Finding Bailey: A Lake Tahoe Romantic Suspense Novel

by Dana Mason

  After a non-stop flight to Wisconsin, they checked into a hotel. And, after a lengthy argument, they decided to share a room with two queen-size beds. Ryan would rather face a firing squad than have to sleep in a room with her and not be able to touch her.

  Of course, to Bailey, two rooms was a huge waste of money, and he was pretty sure she didn’t want to be alone. Not that she would admit this to him. Ryan would’ve paid every dollar in his bank account for some gravity or perspective, but there was none to be had because she also wouldn’t openly admit sleeping in the same room with him would be uncomfortable after what happened on his boat.

  He could’ve settled the argument faster if he’d just told her he might want to bring someone to his room later, but he didn’t know how she’d feel about that, and he didn’t want to hurt her. Not that it would. He honestly didn’t think she cared, but…he cared, and that was enough.

  “Where are we starting?” Bailey asked when they were settled in and unpacked.

  “You should start by Googling Baby Bailey and reading all the online articles,” he said, nodding toward her laptop. “Most of the articles from the stolen scrapbooks are available online.”

  She stared at him, open-mouthed. “Um, duh, I’ve already done that.”

  He glanced up at her. “You did?”

  “Of course. It’s the very first thing I did after I found out about the adoption.”

  “Oh, well, in that case, we’re starting with a good night’s sleep. It’s too late to call anyone or drop by.”

  Bailey’s enthusiasm visibly deflated. “It’s only ten.”

  “Yeah, and all the people we’re visiting are over sixty. Do you really want to start knocking on doors? I don’t think that’s the best way to get the information we want.”

  “Okay, fine.” She stood up and went into the bathroom to change her clothes, returning in sweats and a t-shirt.

  Ryan avoided looking at her. It was easier to pretend she wasn’t there. He lay back on his bed and pulled his cap over his eyes. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he was this trip would ultimately kill him.

  “Are you sleeping in your clothes?”

  He shook his head, then sat up and replaced his cap. “Nope, but I’m going down to the bar for a drink.”

  Ryan was out the door before she could respond. He moved fast, so she couldn’t offer to come with him. He needed to break away for a while. She was all-consuming. His brain was on overload just trying to give her what she needed while ignoring his own needs.

  She didn’t want him for anything other than friendship, and he had to live with that, like it or not. It’s not as if he was looking for a relationship anyway, which just proved he was smarter to stay away and not get physically involved, right?

  He ordered a drink and drank it down like a freaking loser alcoholic, then quickly ordered another. Once the whiskey settled into his system, he relaxed a little. He needed a game plan for this trip—yeah, he had to keep his head in the game. Focus on the goal. Concentrate on the reason he’d flown to Wisconsin. He pulled out a notepad and started jotting down some notes. The uncle had to provide some answers, right? If he was so dead set on Helen keeping her secrets, then he could tell her everything himself.

  What if the something missing had nothing to do with her parents? What was the story behind the abandonment? Where could she have come from? What other scenarios is he missing? Missing?

  He took another sip of whiskey and wrote the word missing on his notepad. Missing children were just as common back then as they are now. He’d learned this quickly when he visited all of the missing children sites online. What avenues did they have back then to find missing kids? There were no Amber Alerts. But babies didn’t just run away. They were usually stolen by an estranged parent. But a parent who went to the trouble of stealing his own child wouldn’t leave her in the snow. He wrote the word stolen with a question mark next to it.

  Was it possible someone might have stolen her as an infant, then freaked out and changed his or her mind? But leaving her in the snow, that didn’t make sense. It takes one heartless son-of-a-bitch to do that to an innocent baby. Why not leave her at a hospital or police station? Of course, the chances of getting caught are greater, but it’s better than murder, and it would have been murder if she had died before the Mortons found her. He was certain they didn’t have safe surrender laws twenty-seven years ago.

  Maybe this uncle was more involved. Maybe even a birth parent or something. Could Helen, Ernie, and Patrick have come up with a plan to hide Bailey in plain sight? Could Bailey really be a Morton after all? The possibilities were endless, and all sure to break her heart regardless.

  He continued to make notes until he glanced up, and his eyes rested on the piano in a dark corner of the bar. He stared for a moment then nodded at the bartender.

  “Do you mind if I fiddle around on that piano?”

  He waved a hand. “Help yourself.”

  Ryan carried his drink over and sat down on the stool. He played a scale to see if the piano was in tune, then nodded. It’s wasn’t bad. His anger flared again when he thought of Helen’s gutted piano. Ryan had already hired someone to do the repairs, but that didn’t change the maliciousness of the vandalism. He played an old song he’d written years ago. Then he toyed with the melody he’d written a few months before, but still needed lyrics for.

  It had been one of his best to date, and he didn’t want to screw it up with something stupid, so he’d taken it slow. Kind of like how he was handling his relationship with Bailey. Handle with care were the words that came to mind. Tenderly, warmly, gently. He snickered. She’d kill him if she knew he thought about her like that. Bailey didn’t want to be handled with care. She wanted things given to her straight. She wanted clean lines, honesty, and sincerity. She didn’t want to be coddled.

  Maybe Lucas was right. Maybe Ryan needed to come clean with his feelings, but what were those feelings exactly?

  He pulled out his notebook again and wrote the words “Coming Clean.” Clean about what? My lies? My dirty little secret? He played the melody again then wrote dirty secret, then the words bare, naked, stripped, and exposed. As if he clicked a switch, it came together. He needed to come clean and wipe the slate.

  A smile parted his lips. He sipped the whiskey again then played the melody in its entirety. When he looked up, Bailey was standing in front of him. He nearly jumped out of his skin, praying he hadn’t actually said any of that out loud.

  “Hey,” he said, nearly jumping off the bench and grabbing his notepad. “I thought you were going to bed.”

  “You don’t have to stop for me. I like listening.”

  Heat rushed his cheeks. “You know I can’t stand to see a neglected piano.”

  “Did you finally find some worthy lyrics to go with that melody?”

  “No, I was just making some notes for tomorrow. I think we should start with the cop, then Uncle Pat. Do we have his address?”

  “Yeah, it’s in Mom’s address book.” She reached over, grabbed his whiskey, and took a sip.

  “I was getting ready to come back up, but if you want a drink, we can hang out for a little while.”

  “I think a drink would help me sleep.”

  Ryan stood to go to the bar, but she held her hand out to stop him. “I’ll get it.” She tilted her head and gave him a faint smile. “Will you keep playing?”

  He nodded and sat back down. “What do you want to hear?”

  “Anything. I just want to hear you play.”

  Ryan played a Sam Smith song he knew she loved. When he started, she looked at him from over her shoulder with a smile. That’s all he wanted, a smile. He could live with that—for now. When the song was over, he played his own song one more time, and, in his head, added the lyrics he’d been writing when Bailey interrupted him. A smile crept up. He’d nailed it.

  * * *

  They left early the next morning, hoping to catch Officer Harper before he got too
busy. They stopped at the office door and read the plastic plaque, Police Chief Chevy Harper.

  “Chief now,” Bailey muttered as Ryan knocked.

  He was older and had to be nearing retirement. His hair was completely white, and he wore a spare tire around his midsection. Chief Harper had a very wide and warm smile, though, and it put Bailey at ease instantly.

  “No need to knock,” he bellowed, then his eyes rested on them. “Oh, sorry. The officer at the desk can help you if you’re lost.”

  “No, sir, I’m Ryan Walker. I called a few days ago about Baby Bailey. We had an appointment for this morning.”

  His face froze with a half-smile before he relaxed. “Yes, you did, and I pulled the file already. Come on in.”

  The office walls were opaque glass, modern, and looked brand new. The office furniture looked totally out of place in the swanky space, but, then again, so did the occupant. Two hardwood chairs faced the desk, and they looked like they were straight out of Bailey’s elementary school. In the corner sat an old couch from the seventies that must have hosted many naps over the years. The only new furniture to match the new office was the glass desk, covered in paperwork and coffee rings

  “Thank you, Chief Harper. We really appreciate your help,” Ryan said as he and Bailey sat across from his desk.

  “No problem,” he said, plopping down in the desk chair. “No problem at all. It was an unusual case and kept me up nights for a long time. Fortunately, it had a happy ending.”

  “Chief, this is Bailey Morton,” Ryan said.

  “Oh.” He stood back up and raised a hand to shake Bailey’s. His smile broadened, and she felt like he fought to keep from embracing her. “My goodness, all grown up. Well, welcome back to Appleton, Ms. Morton.”

  “Please, call me Bailey.” She smiled back and actually felt welcomed. He had a very relaxing presence for someone who worked in law enforcement. Usually, cops had very cold personalities. She imagined it made it easier for them to do their jobs and not get attached too easily.

  “How are your mother and father doing?”

  She lowered her eyes, then lifted them back up to meet his. “They’ve both passed. My mother just a few weeks ago. I lost my father when I was twelve.”

  “Oh, dear, I’m sorry to hear that. They were the best kind. Of course, we grieved the loss years ago when y’all moved west. Couldn’t blame them, though. Hard to raise a child with all that attention. Everyone in town knew the story, and your folks got no peace.”

  “Well, it worked. Nobody knew anything about it until my mother died. Not even me.”

  Harper stared at her for a long time, then cleared his throat. “Your parents didn’t tell you about the abandonment?”

  “No, sir, they didn’t even tell me about the adoption.”

  “Well.” He paused for a long moment. “I guess they thought it was for the best.”

  “Chief Harper, we’re hoping to find out something new about Bailey’s birth parents. It’s a hard thing for her to swallow, not knowing where she comes from. Is this something you can help us with?”

  “Son, I checked every avenue possible and couldn’t find anything. And I mean everything. I thought for sure she was born to a drugged-out teenager who didn’t want to tell her parents she’d gotten pregnant. I just couldn’t prove it. Then I thought maybe a single woman had given birth and was unable to keep her. I checked every hospital within a thousand miles. I even checked into pregnant women’s deaths, thinking maybe she’d been ripped from the womb of some poor lady in the late stages of pregnancy. Nothing.”

  Bailey felt sick. The possibility of being stolen from her mother’s womb had never occurred to her. She must have looked pale because Harper gave her an apologetic smile.

  “We appreciate all the time and effort you put into the search all those years ago,” Ryan said. “If you haven’t found anything new, is it possible to share what little you do know?”

  Harper nodded and flipped the file cover open. “I don’t think it would hurt anything.” He placed a pair of reading glasses on his nose and started to read from his notes. “Bailey was found on the north side of the Mortons’ yard, the side yard that faced an empty field. A juniper bush bordered the yard, but ended about six feet from the back fence, which is where Mr. Morton stored his trash cans.” He glanced up for a moment then read on. “Mr. Morton heard the clanking of the cans, which is what caused him to go outside.”

  Harper glanced up at Bailey, and as much as she wanted to react, she didn’t. She didn’t want to give him a reason to stop reading. “She was wrapped in two blankets. One was pink, thin, and wrapped around her fairly tight—this is what Mrs. Morton said. The second was a white blanket with little pink flowers embroidered along the edges.” He ran his finger along the page and said, “She…you, Bailey, was warm when Mr. Morton picked you up, so you hadn’t been out in the cold for very long. He took you inside the house directly, where Mrs. Morton looked you over. She said you were unharmed from what she could tell and that you didn’t even cry.” He flipped the page. “The doctor who examined you estimated you were about six weeks old and in excellent health.”

  “Do you know— Did my father say if he’d seen anything else outside?” Bailey asked.

  Chief Harper flipped through the pages then stopped and examined them before answering. “No, he said he didn’t see anything, but he heard a car driving by at about the same time he heard the clanking noise. We interviewed all the neighbors, but nobody else in the neighborhood heard or saw anything. Of course, it was later in the evening, and most of the neighbors were already in bed.” He looked up from the notes and removed the glasses from his face. “As you can see, I have an inch-thick folder here full of notes, but it’s mostly interviews that amounted to nothing.”

  They sat quietly for a moment until Ryan finally broke the silence. “We’re not sure where to go from here. Can you point us in the right direction?”

  “I really don’t know.” He contemplated for a moment, then said, “I guess the first thing you should do is call the FBI. They don’t investigate abandonment, but they do investigate kidnapping and missing persons. I don’t think that applies to your case, but I could be wrong. It’s worth checking out.”

  “I was thinking,” Bailey said, “maybe I should submit one of those mail-order DNA kits. The kind that links you to your ancestors. Have you heard of those?”

  Chief Harper’s eyes grew sympathetic. “Bailey, I realize how hard this must be for you. I also realize there’s a ton of stuff on the internet nowadays. But I’d advise you to try law enforcement first. I’d be afraid of what kind of people you might be connected to if you took this into your own hands. What if you submit your DNA and let one of those ancestor sites connect you with someone who doesn’t have your best interests at heart? I’d hate to see you fall prey to a scam. Try the FBI first and ask them for suggestions. Let the online DNA option be your last.”

  Bailey nodded, fighting with the disappointment that swamped her. She thought the online DNA option was a good one. She’d seen stories about families or siblings trying to find the rest of the family after having been split up, and she’d hoped for the same happy ending. “I understand. You’re right. I don’t need any trouble or drama in my life right now. I’ll start with the FBI.”

  Ryan nodded and stood. “Thank you for giving us your time.”

  Harper stood, too, and held out a hand to Ryan. “My pleasure.” He handed over a couple of business cards. “I’ll make some calls. I have a friend over in the local FBI office. I’ll see if he can help get you in contact with your local office. Until then, feel free to call me if you have any other questions.”

  “That would be great. Thank you so much, sir,” Bailey said.

  He turned toward her. “I know this is hard, but the Mortons fought really hard to keep you. That must count for something.”

  “Yes, sir, thank you again for everything.”

  “It’s a blessing to see you all grown
up. Please feel free to give me a call if you have any other questions or if you get any leads you need help with.”

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bailey slid into the passenger seat of the rental car and rubbed her face with her hands, keeping them there, holding her eyes closed. “Let’s go home.”

  “What?” Ryan started the car and let it idle. “Bailey, don’t give up so easily.”

  “Oh, my God. Stolen from my mother’s womb. I never imagined something so sick.”

  Ryan closed his eyes and shook his head for a second. “I know. That one got to me, too.” He opened his eyes and reached for her, grabbing her wrist until she dropped her hands to look at him. “Let’s at least visit your uncle. Then you can decide if you want to continue with the search. It’s a pointless trip if we don’t talk to Patrick.”

  She nodded. “I also want to visit my aunt Lucy.”

  “Which one is she?”

  “My mother’s sister.”

  “Right, forgot. Let’s do Patrick first.” He punched the address into the navigation system and followed the directions.

  They pulled into the circular driveway of a large, custom-built home with a three-car garage and a long winding walkway through a beautifully landscaped yard that led up to the double front door. There was a wide porch that ran the entire length of the house with huge, tree-trunk-sized log pillars. Bailey was a little surprised. She knew her uncle was a car salesman, but she didn’t realize car salesmen made enough to afford such a beautiful and large house.

  “It looks like he’s home,” Ryan said, nodding toward the BMW parked in front of one of the garage stalls.

  They approached the front door, and Ryan knocked. It was nearing noon, and the sun was bright in the clear sky. It was hot, too. She was glad she’d packed a cool summer dress to wear. Jeans would’ve been miserable.

  When the door opened, she turned. A woman in her twenties answered, looking them up and down. The expression made Bailey wonder if people here knew on sight that she and Ryan were from out of state. It hadn’t been the first time she felt as if she wore a sign that said, ‘I don’t belong here.’