Dead Giveaway (11 page)

  ''Did you keep receipts, by chance?''

  Her already bright cheeks fired up. ''Paper takes up

room that could be best used for other items. I'm afraid I wasn't all that adept at bookkeeping.''

  ''You saved nothing from the year you sold that blanket? Which was probably 1987, by the way.''

  ''Ah, 1987. I parted with so many wonderful things in the shop that year.'' She sighed heavily.

  Mr. Tibbetts, snout now covered with cream, paused and offered a liquid meow in sympathy.

  ''Since you had those identical blankets and kept one yourself, is there anything you could pull from your memory about the sale?''

  ''I should be able to, shouldn't I? They were pricey. One hundred and fifty pounds each. Worth every quid, too. See how well this one has held up?'' She reclaimed the blanket and held it against one cheek.

  ''Someone well-to-do bought it, perhaps?''

  ''Most of my customers were well-to-do. Of course, when you buy items for your baby, price sometimes means nothing and—'' She blinked hard. ''Oh, my goodness. It was
then. Him
.''

  ''What do you mean?'' I could tell from the far-off look in her faded blue eyes that she was remembering something.

  ''I'm almost certain a young black gentleman picked it up. Very young.''

  ''You mean he bought it?''

  Marjorie McGrady eased down into a chair. ''No, he didn't. Someone else did. A telephone order. The details are all so fuzzy, but I recall thinking he was the limo driver. I probably wouldn't even have remembered that much if I hadn't seen his photo a week later.''

  ''Really? Where?''

  ''In the newspaper. How could I have forgotten all this? He was arrested. A man in possession of one of my beautiful things had been
arrested.
Shameful turn of events.''

  They didn't put photographs in the paper of your everyday car thief or cat burglar—not then, not today. This must have been far more serious. ''Arrested for what?''

  ''Murder, I believe.''

  At that appropriate moment, Mr. Tibbetts knocked the bowl off the table, and clotted cream splattered everywhere.

10

''Mr. Tibbetts!'' cried Marjorie McGrady. ''Look what you've done!''

  The cat, however, was too busy licking cream off the floor to pay any attention. Diva would have raced up the stairs in terror if she'd done anything like this, but not Fats Domino. He wasn't about to miss a drop.

  While I picked up the shattered china bowl, Marjorie hurried to the kitchen for sponges and cleaners. She returned a minute later with a small pail, and we started in on the mess.

  I worked on the Union Jack area rug beneath the table while Marjorie wiped up the wood floor and baseboards.

  ''This man who picked up the blanket,'' I said. ''You're sure you recognized his picture in the newspaper?''

  ''Yes, it's all quite clear in my head now that I know this has to do with my blanket. He seemed like a polite, quiet young man when he'd come to the shop. Shocking for him to be accused of murder, I remember thinking.''

  ''What time of year did this happen?'' I saw newspaper archives in my future and wanted the timeframe narrowed down as much as possible.

  ''Right after Easter. I bought the blankets in March on a whim when we'd had a late cold snap. Isn't the blanket the softest, most lovely thing you've ever seen?''

  ''Yes indeed,'' I said, wringing out my sponge. I sat back on my heels. ''Think I'm finished here. You mentioned you thought he was the limo driver. He arrived in a limo, then?''

  Mrs. McGrady stopped her work and cocked her head. ''I'm not quite sure. Perhaps the manner of that particular order made me think of a limo.''

  ''Why's that?''

  ''Phone orders only came from regular customers, and I assumed the buyer had a big car and a driver. Many of my patrons were very wealthy.'' She paused, her forehead creased with thought. ''Or maybe, and forgive me for saying this, but he
was
a young black man. In my mind back then—and yes, this is very wrong—he could have been . . . a servant sent out on an errand.''

  I nodded, knowing that was most likely why she'd come up with this limo idea. Not helpful at all.

  Mrs. McGrady frowned. ''I can see you're quite disappointed in me. The fact that I am not a—how do we say it these days?—a ''people person'' has been modified by the insight of age. I don't give a bloody damn what someone's skin color is anymore. People are asses no matter who their ancestors are.''

  I smiled. ''At times, I think I agree.''

  I left Mrs. McGrady's house a little after four and stopped at the central branch of the library in downtown Houston. I was due to pick up Kate for our trip to Bottlebrush this evening—she had a client until six—but I wanted to see the newspaper photo of this murderer. Because online archives don't have photos attached, I couldn't go home and look up the article on my computer to view the photo Marjorie mentioned. I had to see it on microfilm.

  I parked the Camry in the library lot, careful to put my parking ticket in the side pocket of my capris where I could find it. Last time I'd lost the stupid thing and ended up paying sixteen bucks for a full day after only an hour's worth of research. I also reached around the .38 in my glove compartment and raided my car-wash quarter stash. I'd need change for copies.

  Once on the main floor of the library, I bypassed the escalators, went straight to the bibliographic research area in the far right corner, sat down and got to work. The
Houston Chronicle
was archived back to 1985, and though I feared I'd get dozens of hits for murders in April 1987, that wasn't the case. Seems less than four hundred people had been murdered the entire year, and only one in April had a picture of the accused alongside the article. The killing had taken place at night in a bank parking lot, and the victim was a University of Houston coed named Amanda Mason. Her murderer had been picked up at his parents' home only hours after the shooting, thanks to an anonymous tip. Amanda Mason's wallet, watch and jewelry were hidden in the guy's dresser drawer—he was an eighteen-year-old kid named Lawrence Washington.
What a brilliant criminal, I
thought.

  I put several quarters in the printer, and while it was copying, I plugged Lawrence Washington's name into the archive search engine. A dozen hits popped up. The one that first caught my eye read ACCUSED KILLER HAD BRIGHT FUTURE. The other articles dealt with appeals, rehashing the murder and an interview with Lawrence Washington's father, who proclaimed his son's innocence. There was a related piece about how much crime took place near ATM machines since they'd begun to pop up everywhere. I wanted to dig deeper, read every article right this minute, but I'd be late picking up Kate if I scratched that itch right now.

  After copying everything I could find, I took out my phone and called Jeff. I got his voice mail, so I left a message for him to hunt up anything he could on Lawrence Washington and the old murder conviction. Jeff had joined HPD in the nineties, but I was sure he'd be able to find out something about the case. As I was finishing the message, I realized this brief bit of cell phone indulgence had incurred the wrath of a man at an adjacent table.

  He informed me that cell phones should be banned in libraries and looked about ready to knock me crosseyed, so rather than respond like the smart-ass I am, I told him I was sorry and left to pay my parking fee, copies in hand.

11

I left downtown at rush hour—big mistake—and was late picking up Kate anyway. She was waiting in the parking garage next to her car as planned, wearing one of her ''soothing'' pastel suits—this one aqua. She's a firm believer that color affects her patient's mood and carefully chooses what she wears to work every day.

  When she climbed in beside me, I handed the articles to her. ''Could you read these out loud? Help make the drive to Bottlebrush more interesting?''

  ''No apology for making me stand around in a damp old garage for twenty minutes?'' she asked.

  I glanced at her as I stopped to pay more parking money—and this time I hadn't even parked. ''Sorry. I was at the downtown library at five o'clock and hit gridlock.''

  She shook her head. ''I'm sorry myself for being so cranky. Terry and I had a fight this morning, and I can't seem to shake my bad mood.''

  I laughed. ''You and Terry fought? First time ever or what?''

  ''He's pressing me again to get married, and you know what a fence-sitter I am on
that
subject.'' She began shuffling through the pages I'd handed her.

  ''I'm staying on the outside of that particular dispute, seeing as how I'm O-for-one in the marriage department.''

  ''Look who you've hooked up with now? Jeff is perfect for you.''

  ''And Terry's right for you, Kate. He adores you.''

  ''Why can't I commit?'' she said.

  ''You're the shrink, not me.''

  ''I know. This is my problem.'' She sighed and looked down at the stack of copies. ''What
is
all this?''

  As we headed for the freeway, I explained what I had learned today and that I hadn't had a chance to read through the articles. ''Start with the one that mentions the killer's bright future,'' I said.

  She found that particular article and began to read: ''He was voted 'Most Likely to Succeed' and 'Most Athletic' at his high school and had just signed a letter of intent to play baseball for Texas A&M. Yes, Lawrence Washington was going somewhere. But now he's going to jail for the rest of his life. Washington, eighteen, was sentenced to life in prison yesterday, convicted in the execution-style slaying of University of Houston coed Amanda Mason.''

  ''That sounds cold,'' I said, merging into a line of slow-moving traffic on the 610 loop.

  Kate went on reading. ''Friends and family can't explain why the bright young man who would have graduated tenth in his class in a few months would commit such a horrific crime. No one, not even the principal of Hurst High, can recall him ever raising his voice, much less getting into trouble. But according to one friend, Washington's mother has breast cancer and the family faces huge medical bills. Perhaps that's why Lawrence Washington put a gun to Amanda Mason's head and pulled the trigger, fearing she would identify him after the robbery if he let her live. Sadly, her cash withdrawal from the ATM near where her body was found that night had been a mere fifty dollars. Fifty dollars for two young lives wasted.''

  Kate sighed again. ''How depressing. Makes me feel guilty for whining today.''

  ''We've got it pretty good, huh?''

  Kate took out her cell phone. ''I'm calling Terry right now to apologize.''

  ''Good idea, and when you're done, read me the rest of the articles. I need to know everything about this Lawrence Washington, even though I'm praying right now he's not connected to Will—especially when it comes to genetics. He's a black athlete, and that makes him a good candidate for biological father. Unfortunately, he is also a killer.''

  Kate had been ready to use her phone, but closed it and said excitedly, ''The murdered girl could have been Will's birth mother. Yes, and he killed her to—''

  ''The timing's wrong, Kate. Amanda Mason died in April of 1987 and Will was born probably in October or late September of that year.''

  ''Oh. Right. Reading these articles out of order is confusing.'' She reopened her phone and called Terry.

  We were almost to Bottlebrush by the time she'd made up with him and finished reading the articles to me. One was a short piece on Washington's having exhausted his appeals, another a human interest story on the life and death of Amanda Mason that included interviews of her brokenhearted family. Several more articles had appeared when Washington was due for parole in 2004. Amanda Mason's family and their supporters made sure he stayed in Huntsville State Prison.

  Since we'd had to navigate plenty of traffic on the freeways, the ride had taken more than two hours. Dusk was giving way to night when we parked in front of Verna Mae's house.

  Before I unlocked the front door, I nodded at the bassinet planter. ''There sits my first clue something wasn't right with Verna Mae.''

  ''She was clinging to the most important event in her life,'' Kate said.

  Once inside, I felt around on the wall for a light switch and then illuminated the foyer.

  Kate took in the antique coat rack, an expensivelooking side table holding Lladro figurines of mothers and babies, and the plush carpet on the stairway to our right. ''Nice place.''

  ''Kind of suffocating, if you ask me. I say we start in her bedroom. That's where Burl and I found the blanket and the albums she'd made of Will's life story. I want those if Burl left them. I didn't get to examine them closely enough.''

  Kate said, ''It
is
stuffy in here. Mind if I find the thermostat and turn on the air-conditioning?''

  ''Go for it,'' I said. ''Meet you upstairs.''

  She took off down the hall, flicking lights on along the way, while I took the stairs. I turned on the light in Verna Mae's bedroom and found things were not as I remembered them. The oak dresser drawers were half open, the closet door stood ajar, even the linens on the bed were in disarray. I set down my purse and went to the four-poster, knelt and pulled out the box where we'd found the blanket and albums.

  Empty.
Damn.

  No wonder Burl turned the keys over with a smile. He'd come back and taken what he wanted, left the place a mess. As Jeff said, the guy was still fixated on an old case he'd never solved.

  I shoved the box back under the bed, more than a little pissed off, but when I did, I heard a tiny jingle. I removed the box, flattened on my belly and sank into carpet so thick you could sleep on it. Reminded me of my old digs in River Oaks, the mansion I'd grown up in and didn't miss one bit. With my cheek pressed against the carpet, I looked under the bed and spotted a lump that appeared to be a set of keys. They were more than an arm's reach away, and I had to squirm my shoulder under the frame to grab them.