Seeing Red

by Dana Dratch

  Trip checked the tag. “Ouch! Let’s just say you could save your money and rent a real one for his prom. I thought Nick said this place was affordable. Or has the Cookie King moved into a higher tax bracket?”

  “Trust me, money’s as tight as ever. But for some reason, tiny baby things come with giant price tags. Cheap is relative.”

  “Says the woman whose favorite designer is ‘Clearance Sale.’”

  “I’m not cheap, I’m thrifty,” I said in a bad Scottish accent.

  “Well, hello! Welcome to Mega Baby! And who’s this little cutie?”

  I turned and saw a middle-aged woman in a pastel pink golf shirt and khakis. Her name tag read SHERYL.

  “Hi, Sheryl,” Trip said smoothly. “This little guy is J.B.”

  “Well, isn’t he precious!” she said.

  And she was right. Asleep, he looked like an angel. He still had that little smile on his face. I wondered: Was he dreaming about his mom?

  “So how old is little J.B.?”

  “How old does he look?” I asked. It slipped out before I could catch myself. Blame the sleep deprivation.

  Trip shot me a look. “J.B. is Alex’s nephew. We’re helping his parents get settled in the area. And Auntie Alex is worried that J.B. is too small for his age.”

  I nodded mutely. Face it, if I opened my mouth again there was a pretty good chance something stupid would fall out. Honest, but stupid.

  “Oh, he looks like a big healthy boy!” Sheryl enthused, beaming at the cherubic little bundle. “I’m guessing you might want to go for the six-month size. He looks like he’s about three months, but that will give him plenty of room to grow.”

  “That sounds perfect,” Trip said. “Let’s pick up some onesies, then we can look at a bassinet.”

  “Oh, he’s much too big for a bassinet,” Sheryl informed us. “No, you need a crib. And you want the safety bedding. But no pillows. That’s important. And I see you already have the Tykumi car seat. Good choice.”

  “Do you sell those here?” I asked, finally finding my voice. Even if it did sound more like a reporter than a mom. Or an “aunt.”

  “We don’t. But it’s a really good brand. They’re Danish. And very high end. You don’t see them as much in the U.S., unless you order them online. But we have some that are very similar—TravelSafe—when he’s ready. And this one should fit him for at least a few more months.”

  “Good to know,” I said, sliding an eye at Trip. “Let’s check out those onesies. Oh, and do you have something that might, uh, keep him from crying?”

  Chapter 14

  As we pulled into the driveway, I felt strangely refreshed. And hopeful.

  Maybe it was because J.B. had slept through most of the trip. Including a stop at the barbecue joint. Maybe it was the cherry cobbler à la mode. And maybe it was because we bought a little wind-up swing that Sheryl swore would put a smile on the face of any baby.

  At this point, I’d have settled for mild disapproval or silent disdain. As long as he stopped crying.

  We also got a crib. But they were delivering that tomorrow. And assembling it.

  I’d remembered the Ikea bookshelves I put together myself when I first bought my house two years ago. They still listed to one side. And we weren’t sleeping a baby in those.

  So unless Nick had acquired a new superpower during his years in Arizona, I figured we’d better pony up $50 and let the pros handle this one.

  Besides, it was a lot cheaper than an E.R. visit.

  “I can’t believe Nick’s back with your car,” I said.

  Face it, a set of wheels like that and no J.B.? I didn’t think we’d see Nick again until at least midnight.

  “And I don’t see any dings or dents,” I said, unfolding myself from the bucket seat of Nick’s little Hyundai. “At least, not from here.”

  “I’ll get out my magnifying glass and halogen lamp later. First, we get the little guy inside,” Trip said.

  While he carried J.B., I gathered up two giant Mega Baby bags stuffed with onesies, blankets, bibs, drool cloths, and toys. OK, I might have gone a little nutty.

  We even got one of those little yellow plastic baby tubs, so we could give J.B. a bath. I figured if his family didn’t want it, we could use it for Lucy.

  And Trip rented a pram so we could take J.B. out to see if anyone recognized him.

  Four racing bikes sped by, this time going the other way. They never slowed, but again one rider raised an arm in greeting. I waved back.

  When Trip came back down the walkway, he had a big smile on his face. Kind of like me with the cherry cobbler. Nick was two steps behind him.

  “I made an executive decision,” Nick announced.

  “That’s one way to look at it,” Trip said over his shoulder as he hefted the tub out of the backseat.

  “What kind of executive decision?” I asked, warily.

  “Look, we were running flat out last night. And we failed. We’re not up to this.”

  “You can’t give him to the county! I can find his family. It might take me a few days, but . . .”

  “Oh, hell no, I’d never do that,” Nick said, putting his hand on my shoulder. “I just figured we needed a little help. A little backup. An expert.”

  “What. Did. You. Do?” I asked, fearing the worst.

  “Relax,” Trip said, marching up the walkway. “It’s Baba.”

  “Oh thank God! I thought you called Mom.”

  “No, I’m tired, not suicidal. Besides, Dad was a colicky baby. So Baba’s got a couple of tricks up her sleeve.”

  “You realize this means we have to eat her cooking?”

  “I do. And if I can sleep nights, I don’t care. Besides, we can spell her here and there with the cooking. And there’s always fast food.”

  Baba, our dad’s mother, was ninety pounds of Russian dynamite. Not quite five feet tall and who knows how old, she was a strike force of one. Literally. She’d recently saved me from a psycho killer armed with nothing but common sense and a cast-iron frying pan.

  There was almost nothing she couldn’t do. Except cook.

  Baba’s culinary skills were in a category all their own. And that category was “dreadful.” But she made every morsel with love. So we smiled and asked for seconds. And kept the pantry stocked with snack food.

  I slapped him on the back. “Good move.”

  “Really?” He looked touched. Or possibly just tired.

  “Yeah. If anyone can baby whisper J.B., it’s Baba. And if not, at least it’s another set of hands.”

  “Oh, and Ian called. He’s hoping you can stop by this afternoon for tea.”

  Trip waggled his eyebrows. “And does that T stand for tango?”

  “Could you hear Lydia Stewart’s heavy breathing in the background? Because every time I get within fifty yards of Ian Sterling, she’s right there. Like a Versace-clad linebacker.”

  “Nope,” said Nick. “He didn’t say anything about her. Just wanted to have you over for a nice afternoon tea whenever you got back.”

  “What does one wear to afternoon tea with the lord of the manor?” Trip teased.

  “A schleppy T-shirt and an expression that says, ‘I’ve been up all night’?” I replied, glancing down at my jeans. They weren’t pressed, but they were cobbler-free and presentable. I could probably use a little makeup, though.

  “I was thinking a nice sundress and some sandals,” Trip countered. “But it’s your party.”

  Nick pulled the oversized bags out of my arms. “You go get ready. I’ll haul this stuff. Man, you should have seen Baba in the convertible. We had the top down and the tunes cranked up the whole way from Baltimore.”

  “She was OK with it?”

  “She loved it! Couldn’t wipe the smile off her face. Even though she nearly lost her hat twice. Said it felt “like being a little bird.”

  I knew Baba. I’m guessing having a little alone time with her youngest grandchild—who, until recently, she hadn’t seen
for a year—might have had something to do with the exuberance. Or possibly the fact that we’d cried “uncle” and admitted we needed her.

  But who knows? Maybe Baba really was a secret muscle-car junkie.

  Chapter 15

  I ended up taking Trip’s advice—big surprise—and went with the sundress and sandals. I still felt like roadkill thanks to our J.B.-induced rager. But from the outside at least, I looked like a normal person.

  And Baba approved the outfit before I left. Even as she tucked in the stray tag at the neck. “You find baby?” she asked me, out of earshot of Trip and Nick.

  “Right on the kitchen table,” I said. “I walked out there in the morning, and he was sleeping. In his little carrier thingie.”

  She sighed. “First you find husband. Then you find baby.” And with that she toddled off toward the kitchen.

  Now, in the shadow of Ian’s graceful Victorian, I knocked on the heavy oak door. Nothing.

  I knocked louder and waited. It was a B&B as well as Ian’s house. Should I just walk in? Somehow that seemed rude. And invasive.

  Finally, the door opened.

  “Alex, how nice of you to come! Come in, please. I’ve fixed us a little tea in the solarium.”

  “Nice!” I said. “Thank you.” Was it my imagination, or did he look a little the worse for wear? Those beautiful blue eyes were slightly bloodshot. And his hair could use a comb. But he was still perfectly pressed, and he smelled good. Woodsy mixed with something exotic.

  Thanks to the Prestwicks, I knew that Lydia Stewart had booked into the inn. Maybe she was still here. And getting her own special kind of “room service.”

  Knock it off, I chastised myself. One kiss did not a relationship make. His private life was none of my business.

  The Cotswolds Inn, as usual, was spotless. Sunlight streamed in through the glass in Ian’s solarium. And thanks to my brother’s endeavors, there was a lingering scent of chocolate chip cookies. Just as Ian had predicted when he’d bought the place, it was the perfect setting for afternoon tea. Or a nap.

  I shook my head, rousing myself, and composed a mental to-do list: Get some caffeine. Make pleasant small talk. Stay awake for the next hour.

  “Here we are,” Ian said, swinging into the room with a large silver tray bearing a big yellow china teapot, matching cups, and a large plate of Nick’s cookies.

  Suddenly, I realized what was missing.

  “Is your father here? I haven’t seen him since the party.”

  Ian’s smile vanished. He actually looked startled. He sank heavily into a chair and rubbed his eyes.

  Gone was the bon vivant innkeeper. And flirty neighbor. I sensed I might be glimpsing the real Ian Sterling. Possibly for the first time.

  “I was hoping it wasn’t that obvious,” he said. “I’ve been trying to keep up pretenses, but . . .” The sentence trailed off, and he brushed a wayward lock of hair off his face. “He’s gone.”

  “Gone? You mean on vacation? Or back to London?” I hoped he didn’t mean something even more permanent.

  “I’m not sure. Just gone. The night of the party. It’s like he vanished into thin air.”

  I remembered the freezer in the basement with a sense of creeping dread.

  “Did he say anything? Leave a note?”

  “Nothing. He had been acting a little off lately. Small things. Odd phone calls. Errands that had nothing to do with the inn. And we’ve been fully booked lately with both rooms and events. We were even talking about taking on some help. So it’s not like either of us had much in the way of free time. And he started keeping his door locked.”

  “Well, this is an inn. With people wandering around, that’s probably a good thing.”

  “His rooms are on the fourth floor. A bedroom and a study. He locks the bedroom, yes. But never the study. It’s where he goes to . . . get away from it all. It’s a very private space, and it has a bit of a view. That’s why he selected it.”

  “It’s been more than twenty-four hours,” I said. “You could file a missing person’s report.”

  “He’s a grown man. It’s been one day. Your constables aren’t going to take it terribly seriously. But I know him. I know he wouldn’t do this. I know something’s wrong.”

  “Is there anything I can do?” I regretted the offer the moment it was out of my mouth. But what else could I say?

  He looked straight into my face. With those bluer-than-blue eyes. “I’m already making some phone calls. But I’m a little thin on the local front. Would it be possible for you to make a few discreet inquiries? Off the record, so to speak. Anything that might help me get a lead on where he might have gone?”

  If Harkins had been a city councilman who’d disappeared with a bag of cash and a stripper girlfriend, I might know where to look. But a regular everyday missing person? Totally out of my depth.

  “I’m not a detective. I’m just a freelance writer.” A freelance writer who was barely keeping the bills paid.

  “You’re a reporter. I’ve read your stories. You’re good. And you really know how to dig up information. You have local sources. That’s what I need.” He sounded desperate.

  “And there’s something I failed to mention,” he confessed.

  OK, here it comes.

  “In my father’s previous life, when he lived in the U.K., he had a rather colorful past.”

  “How colorful?” I asked.

  “He spent some time as a guest of the Crown. Nothing serious. Nothing violent. What you Yanks call ‘white collar’ offenses.”

  “What did he do?” I was so tired, the reporter part of my brain kicked in automatically.

  “He was a bit of a miscreant. But that was decades ago, in his youth. He’s a changed man. Has been for years. Straightened out his life and never looked back. And the truth of it is that, until recently, we’d been out of touch. My mother raised me. She and her parents, really. I’d see my dad occasionally. When my grandparents would permit.”

  “They didn’t approve of him?”

  “Didn’t see him as a fitting husband for an earl’s daughter. And by the time I had become an adult, he’d all but disappeared. But I’ve gotten to know him over the past few years. He’s a damn fine man. And an honest and moral one, to boot. I trust him. And I can’t say that about many people.”

  He rubbed his eyes, then looked at me again. I could tell he was sizing me up. As a reporter, it’s a look you see a lot. Often from other reporters.

  “There is a bit of a snafu. Something I hesitate to mention. Something we really do need to keep private.”

  Of course there is.

  “My father is here legally on a work visa. And he’s applied for permanent residency. But if I report that he’s missing, that could throw a wrench into it. He could be sent back. Permanently. He wouldn’t be able to reapply for at least ten years. And he’s not a young man.”

  “Damn.” That put little J.B.’s crying fits into perspective.

  Ian put his forearms on the table, leaning toward me. “I don’t expect you to track him down. I just need a little more information. From someone with some local contacts. And I need to get that information without tripping any alarms or alerting the wrong people.”

  “Does he have credit cards or a cell phone?”

  “The phone is still in his room. And the credit cards haven’t been used. Neither has his bank card. His belongings appear to be here—including his driver’s license and passport. Even the Bentley. Wherever he is, he’s either on foot, or he’s taken some form of public transit.”

  I didn’t have the heart to tell Ian: when the car, cards, and cash were at home, and the missing person wasn’t, the story usually didn’t have a happy ending. And if that was the case here, how on earth would I break it to him? I realized I was holding my breath.

  Out of the blue, I wondered, “What would Aunt Margie do?”

  I looked across the table. The tea—and the cookies—sat untouched. That was a new one for me.
/>   But this was the guy who had sent over a basket of baked goods after reporters tracking me had trampled half the block. And didn’t hold it against me when I crashed his grand opening garden party with a couple of murderers and a platoon of police. He even brought over a home-cooked meal after the cops carted away the bad guys. Plus, he was loaning my brother a fully licensed kitchen so that Nick could keep his fledgling bakery up and running. And he was a really good kisser. So what could I say?

  “Of course I’ll help.”

  Ian beamed. “I don’t know what to say. Other than thank you. And somehow, that doesn’t seem like quite enough.”

  “Don’t worry about it. I’ll make a few phone calls this afternoon.”

  It wasn’t like I had anything else to do.

  Chapter 16

  OK, I wasn’t totally honest with Ian.

  Yes, I was planning to make a couple of phone calls to see if I could get a lead on Harkins’s current whereabouts. But there was one other thing I had to check first: the basement.

  That freezer was bugging me.

  So after we said our good-byes and Ian excused himself to go look after one of the guests—not Lydia, thank God—I slipped quietly into the front hall.

  I gingerly tried the knob to the basement door. It turned easily. As I oh-so-quietly eased the door open, I spied a light switch on the wall. So far, so good. Because loudly tumbling down the stairs would definitely cost me my ace reporter status.

  I shut the door silently, hoping the thing would open from the inside when I was ready to leave. Then I crept down the steep stairs, grabbing that railing for all I was worth.

  When I got to the bottom, there was the white chest freezer, right where it had been the night of the party. And I knew it was on because I could hear the faint electrical hum. I touched the top with my fingertips. Cool.

  I didn’t want to look inside. If Harkins was there, how would I break it to Ian? It would kill him. And it wouldn’t be great for his business, either.

  Crreeeaaakk! Skreeek!

  I jumped.

  The sounds had come from the far side of the basement. Where it was dark. The old house settling? Or something more?