A Plain Vanilla Murder, page 21
Over the years that McQuaid and I have lived here, we’ve added another twenty acres to the original three that came with our big old Victorian house. With all that space around us, it’s easy to feel that we’re alone here, on the edge of a wilderness that stretches all the way to the horizon. That isn’t true, of course. The Hill Country is filling up fast, as gated communities swallow the woods and prairies. But this house has been here for a long time, and the land to which it belongs is still mostly wild. Our nearest neighbors, the Banners, are well out of sight, and Limekiln Road is a half mile away.
So Kate and I could relax in our wicker rockers and enjoy the view of a newly mown lawn and an old stone wall overgrown with wild greenbriar. (If you’ve ever tangled with this barbed vine, Smilax bona-nox, you will appreciate two of its folk names: cat’s claw and blaspheme-vine.) On the other side of the wall is a woodland, a tangle of juniper, live oak, and mesquite trees. A doe and her twin fawns, still wearing their baby spots, were browsing in the shadows under the distant trees. On this side of the wall, a turkey hen was shepherding her brood of seven gangly half-grown poults toward the creek. The high-pitched thrum of cicadas filled the air, and from the woods, we could hear the plaintive, quavering call—who-coos-for-you—of the white-winged dove. Nearer, the last of the southbound migrating hummingbirds were visiting the honeysuckle on the trellis at the end of the porch, their wings making a soft whizzing sound.
“I was delighted when Ruby told me about the baby,” I said, putting my teacup down and leaning back in my chair. “I had to laugh when she said that you and Amy had drawn straws to decide who got to be the mom. The birth mother, I mean,” I added, since both of them are moms.
“There were good reasons on both sides,” Kate said. “But I have wanted a baby for a very long time. This felt like the right time, given my age. Ron—my sister’s husband—seemed like the right choice.” She paused. “But as I said on the phone this morning, we don’t have an agreement with him. Not a written one, anyway. I’m beginning to think that’s not a good idea.”
I leaned over and picked up Grace’s elephant cookie. “You said on the phone that Ron is getting a little ‘pushy’ about the baby. What did you mean, exactly?”
She turned her empty cup in her fingers. “Well, it’s kind of a long story. I suppose you remember about Grace’s father?”
I nodded. Before Kate and Amy got together, Amy had had a brief and unhappy involvement with a young man who ended up as a victim of a double murder—a shocking event in Pecan Springs. He was Grace’s father, but he died before the baby was born and was never involved in her life. Instead of a mom and a dad, Grace has two moms.
“Well, when Amy and I talked about having a second baby,” Kate said, “we sort of assumed it would be like Grace’s situation. The father wouldn’t be an active member of our family.” She made a little face. “We didn’t actually talk it through, though. It was more like an unconscious assumption, I suppose you’d say.”
“Makes sense,” I said, nibbling on the elephant’s trunk. “Trouble is, when assumptions are unconscious, we don’t get to discuss them.”
“Yeah. Well, that was our assumption going into this. Then some friends put us in touch with a fertility clinic in San Antonio. The clinic works with same-sex couples, and our friends had conceived a baby there, with an anonymous donor. So we drove down to San Antonio to talk to them and get started on the tests. And the paperwork.”
“Ah, the paperwork,” I said thoughtfully.
“Yeah.” She sighed. “We were pretty naïve, I guess. We thought we could just . . . well, walk in, get it done, and walk out pregnant. But instead, there were all these tests, mostly because I’m older and this would be my first baby. And all kinds of forms to fill out, about my health and our marriage and what we were looking for in a donor. Physical characteristics, I mean, hair color, eyes, personality, education. It looked like the process was going to take forever, just to get through the first phase. And if I didn’t get pregnant right away, there would be more tests and more paperwork and more trips to San Antonio—which is kind of a problem, when I’m trying to run a business.”
“And that’s where Ron came in,” I said.
“Right. My sister Gail had a birthday party for their oldest son, and we got to talking about the situation. We all thought it was kind of a joke at first, when Ron said he’d be glad to volunteer. Everybody laughed, but then Gail said she thought it was a good idea, and just look at their boys, how healthy they were. Living examples of how our genes—her genes, which are also mine, more or less—mixed with Ron’s genes to make strong kids.”
“Which was pretty persuasive,” I said.
Kate nodded ruefully. “Yeah, really. So Amy and I talked about it some more, and the next time we went to the clinic, we asked about it. They said, sure, we could do that, but Ron would have to drive to San Antonio and fill out a bunch of forms and go through all their tests. Like, tests for sperm viability and sexually transmitted diseases and things like that.”
“Uh-oh,” I said. “I see where this is going.”
“Yes, exactly. Amy and I were already pretty sick of paperwork, and Ron said he couldn’t see why his sperm had to be tested for viability when all anybody had to do was look at Clark and Charlie, their two little boys. We talked about it some more, and then Ron said, if we were going to do it, we should just do it. So we did.” She ducked her head. “Not really, I mean. We didn’t actually do it, but . . .”
“It’s okay,” I said, letting her off the hook. “Ruby explained. So did you get pregnant right away?”
“Not right away. It took several tries. In fact, Amy suggested that we ask you about herbs that might help. But then it worked, and everybody was happy.” She smiled. “Amy and I are happy. And Ron is happy—really happy, I mean. This weekend, he was talking about how he hoped it would be a girl, since he and Gail already have two boys. Gail . . .” She sighed. “Gail is maybe a little jealous. She had trouble with Charlie and can’t have any more. It’s sort of like I’m having this baby for the two of us. She hasn’t said that, of course, but that’s the idea I’m getting.”
The dynamics of this situation were fascinating. But troublesome. “So you and Amy were thinking that you wanted a donor who wouldn’t be a father. And now you have a donor who wants a girl to go with his boys, and your sister is maybe wishing the baby were hers.” At the look on her face, I stopped. “You see what I’m getting at, I guess.”
Pressing her lips together, Kate nodded. “It’s complicated, all of a sudden. And I can see that it could get even more complicated. I mean, I don’t think it would, but who knows?” She stretched her legs, dislodging Winchester. “Anyway, after Ruby told us what you said, I thought it would be a good idea to ask you what some of the issues are. Legal issues, I mean.”
I finished my elephant cookie and brushed the crumbs off my lap. “Maybe I should tell you about an appellate court ruling that came down in Texas a few months ago. A single woman who wanted a baby made a deal with a good friend to donate his sperm. He said okay, as long as he didn’t have any responsibility for the child. So they agreed—an oral agreement—that he would be just a donor, not a father.” I paused. “The law makes a distinction, you see. Donors give sperm, and that’s all they do. Fathers give sperm, but they are also parents and have parental responsibilities until the child comes of age.”
Listening closely, Kate nodded. “Okay, I get it—so far.”
“Good. But after the child was born, they changed their minds. The mom was still single and she thought it would be a good idea—in case something happened to her—if the dad was named on the birth certificate. The donor agreed. So they signed a document called an Acknowledgment of Paternity form, naming him as the father.”
Kate squirmed uncomfortably. “This is a true story, huh?”
I held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor. And then minds changed again, but this time, only hers. The mom had second thoughts and tried to retract the paternity acknowledgment, which upset the dad, because he’d decided he liked the idea of being a father. He got even more upset when the mom got married and her new spouse wanted to legally adopt the baby. The donor contested, and the case went to court. The new spouse claimed that the donor was only a donor and had no standing—no right—to fight the adoption.”
“Ah,” Kate said. “I’m beginning to understand why the distinction is important. So what happened?”
“The judge disagreed. She found the donor to be the legal father of the child, and since he opposed the adoption, she denied it.” I grinned. “While she was at it, she granted him visitation rights and set his child support obligations, which maybe he hadn’t counted on. Altogether, they were in court for a couple of years.”
“A couple of years?” Kate was shaking her head. “Oh, gosh, China. We don’t want that to happen.”
“It won’t,” I said. “That situation isn’t the same as yours, and the people involved made several mistakes that you won’t make. But it illustrates some of the legal questions that can come up when you’re not sure what you’re doing.”
Kate sighed. “Sounds like we should maybe have gone with the clinic and an anonymous donor.”
“It might have been simpler, in the long run,” I agreed. “But you’re in a different place now, because you’ve already started the baby. The best thing would be for you and Amy to sit down with Ron and Gail and discuss the way you’d like it to work, ideally.”
“Meaning, what Amy and I would like?”
“And what Ron and Gail would like. Does Ron want to be acknowledged as dad? How else does he want to be involved? Does he want to be responsible for the child’s education? Health care? Is Gail okay with that? Do you like those ideas, or does any of that make you uncomfortable? Write everything down and discuss it. See where you agree and where you’ve got a conflict. If you want, I can look for some sample contracts that would give you an idea of the questions you’d want to tackle in this situation. And what you might need to do to protect your child.”
Kate was nodding. “As I said, our idea of an uninvolved donor was mostly an unconscious assumption, and then we carried that over into our relationship with Ron. Thinking about it now, though, I can see the merits of acknowledging that he is our child’s biological father. And that Ron’s boys are half-siblings.”
“Sure, if Amy agrees. And if yours is the kind of family that has a history of working things out together, rather than going to war.” That got a smile out of her. I went on. “The best thing would be to get all the areas of agreement and conflict outlined. Then sit down with a lawyer who’s up on the zigs and zags in current Texas law and can help you craft a contract that fits your situation.”
“Would that be you?” she asked hopefully.
I smiled. “No, but I’ll be glad to recommend somebody, when you’re ready to get everything nailed down.” I didn’t have to think very hard to come up with exactly the right name. My old law school buddy, Justine Wyzinski, the Whiz, who practices family law in San Antonio. She would know how to unknot all the possible legal tangles, present and future.
“I’ll talk to Amy tonight.” Kate whooshed out her breath. “You have no idea how much better I feel, China. Thanks for helping me work through this.”
“It’s a start,” I said. “Thank me when you and your family have agreed to something concrete.” I leaned forward and peered at the plate of cookies. “What happened to the dinosaur with the purple paws?”
“I don’t know,” Kate said. “I saw it there just a few minutes ago.”
Lying beside the low table, Winston thumped his tail against the floor.
ALL THREE OF US WERE up and out of the house by seven-fifteen the next morning. McQuaid drove off in his old blue pickup truck, on his way to the office that he and Blackie share in the strip center on Brazos Road, for an early morning meeting with a new client. I drove Caitie to the intersection of our lane and Limekiln Road and waited in the car until I saw her climb safely onto the big yellow school bus. Then I headed for Crockett Street, where Mrs. Birkett had promised to have breakfast waiting for me—a strawberry vanilla breakfast omelet, if I remembered correctly. I was already looking forward to it.
The late September morning was especially lovely, and the kaleidoscope of colors along the road into town was enchanting. Clumps of shining goldenrod, spires of purple prairie blazing star, and towers of Maximilian sunflowers bordered the highway. Colonies of flameleaf sumac glowed copper red in the new day’s sun, their branches heavy with thick clusters of rusty red berries. Yellow cedar elm leaves fluttered like confetti-shredded sunlight onto the pavement ahead of me, and the cloudless sky above was that wonderful azure blue that heralds a low-humidity, haze-free day. My car radio—tuned to KZSM, San Marcos Community Radio—was playing old country-western favorites. I was happily humming along with George Strait’s “Amarillo by Morning” and thinking about my conversation with Kate the night before, which had ended (it seemed to me) in a good place. I had the feeling that Kate and Amy would be able to work the kinks out of their baby-making, and that their child would be welcomed into a larger, inclusive, and loving family. It would be a lucky child, I thought, with so many grownups ready to love and protect her. Or him.
But my feel-good morning was abruptly fractured by the hard, flat voice of a radio announcer. “An Amber Alert has just been issued for Chelsea Fairlee, abducted last night from the bedroom of her home in Pecan Springs. Age, thirteen; sex, female; race, white; hair color, brown; eye color brown; height, four foot ten; weight, ninety-eight pounds. If you have any information about this missing child, please call 9-1-1 immediately.”
I jerked bolt upright, clutching the steering wheel, catching my breath. My heart felt as if it were skipping every other beat and the feel-good morning was dust in my mouth. My first thought: Chelsea, sweet little Chelsea, taken from her bedroom? Who? How? And in God’s name, why? Why?
My second thought: Caitie, cute as a pixie in her blue jeans and purple T-shirt and sandals, shrugging into her pink backpack and waving a jubilant goodbye as she climbed on the school bus. I wanted to turn around, race back to find the bus, and pull her off and into my arms, where I could hold her safe from all the ugliness of the world.
My third thought: Maggie. Oh, God, Maggie! Carl’s suicide had morphed into his murder in the space of twenty-four hours. And now her daughter had been abducted. Was this an incredibly awful coincidence, or something else? Were the two events related? What was going on? Maggie must be out of her mind with worry. I reached for my phone.
I had to try the number several times to get through, and when I did, I knew that Maggie—who picked up the phone—was hoping that it was the kidnappers calling with a ransom demand. “Sorry,” I said, “it’s just me. China. I heard the Amber Alert on my car radio. How are you?”
To the cop on the other phone, Maggie said, “You can hang up, now, officer. This is a friend.” Her voice was stretched thin, like a rubber band about to snap.
“Don’t talk too long, Ms. Walker,” a cop-voice said gruffly. “We need to keep this line open.”
It took some doing to coax a coherent story out of her, but finally I had the gist. Lyle had left for College Station after supper the night before, anxious about an important Economics test this morning. Maggie and Chelsea had spent a quiet evening together, just the two of them. Chelsea was still deeply distraught about her father’s death, so Maggie had done something she hadn’t done for a long time—she’d read aloud to her daughter from Anne of Green Gables, one of the little girl’s favorite books. When Chelsea dropped off to sleep, Maggie tucked her in, closed the door to her first-floor bedroom, and took a large glass of wine upstairs with her.
The day had been long and exhausting, the wine helped her fall asleep, and she slept deeply and without dreaming. When morning came, she got up, started breakfast, and went to wake Chelsea. That’s when she discovered, to her horror, that the screen over the unlocked window had been cut and the window was open wide. Chelsea’s teddy bear was lying forlornly on the floor beside the bed, and Chelsea was gone.
“Gone!” Maggie was crying. “She was kidnapped while I was asleep, China!”
“Do the police have any leads? Do they think it’s connected to Carl’s murder?”
“The cops are still here, looking around.” Maggie gulped down a sob. “But leads—I don’t know, China. I don’t think they know anything yet. If they do, they haven’t told me. And they haven’t said anything about a connection.”
“What about the chief?” I could hear voices in the background. “Is she there?”
“She was here, but she got an urgent call and had to leave. The detective who did the interview yesterday, Miller—he’s still here.” She gave a strangled, half-crazy laugh. “He tried to tell me that Chelsea might have done this herself.”
“Done what herself?”
“Run away. He kept asking me whether we’d had a fight and what about her boyfriends. But she is still a little girl, China! The rest of the girls in her class may be boy-crazy, but if Chelsea has ever given a thought to boys, she hasn’t mentioned it to me.”
Just like a cop, I thought darkly, although I understood where Miller was coming from. For all he knew, Chelsea was a rebellious teen drama-queen who had run away with an older boyfriend in a bid for attention, while her mother was occupied with the legal and emotional aftermath of her father’s death. But Maggie’s daughter was a shy, quiet girl—a child still, really—who wouldn’t do something like that. Who could have taken her? Where? Why? Why, why, why?
“Anyway, the detective has changed his mind,” Maggie went on. She was making an effort to keep her voice under control. “He backed off the runaway idea when one of the cops found an empty injection vial beside the driveway. It was labeled scopolamine hydro-something. They think she was drugged.”
