Pushing Up Bluebonnets yrm-5 Read online

  "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 signatures. But I'd promised Cooper Boyd I'd do what I could to help identify his mystery woman.

  I went to my office and scanned and enhanced the xeroxed card, and printed out one copy for Aunt Caroline and one for me. Then I took two file boxes with my saved correspondence into the kitchen.

  "Get comfortable. This will take some time," I said.

  But she'd already brought in a throw cushion from the living room and tucked it between her back and the chair.

  She maintained slow-paced but intense interest in those letters and I asked her to speed up more than once. This wasn't story time at the library, though some of those letters did read like Shakespearean tragedies. Adoption is usually a wonderful thing and some of my cases have produced reunions that turned out to be dreams come true. But not everyone gets what they expect when they search for secrets in their past.

  In the three hours that followed, Aunt Caroline and

  I compared that small sample of handwriting over and over. I kept glancing her way wondering if this task was making her fatigued. Her doctored skin held up, but her shoulders slumped and she had to use lens solution several times. Plus she drank enough water to float the battleship Texas and that meant a hundred trips to the bathroom.

  "This seems like an exercise in futility," I finally said. I was getting even more worried about her. We were almost done and Jeff and I could finish this tonight after Doris went to bed. Yes, there was a much-anticipated sleepover planned. Besides, I didn't want Aunt Caroline asking me when I would need to start "cooking" for the expected company.

  "We're not quitting now, Abigail. It's only four o'clock. We can get the rest done in the next hour."

  "But—"

  "I have twelve letters in my 'maybe pile.' How many in yours?" she said.

  "Only six."

  "Let's plow through the rest and then revisit those remaining letters," she said.

  There was no arguing with Aunt Caroline—not ever. But even I was getting tired. "How about chocolate to get us through this, then?"

  She tilted her head and squirted more lens solution in her eyes. "Chocolate sounds wonderful."

  Two Ghirardelli dark bars later, Aunt Caroline and I were revived. She was downright giddy with energy.

  We started in again and I could understand why fingerprint experts used to be able to spot a matching print just by looking at it. It's because they'd compared that print over and over with hundreds of samples.

  The same thing happened to me when I picked up my second letter after our chocolate fix. I let out a "Yes, ma'am," and stood up with my arms raised, like a football fan whose team had scored the winning touchdown as the clock ran down.

  "You found it?" Aunt Caroline said. "Let me see."

  She started to grab for the letter, but I stepped away from her outstretched hand. "There could be fingerprints on this. Chief Boyd might be able to match them to the mystery woman." I walked to the kitchen drawer where I keep the Ziploc bags. Using my thumb and index finger, I carefully put the letter in a bag and walked back to the table.

  "I'll read it to you," I said.

  But this time, she was able to snatch the bagged letter before I could blink. She should consider pickpocket school, I decided.

  She read:

  Dear Ms. Rose,

  I learned about you from a Houston TV morning show. I am adopted and would like to find my birth family. If you could help me, I would very much appreciat
e it. Please let me know what you charge and use the enclosed stamped envelope for your answer.

  Yours truly,

  JoLynn Richter

  "May I please have that back? I need to call Chief Boyd."

  But Aunt Caroline was squinting, her gaze traveling between the letter and the copy of my business card. Then she leaned back. "I think this is the same handwriting."

  I wanted to say, "Um, yeah, 'cause it's as plain as the hand on the end of your arm," but I did appreciate her help and instead said, "Glad you agree. Now, I've got to phone Chief Boyd and then start dinner. Can I get you anything before you go?"

  Aunt Caroline started to rise and I could tell she was a little hurt that I seemed to be kicking her out—which I sort of was.

  But when her eyes rolled back and she crumbled to the floor, I quickly realized her expression had nothing to do with hurt feelings.

  3

  Terrified, I hurried over and knelt beside my aunt, fearing she'd had a heart attack. That's how my daddy— her brother—had died. Just keeled over and never took another breath. But when my shaking hand felt for a pulse, I discovered her heart was pumping hard and steady.

  Resting a hand on her cheek, I said her name, then got close to her face to make sure she was breathing. She smelled like she'd been chewing Juicy Fruit gum all day and that's when I knew what was wrong. I do occasionally read my Prevention magazines—Kate had given me a subscription as a Christmas gift.

  I leaned back on my heels and whispered, "You're a diabetic, Aunt Caroline."

  She was starting to come around and I wasn't about to let her run this rodeo. I pulled my cell from my pocket and called 911 before she fully opened her eyes. By the time the paramedics took her away, she was still almost as quiet as a sparrow in a hawk's nest, not hollering for them to leave her alone like I would have expected. She didn't even seem to know where she was. That meant she was definitely sick and I was definitely feeling guilty about that giant chocolate bar she'd eaten right before she passed out.

  I'd given this information to the paramedics, mentioned the fatigue and the hundred drinks of water and told them I'd be at Methodist Hospital as soon as I made some phone calls. No "cooking" tonight. Heck, now I even felt guilty about lying to Aunt Caroline about that.

  I called Kate first—she's a psychologist and was still at her office in the Medical Center. I told her what happened. She was upset, wondering immediately why she hadn't picked up on the symptoms. She had a client who was diabetic, after all. I decided we both needed to shelve the guilt trip and said I'd meet her at Methodist Hospital. Jeff was next on my call list, but he wasn't available, as usual, so I left a message. I was about to call Loreen, Doris's caretaker, when someone knocked on the door. I checked the security monitor and saw Loreen and Doris standing on the stoop holding hands.

  I opened the door and they stepped in out of the heat. After Doris gave me a big hug, she hurried off to find Diva. Meanwhile, I told Loreen what had happened.

  I said, "I have to go to the hospital, but if you could please stay here with Doris, order pizza and—"

  "I'm so sorry, Abby, but I can't. You know that guy I was telling you about? The one I met at the post office?"

  "Yes—Wyatt, right?"

  "He's taking me out dancing tonight. That's why I brought Doris a little early. I need time to go home and get ready." She smiled, unable to hide her excitement. "Any other time, but—"

  "Oh, I understand. That's great about Wyatt." I was happy for Loreen. Though she'd had a rough life as a street kid, she was a quality human being who loved Doris as much as we did. But why did the first date since I'd known Loreen have to be tonight?

  "I'm leaving," Loreen called, jingling her car keys.

  Doris came pounding from the direction of the kitchen, Diva clutched to her chest. When she arrived back in the foyer, she dropped the cat and wrapped her arms around Loreen, squeezing her as hard as she'd probably squeezed Diva.

  The cat was wise enough to race up the stairs while Doris wasn't looking.

  After Loreen left, I said, "Aunt Caroline—you remember her, right?"

  Doris pouted. "The lady with the white hair. She doesn't like me."

  "Who couldn't like you?" I smiled and placed my palm on Doris's cheek. "Anyway," I went on, "Aunt Caroline's very sick in the hospital. Think maybe you and I could visit her?"

  Doris's chubby cheek grew warm under my fingers. "Do I have to? Because when Linda went to the hospital, she never came back. I don't want us to never come back, Abby."

  Linda had been the caretaker in Seattle, the one whose death precipitated the move that brought Doris to Houston. I said, "You and I aren't sick. We'll just be visiting."

  She shook her head, crossed her arms over her chest. "Uh-uh. I don't want to. You said we'd watch Nemo and Dory. Dory's name is almost like mine and I like her a lot more than I like visiting places."

  I'd learned that though Doris was sweet and genuine most of the time, she could also be as willful as a twoyear-old. Kate would simply have to go to the hospital alone until Jeff arrived to stay with his sister.

  After I ordered a pepperoni pizza and Cinnamon Stix, and Doris started the Finding Nemo DVD, I stepped out of the living room and called Kate to explain the situation.

  "No problem, Abby. They won't let me see Aunt Caroline anyway. She's having all kinds of tests."

  "You're at Methodist already?" I said.

  "It's not like I had far to go," she answered.

  Duh. Kate probably walked to the hospital. "Sorry, I'm not firing on all cylinders after the day I've had. I promise I'll be there as soon as I can."

  "I know you will," she said, and hung up.

  I closed my phone and shook my head. She sounded sad. And probably not only because of Aunt Caroline's illness. Kate's clients depended on her for answers and wisdom, and my guess was that she was putting up a good front, but that she knew it was a front—and that made her feel like a fraud. I know how her mind works.

  "When's Jeffy coming?" Doris called.

  I went back to the living room and sat on the chenille sofa. Doris was lying on the floor, belly down, chin supported by her fists. She paused the DVD and rolled onto her back and sat up.

  "I'm not sure," I said.

  "When Jeffy gets here, you stay. We can do a puzzle."

  "Sorry, sweetie. I have to see my aunt. She's sick."

  Doris's lower lip quivered and a big, fat tear rolled down one cheek. "Abby, I don't want you to die."

  I sat next to her on the floor. This time Doris received the hug rather than giving one out. "I won't die. I promise."

  She pulled away and I grabbed a tissue box from a corner table and offered it to her.

  She blew her nose. "I miss Mom and Dad and Linda."

  "I know. I miss my daddy, too."

  "You loved your daddy, huh? You talk about him a lot."

  I willed back tears. "I sure did love him."

  "He taught you good stuff. He taught you to shoot. Jeffy won't let me touch his gun. Will you teach me to shoot, Abby?"

  I tried not to look horrified. "No, Doris. Jeff wouldn't want that and neither do I."

  "But why? Then I can help you and Jeffy because Loreen says your jobs are scary."

  "We won't leave you, Doris. I promise."

  She smiled. "You promise?"

  "I swear."

  That seemed to satisfy her and she returned to her movie. Jeff didn't arrive until the third replay of Finding Nemo, which I was ready to retitle Finding Jeffy. I'd called him several times without luck—even tried Travis Center, where Homicide Division is housed on the sixth floor, but the officer I spoke with said he was out in the field.

  Finally I heard his key in the back door and Doris and I went to meet him in the kitchen. Time for Doris to dole out another bear hug.

  He said, "How are my two best girls?" He was chewing Big Red and that meant he probably hadn't had the best day on the job.

  "We're—"

 
But Doris interrupted me. "The mean lady with the white hair is gonna die and Abby's sad."

  "No one is going to die, Doris." My patience was running thin. Doris had clung to me all night, unable to completely let go of her fear despite our talk. It seemed like every five minutes she paused the DVD to get my reassurance that I wouldn't leave her.

  Jeff ran a hand through his short blond hair and took the Big Red pack from his pocket. But when he saw Doris eyeing the gum, he returned it without taking out a stick. He had recently spent a small fortune on dental work for his sister. Unfortunately the late Linda had allowed Doris to drink Coke and eat candy all day.

  "Doris, let Abby explain, okay?" he said.

  "Okay. We saved pizza for you," she said before turning abruptly and returning to her movie.

  "Why didn't you call me back?" I said.

  Jeff reached in his pants pocket and took out his cell. "Dead. Won't recharge. Won't do anything. I used a department phone all day. I should have called and given you the number. Now, what is Doris talking about?"

  "Aunt Caroline collapsed. She's at Methodist and I promised Kate I'd join her as soon as you came." I explained what happened and how Loreen couldn't stay tonight.

  "Wow. Sorry, hon." He pulled me to him. "We're working a complicated case and I couldn't leave the scene."

  I stood on tiptoe and kissed him. "You're forgiven. But I really have to go. Last time I checked in with Kate, Aunt Caroline was finishing up her tests and being admitted. She should be in her hospital room by now."

  "Then get going." Jeff opened the trash compactor and spit out his gum before opening the pizza box.

  I whispered, "Doris is pretty freaked out. She thinks if I go visit Aunt Caroline, I'll never leave the hospital alive."

  "Thanks for the heads-up. I'll deal with her."

  I grabbed my keys from the hook by the door and brushed his lips with mine before I left. I didn't say good-bye to Doris. She and I would both be better off without further discussion concerning the danger of hospitals.

  Fifteen minutes later, I was looking for a parking spot close to Methodist. I realized I'd been on a similar hunt in the Medical Center earlier today—at Cooper Boyd's request. "Cooper. Oh no." I thunked my forehead with my palm before maneuvering into an angled spot on about the hundredth floor of the garage. I'd forgotten to call him with the JoLynn Richter information. I waited until I was off the elevator and walking toward the hospital before I dialed his number from the business card he'd given me.