“I remarried a couple of years later, and Drew was born the following year. George was bitter, and became antagonistic and mean-spirited. He seemed to resent my being able to conceive a baby in my second marriage.
“The following Memorial Day weekend, he and Danielle were to go to Santa Cruz. He asked me to pack extra clothes because the weather was unpredictable at the beach. When he did not return with Danielle Monday evening at seven thirty, I assumed they were caught in traffic. By nine o’clock I was worried; by ten I was frantic and I called the police. When I hung up the phone, it hit me that George had run off with our daughter.”
“Where do I fit in?” Christie asked.
“Mother received a letter from a woman who claims to be Danielle,” her son said.
“That’s wonderful.” Christie caught an almost imperceptive shake of Drew’s head. He put his hand on his mother’s, which were primly folded in her lap, with the hankie crushed between them.
“Drew doesn’t believe the woman is my daughter.”
Christie turned to Drew. “Why?”
“Mother recently gave a large grant to a school in Oakland, and there was major publicity about it. The reporter brought up the kidnapping. I think whoever wrote the letter saw the article and is trying to cash in. Almost every time my mother makes the news, she is contacted by a rash of phony Danielles.”
Now Christie realized why the woman looked familiar. She had seen the write-up and accompanying photos in the Chronicle. Mrs. Farley was an astute businesswoman who had parlayed her late husband’s company into the ranks of the Fortune 500. She was known to share generously with the community at large.
“So you think this may be a scam?”
“Yes,” Drew answered. “The woman’s name is Dani Shepherd. She claims that her father’s widow found a series of newspaper articles about Mother in a desk drawer, and recalled a conversation she’d had with her husband a few days before he died. Supposedly, he told her that Dani’s mother had married into money. She claims she put the pieces together and came up with us.”
“But what if Dani is Danielle? I would give anything to see my daughter again,” Mrs. Farley said.
“I can understand that, Mrs. Farley, but Tom Gates is the man you want to work with, not me. I’m a questioned document examiner, not a detective.”
“None of the detectives over the years have turned up anything. George undoubtedly changed his name, and probably his appearance, to avoid detection. You’re our last chance. We have two letters from Dani, and Danielle’s kindergarten schoolwork. Mr. Gates thought you could compare the writing.”
“Do you have the schoolwork with you?” Christie asked.
Mrs. Farley opened a large purse and drew out a sheaf of papers. The first two papers were crisp and new; the others were folded into quarters and showed the effects of age and continual handling. Christie could visualize Mrs. Farley keeping them safely tucked away in a jewelry box, and reverently taking them out to read over and over.
“Danielle’s disappearance left a hole in my heart.” Mrs. Farley turned toward her son. “If God hadn’t given me Drew, I would have shriveled up and died.”
Drew squeezed his mother’s hand. Christie had wondered if Drew felt threatened by the possibility of a sibling emerging from the past. Now she sensed that he was trying to prevent his mother’s heart from breaking twice.
Christie spread the papers across the desk. This was going to be a trying examination. Three decades divided the handwriting. Thirty years of change. She was looking at the scrawled printing of a child and the smooth script of an adult. There would be no fast answers, if any, and so much was at stake.
“Can you help us?” Mrs. Farley asked.
“I’m sure you can appreciate that this is complicated by time, but I’ll try.”
Drew and Mrs. Farley stood and thanked Christie before leaving the office. At the doorway, Mrs. Farley turned, tears glistening in her eyes.
“This means a great deal to me, to us.” She scraped Drew’s jacket sleeve with her fingertips. “My lost child returning…”
Drew put an arm around his mother and gently nudged her into the hallway.
A few minutes later, Tom Gates stepped into Christie’s office.
“What do you think?” he asked.
“A miracle, if this is her daughter. A heartless scam if it isn’t. And Mrs. Farley deserves better.”
“She certainly does. For years, Mrs. Farley has championed the smaller schools on the outskirts of San Francisco, the ones that don’t usually attract patrons,” Tom said. “She provided funds for books, tutors, and additional teachers, and set up college scholarships. That’s what is so unique about her brand of charity. She has taken up the cause of the underdog.”
“What have you learned about Dani Shepherd?”
“It’s a dead end. Shepherd could be anyone. Nothing links her to Mrs. Farley, or contradicts a relationship, either. She doesn’t have any childhood photos to compare with Mrs. Farley’s meager few. It’s a puzzle, perhaps unsolvable.”
‘“It’s also a challenge. Thanks for sending the Farleys to me, Tom.”
“You better hold that thanks until you complete the job. You may end up cursing me for all the curves this case throws your way.” Tom left Christie to mull over his words.
She read the first letter Dani had written, a summary of the information the stepmother had given her. The second was more personal, a reply to Mrs. Farley’s letter. The content of one paragraph caught Christie’s eye, and she slowed to absorb the words.
“I knew that I was adopted. Each night when my mother tucked me into bed, she would tell me that she and my father had chosen me, and that made me special. When I no longer had a mother to tuck me in, I kept her in my heart. When I was lonely or sad, I would conjure her spirit and imagine her comforting embrace. Now, I must wrap myself around the possibility that my mother is no longer a spirit, dwelling only in my mind, but a real person.”
Christie rubbed her eyes with the side of her hand, feeling the tears that dampened her cheek. Dani’s words sounded sincere. Had her mother’s love been torn from her when she was a child? Or was the letter a hoax, the cruelest imaginable?
CHAPTER TEN
Traffic had been brutal on the way home. There wasn’t much time to spruce up. A fast shower and towel-dried hair was the best she could do. She slipped on crisply tailored slacks and a Hawaiian-print blouse. Time always seemed to get away from her. Cash would arrive any minute and she would not even have a chance to use the blow-dryer.
Precisely at seven, a knock at the door signaled his arrival. Christie looked around the room, making sure nothing was out of place, and nervously finger-picked her damp hair. She opened the door and stepped into Cash’s outstretched arms.
His embrace was firm, drawing her to him so tightly the buttons on his jacket pressed into her chest. She gently pulled away, fearful he would detect the pounding of her heart. She did not want her feelings to be so easily read.
“I have to get a sweater,” she said. “Why don’t you sit down for a moment?”
Cash leaned against the doorjamb as though considering her suggestion. A smile played on his lips. He closed the door behind him, walked across the living room, and sat in a large upholstered chair, which seemed to fit him.