Two Ghirardelli dark bars later, Aunt Caroline and I were revived. She was downright giddy with energy.

We started in again and I could understand why fingerprint experts used to be able to spot a matching print just by looking at it. It's because they'd compared that print over and over with hundreds of samples.

The same thing happened to me when I picked up my second letter after our chocolate fix. I let out a "Yes, ma'am," and stood up with my arms raised, like a football fan whose team had scored the winning touchdown as the clock ran down.

"You found it?" Aunt Caroline said. "Let me see."

She started to grab for the letter, but I stepped away from her outstretched hand. "There could be fingerprints on this. Chief Boyd might be able to match them to the mystery woman." I walked to the kitchen drawer where I keep the Ziploc bags. Using my thumb and index finger, I carefully put the letter in a bag and walked back to the table.

"I'll read it to you," I said.

But this time, she was able to snatch the bagged letter before I could blink. She should consider pickpocket school, I decided.

She read:

Dear Ms. Rose,

I learned about you from a Houston TV morning show. I am adopted and would like to find my birth family. If you could help me, I would very much appreciate it. Please let me know what you charge and use the enclosed stamped envelope for your answer.

Yours truly,

JoLynn Richter

"May I please have that back? I need to call Chief Boyd."

But Aunt Caroline was squinting, her gaze traveling between the letter and the copy of my business card. Then she leaned back. "I think this is the same handwriting."

I wanted to say, "Um, yeah, 'cause it's as plain as the hand on the end of your arm," but I did appreciate her help and instead said, "Glad you agree. Now, I've got to phone Chief Boyd and then start dinner. Can I get you anything before you go?"