Welcome the Little Children

by Lynda McDaniel

  “I’m just waiting. You said you needed a second.”

  “Sorry, honey. I need a second, as in duels. Someone at my side, working with me.”

  “Okay, but can I come day after tomorrow?”

  “No, it’s urgent. Get Fiona to drop you off in Gastonia. If she won’t do that, she’s not worth it.”

  “Della, that’s not your say.”

  Oh, man. I was fucking this up royally. “I’m sorry Abit. You’re right. I’m talking gibberish. It’s just that I’m all tangled up inside. I found Astrid’s mother.”

  30

  Abit

  I’d been thinking my life was finally going along regular-like, and then just like that, it turned upside down again. I had to stop work, catch a train, and tell Fiona I had to cancel our date to go help Della.

  “What’s the rush?” Fiona asked, finishing her afternoon tea in my loft. (I could set my watch by her teatime.) I felt especially bad leaving her behind because I really wanted her to join me sometime and have tea with Nigel.

  “She found Astrid’s mama. Up in D.C.”

  “You mean that woman who disappeared a coupla years ago? I thought the sheriff closed that case.”

  “Well, not exactly. He didn’t have any real evidence of anyone doing her harm—just that messed up place down by the creek and the fact that she’d gone missing. And now she’s found.” I left it at that.

  It wasn’t a great time to leave, what with furniture orders and getting reacquainted with Fiona. But I had to admit the idea of another train trip, spending time with Della, and finding Astrid’s mama was making the trip sound better and better. I caught Mary Lou before she started to lock up and found the photo Della wanted me to bring—one of Astrid and her mama from three or four year earlier. I’d always wondered why she had that on a bulletin board in the back of the store, but I reckoned she liked remembering that little girl. She was a corker.

  Back at the woodshop, I got Shiloh straight on what needed doing while I was gone. Then I took a shower before picking up Fiona, who’d run on home to change. One good thing about the middle-of-the-night train ride was I didn’t have to break our dinner date after all. I’d made reservations at her favorite spot—McGregor’s—to make amends.

  The fine meal put Fiona in good spirits as we rode back to her home, where we spent some time together before I had to get home to pack my grip. While we were talking, putting off saying goodbye, Fiona gently scratched Millie along her shoulder, in that favorite place of hers, and promised to spend the nights I was away with Millie in my loft. (Shiloh said he’d look after Millie during the day.) I was grateful Fiona loved her as much as I did.

  I drove the Merc over to Gastonia. The train was running late, so I didn’t board the Southern Crescent ‘til almost one o’clock in the morning. An attendant found the roomette Della’d paid for and showed me how everything worked. He put my bag down on the chair, thanked me for the tip, and gently closed the door behind him.

  Man, I loved that room. I felt like I was staying in a for-real dollhouse, the way the sink folded up and a private toilet appeared underneath and the two chairs by the window made into the bed. Reminded me of sleeping in Enrico and Lilian’s Airstream at the Sunset Mountain Trailer Park in Virginia.

  But unlike those nights, I barely slept. I was glued to the window. When you see trains flying by, you don’t realize from outside how big the windows are. I couldn’t stop looking at the houses and animals and trucks we sped past. And little towns we flew right through. I lucked out with a clear night and a gibbous moon, which cast a glow on everything. I finally fell off to sleep just after three o’clock. By half past eight, I was plowing through a big breakfast in the dining car, with those shiny silver coffee pots that had come to mean adventure.

  31

  Della

  The next morning, I picked up Abit at Union Station. Once we settled into the Jeep, and after he’d greeted Jake sufficiently (if there was such a thing), I asked him if he’d like to go to the house and get some rest.

  “I’m too wound up to sleep. All I need is some strong coffee.”

  “Not a problem. Nigel said to come over whenever you felt like it, so we can stop in Firehook first to get you loaded up with caffeine.”

  As we headed up Massachusetts Avenue, I asked about the photo I needed from the store. Abit reached into his shirt pocket and showed it to me. I could feel my hackles rise when I saw Lilah Holt looking back at me. I’d felt a modicum of compassion for her a couple of years ago, trying to understand the depths of her depression. But now? Just looking at her with little Astrid and recalling how both those kids had wondered and worried about what had happened to their mother made my blood boil.

  “Thanks,” I said as he put the picture back in his pocket. “I want you to give that to Nigel so he can create a mockup of what she looks like now—in her bluestocking getup.”

  “Could you start at the beginning? And how on an escalator could you even see her blue stockings?” He shook his head and added, “I told you I needed coffee.”

  “I don’t have much more information to share. I just looked her in the eye as I was going down the escalator and she was going up.”

  “Did she recognize you?”

  “I don’t think so. She’s living in such a different world now, I wouldn’t be on her radar—even if I lived in D.C. Oh, and bluestocking is just an old term for rich people. Can you imagine that? From Laurel Falls to high society?” Abit looked at me like I was crazy. “What?” I asked.

  “You got me to drop everything and come up here because you might’ve passed some woman who maybe looked like Astrid’s mama on a moving escalator?”

  “Not so fast, Mister. I haven’t had a chance to fill you in. After I saw her at the Metro Center Station—and got over my shock—I spent the better part of a week back there, all times of the day, hoping to spot her again. I hung around the train platform, breathing in enough burned rubber and body odor to take ten years off my life. But I found her. And I followed her.”

  “So you got a better look at her?”

  “Well …” We rode in silence for a while. When traffic came to an abrupt halt at Thomas Circle, I caught Abit’s eye. “I know I’m right about this, honey. And I’ve been doing some research since we talked.”

  Finally he smiled. “I bet you have.”

  “Yesterday I followed her to the National Museum of Women in the Arts. She went right in, but by the time I got through the ticket desk, she was gone.”

  32

  Abit

  As Della and I climbed the stairs to Nigel’s apartment, the smell of butter and sugar from the bakery below made my mouth water. We’d talked about getting coffee before we met with Nigel, but finding a parking place right out front was so exciting, we’d both forgotten. Tea would have to do. I could hear the kettle whistling through the open front door.

  Nigel fussed over me and Della, then motioned for us to have a seat. “I’ll get us some tea. Everyone up for that?” He headed to the kitchen and added over his shoulder, “We’ll have a Guinness together another time, eh, V.J.?” Della raised her eyebrows like she did, but I knew she got a kick outta me and Nigel being friends on our own.

  I reached in my pocket and laid the photo I’d brought from Coburn’s on the worktable Nigel had all set up with pens, markers, and his Identi-Kit. Before he settled down to the drawing, we sipped tea and wolfed down something Nigel called Irish barmbrack. He told me he thought I should broaden my horizons and try something new. Then he winked and said it was something Fiona would like. (He’d called me in Laurel Falls to congratulate me on taking his advice; I guessed Della had told him about all that.) The cake was filled with fruit that I thought might’ve been soaked in whiskey. I had a second piece, something that might broaden more than my horizons.

  Then we got down to business.

  “So, here’s the photo with her daughter, from a few years ago,” Della said. “But it looks so out of date when you compare her
hair and clothes in that photo to what I saw at the Metro station. So rather than age her, I’d like you to give her the bluestocking look.”

  Nigel studied the photo for a while before getting to work. He sketched and erased and looked at cards from his old-fashioned Identi-Kit—line drawings on clear plastic sheets with a whole bunch of noses and eyes and chins and hairdos. Years ago, he’d wanted to be an artist, but that didn’t work out for him. Later on, when he was using his artistic skills as a forger, he’d discovered the Identi-Kit while handcuffed to a desk in a police station.

  Oncet he’d drawn the basic outlines, he worked on fleshing out the features. Della and I were both watching like a coupla kids as a real person slowly emerged on paper. I looked over at her to see if she thought Nigel’s woman was the same as the one she saw on the escalator, but I couldn’t read her face. After blowing off all the eraser crumbs, Nigel held up his drawing.

  “That’s her!” Della shouted, patting Nigel on the back. Then I started in, smiling and congratulating him. It was too hot for his usual waistcoat, but I could just imagine him tugging on its hem, real proud-like. Now we had something besides an old photo to show people.

  “So that’s what the old bat looks like,” Alex said when we got back to his house. “Not bad.” Della punched his arm. “Just kidding,” he added, chuckling—and rubbing his arm. He’d already given me a big hug and welcome.

  “Nigel did a great job,” Della said. “Especially considering he’s never seen Astrid’s mother.” I nodded, though I’d only seen her oncet in town.

  When we’d come in, I’d noticed the lingering smell of fresh baked bread. Alex had come down a coupla months ago and picked up his hoosier; I was anxious to see where he’d set it. When he headed into the kitchen, he pointed at it with such pride of ownership, I felt a swell of pride myself. He’d set it next to a window that looked out into his small backyard. The wooded scene captured in the marquetry panel blended right in with the trees back there.

  Over an early supper, we talked more about what Nigel had accomplished with his Identi-Kit. “So wonder what her name is now?” I asked.

  Alex cleared his throat, like people do when they’ve got something important to say. “While you were away, I did some research. The Internet is getting faster and better all the time.” He sounded so upbeat, I saw Della’s face brighten. “But I could find only two-year-old stories about her disappearance. Sorry, babe.”

  “Oh, well. At least we’ve got this,” she said, holding up Nigel’s work.

  The next morning, we hung out at the Metro station. When we got there, Della gave me a copy of Nigel’s drawing to help me look for the right person. After a while, I could see the guards giving me the eye; I guessed I was standing in one spot too long and looking round too curious-like. They didn’t seem to question Della doing the same thing, and I wondered what that said about me. Just after one o’clock, she came over to tell me the museum where she’d seen Astrid’s mama go in—the National Museum of Women in the Arts—had one of the best lunch spots in the city. Sounded good to me.

  We headed up 13th Street, turned onto New York Avenue, and walked to the museum. The Mezzanine Café, as it was called, wasn’t what I’d say was frilly, but close. Lots of flowerdy fabric and throw pillows. Della ordered something called a Cobb Salad, and I got burger and fries.

  “This place is nice,” I said between bites. “The light is especially good in here.” I was thinking ahead, hoping I’d need to take photos.

  After splitting a peach cobbler a la mode, we killed time over coffee. I pulled Nigel’s picture out again to refresh my memory, but no sign of Astrid’s mama. We weren’t really discouraged—we knew the odds were against us, but at least we’d tried.

  And I could tell Della was loving the chase, as she called it. She got so excited, I had to laugh.

  “Why do you do it?” I asked.

  “What?”

  “Get yourself all tied up in these things. I like helping out, but it sure is nerve-wracking.”

  “Why do I do this? It needs doing is the answer I usually give, but the real answer is I’m born to it. Like horses are born to run—they cannot not run—this feels like that for me. I thought working for Alex’s editor was what I wanted, but this tops that by a mile.”

  We went back and looked for a while longer, but it was Friday and people were pouring in. The station was getting so crowded, it was kinda hard to breathe.

  “No point in looking for her now,” Della said. “It’s the weekend, and there are too many tourists in town. Besides, everyone’s schedule changes on the weekend, so I doubt we’ll spot ‘the old bat.’” She hugged me and added, “There’s another woodworking show at the Renwick Gallery. We can go there tomorrow and anywhere else you’d like.” I could tell she was trying hard to please me, not that she needed to work at that.

  The next day, Alex dropped us off on his way to an interview. We headed up 17th Street to Pennsylvania Avenue. Della did that on purpose so I could finally see the White House; on my earlier trips, we’d never made it there. We walked through Lafayette Square and stopped in front.

  All kinds of folks were milling around—people holding protest signs, others dressed in Uncle Sam costumes, and even more homeless. I looked at Della as I folded a twenty dollar bill. She nodded. I tucked it into a man’s shirt while he sat on the grass.

  After turning back onto Pennsylvania Avenue, we arrived at the gallery after just a block or so. We walked up the steps and into the cool, quiet calm of the museum, a pleasant contrast to the hubbub round the White House. Della sounded like one of them tour guides when she told me the museum was housed in a nineteenth-century building that was originally built to be D.C.’s first art museum and was based on the “loove’s twirlies addition.” (She made them air quotes with her fingers, though I had no idea what she was on about.)

  I combed through the woodworking exhibit and loved it as much as the Smithsonian show. Wood that curled and curved against its nature, with lines that flowed like an old river. The museum didn’t have a café, so we found a bench outside where I could finish my notes. When I closed my sketchbook, I sat quiet-like for some time. Della could tell I was thinking about Astrid’s mama.

  “Don’t worry, honey. We’ll find her.”

  I still had a coupla days before I needed to go home. On Monday we came back to Alex’s feeling kinda low—again, no luck. I knew what Della meant about that burned rubber smell in the station. I was tired, but I took Jake for a short walk, just to get some better air in my lungs. That evening, we agreed to try one more time on Tuesday.

  We walked round the neighborhood some, checked out the Metro station with no luck, and finally took a break at, where else, the museum café. We were getting sick of the same menu—I didn’t think I could ever tire of burgers and fries, but I had. And it worried me how much all this was costing Della. Man, she’d gone through some cash. But it felt good to spend time together. Not since that summer had we hung out like this, and I reckoned we both sensed it wouldn’t happen all that much in the future.

  Those thoughts made me feel kinda sad, but I forgot all about that when I saw something to my right. “Don’t look now,” I whispered, “but over your left shoulder, I think we have one Mrs. Holt, or whatever she calls herself now.”

  “Oh, my God. What’s she doing?”

  “Eating lunch.”

  “I know that. Is she with anyone?”

  “Yeah. She’s head-to-head with a big guy in what looks to be an expensive suit.”

  “There are more of those in this town than in all of North Carolina and South Carolina combined,” Della said. “Maybe that’s her new hubby. Though we don’t even know if she’s married. I bet she is. How else could she while away so much time at a museum?” She wiped her mouth with her napkin and set it on the table. “What are they doing now—besides eating lunch?”

  “Just talking. Oh, wait. They’re getting up. But it doesn’t look like they’re leaving. His brief
case and her purse are still there. Trusting folk.”

  “There are plenty of guards around the museum, but you’re right—it’s kind of odd. Okay, Abit, you’ve got to follow them. She knows me, or at least knows what I look like. I don’t think she ever got a good look at you.”

  I grabbed my camera and walked down a hallway real careful-like, not wanting to bump into them or a waiter from the restaurant. I had an excuse in mind—looking for the bathroom—though the thought of someone asking me why I needed a camera for that unsettled me. I waited a while and then inched closer to the area where I saw them go. I couldn’t believe my luck.

  Della was acting all nervous-like by the time I got back. “Oh, thank heavens you’re back,” she said. “I had to order more cobbler and coffee to stall the waiter. I could see a long line waiting for tables, and I knew he wanted to turn ours.”

  “Well, I think it was worth it. You won’t believe the pictures I got. Like I said, the light in here is perfect. I followed them until they slipped into another room, off a hallway. I waited a beat and looked round the doorway. I lucked out with a coat rack near the entrance and hid behind it. That plus my long lens worked wonders.”

  “Did they see you?”

  “They were so busy kissing, they didn’t know what day it was. And they didn’t look like hubby kisses to me.” As if I knew about that, never having been married and never seeing my parents hug, let alone kiss. But I’d seen movies and the like.

  As we waited on our check, those two came back in and sat down, apparently satisfied, and not because of the menu. I kinda chuckled when Della pulled out a compact with a mirror and watched over her shoulder. When she saw them gathering their things, she slapped down enough for our lunch and a whopping tip, and we followed them downstairs.