The Water Baby

by Roz Denny Fox

  The opportunity to ask came sooner than Daisy expected. At the hospital’s front door. The chief of staff was hurrying out as Daisy and Rebecca reached the entrance. Daisy had been trying to lose Sergeant Denton. She quit the chase and stopped to return Dr. Rankin’s greeting. “Were you coming to see me?” he asked. “I’m just on my way to speak at a Rotary luncheon.” He smiled at Rebecca, who gazed at him openly without any of her former anxiety.

  They were standing near the gift shop. Daisy quickly pulled twenty dollars out of her purse and handed it to Rebecca. “Why don’t you go in there and buy your daddy flowers?” she suggested. “Show the lady at the counter how much you have to spend.”

  “I know,” Rebecca said, puffing out her chest with pride. “I can’t spend the whole twenty ‘cause there’s tax.” With that she bounded off.

  “Well, well.” Dr. Rankin lifted a brow in surprise. It stayed elevated while Daisy quickly outlined the events of yesterday—minus the lovemaking of course.

  “Very interesting,” he murmured. “Would you tell her father that I’d like the team to examine Rebecca again?” The doctor checked his watch. “If I don’t get going, I’m going to be late.”

  “Is something wrong, Dr. Rankin? Temple will ask why you want to see her. I…he doesn’t know yet that she mentioned her grandparents—but not her mother.”

  “There’s no rush,” the doctor said. “Events may come back to her slowly. Seeing the ocean or a yacht might trigger a memory of her mother and the accident. Or—” he nibbled at his lower lip “—she may have lacunar amnesia.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The inability to remember isolated events. She may block out that particular incident forever. It would help if our psychiatrists could do some tests.”

  Daisy glanced toward the happy little girl who was skipping out of the shop holding a bright bouquet of… daisies. Her heart soared.

  “I’ll tell him,” Daisy promised, a catch in her voice. “I won’t guarantee he’ll make an appointment, though. I believe he’ll return to San Francisco soon.”

  The policeman’s ears perked up, and he stepped closer at that bit of news.

  “Really?” Dr. Rankin stroked his chin. “I have to admit when the two of you came to see me the other day, I thought I detected something developing between you. Too bad it didn’t work out.”

  “Yes, it is,” Daisy murmured almost inaudibly as he pointed to his watch, shrugged and, after a quick salute, trotted off. Her life would be pretty empty when Temple left, she realized. But he was going, surely as the tide had swept away the sand castles she and Becca had built. And there wasn’t anything she could do about it. For the first time Daisy understood the futility her father must have felt at her mother’s leaving.

  For the first time she understood what he’d meant when he said that love wasn’t always enough to bind a person to you.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  AN ELEVATOR and two wrong turns later, Daisy arrived at the correct ward. Rebecca skipped merrily at her side, and Sergeant Chap Denton walked two paces behind, which set her teeth on edge. People watched them out of the corners of their eyes and whispered as they passed. Then they were stopped at the door to Temple’s room by a no-nonsense sign: Visitor Restriction.

  “Wait here,” Daisy instructed Rebecca. “I’ll go ask what this is about.”

  “Infectious contaminants,” the nurse at the desk said tiredly. “Are you his wife?”

  Daisy was getting plenty peeved about being mistakenly thrust in that role. “No,” she said shortly. “I’ve brought his daughter to see him.”

  The nurse closed a chart she’d been writing in. “Child or adult?”

  “Child,” Daisy said. “She’s five.”

  “No can do, then. Too risky.” The nurse shook her head as she pulled out another chart. “The doctor ordered cultures. Mr. Wyatt’s visitor-restricted until we see if it’s a staph infection.”

  “That’s potentially serious, isn’t it?”

  “You’ll have to speak with his doctor. Who did you say you were?” The nurse stopped what she was doing and took in Daisy’s disheveled appearance.

  “I didn’t. His daughter brought flowers. May we leave them with you?”

  “By all means. I have nothing better to do with my time than deliver flowers.”

  Daisy checked her watch. It wasn’t even ten o’clock yet. Poor woman must have had a rough morning. “We’ll call Temple’s room and let him know they’re here,” Daisy murmured.

  Back at the door to his room, she relayed the news to her companions. The sergeant suggested he walk Rebecca to the desk with the flowers. He said he wanted to use the phone there to call the chief and ask what to do about security.

  Daisy waited until they turned the corner out of sight before she pushed open the door to Temple’s room. She wouldn’t go right in, of course, but she had to see for herself that he was all right.

  He lay on the bed, eyes closed, an IV drip connected to his good arm. Was it her imagination, or did his face have a bit more color? Even at that, he lay so still. She suddenly recalled that last year, a young robust shrimper she knew had cut his hand on a fish-boning knife. He’d developed blood poisoning and in two days was dead. Daisy’s hand flew to her mouth to stifle a cry of fear. To keep from disturbing him, she backed out and closed the door.

  She adjusted her shoulder bag and stiffened her spine and discreetly wiped her eyes. At least she appeared in control now. She stepped briskly away from the door to wait for the others.

  As Rebecca and Denton came toward her down the hall, Daisy saw the smile on the sergeant’s face. “Good news,” he announced the minute he was within earshot. “Chief says they picked up two suspects trying to sneak aboard your boat shortly after dawn today. One matches the composite your friend Wyatt put together yesterday, though the second man doesn’t quite match number two. I’ll see the pair of you home, then pick up the mug shots and bring ‘em here. Soon as the doc gives the okay, we’ll see if Wyatt can pick those two out of a lineup. Otherwise, there’s not much to hold ‘em on.”

  “But if they were sneaking aboard the Lazy Daisy…”

  “Too soft. They claim they’d been hired on to pull nets for someone named Duffy and must have stumbled onto the wrong boat by accident.”

  “Probably Michael Duffy. He runs four shrimp boats. But he doesn’t own a Boston trawler. Maybe Sal or Loren can identify them.”

  “Nope.” He shook his head. “Wyatt’s the only one who got a good look.”

  Daisy darted a nervous glance over her shoulder at Temple’s door as she reached for Rebecca’s hand. “In that case, Sergeant, don’t you think it’d be wiser to stay and guard him, rather than follow me across town?”

  “I’m following orders, Miss Sloan.”

  “Oh, for crying out loud.” Daisy glared at him.

  His eyes narrowed. “We’ve learned that DeVaca’s yacht did go down in Rum Row Got a positive ID from the lab on the fiberglass scraps Coletti hauled in. Seems the yacht had just been painted and the paint’s unique.”

  As they headed downstairs, Daisy looked quickly to see if the Brazilian’s name had any effect on Rebecca. But the little girl skipped along ahead, paying no heed to the adults’ conversation. Once outside, she concentrated on not stepping on any cracks. That brought a smile to Daisy’s face, who wasn’t so old that she couldn’t remember doing that a few times all the way down the Strand. Her dad had been ready to throttle her.

  “You find something amusing about that lab report, Miss Sloan?” Chap Denton scowled at her.

  She stopped beside her car and tucked a windblown strand of hair behind her ear. “Sergeant, I had the bad luck to drop anchor near the yacht in Rum Row on the best shrimping day of the year. Unfortunately I’ll probably see that explosion in my sleep for the rest of my life. If those men are responsible, I personally hope you get enough evidence to lock them up permanently and throw away the key. Which won’t happen, I might add, if
you’re busy bird-dogging me.” She wrenched open the passenger door and helped Rebecca.

  The sergeant held his retort until after Daisy had finished buckling Rebecca’s seat belt and had shut the door. “I guess you’re so testy because your meal ticket’s being shipped back to Frisco.”

  Daisy stopped on her way around to the driver’s side. “Should that cryptic message hold some significance for me?” she snapped, brushing past him to unlock her door.

  He settled his hat on his head and smirked. “According to the nurse, Wyatt insisted on calling Grandmama right after they got him settled. ‘Course she only heard one side of the conversation, but she said it sounded like Wyatt’s sending the kid home ASAP.”

  Daisy felt as if she’d been blindsided by a loose boom. It had happened once on Daniel’s pleasure ketch. For a month she’d nursed a goose egg on her forehead the size of Plymouth Rock. Maybe this blow wouldn’t leave a scar, but Daisy’d be hanged before she’d let Denton see how much it had hurt.

  Marshalling every scrap of restraint she possessed, Daisy said coolly, “It’s always been Temple’s intent to take Rebecca home as soon as she’d regained her memory. Now, if you don’t mind, Sergeant, I believe I have a mess to clean up at my house. I’d like to get at it.”

  He’d been blocking her door and seemed disappointed by her lack of concern at his news flash. He stepped aside to give her space. She slammed the door, had the car started and was almost across the parking lot by the time Denton rallied and jumped in his cruiser. Which was quite all right with Daisy. She would’ve hated to have him witness the tears suddenly spilling down her cheeks.

  Rebecca saw them though. “I don’t like that man,” she said. “He hurt your feelings. I’m gonna tell my daddy. He’ll make that meanie say he’s sorry, Daisy.”

  Rebecca’s words made Daisy laugh—and cry all the harder. When did Temple plan to tell her she was being relieved of his daughter’s care? It was the final crushing blow to her ego. No matter what he’d said in that note about trusting her, he obviously didn’t trust her to keep Rebecca safe.

  Her tears dried of their own accord. To her, death of trust was like the end of hope. She was a woman who lived by simple rules. By and large, all the islanders did. They were the basic rules of survival handed down through the generations, beginning with those who’d lived through the great hurricane. Compared to that, she told herself, today was strawberry cheesecake.

  Until Daisy Sloan met Temple Wyatt, her attitude had been more or less “when the going gets tough, the tough find a way to have fun.”

  “Say, Rebecca Maria Wyatt,” Daisy said bravely, taking one last swipe at her eyes, “what do you say we ditch your meanie and go build us a giant sand castle?” This was more like something the old Daisy Sloan would propose.

  The girl clapped her hands. Her eyes sparkled. “A big one? Big enough for a real princess?”

  “You got it, kid.” Daisy felt excitement sing through her blood as she abruptly made a right turn, then another, and headed back the way they’d come. She glanced in the rearview mirror. Sergeant Denton hadn’t expected her to bolt. He got caught at the light. Daisy grinned and jogged three streets over and cruised down an alley. She was cooking now. He’d think she vanished. “Poof!” She laughed and, without knowing the real joke, Rebecca laughed with her.

  Daisy parked in a small lot off Avenue Q-and a half— another of the unique things about Galveston that made her love the city. They gathered their buckets, shovels and sifters and walked straight down to the seawall. Daisy chose a spot where the sand was damp and where they’d blend in with everyone else. Because her fuchsia blouse was rather distinctive, she’d donned the navy windbreaker she always kept in the trunk of her car for emergency squalls.

  As the base of the sand castle took shape, the morning sun warmed their backs, and Daisy felt her cares slip away. She discovered Rebecca had both the creativity and the patience for an ambitious project. The clever patterns she made around the doors and windows with shells soon drew a crowd of onlookers. By the time they had the construction waist-high and had added two turrets, bystanders began to say it resembled Bishop’s Palace downtown.

  “It does not,” insisted the girl a bit petulantly. “It’s a castle.”

  Daisy nudged her with a sandy elbow. “Let people think what they want,” she whispered. “We know the truth, don’t we?”

  Suddenly she shivered, feeling a chill. Someone had blocked the sun at her back. She twisted around, more than half expecting to see an angry Chap Denton. To her surprise, a man with smoldering dark eyes stood just behind her, staring at them. Or rather, at Rebecca. In spite of the fact that he looked vaguely familiar, Daisy’s protective instincts kicked in. Possibly because there was nothing warm or friendly in his gaze.

  Keeping a firm hold on the bucket of sand, Daisy placed herself squarely between the man and the child. He didn’t turn away; instead Daisy found herself looking down the barrel of the small gun he’d suddenly whipped out from under his short gray jacket.

  Reacting—in what she would claim later was strictly a reflex—Daisy sprang forward on the balls of her feet and swung the heavy bucket of sand. Aided by a gust of wind, the bucket not only whacked the man upside the head, but it tilted and dumped wet sand into his eyes, nose and mouth.

  His weapon flew into the crowd, where luckily it was retrieved by one of two stalwart joggers, who then came to assist Daisy.

  Amid screams and a scramble of bodies trying to get away, the huskiest of the joggers wrestled the assailant to the ground. Much to Rebecca’s delight, Daisy yanked the shoelaces out of her sneakers and tied the bad guy’s hands behind his back. Borrowing someone else’s shoelaces, she repeated the process with his ankles until he was trussed up like a turkey.

  “Goody, goody, you got him!” Rebecca chortled, jumping up and down. “I can’t wait to tell Grandmother Wyatt. She doesn’t think I should wear sneakers. Ladies shouldn’t, she says.” Rebecca screwed up her face.

  Daisy was saved from disagreeing with the wisdom of Rebecca’s grandmother by the arrival of a policeman. Apparently a quick-thinking tourist saw what was happening and called the police from her car phone. By the time three more carloads of armed officers descended on the beach, the incident—which was so short it hardly qualified as an incident—was over. Except that Daisy and Rebecca’s sand castle had, sadly, been trampled into the ground.

  A police officer she’d seen yesterday at the station replaced Daisy’s shoelaces with handcuffs and handed her laces back to her as if they’d been dipped in something unpleasant. After he returned the other pair to their owner, he looked at her and drawled, “Miss Sloan, Galveston was a relatively quiet community until you sailed into Rum Row a few weeks ago. Just this morning, the chief suggested taking up a collection so that you could move to Houston. After he gets this report, he may suggest Siberia.”

  “Me?” Daisy’s eyes widened in innocence.

  The officer sighed. Then as his buddy led the assailant away, he began taking statements from the witnesses, who all wanted to talk at once. Each lauded Daisy for her bravery.

  She quietly gathered up the buckets, shovels and sifters, keeping a worried eye on Rebecca.

  The child tugged on her windbreaker. “Aren’t we going to build another castle?”

  Daisy didn’t want to frighten the girl, but her own fear had begun belatedly to set in. She stuffed her shaking hands deep into the pockets of her scruffy jeans so that no one would see how near she was to falling apart.

  A young law officer, a man barely old enough to shave, approached Daisy gingerly. “Miss Sloan.” He doffed his hat. “Could you please follow us to the station?” He nodded toward the cruiser where the assailant sat, the object of gawkers. “Chief thinks he’s another of the men who shot at Mr. Wyatt.”

  “Of course.” Daisy shuddered. “That’s why he looked familiar. He’s the man in the second composite. Probably one of the two who trashed my house. I should be home now cle
aning it up,” she babbled, crossing her arms and running damp palms nervously over her elbows.

  “Yes, ma’am. But it’s really important. We can hold him on the weapons charge, but we’d have a stronger case if we tie him to the two men we already have in custody.”

  Daisy nodded. She wanted that, too—a stronger case so that the whole thing could be wrapped up. Even though it meant seeing the last of the Wyatts. In fact, if at this moment Temple asked her again to accompany Rebecca to San Francisco, she might just go. But he wouldn’t. Especially not now Lord, if anything had happened to Rebecca today…

  Daisy’s knees threatened to buckle even as she reached for the child’s hand and trudged slowly after the officer.

  IT WAS APPROACHING NOON by the time they were finished at the police station. The gunman did indeed know the two who’d been caught sneaking onto the Lazy Daisy. They greeted him, but he snarled at them to shut up— which they did, like clams. None of the three let out another peep. The only information available was what came up on the computer following fingerprinting. Each of the three had a string of aliases. The one who’d pointed the handgun at Rebecca was the elusive Halsey Shaw, Domingo DeVaca’s former employee.

  Maybe now they’d finally get some answers, Daisy thought, as she walked from the building with Rebecca, their young police escort right behind.

  “I’m hungry,” the little girl announced as they neared the car.

  “I’m not surprised,” Daisy returned. “It’s been hours since we ate breakfast. Do you remember the pancake sandwich you had at the hotel last night?”

  “Pancake sandwich.” Rebecca wrinkled her nose scornfully.

  “It was good,” Daisy said. “And you snarfed it up, young lady. So what are you hungry for now?”

  Rebecca appeared to consider this question while she snapped her seat belt—by herself this time, Daisy noticed proudly. She told their police escort what they planned. Back at the car, she buckled in and had the car running when Rebecca smiled and said, “Know what sounds yummy? Kiwifruit and banana salad.”