Aunt Caroline had taken from our house.
“I’ve put off selling for now, Aunt Caroline, so if you persist in your demand that I hire Hans, I insist you return everything. Sort of a trade, you see, because I’m certain I’d lose money trying to create a job for him. About the only thing he’d be good at is squeezing naphtha out of mothballs.”
This got her wheels spinning. Hans might not be around forever, but the art and antiques would only escalate in value. She knew the fishing expedition was over. Time to cut bait.
Then Willis said, “How’s my little detective doing? Have you moved on to more sensible endeavors?”
“Little detective? Could you be more condescending, Willis? But I’ve made progress, thank you very much. In fact, after I leave here, I’m following up on a lead. I’ve finally confirmed that Feldman and Helen Hamilton are linked. She happens to work in a house he owns.”
“So what does that prove?” asked Aunt Caroline, now staring at her pouting lips in the compact she’d removed from her purse.
“That proves the man is still doing what he did thirty years ago—making money off human tragedies.”
Willis said, “Aren’t you being overly dramatic? Things aren’t as one-sided as you may think. These days pregnant women can shop around for agencies that provide the best financial support if they want to give up their baby. This Parental Advocates operation sounds perfectly legal to me.”
“I don’t care if they have an endorsement from Dr. Spock’s ghost. Something’s not right there.”
“So what is this lead, Abigail?” Aunt Caroline asked.
“Feldman or Hamilton or both of them are connected to some sort of home for expectant mothers, and I’m betting the place isn’t exactly the Westin Galleria Hotel. I’m going to pay them a visit. And by the way, Willis, this Hamilton woman may start asking questions about Kate or me. If by chance she reaches you, tell her nothing.”
“Why would she be calling me?” he asked.
This perked Aunt Caroline up. “Yes, why, Abby? What have you done?”
“She managed to get Kate’s real name, and I’m afraid she may be resourceful enough to find out everything about us, including our lawyer’s name,” I said.
“And you think this woman might be a criminal? How did you let this happen?” said Aunt Caroline.
I should have never agreed to do lunch with them. Having Hans take laptop orders for CompuCan would have been a less painful alternative. I took a deep breath and managed to say in a fairly controlled voice, “It’s been pleasant. And now I have to go.”
The gray-haired woman who answered the door at the Ellen Fulshear Home for Young Women smiled back at me and nodded at the bouquet of flowers in my hand.
“For Susan, right?” she asked. She was large, with soft, fleshy arms folded on a wide stomach.
“Yes,” I answered, then squeezed my eyes shut and rubbed the space between them, leaning on the door frame for support.
“Are you all right?” She opened the screen door, concern replacing her laugh lines.
“It’s this weather. When the barometer dips, I suffer with horrible sinus headaches.”
“I have some aspirin. Would that help?” She stepped back so I could enter.
Like Daddy would have said, easy as stepping in East Texas mud. Can’t slam the door in someone’s face if they’re already inside.
She led me down a hallway, and I managed to catch a peek in the living room, where three very pregnant young women sat on a worn-looking velour sofa watching television.
We entered a country kitchen, and the smell of something wonderful cooking in a giant pot on the stove enveloped me. Chicken and dumplings maybe? The woman unburdened me of the flowers I had picked up at the local grocery store, and I sat at a gigantic table covered with a red-checked cloth. The woman placed a tall glass of lemonade in front of me. She then started struggling with the childproof cap on the aspirin bottle she’d pulled from a cupboard near the sink.
“My five-year-old grandnephew opens these things in a flash,” she mumbled. “The only ones they keep from the medicine are the arthritics like me.”
“Please don’t bother with the aspirin,” I said. “See, I have a confession. I don’t really have a headache, and I’m not delivering flowers.”
She stopped fiddling with the cap, her face wary, her smile gone. “How’s that, young woman?” she said sternly. “Are you selling something or fixing to rob me? Because if that’s the case, I don’t have much to take.”
“Nothing like that. If you can spare a few minutes, I’d like to explain.”
She poured herself a glass of lemonade and sat opposite me. “Are you in trouble? Is that it?” Despite her irritation, she seemed genuinely concerned.
“I’m troubled, yes, but it’s not what you think. And so complicated, I’m not even sure where to start.”
“The beginning usually works.” Her smile returned.
“I’ve made up so many stories lately, the idea of simply telling the truth seems... strange,” I said.
“If I can, I’ll help you. There’s still a few people in this world you can trust, and I’d like to think I’ve lived long enough to understand most of what human nature is capable of. Tell Sally Jean about this trouble.”
“It’s odd. I’ve never lied this easily before the murder.”
“The murder?” Her eyes widened. “You didn’t murder someone, did you?”
“Of course not. It has to do with Samuel Feldman. I got your number off the Parental Advocates office phone, and I want to ask him a few hard questions, but the only phone number and address I could come up with were connected to the office.”
“I can tell you where he is, but first you need to tell me why I should.”
“You know where he is?” I sat straighter in my chair.
“You must want to see him real bad to sneak in here with your daisies and your fake headache.”
“I think he murdered my yardman. And maybe someone else... a long, long time ago.”
She closed her eyes and made the sign of the cross. “It wouldn’t surprise me one bit. It’s a sad thing to believe that about another person. He’s a cold one, he is. But start at the beginning, Miss... What’s your name, honey?”
“Abby. Abby Rose. And yours?”
“Sally Jean Daniels. All the girls call me Sally Jean, and you will, too. Explain about this murder you say Sam did, may God have mercy on him.”
“I don’t have hard proof, but the story began in a little town north of Houston called Shade....”
By the time I finished my narration, I could tell nothing I’d said surprised her.
“I’ve lived here ages and ages caring for pregnant girls,” she said. “Making sure they eat right and get enough exercise and all that. But not until Melvyn—he was my husband—not until he died did I begin to suspect the only light at the end of my tunnel was an oncoming train.”
“What do you mean?” I said.
“I’m not good with math... figures... you know. I never saw the bills. Melvyn worked with Feldman on the business end of running this place. The Doc—that’s what the girls called my husband—treated the girls; then Sam Feldman paid him for services rendered. But after Melvyn’s funeral, I discovered that even though I’m bad with arithmetic, Melvyn missed more of the basics in addition and subtraction than I ever did.” She shook her head. “A financial nightmare, let me tell you.”
“Wait a minute. Young women giving up their babies for adoption stay here, right?”
“Going on thirty-five years now,” she said.
“And you work for Parental Advocates?”
“That’s what I was trying to explain. If you had said ‘Parental Advocates’ to me six months ago I would have looked at you like you were as nutty as a Corsicana fruitcake. But as I waded through those legal papers after the Doc’s death, I learned how the whole thing works.” She crossed her arms, barely spanning her broad bosom.
“You don’t seem thrilled,” I said.
“This business has changed, nothing like it used to be when Melvyn was alive, that’s for sure. But he left me nothing but a bunch of worthless stock, so I gotta keep working, and this is all I know how to do.”
“I take it Mr. Feldman hasn’t been the best employer.”
“He’s just in it for the money, of course. But he stopped coming here a while back. Grew to be a hermit. We talk on the phone, but I don’t see him anymore, which was working fine for me. But he married that skinny, fast-
