A Wedding To Die For yrm-2 Page 6

  I nodded. “She needs that strength now. A murder investigation is not like on television, over in an hour. It will take its toll.”

  We turned at the sound of a door closing off the balcony and seconds later Megan appeared, rushed down the stairs, and handed me an envelope.

  “Here it is,” she said. “And I’ll call you once we have all this funeral and legal stuff under control.” Her eyes still glistened with tears. “I hope you don’t think I was rude dragging you out of the kitchen. I am so grateful for—”

  I pulled her close and hugged her. “No need for explanations. Call me anytime. I mean that.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered.

  Travis put a protective arm around her as I opened the door and left.

  I picked up a Subway sandwich on my way home and then ate in front of the television. I spent the rest of the evening in the living room unpacking boxes of knickknacks and pictures while the complete Beatles collection provided musical accompaniment. I used the remote to skip my least favorite song, the one about how all you need is love. There are lies and there are damn lies. That song was a damn lie.

  Diva and I had just settled into bed around eleven when I heard Jeff’s truck pull into the driveway. I tensed. Things had shifted between us as they inevitably do in relationships, my jealousy having created the tipping point. My fault. How I hated when things were my fault.

  So make this right, idiot. Apologize for being such a twit on the way home yesterday.

  I lifted the quilt and sat, slipped my feet into my slippers, then couldn’t seem to move. I leaned forward, palms over my face, my heart beating double time. I took a few deep breaths to get control of my emotions. How dumb is this, Abby? You’re thirty years old.... You’ve been married before, and yet you’re acting like—

  “Hi,” Jeff said from the bedroom doorway.

  I raised my head, met his gaze. He had loosened his burgundy tie and held his tweed sports jacket over his shoulder.

  “Hi,” I said quietly.

  “Can we talk?” he said.

  Now those are words guaranteed to make any woman go liquid, especially coming from a guy who could make me melt just by licking his lips. I kicked off the slippers, sat crossed-legged on the bed, and patted the space next to me. “Do you even know what we need to talk about?”

  “No, but I sure as hell hope to find out.” He tossed the jacket on the chair in the corner, carefully removed his gun and badge and placed them on the tall dresser. After plumping a pillow against the head-board, he sat down beside me. “What’s got you so upset?”

  “You and your damn girlfriend,” I said.

  “My girlfriend? I think that’s you, last time I checked.”

  “You’ve slept with her, haven’t you?”

  We both looked straight ahead and a long silence followed.

  “That obvious, huh?” he finally said.

  “I can read you with one eye tied behind my back,” I said.

  “You’re scary.”

  “No. I’m a good detective.”

  “So you are. Anyway, it was a long time ago. Ten years. Big mistake. Back then all that mattered to me was what a girl looked like. I’d just started in Homicide and though lots of guys turn to booze after they’ve worked a year of scenes, I turned to women. I met Quinn through her dad—he was chief of police in Seacliff and—”

  “I know that, too.”

  “That I’d worked with her dad?”

  “No. Knew he was police chief. Go on.”

  “Did you research Quinn on the Internet or something?” he asked.

  “I’ll tell you how I found out about him later. Right now, we have more important stuff to discuss.”

  “Okay.” He took a deep breath and reached for the gum in his shirt pocket. He had two sticks of Big Red working before he went on. “I met her when I gave some expert help on a manslaughter case in Seacliff. Quinn’s father told me his daughter wanted to get into the academy, asked me if I could pull some strings.”

  “And then pretty soon you were pulling her strings,” I said.

  “Yeah,” he said. “That’s about right.”

  “I can understand your interest. She’s... very attractive.”

  “On the outside. And like I said, back then that’s all that mattered. Anyway, I broke it off after a couple months. She was too intense for me, not to mention too young.”

  “You broke it off? How did that go over?”

  “Not so good.” He chewed his gum faster. “Let’s say she didn’t let go easily.”

  “You two seemed to have forgotten about all that from what I saw yesterday.”

  “It’s old business, Abby,” he said. “She has a job to do and isn’t afraid to ask for help, which means she’s matured.”

  “I’m not afraid to ask for help, either. But when I asked what you discussed with her, you wouldn’t tell me.”

  He moved in front of me, mirrored my cross-legged position, now chewing far more languidly. “So this isn’t just about Abby being jealous. This is about Abby’s insatiable need to know everything and maybe dip her toes in some dangerous water.”

  His blue-ice detective stare worked like it probably does on every suspect he interrogates, and I made myself stare right back even though I wished I had a trap door in the mattress to escape through.

  “Is that a crime?” I asked.

  Putting his index finger on my chin, he applied pressure and my head lowered. “Get your nose out of the air. Curiosity is not a crime for you—more like a lifestyle—and I obviously acted like an ass yesterday. But this business with Quinn? Well, you know I’m not so hot at mixing personal stuff with police business.”

  I smiled. “You are definitely not so hot in that department. But you are so good in other departments, it makes up for it. So let’s get personal.”

  He smiled and ditched the gum.

  5

  The next morning, I traveled south again, switching the car radio station back and forth between NPR and a local talk show for entertainment. Some days I am easily amused. Forty-five minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot at St. Mary’s Hospital and stepped out into more typical south Texas weather than the previous frigid days: temperature in the low sixties, gray skies, and enough humidity to make even big hair wilt.

  After entering the St. Mary’s lobby with my leather attaché in hand, I stopped at the information desk situated in front of a floor-to-ceiling aquarium and was given directions to the baby ward. I rode the elevator alone and soon found myself staring through picture windows at five clear bassinets holding infants wrapped up like sausages in their white receiving blankets. I was looking at three boys and two girls from their color-coded knit caps.

  A woman in fuchsia surgical scrubs, maybe mid-fifties, spotted me and smiled broadly. She came around through a door to my left and said, “Which sweetheart do you belong to? I’ll bring the baby closer to the window for you.”

  “Though I would love to belong to one of these sweethearts, I came about a baby who was born here many years ago. Can I ask you a few questions?” I took out a business card, the one identifying Yellow Rose Investigations as specializing in adoptions.

  I handed it to her, and while she read, I noted the picture ID hanging from a lanyard identifying her as C. Worthington, R.N.

  “If this is about an adoption, I can’t talk about it,” she said kindly, handing the card back. “All patient records are confidential.”

  I opened my attaché and produced the notarized release of information letter Megan had addressed to the hospital, the one I used the last time I came here and spoke to the administrator.

  She looked, but didn’t touch. “Did you go through administration, Ms. Rose?”

  “Yes. Worked with a Mr. Hansen.” I didn’t add that I had bypassed him today. Before she could question me further, I exchanged the release letter for the birth certificate. “This young woman hired me to help her find her mother. Megan Beadford was here once, just like those c
ute little kids beyond the window.”

  The nurse shifted her gaze to the bassinets, her eyes softening. “They are so precious when they sleep. So wonderful.” She refocused on me. “But as much as I’d like to help, I don’t see how I can, Ms. Rose.”

  “How long have you worked here?” I asked.

  “Ten years, and from the date on the birth certificate, your client made her entrance into the world long before I arrived on the scene.”

  “Okay, but maybe you know someone who’s worked here longer.”

  She squinted in thought, then said, “No. And if you got no help from Sister Nell, then—”

  “Sister Nell?”

  “The medical records administrator. But I assume that’s where Mr. Hansen directed you first.”

  A baby started wailing—the boy in the middle crib. The nurse glanced back at him and smiled her loving, unruffled smile.

  I said, “You probably need to take care of him, so—”

  “Darien’s had everything I can offer,” she said evenly. “Fed, burped, changed, rocked. He’s fine.”

  I looked uneasily at the wide-mouthed Darien. The kid was into a rhythm and getting louder and more red faced by the second. But since Nurse Worthington wasn’t responding to his screams, I went on. “I visited with Mr. Hansen several weeks ago. When he could find nothing during his computer search, he said he would contact medical records and get back to me.”

  “And did he?” Her crossed arms and amused features told me she knew plenty about Mr. Hansen—stuff I obviously did not.

  “I had to call him back.”

  She nodded knowingly.

  I said, “He told me medical records only had baby charts that went back twenty years.”

  “Really? I suggest you speak directly with Sister Nell. She’s been here since they opened St. Mary’s doors.”

  “Sister Nell. Does she have a last name or—”

  “Everyone knows Sister Nell. You’ll find her.”

  More noise erupted from the peanut gallery, but the nurse remained unperturbed, despite my sincere belief that Darien, who’d woken the rest of his buddies, was about to burst a blood vessel in his head. I had to get out of here. “Thanks. Is medical records on the first floor?”

  She nodded and gave me a little wave, then turned and walked back into the nursery.

  Meanwhile I hightailed it to the elevator. If this job would be taking me to more maternity wards in the future, I wasn’t sure I could stay in the business.

  Back downstairs, the open door to medical records revealed an office with a fatigued-looking receptionist wearing a white shirt as pale as her face. Her desk was piled with file folders. There were doors on either side of her desk and one behind her.

  “My name is Abby Rose and I’m looking for Sister Nell.” I put the business card on the woman’s desk.

  She glanced at it just as the phone rang, then waved me in the direction of the door behind her before she picked up the receiver.

  I followed a tile path around the desk and stopped in the entry to what I assumed was Sister Nell’s office. Though the receptionist’s desk had been piled ominously high, every available square foot in this room was stacked with books, binders, and manila file folders. Apparently the front desk was the first port of call and everything eventually ended up here.

  A graying kinky-haired woman sat at a desk against the left wall staring at a computer screen, her back to me. The monitor was not elevated, and she had to crane her neck and hunch her shoulders.

  “Bet you go to bed with a backache,” I said.

  She jerked around, hand to her heart. “Mercy, young woman, you scared the bejesus out of me.”

  She wore a navy blue sweater, white high-collar blouse, and a charcoal-colored skirt. So where was her nun’s veil?

  “Sorry if I startled you,” I said. “But your monitor is too low. That can cause back pain.” Weird image, I thought. Nuns and computers just didn’t seem to go together.

  “Oh, you’re the technician. Every time I turn around they’ve got someone new.” She rolled her chair away from the desk. “Have at this evil machine. I cannot seem to make it do my bidding.”

  “What’s the problem?” I came around cardboard file boxes filled to overflowing with documents.

  “I keep losing the network and I have files to upload, files to download, files to scan, files, nothing but files. And forgive me if I make it sound like a Shakespearean tragedy, but it’s the God’s truth.” She took a deep breath, fingering the crucifix hanging around her neck.

  “Hmmm. Could be something simple.” I got down on my hands and knees and checked the network cable running beneath her desk to the wall jack, saw the problem, and looked up at her. “I think you have a furry friend, one who likes to gnaw.”

  “The mouse?” She had joined me on the floor. “I’ve been trying to catch that little bastard for a week.”

  Little bastard? I smiled to myself. I might just like Sister Nell. I pointed to tiny teeth marks on the cable. “He’ll zap himself if he takes a bigger bite, but my guess is he’s learned his lesson. All you need is an undamaged line and you’ll be fine.”

  She steepled her hands and raised her green eyes to the ceiling. “Praise God they sent me someone with some common sense this time.”

  I stood and offered her a hand up, which she gratefully accepted. She was a lean, fit-looking woman, but I did hear her knees crack when she rose.

  “I may have common sense, but I don’t work here,” I said.

  “Really?” Her eyes crinkled with delight. “Perhaps I should buy an extra lottery ticket then, since this seems to be my lucky day. Of course I’d share the ten million with you if I knew your name.”

  “Abby Rose,” I said. “I came to ask you a few questions.”

  “Hang on a sec, Abby.” She picked up her office phone and dialed four numbers. “Roger, I need a new cable for my computer.”

  She listened, then said, “How would I know—”

  “You need an Ethernet cable,” I said.

  She relayed this information with a satisfied smile and hung up. “You are quite a useful, young woman. Quite competent. What can I do for you?”

  I glanced around. “Can we, um... sit?”

  “Oh, God forgive me, yes. Don’t have many visitors aside from doctors and they never sit.” She wove her way through the clutter—reminded me of home—and opened a closet door on the far wall. Several thin boxes fell from a shelf and hospital stationery spilled everywhere. A broom toppled as well. “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” she muttered before returning with a padded folding chair. She left the fallen items where they lay.

  Once we were seated with her swivel chair facing me, I handed her my card. “I’m helping a young woman find her birth mother and not having much luck. Maybe you can help.”

  After glancing at the card, she put it down, pursed her lips, and closed her eyes, wagging a finger. “If it’s a medical record you need, let me assure you they are like a nun’s dreams—not to be shared with the public.”

  “I understand, but could I explain? That might give you a better idea on how you might help me.”

  “Well, you’ve certainly helped me out, so if I can do a damn thing—make that a blessed thing—I will.”

  I told her about the case, including my conversation with the nurse today. The more I talked, the more tight her features grew.

  When I finished, she said, “Let me see your confidentiality release and the birth certificate.”

  I removed the birth certificate from the envelope and handed it to her along with the release. After returning them, she sat back, lips tight with anger. “I am not without fault, won’t ever be nominated for sainthood, but I don’t abide liars.”

  Liars? What the heck was she talking about? “Have I done something wrong?”

  “Not you, dear. Him.”

  “Him?”

  “Our administrator. But I suppose when you mix the healing arts with business, you should expe
ct that kind of behavior. Mr. Hansen told you the records went back only twenty years?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s a damn lie and he knows it. He was simply too lazy to follow through on your request.”

  Whoa. Obviously there was more about Mr. Hansen she’d be willing to share, but I tried to get her back on track. “I returned to pursue this, so it’s okay.”

  “It’s not okay and he will hear about this. And then he better get his fat ass to confession.” She crossed her arms and leaned back. And then unexpectedly grinned. “Of course, I’ll be right alongside him, don’t you know?”

  I laughed, felt myself relax. “Bet you will.”

  “Now,” she said, “let’s get to work on your Megan.” She put her hands on the keyboard, then stopped. “Damn. Where’s Roger with that cable?”

  She picked up the phone and dialed the four numbers again. “Roger? When did you think you’d get that stupid cable over here? Next year?” She put down the receiver without saying good-bye and smiled at me. “I tend to annoy people. That’s why I work alone.”

  “I call it the broken-record technique,” I said.

  “I like that. And broken records are actually good for something. They get results.”

  Seconds later the man who I assumed was Roger scurried in carrying the cable. Sister Nell rose and backed away from her desk, bumping into a filing cabinet when she did. She clutched her elbow and winced, but if she swore this time I didn’t hear her.

  Once Roger made the switch, she returned to her computer and booted up.

  “Hand me the certificate again,” she said.

  After I gave it to her, she checked the date and gave it back.

  I was about to return it to my briefcase, but then realized I’d never looked at the copy after Megan gave it to me, not gotten “the good look” Angel suggested.

  I stared down at it now and noticed a small difference in the darkness of the type in spots. The hospital name definitely seemed lighter than both Megan’s and her adopted parents’ names. And I noted a smudge beneath “U.S.A.” in the country of birth box. Did this mean anything? Or—