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ladle into a twenty-gallon steel pot simmering on the stove’s front burner, slopping a portion into a cracked plastic bowl. A couple of individually wrapped packages of saltines—already crumbled—accompanied the order.
    â€œI’d like some iced tea, please.”
    The cook grunted again and produced a smudged glass filled with tea so weak Skinner could read a newspaper through it, accompanied by a couple of rapidly dissolving slivers of ice.
    â€œYou ain’t from around here,” the cook said flatly, dropping the lid back on the simmering chili.
    Skinner smiled nervously. “I was wondering if you might be able to help me with some information …?”
    The cook turned to stare at him, beefy arms folded atop his wide stomach, looking like a Buddha with a chip on his shoulder. “Such as?”
    â€œUh, I was wondering if you knew where the Beatrice Small Foundling Home might be …”
    The cook’s posture relaxed somewhat. “It don’t exist no more. Old Lady Small died years ago.”
    That news, combined with the chili, was enough to knot Skinner’s guts into a sheepshank.
    â€œYou could talk to her daughter, though,” the cook continued. “She’s still alive. She helped her mother with the business.”
    â€œDoes she still live here?”
    â€œOver on Cottonwood Street. Hey, mister, ain’t you gonna finish your chili?”
    â€œWhy don’t you take care of it for me?”
    The cook watched Skinner hurry out of the diner, shrugged and dumped the unused portion back into the pot.
    â€œWho is it?”
    The woman peering out from the dark interior of the Victorian house looked to be in her late sixties. With her wispy cloud of white hair and cat-eye harlequin glasses, she reminded Skinner of his old first grade teacher, Mrs. Hale.
    â€œMrs. Small?”
    â€œNo. That was my mother. I’m Miss Small. Wh-what do you want, young man?” Whether her thin voice wavered out of irritation or anxiety was difficult to tell.
    â€œMy name is Skinner Cade, Miss Small. I want to talk you about the home.”
    â€œYou’re one of ours, aren’t you?” she asked, the suspicion in her eyes melting away. “You’re one of our babies.”
    â€œYes, ma’am.”
    â€œCome in! Come in, my dear!” She beamed, opening the door wide enough for him to enter. Skinner slipped inside, glad to be out of the heat. “Make yourself comfortable in the front parlor. I’ll fetch you some lemonade.”
    â€œThat’s alright, ma’am. You don’t have to go to all that trouble.”
    â€œNonsense! I rarely get a chance to see our children all grown up.”
    Skinner sat on an overstuffed sofa in a parlor dominated by a huge oil portrait of a matronly woman dressed in a high-collared blouse with a pince-nez balanced on her nose.
    Miss Small returned with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses on a tray. “I see you’ve noticed mother,” she said with a little laugh. “She was an amazing woman, rest her soul. She passed away sixteen years ago this August, at the age of ninety-seven. She ran the foundling home until the very end. Although, what with the advances in contraception, business wasn’t what it once was, of course …”
    â€œMiss Small, I was wondering if you might help me locate my natural parents?”
    The old woman frowned. “Mother was very much against our babies doing such things. What about your adopted parents, Mr. Cade? How do they feel about what you’re doing?”
    â€œThey’re both dead.”
    â€œAh. I see,” she sighed. “And now that they’ve passed on, you’d like to find out more about yourself, is that it?”
    â€œThat’s right. Do you still have records from when the home was in business?”
    â€œGracious, yes! Mother was quite particular when it came to keeping records.”
    Skinner handed