Leann Sweeney - Dead Giveaway

Forced to change clothes again, I chose something more appropriate for dinner downtown. Not a skirt, but khaki pants and a pink striped shirt that did not show my belly button even though I was pretty proud of my abs. I'd been running and working out with Jeff for almost a year.

The downtown streets were still crowded with late afternoon shoppers, but I managed to find a parking place in a theater district garage. I enjoyed a pleasant breeze as I walked two blocks to Birraporetti's, a fun Italian restaurant with "a heck of an Irish bar," as they liked to advertise.

Drummond was waiting for me at the hostess station, as eager as a groom in the last hour of the reception. I hate mentioning my money. It makes people act like they wouldn't be surprised if I spit a few gold nuggets at their feet before I spoke.

Drummond's infectious smile was the same as in the photo. He wore a charcoal suit, probably Armani, but I didn't think he could button that jacket if push came to shove. Not over the banjo belly. I never mentioned when I called that this wasn't about forging a relationship with him to manage my millions, so he was about to be let down big time.

"How good is your memory?" I asked, after we were seated in a booth far from the noisy bar and had given our drink order.

"As good as it should be, Ms. Rose. I manage a hundred clients, and if it weren't confidential information, I could tell you what the earnings are to date on their portfolios without so much as a glance at my computer. I customize to meet their individual goals, as any good money manager should."

I took a card from my purse and handed it to him. "Wonderful. Then I'm sure your memory can help me."

He kept the smile going. "Your father was quite the entrepreneur. I wish we could have met, but you—" He looked down at my card and fought to hide his confusion. "You, um, have a business of your own aside from your late father's?"

"Yes. Not as lucrative, but far more satisfying."

He rebounded quickly. "Great. I assume you're looking for help building and maintaining your assets while you pursue your new project?"

"It's not about money, Mr. Drummond. Sorry."

Though he was beginning to understand I hadn't met him here to hire him, he was still optimistic. I suppose that's what financial planners specialize in— optimism.

"I'd be excited to help you with anything, Ms. Rose."

I'd printed out the youth group picture and I placed it in front of him. "Do you remember any of these people?"

He picked the page up, stared at it for a second. "Where did you get this?"

"At the Church of the Reverent Life."

"Whoa. That was aeons ago. What I remember most is that life did not turn out too well for a few of my friends. A good life takes planning and hard work, Ms. Rose. When we're done with your inquiries, I hope you'll let me give you a quick little summary of the services I—"

"I'm sure you remember Lawrence as one of those unfortunate people you were referring to?" I cut in.

"Yes. He was a good guy. Ballplayer. Never understood why he messed up his life like that. For a stupid fifty dollars. Never made sense."

"What if he didn't mess up his life? What if someone else messed it up for him, set him up?"

"Are you serious?"

"Serious as Greenspan. I know Lawrence's story, probably better than anyone does right now, but I want to learn more about Sara Rankin. This picture was taken in '86. Did she continue attending meetings in '87? More specifically, was she present the night Lawrence was arrested?"

Before he could answer, my chardonnay and his scotch on the rocks arrived. We both sipped our drinks, and then Drummond said, "I believe she'd left the country sometime within the month before the murder on a mission trip to Mexico."

"She didn't come back?"

Drummond pursed his lips, shook his head sadly. "They never found her body as far as I know. She fell off some mountain carrying water to a campsite. Sweetest girl you'd ever meet. I had a crush on her for a year."

"Did anyone else have a crush on her?"

"I think all the guys did, which I'm sure worried her parents."

"How old was she?" I asked.

"Sixteen. Having a minister for a father is probably difficult for a girl—especially ultraconservatives like Pastor and Mrs. Rankin. Sara was strong-willed, though. Used to argue religious points better than anyone. If she'd wanted to date, I think she would have."

"But she didn't?"

"I don't think so. She was too busy with social causes. Smart and pretty and caring. Can you blame me for liking her?" He drained his glass, then swished the ice around. "After spending more time with Lawrence during our meetings, she pulled her name from the Confederate Legion Debutante list, said she couldn't justify taking part after getting to know him. That annoyed the pastor, I can tell you."

"How did you know?"

"Overheard a little argument. He couldn't keep up his end, though. She was the better debater, and he adored her too much to see her upset about anything. He told her he would respect her choice. Must have been difficult for the Rankins. They wanted to show her off, have her picture in the paper all dressed in white with their family history printed underneath like all those other debutantes."

"The debutante scene is still strong in Texas." I took another sip of wine realizing that's all I really knew. Despite our money and the mansion we'd lived in, Daddy kept his Rolex in a coffee can when it wasn't on his wrist. Society stuff has always been Aunt Caroline's territory, and I made sure she knew I'd rather show off new jeans at the rodeo than trip over some ball gown.

"They worshipped that girl," Drummond went on. "When she disappeared, they spent weeks looking for her, hired locals in Mexico to help, had search dogs flown in. Later that year, close to Christmas, we had this big memorial service... so, so sad. Sara was all they had. Besides God, of course. Their faith carried them through. I couldn't return to the church after that, watch those nice people hiding their grief."

"Could she have had a relationship with Lawrence?" I asked.

"You mean boyfriend and girlfriend? No way. I would have caught on, since I'm very perceptive." He straightened in his chair, pasted on his happy salesman face again. "If you'd like proof of just how well I use my better traits, I have some revealing charts that compare traditional index funds with a highperforming real estate trust."

I said, "If I decide to change the people managing my money, I promise I'll think of you first."

"I'm certain your people have told you that diversification is the key to long-term growth. If they haven't, then—"

"Sorry, Mr. Drummond."

Maybe I should have strung him along awhile, because he didn't have much more to offer when I asked him about the other people in the photos. None of them had kept in touch, and Oscar Drummond hadn't set foot in the Church of the Reverent Life since Sara Rankin's memorial service.

But, I thought, as I made my escape after we made uncomfortable small talk over veal marsala, at least I know a little more about Sara. Problem was, if she disappeared in March or April and died soon after, she couldn't have been Will's mother. He'd arrived on Verna Mae's doorstep in October.

I had a feeling there was a whole lot more to that story, though. The only avenue I had left to explore was the other girl in the picture—Jessica Roman. Maybe she had some answers, could even have been Lawrence's girlfriend. But to explore this avenue, first I had to find her.

I was dog tired when I made it home, too tired to revisit my Internet searches looking for Jessica Roman right now. I'd just finished microwaving a pizza when Jeff showed up. Nothing better than more chardonnay and a little sex for my dessert. I'm never too tired for that.