Lark! the Herald Angels Sing

by Donna Andrews

  But I had too much on my plate—including Lark. Whose diapers wouldn’t change themselves.

  I was about to shove cuckoos, cowbirds, and obligate brood parasitism out of my mind when it occurred to me: cuckoos and cowbirds didn’t just fly away after laying their eggs. They stayed around to keep an eye on the birds they’d drafted as foster parents.

  Wouldn’t Lark’s mother make at least some effort to spy on us? Just to make sure her baby was in good hands? Mother or father or whoever had left her, but somehow I had a feeling it was the mother.

  I pulled out my phone and called Randall Shiffley, who in addition to being Caerphilly’s Mayor and County Manager was unofficial head of the Shiffley clan.

  “So I have an idea,” I said, after we’d exchanged greetings. “You know those family trackers you and Vern organized to look for the fugitive from Clay County?”

  “Most of them are now focusing more on looking for whoever left that baby at your church,” Randall said. “Which could be pretty useless. If we wanted to catch this Caverly guy, at least we’d have a chance—after all, we have a description of him and a driver’s license photo. All we know about whoever left the baby is that he or she isn’t carrying an infant. Lot of tourists fit that description.”

  “I thought the goal wasn’t so much to catch Caverly as to help him get arrested someplace other than Clay County.”

  “More than ever, since we’re starting to suspect that the poor guy’s a fall guy rather than a killer,” Randall said. “Rumor has it that the guy who was killed—Lucius Plunket—was either trying to horn in on the Dingles’ moonshine business or planning to rat them out to the ATF.”

  “Moonshine business?” I echoed. “Is that still a thing or have the Dingles just not noticed that it’s the twenty-first century?”

  “It’s very much still a thing, and not just with the Dingles. Of course, these days the small family moonshiners are kind of dying off. There’s a craft distilling movement growing up, and distilling’s legal in some states—though still illegal as far as the Feds are concerned. But there’s also a growing problem with the old-fashioned moonshiners getting run out of business by the new wave of big operations run by hardcore criminals. And it’s not a harmless family operation anymore—the same people are usually involved in drugs, and whatever else enterprising thugs find it profitable to buy and sell.”

  “You seem remarkably knowledgeable about modern moonshine operations.”

  “Not from the moonshiner’s perspective, if that’s what you’re worried about.” He chuckled. “And not usually from the consumer’s perspective. Though I do have a great uncle who has been known to bring some mighty fine sippin’ whiskey to family gatherings. We don’t ask if he makes it himself, and he certainly isn’t going to tell us.”

  “But does he bring it in those earthenware jugs you always see in the movies?”

  “No, he brings it in cobalt blue bottles,” Randall said. “He thinks something about the blue glass improves the flavor. Got the whole family saving blue bottles for him—mostly from fancy bottled water like Tŷ Nant and Saratoga Springs. But he doesn’t sell his whiskey—only shares it with family. So even though it’s technically illegal to distill it, no one’s about to turn him in.”

  “Besides, you don’t know for sure he’s making the stuff,” I said. “For all you know, he could be passing himself off as a big bold bootlegger when all he’s doing is buying some kind of alcohol, steeping a few herbs in it, and pretending it’s moonshine.”

  “I like the way you think,” he said. “If I’m ever in the embarrassing position of having to take official notice of Uncle Hiram’s blue bottles, I will swear up and down that that’s what I thought was happening.”

  “Getting back to those trackers,” I said. “Something Grandfather said gave me an idea.” I explained about cuckoos and cowbirds being obligate brood parasites, and engaging in mafia retaliatory behavior to make sure the hosts didn’t attack the alien eggs.

  “You worried that whoever dumped the baby’s going to go after Josh and Jamie if they don’t like the way you’re treating their kid?”

  “No, but if I were her I’d probably want to check in on the kid. Not sure I could leave town without doing that. So if you could get a few of the trackers in place where they could observe our house—”

  “Brilliant idea! I’ll go make it happen, and I’ll let you know when they’re all in place.”

  “Won’t I probably see them arriving?”

  “We don’t want to alert the baby’s mama if she’s already someplace spying on you. I’m going to tell them to approach through the woods and make sure they’re not spotted by anyone. So if you do see any of them arriving, you tell me who, so I can give them some remedial skulking lessons.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter 10

  I spent the next several hours happily getting things done. I set up a little temporary bedroom for Lark in the sitting room portion of Michael’s and my bedroom. I put the baby bottles through the dishwasher and set aside a space for them on the counter, right between the refrigerator and the microwave. I texted Dad to find out what kind of baby formula he recommended, and then texted Michael a request that he bring home a supply of that, along with a package of suitably sized diapers.

  Randall texted me within half an hour of our conversation to let me know that his cousins had arrived and taken up their observation posts around the house. I peered out of various windows from time to time, but never spotted anyone lurking. Unless one of them had disguised himself as a sheep to infiltrate our backyard. Always possible, but I was pretty sure the sheep was a real sheep, escaped from our neighbor Seth Early’s pasture across the road to partake of the theoretically greener grass to be found wherever Michael and the boys had shoveled a path through the snow. It was certainly producing authentic-looking sheep droppings.

  Dad showed up at around 5:00 P.M., so I fed him and Grandfather—and myself—by heating up a batch of lasagna Michael had made earlier in the day. Grandfather was full of new information about brood parasitism in insects and fish. I might have enjoyed my dinner more if it hadn’t been accompanied by discussions of mouthbrooding cichlid fish, kleptoparasitism, and myrmecophiles, but at least it was an improvement over the autopsies and rare diseases that Dad so often considered suitable dinnertime conversation.

  They eventually departed, still chatting excitedly about nest usurpation in the cuckoo bumblebee. Michael called to report that he and the boys had at least another hour of shopping, and then would I mind if he took them to one of the movies on their must-see list. Since our eleven-year-old boys’ must-see list usually looked a lot like my hell-no list, I didn’t mind at all. I made a fire in the living room, settled Lark in the portable crib nearby, put on a playlist of soothing carols, and got to work on wrapping presents. Starting, of course, with the presents for Michael and the boys, since this could be my last chance to wrap without them underfoot. In fact, probably my last chance to do anything without two dozen family members underfoot.

  The dogs dozed nearby—Tinkerbell, Rob’s mellow Irish wolfhound, and Spike, aka the Small Evil One, our own deceptively cute eight-and-a-half-pound fur ball. Spike had made himself the boys’ designated bodyguard from the first moment he’d seen them, and I was hoping he’d adopt the same protective attitude toward Lark. But I wasn’t taking any chances yet. For now, he could supervise her well-being from the floor.

  When I’d wrapped all of Michael’s and the boys’ presents, I decided to take a break. I made myself a cup of hot herbal tea, grabbed a couple of Christmas cookies, and settled back on the sofa by the fire. Spike, always on the lookout for an opportunity to sample forbidden food, joined me on the couch and kept me under close observation until I’d scoffed the last crumb. Then he shrugged and curled up to go to sleep.

  The doorbell rang. I reluctantly heaved myself off the sofa and answered the door.

  “Hey, Meg.” Horace. Still in his deputy’s uniform, so eit
her he was still on duty or had only just gotten off. And from the layers of snow-flecked wraps he shed in our foyer, the temperature was still dropping. “Sorry to bother you, but things were pretty chaotic before, and after you left I thought of a couple of things I should have done to help us identify Lark.”

  “Okay,” I said. “What kind of things?”

  “I want to get foot impressions,” he said. “Most hospitals take those. They don’t put them into a central database or anything, so they’re of limited use for identifying an unknown infant, but if we hear of a missing infant who matches Lark’s description, we might be able to confirm or eliminate the match with a footprint.”

  “Why footprints instead of fingerprints?” I asked.

  “Babies’ fingers are amazingly hard to read because they’re so tiny. Footprints are a lot easier.”

  He had opened his kit, and I watched as he took impressions of both of Lark’s feet. He examined each resulting print minutely, then filled out all the identification fields and tucked them back in his kit.

  “Anything else?” I asked, as I watched him cleaning the ink off Lark’s feet with baby wipes, to her giggling delight.

  “Yeah. I want to do serology.”

  “Serology?” It took me a second. “That’s blood typing, right? You want to take her blood? She won’t like that.”

  “Yeah, I know. But we could use it for identification purposes. Determining blood type is a lot easier than running DNA. Quicker. And cheaper. It’ll be quick.”

  I nodded, and he took out another of his little kits. I took a few steps away from the crib. I couldn’t see what was going on—but more important, Lark couldn’t see me. If drawing blood traumatized her, I wanted her to hate Horace, not me.

  But Horace was good—he managed to get his sample with only a brief, startled squawk from Lark. I hurried over to comfort her while Horace packed the sample away in his bag.

  “So this will help sort out the paternity issue?”

  “It might. Of course, it mostly gives us probabilities, not certainties, but it could save us from running expensive DNA tests on people who are statistically unlikely to be the father. It’ll be a whole lot more useful if we find the mother, but I’m not holding my breath on that.”

  Just then his stomach growled.

  “If you haven’t eaten, there’s lasagna in the fridge,” I said.

  “I’d love some,” he said.

  He followed me into the kitchen, and I nuked him a plate of the lasagna. While I was doing so, his phone rang, and he was soon deep in a conversation with someone about the technical side of serology and DNA testing. At least that’s what I thought he was talking about. He was throwing around a lot of jargon, and I only understood about every other sentence. I decided to let his fellow criminalist amuse him while he ate, and made my way back to the living room.

  I tried to get back into my zen wrapping mood, but the spell was broken. I pulled out my phone, called Delaney, and got her voice mail almost immediately. Rob’s phone rang the customary four times before his voice mail kicked in. I couldn’t think of anything that was likely to calm down Delaney or encourage Rob, so I just hung up. Maybe they were off somewhere sorting things out.

  And maybe if I went to bed elves would show up to wrap the presents.

  I was feeling discouraged. I believed Rob when he said he couldn’t be Lark’s father. With a few exceptions—mainly Samantha, an old girlfriend he’d narrowly escaped marrying shortly after he graduated from law school, and now Delaney—his relationships were remarkable more for their intensity than their longevity. When he was besotted with one woman, he hardly noticed anyone else. And given how over the moon he’d been about Delaney right from the start—yeah. I believed him.

  But could we convince Delaney? I leaned back to give the matter some thought. Thought quickly morphed into something more closely resembling a nap.

  The doorbell rang again. I considered ignoring it. Maybe Horace would answer it, if he heard it. I was much too comfortable by the fire, and if I got up, I’d not only awaken Lark, who had fallen asleep in my lap, I’d also disturb Spike, perched on the sofa beside me, and Tinkerbell, asleep at my feet—or at least between my feet and the fire. I suspected the fire was the real attraction. Still, she made a good foot warmer and—

  The doorbell rang again. I realized the dogs were looking at me expectantly and a little puzzled. I wasn’t exhibiting the proper, predictable, Pavlovian response a human is supposed to make to a ringing doorbell.

  I sighed and got up. As I set Lark gently in the portable crib, the dogs, reassured that all was right with the world, bounded into the hallway to bark at the door.

  The doorbell rang a third time, sending both dogs into frenzies of excitement.

  “Coming.” Not that the impatient person outside could hear me through our massive front door. I flung it open to see Meredith Flugleman standing just outside, frowning at her wristwatch.

  “There you are,” she said. “I hope I’m not interrupting anything. I was beginning to wonder if your doorbell actually worked.”

  “I was at the other end of the house.” I decided that was less rude than saying, “When I heard the doorbell, I was afraid it would be someone I had no desire to see—and look! I was right.”

  “I brought Mrs. Peters.” She stepped aside and gestured to a woman who’d been standing behind her. From the gesture, and her tone, one would assume Mrs. Peters was a fabulous personage whose mere arrival at my door should fill me with delight.

  “Just Valerie,” Mrs. Peters said. She was tiny—maybe five two—and almost painfully thin. Her pale, thin face was spotted with acne, and the end of her nose was red, suggesting she might be suffering from a cold. A few strands of light brown hair escaped from the brown knit hat she wore pulled down over her forehead. Her narrow shoulders were hunched, and her hands jammed in the pockets of a well-worn brown quilted jacket. At first, I’d have taken her for a fourteen-year-old, but on closer inspection I realized that in spite of her waif-like look she was at least in her twenties. Maybe even her thirties.

  “Come in.” I hoped it sounded sufficiently gracious. I stepped aside. Meredith tripped briskly inside and began methodically shedding her wraps and donning her little crocheted slippers. After looking up at the porch ceiling for a second, Valerie shrugged and followed her in. She made no motion to shed anything, and she didn’t do a very good job at wiping her feet.

  “What can I do for you?” I asked.

  “This is Mrs. Peters,” Meredith said, as if that explained it all. And then, when I didn’t react. “The mother of the missing baby. From Suffolk. As soon as I heard about her missing daughter, I got in touch, and then I brought her up here so she can see if the baby you found is her daughter.”

  “Oh, right—I don’t think anyone actually told me her name. Welcome.”

  Mrs. Peters—Valerie—didn’t seem to have heard me. She was studying our front hall. Which I had to admit was worth studying. As usual, Mother had taken charge of putting up our Christmas decorations, and she’d outdone herself. She’d gone in for a traditional red, green, and gold color scheme and a “Twelve Days of Christmas” theme. Each of the twelve days was represented by a mobile made of gold tinsel, and each mobile fluttered in the gentle breeze of several little hidden fans. The partridge in the pear tree was nice. The two golden turtledoves circling each other were adorable. Each mobile was larger and more intricate than the last, and by the time she’d finished off with the asymmetrical three-level twelve drummers drumming, the entire upper portion of the hall was one shimmering mass of gold. Both of the tall, narrow (space-saving) trees were trimmed in red and gold, and the walls were decked with garlands of evergreen interwoven with gold tinsel, decked with a basketball-sized red velvet bow every few feet. When you added in the poinsettias, the Christmas cacti, the shiny golden bowls of cinnamon and spruce potpourri, the gold-painted nativity scene … it looked as if King Midas had come to spend the Yuletide with us.


  Most people stared around, open-mouthed with wonder. Or exclaimed how lovely it all was. Valerie had a rather vague, sleepy expression, and her eyes wandered over the decorations as if she either didn’t quite see them or couldn’t be bothered.

  “In here, Mrs. Peters.” Meredith’s voice had a bit of an edge to it, as if it had been a rather long and trying ride up from Suffolk.

  Clearly I was not having a positive first reaction to Valerie Peters. Could she possibly be beautiful little Lark’s mother? I glanced down at Spike, who was glaring at both of the new arrivals. The more mellow Tinkerbell had already ambled back into the living room.

  Valerie stopped staring at the decorations. She pulled her hands out of her coat pockets. I realized she was holding a pack of cigarettes in one and a lighter in the other.

  “If you need to smoke, could you do it on the porch?” I asked. “My husband’s allergic.”

  Actually, Michael wasn’t technically allergic. He just loathed cigarette smoke. As did I. Not to mention the fact that we didn’t want the boys exposed to the fumes. What kind of mother was she, anyway?