactly how much pleasure this man could generate with only a simple touch—and I didn’t even have to take my clothes off.
“I missed you last night,” I said.
“Two homicides. One perp got away. This city is too damn big and too damn populated.” Out came the gum.
“You’ve mentioned that before,” I said.
“And I was so tied up, I forgot to tell you that Quinn asked me for help on IDing a suspect and I suggested she contact an artist I know to—”
“Mason Dryer?” I offered.
“Ah, she already called you.” He stuffed his gum wrappers in his shirt pocket. “Did you meet with him?”
I nodded and told him about the composite, but decided not to mention I’d photographed the drawing. Better if we both remained ignorant as to whether this was somehow “interfering with an official investigation.”
“So far,” I said, “no one claims to know this woman, but Kate and I think she resembles Megan.”
“Now, that’s interesting,” he said, switching from my temples and massaging my skull from the crown of my head to the nape of my neck.
I sighed and closed my eyes. This was so nice.
“But I hope you’re not jumping to any conclusions,” he added.
My eyes snapped open. “I remember your lecture on coincidence in murder investigations and—”
“Glad you were paying attention.” He grinned. “But remember, Abby. People often resemble someone else. I’d be cautious about giving any physical similarities too much weight until you have some hard evidence.”
I held up my right hand. “I, Abby Rose, do solemnly swear to temper all deductions with common sense and—”
“Shut up,” he said with a laugh. “Let’s move on to when I arrived and saw you nearly pull your hair out by the roots when I came in—an activity which, by the way, might allow you to grow out your hair.”
I sat up and looked him in the eye. “Grow out my hair? I had no idea you liked long hair.”
“I was talking about the color.” He gently tucked a few of the chin-length strands behind my ear on one side.
“You don’t like the color?” I’d recently gone from auburn to a more highlighted look at the urging of my wacko hairstylist. Goes to show you, you should never trust a man with jeweled teeth.
“Just kidding,” Jeff said. “I love your hair.”
But guys do not kid about hair or your hips or how you handle you checkbook, even when they smile and laugh and say they love you just the way you are. I’d consider a change. Maybe.
“I’m waiting to hear how your ongoing case has you talking to Jamaicans,” he said.
“Big turn of events today.” I told him about Megan’s altered birth certificate and how many people I’d spoken to in Jamaica in an attempt to get some answers. “Do you understand my frustration?” I said. “How do I get anything out of those island people?”
“Beats the hell out of me. I interview most of my witnesses in person. I use the phone only to let the nice ones know I’ll be showing up at their door. Not many nice ones, by the way. And now, I could use a drink. How about you?”
We both stood.
“Good idea. Rum and Coke, mon,” I said, considering the possibility of a little business trip.
Jeff had to be in court the following day, so when we woke up, we jogged at the Rice University campus for an hour. I’ve dropped ten pounds in the last six months, thanks to hanging around with a man who has some discipline when it comes to exercise. We even lift weights together. My once pudgy thighs and less than toned arms are now more muscle than fat.
After our run we shared a shower and plenty of soapy playtime; then Jeff left for the courthouse. I immediately called my travel agent and asked her to investigate flights to Jamaica and hotels in Kingston. She gave me the options, and I chose a flight that left at ten the next morning.
I needed a new suitcase since mine hadn’t survived the last trip I took, so I spent considerable hours in department stores and leather outlets searching for what I needed. On my way home around six P.M., I dropped by Kate’s place to tell her I’d be out of town for a few days.
She and Terry Armstrong live together in a West University bungalow even older than mine, which they had completely remodeled inside and out after Kate moved in. I pulled up close to the garage and Kate must have heard me, because she opened the kitchen door and called to me just as I got out of the car.
“Gate’s open, Abby. Come on in.”
Her border collie met me when I came through the narrow back hall leading to the kitchen. I gave Webster a scratch behind the ears and he wagged his tail, then ambled back to his blanket by the door. Herding dogs are supposed to be full of energy, but I’d decided long ago Webster either had a missing gene or he was just plain lazy. But no matter what, he was sweet and loyal and gentle—rather like Kate.
My sister was standing by the sink peeling steaming hot beets. Now on the one to ten “yuck factor” scale, I considered beets a twenty. Glad I’d had that pepperoni slice at the Galleria and could only hope I still had the receipt to prove I’d already eaten should Kate question me. She knows how much I hate vibrant vegetables.
“Hey, glad you came for dinner,” she said, dumping the beets from the purple-stained cutting board into a saucepan. She turned and placed the pot on the island six-burner cooktop.
“No dinner. I came to ask a favor.” I leaned against the angled granite-covered counter separating the kitchen from the small breakfast nook behind me.
“What do you need?”
“Can you feed Diva and give her some attention for the next couple days? Jeff is hardly ever around and—”
“Where are you headed?”
“Jamaica.”
“A vacation? Did you tell me this already?” She now had her hands in what I recognized was a large bowl of bulgur wheat soon to be transformed into her rendition of “meatless loaf.” I felt doubly thankful I had a valid excuse to escape soon. I had packing to do.
“No vacation. I found out yesterday Megan was born in Jamaica, not Texas.”
She quit messing with the wheat. “No way. Tell me about this.”
“I need wine first. Preferably white and cold. And not that organic crap, either.”
“Yes, ma’am,” she said, turning to the refrigerator.
Terry didn’t like organic wine, either, so I knew I wasn’t making an unreasonable request. Once I’d had a sip of a sauvignon blanc, I filled her in on our visit to the Bureau of Vital Statistics.
“How did Megan handle this piece of news?” Kate asked.
“How do you handle another bucket of possums? I don’t think she was prepared to uncover a major and obviously illegal deception. But she still wants answers, and I plan to deliver.”
“You two are a lot alike,” Kate said.
“I think you’re right, Doc. By the way, I spent some time talking to Graham Beadford, and there was no love lost between him and his brother.” I recapped my conversation with Graham this morning and mentioned my theory that bankruptcy may have created the animosity
“Is Chief Fielder aware of that?” Kate asked, patting her wheat loaf into a glass pan.
“She should if she’s been doing her job.”
“But you could tell her.” Kate removed her beet-stained canvas apron.
“You mean imply that Graham killed James?” I said.
“From what you’ve told me, sounds like Graham had years of pent-up resentment.”
“Maybe so, but my take on Fielder is that she wants to handle this case her way without my help.”
I heard footsteps in the hall leading to the kitchen and then Terry appeared in the entry. He stretched his arms over his head and said, “Hi, Abby.” I swear his fingers touched the ceiling.
“Hey, Terry,” I said. “You’re looking especially... sleepy.”
He walked up behind Kate and wrapped his long arms around her waist and kissed the top of her head. “I spent all last week and part of this one giving expert testimony in El Paso. I fell asleep about ten minutes after I got home this afternoon.”
“You probably had too many fajitas and enchiladas while you were there. Those foods are directly linked to siestas, you know.” I wanted to add, And I hope you enjoyed your time away because the only tortillas you’ll see here will be filled with alfalfa sprouts. But since Kate doesn’t always appreciate my humor, I kept my mouth shut.
Kate put her hands over his and said, “Sure you won’t stay for dinner, Abby?”
I drained my wineglass. “No, thanks. If you visit Diva once a day while I’m gone, she’ll be fine. I’ll leave my itinerary on the kitchen table.”
Kate came over and hugged me. “Have a safe trip.”
As I left, Terry followed me out to my car. Before I got in, I said, “I tried to sneak you in a rump roast, but it wouldn’t fit in my handbag.”
He smiled. “Thanks for the thought. So you’re taking a trip?”
“Kingston, Jamaica,” I said.
“I went there once for a clinical psychology seminar. Got mugged right in front of the police station. Someone had told me that the tourists have to protect the cops from the criminals there and I knew it was no joke when I left. You be careful.”
“I promise, big brother.”
He bent and gave me a hug before I slid behind the wheel.