Leann Sweeney - A Wedding To Die For

I was sitting at an angle, unable to see much of her screen, but she appeared to be scrolling down a list.

“Something’s wrong,” she said. “Read me the date one more time.”

After I did, she said, “Hmmm. Let me check the day before and the day after. Perhaps someone made a mistake.”

“What kind of mistake?” I scooted my chair closer to look over her shoulder.

“Move away,” she snapped. “These are confidential records.”

“Sorry.” I sat back, feeling like I had in first grade when I was sent to the principal for showing my underwear to a boy in the cafeteria.

Sister Nell absently patted my knee, her gaze still on the monitor. “Sorry to be short with you. Did I mention I annoy people?” She put her face closer to the screen. “Let me try one more run through this list. Perhaps a baby was entered as a medical or surgical patient that day by mistake.”

“You mean you can’t find her?” I said.

She didn’t answer, just stared a few seconds longer, shook her head, and turned off the monitor. “Very puzzling. Of course, I would not have found a child named Megan Beadford, since her adoptive parents no doubt named her, but I did expect to be able to pursue this on my own after I had the names of any girls born that day. Maybe contact a possible birth mother candidate and convince her to contact the Adoption Registry.”

“But you can’t do that?”

“No,” she said, “because despite what it says on that birth certificate, no baby girls were born here on that date, just two boys. No babies were born at all on the day before. And one single boy was born the day after.” She raised her eyebrows. “So what does that tell you?”

I looked down at the birth certificate still in my hand and blinked several times. “It tells me that either Megan Beadford had a sex change or this case just made a hard right turn down a very different road.”

Once I left the hospital and got into the Camry, I called Megan’s house on my cell. I wanted to tell her about my visit to Sister Nell and what I’d learned. There could be a simple explanation—maybe a clerical error—but if Megan and I could go to the Bureau of Vital Statistics and get a reissued certified copy, we’d know if the state database information matched what was on Megan’s current copy. If so, St. Mary’s obviously made a mistake somewhere down the line in their data entry.

When Roxanne answered, I asked for Megan.

“They are shopping for funerary boxes,” Roxanne said. “I have been delegated to stay home and receive sympathy calls should they come in. Is this a sympathy call?”

This girl went beyond weird. “It’s Abby Rose. If you remember, I was there the day Mr. Beadford died. Could you have Megan call me when she gets home?”

“Oh, it’s you! I’m so glad you called. My sister, Courtney, did not make the trip to pick out a casket. She hasn’t been here all day. I’m extremely concerned.”

And exactly why did I need to know this? But I couldn’t just click the off button. I felt obligated to respond. “What’s worrying you?”

“You have a sister. I saw you two together after Uncle James was... dispatched.”

Dispatched? Sounded like he’d been sent to the hereafter via FedEx.

She wasn’t done, though. “If your sister was involving herself with evil and immoral acquaintances, you’d do something, right?”

I wanted to tell her I was the twin who could have had Most Likely to Get Herself into Deep Shit written under her name in our high school yearbook, but instead I replied, “Certainly I’d help her. Or try to.”

“Courtney will find herself dead one of these days,” Roxanne said. “She’ll be laid out on some filthy mattress with a needle stuck in her arm.”

“Have you talked with your sister about her problem?” I asked.

“Have you ever tried to have a rational discussion with someone under the influence?”

Indeed I had, but I wasn’t about to discuss my marital history with Roxanne. “I’m sure Courtney will come home. But if she doesn’t arrive by nightfall, call that nice Chief of Police Fielder. She’ll help you. And please, tell Megan I need to talk to her when she gets home.” I rattled off my cell number, said good-bye, and disconnected as fast as I could.

Whew.

But my relief was short-lived. When I arrived home, Fielder had left a message to call her, and I feared Roxanne had wasted no time contacting her about her grown-up sister, Courtney, who had been missing for all of half a day.

No use putting this off, I thought, reaching for the receiver. “How can I help you today?” I said once I was connected to Fielder. Communicate like you have the upper hand, I always say.

“I have a request.” She sounded almost nice.

Obviously she hadn’t spoken with the potential leech Roxanne or she would have sounded less than nice. And her word request implied I might refuse if I so chose. “Go ahead,” I said.

“The only other photo we’ve found of the woman of interest was taken from the upstairs balcony. Not useful for an identification.”

“But it does establish her presence inside,” I said almost to myself.

“Yes it does. Do you think you could remember her face well enough to assist me in creating a composite?”

“I’m not sure I remember her all that well. Maybe if you told me why this woman is so important, it would jog my memory.” I knew damn well why she was important to Fielder, but she could be important to my client, too.

“And how would that help jog your memory ?” she replied coldly.

“You know, Chief, I sense a lack of mutual respect here. I mean, I’m in the PI business, a professional like you who helps people and—”

“I forgot about your... profession .” Her tone left no doubt she lumped me in with vagrants, prostitutes, and sex offenders. “And,” she continued, “I may continue to forget about your professional relationship with the victim’s daughter when I speak with other members of the family—as long as I have your cooperation in this matter.”

Man, was she slick. But though I liked the little swap she was willing to make—my help in exchange for her keeping Sylvia in the dark about the birth mother hunt—I wasn’t all that sure I could come through with enough details for a composite. So I said, “The woman wore a hat into the church, one of those cloches that comes down over the ears. I noticed the hat more than her face, so I’m not sure I could offer much.”

“But you saw her outside the house taking pictures, right?”

“You know I did.”

“And got a better look at her face?”

“Maybe.”

“So you may recall more about her than you realize. Please meet with the sketch artist?”

Ah. The P word. She must be desperate. “I guess I could try, but is this a genuine sketch artist, not someone with some fancy software?” I was remembering Jeff’s rant about how sketch artists were becoming extinct because of technology, even though a good artist did a far better job with composites than a computer ever could.

Fielder said, “Yes, a trained sketch artist who works on contract. We have software to produce composites here in Seacliff, but unfortunately the only person proficient with the program left us several months ago. Rather than bother one of the other local police departments for help, Jeff arranged for me to contract with this artist in Houston who needed work.”

So she’d called her buddy Jeff. No surprise there. And I was beginning to read her subtext pretty damn well. She probably had no intention of letting her local police friends know she had an expensive software program she didn’t know how to use.