Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  After we got calmed down, Fiona said she could help out if afterwards I’d take her to McGregor’s up toward Crossnore. I’d showed Fiona a thing or two about woodworking, and her old man back in Ireland taught her how to sand something smooth as silk. He may not have known much about raising two kids on his own (her mother had died on the young side), but best I could tell, he knew his way round a woodshop.

  We all worked hard (well, Shiloh worked as hard as he ever did) for a coupla hours, so Fiona and I were starving by the time we got to the restaurant. I’d been there oncet before with Della, and I knew it cost a good bit. But so did being late with orders and having customers mad at me. Besides, I wanted to pay Fiona back in a way she wanted. I couldn’t say no to that lass. At least that’s what I thought at the time.

  5

  Della

  Tuesday afternoon, I heard the familiar rattle that never failed to make my heart quicken—a Mercedes heading toward the store after a long drive down from D.C. Alex Covington, Pulitzer Prize-winning journalist, accidental plagiarist, intentional philanderer, and finally someone who got his act together. Fortunately, that dieselly sound didn’t seem to bother anyone much anymore, what with Abit still driving Alex’s old model—the Merc—and folks in the community owning their own brands of noisy cars and trucks. It only sounded louder that day because of the relative quiet of Astrid riding off on her bike.

  She’d called earlier and said she had a surprise for me. Could she come over for tea? I said of course.

  When Astrid arrived, she carried a foil-wrapped package with great seriousness. Without even saying hello, she marched straight to the table in the back and placed her surprise in the center. While I made tea, she teased me with what it was. Finally, she unwrapped it and proudly announced she’d taught herself to bake scones. I found a china plate worthy of her efforts; as I put them on it, I couldn’t help but notice their odd shape and weight. I made a mental note to slather them with plenty of lemon curd. The way I saw it, you could put lemon curd on cardboard, and it would be worth the chew.

  In spite of their odd appearance, though, the scones were moist and flaky. While I munched, a bittersweet feeling took hold of me as I imagined a little girl baking in a hot kitchen, working hard at a counter she’d have trouble reaching.

  I had to get up and wait on a couple of customers, and by the time I got back, Astrid was in a state. She told me she had to go because she was “crestfallen” that her scones weren’t good enough. She’d left some for her mother and had to get home before she tried them. She seemed shaken, and I worried about her riding home on those bumpy dirt roads. I offered a ride, but she waved me off as she just about ran out the front door.

  Alex joined me as I watched Astrid ride away, a sad little silhouette on the horizon. We headed into the store, where I started cleaning up the tea fixings while Alex lavished Jake with rubs behind the ears and silly talk. Next, he grabbed a scone and then me, giving me a pretty nice glad-to-be-back kiss.

  He still lived much of the time in D.C. in the house we shared before the divorce, before I moved to Laurel Falls. Life had a way of twisting back on itself, and I was grateful fate had brought us together again. In a different way, but one that suited us both. He wrote freelance for some of the heavy hitters in D.C., and I enjoyed living closer to nature, though I wouldn’t trade anything for the occasional visit back to D.C. and my old stomping grounds.

  “These aren’t up to your usual,” he said after a big bite of scone, “but they’re just fine for a weary traveler.” Jake was hanging around Alex, hoping for crumbs.

  “I didn’t bake those. Astrid did.” He looked puzzled, so I filled him in on my young protégé and her family. “Her father—Enoch, if you can believe that biblical name—is the only adult in that cabin, though Astrid comes in a close second. Her mother, Lilah, is apparently bummed out on life and …,” I paused, trying to get at a niggling feeling. “Oh, I don’t know. Something isn’t right in that household, and not just because the mother is sick. I haven’t met Astrid’s little brother yet. His name is Dusk, but already at age six, he’s figured out he hates his name and goes by Dee. Which reminds, me. Abit thinks expecting parents should pay to have a focus group—led by school bullies—counsel them on names they want to give their kids to see how they’ll stand up on the playground.”

  Alex laughed. “That’s a good idea. I’ll have to talk to him about that tomorrow.” He helped himself to another scone and started scrounging around in the fridge I kept in the back. “He wants to run some designs by me. I tried telling him I’m a wordsmith, not a woodsmith, but for some reason, the kid appreciates my opinion.”

  We spent the better part of a week together before Alex had to leave suddenly after a call from one of his editors. The tragic deaths of Nicole Brown Simpson and Ron Goldman had just made the news, and his editor wanted him to go to L.A. to cover the story. He wasn’t happy about working on what seemed like a tabloid story, though we both knew something like that could turn mainstream overnight.

  Alex was throwing things into his suitcase when he stopped and asked me to come with him. I felt a frisson of excitement at the idea of getting out of Laurel Falls and heading to California. It seemed like ages since I went anywhere farther than Asheville or D.C. But I didn’t have anyone to help in the store. Billie Davis, my longtime assistant, had moved part time to Charlotte to be close to her elderly mother. Mary Lou Dockery, Duane’s ex-wife, was learning the ropes, but she’d told me she wasn’t ready to work on her own; she felt comfortable only when I was in the back or upstairs in my apartment.

  Jake and I walked Alex to his car, and while we stood there, making stupid conversation to delay his leaving, we saw Abit and Fiona come out of Abit’s woodshop. We waved at them, and Fiona returned our wave while Abit shouted a hello and goodbye to Alex. I loved seeing them like that. They belonged together, and not just because of their red hair and freckles and comely statures. Like two puzzle pieces that had been searching for each other, their countenances shouted found as they walked toward Fiona’s car.

  Alex and I looked at each other and smiled. He’d accidentally called Abit our boy any number of times; now we didn’t even pretend it was an accident. We’d known him for almost a decade, and in all the important ways, he was our boy.

  Alex finished loading the car, and I kissed him goodbye with all kinds of regrets.

  Not long after that, the sheriff pulled up.

  6

  Abit

  I cursed when I saw the sheriff walking up to Della’s store just as Millie and me were heading down there for some afternoon coffee and company. That reminded me of the summer nine year ago when Della and I worked together to find a killer. I stood in the driveway back then and watched Sheriff Brower—long gone now after being voted out of office last year—and a half dozen other lawmen call on Della in her upstairs apartment.

  This time it was only the new sheriff stepping inside Della’s store. He was a big guy—maybe six foot three inches like me but with two hundred fifty pounds hanging on his bones. He was nice enough looking, though that stupid sheriff’s hat didn’t do him any favors.

  I saw him turn the OPEN sign around to CLOSED and heard the door lock click into place. I watched them through the plate glass window talking serious-like. Pretty soon, the sheriff looked up and motioned for me to move on. I felt fifteen year old again. The sheriff may have changed, but the way they treated me never seemed to.

  Sheriff Aaron Horne had a nicer personality than Brower, I had to give him that. But he had the most irritating voice. Booming and grating. No wonder it took only a month of campaigning before he’d gotten the nickname Airhorn.

  And he was a lot cooler. He played guitar in a lawman’s rock ‘n’ roll band called the Rolling Stops. I’d heard them a time or two, and they weren’t bad. But still, it was good he only played guitar. If he sang with that voice of his, “Stop!” woulda taken on more meaning than just the second half of the band’s name.

&
nbsp; I didn’t have any plans that evening since Fiona was working, so I decided to wait and visit with Della before heading home. When I came back from The Hicks and reworked the barn behind the house for my woodshop, I swore I’d never live in my parents’ house again, and I got lucky. I found a fine little cabin I could afford a few mile out next to Chatauga Lake, where I could take a swim after work on warm evenings. After busy days shared with Shiloh, I needed a peaceful place to go.

  While I waited on Airhorn to leave—I really wanted to find out what was going on—I settled down on the walnut bench I’d made for the front of the store. I felt the finish for any rough spots that might need repair and recalled how Della’d gotten kinda choked up when I’d delivered it. I felt proud, too; it took all my wood skills to make.

  At first glance, it looked like any bench with a high back, but when you got up closer, you could see it had some rounded spots at the top. I carved them to look like people we knew, a tribute to all the folks who used to sit out there—me in my chair, them on an old bench or two. Like Wilkie Cartwright and Jasper O’Farrell and Pudge Buchanan. Wilkie moved to Linville when he finally, after a couple of breakups, got married, and Pudge had passed. Jasper still lived close by, but I didn’t see him much anymore. I missed them all; they’d been there with me when I’d had nowhere else to go.

  After a long wait, I gave up and went back up to the shop. Shiloh was still there, not exactly working, but I guessed he didn’t have nowhere to go, either. So we started in on some finishing work. We were working and talking, and I asked him a question. He must not’ve heard me over the sander because he said, “How’s that?” I repeated what I’d asked, and next thing I knew he was doubled over laughing.

  “What? What are you laughing about?”

  “I said, ‘cows ass,’ but you answered as though I’d said, ‘How’s that?’” He was still chuckling when he added, “I just love that joke. It works every time.”

  It took me a minute to get it. I had answered like he’d said how’s that? The whole thing was just stupid enough to make me laugh, too.

  “Now there’s a joke even you could pull off with Fiona,” he said. I thought he might be right.

  We worked a while longer, and then I heard Airhorn’s voice. I told Shiloh to close up when he was ready, and Millie and I walked back down to the store. Airhorn gave me a look like I thought I told you to git, but, hey, it’s a free country. Della waved goodbye as he drove off and then motioned me inside. It was right at closing time, so she locked the door again and made sure the CLOSED sign was still facing out.

  “Astrid’s mother is missing.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “All I know is she’s been gone for almost a week now. Enoch didn’t report it to Horne for a few days because she’s taken off before, but usually for only a day or two. Horne started looking into it, and he wanted to know if I could contribute anything. The word’s out that I’ve spent time with Astrid, so I told him all I knew.”

  “Which was?”

  “Not much. Just about her father being what felt like overly protective, and her mother acting severely depressed. But I stressed that I was just guessing. As you know, I’m trying to keep my nose out of other people’s business.”

  “Yeah, but somebody needs to find that little girl’s mother.”

  “That’s Horne’s job, honey.”

  “Well, if you do go out investigating again, I’d like to come along,” I said. “I’ll never forget that summer we worked together to find out what had happened to Lucy Sanchez.” She gave me one of her looks, and I quickly added, “I didn’t mean it like that. I know this ain’t a game. But you’ve got to admit, that was a helluva summer.”

  Della frowned. “Let’s hope this one doesn’t shape up like that one.”

  7

  Della

  A couple of days later, I was planting zinnias in beds along the front of the store when Horne pulled up and rolled down his window. “Can you come with me? I need to talk to that father and little girl again.”

  “Why me? I’ve got a store to run.” Of course I wanted to go, but I was busy, and it seemed to me he was breaking all kinds of police procedures by dragging me along.

  “For one thing, I’m short staffed. And you know that little girl. Maybe she’ll talk to you. I’ve already been out to the Holt’s twice—I didn’t get much information from the father and not a peep from his daughter. The second time I brought along her second-grade teacher, her favorite according to her father, but even she couldn’t get her to talk.”

  His keen attention to a missing person surprised me. In D.C. they never had the personnel or budget to investigate every adult who went missing, especially if it didn’t seem suspicious. After all, people voluntarily upped and left, never to be heard from again. Though just walking off and leaving two children behind did seem extreme. I was lost in thought when he added, “I need someone local I can trust, and my gut says I can trust you.”

  I didn’t know where Horne had lived before Laurel Falls, but it wasn’t nearby. It would take years before he knew the community, or rather before they’d let him. And I did know Astrid better than he did. Besides, who was I kidding? I wanted to get involved. A troubling sense of sameness had seeped into my life. Open the store, close the store, open the store again. I longed to be outside those four walls and doing something different.

  Horne piqued my curiosity when he added a couple of details that contradicted the idea Lilah had left on her own volition. Like the way she’d posted two doctor’s appointments (without any doctors’ names) on a calendar later in July with exclamation points in red—as though she were looking forward to them. And all of her clothes appeared to be hanging in her closet.

  “That doesn’t sound like a woman running away,” Horne said, trying his best to convince me.

  But I had a store to run. I’d never hear the end of it if I closed early. Customers expected I’d be open certain hours, and I owed them that. I couldn’t just go off on a chase.

  Or could I?

  I told Horne I needed to make a call. He drove off to run an errand and said he’d check back shortly. I got ahold of Mary Lou, and we talked about her concerns. I assured her I thought she was ready to run the store solo—and not just because I wanted the afternoon off. When I asked what could go wrong that she couldn’t handle on her own, she gave in.

  By the time Mary Lou arrived, Sheriff Horne was out front again. On the drive over to the Holt’s, he repeated his notion that Astrid might talk with me since I was the only person who’d broken through the family’s self-imposed isolation.

  But Astrid wouldn’t budge. All I could figure was that in her eight-year-old logic, I was the only new thing in their lives, so I’d somehow scared off her mother. Astrid put her hands on her hips and told us was she wasn’t “talking to the authorities.” Then she turned and ran to her room.

  After that, Horne grilled Enoch on the back deck. That left me alone to look around the house and grounds. I was fascinated by how far off the grid they lived: a large garden area, their own well, solar panels on the roof, plus the ubiquitous propane tank behind the house. Real hermits, other than Enoch trying his hand at odd jobs around the county.

  Inside, the cabin looked well-kept and bright. The living area and kitchen combined into one big room. The kitchen sported all the latest appliances, and I could easily imagine Astrid working away in there. When I spotted the little stool she needed to reach the counters, my heart cramped. The home she was trying so hard to hold together had just come apart.

  Persian rugs and artwork reminded me that Cleva had mentioned something about a trust fund. But Astrid hadn’t spoken of any relatives. I got the impression the kids had had the sanctity of family secrets drummed into them, which was probably why Enoch reacted so harshly when I drove up with Astrid a couple of weeks ago. He wasn’t only angry with me, but also with Astrid for seeking me out and breaking the family code.

  In the hallway next to th
e kitchen, I noticed a crowded bulletin board with papers and articles and some school pictures of the kids pinned to it. A couple of photographs of Astrid with her mother caught my eye. Though I didn’t understand why at the time, I snatched one and put it in my pocket.

  I walked toward the back deck where the sheriff and Enoch were still talking. I knew Horne thought Enoch was guilty of harming his wife; statistics backed up his kneejerk assumption. I wedged myself behind a cluster of potted plants, out of their sightlines but close enough to hear what they were saying.

  “Like I’ve said a dozen times already, I was here. All night. I didn’t know she’d gone. She’d [inaudible], and I didn’t know until the next morning when Astrid said she couldn’t find her mother.”

  “You had no idea your wife was missing? I find that hard to believe.”

  The tension was palpable until Enoch broke the stalemate. “We sleep in separate rooms, okay?”

  “So you didn’t get along? Did you have a fight?”

  “In fact, sheriff, we got along better with separate rooms. My wife was in no shape to handle the kids by herself, so we stayed together the best we could. In this case, that was a good thing. For the kids.”

  Suddenly, a little boy I hadn’t seen before ran out of the back door and over to his father. I presumed it was Dee—an adorable little guy with blond curls and a chubby waistline. Where had he been all that time? Quietly waiting in his room? God, what kind of life did these kids have? I remembered staying out of sight, trying to avoid my parents’ ire, but this seemed in a different league. They were all like zombies, moving around, not really seeing or caring for each other, just bumping into one another at meal times. Meals an eight year old prepared!