Idyll Fears

by Stephanie Gayle

  He gave me an invoice. “Fine. Whatever.”

  I unlocked my vehicle. Transferred my gear from the station wagon’s trunk back to my car. Racked the seat back. Closed the door. Inhaled. Gripped the steering wheel. I’d always thought that people who named their cars were weird. That people who formed attachments to vehicles were one bullet short of a round. Driving back to the station in my car felt good, right. Add me to the car weirdo ranks.

  Finnegan and Wright were huddled over the coffeemaker. Finnegan added enough cream and sugar to qualify his drink as dessert. Wright stirred his, over and over. He didn’t add anything. Simply liked to stir. I’d learned their habits. It jolted me. When I’d arrived, I’d stayed apart. Done little to interact. I’d recently lost my former New York Homicide partner and best friend, Rick. So I did my damnedest not to learn this lot’s names. I tried not to know their marital status or who their favorite athlete was, but it had begun to accumulate. You can’t blind yourself, day after day. Information trickles in. Before you know it, you realize you could order your men’s coffee for them.

  A pile of folders and a fresh batch of mail was on my desk. Mrs. Dunsmore was back. I walked to the window and peered at my plant. It looked less anemic. She came in while I touched a leaf. I dropped my hand. Her parrot broach was pinned to the upper right of her dress. Bingo night then. See? Details. They creep in, even when unwanted.

  “Picked up my car. Heard you had a word with Jerry,” I said.

  “Him. Did he take care of it?”

  “He did. He said you must like me.” Why had I said that?

  “I told you he wasn’t bright,” she said. Well, what had I expected?

  “Thanks for calling him.” I saw the shopping note on my desk. “Damn it.”

  “Problem?” She checked the plant. Adjusted its spot on the windowsill.

  “There may be no gifts at Christmas. By the time I’ve got a minute, the shops are closed.” In Idyll, shops that stayed open late closed at seven or eight o’clock. “Not that it matters. I haven’t any idea what to get my parents.”

  “The professors?” As if she didn’t know. Mrs. Dunsmore gathered intel like squirrels gathered nuts.

  “Yes, the professors.”

  “What do they teach?” Was she humoring me?

  “My mother teaches eighteenth- and nineteenth-century literature, and my father teaches philosophy.”

  She turned from the plant and searched me for academic tendencies. Found none. “What did you give them last year?”

  I told her about the t-shirts. “They didn’t like them. Only thing they ever seemed to like were the day planners I bought. Maybe I’ll do that again. If I can get myself inside a store before closing.”

  “Why don’t you let me do it?” she asked.

  “Do what?” On my desk was a message from Wright. His crabbed script was hard on the eyes. Something about Cody’s raccoon?

  “Buy your parents’ gifts.”

  “What?” My head popped up like a jack-in-the-box’s.

  “I’ve got time, and I have to buy presents for the Toys for Tots drive.” We had a program where people could donate wrapped children’s toys and have minimal traffic tickets waived.

  “I thought people dropped off toys.”

  “I always buy extra. Don’t worry. It doesn’t come out of the budget.” That meant she bought them herself. “Believe it or not, I used to be a personal shopper years ago at a department store in Hartford.”

  “I’d believe it if you told me you were a Cold War spy,” I said under my breath.

  “A few questions.” She grabbed a piece of paper from my desk. “What’s your mother’s favorite color?”

  “Red. Or red-purple. She’s got this scarf thing she loves because of the color.”

  “Father’s favorite TV show?”

  “Um.” I thought. “Gunsmoke?”

  Within five minutes she’d extracted strange and various pieces of information from me. “Leave it to me,” she said. I felt as stunned as a hit-and-run victim. Why was she being nice? Was it left over from when she served the prior chief, Stoughton? He’d struck me as the sort who loved having others do favors for him.

  At their desks, Finnegan and Wright swapped papers. “Any news?” I called.

  They looked up, squinting. “Is it possible to go blind from paperwork?” Finnegan asked. “That’s good for a disability claim, yeah?”

  “We’ve begun to check out Dix’s list of toy stores,” Wright said. He blew his nose into a handkerchief. Uh-oh.

  Finnegan said, “Most of the stores didn’t stock the Lego truck kit. Said they wish they had. Thing sells like hotcakes.”

  “What about the raccoon?” I asked Wright. “You left me a note.”

  He coughed. “Right. The raccoon. Made by some local company, so there can’t be a ton of them. Wonder of wonders, the woman I spoke to at the company saw the news about Cody on TV. She’s going to check into recent area sales.”

  I said, “Good. Hey, do you know if there’s something up with Mrs. Dunsmore?”

  “What do you mean?” Finnegan asked. His head was down again. Scanning papers.

  “She’s acting odd.”

  “Well, her niece is back in the hospital. Breast cancer.” He scratched his eyebrow. “Chemo is a nightmare.”

  “Her niece has breast cancer?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She got diagnosed back in October.” How did he know? Why didn’t I? I’d been paying attention, hadn’t I?

  “Is the niece gonna make it?” I asked.

  Finnegan shrugged. “She’s got stage three, but she’s young. Thirty-two. Has two kids. Tough to say.”

  Wright said, “Mrs. Dunsmore’s been spending a lot of time with her, but she can’t if she’s sick.” Her cough. She’d stayed home. Probably trying to avoid our germs.

  “Huh,” I said. Because I had no idea what else to say.

  I grabbed Billy. Told him to find out where Peter Forrand had worked prior to his current job, and to pass the information to Finny.

  “Sure thing,” he said. “Any, um word, on the other thing?”

  My brain was blank until he looked away and I realized he meant my car. “No, nothing yet.” Finnegan didn’t seem to be exerting himself. Then again, neither was I.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  Ella Fitzgerald sang about the joys of sleighing. The house smelled of eggnog and cinnamon. Before Marie brought Christmas eggnog into our lives, I thought I didn’t like it. I drank that first cup, years ago, to be polite. Pretty sure Dad did too. Now we crowd the bowl until she gives us dispensation to ladle it into tall glasses. I sat in a large armchair, sipping the nog, watching my nephews play an involved game called Magic. They sprawled on the floor. Gabriel’s limbs made me think he might surpass his older brother, Tyler, in size. Tyler was a dark blond and resembled John. Gabriel was darker and looked like Marie and me, which led to many jokes.

  “Attacking,” Gabriel said. He moved cards forward, aligning them sideways.

  “Blocking,” Tyler said.

  “Boys, you ready for presents?” Marie called. She carried a plate of cookies into the room. How could anyone eat cookies after the brunch we’d just had? John leapt up to help her. “I’ve got it,” she said. He insisted on taking it from her. She wiped a curl from her face. “Tom needs to be on the road before it gets too late.”

  “I’m fine,” I said.

  Gabriel said, “I told Marc at school that we were celebrating Christmas five days early, and he said it was sacrilegious.”

  “Sacrilegious?” I looked at John. He was parceling out gifts. “What kind of crowd are you letting your kids run with?” John laughed and handed me a rectangular package wrapped in green paper:

  To TOMMY,

  Love MOM and DAD.

  It was shirt-weight heavy. Probably a button-down I’d never wear. I got my game face on.

  “So many!” My mother clapped her hands as the boxes rose to meet her knees.

  “Y
ou’re getting ours now,” Marie said. She, John, and the kids were spending Christmas Day with her family upstate. My mother pouted, but only a little. I suspected it was more for show. She’d enjoy a quiet holiday at home.

  “It’s going to be a quiet Christmas,” Mom said, making me reconsider my assessment.

  “I’m going to sleep in,” my father said. He sipped his eggnog and peered through his bifocals at the package before him. The silver-and-gold wrapped box was Mrs. Dunsmore’s handiwork. I had no idea what was inside. She wouldn’t tell me. I’d contemplated unwrapping the gifts. Making sure she hadn’t given my parents whoopee cushions, but then I’d have had to rewrap them, and they’d never look as good.

  “Can I go first?” Gabe asked. He held up a tube wrapped in reindeer print.

  My mother smiled. “Of course.”

  Gabe tore the wrapping paper and cast it aside, near his brother’s foot. Tyler said, “A poster?” Gabe looked inside the packaging and withdrew a rolled-up tube of thick paper. He unrolled it. “Pearl Jam!” he said. A black-and-white photo of five dudes on a beach. One avoiding the camera’s gaze. The “mumble rock” guys, as Marie had said.

  “Thanks, Grandma and Grandpa,” Gabe said.

  Tyler went next. He opened my gift, a large jersey with Faulk on the back. “Awesome!” He held it up. The jersey would swallow him. Marie had assured me he’d wanted a large. That it was how the kids wore them these days. “Thanks!”

  “You go next, Tom,” Marie said.

  “John’s younger than me,” I said. “And you’re younger than John.”

  “I’m the hostess, and I’m telling you to open your gift.”

  I picked up the gift from my parents. Everyone watching, I tore a swath of wrapping paper, “right down the middle!” John called. I did it every year and he called it, like a sportscaster. It was a childhood game, a silly brother thing we kept at. We didn’t have many such rituals. Unpicking the tape from the box’s sides took time.

  “Nonna used half the roll,” Tyler said.

  “Did not. I only used a quarter of it,” she countered.

  The boys laughed, high on sugar and gifts.

  When the box was wrestled open, there was tissue paper to plow through, and then I found a hat. A fur-lined hat with earflaps. Like Yankowitz had, only nicer. I’d have laughed at such a hat two years ago. Would’ve asked why they were casting me as an extra in Fargo. I pulled the hat on. “How do I look?”

  “Like you’re in Fargo!” John called.

  “Hush,” Marie said. “Tom is so handsome, he makes it work.”

  “Handsomer than me?” John asked.

  “Much,” she said.

  “Do you like it?” my mother asked.

  “It’s great.” I meant it. “This winter has been brutal.”

  “I check the weather sometimes, where you are. So much snow.”

  I didn’t know she did that.

  “Now for me!” Dad said. He went for my gift. I watched him easily separate the box top from bottom. Mrs. Dunsmore wasn’t as big a fan of tape as my mother. He rustled inside. Dear God, there was something inside, right? She hadn’t wrapped empty boxes? That would be too cruel. “Aha!” He pulled his hand out. Dangling from his fingers was a gold gun that looked like it came from a science-fiction film.

  “Now where did you find this?” Wonder in his voice.

  As if I knew.

  “What is it?” Marie asked.

  “It’s a Buck Rogers Rocket Pistol, and,” he turned it over, “A bottle opener! Hah! This must be a new one. I had one of these when I was a boy. The gun. I loved it.” He looked up and smiled.

  “I’m glad you like it.” Damn. I was going to have to give Mrs. Dunsmore a raise. I hadn’t even mentioned Buck Rogers in our conversation.

  Never one to be outdone, Mom said, “Ooh, I want to open mine.” She went right for my gift. It had a cardinal ornament attached to the package. Mom complimented me on my wrapping. John snorted. He knew I couldn’t wrap a book without botching the job.

  “Oh!” she said. She pulled out a pair of red slippers. Slippers? She kicked off a shoe and slid her foot inside. “It’s lined! And warm. Oh, these are very nice. Thank you, Tommy.” She kicked off her other shoe and put the second slipper on. “I might not ever take these off.” Shoot. I’d have to give Mrs. Dunsmore a raise and two weeks’ extra vacation.

  Marie looked at me, eyebrows raised. I gave her a smug smile. She narrowed her eyes. I drank the last of my nog. “Anyone else need a refill?” I asked.

  “I’ll take one,” Dad said, handing me his cup.

  In the kitchen, Marie grabbed more napkins. “Okay, ’fess up. Who bought those gifts?” she whispered.

  I put my hand to my chest. “I’m insulted. What makes you think I didn’t?”

  “Last I heard, you had no time for shopping. Are you seeing someone?” She smiled, ready to be let in on the secret.

  “God, no. You think I’m dating a secret shopper?”

  “Sounds good to me.”

  “Trust me. The person who bought those gifts is the last person in the world I’d date.”

  “So, a woman.”

  I nudged her ribs with my elbow. “C’mon, Miss Nosy. We’ve got gifts to open.”

  She sighed. “Fine. Whoever she is, she’s a keeper.”

  “You’ve no idea what you’re saying.” I pictured Mrs. Dunsmore, rubbing her crucifix.

  We returned to the business of opening gifts. Gabe seemed to like the sheet music and guitar picks I’d gotten him. The boys gave my mother a pair of leather gloves I’m sure Marie chose. They’d picked out Life of Brian for my Dad. “I know what I’m watching on Christmas!” he said.

  “So much for a quiet day at home,” Mom said. “I’ll be listening to him sing all afternoon.” She didn’t care for musicals. She found them ridiculous.

  The phone rang, interrupting my father’s version of “Always Look on the Bright Side of Life.” I wore my hat. It made my ears hot, but my mother smiled whenever she looked my way.

  John answered it. A moment later he yelled, “Tommy!”

  “What?” I shouted from my chair.

  “Phone call.”

  My neck hairs stood on end. The only people with this number were at the Idyll Police Station. I hustled to the phone. “Lynch here,” I said.

  “Chief,” Wright said. “Cody Forrand is gone.”

  “Gone?”

  My father swung into verse three. My mother begged him to stop.

  “His mom went Christmas shopping. Dad was at work. The aunt, Jessica, was watching the kids. Cody went to his room to play. A while later, the aunt peered in. He’s gone. They can’t find him.”

  “How long?” I checked my watch.

  “She called it in about thirty minutes ago. He could’ve been gone at least a half hour before that.”

  “The parents are home?” I asked.

  “Yeah, and hysterical. They can’t believe he was taken from the house.”

  “Was the room’s window locked?”

  “Mr. Forrand swears up and down it was. Says he’s been locking everything up tight. Anna insists on it. Follows him through the house as he does it.”

  “I guess the aunt is out of the picture.”

  “Yeah, she was making cookies with Anna while Cody played in his room.”

  “You call the staties?”

  “Yup, and we’ve got calls out to other area stations to keep an eye out for him.”

  “Put Mrs. Dunsmore on the press. The faster we get his picture on TV, the better.” I stared at the pictures on my brother’s fridge. Holiday at Disney World. One from last year’s Christmas. The kids’ smiles bright. “I’ll leave now. It’ll take me two hours, maybe a little less.”

  “Safe driving.”

  Safety wasn’t first on my mind. Speed was.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  Wright stood by a huge map pinned across two boards. At its center was Cody Forrand’s street. Red circles radia
ted outward. One, two, three, four. “We’re calculating how far he might’ve gotten if he was taken by car. We figured sixty miles per hour, every hour,” Wright said.

  “He’s only been gone three and a half hours max, right?” I asked.

  “Hedging our bets.” A frown pulled the left side of his mouth down.

  He told me they had calls out to neighboring towns. The local news stations had run an alert an hour ago, flashing Cody’s picture. That explained the ringing phones. “We’ve got two calls that look like maybes. One from Ellington, one from Woodstock.”

  Ellington was west. Woodstock was northeast.

  He said, “The sooner we can figure which one is right, the sooner we might have a direction to pursue.” He coughed, hard. Grabbed a lozenge and popped it in his mouth.

  “Feeling any better?” I asked.

  “Fever is gone. If I could just breathe without coughing, I’d feel human again.” He looked at the map and said, “I also called the FBI.”

  “What did they say?”

  “They asked if he was some politician’s kid or from a rich family. When I told them no, they said to update them in two hours.”

  “Will they send someone?” I asked.

  “Guy I spoke to sounded intrigued. Who knows?” He waited. Probably expected me to rail at him for involving the feds. He’d wait forever. It was a good call. Feds had plenty of resources and experience. We had a tiny department and a missing, sick kid I worried wouldn’t survive this second grab.

  “I’m wishing we’d kept patrol at the house,” Wright said. He’d decided yesterday to pull the detail. The Forrands hadn’t complained. They were tired of having a “guest” at the house. “Yankowitz is agitating. Wants us to use his dog.”

  “We should.”

  “It didn’t find Cody last time,” he said.

  “Last time the trail was cold and we had iced over snow on the ground.” So much for Wright being on point. “Yankowitz!”

  He came around the corner, short of breath. “Can Skylar track Cody now?” I asked him.

  “Sure. I’ve been trying to get her there for hours.” He shot Wright a look.