“What’s up?” I asked.
Slidell swept a hand over the dresser, Vanna White displaying a game show prize.
Entering the room was like walking into a moldy greenhouse. Violets, now brown with age, covered the wallpaper, the fabric on an over-stuffed chair, the curtains hanging limp at each window.
A framed picture lay against one baseboard, a cropped magazine shot of a nosegay of violets. The picture’s glass was cracked, its corners off their ninety-degree angle.
Crossing to the bureau, I glanced at the focus of everyone’s attention.
And felt the buzz electrify in my chest.
I raised my eyes, not comprehending.
“What’s up is your baby killer,” said Slidell. “Take another gander.”
I didn’t need a second look. I recognized the object. What I didn’t understand was its meaning. How had it come to be in this dreadful room with its terrible flowers?
My eyes dropped back to the white plastic rectangle.
Tamela Banks stared from the lower left corner, curly black hair outlined by a red square. Across the top of the card a blue banner declared
I looked up.
“Where did you find this?”
“Under the bed,” said the CSU tech.
“With enough crud to make a bioterrorist pee his shorts.” Slidell.
“Why would Tamela Banks’s driver’s license be in this house?”
“She must have come here with that hump, Tyree.”
“Why?” I repeated myself. This wasn’t making sense.
The CSU tech excused himself, returned to processing the next room.
Slidell pointed his toothpick at Rinaldi.
“Gosh, what do you think, Detective? Think it could have something to do with the two kilos of blow we found in the basement?”
I looked at Rinaldi.
He nodded.
“Maybe Tamela lost the license,” I groped. “Maybe it was stolen.”
Slidell pooched out his lips and rolled the toothpick. Looking for gonadal camaraderie, he turned to Ryan.
“What do you think, Lieutenant? Either of those theories ring true to you?”
Ryan shrugged. “If the queen invited Camilla to that Golden Jubilee concert, anything’s possible.”
Slidell’s left eye twitched as a drop of sweat rolled into it.
“Did you run a history on this place?” I asked.
Another toothpick repositioning, then Slidell pulled a notebook from his back pocket.
“Until recently, the property didn’t change hands that much.”
Slidell read his notes. We all waited.
“Place belonged to Sander Foote from 1956 until 1986. Sander got it from his daddy, Romulus, who got it from his daddy, Romulus, blah, blah, blah.” Slidell rotated a hand. “String of Romulus Sanderses on the tax records prior to fifty-six. Not really relevant to current events.”
“No,” I agreed impatiently.
“When Foote died in eighty-six, the farm went to his widow, Dorothy Jessica Harrelson Oxidine Pounder Foote.” Slidell looked up. “Lady was the marrying kind.”
Back to his notes.
“Dorothy was the third Mrs. F. She and Foote married late, had no kids. He was seventy-two, she was forty- nine. But here’s where the story gets interesting.”
I wanted to shake Slidell to make him go faster.
“The widow didn’t really inherit the farm. Foote’s will allowed Dorothy, and her son by a previous marriage, to live on the place until her death. After that, the kid could stay until he was thirty years old.”
Slidell shook his head. “This Foote must have been some kind of fruit bat.”
“Because he wanted his wife’s son to have a home until the boy was established?” I kept my voice calm.
The wind picked up. Leaves thrashed the window screen.
“After that?” Ryan asked.
“After that, the place goes to Foote’s daughter by his first marriage.”
