by Teresa Trent
“I have to postpone this interview.”
“What happened? Is Coco okay?” he asked with a note of sincerity in his voice. This surprised me, considering he was the edge of the hottest story in town.
“Coco is fine. It seems there was an incident.”
“What kind of incident?”
“A biting incident. Coco was the biter and has to be picked up right now.”
Nick laughed. “They’re kicking her out? Only two years old and already kicked out of her first school. You got yourself a real go-getter there, Betsy.”
CHAPTER 3
Inside Chickadee’s the children were sitting in a circle, listening to a story about a turtle. It seemed that all the other little turtles no longer wanted to be around the main turtle because everyone thought he was losing his shell. In truth, the turtle had walked by a decaying tree and part of the tree fell off next to him. Still, though, unjustly accused, he resigned himself to a life of loneliness.
My little turtle was sitting over in the corner, separated from the group. Coco sat with her chubby little legs crossed in front of her, hands in her lap, and eyes downward. The bright colors of the rugs, the paint, and the furniture made my daughter’s plight seem even sadder. I called her name from across the room, and when she looked up, her eyes were red from crying. She jumped into my arms as if I had just returned to her after a week instead of a couple of hours.
“Mama.”
I hugged her tight. Her teacher’s idea of separating her from the group was doing much more harm than good. My child was traumatized from this. Aileen Brock walked up to us, ignoring our touching moment.
“I appreciate you coming over so quickly. I packed Coco’s bag with all her things. She hasn’t eaten lunch yet, so you’ll have to feed her at home.” As if I wouldn’t feed my own child at home without being told?
“Who did she bite?” Aileen’s eyes cast downward. Apparently, I had interfered with some sort of daycare teacher-child privacy statute.
“Who she bit is unimportant. The important thing is that this behavior needs to be stopped and stopped fast. This time was a warning, but we have a three-strikes-and-you’re-out policy. Coco now has one. I would hate to have to ask her not to return to our facility.”
I felt the bile rising in my throat in disgust at this woman’s condescending attitude toward me. It’s one thing for a teacher to talk to a student that way, but it was insulting when she used that tone on a parent.
“Mrs. Brock ...” she held up her hand to stop me.
“Save your explanations. We have a problem, and now it is your turn to solve it. Solve the problem and your child can return. Don’t solve the problem and you will be hiring in-home babysitters for the rest of your life. It’s as simple as that. Good day.”
She turned on her heel and returned to a group of terrified three-year-olds who sat quietly in their circle. Some of them looked afraid to blink. Don’t let that cheery chickadee on the door fool you. This was not a school. It was a re-education camp. If I didn’t need to have Coco at daycare, I would just bring her home. That’s right, bring her home. I could do a better job than any arrogant, overblown, self-important teacher. I grabbed Coco’s bag and pulled her out of there. Another five minutes at Chickadee Learning Academy and I would be accused of biting Mrs. Brock.
I had no choice but to take Coco home and make her part of my gardening project. It might be kind of fun. I could give her a little hand trowel, and she could play in her sandbox while I transferred the dirt and planted the seeds that Joe had so carefully prepared for me. One thing I liked about Joe was he always sold seeds that would actually work in Texas gardens. So many gardening books are written for people who live in colder climates. By the time people in the northern states have their first seedlings, gardeners in Texas are enjoying tomatoes. None of the timetables were right, and the soil was different too. Thank goodness Joe at Sprouts Gardening Center was dedicated to making things grow in the climate we were stuck with.
Once we were home and Coco had her lunch, we set out for the garden. Coco had an adorable little pair of overalls that I put on her, and even a blue gingham bow I clipped onto her wispy soft hair. She was so cute I took out my camera and took a picture to preserve it for history. This wasn’t so hard having Coco along. It was the natural course of things. We were mother and child happily going through our days together. I felt like a page in a McGuffey reader.
I set up the box of seeds and lifted the lid. Inside, the box was divided into labeled cardboard sections. Each square division held a tiny bag of seeds. It was like having a little bitty farm. There were carrots and cucumbers and eggplants. Many of the seeds looked similar in their shape and color, but Joe had thoughtfully parceled each bag out for me. The perfect amount of perfect seeds for Texas soil. Why hadn’t I gardened years earlier?
I put my hand on Coco’s shoulder and pointed her to her sandbox. She had a few toys and one of Zach’s old trucks to pour sand into, and that was where I left her happily digging.
I went over to the giant pile of dirt and started shoveling it into the other planter boxes. I had tried to convince Zach and Tyler that it would be fun to shovel dirt into the boxes but, unfortunately, the public schools no longer taught Tom Sawyer. Kids were smarter these days and didn’t fall for anything. Besides, everybody was too busy. Nobody had time to go out and help empty a dump truck full of dirt for a dollar. Maybe I should raise my price? Nevertheless, I had the morning sun on my shoulders and a heap of dirt in my shovel. It took me about ten minutes to fill each raised box full of dirt. My shoulders started aching at about the second box. I glanced over at Coco, who was busily filling the dump truck with sand. She was having a great time. I turned my back and decided I might be able to do it faster if I used Coco’s little red wagon. Remembering it was leaning up against the back of the house, I retrieved it and then shoveled in some dirt. I walked over to the third planting box and happily dumped it. My time for filling the boxes would now be shortened. This delivery method also saved me a lot of steps. I glanced over to Coco and panicked when I realized she was no longer there.
“Coco? Coco, where are you?” Coco stepped out from behind a bush, her hands in front of her. She looked funny. More than that, she looked guilty. Coco had just done something wrong. Whenever it came to something like this, she would fold her hands in front of her and bite her bottom lip.
“Coco?” I asked again. “What did you do?” Coco’s eyes darted to one of the planting boxes. Everything looked normal. Our dog Butch wasn’t alerted to anything. He was spread out next to the house enjoying the warm morning sun. I couldn’t figure out what she had done wrong. Then my gaze fell on the box of seeds that had been so beautifully sorted and chosen for me. The bags were open and the seeds were scattered across the lawn.
Coco looked at me, searching for approval.
“I plant.”
“Coco! Oh my goodness.”
Coco repeated. “I plant.” And she splayed her and hands out on each side, no longer ashamed but instead downright proud of her work. She was like the grand lady showing off the antiques in her front room.
I ran over to the seeds and the upside down cardboard box. Joe had thoughtfully put the names of the seeds on a label in each divider in the box, but he did not put labels on each individual baggie. I picked up a seed, but I could be looking at a cucumber or a turnip seed. I didn’t know the difference. I tried to start putting similar seeds together. I could at least plant the same looking seeds in the same place. If that didn’t work, my garden would look like some sort of crazy horticultural quilt.
I gathered together some white oblong seeds, but Coco grabbed my hand. “No. Coco plant.”
I pulled her hand away. “No. Don’t touch.”
“Nooooo.” Her voice was starting to work itself into a cry. When I heard the upward tones of her voice, I knew we were heading into a temper tantrum. I had to make a choice. Do I try to straighten out the seed mess or do I prevent my daughter
from going into a meltdown? I took her hand in mine.
“I think I’m ready for some juice. Would you like juice?” Coco continued to stare at the overturned seeds. Then she looked back at me and returned to the seeds. I repeated my bribe. “Coco want juice?”
“K.” I picked her up and hugged her as the dirt and sand caked into her overalls began making a new home on me. This was a classic example of motherhood priority shifting. I could come back to the seeds in a little bit.
CHAPTER 4
The next day when I guiltily returned Coco to Chickadee’s Learning Academy, I promised Miss Aileen that Coco was through with her biting obsession. In truth, I had never seen Coco bite anybody. All I could figure was that this was a learned behavior from another child in the class. Coco did tell me one day that there was a little boy who had tried to bite her, but with her being as young as she was, the story was pretty slim on the details. Perhaps she had picked up biting from that child. I could only hope so. As Coco went to put up her book bag and lunch, Miss Aileen brought me a form to sign on a bright-red clipboard.
“What’s this?”
“This is your assurance that Coco will behave in daycare. This is all a part of our three-strikes process.” Daycare documentation? I began to wonder if Miss Aileen had done a stint with the federal prison system. As I glanced through the wording of the document filled with legal terms and yet headed with a rosy little picture of a happy toddler, the absurdity of it all struck me. As I was about to sign, Daisy Atwood came in wearing her tired blue uniform and holding her little girl, Anna, by the hand. Aileen’s attention was immediately diverted to Daisy. She turned back to me dismissively. “Put the form on my desk when you are finished, please.”
Daisy was kissing her child good-bye as Aileen approached her.
“Mrs. Atwood. The first thing I would like to tell you is that I am sorry for your loss. I read about it in the paper this morning. Secondly, I need to remind you that you are two weeks late on your tuition payment for little Anna. Will I see a check soon?”
Daisy Atwood stammered. “This is a very stressful time for our family. If I don’t have Anna at Chickadee’s, then I can’t work. I need to ask you to be patient about the payment. I get paid next week, but most of that money has to go toward the rent that Wade and I paid on our house. Without Wade’s paycheck, things will be tough for a while, and I need to ask your patience on this.”
Aileen’s lips thinned. She had the heart of a serpent. “I see. As compassionate as I am to your situation, I too must pay the rent at the end of the month. I need you to make other provisions for Anna if you cannot afford to pay your tuition. Surely you have a relative or friend who could take care of her?”
I felt a tugging at my sleeve. “Mama. Kiss good-bye. Coco play.” I reached down and gave Coco a kiss.
“No biting today. Promise?”
Coco squared her shoulders back. “Coco no bite.”
I almost wanted to add no biting unless somebody bites you first. But that wouldn’t be a good idea and probably not featured in the parenting magazines. I follow Daisy Atwood out to the parking lot. I expected her to get in her car and me in mine; instead, she turned and pulled the newspaper out that she had been carrying under her arm.
“I’d like to talk to you about your interview.”
Rocky had put my interview in already? He’d called me later that day after I picked up Coco, and I hadn’t had a chance to read through it yet. If he put something in there that hurt her, I was open season right now.
“To be fair, I didn’t want to give him this interview. He tricked me into answering some of the questions.”
“It says here that Wade’s death was a suicide.”
I remember distinctly telling him that Daisy thought it was murder and not suicide. For the first time in our history of exchanging information, Rocky was being conservative? He didn’t take the salacious headline of murder? Maybe he was closer to retirement than I thought he was.
“Wade did not commit suicide. Wade loved life. He loved life so much. I know he didn’t commit suicide, but nobody else does. Articles like this are going to make the insurance company think he killed himself. Wade was a good man, and one of the things he always promised me was that he would take care of us. He didn’t make a lot of money, but he always paid the payment on his life insurance. He said a man had to plan for when he wouldn’t be there. That’s why it was for so much.”
“How much?”
“A million dollars upon his death.”
That was an amazing amount for a delivery driver. How could they even afford the premiums? If the suicide theory was confirmed, Wade Atwood would have scrimped and saved for nothing. I tried to reassure Daisy. “The coroner’s report is not back yet. Maybe he will vote in your favor. He’s excellent at establishing if there was a murder.”
That little bit of information seemed to give her hope, and yet, she stared down at the newspaper picture of her husband in better times. In the silence we shared between us, a teardrop plopped in the middle of Wade’s face. Daisy whispered, “I don’t know what I’m going to do now. We were barely making it as we were. He didn’t get paid that much driving the delivery truck. Now all we have is my waitress money. I don’t know why I ever dropped out of high school. If I had finished, I might’ve gone to college and been able to support my daughter, but I didn’t. Now here I am trying to raise a child with no education and no way to take proper care of her.”
I put my arm around Daisy, and the one teardrop turned into a shower. I felt so sorry for this woman because years ago my husband had left me with a shoebox of bills that he was making but not paying. I knew what it felt like to be overwhelmed, knowing that you were the only person to support and make sure your child turned out right no matter what the circumstances. Daisy Atwood was me fifteen years ago. I had come up with a solution by becoming the Happy Hinter. I started an online blog then a newspaper column, and now I even did fifteen minutes on NUTV once a week. All these things brought income into my household, but I couldn’t have done what I did without the support of my family. Aunt Maggie and my father pulled together, as families often do in situations like this. I couldn’t have made it without them. Now Daisy Atwood was in the same position. She was going to need a lot of support, and I determined I would do whatever I could to help her.
“What about your family? Is there someone who can help you make the rent until you get things sorted out? At least until the insurance money comes in?”
Daisy sniffed. “My mother has already offered to help. I never knew much about Wade’s family. I hate to take her up on it, but it’s the only option I have.”
“In times like this, Daisy, family is crucial. They understand, and they love you, and they want to help you. Go ahead and take the help.”
“I suppose you’re right.” She let out a sigh.
“And if you need anything, I mean anything, you just ask me. I’ve been where you are. Zach’s father left me before he was born.”
“He did?” I couldn’t believe the gossip mill hadn’t gotten to her too. I liked her more already.
“He did. It was a rough time, so I understand.”
A light came into Daisy’s eyes. “You are the one who was involved in solving all those murders. Right? Libby Loper’s butler, the guy in the abandoned hospital, oh, and the woman in the library. My mother told me all about you. Do you think you might be able to look into what happened to Wade?”
I was all in on bringing casseroles and babysitting, but getting involved in another murder investigation did seem to be a little over the top. Still, though, as I looked at Daisy Atwood and felt the overwhelming burden that had just been put on her, I found myself nodding.
“You bet. If I hear anything, I’ll let you know.”
“And if you suspect anything? Anything at all that might help me?”
I gave her shoulders a squeeze. “Anything at all. We’re in this together now.”
That evening when my father
came over for his weekly dinner, he quietly put his hat on the coat rack in the hall. He walked in on an argument between Zach and Tyler. What they were arguing about didn’t matter. They were always arguing about something these days.
“Boys. You can at least say hello to your grandpa.”
“Hello, Grandpa,” Zach said.
“Hey, Grandpa,” Tyler said.
“Leo was feeding Coco, who had already painted herself in the bright-red ketchup that went with her french fries. “You look serious tonight, Judd.”
“I just came from the coroner’s office. Art is finishing up his report right now on Wade Atwood. He found powder burns on his hands and evidence that the gun was held up to his head. The gun was covered with Wade Atwood’s prints. There was just one section that looks like it was rubbed out. I’m going to have to rule a suicide.”
My heart sank. I knew these were just the words Daisy Atwood did not want to hear. Without the insurance money, it would be much rougher for the family to get back on their feet. Besides that, she loved the man. Nobody would like to think their mate was so despondent that they committed suicide and didn’t even leave a note. It was awful to think of them suffering through the terrible agony all by themselves.
“Are you sure? Daisy said he was not in any way depressed.”
“Unfortunately, I am. All the evidence points to it. And that’s what this comes down to. Where does the evidence point? It leads me to a man holding a gun to his head and falling backward into your pile of dirt.”
“Betsy, did you get rid of the dirt after finding a body in it?” Leo asked. I could see them putting together the fact that I had filled our planter boxes with dirt that used to surround a dead man. I didn’t think it would hurt anything. Flowers grew wonderfully at the cemetery.
“No. It’s the same dirt.”
Both boys let out a gasp and a moan.