Pushing Up Bluebonnets

Once in the cafeteria I chose the comfort of macaroni and cheese—with a salad to cancel out the fat and carbs.

Boyd had a sandwich piled high with turkey and lettuce on whole-grain bread with no mayo. I should introduce him to Kate. Maybe they could share a soy smoothie or a black-bean burger. I glanced at Boyd's ring finger, making sure I hadn't seen a wedding band. Yup. My brain had registered correctly. Not that Kate needed to date another older man. She'd been there, done that, and it had been a disaster. And besides, she'd apparently given up dating altogether thanks to him. Every woman I know has had some jerk mess with her head, but this particular male mistake had taken a big toll.

'You prefer small-town police work over the FBI?' I asked. I needed to slow down on the mac and cheese. I was upset after what I'd seen upstairs and emotional eating always seems to add twice as many inches to my thighs. Which means twice as long a workout to remove those inches.

'They're very different. The FBI was my dream job and I learned a lot. But that's over now.'

There was a story here, one he wasn't about to share with a stranger. This was a scarred man and I sure did wonder why.

2

A half hour later, I returned to my home in the West University area, anxious to scan the poor copy of my card so I could enhance and enlarge the writing, but unfortunately my aunt Caroline's Cadillac pulled into my driveway right behind me. Great. What did she want?

But she got right to the point. 'We need to talk about your sister, Abigail,' she said as she got out of her car. Then she marched past me and opened the back gate. 'You need to keep this gate locked. I hope you haven't left the house unlocked, too.'

I silently counted to ten and smiled. 'Nice you could drop by.'

I unlocked the back door, which prompted, 'At least you have some sense' from my aunt. We walked through the mudroom and into the kitchen.

'Where have you been, by the way?' She dropped her latest Prada handbag on the oak kitchen table. 'I drove by at least five times.'

'Out on business, if that's okay with you.' It wasn't really business. I had no client, but she didn't need to know that.

'Oh. You mean snooping around and getting yourself in trouble again. I wondered if you'd perhaps met Katherine for lunch.'

'Sorry, no. And 'snooping around,' as you call it, happens to be my job. Can I get you something to drink?' I was getting better at letting her remarks pass without too much sarcasm. Besides, I was wondering if she was sick. I'd noticed that sweat had beaded along her snowy hairline, which was puzzling. She'd been in her very air- conditioned luxury car, after all.

Aunt Caroline sat in one of the kitchen chairs. 'Water, please. Lime if you have it.'

'I do. It's Corona season and Jeff likes lime in his beer.'

As I cut up a lime, Aunt Caroline said, 'He's still hanging around, is he? How's he coping with the sister—the one who's, well, you know.'

'The one who has Down syndrome? Doris is a delight. Matter of fact, she and Jeff are coming for dinner tonight.' I plopped lime wedges into two glasses of ice water and brought them to the table.

'You're cooking? My word, the earth has tilted a bit more on its axis.' She gulped greedily at the water.

I lifted my chin. 'Yes, I am cooking. I do know how.' Actually we were ordering pizza and watching one of Doris's favorite DVDs, Finding Nemo. Movies and pizza had become our Friday night ritual. Jeff didn't make it half the time because of his job, but Doris's caretaker, Loreen, would sometimes join us.

'You should know how to cook,' Aunt Caroline said. 'Chef Ramone cost us a pretty penny for those lessons. But as I recall, he said you'd rather play with the food than learn the basics of preparation.'

'I was twelve, Aunt Caroline. I still played with my G.I. Joes, too. I wasn't the only one in the family who enjoyed boy toys.'

Damn. Sarcastic relapse. I hate when that happens.

Aunt Caroline's face became infused with color. She'd given up face-lifts for injections from her dermatologist— all kinds of procedures to smooth the wrinkles she'd earned after seventy-plus years on earth. But they only made her look like a doll with a plastic face and I was surprised there was actually a blood supply to the surface.

'How rude, Abigail,' she said. 'You know my dalliances ended a long time ago.'

'Try about two years ago. Anyway, you came to talk about Kate?'

'Yes. I went over to her house last night and found her in her pajamas. She'd been reading a book. It was only eight o'clock and she looked exhausted and, well, depressed. I am very concerned about her. A thirty-one- year-old woman should not be holed up like a nun.'

I had to agree with my aunt. I was worried, too. But the last thing Kate needed was Aunt Caroline sticking her nose in this. 'Give her time to heal,' I said.

'She's had enough time. It's been ten months since that horrible man fooled her into believing he cared for her. She's refused every date I've tried to set up for her—close to forty of them. Now it's your turn. Do you know anyone suitable? He has to have money, of course. We don't want someone taking advantage of her. You two are blessed with wealth, but it does make you vulnerable to predators, so—'

'I am not setting her up with anyone. She'll move forward when she's ready.' I so wanted to believe that, but I honestly wasn't sure. My sister had changed—her smile now not as spontaneous, her dark eyes lacking the spark I'd once thought would always be there.

'But don't you see, Abigail? Katherine needs—'

'Aunt Caroline,' I interrupted. I had to get her off this subject. 'Remember when you helped me organize files a while back?'

Her eyes brightened. 'Do you need help again? Silly question. Of course you do. Your organizational skills are . . . well, anyway. I'd be glad to assist.'

'It's not filing, actually.' Finding out who was lying in that hospital bed was more important than allowing Aunt Caroline to meddle in Kate's business through me.

'I'm very good with any office task.' She stood and rubbed her hands together. 'Let's get started.'

I took a deep breath and removed the folded paper from my pants pocket. 'Hope you're wearing those bifocal contact lenses. You'll need good eyes for this job.'

I explained about the unidentified woman and how I hoped I could match the handwriting on the card to some letter I might have received from a prospective client.

'Since you didn't recognize her when you saw her,' Aunt Caroline said, 'this could be a waste of time.'

'You don't have to help if—'

'Are you being facetious? I can't think of a better way to waste time than solving a mystery like this. Wait until I tell the girls at the club.'

I had to smile. The 'girls' ranged in age from seventy to ninety. 'Let's get started, then.'

I hadn't spent more than two hours alone with my aunt in years—mostly because being with her is like wearing shoes that hurt—but we had a focus other than my life or Kate's, so I hoped I could tolerate her.

I'd printed a thousand business cards when I started up my agency, and gave the first hundred to Angel Molina, my mentor, who had a PI business of his own. He sent me my first few cases and still called me when he had a potential client for me. I'd handed out dozens of cards when I was meeting clients or investigating someone's past. And I'd also sent them attached to every letter I answered along with my tip sheets. Only about two hundred cards remained. That meant I could have as many as six hundred letters in the file boxes in my office.

Matching a snippet of handwriting on a business card to the writing in one of those letters seemed about as likely to happen as a pig laying eggs, especially since half were probably printed on a computer and bore only