Heaven to Betsy (Emily #1) (18 page)

Two Tylenol PMs and a few large glasses of Mother’s boxed white zinfandel had silenced the voices in my head last night, but I’d awoken three times, screaming. Each time, it was Valentina’s face I saw. Once, the girl was calling my name. She was dressed in an odd skirt with white markings on her face and a funny hat that stuck up around her head like the rays from the sun—the way a child would draw them. Once, she was bloody and lifeless. The last time, around six a.m., she lay in a coffin.

I knew further sleep was futile. The scent of coffee already filled the house, so I rose.

I padded on bare feet to the kitchen. “Mother?”

She looked like a ghost in her long white gown, standing at the sink. She turned to me. “You should be in bed.”

“I couldn’t sleep.” I poured myself coffee into an extra-large, blue ceramic mug and added some powdered hazelnut creamer. Stirring, I said, “Nightmares. No cramping or bleeding, though. I think the worst has passed.”

She turned back to the sink, and I saw that she was staring out the window into the predawn darkness. Her coffee cup sat full beside her on the counter.

“I’m sorry, you know,” she said.

“About what?” I asked.

“Being rough on you. Pushing you about Rich.”

I absorbed her apology. My response didn’t come easily to my lips. “Thank you,” I said, finally. “And I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner. I’m sorry that you won’t be having a grandbaby yet.”

At my words, her shoulders heaved. I went to her, put my hand on her shoulder as she sobbed, “I’ve been so lonely for so long.”

I pulled her into a hug and rubbed between her shoulder blades, hushing her. “Shhh. It’s going to be okay.”

“After you, I had miscarriages, you know. Tubal pregnancies.”

My stomach twisted, hurting for us both. “I didn’t know.”

“Finally, I just gave up. And your father . . .” She took a few deep breaths and pulled back until she held my eyes with her own, wounded. “I don’t want to drive you away, too, Emily.”

I stood frozen in her gaze, immobilized in the minefield of our shattered memories, losses, and fears. When I spoke, I tiptoed through them, half-expecting an explosion with every syllable. “You are my mother, and I am your daughter. That’s forever.”

She tightened her hold on me, her hug fierce and desperate, and I hugged her back just as hard. Behind me, the kitchen clock tick-tocked its witness to my promise. Then she released me.

She didn’t bother to wipe her tears, just grabbed her coffee and asked, “Toast?”

“That would be perfect.”

We ate together in silence, taking turns with the sections of the newspaper. My hands shook as I held the sports section, and I laid it on the table to read.

After breakfast I showered and retreated to my room. I closed the door and leaned back against it, exhaling slowly. Long minutes passed while I just breathed. When my shaking stopped, I stood and tried to figure out what to do with myself. Not long term, just for the next few hours. All I had to do was figure out right now, nothing else.

My coffee with Nadine was at nine thirty and my doctor’s appointment wasn’t until eleven, so I had an hour and a half to fill; I didn’t want to spend it thinking about a legacy of never-to-be-real babies. I booted up the desktop computer Mother kept in there on a little table. I checked my personal email. I had responses from both of the jobs I’d inquired about yesterday. I drummed three fingers on my desk and decided that I didn’t want to pursue them. Not now anyway. But I didn’t want to close any doors either, just in case. I moved them to my “saved” folder.

I texted Jack:
I’ll be out today.

I figured he could guess why. I started to type more, but I couldn’t decide what to say, so I stopped and hit send.

Then I wrote a quick email to Rich, whom I prayed had flown home last night:
Went straight to ER after your visit. Lost baby. I’m sorry. Appreciate no further correspondence.

I hit send, and then a new email appeared in my inbox. I didn’t recognize the address: [email protected]. I opened it.

Sofia mentioned a man she called Antonio.

That was it, and there was no name at the bottom.

Antonio. The same first name as the man who had rented the apartment Sofia and Valentina lived in, per Wallace. Could this Antonio be the same person? It seemed highly unlikely he wouldn’t be. I hit reply.

Thank you for contacting me. Who are you? Can we talk?

I clicked on send.

I sat stock-still, hand on the mouse, thinking. Who could have sent the email? It had to be someone who was involved with Sofia or Valentina and knew that I was, too. Maria Delgado. Michael Q. Scott. Victoria. The employees I’d interviewed at the hotel. For that matter, Wallace, Melinda, Jack, or someone from the jail. Any of them could have sent it.

Who would have my personal email, though? Or who could have found it? But then I remembered something. I pulled up Google and typed in my own name. Several entries came up. My LinkedIn profile. My Facebook profile. And my old blog,
Just Emil
y. I hadn’t posted on it in over a year. I clicked through to the “About” page. I read my bio:

Wife, daughter, legal professional, and rodeo enthusiast. I’m many things to many people, but underneath it all, I’m really just me, just Emily.

Wow, that needed an update. Beneath the bio, my email address. The one I’d just heard from AmarilloMama on. So it could be anyone. Truly, anyone.

My insides churned. For twelve hours, I’d thought of nothing but myself, and nothing of Valentina, while she was out there somewhere, captive, or, God forbid, victim. If nothing else in my life had been real, I knew this little girl and her plight were. My heart pounded a call to action. Someone had contacted me, because they believed I was the right person for this information. That I was the one Valentina could count on. Not the police. Not CPS. Me.

If I’d wanted to find Valentina before, now I was consumed by the need—like a terrible thirst. Well, I wasn’t at work today. Jack couldn’t tell me no. I pulled a piece of paper out of the printer and started making two lists: 1) Facts and 2) Questions. The list of my questions was twice as long as the facts.

It was past time to get serious about finding this girl.

***

I was hard at work when Nadine spotted me, making up for lost time on volume consumption of caffeine. The round Roaster’s logo haloed her head as she walked up to my table, and she neatly blocked out its picture of a bright red mug. It made her look a little angelic, except for her facial piercings and dark arm tattoos. Well, those, the Harley outside, the pack of Pall Malls in her shirt pocket and her biker boots and chains. But, still, more angelic than it probably sounds. She was right on time, and I was early. I’d camped out in Roaster’s Coffee two hours ago, sitting with my back facing the window and my front toward the counter service and its blonde wood veneers, and a great view from my seat of the trophy pronghorn antelope mounted on the wall.

“Emily?”

“Hi, Nadine.”

“Hey,” she said. “I’m just going to grab a coffee and be right back.”

“Sounds good.”

She joined the long line at the counter. I looked for a stopping place on my research and made a few quick notes. I’d spent the last two hours trying to find Antonio Rosa and Harvey Dulles. So far, I didn’t have much to show for my effort, especially with Antonio. Sure, I’d found some people with the name, but no mention of any in Amarillo in the last ten years—except from the mouth of Michael Q. Scott and the email of AmarilloMama. There was no reason the Antonio I was looking for couldn’t be from elsewhere, though. I found one in Lubbock: deceased. One in prison in Oklahoma: not promising. One in Houston: long shot. One in Billings, Montana: also deceased. I tried looking for an Antonio in conjunction with the names Sofia and Valentina, and that didn’t add a single thing to my results. I even tried him with ESL and ΣSL. Zero, zip, nada.

I did a little better with Harvey. All I had to do was call the probation department for Potter County and ask to be connected with his probation officer. Two transfers later, I verified Harvey’s address and employment. Only I knew he wasn’t living at the address the crotchety old male voice had barked at me, which I wasn’t able to share with him because he hung up on me so fast. But I hadn’t known Harvey worked road maintenance for the Texas Department of Transportation, so the call had been worth it.

So I phoned TxDOT and learned that Mr. Dulles no longer worked there, a fact over which I expressed deep dismay, because poor Mr. Dulles’s father had died and I couldn’t find him to let him know. The very young-sounding woman with the high-pitched voice on the other end of the line told me that I should try the Polo Club, because that’s where his supervisor had found him when he hadn’t shown up for work.

“Leering at strippers,” she added. “And drinking al-co-hol.”

I had years of practice adapting to this line of conversation, in my own home, no less. “Oh no. It seems Mr. Dulles has strayed from the path.”

She dropped her voice. “I don’t mean to sound un-Christian, ma’am, but I’m not sure he was ever on it.”

We ended our call, and I pulled the Polo Club up online.

The interesting thing (to me) about this fine entertainment and libation establishment—besides that a strip club called themselves a Polo Club—was that they were mere blocks from my old high school, in a nice area of town, right next to the city Girl Scouts of America offices. Anyway, they didn’t open until four-thirty, but I would definitely be checking them out later.

A text came in from Jack, and it made me happy to see his name on my phone:
Take care. Let me know how you are
.

I wondered if it was a good idea that I was developing a crush on my impossible boss who was still hung up on his ex-wife. Probably not. And probably a rebound crush anyway. I needed to get over my divorce before I started thinking about other men. And then I needed to focus on something—someone—real.

I thumb-typed quickly:
Headed to doctor now. I’ll let you know if I need to be out after today. Thanks for rescuing me yesterday.

Nadine set a foamy mug down on the table, the clack of the cup pulling me out of my work. She bounced into the seat at my three o’clock, bobbing and wriggling a few times to get comfortable. The small chairs weren’t quite enough for her ample curves, and her thighs and bottom spilled over the sides.

I slid my papers aside. “I am so glad you could come. I’ve kind of had a poopy last day or two, and this is a high spot.”

She peered across the table at me, a serious look on her face. “Whoa, if coffee with me is the high spot, then we need to get you laid or something, fast.”

If I’d had coffee in my mouth, she’d’ve been wearing it. “I think I need to hold off on that until we get my female medical issues straightened out.”

“Girly problems? Yuck.” She pulled the cigarettes out of her pocket and started rotating the packet in her fingers.

“Miscarriage. Headed to the doctor after this.”

“Mary, mother of Jesus!” she said. “I’m so sorry. And, of course, ignore me on the getting laid part. Nadine opens mouth and inserts her big, fat freakin’ foot.”

“Nah, you’re fine,” I said.

She put the cigarette pack on the table. “I had a miscarriage before I had my first son.” She inhaled, nodded, exhaled, like she was toking weed or something, which I had never done, but had witnessed Rich do repeatedly enough back at Tech. Maybe I had tried it, courtesy of secondhand smoke. “It happens. It’s awful. But I’m sure you’ll be pregnant again in no time.”

I hoped not soon, but someday. I changed the subject. “So, you worked at My Thai last night?”

“No, My Thai is my part-time day job. I take some late shifts as a bartender now and then.”

“I’ll bet there’s more money in bartending.”

“Especially where I work. I have to put up with a high douche-baggery-to-IQ ratio, but other than that it’s fine.”

Again she would have made me spew out my drink in shock. “Sounds interesting. Which bar?”

She grinned. “It is. The Polo Club. And no, I don’t dance. I just push the booze.”

My mouth dropped.

She saw my expression and said, “I know, I know. Objectification of women. Exploitation via the sex industry. Even working there perpetuates it. I’ve heard it before. But I prefer to think of it as a smart woman taking advantage of the weakness of men.”

I grinned. “No, I was thinking I had planned to go to there this afternoon, to track down a witness in a case.”

“Are you a cop?”

“Legal assistant. My boss is a criminal defense attorney.”

“You should give me a stack of his business cards. I could keep him busy from here to eternity.”

Business cards—something I should probably get ahold of. If I was going to stick with this job, I needed cards of my own, too.

“I’ll bring you some,” I said. Then I reached into my bag and shuffled through papers for the picture of Harvey Dulles. I held it up and asked, “Does he look familiar?”

“Harvey? He lives there. Literally, for the last few weeks, he’s there every time I am. Sits at the bar and drinks Crown and Coke, slow and easy. Drinks and stares.”

I half-jumped to my feet in excitement. My abdomen chided me, and I sat back down very gently. “That’s who I’m looking for!”

She smiled, and it pulled one corner of her mouth up, like Jack, but without the dimple, and plus one nose ring. “Fun. Can I be of any help?”

I grabbed Spike’s picture and slapped it in front of her. “Have you ever seen him with this guy?”

A man’s voice spoke before Nadine could answer. “Emily?”

Inwardly, I shouted,
Can’t you see we’re having a conversation here?
Outwardly, I hit the tape mark on the stage, tilted my head, and flashed my pearly whites. Which reminded me that I really needed to pick up a pack of whitening strips at the store. Coffee, tea, and soda were not a friend to sparkly teeth. I greeted my mother’s boss.

“Pastor Robb. How are you?”

“Good, although worried about you. Your mother sent around a prayer request for you again last night.” He pulled at the collar of his sweater. His face was so florid I wanted to fan him with Spike’s picture.