by Pamela Tracy
The car hit a slippery patch. Heather’s fingers gripped the steering wheel, and she asked, “Where did your mom work?”
“She was a librarian,” Tom quickly continued, “and my dad was a plumber. Freaked them out a bit when I decided to go into law enforcement.”
“They worried.”
“Still do, even though they’re safe in Florida and tell me how glad they are that I’m here, where there’s so little crime compared to their town, where there’s a lot more.”
“I loved the library. My mom, if she only had six or seven kids under her care, would take us there. We’d go for story hour. Sometimes they’d have puppet shows.”
“Sounds like your mom was the best kind of childcare provider.”
“She was. Most of the time we had a waiting list. I can remember parents coming to the door and begging her to take on one more kid. Their kid. She always said that eight was her limit. Which, of course, was why they wanted her. She made the kids her family, spent time not only teaching them, but also loving them.”
“She sounds like a wonderful woman.”
“A wonderful woman and an even better mom.” Heather’s voice broke a little. “It makes sense that she ran a childcare business at home. She must have learned from Renate. She continued doing what she’d always done, only under a different name.”
“And we have to find out why the different name,” Tom said.
He couldn’t miss Heather’s smile when he’d said we.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
SPRINGER HADN’T CHANGED since the last time Tom visited. The clouds lifted a bit as Heather drove down the center of town. Only a few cars were parked in front of businesses. No one walked the sidewalks.
“Where to now?” Heather asked.
Tom had to wait until she was right up to the streets in order to read their names. Renate lived on the third crossroad. Hers was the fifth house in. Heather pulled into a driveway that had seen better days, but the lawn was lush and someone had a green thumb.
“Wish I had an umbrella,” Heather muttered.
“I can go knock and see if Renate has one,” Tom offered.
“No, a little rain never hurt anything.” She followed him out of the car, hurrying up the three steps that led to the porch. He moved her so she was in front of him, his body shielding hers from the rain, and he knocked. The motion sent her leaning into him, and when she tried to move away, there wasn’t room.
She felt good. Too good. The top of her head brushed against his chin. He had to force himself not to wrap his arms around her, circle her with his body and keep her safe.
Serve and protect.
Never had he enjoyed his job more.
Bianca had asked if he could forget that she was related to Rachel. Yes, he could. No doubt.
The door opened, and a woman with wild red hair and a bright purple outfit beckoned them in. “I wasn’t sure you’d still come,” she said, handing them both towels.
“We were partway here when the heavy rain started,” Tom told her.
Ten minutes later, Tom and Heather sipped tea and politely ate cookies. Tom sat alone on an armchair, observing. The living room was mostly brown and orange, full of knickknacks, mostly cats, which had given them a few minutes of small talk while Heather described Tom’s cat. The environment was tense, more on Renate’s part than Heather’s, which was somewhat surprising. To lighten the mood, Tom compared Renate’s cookies to the ones sold at Sarasota Sweets.
“My husband always did say I should have started a bakery,” Renate said before sitting down next to Heather on the couch. “It might have made things easier.”
Tom noted how the woman reached over to pat Heather on the knee and how she couldn’t seem to look away, even when he tried to join the conversation. Slowly, she put on her glasses and started looking at Heather’s childhood photograph album.
“Oh,” she said, with a sad smile. “That’s the Gillespie girl. I remember this photo. She’s in the military now. And, that’s...” She went on for a few minutes identifying people.
“I think,” Heather interrupted, “that you watched me when I was really young.”
“Heather...” Renate said slowly, but there were no questions in her eyes, no denial on her lips.
“My parents died recently. They were Sarah Lewis and Raymond Tillsbury.”
“I’m so sorry,” Renate said. “That’s terrible. Terrible. Sarah was—was an awesome girl who grew into an incredible woman.”
“All these photos,” Heather said, laying five on the coffee table, “are from when I was under two. Bianca recognized your living room. What happened? How did I go from here—” she pointed to a photo of a little girl sitting on the floor holding a stuffed animal in her lap, a smudge of something on her sad face “—to this?” she asked, opening the album to a random page with a photo taken at an outdoor carnival. The smudge had turned into full ice-cream face and a big smile.”
“I can only answer the first question,” Renate confessed. “It is my living room. Are you sure you’re the little girl?” She hid her emotions well, but he thought he saw her blink a few times and not the I’m-about-to-cry kind of blink.
Oh, yeah, she knew something and it was tearing her apart.
“Yes.” Heather tapped the two pictures. “I’m sure both of them are me.”
“Could you possibly be related to—” Renate began.
“No, all of them are me, age two and above. We—” she shot a look at Tom “—want to know how I wound up with Sarah and Raymond. What my real name is. No one seems to know. I’m sure it’s me. One hundred percent.”
“You’ll need to excuse me.” Renate closed the album as if she didn’t want it open and accusing. Then she disappeared into the kitchen and a moment later, it was obvious she was on the phone arguing with someone.
Tom stood, went to the door and tried to hear her words, but outside a storm was raging and thunder overshadowed everything else. Annoyed, he returned to Heather. “I can make out a few words, but none that I can put together into anything that makes sense.”
“Who do you think she’s called?”
“Well, she said her husband was at the church at a meeting. She probably called him.”
“I’m a little scared,” Heather confessed. “What if I don’t like what I find out.”
Tom put his hand on hers. “At the very least, from Renate we should get more verification that Diane was your mother. No surprise there. Maybe, if we’re really lucky, she’ll know that Raymond Tillsbury was your biological father.”
“I can live with that. I can.”
“Me, too.” When she looked at him sharply, he added, “It’s the best scenario.”
To Tom’s amazement, Renate returned with a banker’s box. Before he could do more than gape, she explained, “I learned early on to keep good records.”
“Why don’t you use a computer?” Heather asked.
“When I started, I didn’t own a computer. It wasn’t until my youngest daughter hit high school that we bought one. By the time I got comfortable with it, I was done doing childcare.”
Renate started going through files.
“You know where to start?” Tom queried.
“Sure, the Gillespie girl is about five there. She went to kindergarten with my sister’s boy. That gives me a good idea of the age. My files are organized by years. Here are the files I’m looking for, and here are the kids who were in my care.”
She pulled out what seemed like an application. Paper-clipped to that was a sheet of notes. Attached to each one was a photo. Renate started with the first, even supplying a few comments.
“Maria Gillespie, well-behaved, helper, hates green peas. She,” Renate said, pointing to a photo that included a very young Heather, “is holding the mirror
that Heidi is staring into.”
“My kind of girl,” Tom remarked. Heidi?
Renate read a few more names, identifying one of the other children, and then she paused for a moment. “I can’t tell you how many times I moved this file, sometimes putting it in the safe, sometimes in the trash can. I always put it back. I’m not dishonest. I’ve never done anything that made me ashamed to own up to it.”
She put some papers on the coffee table in front of Heather. Tom moved over, nudged Heather aside and took a seat beside her. He peered over her shoulder as she read. It was Diane Ramsey’s agreement with Renate, probably, most definitely, written in Diane’s loopy scrawl. Tom took out his phone and asked, “May I take a photo of this?”
Renate nodded.
Tom knew he’d probably have the original within twenty-four hours, but he didn’t want to wait that long to compare handwriting.
The one-page document gave Renate permission to watch Heidi Ramsey, age twenty-two months. It listed no allergies or special needs. Diane had agreed to Renate’s childcare hours and the cost of childcare.
Renate traced her finger over the photo of Heidi. “I didn’t babysit her—you—for long. It was hard watching you, so hard.”
“Why do you say that?” Tom looked at Heather. Her face was scrunched, her hands clenched. She had to be feeling what he felt. No doubt, no doubt at all now.
“Look here at what I wrote. Heidi Ramsey, not potty-trained, few words, always hungry, loves pancakes, comes dirty, picked up late.” Renate looked up. “I called social services twice. They didn’t investigate because there were no sure signs of abuse.”
“But you were concerned?” Heather asked.
Tom was impressed. It had to be uncomfortable, hearing someone talk about her, under a different name and under dire circumstances.
“I was very concerned. I knew the markers for a two-year-old. You didn’t meet any of them. And, oh, did you love being hugged. It was like you knew that my house was the only place you’d be hugged, so you were going to get it while you could.”
Tom made up his mind right then to hug Heather often, every chance he got, just as soon as she’d let him.
Renate continued. “I figured out quickly that you were smart. If I remember, after just two months with me, you were talking up a storm, at least a two-year-old storm. Sarah would give you a bath almost every day. Sometimes I’d find her crying because she’d found a bruise, and we couldn’t quite tell if it was a I-bumped-into-a-table kind of bruise or a someone-pinched-me kind of bruise. Diane never seemed to notice that she brought us a little girl who was dirty and smelled of urine, and we returned a little girl who was clean and smelled like pancakes.”
“Diane Ramsey really was my mother?” Heather’s words sounded like a statement more than a question.
“You did say you were one hundred percent sure that you were the little girl in the photo all grown up.”
“One hundred percent sure.”
“Did you meet the father?” Tom asked.
“No, but I do remember thinking you sure didn’t look like any Ramsey. Diane, either, for that matter.”
Renate Penny remembered quite a lot, Tom noted. She probably hadn’t needed the files to nudge her memories. In some ways, it was like she’d been waiting for them.
“If Kyle Ramsey wasn’t really Heidi’s father, why was she going under the last name of Ramsey?” Tom asked.
“Guess it was easier that way.”
“But you’d have to file the names of who was under your care with the state, right?”
Renate looked a little guilty. “I didn’t become a licensed childcare provider until a few years later. At first, I only watched family and friends. Then the business grew. You know, Heidi was only the second kid I took on who basically belonged to a stranger.”
“How did you wind up with her?”
“Joe asked me to do it. How do you say no to him?”
“Father Joe?” Tom asked.
“Yes. He had tried to counsel Diane a few times. Nothing took. He was concerned. He even offered to pay me for watching Heidi. Not that I’d let him.”
“Was Diane working?”
“She did something with cars. Not fixing them, but delivering them for her family. I remember she’d take long road trips. Once she showed me a photo of her in an old Model T Ford.”
Tom made a note.
“When did you stop watching me and when did my mother quit?” Heather asked, looking down at the photo of Sarah sitting behind her on that long-ago living room floor. “Because Diane Ramsey certainly didn’t qualify as one, not the way Sarah Lewis had.”
“I can tell you.” Renate reached for another file in the box and quickly ran her finger down the last page inside. “She quit on May ninth. Gave two weeks notice, right after we lost Heidi. I always thought it was because she couldn’t bear getting close to the little ones and then having them go home to their families, especially when the family wasn’t nurturing.”
“You lost Heidi?”
“Diane stopped bringing her. I assumed she realized she couldn’t afford it. Later, someone told me the father, the real father, took custody.”
“Any chance Raymond Tillsbury was the father?” Tom asked. “It would explain how Heather came to be with them.”
“I don’t know. He never came around when I had her. I never saw him with Diane. One time, I know, he chased Kyle Ramsey out of Little’s Grocery Store. He’d been shoplifting.”
“My dad didn’t suffer fools well,” Heather said.
“Was Sarah a good employee?” Tom had his notebook out and was quickly writing down the dates Renate had shared.
“The best. She never missed work and wasn’t squeamish about getting her hands dirty.”
“Where did she go to work afterward?”
“She went off to school out of state. Then I heard she’d gotten married to some guy she met and followed him overseas since he was in the military.”
“That’s the story,” Heather whispered.
“What?” Renate looked confused.
“Did you know that Sarah couldn’t have children?” Heather asked, rather than answering Renate.
“She shared that. I believe that’s why she worked here and maybe that’s why she couldn’t take falling in love with the little ones and then having to say goodbye to them each day when they returned to their parents. She’d have made an awesome mom.”
“She was an awesome mom,” Heather said.
“So,” Tom said, “Sarah worked for you. You knew she couldn’t have children. You also knew that Diane’s husband, Kyle Ramsey, wasn’t the father, and you’re pretty sure that Raymond wasn’t the father, either.”
“Pretty sure,” Renate agreed, looking anything but.
“This means,” Heather said, “that Rachel is my half sister. Did you ever care for her?”
“No,” Renate said, “and I’ve always felt guilty about that. See, one of my policies is—was—if you don’t pay, you don’t stay. Diane owed me two weeks when Heidi stopped attending. She never paid.”
“Renate, this first photo you’ve identified as Heidi. Let me show you a few more photos.” Tom slid the photo of Heidi over in front of Heather. He then put a few new photos next to the baby photo of Rachel. “This is Rachel her junior year and Rachel today.” He tapped the photo of the last child. “Rachel’s daughter, Abigail.”
“Oh, goodness. I didn’t know Rachel had a child. They do all look alike.” She stared at Heather and said, “So, Heidi. It’s good to see you after all these years. And I know you had a good life.”
“How do you know?” Heather asked.
“Sarah Lewis was your mother.”
“I need to know who the father is,” Heather said.
“Why?” Re
nate asked. “Why do you need to know?”
“Because I need to know who I am, all of me.”
“Can’t you just leave it alone?”
“No.”
“Who told you that Sarah and Raymond had gotten married?” Tom asked.
“My brother.” She turned to Heather. “He’s also the one who brought you to me as a toddler. And he’s also the one who confided in me that Sarah and Raymond were raising you. I’ve always known who was taking care of you. When I’d heard you were back, and asking questions, I was so afraid.”
“Afraid of what?” Tom asked.
“Afraid that you’d find out that I helped kidnap that baby.” The voice came from the kitchen doorway.
Father Joe.
CHAPTER TWENTY
WHEN THEY LEFT Renate and Father Joe, it was dark with a fine mist of rain peppering the windshield. The thunder had retreated into heavy gray clouds, which were already disappearing, leaving a blue hue of sky exposed. The weather, like the mystery of Heather’s life, was experiencing a calm after the storm.
“They kidnapped me,” Heather said. “I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.”
“I’m not sure it falls under the true category of kidnapping. If Diane had reported you missing, then yes, but...”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying that while Father Joe and your parents did something illegal by taking you, they didn’t take you by force or endanger you. They did move you interstate, which ups the severity. And, there might be a bit of fraud, but the question of who they defrauded—”
“Who will press charges against them? I certainly won’t.” Heather felt fiercely protective of her parents. She also felt somewhat grateful to Father Joe for having the guts to make a change where a change needed to be made.
“Who doesn’t report their own child missing?” Tom’s voice was a combination of amazement and anger. He didn’t wait but answered the question himself. “Someone who either gains from the child’s disappearance or someone who is afraid to report the disappearance.”