Dead Giveaway

four-poster bed decorated with enough ruffles and tassels to supply a fabric store for a year.

'What's going on?' I asked, hurrying to his side.

FOR W.K. was printed in black marker on the lid he now removed.

Inside were stacks of scrapbooks and photo albums.

'Glen told me he'd found books under her bed filled with a bunch of old newspaper articles about basketball. Said he thought it was peculiar Verna Mae was interested in sports, what with the frilly house and all. I told him she was peculiar and said he should keep looking for what we came for.'

He opened one album. On the first page was a year-old Houston Chronicle article about the state high school basketball championship. The next pages contained clippings from other newspapers around the state covering the championship from two years ago. Several had photos of Will—not shaved bald like he was now, but with plenty of wild dark hair—a basketball in one huge hand, and jumping high for a layup.

'I'm betting those books go back even to his elementary school days from the way she talked the other day,' I said.

Burl looked up. 'You're sure your client didn't know about her interest in him before then? Or about her will?'

I knelt and picked up a different album. 'If he did, he's a damn good actor.' I flipped open the page and saw a photo of Will in a stroller, recognized his adoptive mother, Annabelle Wright, wheeling him in the park. Telephoto lens? Probably. There were more articles, these from the smaller paper that served the community where Will grew up, stories from the days when he played in Little League baseball and the youth basketball program Verna Mae had mentioned. Seems Will had been an all-star no matter what sport he played. Made the honor roll and had been inducted into the National Honor Society, too. It was all there. Page after page chronicling his young life.

I felt a chill. Hearing such things from her lips had been creepy enough, but holding the proof of her fixation was even more disturbing.

'I'm not sure if her being so stuck on a kid she knew only for a few hours has anything to do with her death, but something's not right,' Burl said.

'You mean with these albums?' I asked, not understanding.

'That boy wasn't a stranger to her. It's obvious she loved him.'

'No kidding.' But then it dawned on me where he was headed. 'You don't think he was her baby?'

His smile was back. 'You may be green, but you're a thinker. If Jasper Olsen's wife bore another man's child, a black man's child, then Verna Mae was lucky to escape with her life. Knowing that nasty SOB, he mighta killed her.'

'You think she made up the story about finding Will? That she was forced to give away her own child?'

'I never explored that possibility. Not once. She was so... well, hefty, she could have hidden a pregnancy. What a stupid, greenhorn fool I was.' He banged his forehead with the heel of his hand.

I put the album back in the box and noticed something beneath the stack of scrapbooks—the corner of a brown paper sack. 'What's this?' I said, lifting out the albums and setting them on the carpet.

I pulled out the sack and started to peek inside.

'Let me do that.' Burl took the bag and stood.

Carefully he slid the contents onto the bed. Baby clothes. Tiny white shirts and one-piece sleepers. And a blanket of creamy, soft wool. I rose and fingered the blanket, turned a satin corner over to check the label.

'HANDMADE FOR POSH PRAMS,' I said.

'About nineteen years old, I'd say.' He stared at it, his lips tight with anger. 'She lied to me, withheld evidence, and I never once questioned her about the kid possibly being hers. Sloppy police work, is all I can say.'

'Is the blanket really evidence?' I asked. 'She could have bought it herself.'

'Right. When? You won't see a fancy blanket like this in Bottlebrush. She probably had to go to Houston to buy it. Did she rush there on that Sunday evening, buy the blanket, then keep it when Jasper called me to pick up the baby? Doesn't make sense, Abby.' He carefully placed the blanket back in the sack, his shoulders slumped, his expression haggard. 'You or HPD need any assistance, call me. Meanwhile, I'll just hang on to this.'

'Giving me that blanket would help,' I said.

'I'm thinking I'll ask around. Someone in town might know where Verna Mae got it.'

'But—'

'This is evidence collected during the execution of a warrant,' he said. 'The blanket stays with me. Time you went home, Abby. Get some sleep. We'll talk again.'

4

I arrived home from Bottlebrush about three a.m. Although I was so tired I could have slept in a barrel, I had one irritated cat to deal with. Diva had been without a warm body to cuddle up to, and she wanted a Fancy Feast bribe before she'd make up with me. She made this very clear by hissing when I picked her up, jumping from my arms and racing through my small living room to the kitchen beyond.

The answering machine was bleeping, too. She wasn't the only one who wanted my attention. While I pried open a can of Seafood Dinner, I punched the PLAY button and heard Will's voice.

'Hey, Abby. It's Will,' he said in his slow, soft voice. 'Me and the parents had a call from some police guy. He told us Mrs. Olsen passed on. Give me a call right away, 'cause my parents are kinda bent. You got my cell number.'

I didn't blame his parents for being upset. Murder is not what they signed up for. Since Jeff had already made his contact, I decided I was free to call my client—but not in the middle of the night. After dumping the cat food in Diva's dish, I trudged upstairs, stripped and fell into bed. I did set the alarm for seven a.m. If I wanted to speak to Will and his parents before my appointment with Jeff at headquarters, I needed an early start.

It seemed like only seconds later that I was hitting the snooze button. I punched it twice more before I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and called Will. He answered after a few rings, obviously roused from sleep.

True to the Will I was getting to know, he was far more polite than I would have been. 'Uh, hi, Abby.'

'Sorry I woke you.' I sat cross-legged, my back against the headboard.

'No big deal. What's going on with this murder? I mean, that cop who called was stone serious, so it must be true.'

'Oh, it's true.' I gave him a condensed version of what happened to Verna Mae, though I omitted my visit to Bottlebrush.

'The officer wanted to know where I was last night. Here with my friends and my parents is what I told him. Then he talked to Dad. They don't think I'd hurt her, do they? I mean—'

'Listen, Will, your parents would probably like to be around when we talk this over. How about I drop by in, say, thirty minutes?'

'Sure, okay. I'll let Mom know you're coming so she won't think you're some reporter knocking on the door. She is super-stressed about reporters, anyway. They're always hanging around during the season, and this sounds like something they'd love to dig into.'

'I'm sure they would. See you at eight.' I disconnected.

Eight... jeez, I thought as I closed my phone and set it on the nightstand. I got up, headed for the bathroom and stumbled over Jeff's running shoes. I couldn't complain: Mine were a few steps beyond his. I picked up both pairs and tossed them into a corner, saying, 'Cold water, work some magic. I need to get my brain in gear fast.'

I realized the coffee aversion that had surfaced last night after seeing Verna Mae buried in wet grounds was persisting, this enlightenment coming after I made an optimistic stop at a Starbucks drive-through on my way to the Knight home. The strong coffee smell waft ing out the window made me want to puke, so I ordered chai tea. Never