“We’re late because Tommy couldn’t find his shoes,” I whispered back. “Catch you after service.”
I found an aisle seat just a couple rows up from the very back and slid in as the first song ended. Worship service was my reprieve from everything else in life. It took a while to find a place that could accommodate Tommy. I felt so blessed to have a special needs ministry that is so well-equipped and well-trained that I could enter into worship without the anxiety of wondering how soon my number would pop up on the screen because I needed to rescue some poor Sunday school teacher from one of Tommy’s meltdowns.
Standing there with my arms lifted, singing “You’re My Healer,” it occurred to me how God had healed me not just physically but emotionally over the previous two years. The kids and I had found our place, our routine, our tribe. Nothing like counting your blessings to open up those tear ducts.
Pastor Smith admonished us to display fruits of the Spirit as he dismissed us from service. Turning to leave, I walked straight into Granny. The second oldest of the Gaggle at eighty-two, Granny was kind of the leader and Momma Pat’s mother. She was known for her homemade cookies and for pulling loose teeth for practically every child in the church. I’d seen parents bring in crying kids who magically stood still for Granny to pull their teeth. If ever there was a Spiritual gift, this was Granny’s.
“I’m glad I ran into you. I didn’t see you before church.”
“We came in late. Tommy and his shoes.”
“Again?”
“Keeping up with shoes is a work in progress.”
“It’s a man thing. My late husband, God rest him, couldn’t find anything. He could be looking straight at it and still ask me where it was. Here, I made Carrie some peanut butter cookies. She said they’re a good snack when she’s playing ball.”
“You spoil her.”
“I do not. She’s the sweetest child. Not a brat at all. That’s proof she ain’t spoiled.”
The other Grannies trotted up alongside us. This included Mammaw Sellers (who did yoga, as I mentioned before) and Little Momma who was the tiniest African American woman I’d ever seen and wore the biggest, fanciest hats I’d ever seen…in all colors.
“Hey, Little Momma, is that a new hat? Sure is pretty.”
“Honey, Jesus picked this one out for me to wear today. Been sittin’ in my closet for months and this mornin’ when I was praying, I asked Him which hat to wear and this one fell off the shelf! Hallelujah!”
Each of the Grannies gave me a squeeze before I excused myself to get the kids home for lunch. Those beloved old women left me with a box of cookies, two new handkerchiefs (with embroidered flowers), a recipe for blackberry cobbler and a roll of mints.
One thing I always loved about using a crockpot was walking in the door and being welcomed home by the smell of something delicious. The chicken and dumplins I had started this morning made our house smell like Cracker Barrel. I’m not a spectacular cook, but I can hold my own. I was feeling quite pleased with myself until I remembered how picky kids can be.
“I’m gonna make myself a salad. Anyone else want one?” offered Carrie.
“You’re not even going to try my chicken and dumplins?” I asked, insulted.
“Sorry, Mom. Dumplins are just…gross.”
“Whatever. More for me!” exclaimed Joseph. At least one kid knew good food when he smelled it.
“Tommy, you want some lunch?” I asked knowing full-well he’d snacked too much during Sunday school to be hungry.
“I’ll get some when I’m ready,” he replied, running towards his room and his allotted computer time.
Joseph and I sat down to eat and started a discussion about how Christians need to make better quality movies and stop being so cheesy. That lead to him rambling on about directors and screenwriters so much that I grabbed my work files to read through while he talked. He’d always been okay with this. Joseph had come to the realization that he could carry on a one-sided conversation for quite some time. We had an understanding. He’d talk to his heart’s content; I’d nod and say things like “yeah” and “uh-huh” while doing something else. We were good with this arrangement.
“It boils down to writing. The quality just isn’t there,” he surmised.
“Maybe. I do think sometimes they try too hard to convey a certain message,” I added while digging in my purse for my glasses.
He kept going and opened the Murphy file. I scanned the list of Maddox’s relatives between bites of dumplins and sips of sweet tea. The only ones who hadn’t been checked off the list were an aunt (his mother’s sister) and cousin who went missing a few months before. The aunt’s husband had been contacted via certified letter, signed the paperwork and submitted it without a formal interview. I wondered what happened to his wife and daughter. The notion occurred to me that she may have escaped to a women’s shelter. If that was the case, she could’ve still sought custody of Maddox later on. I jotted down a note to see if I could locate her and tie-up that lose end. It pays to be thorough.
“And that’s why I think they could learn from Hollywood…how to convey a message with subtlety. It’s done all the time!” Joseph stated, completing his rant.
“Agreed. Although I think it’s as much sneakiness as it is subtlety.”
“Ooooh. You’re right! Are Christians allowed to be sneaky?”
“Read the story of Gideon’s attack on the enemy. Sneakiness is most certainly allowed.”
Carrie finally sat beside me with her practically gourmet salad.
“I have to admit, that looks really good,” I confessed.
“I went all out. Bean sprouts, bacon bits, extra cheese…want a bite?”
“No, thanks. I’ll do good to finish what I’ve got.”
“Eyes bigger than your stomach?” She asked grinning.
“Yep.”
“What’s for dessert?” Joseph asked as he rinsed his bowl before placing it in the dishwasher.
“Dessert? Really? You know you don’t have to have dessert with every single meal.”
He looked at me like I had three heads or something.
“I digress. I think there’s popsicles in the freezer.” I said…slightly deflated.
“That’ll work.” He grabbed one and plopped back down at the table.
“Maymay, I can eat now,” announced Tommy, entering the kitchen.
“There’s chicken and dumplins. You can put it in the bowl yourself.”
Tommy leaned over the crockpot and took a whiff. Then with no visible emotion he said, “No, thanks. I must have peanut butter and jelly?”
I sighed and roll my eyes like a punk teenager.
“I’ll help him,” Joseph said, heading towards the pantry.
“Thanks, buddy. I’ve got some work to do. Looks like I need to track down a missing person for this adoption case.”
“Leave your bowl. We’ll load the washer,” Carrie offered.
Good kids. I’ve got such good kids.
Having changed into comfy loungewear, i.e. yoga pants and a baggy t-shirt, I settled at my desk to do some research. The usual first step is to check the obvious like social media accounts and public records in our county as well as neighboring counties. A lot of times, I found that the people no one else can seem to locate are still within fifty miles of their last known address. But, my first step in this case was to check the background on this uncle. My gut feeling told me that something was up with him, and sure enough…I found a restraining order filed against him along with an arrest record that included assault and drunken disorderly. This confirmed my idea that the aunt could have taken refuge in a shelter for abused women. It was certainly a possibility and one worth looking into.
“Maymay!” Tommy yelled from the living room. “The VCR isn’t working and—“
“I’m coming! Hold on!” I yelled back, practically running to open my bedroom door.
“I put the video in but it’s just fuzzy and there’s no sound,” he frantically
explained.
“Maybe the channel got changed. I’ll take a look.”
Sure enough, someone had hit the input button on the remote so that the video wouldn’t show on the television screen. Thankfully, I had learned to troubleshoot these kind of problems back when Tommy was little. Of course, that was after I spent years of panicking as much as he did because I couldn’t resolve whatever it was that had gotten him upset.
“Okay, buddy. It’s working now.”
“Thanks, Maymay. You’re the best.”
“I try. Now, I need to get some work done. You alright?”
“Yep. Be good!” he called out to me as I walk out of the room.
“You, too!” I replied.
Back at my desk, I sat down to look over this guy’s police record.
Knock. Knock.
“Hey, Mom? I just remembered I have this math homework, and I’m not really sure how to do it. The instructions are confusing.”
Sigh. “Okay, honey. Take it to the kitchen table and I’ll be right there. I’ve just got to save some of this information for work tomorrow.”
And, that’s how it typically goes, right? As soon as I comment on how much work I get done at home, I don’t get any done at all.
chapter three
You know how sometimes you wake up naturally, thinking it’s the middle of the night and that you’ll be able to fall back to sleep for a few hours; only to realize by the blurry numbers on your cell phone that in just two minutes your alarm will sound? Yeah. I hate that, too. I know Mondays get a bad rep, but I usually didn’t mind them. Our weekly routine remained fairly consistent compared to our weekends. I liked routine. I also liked being punctual.
“Kids, get a move on! I’m gonna quit feeding ya’ll big breakfasts if it’s gonna make you move this slow!” I threatened.
“I’m coming! Just gotta grab my library book,” yelled Joseph from his room.
“Two minutes! I’m trying to do my hair,” complained Carrie.
“I’m ready, Maymay,” said a proud Tommy, standing at the door with his backpack on, shoes tied and noise-cancelling headphones in hand.
I have to admit I was proud too and quite surprised. I gave him a quick hug then we all ran out the door with me rattling off lists of things they had best have with them: phones, lunch or lunch money, permission slips, homework, etc. While driving down the road, Carrie read us our family devotional and we prayed for safety and guidance throughout the day. It wasn’t a relaxed, sit-down devotion time like I would have preferred, but it got the job done. God sees all the stuff I have to do. He gets it.
Joseph and Tommy were let off at the high school, Carrie exited the vehicle a block away from the middle school, and I got to work fifteen minutes early. Without my coffee.
“Where’s my coffee?” I questioned myself aloud, alone in the van. Images of my previous actions for the morning filled my head. Breakfast. Gathering files. Helping Tommy brush his teeth. Placing my coffee in the microwave. Taking the coffee ou…oh…wait…yep…that’s where it was. Knowing it could quite possibly make me late, I committed to taking the risk of driving to the McDonald’s just down the road. Coffee is a necessity.
Thanks to the seven cars in line at the drive-thru, I stepped into work at precisely nine o’clock.
“You’re late,” Cole, my co-worker remarked in shock. “I mean, not really. You’re never late. Usually, you’re here for half an hour before anyone else. Something happen?”
“Forgot my coffee at home.”
Cole shook his head, understanding. “I knew it had to be some kind of emergency.”
Cole Lee was the paralegal at the law office, but most people didn’t believe me when I introduce him. At six foot four, two-hundred and forty pounds with a shiny bald head and a couple of noticeable tattoos, well…he was intimidating. That tough façade came in handy when he moonlighted as a bouncer at a local nightclub. As a divorced dad with child support to pay, he said having the extra job was a must.
“I knew you’d understand. Us coffee addicts got to stick together,” I teased.
“Worked the club last night,” Cole explained, holding an extra-large cup from Starbucks.
“No judgment here. But, hey, once you’re more awake, I’ve got something to show you on this Murphy adoption.”
“I’m awake. This cup is half empty already. What’cha got?”
We stepped into my office which was once the walk-in closet for our house-turned-lawyer’s office and I dug the files out of my bag.
“I printed some stuff out last night that I found online. Maddox has this uncle that’s already signed-off relinquishing any rights he may have. But, this uncle’s wife, Amber, is Maddox’s mother’s sister. She’d have some rights to custody but she’s missing, along with her daughter Lily.”
“What are police saying?”
“I haven’t talked to them yet. But, Amber filed for a restraining order against Randy which suggests she may have left for a women’s shelter for safety.”
“So, you’re thinking you should find her and get her to sign-off on Maddox’s adoption before she comes out of hiding and messes things up.”
“Exactly.”
Cole stood there, leaning against the door frame, sipping his coffee.
“Well?” I asked. “You think I’m right? I should find her. Don’t you think so?”
He rubbed his chin while obviously in deep thought.
“Yeah, you should. But,” he added, “you need to be careful. This Randy dude could be dangerous. There’s another scenario you either didn’t think of or just didn’t want to include.”
“What’s that?”
“That Maddox’s aunt didn’t escape,” he replied with one eyebrow raised.
“Well, she didn’t just vanish.”
“Charlotte,” Cole said with a sigh. “I know she didn’t vanish. This abusive husband of hers could’ve gotten out of control.”
I finally got his hint. “Oh! You think he could’ve killed her?”
Cole shrugged. “Don’t act like the thought hadn’t crossed your mind. You know full well that it’s a possibility. Talk to the police and do some online digging like you usually do. But, don’t try talking to this guy yourself, okay? He could be bad news.”
“What bad news?” Mr. Baker, my boss, asked while walking through the door; stumbling into our conversation.
“Maddox’s uncle. I think the aunt may be at a women’s shelter and I need to ensure she can’t file for rights and interfere with the adoption.”
“The aunt that’s listed as missing? Police have been searching for her with no luck. Wouldn’t a shelter have to report her whereabouts?”
“Not all of them do. It’s worth looking into.”
Mr. Baker thought silently for a moment, making a strange face as he twisted his mouth and glanced toward the ceiling.
“Alright. Look into it, but don’t get too involved,” he said. He walked to his office and closed the door.
“Did you hear that?” Cole asked me with that eyebrow raised again. “Don’t get too involved.”
“Why do you two keep pullin’ on the reins? I’m just doing my job.”
“And you do it exceptionally well. But, you could bog yourself down in so much research trying to find this woman that you delay the adoption for no reason. I know you. You’ll consider this search a personal mission.”
Waving him off, I turned on my heel and went back to my desk. He thought he knew me…phooey. I sat down and started bringing up documents and websites to begin my search. “I bet I have this woman found by lunch.” I thought to myself. Did I mention my humility?
Yeah, okay, lunchtime came and went and still no Aunt Amber or cousin Lily. I’d gone through registries and databases. I called every women’s shelter within a fifty-mile radius and asked that they have Amber get in touch with me concerning her nephew. I called police departments and hospitals. Nothing. I was beginning to doubt my abilities as a researcher. Having reached the poin
t of self-doubt and complete frustration, there was only one thing left to do…text my bestie.
Su Montgomery and I had known each other since college, but had just reconnected via Facebook a couple of years before. Both of us being autism moms, our friendship had flourished well beyond anything we had while sitting in our college chorale rehearsals. But, that’s a story for another time. Su lived in Mississippi and we stayed in touch through texts and emails. Neither of us were really phone-talkers (unless it was business) and you know how kids are when a mom gets on the phone. Anyway, I texted her my dilemma.
Doubting myself. Can’t find this woman. Feel like she’s hiding. Maybe in danger? Maybe dead! Ugh. My skills are lacking on this one.
A minute later, I heard my phone notification sounding over and over again. Six texts.
You are a very capable woman but you can’t do everything. And if she’s dead (God forbid!), you certainly can’t find her through standard research techniques. Center yourself and pray and maybe…let it go?
First of all, yes we knew texting should be abbreviated and filled with slang. We didn’t roll that way other than the occasional LOL and an overload of emoticons. Second of all, I knew I couldn’t do everything. I didn’t want to do everything. I just wanted to find this woman! I felt compelled to find her. So, taking Su’s advice, I centered myself and prayed; asking God for guidance. This case was starting to raise my blood pressure.
A while later, Mr. Baker stood at my desk taking large bites of a loaded hotdog from Mustard’s Last Stand, a local favorite that’s just down the road.
“Any word on that aunt?” he asked with a bite still in his mouth and mustard on his chin.
“No,” I admitted with disdain. “I put in a request to speak to the Palm Bay police officer who interviewed Randy, the uncle. I’m hoping he might give me a lead. Otherwise, it’s a dead end.”
Coffee, Kids, and a Kidnapping (A Charlotte Ritter Mystery Book 1) Page 2