I was parked back on Eulalia Road for my appointment with the Journal-Constitution photographer. I was not looking forward to it, was already regretting my decision to participate in this entire exercise. It felt tacky. As though I were exploiting a long-ago tragedy to seize fifteen minutes of fame. That was the farthest thing from the truth, but still, people would judge. I pulled out a compact and reapplied my lipstick. My brothers would have something to say if they could see me sitting here, primping for pictures to accompany the presumably breathless article that Leland Brett would be typing up right now (“Dark Beauty Still Distressed by Bullet in Neck!”). The only question was whether Martin and Tony would be appalled or doubled over with laughter.
I glanced at my watch. The photographer was late. He had insisted we meet at five o’clock, to get set up in plenty of time for the golden-hour light. I decided to wait another fifteen minutes, then I was out of here. A few cars rumbled by. Across the street two boys kicked a ball back and forth in their yard. The smaller boy kept missing and sending the ball rolling dangerously close to the street; the older one managed to pounce and catch it each time, just before it bounced over the curb.
I leaned back in the front seat and imagined a young Cheral Rooney and my mother pushing baby strollers along this same block on a late-afternoon stroll. What would they have chatted about? I pictured Sadie Rawson wearing the sassy green coat and suede boots that Cheral had described. Now, those I would have liked to inherit.
I sat up. That was it. Where had they gone? The coat, the boots, the allegedly fabulous wardrobe? Cheral said everything had been boxed up and carted away. But to where? The clothes must have been donated to charity long ago. Books and knickknacks, too. That left my mother’s jewelry, though. I fingered the gold, braided hoops, wondered what necklaces and bracelets she used to slip on to match. Now that I thought about it, where were my parents’ wedding rings? Had they been buried in them, or had everything been sold off? They must have had a car. They might have had life insurance. My thoughts raced along these lines for several minutes, before my gaze swung toward the brick house in front of me. This house had once belonged to Boone and Sadie Rawson. Where had the money gone when it was sold?
The question of an inheritance had not crossed my mind before. There was no indication the Smiths had been rich, and in any case I wasn’t hurting for money. Still. Normal married people write wills leaving everything to each other. Failing that, they leave everything to their surviving children. I was the Smiths’ surviving daughter. So how must things have unfolded? What on earth happens when a couple is murdered, and their heir is three years old, and she ends up being raised with no contact with her past, not even the same last name?
I had no idea how one might go about tracing such things, but I knew someone who might. Jessica Yeo. The newspaper researcher. Her job was to help track down information and people. Plus, she knew Atlanta.
I picked up my phone and dialed.
“That is so bizarre,” she answered. “I was about to call you. Literally, I was about to pick up the phone, and here your number shows up on my caller ID. Since I’ve got you now, is it Frannie with an i-e or with a y?”
“Sorry, what?”
“Your mom. Mrs. Cashion. Does she spell it F-R-A-N-N—”
“Oh. With i-e. Why are you—”
“Leland’s got me fact-checking your profile.” Clicking sounds came down the phone line; I pictured her blue fingernails flying over the keyboard. “It’s also kind of confusing, the way he’s written the section about the bullet. Did you get the MRI first or the X-ray?”
“The MRI. But listen—”
“I knew it!” she chirped. “You would think he could get the details straight. He was probably too busy ogling your chest to pay attention to the chronology.”
That stopped me short. “Wow.”
“Sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry. I didn’t just say that. He is my boss, technically. But you are a woman, and you’re alive, which pretty much qualifies you as fair game in Leland’s world. Damn it! I didn’t just say that, either.”
“He, umm . . . he must be an interesting guy to work for.”
The typing ceased. “He didn’t really put the moves on you, did he? Not when he was interviewing you for a news story?”
“He did. In a harmless kind of way.”
“The bastard. His poor wife. But that’s exactly right: Leland’s so obviously harmless that it’s hard to get too riled up.” The clicking resumed. “Just a couple more questions. Did he get right that you haven’t been back to Atlanta to visit, anytime between 1979 and now?”
“That’s right. Hang on, though. I’ve got a question for you. Is there a way to figure out what my birth parents’ Social Security numbers would have been?”
“I’m sure there must be. Why?”
“I’m sitting here parked in front of their old house. Waiting for your photographer, who’s late, by the way. And it occurs to me that the Smiths used to own this house. When they died, it must have been sold, and I have no idea where the money went.”
“Oooh.” Jessica sounded intrigued. “I like it. You think there’s some nest egg out there with your name on it, that’s been racking up interest all these years?”
“I’m not asking out of greediness. I’m mainly interested in where their possessions went. You know, if there’s a chance of getting back any personal items that might be meaningful.”
“Sure, sure. You could check the property deeds. See who sold the house on behalf of your parents. Fulton County would keep those records, I think.”
I hadn’t thought of that. “Do you know how to access them?”
“Yep. Tell you what. Let me finish up this article for Leland. First thing tomorrow, I’ll nose around for you.”
I exhaled. “That would be terrific. I’ll pay you for your time. And I’d be grateful if you could keep this between us, for now. No need to mention it to Leland.”
“No problem. Let’s see what I turn up. It’ll be interesting. Very -Watergate.”
“Watergate?”
“You know. Follow the money.”
? ? ?
WILL ZARTMAN WAS livid by the time he reached me. “Don’t you ever answer your phone?” he demanded. “Or is it just my calls that you ignore?”
“I’m not ignoring you! I’ve been running around all day, and I was going to call you back tonight—”
“I’ve left two messages, Caroline. I was getting worried that something had happened to you.”