A Wedding To Die For

through the clutter—reminded me of home—and opened a closet door on the far wall. Several thin boxes fell from a shelf and hospital stationery spilled everywhere. A broom toppled as well. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered before returning with a padded folding chair. She left the fallen items where they lay.

Once we were seated with her swivel chair facing me, I handed her my card. “I’m helping a young woman find her birth mother and not having much luck. Maybe you can help.”

After glancing at the card, she put it down, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes, wagging a finger. “If it’s a medical record you need, let me assure you they are like a nun’s dreams—not to be shared with the public.”

“I understand, but could I explain? That might give you a better idea on how you might help me.”

“Well, you’ve certainly helped me out, so if I can do a damn thing—make that a blessed thing—I will.”

I told her about the case, including my conversation with the nurse today. The more I talked, the more tight her features grew.

When I finished, she said, “Let me see your confidentiality release and the birth certificate.”

I removed the birth certificate from the envelope and handed it to her along with the release. After returning them, she sat back, lips tight with anger. “I am not without fault, won’t ever be nominated for sainthood, but I don’t abide liars.”

Liars? What the heck was she talking about? “Have I done something wrong?”

“Not you, dear. Him.”

“Him?”

“Our administrator. But I suppose when you mix the healing arts with business, you should expect that kind of behavior. Mr. Hansen told you the records went back only twenty years?”

“Yes.”

“That’s a damn lie and he knows it. He was simply too lazy to follow through on your request.”

Whoa. Obviously there was more about Mr. Hansen she’d be willing to share, but I tried to get her back on track. “I returned to pursue this, so it’s okay.”

“It’s not okay and he will hear about this. And then he better get his fat ass to confession.” She crossed her arms and leaned back. And then unexpectedly grinned. “Of course, I’ll be right alongside him, don’t you know?”

I laughed, felt myself relax. “Bet you will.”

“Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on your Megan.” She put her hands on the keyboard, then stopped. “Damn. Where’s Roger with that cable?”

She picked up the phone and dialed the four numbers again. “Roger? When did you think you’d get that stupid cable over here? Next year?” She put down the receiver without saying good-bye and smiled at me. “I tend to annoy people. That’s why I work alone.”

“I call it the broken-record technique,” I said.

“I like that. And broken records are actually good for something. They get results.”

Seconds later the man who I assumed was Roger scurried in carrying the cable. Sister Nell rose and backed away from her desk, bumping into a filing cabinet when she did. She clutched her elbow and winced, but if she swore this time I didn’t hear her.

Once Roger made the switch, she returned to her computer and booted up.

“Hand me the certificate again,” she said.

After I gave it to her, she checked the date and gave it back.

I was about to return it to my briefcase, but then realized I’d never looked at the copy after Megan gave it to me, not gotten “the good look” Angel suggested.

I stared down at it now and noticed a small difference in the darkness of the type in spots. The hospital name definitely seemed lighter than both Megan’s and her adopted parents’ names. And I noted a smudge beneath “U.S.A.” in the country of birth box. Did this mean anything? Or—

“Here we go,” said Sister Nell. “Got the year pulled up.”

I was sitting at an angle, unable to see much of her screen, but she appeared to be scrolling down a list.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Read me the date one more time.”

After I did, she said, “Hmmm. Let me check the day before and the day after. Perhaps someone made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” I scooted my chair closer to look over her shoulder.

“Move away,” she snapped. “These are confidential records.”

“Sorry.” I sat back, feeling like I had in first grade when I was sent to the principal for showing my underwear to a boy in the cafeteria.

Sister Nell absently patted my knee, her gaze still on the monitor. “Sorry to be short with you. Did I mention I annoy people?” She put her face closer to the screen. “Let me try one more run through this list. Perhaps a baby was entered as a medical or surgical patient that day by mistake.”

“You mean you can’t find her?” I said.

She didn’t answer, just stared a few seconds longer, shook her head, and turned off the monitor. “Very puzzling. Of course, I would not have found a child named Megan Beadford, since her adoptive parents no doubt named her, but I did expect to be able to pursue this on my own after I had the names of any girls born that day. Maybe contact a possible birth mother candidate and convince her to contact the Adoption Registry.”

“But you can’t do that?”

“No,” she said, “because despite what it says on that birth certificate, no baby girls were born here on that date, just two boys. No babies were born at all on the day before. And one single boy was born the day after.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what does that tell you?”

I looked down at the birth certificate still in my hand and blinked several times. “It tells me that either Megan Beadford had a sex change or this case just made a hard right turn down a very different road.”

6

Once I left the hospital and got into the Camry, I called Megan’s house on my cell. I wanted to tell her about my visit to Sister Nell and what I’d learned. There could be a simple explanation—maybe a clerical error—but if Megan and I could go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and get a reissued certified copy, we’d know if the state database information matched what was on Megan’s current copy. If so, St. Mary’s obviously made a mistake somewhere down the line in their data entry.

When Roxanne answered, I asked for Megan.

“They are shopping for funerary boxes,” Roxanne said. “I have been delegated to stay home and receive sympathy calls should they come in. Is this a sympathy call?”

This girl went beyond weird. “It’s Abby Rose. If you remember, I was there the day Mr. Beadford died. Could you have Megan call me when she gets home?”

“Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you called. My sister, Courtney, did not make the trip to pick out a casket. She hasn’t been here all day. I’m extremely concerned.”

And exactly why did I need to know this? But I couldn’t just click the off button. I felt obligated to respond. “What’s worrying you?”

“You have a sister. I saw you two together after Uncle James was... dispatched.”

Dispatched? Sounded like he’d been sent to the hereafter via FedEx.

She wasn’t done, though. “If your sister was involving herself with evil and immoral acquaintances, you’d do something, right?”

I wanted to tell her I was the twin who could have had Most Likely to Get Herself into Deep Shit written under her name in our high school yearbook, but instead I replied, “Certainly I’d help her. Or try to.”

“Courtney will find herself dead one of these days,” Roxanne said. “She’ll be laid out on some filthy mattress with a needle stuck in her arm.”