I had no phone messages and the mail that had come in was quickly dispatched. One sorry consequence of being short of work was that any unresolved matter was cause for brooding—Teddy Xanakis being a case in point. Even in retrospect, her long sad tale about giving up her baby seemed just offbeat enough to be true, and while I no longer believed a word of it, I couldn’t imagine why she’d wanted to make contact with Christian Satterfield unless she suffered a pathological compulsion to orchestrate personal makeovers on parolees. He’d certainly benefited from her sense of style and her willingness to spend big bucks. No harm had befallen him in that regard, but why was she doing it?
That question aside, the fact was she could have found the kid without help from me. I wasn’t sure how she’d have gone about it, but she was smart and it was clear she could bullshit with the best of them. Why had she roped me in? The problem from my perspective was that I’d provided her the information and now I felt responsible. Satterfield was a big boy and he could look after himself, but I’d put him in a strange position. He was thirty-two years old, an ex-con with no job, no income, and he was living with his mom. How embarrassing was that? If I knew what Teddy had in mind for him, I could either go to his rescue or quit worrying about him.
My thoughts drifted to Vera, who probably knew all the gossip about Teddy and Ari Xanakis. I was hesitant about asking her because I’d virtually abandoned our relationship. Now I wanted to pump her for information and I had no emotional bank account to draw upon. I picked up the phone and punched in her number.
She picked up almost before the line had rung.
“Hey, Vera. This is Kinsey. I thought I’d check and see how you were doing.”
“Great. I’m good. I’ve got three hooligans running circles around me.”
“Any sign of Travis and Scott?”
“Currently, the twins are trying to kick their way to freedom, so far without success. What’s up with you?”
“I was hoping to pick your brain.”
“What a thrilling proposition: talking to an adult. Why don’t you come on over?”
“I’d love to. What’s your schedule this afternoon?”
“I’m not going anyplace. Park in the drive and let yourself in the kitchen door.”
“Will do. I’ll see you shortly.”
On my way over, I stopped by a toy store, thinking I should come up with a “hostess” gift to atone for my neglect. In the past, I’d arrive with a bottle of pricy wine in hand, but as pregnant as she was, alcohol would be a no-no, along with spicy foods and cruciferous vegetables that in the past she claimed made her flatulent. Not that I’d give her a box of Brussels sprouts. My plan was to bring gifts for the kids and thus ingratiate myself. Their ages ranged from baby Abigail, whose date of birth was unknown, to Peter, who was close to four, with Meg’s age falling somewhere between theirs. I needed something that would entertain all three. Oh, geez.
Not surprisingly, the toy store was jammed with toys and I was at a loss. A clerk followed me patiently while I drifted from aisle to aisle, pondering the merchandise. Shoppers were few and I suspected she’d offered to help for her own amusement, observing how inept I was. I rejected packages of balloons, knowing the kids would surely choke to death. I decided against guns or dolls in case the parents were dead set against gender stereotypes. I knew better than to get anything with a thousand little bitty pieces, for both the choking hazard and the certainty of plastic parts being crushed underfoot. Nothing with batteries. I was hoping for something that cost less than ten bucks, which narrowed my choices to just about none. Well, okay, coloring books, but Abigail was probably not old enough to enjoy crayons unless she was eating them.
I spotted six racks of books, ranging from board books to picture books to books without illustrations of any kind. I turned to the clerk. “How old are kids when they learn to read?”
“Around here? I’d say ninth grade.”
I finally settled on three bottles of bubble solution with those cunning wands down inside where you can barely reach them to haul them out.
28
I parked at the far end of Vera’s driveway, where a half-moon of concrete had been provided as a turnaround. I went up the back steps and let myself in through one of the French doors that opened from the deck into the kitchen.
The furniture in the seating area had been pushed back against the walls, and the hardwood floor was layered four-deep in quilts and comforters. Vera sat with her back against the sofa, belly enormous and pillows wedged behind her for support. A voluminous tent of a dress covered her bulk and her feet were bare. A toddler I took to be Abigail stood upright beside her, a hand on her mother’s head for balance. Her legs seemed a bit wobbly, but were otherwise doing what baby legs were meant to do. She wore a dress of sprigged muslin, tiny pink roses on a ground of white with puffed sleeves and pink smocking across the front. With her bare feet and plump little arms, she looked edible.