Chapter 37
T hey arrived at Saul Steinburg’s deflated and elated at the same time. The mixed emotions took their toll as exhaustion overtook them.
They were surprised to see his dining room table set for afternoon tea with a tiered cake stand with fluffy scones on the top tier, little sandwiches in the middle, and cookies on the bottom. The liquor cabinet stood open at the ready. His anticipation of their needs was uncanny and welcome.
Dalia and Kenyon had been awed upon driving up to his house, which they’d never seen.
The mammoth Victorian-era home painted dark eggplant had white gingerbread trim aplenty.
Lush landscaping surrounded the property, with a brick sidewalk leading up to it.
White rocking chairs and hanging begonias adorned the porch.
Inside, beautiful antiques filled the house. These weren’t flea market finds. Saul had no doubt owned them for years, probably having inherited many of them. His was old money.
After a quick tour of the downstairs, including an invitation to use the restroom, both girls asked if they could use the phone to call their parents to let them know they’d be later than expected.
Using the phone in the front hallway, each was vague with her mother who knew nothing about what they were doing.
Their host and Inez had gone into the dining room, so they joined them.
He fixed whiskey on the rocks for Inez and himself and got bottles of Coke out of the fridge for Dalia and Kenyon.
They sipped and talked and ate, taking turns telling what they knew.
The sheriff had confiscated the tape recorder as evidence, so they relied on memory to provide details.
Saul listened intently and asked several questions.
He was thrilled to learn of Nellie Franklin’s confession but dismayed that Dalia hadn’t found out anything.
They’d almost emptied the cake stand and come to the end of their recitation when the doorbell rang. Saul got up and disappeared into the hallway. The women could hear his boisterous greeting and a familiar voice. With a fat manila folder in hand, Prissy followed him into the dining room.
Surprised, they greeted her warmly.
“It’s the records for 1970,” she said. “Looks like there are about fifty of them in there for that year, not in any particular order. Don’t be disappointed, though, because they don’t give a lot of details. It’s gonna be tough to find what you need.” She placed the folder in front of Dalia.
Stunned, Dalia laid a hand on the folder, afraid of what it might contain. “Prissy, how did you get this?”
“Gramps told me to go out to Nellie’s house and get it for you to see, but I have to stay here while you read it and take it back. It needs to get back in the file cabinet before the FBI gets there. That’ll be in a couple of hours. I had a hell of a time finding that one. Those records are a mess.”
“Prissy dear, go grab yourself a Coke out of the fridge and have a seat.” Prissy took Saul up on the invitation on both counts. After she sat down, bottle of Coke in hand, he asked, “Is someone still guarding the files?”
“Oh yeah. A deputy. But he’s been trying to get me to go out with him, so he’ll do anything I ask.”
With reassurance that Prissy hadn’t quite stolen anything, Saul fingered one of the folders, his hand shaking.
It was Inez, who’d known of his connection to this case for so many years, who said, “Saul.” She put a hand on his. “Once they prosecute Nellie Franklin, all the evidentiary records will be released. You’ll find out what happened with your niece.”
He squeezed her hand and let go, pulling his hands back to his lap. “Yes. Yes, of course. I’ve waiting for so long, a little while longer won’t matter. Let’s see what we have here for you, Dalia.”
All eyes fell on Dalia as she slowly opened the folder.
Running a light finger down the top page, she read, “‘1970. B. Dollinger, Boy. College student State. Paid three hundred dollars; sold five thousand dollars. #24.’ Geez. Could that mean birth number twenty-four that year alone?” Aghast, she looked to her audience for help.
“Well, you should see those folders,” Prissy said.
“I didn’t have much time to go over anything, but it looks like there were fewer in the beginning and more and more as time went on.
There were a lot of them. Gramps said they were in business for twelve years, right up until the old doc’s death. They started in 1965.”
Inez chimed in, disgusted at what they were discovering. “Georgia Tann got away with selling five thousand children in twenty-five years. About two hundred a year.”
“Wow!” Prissy said. “That’s more than sixteen a month. An average of at least four a week.” The others looked at her in surprise. She shrugged. “I’m good with math.”
Dalia thumbed through the old pages, written on lined paper. “Prissy, you were right. There must be about fifty names here for this one year alone. That’s what? Six hundred babies sold in twelve years?” She looked at Prissy for reassurance and got a nod.
Saul got up and poured himself another whiskey.
He pointed at Inez. She took another, too.
As he poured, he said, “This was a smaller business than Tann’s, but still no doubt very lucrative for Upton.
It appears that in this case the woman paid three hundred dollars for the birth, and he sold the poor baby boy for five thousand dollars. That’s a nice profit.”
He sat and sipped his whiskey. The professor took a gulp of hers and had a suggestion. “Let’s divide these up five ways. About ten each. We’re looking for May 27, correct?”
Dalia nodded and leafed through the first few pages. “But there don’t seem to be any specific dates here.”
“Well, maybe we’ll figure out something,” Kenyon offered hopefully.
Dalia doled them out and they went to work.
It was Prissy who recognized a pattern. “Wait. Look at this.” She spread out three pages for all to see.
“The numbers at the end of each one, I think that’s the day.
And these numbers all alone on the bottom are the month.
See? This one would be September 3 rd . It’s kinda in code.
These stray numbers on the bottom only go up to twelve. Right? They’re months.”
Everybody riffled through their stack and could verify her theory.
“And the other numbers don’t go beyond thirty-one, correct?”
She was right again.
Inez squinted at the papers. “Let’s put all the matching numbers from the bottom, the potential months, in separate piles.”
They finished and sat back, no one saying anything as they homed in on the May pile. Hands shaking, Dalia picked up the pile. No one moved as she leafed through the pages looking for one that had the number twenty-seven, her birthday. She froze when she found it, staring in disbelief.
“#27,” she read. “It says, ‘1970, L. Robertson, Girl. College student CMU. Paid three hundred dollars; sold ten thousand dollars!’” Her eyes widening in disbelief, she added, “Oh my god, that could be me.”
Kenyon shot up out of her seat so fast she almost knocked over her chair. Instinctively, Inez stood up and reached out to her.
“Kenyon, what is it?” It was Dalia who asked.
Kenyon backed away from the table as if it’d become contaminated with radioactivity. “My…my mom. Her maiden name is Robertson. She was at CMU at that time.” She started to cry.
Dalia got up to take her arm. “Kenyon, that’s impossible. It can’t be your mom. I mean, your mom can’t be my birth mother. Why that’s just, I don’t know, ridiculous.”
Kenyon glared at her. “No, it isn’t.”
“Has she ever talked about having a baby before getting married?” Inez asked gently.
“No. No, she hasn’t.”
The two young women stared at one another, the entire dynamic of their friendship changing in that instant. Not knowing what to do or say, they didn’t speak.
Prissy solemnly gathered the folders, bid them adieu, and left.
The women also took their leave. Dalia and Kenyon didn’t talk much on the way back to Farmdale.
Both knew that what they’d discovered would alter the course of their lives forever, and they hadn’t figured out yet what to do with that knowledge.