“To say nothing of the search for Pemberly, Mrs. Thistlethwaite’s ginger striped tomcat, who disappears so regularly that he ought to be classified as a migratory species. And all of it with half a foot of snow on the ground and more on the way.” Fortunately he looked more amused than annoyed. Then his face fell slightly “And then there’s the latest Hatfield and McCoy nonsense from Clay County.”
“Latest Hatfield and McCoy nonsense?” I echoed.
“Someone who works for the Dingles shot a Whicker,” the chief said. “Or maybe it was the other way around.”
“I thought the Plunkets were involved,” Vern put in.
“Instead of the Whickers or instead of the Dingles?”
Vern shrugged.
“You could be right.” The chief sighed. “I know I wasn’t born here, but you’d think I’d have learned to keep them straight by now.”
“I was born here, and I can’t keep them straight half the time,” Vern said.
Not surprising, since Dingles, Whickers, Plunkets, and Peebleses made up nearly two thirds of Clay County’s phone book.
“They don’t exactly take kindly to outsiders,” I remarked. “So they’ve had another murder in Clay County?”
“Not yet,” the chief said. “Victim’s still alive—for the moment.”
From the grim set of his jaw, I deduced the prognosis wasn’t good.
“So how does this attempted murder complicate our lives here in Caerphilly?” I asked.
“They’ve asked us to keep an eye out for the alleged shooter,” the chief said. “Who took off into the woods and might be headed in our direction. Man by the name of Mark Caverly. Not native to Clay County, apparently.”
“I’d have guessed that from the last name,” I said. “Who is he, then, and what’s he doing in Clay County?”
“From what I heard, he’s an accountant that Mayor Dingle hired to straighten out the county’s books,” Vern said. “Guess they finally realized doing that takes someone who can actually count.”
The chief chuckled. Just then his phone rang, and with a nod to us he stepped a few paces away to answer it.
“Are you really looking for this Caverly guy?” I asked Vern, low enough to make sure the chief didn’t hear.
“The chief had me round up some of our best family trackers,” Vern said. “They’re out combing the woods for him now. At least they were until I called them off that and sicced them on looking for whoever abandoned the kid.”
“Probably just as well to call them off,” I said. “If they find Caverly, they’re just going to hand him over to Clay County?”
“He might turn out to be a murderer,” Vern pointed out.
“Even a murderer deserves a fair trial,” I said. “Do you really think an outsider who killed a Plunket or a Dingle would get a fair trial in Clay County?”
“He’d be lucky if he lived to get a trial at all,” Vern said. “Odds are before long we’d hear he’d either hanged himself in his cell or got shot trying to escape. It’s happened before. That’s why we set a bunch of my cousins to looking for this Caverly guy, instead of sworn officers. If they find him, they’re going to watch him bash a few mailboxes—federal crime—and then help him turn himself in to the Feds somewhere else. Maybe Goochland County—they know all about Sheriff Dingle over there. Or maybe they’ll encourage him to cross the state border and find an FBI office in North Carolina. Anything to keep him out of Clay County for long enough to let them simmer down. Of course you didn’t hear any of that.”
“And I very much approve of everything I just didn’t hear,” I said.
“If you ask me, I think the chief’s a little relieved to have this missing baby thing pop up,” Vern said. “Gives him a much more solid reason not to have the whole force out looking for Clay County’s fugitive.”
“Good point, but we’ve got the baby—it’s her parents who are missing.”
“Same diff, really. She’s missing from wherever she should be and whoever she should be with. And we aim to fix that.”
He paused for a few moments, then levered himself off the door frame and strolled over to peer into the crib. Lark gurgled and waved her arms and legs at him.
“Cute little tyke,” he said as he strode off.
“Little do you know how much trouble you’re causing,” I said to the baby as I took a seat at Robyn’s desk where I could keep an eye on her. She crowed and chirped as if delighted to have someone talk to her.
“Where’s my patient?”
Chapter 6
I glanced up to see Dad barging in, carrying what looked like a battered old-fashioned black doctor’s bag but actually contained a very modern high-tech portable medical kit.
“Not sure she counts as a patient,” I said. “There doesn’t seem to be anything wrong with her.”
“Then why call a doctor?” My grandfather trailed in after Dad, looking more like a scarecrow than usual. Dad was also wearing old, disheveled clothes—in fact, they both looked as if they’d been dragged through a hedge backward—but somehow the disarray looked less startling on Dad’s shorter, plumper form.
Grandfather frowned down at Lark. “Looks perfectly healthy to me.” He had large holes in the big toes of both his socks, and the toes themselves were wiggling vigorously, as if reveling in their freedom from both boots and socks.
“I’m sure the chief just wants to make sure she’s as healthy as she looks,” I said. “Before we turn her over to Child Protective Services.”
“Oh, so Meredith’s coming?” Dad, now standing by the crib, rummaged hurriedly in his bag. “I’ll make this quick, then, and get out of your hair.”
Leaving me to cope with Meredith by myself. Well, I could understand how he felt.
“So whose baby is this anyway?” Grandfather asked. “And why are you turning it over to Child Protective Services.”
“We have no idea whose baby she is,” I said. “And that’s why the chief called Child Protective Services. We found her lying in the manger.”
“Wrapped in swaddling clothes, I assume.” Grandfather looked pleased with himself for coming up with this biblical allusion.
“In a pink onesie, which I suppose is the modern equivalent,” I said. “And—”
“Meg, you’ve got to do something!” Rob burst back into the room, looking wild-eyed. “She won’t speak to me!”
“I’ll talk to her,” I said. “But I think you should give her some time to calm down.”
“Give who time to calm down?” Grandfather asked.
“Delaney,” Rob and I said in unison.
“What have you done now?” Grandfather scowled at Rob. I deduced that he must approve of Delaney.
“Nothing,” Rob said. “Meg, I don’t think she’s going to calm down.”
“She has to calm down eventually. And it might be just as well to wait until we can tell her the results of the DNA tests.”
“DNA tests?” Grandfather peered down at Lark with greater interest. “So this is potentially a new great-grandchild?”
“No!” Rob shouted. “Absolutely not!”
“Calm down,” I said. “We believe you.”
“At the moment you’re the only ones, then,” Rob said. “Look—whoever had this kid would have gotten pregnant about a year ago, right?”
“Correct,” Dad said, looking up from his examination. “She appears to be a normal, healthy baby of approximately four months of age. So allowing a wide margin of error—say two to six months—she would have been conceived between fifteen and eleven months ago.”
“Then no way she’s my kid,” Rob said. “Because a year and a half ago was when Delaney and I started getting really serious. And I haven’t cheated on her. Not back then and not since. So this kid can’t possibly be mine.”
“A pity,” Grandfather said. “A likely looking specimen if you ask me.”
“Aargh!” Rob threw himself down on Robyn’s settee and glared at Grandfather. Which showed how very upset he was�
��normally he was charmed by almost anything Grandfather did, no matter how annoying. “Me-eg!”
“Rob, I’ll talk to her when I get a chance,” I said. “And I will suggest to your grandfather that in the interest of family harmony he might want to refrain from saying things that will only add to his unjustly accused grandson’s suffering.”
I frowned at Grandfather as I said it.
“Just trying to keep up with what’s going on,” he said. “So what are you calling it?”
“It?”
He gestured toward the crib.
“Her name is Lark,” I said.
“Odd sort of name,” he said, with a harrumph. “How’d you pick that?”
“I didn’t,” I said. “Whoever dumped her here did.”
“Given the circumstances, I’d have gone for something like Cuckoo.”
“Cuckoo?” I echoed. “Are you seriously suggesting we name her Cuckoo?”
“The cuckoo is an obligate brood parasite,” Grandfather began.
“A what?” Rob asked, sounding interested in spite of himself.
“An obligate brood parasite,” Grandfather repeated.
“It means they lay their eggs in other birds’ nests,” I translated.
“Precisely.” Grandfather beamed at me. “Non-obligate brood parasites lay eggs in the nests of other birds of the same species, but also make their own nests and lay eggs there. Bank Swallows and African Weavers are some of the most common species that do this. It’s a way of helping ensure that their genes survive—if their own nest is destroyed or raided, they still have some young in another nest who might survive. But obligate brood parasites have completely lost the instinct or ability to build nests and incubate their young. They’re totally dependent on other birds for the continuation of the species.”
“Is all this leading up to some practical suggestion to solve my problem?” Rob asked. “Because if it isn’t, I’d just as soon postpone the ornithology lesson.”
“Just suggesting that Lark isn’t a very relevant name for our little intruder,” Grandfather said. “I’d have to look it up to be sure, but I don’t think larks are known for practicing brood parasitism.”
“We’re not renaming her Cuckoo,” I said.
“Although curiously enough, cowbirds are among the most common brood parasites,” Grandfather continued.
“Cowbird would be even worse,” I said. “Let’s just stick with Lark, shall we?”
Grandfather shrugged as if to suggest that if we failed to take advantage of his superior knowledge of ornithology it was our loss.
“As far as I can tell, she’s just fine,” Dad said, tucking his stethoscope back into his bag. “Ask Meredith to let me know who ends up fostering her, and I can drop by in a day or so to check on her.”
“Can do,” I said.
“Let’s go see if Horace is still around,” Grandfather said. “I could borrow a DNA collection kit from him and have my lab techs run their own test. Most police labs are so backed up that it could take weeks or even months to get the official results. But I can have my technicians fast-track it. Do something useful with that fancy new rapid DNA machine I just bought them. And give Rob the proof he needs a lot sooner.”
“Great idea,” I said. “Rob, could I ask you something?” He’d been at the door, about to dash out in search of Horace, but he paused and let Dad and Grandfather go by.
“She ran out without even putting her boots on,” he said. “Just grabbed them and ran out into the snow.”
“She was pretty quick to assume the worst,” I said. “Any reason why?”
“Things have been a little weird lately,” he said. “I figured maybe it was just because we both knew we were on the brink of something pretty major, you know? Working through last minute doubts and all that. Bound to put stress on a relationship.”
I was impressed—Rob wasn’t generally quite so attuned to such things.
“Seems logical,” I said aloud.
“Yeah, that’s what I thought when Michael suggested it,” he said. “And then there’s the ex-girlfriends showing up.”
“Ex-girlfriends?” I echoed. “Plural?”
“Only two of them,” he said. “And one was just a bit of drunken flirting at the office Christmas party.”
“And the other?”
“The other had herself delivered to my office after hours in a big Christmas present, and then jumped out of the box wearing nothing but a few strategically placed sequins. Took a while to convince Delaney that I hadn’t given her any encouragement. And just when we’d got past that…”
He sighed and shook his head.
“Go find her,” I said. “I can help if necessary, but I think you need to at least try to talk to her. After all, if you get married, you’ll have disagreements from time to time. You need to figure out how to solve them without big sister’s help.”
“This is a pretty big disagreement.”
“So I’ll help if you need me,” I said. “But you try, too.”
He nodded and ran out.
“My goodness! Where’s the fire?”
Meredith Flugleman had arrived, looking trim and formal in a pin-striped skirted suit. She’d even put on little crocheted slippers after taking off her snow boots, to protect her pantyhose from runs. After blinking slightly at the haste with which Rob had left, she strode briskly over to me and held out her hand.
“Meredith Flugleman, Child Protective Services,” she said, unnecessarily, during our brief, businesslike handshake. Did she think I’d forgotten her since yesterday’s town and county staff holiday party?
“Child in need of your services,” I said, pointing to the crib. “Did Debbie Ann explain how she arrived?”
“She did.” Meredith’s face wore an all-too familiar expression—a frown that combined puzzlement with just a hint of disapproval. “But I suppose she must have gotten it wrong. How could the baby just appear in the manger during the Christmas pageant rehearsal without anyone noticing it?”
“Early dismissal from school today,” I reminded her. “Which meant that the children arrived bouncing off the ceiling. I had my hands full keeping order, and would have had my back to the manger. The chief’s trying to find out if any of the kids saw anything, but I doubt it.”
“Well, let’s hope he succeeds,” Meredith said. “And quickly. Because I’m going to have a hard time placing the infant, even for the short term. Right now nearly all of our resources are already fully deployed.”
I assumed this was bureaucratese for “nearly all of our foster families already have as many children as they can handle.”
Meredith pulled her cell phone out of her purse, gave it a stern glance as if willing it to behave properly, and pressed a few buttons. Then her frown vanished.
“But this voicemail could be good news. Excuse me.” She pressed more buttons, turned her back, and walked a few steps away, patting at her hair as if checking to make sure no invisible strands had escaped the tight knot at the back of her head.
She hadn’t yet taken more than a cursory look at Lark, I realized. Every other person who’d been in the office had. Robyn found her adorable. Michael called her a cutie. Even Grandfather, who didn’t have a sentimental bone in his body, pronounced her a likely looking specimen. But to Meredith, she was merely a problem in logistics. Not for the first time, I wondered how in the world she had ended up in social work. Had she stuck a pin at random in a list of respectable careers for the modern professional woman?
And what happened if she had no resources to allocate to Lark? Would she start looking for a foster family in other counties? How long would that take, and where would Lark end up while it was going on? Surely not with Meredith. I remembered once when I’d been at the women’s shelter Robyn ran, doing a few repairs, Meredith had dropped by to extract some bureaucratic paperwork from one of the residents. The young woman had given her infant to Meredith to hold while she filled out the forms. Meredith had quickly revealed that ch
ildcare was not her strong suit.
“My goodness,” Robyn had said in an undertone from where we were watching. “You’d think she was holding ten pounds of dynamite wrapped in paper-thin glass.”
“While roller-skating across a minefield,” I’d added. “Maybe I should go over and offer to help.”
“Let’s give her a moment,” Robyn had replied. “She’s got to learn eventually.”
But Meredith had handed off the infant as soon as she could that day, and I suspected she’d done all she could to avoid repeating the experience.
“Well,” Meredith said as she thrust her phone into her handbag. “That was not the news I was hoping for. Mrs. Shiffley is in the hospital.”
“Which Mrs. Shiffley?” I asked.
“Mrs. Bertha Shiffley.” Meredith sounded slightly surprised that I had to ask. “She’s the only Mrs. Shiffley on our foster parent rolls.”
Though not, of course, the only Mrs. Shiffley in the county. In fact, there might be as many as a hundred other Mrs. Shiffleys in Caerphilly. Was Bertha the only one civic-minded enough to volunteer to foster, or merely the only one who’d manage to pass whatever persnickety screening process Meredith used to vet candidates? I had my suspicions.
“What’s she in the hospital for?” I asked aloud.
“She fell off the roof while installing Christmas decorations,” Meredith said. “Rabbi and Mrs. Grossman have agreed to take the two children who were staying with Mrs. Shiffley. But that brings them up to their maximum of four, and leaves us with only one couple who have already been vetted and approved as foster parents.” Quite possibly, from her tone, a couple of whom she did not altogether approve.
“Who’s that?” I felt a little anxious about where Lark would end up. Of course, whatever was making Meredith uncomfortable probably wouldn’t bother me. It might even be something I approved of. Maybe they were artists. Freethinkers. Unreconstructed hippies. Still. The unknown mother may have intended for Lark to end up with Rob, but either accidentally or on purpose, she’d left her in my care. I felt responsible.
“Well … you and Mr. Waterston. You are eligible foster parents.”
Lark! the Herald Angels Sing Page 3