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INVIGORATED FROM MY run, I took five minutes to wind down with a few stretches in the front yard. My good mood lasted until I saw the weekly community newspaper in my bushes—again. I swore that darn kid did it on purpose. Grumbling at his poor aim, I nearly fell into the prickly shrub when the paper dropped a few more inches as I reached for it. I swiped at the rolled bundle and managed to dislodge it, sending it into the air, and it landed on my front porch.
I snorted and wondered why the kid's parents didn't send him to baseball camp. If I could hit my front porch with one swat from the bushes, surely he could manage to hit the target on occasion. But the weekly paper had not once made it to my porch since I had moved into Marge Boudreaux's house.
Trotting across the porch, I paused to scoop up the newspaper before I opened my door and dropped it on a small table to read later. As irritating as I found the poor delivery, I'd grown accustomed to the quirky little paper with stories like how to dress potbelly pigs or the results of a tobacco spitting contest. I'd enjoy it with a long bath one evening this week.
A quick look at the clock told me to get moving or I'd have to meet my client dressed as I was. I hustled up the stairs and bounced back out the front door less than ten minutes later wearing white shorts with a sleeveless blouse, sneakers, and my hair in a ponytail. I drove my Jeep to Francine's and parked in front, checking my reflection in the rearview mirror briefly before heading to the café.
It came as no surprise to see Ida Belle and Gertie at our usual back table. I smiled and waved before grabbing a table closer to the front. This would work until I had a better place for interviewing clients. Besides, with my run out of the way, I was free to indulge in a piece of homemade dessert. I knew my partners were curious about the meeting, but we agreed the three of us might prove intimidating so I would conduct the interview.
Everyone in the café turned when a man carrying a folder and wearing gray slacks and a white Oxford shirt entered. Mid-forties, six feet three, 240 pounds, weak legs, and a ring of fat around his waistline. Threat level: low. He'd have to catch his target before he could squeeze them with his surprisingly powerful-looking hands. He glanced around, and when I stood, he headed to my table. "Mr. Willingham?" I offered him my hand, which he shook before pulling out the chair opposite mine.
"Call me Todd." In a nice show of manners, he waited for me to be seated before taking his. Dixie, the waitress, immediately came over to see what she could glean for the gossip mill. I tossed her a few seeds by giving her his name, sure the busybodies would grow them into towering falsehoods and monumental impossibilities by the end of the day. The fact that they were usually wrong didn't deter them a bit. If anything, it inspired them to creative highs and flights of imagination.
"Do you always introduce strangers to the locals?" he asked curiously after Dixie had taken his order of coffee and pie.
"I hope you don't mind, but if they don't get something to gnaw on, we won't get any peace. Instead, they'll try to sneak pictures of you to send out along their network for identification or stop by to chat with the purpose of grilling you," I explained, hoping he wouldn't take offense. Perhaps meeting here had been a mistake.
"Maybe I should hire them," he said with a smile. I knew he was joking, but I learned my lesson and made a mental note not to have initial meetings here again. But upon seeing his face once he tried the pie, I put a question mark next to my decision. I might end up paying Francine a commission instead.
After a few bites and the usual introductory conversation about the weather and traffic—his, not mine—we got down to business. He opened the folder sitting on the table next to his plate and handed me a page from it. "This explains my business of connecting unclaimed assets to their rightful owner. When I learn of something—say, stocks that were purchased a few decades ago that are now worth a considerable amount of money—I find the person who has the legal right to it and, for a percentage of the value, I help them through the claims process. I'm trying to find someone here in Louisiana, and I'd like your assistance."
I perused the information and carefully checked the letterhead: Todd Willingham, Probate Researcher. Nothing says novice scam artists like blurred, smeared, or crooked printing. But the page included his full name and contact information, something I could easily verify. So he wasn't scamming me. I nodded and moved the paper to my right and accepted another.
The next page read Mary Elizabeth Smith. 75 years old. Born February 1945 in Little Rock, Arkansas. I glanced up at him, unsure what he expected me to do with the information. After all, it was his business to find people, and surely he must have resources at his disposal for that purpose. He gave me a wry look. "It's not that easy. This particular Mary Smith was given up for adoption soon after her birth, and the courthouse where the adoption records were stored was destroyed in a fire back in the 1960s."
"Do you know if she's still alive?" I asked.
"Well, I'm banking on it—to the tune of I can retire—if I can find the right woman and prove it. Let me give you her background. Mary's parents were very poor and already had six children when she was born. Rather than try to raise another child under those circumstances, they chose to give her up. Fast forward ten years. Her father patented a mechanical device and got rich when he sold it to a major manufacturing company. He bought property in California and moved the family there. When Mr. Smith died in 1980, he left everything to his wife. She died recently at the age of 106 and her will named as heirs her surviving children including the one she gave up for adoption. I guess she felt guilty about not keeping her."
Todd paused to look through his folder and then handed me a few more papers, including ones confirming the sale of Mr. Smith's patent and his subsequent purchase of a home and acreage in Beverly Hills. My brows rose; Beverly Hills put a different spin on what I had imagined he meant by "property in California".
"Yeah, I know. Anyway, Mrs. Smith has four surviving children who still live in California. I gathered most of this information from the oldest surviving daughter, Betty Ann Smith-Douglas, who was twelve when Mary was born."
"She willingly offered information, knowing it could reduce her inheritance?" I asked curiously.
"As the eldest daughter, Betty was closer to her mother than her siblings. She said their mother didn't speak about Mary until she was nearing the end of her life, and even then it was very little. But Betty discerned her mother's regret and told me she would like to know she did everything possible to honor her mother's last request." Todd looked through his notes before continuing.
"Here's what Betty remembers about Mary's adoption: She said one day her parents left her in charge of the children and left with Mary. When they returned many hours later, Mary wasn't with them, and she saw that her mother had been crying. Their father gathered the children and told them Mary would no longer be living with them and they weren't allowed to talk about it—the subject was closed. Betty saw her mother crying often in the following months, but she would dry her eyes and make excuses if Betty questioned her. Then one day she saw her mother gazing at a paper, which she folded and put into her apron pocket when her husband came into the kitchen. Anyway, after supper, Betty sneaked a look at the paper and saw it was about Mary's new family, also named Smith."
"I'd say 'you're kidding' but obviously this isn't a joke," I commented.
He nodded but held up one finger. "The thing is, after reading it, Betty recalls thinking her sister would still have a common last name, but it gets better. The adoptive parents were from Marysville, Louisiana. Then the mother caught her and took the letter away and Betty never saw it again. She thinks Mrs. Smith may have destroyed it so her husband wouldn't find out. Betty assumed it was the end of the matter until one day, out of the blue, Mrs. Smith told her how happy she was that Mary had two older brothers to play with. Betty thinks their names were Robert and Dennis."
I summed up the long story. "So Mary Elizabeth Smith lived in Marysville, Louisiana, with her new parents and two brothers. And you can't locate her?" I didn't keep the skepticism from my voice because I wanted to see how he reacted. A man in his line of work didn't ask for help when he was nearing the finish line, and I sensed something wasn't right.
He shook his head. "I wouldn't be here if I could."
"It sounds like you need a genealogist, not a PI," I said. Finally, he revealed an unmistakable expression—unease.
Todd cleared his throat and ran his finger around the collar of his shirt. "Well, time is a factor, and the reliable ones are booked for months or years in advance."
I considered his response partially factual because I'm sure he was correct about the scheduling aspect. But he didn't explain or appear willing to explain why he was in a rush. If the court knew there was a chance of locating the missing heiress, they would allow a reasonable amount of time for her to be found. So I knew that what he didn't tell me was just as important as what he did, and I wasn't going to take a job when my client was withholding information that might potentially come back to bite me. I gave him a few more seconds, but he sat expectantly, as though he'd been completely forthright.
My smile was polite as I gathered the papers he'd given me, pushed them across the table, and stood. "I appreciate the offer, but I don't think this job is right for my team. Thanks anyway."
"Wait!" He half-stood, and I was afraid he'd upset the table, but he settled back onto his seat and dropped his head with a sigh. Then he looked up and waved at my empty chair. "Please?"
I studied his face before accepting his invitation. "Why don't you explain what the real issue is?" I suggested.
He smiled. "Well, you're perceptive," he joked. I stared and he became serious. "I'm not the only researcher looking for Mary Smith." I think he expected me to get up and leave but I nodded so he continued. "There are three other teams that I know of. One of them shouldn't be a problem; they're pursuing a vague lead in Missouri, hoping it pays off. The second team poses a threat because they've sent five employees here. And the last,"—his eyes flicked to mine—"they are definitely a problem."
"How so?"
"They have a reputation for getting the job done, no matter the cost. That's simply a euphemism for cutthroat tactics and shady dealings," he stated flatly. "The company is called Money in the Bank."
I smiled, knowing we were making progress. "Where is the Money team now?"
"I suspect they are already here," he admitted. "The truth is I need more people to help me track down leads; people who can handle themselves if things get rough." He began putting his papers back into the folder, and I reached across the table to stop him. His brown eyes were hopeful when he looked up at me.
"Come with me," I said, getting up from the table and nodding at Ida Belle and Gertie to follow us. "I think we have more to discuss." Since he hadn't brought up the question of my fee, I assumed his desire to find Mary Smith outweighed his concern about the cost. I decided to bring Ida Belle and Gertie into the loop right away so they could ask questions.
I left payment on the table and walked out the door, followed by Todd, Ida Belle, and Gertie. I introduced Todd, and we agreed to continue the meeting at Ida Belle's house. By the time he left that afternoon, we knew everything that he had discovered about Mary Smith, and I was worried I would need another run that evening. Coffee, coffee cake, lunch, dessert, then more coffee went to my waist and sent Todd into a state of something near euphoria. Ida Belle finally cut off the nutrient infusion and he finished, promising to keep in touch.
I sighed and unbuttoned the waist of my shorts and vowed to buy a pair with an elastic waist for occasions like this. When Gertie set the remaining coffee cake on the table while we finished our meeting, my half-hearted protest only made Ida Belle chuckle.
"Todd must be expecting quite a large payment," Gertie concluded. "When you brought up the subject of what our services will cost him, he acted like it was an afterthought."
I waved the folder Todd had provided. "I bet if we looked up that address in Beverly Hills, we'd find the property value is crazy high. Not to mention, whatever the Smiths had in the bank, household contents, vehicles, and investments. I'm sure that Todd's planning on at least a seven-figure payout for this job."
"Maybe we should have charged more," Gertie said.
"I think his offer to pay us ten percent of his take will keep us in coffee and desserts for a long time," I replied with a smile. In exchange for the generous pay, if we were successful, the flipside was if our team—including Todd—didn't come up with the right Mary, Todd would only pay half our normal fee plus expenses.
Ida Belle reached across the table for the folder and removed a page. "He's located eight women in this state who might be the right Mary. Why does he need our help?"
I explained about the competition, and she smiled. "Good. I need target practice, and the tires of a moving vehicle are perfect."
"What makes him so sure one of these might be the right woman?" Gertie asked.
"I don't know, other than I'm sure they all fit the basic criteria of age and maiden name. Beyond that, I doubt there's any way to know for certain without talking to them. Since he couldn't find birth certificates for any of the eight on his list, the only way to be sure is to interview them," I replied. "If the birth documents still exist, they could be stored anywhere, and there's no guarantee what condition they would be in."
"I agree. It has to be easier finding the women than tracing their records," Ida Belle said.
I nodded. "On the drive here, Todd explained that he uses a search program that combs thousands of public records for keywords. Knowing he wanted to start in Louisiana made it easier than a national search. The good thing is that he was able to provide us with the married names of the three he needs us to locate. Without current contact information for any of them, I thought we could start with nursing homes around their last known addresses."
"That might prove difficult with patient privacy laws," Gertie warned. "It's not like we can call and ask the names of their residents."
"I have a couple ideas," I admitted. "So let's pick one name, to begin with. Gertie, how about it?"
"Mary Smith-Shea," she said.
"Okay, let's get to work."