Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“May I help you?” she asked.

“I was looking for Mr. Feldman. Is he in?”

“Mr. Feldman?” Her eyes narrowed. “Did someone refer you to him for an adoption?”

Why did the woman sound so surprised? I didn’t know, but she seemed so darned suspicious I found myself saying, “Uh... yeah. I was referred here.”

“To Mr. Feldman? How odd. I’m Helen Hamilton, by the way.” She gestured to a leather chair in front of her desk. “Please have a seat. I’m very curious to know who referred you, Ms.... ?”

“Deer. Jane Deer. Actually, the person asked me not to use their name.”

“I see.”

Whatever she “saw” wasn’t sitting too well, so I decided to say nothing, hoping she’d offer more. Meanwhile, I scanned the walls for a framed state license confirming this was indeed an adoption agency, but there were only prints of sailing ships and the more famous Galveston mansions.

Finally she succumbed to the silence and said, “Mr. Feldman has... retired. I run Parental Advocates now. How can I help you?”

Retired could mean the man was old enough to be Cloris’s Feldman. “So has he moved to Florida or Arizona to play golf every day?” I said, trying to probe and sound lighthearted at the same time.

“I don’t see how that information could possibly help you. I, on the other hand, arrange adoptions and would be happy to assist you. That is why you came here, correct?” she said.

“The fertility drugs just haven’t worked,” I answered. Never let the truth stand in the way of a good story, as Daddy used to say.

“Let me inform you first, Ms. Deer, that we’re reluctant to place children with single parents. You’re not single, are you?” She was staring at my left hand—my ringless left hand.

Couldn’t manufacture a wedding band, so I just plowed on. “My husband couldn’t come with me. He’s out of town.”

“If you want to proceed, then I’ll meet with you both when your spouse returns. What’s his profession?” She slid a stack of papers across the desk.

“Uh... computers. He owns a computer business.” I glanced at the heading on the top sheet. It said, Family History, but nothing on the top page identified Parental Advocates as an adoption agency, either.

Hamilton rested her elbows on the chair’s arms and smiled. “I hope you understand that finding the right child can be expensive.”

“Money’s not an issue.” I leaned toward her, shaking my head sadly. “We’ve exhausted all other alternatives.”

My response seemed to erase Hamilton’s paranoia. Her body language—relaxed shoulders, welcoming smile—struck me as hugely sympathetic and accepting now.

She said, “I assure you, we’ll do everything to find you the perfect child, but first we’ll need your husband’s input. If you’d like, I could arrange a meeting in a less formal setting. Dinner, perhaps? Say at the Galvez Hotel?”

So she wanted to meet me and my fake husband at an expensive restaurant, where no doubt she’d offer a smooth sales pitch. For a human life. I forced a smile and said, “I’ll discuss this with my husband when he returns, but could you answer a few questions now?”

“If I can.”

“How does Parental Advocates work? See, we’ve been through so many agencies and talked to so many—”

“We’ll clarify everything after we receive the processing fee.” She floated an elegant hand at the forms lying in front of me. “For purposes of confidentiality, all our transactions are in cash.”

Cash? Definitely a fox in this chicken coop. I decided to mention Feldman again, since his name had provoked such a strong reaction earlier. “Are you sure Mr. Feldman is permanently retired? I really hoped to talk to him.”

Did her cheeks lose a little color or was it my imagination? “Mr. Feldman no longer practices law,” she said coldly. “We have several very good attorneys on board. Now if you’ll excuse me, Ms. Deer, a client is due here any minute.” She stood, extending her hand. “Call us in the future and we’ll see if we can proceed with your application. A pleasure meeting you.”

Her gray eyes were as icy as a pawnbroker’s smile, and her “please let me take your money” attitude had transformed to “let me think about taking your money,” all after my bringing up Feldman again.

She led me to the door and offered a frosty good-bye.

After I climbed into the Camry and turned the key in the ignition, I sat there wondering why the mere mention of a name had caused the ambient temperature in that room to drop twenty degrees. These thoughts were interrupted, however, when I spotted Hamilton in my rearview mirror. I pulled out and started down the street, still keeping an eye on her in the mirror. She took off in a silver BMW, heading in the opposite direction.

And I made a U-turn.

Helen Hamilton’s hot little Beamer steamed through Galveston at an urgent clip. As I followed, I wondered if Daddy and Mom were forced to pay a “processing fee” when they adopted us. And worse, had they dealt with someone as mercenary as Hamilton seemed to be?

And why, if Hamilton had a client coming, as she claimed, did she leave her office? Had the mere mention of Feldman sent Hamilton speeding through town? Because she was speeding, weaving between cars on Broadway and passing on the right. I kept my distance, but the main street is long and wide, and I had no trouble keeping her in sight.

She made a right turn, and at first I thought she might be taking a shortcut to Seawall Boulevard. I made the same turn just before the light changed, knowing I had to be careful now. We were in a residential area with little traffic, and she might spot me. I let her have a two-block lead. We drove into a rundown neighborhood, and a minute later she made a left, lurching to a halt in front of a small yellow house.

I drove on past the intersection and parked by a sagging beige two-story on the corner. I adjusted my side mirror and saw Hamilton walking briskly up the walkway to the yellow house.

I waited, considering whether I should continue to follow her once she came out. I guess I thought she’d simply lead me to Feldman, but this was certainly no retirement community.

Then, five minutes into my self-appointed stakeout, I learned another little detecting lesson. I’d never make a good cop. I was stir-crazy. What was going on over there?

Knowing I shouldn’t, knowing I’d be sorry, knowing I’m about as patient as a two-year-old in front of a birthday cake, I slid from behind the wheel into the humid morning air. Maybe the drapes were open and I could see what she was doing. Or maybe I could listen at an open window.

I started for the corner, noting that even the lawns looked defeated. Clumps of Saint Augustine grass choked the life out of the gentle Bermuda, where there was any Bermuda, and not merely blemishes of dusty ground.

“You selling something?” called a voice from behind me.

My heart skipped. Some surveillance expert I was. I hadn’t noticed anyone within a block of here. I squinted back at the house I’d parked in front of, but through the screen door all I could see was a shadowy face and the whites of his eyes.

“Not selling,” I said. “Hope you don’t mind if I park here, but I want to surprise a friend, and if she recognizes my car, it would ruin everything.”

He opened the door about six inches. He was a tall kid, maybe sixteen or seventeen. “If your car’s gone when you get back,” he said, “don’t go telling the police I had anything to do with it.”

A small child appeared at the teen’s knees, peeking out at me with giant brown eyes. He couldn’t have been more than five. “Yeah, white lady, don’t go telling the po-lice.”