Shoot from the Lip (11 page)

“She have any other jobs?”

“Drinking. Kept her real busy, too,” Emma said sourly.

“Probably be difficult to locate any of the people she cleaned for. She have any friends?”

“She did, but I never met any of them except the boyfriends—and they’re a blur. After the baby, well ... went away, she didn’t bring men home anymore. That doesn’t mean she didn’t have men friends. I’m sure she did, but she kept them away from us. She still binged, though. After a while I wished she’d stay gone. Finally that’s exactly what happened—and I felt as guilty as hell.”

“Not your fault, Emma,” I said softly.

“Intellectually, I understand that. But here?” She pointed to her heart. “Here I still feel I’m to blame for her screwed-up existence. Maybe if I’d never been born—”

“Hold on. Kate tells me all the time how kids take on their parents’ problems, adult issues that have nothing to do with them. From what I know about alcoholics, they always promise to stop drinking, but they
never
promise to stop lying. And lying trumps everything.”

Emma’s gaze met mine for the first time since we started talking about her mother. “You’re right. My mother was first and foremost a liar—she even lied to herself.”

“You ever recall her being arrested?” I asked. “That might be a way to track her down.”

She shook her head no. “But she could have been in jail some of those times she left for days and days. She knew how to raise all kinds of hell at home, so why not in public?”

“The freelance housecleaning angle will be a near-impossible trail to pick up, but a check on drunk-and-disorderly arrests might be a place to start.”

“One more thing—don’t know if it will help. She had some regular housecleaning customers over the years. Right before she disappeared, she told me she and a friend planned to save up and open their own cleaning agency. She said nobody with money stayed home anymore and they needed housekeepers. She even had a name for the new business—Happy Homes. Like my mother could create a happy home for
anyone
.”

“But you don’t recall this friend’s name?”

“Sorry, no. But if I remember right, it was a woman, someone she teamed with on the bigger cleaning jobs.”

“I could use a snapshot of your mother in case I get a lead,” I said.

“I threw away most of her pictures. That sounds terrible, doesn’t it?”

“Not to me. You do what you have to do to make peace with the past. You did leave a family photo with me. I’ll scan it into my computer and use Photoshop, restore some color and get her headshot from that.”

Emma closed her eyes, sighing heavily. “This is getting so complicated. Thanks for taking me and my problems on. This isn’t exactly about finding the lost relatives of adopted people. That’s the kind of work you usually do, right
^?
”

“Let me explain something. Not long after my daddy died of a heart attack, and after my difficult divorce, my kind and gentle yardman was murdered on my property—while I slept away the day by my fancy swimming pool.”

Emma’s eyes widened. “How awful.”

“That man’s death was a huge wake-up call, made me realize I’d been a shallow, spoiled brat most of my life. I soon discovered that if I dug deep, a real human being resided inside, and that person could actually do a little bit of good for deserving people. I’m in this business for the long haul, for folks like you.” Again I was tempted to tell her that this case
was
about finding lost relatives—that I’d already found two of hers, but she was tired and, despite her protests to the contrary, probably in pain. It could wait.

After I drove home from Emma’s hotel, I fed the animals, nuked a frozen pizza and left the box on the kitchen counter so Kate could see I’d chosen veggie supreme over pepperoni—because she
would
notice. Then I undressed and slipped into one of Jeff’s shirts from the dry-cleaning pile. I needed to at least smell him if I couldn’t touch him.

Then I went to my office to Google Happy Homes and see if Christine O‘Meara somehow managed to sober up and make her dream of opening her own cleaning agency come true. Not in this area, I learned after searching the online yellow pages. I did find companies by that name throughout the rest of the country, though, and printed the list thinking I might call up a few of the out-of-staters tomorrow during business hours. Maybe Christine O’Meara had made a new life outside Texas. Satisfied I’d put in a full day and more on the case—my gosh, was it only Tuesday?—I poured myself a glass of chardonnay, curled up on the sofa along with Diva and called Jeff.

He answered after the phone rang a long time. “Hi, Abby,” he said.

“You sound out of breath. You busy?” I said.

“Can I call you back later tonight—say around eleven your time?” He was talking fast—a rare thing for him—and he sounded ... what was a good word? Stressed. Yes. Stressed.

“Are you okay, Jeff?” I said.

“I’m fine. Talk to you later. Love you.”

“Love you, too. Bye.” But right before the line went dead I thought I heard a woman cry out.

I looked at the phone for a second, as if it could clue me in on what I’d heard. The cry had been guttural, unpleasant, and might still be going on up there in Seattle.
What the hell?

I needed an escape from my own thoughts or I’d be obsessing all evening about this new mystery. I picked up the TV remote and turned on Animal Planet, but then I heard the back door open. I checked my watch. Eight. Kate hadn’t spent all that much time at—

“Abby? It’s me,” called a familiar but unwelcome voice that did not belong to my sister. Aunt Caroline.

I hit the power button and dropped the remote, thinking,
Great. No escape to Animal Planet possible now.
I stood to greet her, knowing I’d be transported against my will to Meddlesome, Egotistical, Self-Serving Relatives Planet—somewhere most people are lucky enough to visit only during the holidays. Though deep down I loved my aunt, she had kept important secrets about our past from Kate and me—facts about our adoption. She thought this was best, but Kate and I still beg to differ.

Aunt Caroline looked me up and down. “Are you and Kate having a pajama party to celebrate her foolishness?” Her tone was angry, her face-lift-afflicted mouth attempting—and not succeeding in—a frown. Instead, she was left fighting a ridiculous half-smile.

“Good to see you, too, Aunt Caroline. Come in—Oh, excuse me. You already did that without even knocking.”

“I’m in no mood for your sarcasm, Abigail. Now where is she?” She glanced past me in the direction of the front foyer and stairs, then marched across the living room, apparently ready to tear Kate out of a closet or some other hiding place.

“She’s not here,” I called after her.

Aunt Caroline faced me. “You’re lying. Terry told me she came here and I—”

“She’s working,” I said firmly. But I cringed inwardly. If she’d talked to Terry, Kate had a passel of hassles coming her way.

“Shame on you, Abigail. You’re trying to protect her from me—from
me.
The person who gave you girls everything when you were growing up, the person your sister should have come to for advice before she made such a stupid decision.”

“I’m not—”

“No more lies,” she said. “After Terry told me what she’d done, I called her office. Her receptionist told me she has left for the day, so she is
not
working.”

“I’m telling you, she’s not here.” I enunciated each word, thinking Aunt Caroline must have had one too many martinis before dinner, because she seemed to be ignoring what I was saying more than usual.

She flicked at imaginary lint on the sleeve of her jade silk warm-up. “Get her down here. Right now.”

“She’s seeing one of my clients at a downtown hotel, but go upstairs and check if it makes you feel better.” I sat back down and showed great restraint by sipping my wine rather than downing the whole glass in one gulp.

“I see. Then I’ll wait.” She sat at the opposite end of the sofa from me, folded her arms across her chest and crossed her legs.

My seventy-year-old aunt is a woman who probably insists the doctor retouch her X-rays, so, as expected, every white hair was in place, her warm-up was fresh from the dry cleaners and her nails were newly manicured. But I could tell that right now she was a mess on the inside. I hadn’t seen her this upset since Kate and I sold Daddy’s mansion in River Oaks. Daddy had been her brother and the only man who could handle her—
ever.
I wished he were here now. I’d even settle for his ghost.

“Can I get you a glass of wine?” I asked.

“I thought you’d never ask. Then you can tell me what on God’s green earth has gotten into Katherine.”

I took several deep breaths on my slow walk to get her drink. I should have known Kate hadn’t called Aunt Caroline and told her she’d broken it off with Terry—Terry, the most perfect man in the world for Kate, according to my aunt. As for my choice, Jeff? Though “extremely good-looking,” in Aunt Caroline’s estimation, Jeff hung around thugs and killers day and night. And I, Abby Rose, had been lured into a similarly unsavory profession. One day we would both fall victim to the consequences of “cavorting with criminals” if we continued our line of work.

On days like today, I’d like to cavort my aunt right out the door. But Kate and I are all she’s got in this world—she’s driven most everyone else away—so we’re stuck with her. Besides, Daddy wouldn’t have wanted us to abandon her. Your family is your family, intimidating personalities and all.

I deflected her questions for the next half hour, deciding that Kate would have to provide the details of her breakup. Then we were blessedly interrupted by the doorbell.

I checked the security monitor and saw a well-dressed man standing on the stoop. Probably some new Venture producer. I called out to Aunt Caroline, saying, “Would you mind answering while I run up and get dressed?”

She came out into the foyer, smoothing out the wrinkles in her warm-up pants. “Are you expecting someone?”

“No, but I probably need to talk to this guy.” I wasn’t about to explain my new case to Aunt Caroline. I always avoided talking to her about work.

Leaving her sputtering several
buts,
I ran up the stairs and threw on jeans and a T-shirt. Animal Planet seemed like a kingdom far, far away now.

When I came back down, Aunt Caroline was blocking a crack in the door and saying, “You must have the wrong address, and if you persist in—”

“Aunt Caroline, step aside, please.” Had to be Venture.

The forty-something man in the charcoal business suit—a trim, hot forty-something guy—was no one I recognized from my few dealings with Venture.

“Can I help you?” I asked.

He smiled. Dimples.
Jeez.
Who knew dimples and salt-and-pepper hair could look so good together?

“My name is Clinton Roark, and I was supposed to meet Kate Rose here. But it seems I’ve made a mistake. Do you know if she lives on this block?”

I turned and gave Aunt Caroline the stink eye for lying to this guy, then said to Clinton Roark, “Kate’s not home yet. Are you a colleague?” He could be a therapist. He had those soft, probing brown eyes that shrinks use to their advantage—or at least, Kate does.

“Actually, we met this afternoon. I’m a pharmaceutical rep and—”

“Come in and wait for her. I’ll call and see how long she’ll be. I’m her sister, Abby, by the way, and this is Caroline Rose, my aunt.” Aunt Caroline had recently taken back her maiden name, saying she never intended to change it again with three failed marriages and a half dozen dead relationships on her tab.

Roark entered the foyer and held out a hand to my aunt. “Nice to meet you, Ms. Rose.”

Aunt Caroline crossed her arms over her chest and stepped back, ignoring his outstretched hand. “Are you here to take my niece on a date only three days after she’s nearly destroyed the most meaningful—”

“Aunt Caroline,” I said sharply, then smiled at Roark. “Will you excuse us for a second?”

I took Aunt Caroline’s elbow, swung her around, pulled her into the living room and whispered, “What in hell do you think you’re doing?”

“Kate’s lost her mind, Abigail. We have to protect her from herself.”

“No, we don’t. You have no idea what this is about. If and when Kate wants to discuss this with you, then you can offer your opinion.”

“But—”

“Think about it,” I said. “Do you want to share details about Kate’s private life with a stranger?”

Aunt Caroline pursed her lips, looking down at her gold-trimmed tennis shoes. “I suppose you’re right.” She pointed at me. “But you tell your sister she has a lot of explaining to do. And now, I’m sick at the sight of this man and worried about what Kate has done. I’m leaving.”

She hurried off toward the kitchen, knocking her knee on the antique trunk that served as a coffee table. I think I heard a “Dammit all to hell” before she slammed the back door on her way out.

I returned to the foyer with another smile for Clinton Roark. Anyone who could send my aunt packing had already scored points in my book.

“Sorry about that. My aunt can’t always weigh the facts because her scales are full of opinions. We’re used to her, but I know she can be scary.”

Clinton laughed. “She sounds protective, that’s all.”

“Right. Sort of like a scarecrow is protective. But you want to know about Kate. She’s out on a case of mine and—”

“I know. She said you’re a detective.” He looked me up and down appreciatively. “I have to say, you don’t look like any private investigator I could ever imagine.”

My cheeks grew hot. “I don’t wear the trench coat and fedora at home. Anyway, what time did she say she’d meet you?”

“Eight thirty.” He glanced at his watch—a TAG Heuer. Drug reps must make good money.