Thread of deceit, p.8
Thread of Deceit, page 8
“That’s so sweet,” Ana said.
“Your work in Colorado must have been profitable.”
“Much of the time.” Jim set his hands on his knees and stood. “Well, you two didn’t come here to listen to my life story. Let’s pop into my office for a quick look-see, and then we’ll go back to the front room and talk business. I believe our agenda is Haven’s lead paint problem.”
As they left the room, Ana took a last look at the two little girls. They were watching Mickey Mouse now, and holding hands.
Chapter Five
The house gave Sam the creeps, and he wasn’t sure why. A far cry from the run-down Wyoming mobile home where he had grown up with his father and younger brothers, Jim Slater’s Ladue mansion nevertheless impressed him more as a hotel than as a home. Sam’s own current living situation in a couple of rooms above Haven couldn’t be further from this luxury and extravagance, but he preferred it.
Everything in Jim’s place was perfect, no doubt about that. The man must have a household staff. The gray carpets had been vacuumed recently—Sam could tell by the absence of footprints marring the groomed surface. The ornate gilt picture frames were dust free. Every lightbulb in every chandelier worked. Curtains matched sofas and pillows. Books lined shelves. Candlewicks had never been lit. Pristine.
Maybe it was the smell that bothered him. Sam followed Ana and Jim around a corner and down another hall, lagging a little behind as was his custom in a new place. He often had trouble identifying scents, but this one was obvious. Roses. Some kind of potpourri, no doubt, or a plug-in room deodorizer. Sam never thought of things like that—as evidenced by the pile of mildewed towels in the front office at Haven.
He knew he had no right to find fault with Jim for the way his house smelled. The man obviously cared about children. After all, he had started an adoption agency, he regularly worked in the church nursery and his generous gifts had covered the entire cost of new bathroom tile at Haven. If Jim wanted to fill his house with the scent of roses, why should Sam begrudge him? Still, the fragrance made him a little queasy.
As they neared the sitting room, Ana asked Jim how he would feel about her writing a feature article on his adoption agency. “It would be great PR for you,” she said. “Think how much attention it would draw to the wonderful things you’re doing for children.”
“I’m sorry, Ana, but it’s against my policy to comment on the agency,” he told her. “I don’t promote my work in any public venue. It’s all done through word of mouth.”
“But you might find more local parents looking to adopt. It would make such a heartwarming story, Jim. The international aspect is fascinating, and the way your wife and three daughters inspired you would make great reading.”
“Afraid not. I have more clients than I can handle. I’m not interested in any publicity.” His voice softened. “Listen, Ana, I don’t mean to be difficult. I simply try to follow biblical teaching about doing things for the glory of God and not for the honor of men.”
Without waiting for her response, he brushed past her and headed for the living room. Ana hurried behind, her long legs eating up the carpet and her voice echoing along the cherrywood paneled corridor. She hadn’t switched gears, Sam noted. Ana still pressed for a feature article, though now she suggested it could combine both the adoption agency and Jim’s support of the recreation center. Sam dawdled, admiring both the woman’s aggressive style and Jim’s stubborn adherence to his rules. The three of them made quite a trio.
As Sam followed the other two, he reflected on the little girls in the playroom. Peering through a one-way mirror at the children had reminded Sam of gazing into an aquarium in a pet shop. He had always felt sorry for the fish as they swam in circles, taken from their natural habitat and oblivious to the future that awaited them. Personal experience told him fish usually lasted a few days and then ended their short lives floating belly-up at the top of their tank. Thank God, the children who were placed in adoptive homes by Young Blessings could look forward to a far better destiny.
Though he knew Jim meant well with the adoption agency’s pristine, silent environment, Sam preferred messy, smelly, loud Haven. Even a child as withdrawn as Flora took some comfort in the bouncing balls and screeching whistles that resounded through the building. Or would she be happier watching cartoons in Jim Slater’s fishbowl?
Ana had finally given up the fight to draw a lengthy interview out of Jim. Sam could see it in her posture as he entered the living room. He wasn’t surprised that Jim had been reluctant to talk—only that Ana had actually accepted defeat.
Nice try, Miss Burns, Sam thought. I just hope your pushiness hasn’t jeopardized Haven’s future.
She folded down onto a sofa now, looking like an umbrella closing up after a rain, useless and slightly bedraggled. He felt a little sorry for her, but it was time to focus on the business at hand.
“Lead paint,” he began, taking the chair across from Jim. “Seems like that’s all I’m hearing these days. I’m on the phone constantly, making visits, talking to everyone I can. Frankly, since I spoke to you the other day, Jim, I haven’t been able to drum up much support.”
“How much will it cost to take care of the problem?” Jim asked. “Do you have any figures for me?”
Ana began scribbling again, her face brightening a little.
“We’re looking at twenty thousand, minimum.”
Jim whistled. “That much would have built a nice fence and gotten you started on your outdoor recreation area, wouldn’t it?”
“Sure would. Let me tell you, I’d love to spend the money that way. But we have no choice except to follow government regulations on the paint removal if we intend to let children under age six into the building—and we do. Running an adoption agency, you know how important it is to start kids off on the right foot as early as possible. In fact, Terell and I have already put some great activities in place for the preschool age group. Finger-painting, crocheting, dance and music, tools—my volunteers are outstanding.”
“I’ve seen them at work,” Jim said. “I couldn’t agree more.”
Sam nodded, heartened. “There are several areas in the building where we can legally paint over the old walls. But most of the original paint is crumbling and peeling. To scrape that off requires professionals with specialized equipment. We looked into covering it up—new wallboard, dropped ceilings, all that. Any direction we went, we came up with similar figures. Even with our volunteers providing labor, we can’t bring down the cost.”
“How much of the twenty thousand have you found, Sam?”
“A church gave us two. The owner of a dry cleaning business in the area came up with another thousand.”
“Dry cleaning?” Ana put in.
Sam shot her a look. “Yes, dry cleaning. And Granny gave us a hundred dollars.”
“Who’s Granny?” Jim asked.
“She’s an elderly woman who teaches the crochet class at Haven,” he explained. “Evidently, she has a little something put away. She comes up with a donation for us every now and then. We’ve tried to encourage her to use it on herself—she needs a hearing aid and new glasses. But she says it’s the Lord’s money, and she won’t touch it.”
“So, thirty-one hundred dollars. And you need twenty thousand?”
“I have nearly two weeks left to work on it before the county steps in. I need to show them that I’ve got the money. Then they’ll give us more time to clean the rooms and put in new walls. I’m not giving up.”
“I didn’t think so. Well, you can put me down for five thousand, Sam. It’s the best I can do right now.”
“Five thousand? That’s great, Jim, thank you.”
“You’re still a long way off, my friend.”
“Yeah, but that puts us over eight thousand—almost halfway. We’re in firing range.” He got to his feet and grabbed Jim’s hand. “Thank you, sir. I promise you, that money will make an enormous difference in the lives of my kids.”
“That’s all the thanks I need. I’ll bring you a check in a few days.” Jim stood. “Ana, will I see you in church Sunday?”
“Sure. And I’d like to take a look at your toy collection someday.”
“Of course. We’ll schedule a lunch one day when there aren’t any children visiting.”
“Thanks again, Jim.” Sam pumped his hand another time. “You’ve encouraged me.”
As Jim shut the door behind them, Sam slung his arm around Ana’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze. “Five thousand bucks! Did you hear that? Terell’s gonna freak!”
Ana’s back stiffened at his embrace, but she continued walking beside him down the deeply shadowed driveway. “You need a lot more.”
“I’ll get it.”
“Always so optimistic?”
“God doesn’t give you a job and then fail to deliver the tools. One way or another, that lead paint is gone.”
“I’m happy for you.”
He glanced at her. “What’s wrong? Upset Jim wouldn’t give you a good interview?”
“I got some quotes.” She fell silent again, her head down. Then she shrugged his arm off her shoulders. “It’s those poor little girls.”
“What about them?”
“They looked so small. So alone.”
“Alone? They had more toys than they could know what to do with.”
She sighed as they stepped through the steel gate that guarded Slater’s property. “Do you think the girls understand what’s happening to them?” Ana pressed a button on her key ring, and the doors to her car unlocked. “I wish Jim would have let me talk to them in Spanish. I’d have told them everything is going to be okay, and that they’re going to get new parents who will love them and take care of them. Are they sisters, do you suppose? And will they go to the same home? It bothers me.”
“I’ll tell you what gets me. Jim’s secret window for adoptive parents. Like they’re picking out a puppy.”
“His heart is in the right place, though.” Her voice was soft as she nursed the car through the evening traffic.
“True. Sounds like he runs a gauntlet every time he brings kids to the States.”
“He’s a wonderful man,” she said.
“And how ’bout that Chatty Cathy collection?”
Ana laughed as she pulled into a parking space near Haven. “Give poor Jim a break. He’s lonely. He lost his wife, and his daughters are grown and gone. Let him collect dolls if he wants to.”
“I’d feel better if he collected Tonka trucks.”
“Jim’s obviously a shrewd businessman. You don’t live in Ladue unless you know how to manage money. I have no doubt that dolls are a better investment than toy trucks.”
Sam let his focus rest on Ana as she put the car in Park. He knew their time together was over, and he needed to get back and help Terell shut down the center. But he couldn’t deny how good it felt to be near a woman again. And not just any woman.
Ana Burns made a great sparring partner. Sam found her ideas interesting and her personality more than a little intriguing. He hadn’t had time for a relationship when he was in the Marines, nor had he made time for one since. Now—in the midst of his battle to keep Haven open—he couldn’t let himself think in that direction.
“Sam, may I come back and interview the kids at Haven?” Ana asked. The streetlight bronzed her skin and lit her brown eyes with a golden glow. “I’d like to get some quotes from your volunteers, too. It would round out my series.”
“I’m not comfortable with this, Ana. You know that. Neither was Jim.”
“Please, Sam. Let me come back to the center. Maybe I can get more information out of Flora. If she starts to feel comfortable, you might get her to join in the activities.”
“Ana, I appreciate your concern for Flora and your interest in Haven,” he said. “But I don’t want the center by name in the newspaper. The less you say about us the better.”
Her lips tightened. “You don’t trust me to write a positive story. You’re afraid you’ll lose your donations, aren’t you? For you, this is all about money.”
“Money? What do you think Haven is, woman? It’s nothing like Jim Slater’s grand palace, that’s for sure. You didn’t have any problem praising him to high heaven, but you accuse me of moneygrubbing?” Angry now, he opened the car door. “I don’t have spare cash to spend on fat-winged babies and doll collections. I need to keep my donors happy if I want Haven’s doors to stay open. And that means no newspaper articles.”
“You don’t even know what I’m going to write. Give me a little credit. I could slant this story in your favor. Trust me, Sam.”
“Trust a woman who accuses me of being in this for the money?” He climbed out of the car and slammed the door. “You want to know what I’m all about, Ana? Open your eyes. I’m here for these kids.”
As he strode down the sidewalk, Ana’s car kept pace. “I can come back to Haven if I want,” she called out to him. “I have the right to talk to anyone, Sam.”
“No, you don’t,” he shouted back. “Not at Haven. It’s my operation, and you’re not welcome.”
As her tires squealed down the street, Sam stepped up to the metal detector.
“Hoo-wee,” Raydell said, shaking his head as he eyed the vanishing car. “You got woman problems. Big-time.”
“Rod Davidson…how are you this morning, my friend?”
“Well, what can I tell you? Murders, suicides, drive-by shootings—the usual.”
He chuckled at the Post-Dispatch publisher’s greeting. “I don’t know how you do it day in and day out.”
“It never gets old. Keeps the adrenaline pumping anyway.” Davidson sounded cheerful. “Listen, I’ve got a meeting with my editorial board in a few minutes. What can I do for you today?”
“I won’t keep you long. I’m calling in reference to Haven. One of your reporters, a young woman by the name of Ana Burns, is proposing to write a piece on the recreation center’s lead paint problem. It’s a serious issue, certainly, and I can understand why the newspaper considers it worthy of coverage.”
“You’ve got that right. Lead levels in St. Louis’s children are at an all-time high. We published some big stories on the defunct lead plant in Herculaneum—the contaminated dust that kids were breathing. Now we’re learning the lead abatement crews here in the city aren’t making more than a dent in ridding houses and apartments of the old paint. And that’s not to mention the public buildings that are still contaminated.”
“I guess that’s where Haven comes in. Obviously we’re all doing our best to deal with the problem. But this reporter of yours isn’t going to make things easier. If the paper publicizes the center’s troubles, fund-raising is only going to get harder.” He fell silent for a moment, letting his words sink in. “Why don’t you call her off, Rod? Tell her to focus on the situation in a more generalized way. You don’t need to go throwing names around.”
The publisher considered the request. “I hear you, of course. But the public has the right to know what’s happening in the city. I don’t like to weigh in against an issue that one of my editors feels is important enough to investigate.”
“But think of Haven. Think of the future of all those children if this story turns away potential donors. If you let this Burns woman print the problems, it could shut the center’s doors forever.”
“I certainly wouldn’t want that to happen. I’m sure you know that. Tell you what. I’ll talk to Carl Webster about the situation. He’s the editor in charge here.”
“Thanks, Rod. I admire your courage. I know you’ll do the right thing.”
As he said goodbye and pressed the button to shut down his phone, a breeze ruffled the curtain near his chair. Despite everything he had done to calm himself, the motion of the fabric startled him. He knew it was only wind, but he leaped to his feet and checked behind the drape anyway. Satisfying himself of his safety, he let out a breath as he pulled the window shut and locked it.
This couldn’t go on much longer. Stu had failed to call back and was not returning his voice mails. No doubt the weasel had scampered off with his tail between his legs. Expected, of course.
As usual, he would face things on his own. He doubted Rod Davidson would help out, either. The publisher’s own agenda came first. Printing scandals, selling papers, making money—never mind how it might harm others.
And that nosy Ana Burns. He couldn’t believe how easily she had manipulated everything. If Davidson didn’t put a stop to her, there would be no choice but to step in and take care of her himself. Fortunately, he had connections. Not friends, of course, but people—acquaintances—who could make things happen to a single young woman, working downtown, walking the city’s streets.
From his earliest memories, he had known he was alone. The things he had suffered. The thoughts that plagued him. No one cared. Once he had told his best friend, Stevie, how he was feeling—shared his deepest emotions, his most troubling experiences, his inmost fantasies and fears. And from that moment on, Stevie had ignored him. Turned away. Abandoned him. Worse than putting him down or making fun of him, Stevie had simply pretended that his once-dearest friend no longer existed.
Though unbearably painful, the experience had been useful. Now he knew that no one could really understand him. They thought he was a deviant, a “sicko.” Well, they were wrong. What he did wasn’t perverse or strange—it was simply who he was. He was created this way, a unique and special human being—and how could anyone say that was wrong?
He never hurt anyone. His so-called “victims,” as the prison therapists had put it, weren’t bothered by what he did. They welcomed it. In a way, he was helping them, awakening them, and teaching them things they would need to know later in life. It wasn’t as though he got that much out of his “crime” anyway. His own pleasure lasted just a short time, and then he was forced to spend weeks preparing for it all over again.
