Dead Giveaway (5 page)

  ''Yes, and he'll do that. But could you tell me more about your investigation into Will's abandonment?''

  Burl lowered himself into the chair. ''Not much to tell. About wore me out hunting for clues.''

  ''What happened after you took Will from Verna Mae?''

  ''Turned the kid over to CPS the following day. Couldn't get a caseworker out that Sunday night. Me and my wife, Lucinda, kept the baby overnight. It's not like we didn't have two cribs going already—a nine-month-old and a two-year-old. That kid sure had a set o' lungs on him. And he was big. The wife put him into one of the little snap-up pajamas our youngest had outgrown. I remember her saying she had to use the three-month size. She figured he wasn't newborn, but now that I know he turned out to be a giant, maybe he was.''

  ''Maybe. You asked questions around town, I presume?''

  ''Sure. Thought it would be easy to find the parents, since the kid looked to be mixed-race or black. The Missus is a retired nurse and said another reason she didn't think he was newborn was because she could tell he had some African-American in him. Seems black newborns look white at first, so she thought the boy had to be at least a couple weeks old. Jasper mentioned the baby was black, too. All I saw was a great-looking, healthy kid with curly dark hair. Real shiny. Handsome as he was loud.''

  ''Did you hear any rumors about mixed-race couples at, say, the high school?''

  He shook his head no. ''We only had about five hundred kids total in the schools here. A mixed-race couple would have been noticed, there or anywhere. Would have been talk around town, too. There wasn't.''

  ''You think someone came a ways to drop off the baby, then?''

  ''I guess, but Verna Mae's house isn't exactly right off the highway. That bothered me. Made me put some credence in her going on and on about how God brought the baby to her for a reason. Hell, maybe she was right.''

  ''She told me the same thing. The clothes, the infant seat? No leads there?''

  ''I checked, but they weren't bought in this town. We didn't have the Wal-Mart back then, only a grocery store. Couldn't plug brand names into a computer and trace the purchases, either.''

  ''Did those personal items go with him when CPS took over?''

  ''I suppose. Can't say as I remember.'' I read discomfort in Burl's tired eyes.

  ''Frustrating case, huh?'' I said.

  ''You betcha. Verna Mae hounded me for information about the baby for days afterward. Then she quit calling after the family court hearing that placed the child in state custody.'' He shut his eyes, seemed to be thinking hard. ''But we know now she found out about him somehow, considering she left him everything.''

  Burl rose suddenly, saying, ''Wait a minute.'' He shot out of the kitchen, his fatigue apparently gone.

  I followed, jogging to keep him in sight as he ran down the hall and took the stairs.

  I caught up to him in Verna Mae's bedroom. He was on his knees, pulling a lidded cardboard box from under a four-poster bed decorated with enough ruffles and tassels to supply a fabric store for a year.

  ''What's going on?'' I asked, hurrying to his side.

  FOR W.K. was printed in black marker on the lid he now removed.

  Inside were stacks of scrapbooks and photo albums.

  ''Glen told me he'd found books under her bed filled with a bunch of old newspaper articles about basketball. Said he thought it was peculiar Verna Mae was interested in sports, what with the frilly house and all. I told him she
was
peculiar and said he should keep looking for what we came for.''

  He opened one album. On the first page was a yearold
Houston Chronicle
article about the state high school basketball championship. The next pages contained clippings from other newspapers around the state covering the championship from two years ago. Several had photos of Will—not shaved bald like he was now, but with plenty of wild dark hair—a basketball in one huge hand, and jumping high for a layup.

  ''I'm betting those books go back even to his elementary school days from the way she talked the other day,'' I said.

  Burl looked up. ''You're sure your client didn't know about her interest in him before then? Or about her will?''

  I knelt and picked up a different album. ''If he did, he's a damn good actor.'' I flipped open the page and saw a photo of Will in a stroller, recognized his adoptive mother, Annabelle Wright, wheeling him in the park. Telephoto lens? Probably. There were more articles, these from the smaller paper that served the community where Will grew up, stories from the days when he played in Little League baseball and the youth basketball program Verna Mae had mentioned. Seems Will had been an all-star no matter what sport he played. Made the honor roll and had been inducted into the National Honor Society, too. It was all there. Page after page chronicling his young life.

  I felt a chill. Hearing such things from her lips had been creepy enough, but holding the proof of her fixation was even more disturbing.

  ''I'm not sure if her being so stuck on a kid she knew only for a few hours has anything to do with her death, but something's not right,'' Burl said.

  ''You mean with these albums?'' I asked, not understanding.

  ''That boy wasn't a stranger to her. It's obvious she loved him.''

  ''No kidding.'' But then it dawned on me where he was headed. ''You don't think he was
her
baby?''

  His smile was back. ''You may be green, but you're a thinker. If Jasper Olsen's wife bore another man's child, a black man's child, then Verna Mae was lucky to escape with her life. Knowing that nasty SOB, he mighta killed her.''

  ''You think she made up the story about finding Will? That she was forced to give away her own child?''

  ''I never explored that possibility. Not once. She was so . . . well,
hefty,
she could have hidden a pregnancy. What a stupid, greenhorn fool I was.'' He banged his forehead with the heel of his hand.

  I put the album back in the box and noticed something beneath the stack of scrapbooks—the corner of a brown paper sack. ''What's this?'' I said, lifting out the albums and setting them on the carpet.

  I pulled out the sack and started to peek inside.

  ''Let me do that.'' Burl took the bag and stood.

  Carefully he slid the contents onto the bed. Baby clothes. Tiny white shirts and one-piece sleepers. And a blanket of creamy, soft wool. I rose and fingered the blanket, turned a satin corner over to check the label.

  ''HANDMADE FOR POSH PRAMS

,'' I said.

  ''About nineteen years old, I'd say.'' He stared at it, his lips tight with anger. ''She lied to me, withheld evidence, and I never once questioned her about the kid possibly being hers. Sloppy police work, is all I can say.''

  ''Is the blanket really evidence?'' I asked. ''She could have bought it herself.''

  ''Right. When? You won't see a fancy blanket like this in Bottlebrush. She probably had to go to Houston to buy it. Did she rush there on that Sunday evening, buy the blanket, then keep it when Jasper called me to pick up the baby? Doesn't make sense, Abby.'' He carefully placed the blanket back in the sack, his shoulders slumped, his expression haggard. ''You or HPD need any assistance, call me. Meanwhile, I'll just hang on to this.''

  ''Giving me that blanket would help,'' I said.

  ''I'm thinking I'll ask around. Someone in town might know where Verna Mae got it.''

  ''But—''

  ''This is evidence collected during the execution of a warrant,'' he said. ''The blanket stays with me. Time you went home, Abby. Get some sleep. We'll talk again.''

4

I arrived home from Bottlebrush about three a.m. Although I was so tired I could have slept in a barrel, I had one irritated cat to deal with. Diva had been without a warm body to cuddle up to, and she wanted a Fancy Feast bribe before she'd make up with me. She made this very clear by hissing when I picked her up, jumping from my arms and racing through my small living room to the kitchen beyond.

  The answering machine was bleeping, too. She wasn't the only one who wanted my attention. While I pried open a can of Seafood Dinner, I punched the PLAY button and heard Will's voice.

  ''Hey, Abby. It's Will,'' he said in his slow, soft voice. ''Me and the parents had a call from some police guy. He told us Mrs. Olsen passed on. Give me a call right away, 'cause my parents are kinda bent. You got my cell number.''

  I didn't blame his parents for being upset. Murder is not what they signed up for. Since Jeff had already made his contact, I decided I was free to call my client—but not in the middle of the night. After dumping the cat food in Diva's dish, I trudged upstairs, stripped and fell into bed. I did set the alarm for seven a.m. If I wanted to speak to Will and his parents before my appointment with Jeff at headquarters, I needed an early start.

  It seemed like only seconds later that I was hitting the snooze button. I punched it twice more before I grabbed my phone off the nightstand and called Will. He answered after a few rings, obviously roused from sleep.

  True to the Will I was getting to know, he was far more polite than I would have been. ''Uh, hi, Abby.''

  ''Sorry I woke you.'' I sat cross-legged, my back against the headboard.

  ''No big deal. What's going on with this murder? I mean, that cop who called was stone serious, so it must be true.''

  ''Oh, it's true.'' I gave him a condensed version of what happened to Verna Mae, though I omitted my visit to Bottlebrush.

  ''The officer wanted to know where I was last night. Here with my friends and my parents is what I told him. Then he talked to Dad. They don't think I'd hurt her, do they? I mean—''

  ''Listen, Will, your parents would probably like to be around when we talk this over. How about I drop by in, say, thirty minutes?''

  ''Sure, okay. I'll let Mom know you're coming so she won't think you're some reporter knocking on the door. She is super-stressed about reporters, anyway. They're always hanging around during the season, and this sounds like something they'd love to dig into.''

  ''I'm sure they would. See you at eight.'' I disconnected.

  
Eight . . . jeez,
I thought as I closed my phone and set it on the nightstand. I got up, headed for the bathroom and stumbled over Jeff's running shoes. I couldn't complain: Mine were a few steps beyond his. I picked up both pairs and tossed them into a corner, saying, ''Cold water, work some magic. I need to get my brain in gear fast.''

I realized the coffee aversion that had surfaced last night after seeing Verna Mae buried in wet grounds was persisting, this enlightenment coming after I made an optimistic stop at a Starbucks drive-through on my way to the Knight home. The strong coffee smell waft ing out the window made me want to puke, so I ordered chai tea. Never had it before, but Kate swears by the stuff—not that I'd ever tell her I'd voluntarily ventured to the fringe of her organic, all-natural, soyfilled world. I needed caffeine if I planned to have a coherent conversation with anyone, and the girl at the window said the tea worked as well as a tall latte.

  Will's parents lived in an older, redbrick house on a wooded street in Bellaire, a city that blended with Houston on the southwest side near the Galleria shopping mall. Since it was Saturday morning, a few joggers manned the sidewalks, but most of Bellaire was still waking up. The air was thick with humidity after last night's rain, despite the early morning hour. So much for my refreshing shower. My skin felt sticky when I pressed the doorbell at the Knight home, and I wished I'd worn shorts and a tank top rather than jeans and a stretchy green shirt. This spandex fashion fixation was not created with Houston weather in mind.

  Mrs. Knight answered the door, and the cheery face I recalled from the last time we'd met was darkened by concern. ''Good morning, Ms. Rose. Will told us you were coming.'' She widened the door for me to enter.

  ''Like I said the other day, please call me Abby,'' I said.

  ''Sorry. I forgot. We're having breakfast and I made plenty. Can I fix you a plate?''

  ''Uh, sure. Sounds good.'' Hungry or not, I knew better than to refuse a meal. I didn't know Will's mom well enough yet to determine how hardcore Texan she was.

  She led me through a home eerily similar to my own with its small foyer and living area, but an overstuffed sectional sofa and a floor-to-ceiling stone fireplace offered the homey touch that my place lacked. I definitely needed a house makeover.

  The kitchen was larger than mine and obviously the center of family life. An additional fireplace with a love seat in front filled one corner. A curving breakfast bar separated the kitchen area from an alcove with built-in seating bordering the bay window. Will was sitting on the farthest edge of the cushioned bench so that his legs could stretch out unhindered by the pedestal base. His sandy-haired father sat across from him with the metro section of the
Houston Chronicle
spread out on the table. Probably reading about last night's murder.

  ''Sam, fetch Abby a chair from the dining room, would you?'' Annabelle Knight said.

  Sam Knight stood and smiled, as did his son. Weird seeing them together. Mr. Knight couldn't be more than two inches taller than me, which put him at about five-six or -seven. Then there was monster Will. He was so muscular and tall, he could have picked up his dad under one arm and his little bit of a mom under the other and jogged a couple miles.

  ''Morning, ma'am,'' Mr. Knight said before leaving to get the chair.

  ''Hey, Abby,'' Will said, his voice sleepy, his lids heavy with fatigue, though not heavy enough to mask his pale amber eyes. Bet the UT girls liked having this guy on campus.

  ''William Knight, is that how you address a young woman?'' his mother said.

  ''I told him to call me Abby, so it's fine,'' I said quickly.

  ''Then it's 'Good morning, Abby.' Not 'hey.' '' But she smiled a loving smile in her son's direction when he offered his sheepish ''Yes, ma'am'' reply.