Leann Sweeney - Pick Your Poison

“I remember.”

“Did you go into the attic?”

“The attic?” she said, with overplayed innocence.

“Yes. The one you go through the closet to get to.”

“What could she possibly want in the attic, Abby?” said Willis.

“I’ll do the asking,” I said sharply. “What were you looking for, Aunt Caroline?”

She fussed with the lace peeking out high on her thigh, the tight, translucent skin on her face burning with color. “When I was young, I made a mistake and wrote things to a man. Private things. Take it from me, Abigail, if you have something to say to a lover—if you ever have another—don’t be foolish enough to declare it in writing. You see, I happened to be married to my second husband at the time, and this other man I fancied, the one I’d written to, decided my letters might be worth something to my husband.”

I couldn’t keep from smiling. She was more than capable of penning some real scorchers. “Go on. I’m waiting to hear about the attic.”

She glanced at Willis, who encouraged her with a nod. “Your father bailed me out. Paid the blackmailing scum. But Charlie kept those letters, kept them because... well, let’s say he had his reasons.”

“What reasons?” I pressed.

“To keep me in line. He said I’d cost him too much money over the years.” She folded her arms and her mouth drew tight. “But I never forgot about them, and when I had an opportunity Saturday, I found them. Who knows what hands they could fall into with the two of you moving out and stirring up a mound of dust better left swept under the rug?”

I wondered who she thought gave a flip about her ancient history. “And what did you do with them?”

“I destroyed them.” She raised her chin.

“Good move—but do me a favor, Aunt Caroline? The next time you go snooping around, clean up your mess. We ended up calling the police because we thought we’d had a break-in. You and your boyfriend left that attic a wreck, and what’s more, you forgot to close the door. Diva got stuck in there and—”

“Wait a minute,” Aunt Caroline said, shaking her head. “I didn’t disturb anything. I found the letters almost immediately, second box I looked in. Granted, I may have left the door ajar, but it wasn’t intentional.”

“Sure. If you say so,” I said. If she was telling the truth, that meant someone had come in after she left and torn the place up. I didn’t believe it for a minute. Either she was lying or good old Hans went back up there when she wasn’t looking, hoping to find something of value for himself.

“You have my admission, Abigail. Now could we please change the subject? Or would you prefer to humiliate me further in front of Willis?”

I glanced at him. He shook his head as if to tell me to leave well enough alone. “Okay, we can drop this. For now,” I said.

“Good,” said Aunt Caroline. “I’m hosting a dinner for the CompuCan board of directors tomorrow. Could you please show up this time? I will be entertaining the executives, as I have done in the past, but you and Kate should make an appearance. The country club, eight o’clock. Perhaps you could accompany Willis?”

“I’d be delighted to escort Abby,” said Willis.

“I... I sort of have a date,” I lied.

“A date? Not that do-nothing ex-husband, I hope?” said Aunt Caroline.

“Steven is not a do-nothing. He happens to be a very successful contractor.” Successful might be stretching the truth a hair, but I felt the need to defend him.

“Oh, I understand your attraction to him. Always have. There’s something sexy about those redneck types. Feel free to bring your gentleman friend, whoever he is.”

“Okay,” I said, and sighed. Now I’d have to make up another lie when I showed up without a man.

After returning home from CompuCan and my enlightening visit with Aunt Caroline, I decided to try on-line resources before contacting Catholic Charities. I logged on to the Texas Central Adoption Registry, and learned that only adoptees born in Texas, their siblings, and birth parents could even request information. And I discovered two other interesting facts. A list of thirty-three “voluntary child-placing agencies” on the site did not include Parental Advocates, but there were eighty-six such agencies in Texas. Why were those other fifty-three not included? Even more interesting, any out-of-business agency was required by law to forward their adoption records to the registry. This told me that even if Feldman had retired, perhaps in some file, somewhere, lay evidence of Cloris Grayson’s child. But who could access that information now that both Cloris and Ben were dead? No one. And maybe someone wanted it that way.

Chewing on the pencil I’d been using to jot notes, I considered hacking into the system to find Cloris’s records, if they existed. After all, any system was vulnerable.

Then I rose abruptly.

Not a good idea. The last thing I needed was to be arrested for a cybercrime involving a government agency.

I had to get out of this room, away from the computer, and think this through.

I hurried down the hall to the kitchen to sneak a diet Coke before Kate came home—she knew nothing about my stash of diet Cokes. I walked circles around the kitchen island, sipping aspartame and caffeine, hoping to find clarity. When had curiosity turned into an obsession to find answers?

And then it dawned on me that there would be nothing illegal about learning how the adoption system in Texas worked firsthand. Nothing illegal about me, an adoptee, searching for my own records. The state of Texas told me I had the right to do so on their very own Web site. Even provided an application form on-line. This would be a perfectly legal way to see what information was kept in the registry database. Then maybe Jeff Kline could take over from there.

I went to Daddy’s study and printed out the brief two-page document. Thirty minutes later I drove to Mail Boxes Etc and FedExed my application, surprised at how my hand trembled when I handed the envelope over to the clerk. This seemed all too personal now. And sending off the application reminded me that, though Daddy had shown us our court papers many years ago, I hadn’t seen them during all my searching for the mysterious safe-deposit box. Willis probably had them, I decided on the way back home.

In Daddy’s study once again, I renewed my search through the remaining canceled checks for any clue to the safe-deposit box. I’d never realized how many pieces of paper a human being could accumulate in a lifetime. Daddy could have saved a hundred trees, maybe even a thousand, if he had used cash even occasionally. But he’d told me once checks always came back as proof you took care of your business, and I guess that made sense.

By the time Kate arrived home from her evening therapy session, I had one last stack to go through.

“Any luck?” she asked, carrying two glasses into the study. She placed one in front of me and sat down in the red leather wing chair.

“Not yet,” I answered, removing the mint sprig and silently praying this concoction wasn’t herbal. But alas, it tasted suspiciously like grass. “Mmm, yummy,” I lied. “I have to say this check hunt has produced some interesting moments.”

“Interesting? How?”

“Aunt Caroline profited from Daddy’s generosity more than I ever knew. Every other check seems to have her name on it. No matter which one of her husbands she was married to at the time, Charlie Rose kept her outfitted in green.”

“I didn’t think she needed Daddy’s money. I thought she only married rich men.” Kate took a hefty swig of her drink and I half expected her to bleat like a goat.