No Good Deed

by Lynn Hightower

  ‘I’m sorry,’ Sam said. ‘We’re in the wrong room.’

  ‘We’re reading Jemima Puddleduck.’ This from the older child, a thin girl, who had the air of being tall for her age. Her eyes were close together, and she wore glasses and a worried look. Her nose was a little large, her chin pointed, and her face held a haunted look of uncertainty that looked habitual. The smallest, Kippie, was cute in the way of kittens, but it was the elder girl that Sonora wanted to gather up and hug.

  Mary Claire bit her bottom lip. ‘Are you going to find my sister?’

  ‘That’s why we’re here,’ Sonora said. She did not want to lie, she did not want to raise false hopes, and she wanted to make it all better. ‘You don’t have any idea where Joelle is, do you?’ She felt, rather than saw, Chauncey going tense behind her in the short, tight hallway.

  ‘No, ma’am.’ Mary Claire’s voice was soft and low. Kippie grabbed her hand and watched them with button brown eyes, and Sonora knew that they would not get a word out of this one.

  ‘We’ll let you get back to your book.’ She backed into the hallway. Heard Mary Claire say ‘Poppie’ in a small voice.

  ‘Be right back,’ Chauncey told her. He moved ahead of Sam, opened the door to Joelle’s tiny bedroom, shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, it’s a terrible mess.’ He spoke in a stage whisper, so his voice would not carry through the thin door of the next bedroom where the girls were looking at pictures of Jemima Puddleduck.

  Sonora hated it when people whispered.

  Renquist hung his head out of the kitchen. ‘Mr Chauncey, can I make you a fresh pot of coffee?’

  Chauncey shook his head. ‘I’m fine, really.’

  Wasn’t going to budge, Sonora thought.

  ‘Would you mind, then, if I made a new pot for the detectives?’

  It was the first time Sonora had seen Chauncey look irritable. ‘Go on ahead, just help yourself.’

  ‘I know you showed me where the filters were, but—’

  ‘Be right back.’ Chauncey headed back to the kitchen, moving quickly with his peculiar walk that hinted of a limp barely suppressed.

  Sonora smiled to herself. Renquist really was good. Sam closed the door behind them.

  The bedroom was compact, messy – the middle of the floor clearly reserved for discarded clothing and school books. The closet door bulged outward along the bottom, something red stuffed under the crack next to the floor. Bookshelves ran along all sides of the walls and there were enough partially full glasses of milk to make Sonora doubt there would be anything left to drink out of in the kitchen. On the windowsill, a bean plant grew gloriously out of a Burger King cup.

  It was clearly the Year of the Horse and Brad Pitt – with posters of both crowding the walls for space. Men and horses. Sonora could relate.

  The kid was still into Disney. Mickey Mouse phone, Snow White figurines, and an Aladdin pencil box.

  Sonora stayed in the doorway, blocking Sam, taking it all in. The room was dusty and ill kept, a depressing place to be for hours and hours a day. She did not get a happy feel here. What fifteen-year-old is happy? she wondered.

  ‘You letting me in?’ Sam nudged her gently, moving her to one side. Hands on her shoulder, a quick squeeze, strong fingers.

  Sonora thought of McCarty, who would probably turn out to be some kind of sociopath – swelling the ranks of the demented and the cute.

  Mind back on the here and now. ‘I’ll take the dresser and the desk, Sam. You get the shelves.’

  He groaned. ‘This looks like Annie’s room.’

  ‘Heather and Tim are worse.’

  ‘I’ve seen your house, Sonora. No contest.’

  There was makeup on the dresser – blue eyeshadow, L’Oréal, Cover Girl lipstick, mascara from Maybelline. All of it old and crusty, as if Joelle tried it once or twice and let it be. Fifteen years old. Experimenting.

  Sonora’s head was hurting.

  The top dresser drawer jammed when she opened it, and she yanked it hard. It was stuffed full – tights and pantyhose snarled around cheap beaded necklaces and faux gold chains. A white leather belt was intertwined with an Indian headband, complete with crumpled feathers – the kind of thing you got in roadside souvenir shops. A headless Barbie doll from bygone days, cassette tapes of the Cranberries, Smashing Pumpkins, and a couple of groups Sonora’s children would likely recognize. The soundtrack from Babe.

  The second drawer held school papers, and worn, twisted bras, size 34A. The other drawers were almost empty, with the exception of a hunter-green sweatshirt that said Indian Hill Headhunters in the bottom drawer. Sonora laughed under her breath. Empty drawers in the dresser. All her clothes on the floor.

  She went to the desk, the surface crowded with books and an open statement from Community Trust. Sonora learned that Joelle Chauncey had eight dollars and thirty-seven cents in savings.

  In the back of her mind were her own kids, Tim and Heather, with rooms much too much like this one.

  Tim had about a year on Joelle, and on the rare occasions when she was in his room – usually when there were no more glasses or spoons left in the kitchen and she’d gone after his mold-encrusted collection – she’d seen the same disturbing mix. A bumper sticker touting the joys of the latest street drug (defiance from the son of a cop) alongside a pair of chopsticks from a dinner out. A plastic yellow duck and a sign that said Start A Movement, Eat A Prune. And in a pile on the floor, three dirty pairs of socially correct bluejeans three sizes too big.

  Was Joelle Chauncey allowed to buy socially correct bluejeans? Or had Dixon Chauncey insisted on building character and ignoring teenage insecurities and snobberies and buying what was on sale?

  Sonora sat at the desk and opened the drawers, hearing Sam moving things on and off the shelves, shifting the mattress on the bed. It was comfortable, having him in the room with her, knowing him so well that she could predict his movements with her back turned.

  The desk drawer held magazines, Seventeen and Sassy, well read, judging by the rings of Coke, folds and wrinkles. A catalog from Delia’s: She shut the drawer, but it would not close, hitting something along the back.

  In her experience, teenagers were elusive and secretive creatures – especially living in close quarters with too much family in a trailer home.

  For a teenager, any family was too much.

  Sonora pulled the center drawer out of its slot and fingered the inner recess of the desk.

  Paper – an envelope. She pulled and it stuck, then peeled away.

  ‘She’s got something taped to the back of the desk.’ Sonora looked at Sam’s back. He turned, brushed brown hair back out of his eyes with a familiar gesture that was curiously adolescent, crossed the room to take a look.

  The envelope was addressed to End Point Farm, and had been wadded, then smoothed. Sonora pictured Joelle removing it from the trash in Donna Delaney’s office.

  It was thick. She pulled out a sheaf of magazine and newspaper clippings, flipped through, scanning the headlines.

  ‘Adoptive Son Finds Birth Mother In Homeless Shelter.’ … ‘Girl Finds Sister She Never Knew She Had’ … a National Enquirer article called ‘The Search’. ‘Should You Look.’ … ‘A Mother’s Search’ … ‘Adoption. What Happens To Your Child?’ … ‘Who Am I?’, Seventeen magazine.

  Banded together with the articles was a stack of the kind of cards that come in the mail with advertisements, a coupon for an oil change on one side, the face of a missing child on the other. A big stack, maybe a hundred cards, a collection from the gallery of lost souls.

  Sonora felt sweat break out on her temples, and her chest went tight, her stomach in a sudden flutter.

  Sam tapped the Enquirer article. ‘Annie went through a phase like this when she was five maybe, or six. Every night when Shelly helped her wash her hair she’d say, “Tell me the truth, Mommy, I’m adopted, aren’t I?” Did Heather … Sonora? You okay?’

  She put her head in her hands. It had hit this way befo
re, dealing with kids in situations like this one.

  Sam rubbed the back of her neck, waiting her out. ‘Take deep breaths.’ He knew just to leave her alone.

  Chapter Eleven

  Outside the trailer, Sam and Sonora were met with cold air, the strobe lights of an ambulance, and Helen’s voice, shrill, carrying in the darkness as they scrambled over the fence and headed for the circus.

  ‘I am not in labor, I am not going anywhere in an ambulance, and I am not going home.’

  As Sonora got closer she could see that Helen was crying, tears of rage, and Ernie and Bella were much too excited, running in circles around Helen and Officer Carl.

  The blades of the chopper were fading. Was he circling or leaving? Sonora wondered. Joelle was still not found.

  Helen caught sight of Sonora. ‘She had the scent. She had it.’

  Carl folded his arms. ‘She lost it, Helen, admit it. And you’re in labor, for God’s sake.’

  Helen clenched her teeth. ‘Braxton Hicks, you dumb shit, and a lot you know about it.’

  Sonora touched Helen’s arm, motioned her away from the men.

  ‘Take a breath.’

  ‘Sonora—’

  ‘Take a breath, Helen, it’s okay.’

  Helen pushed hair out of her eyes. Leaned against the fence.

  ‘Are you in labor?’ Sonora asked.

  ‘Shit, I don’t know, I don’t think so.’

  ‘I went to the hospital three times with Heather before she finally came.’

  Helen took off her jacket. ‘It’s hot, goddammit.’

  Sonora, shivering so much her voice shook, tried not to smile.

  ‘I’ve been having these fucking contractions since September, but they don’t hurt, so they’re not the goods.’

  ‘When are you due?’

  ‘Late in December. After Christmas.’

  ‘What happened with the dog?’

  ‘We had the scent, Sonora, Bella was going strong. She got a little confused out on the road, that’s all, then Officer Carl—’

  Sonora waited. Looked at Helen. ‘Not so painless?’

  ‘Not too bad.’

  ‘Look, Helen, your baby’s not due for two months. Get off your feet, and don’t push this.’

  ‘It’s cold out, Sonora, for normal people who don’t have a thousand hormones slogging through their bods. This girl could die of exposure tonight.’

  ‘We’ve got the chopper,’ Sonora said. Life was full of hard calls.

  Helen grabbed her wrist. ‘Look, I’m going home a while, put my feet up. Give it a couple to three hours. You meet me back out here daylight, I’m taking Bella out again. And we’ll leave that asshole Carl behind. We got a deal?’

  Sonora nodded. ‘Provided you don’t have that baby tonight.’

  Chapter Twelve

  Sonora was soaking in a tepid bubble bath when the call came in.

  She had the CD player sitting on the back of the toilet and was listening to Janis Joplin sing ‘Piece Of My Heart’, thinking BoyZ II Men might have been more restful in her present frame of mind. She was craving a cold Corona, but had nixed the idea because one, she didn’t have any, and two, a beer would have made her sleepy enough to drown in the tub.

  The bubble bath, a Mother’s Day gift from Heather, was a big success – a mango—pineapple blend that produced firm, prolific bubbles. Sonora turned the hot water on full blast to warm up.

  She had maybe a half-hour left to sleep or loll in the tub before pretending to get the kids ready for school – wandering around sleepily while they did what they had to do.

  The phone kept ringing. She couldn’t think of anybody she wanted to talk to. She was getting too old for this up-all-night shit.

  Sonora reached through a crest of white foam to grab the cordless phone. Janis segued over to ‘Summertime’.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Blair? Sergeant Crick.’ He paused. ‘Is that Janis Joplin?’

  ‘Yeah.’

  ‘Turn it down.’

  Sonora reached out and killed the music. She shivered, sank back down in the water.

  ‘It’s five-thirty a.m., sir.’

  ‘If I want to know the time, Blair, there’s a number I can call. You sound like you’re down in a well.’

  ‘I’m taking a bubble bath, sir.’

  ‘Spare me the details of your personal life, Detective, and dry off the rubber ducky.’

  Sonora sat up. ‘They found the kid.’

  ‘No. But there’s—’

  ‘Guy with the chopper still out?’

  ‘They’ve called him in twice, man won’t go home. Says he’s got a stepson the same age.’

  Everyone was a parent, under the skin.

  ‘Sonora, pay attention. There’s been an … incident.’

  Another one of the Chauncey children? Why was she so worried about them?

  ‘An assault.’

  Sonora stood up, reached for a towel. Water sluiced down her skin. Her thick bath towel, navy blue and oversized, was missing. She grabbed the thin beach towel with the mermaid on it. She should have more towels. If she ever got rich, she would fill two closets with thick cotton towels, and washrags to match, more washrags than the kids could use in a month.

  With her kids, that would be a lot of washrags.

  ‘Blair? You with me here?’

  ‘Yes, sir, I’m with you. What kind of incident? Who’s the vic?’

  ‘Donna Delaney.’

  He’d said assault. ‘How bad?’

  ‘Bad. Call just came through from Dispatch. Emergency Med Techs have her en route to Jewish.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘Nobody’s sure. If I’ve got it straight … way I understand it, she was in her living room all night, doing paperwork, fell asleep on the couch. Woke up this morning to find her left hand bandaged and her right index finger gone.’

  Sonora tucked the towel under her right arm. ‘What do you mean, gone?’

  ‘I mean somebody amputated the finger.’

  ‘Cut it off?’

  ‘That’s what amputated means, Blair.’

  ‘While she was asleep? How is that possible?’

  ‘That’s what we pay you for. EMT said it was a clean job, but she’s in shock. You can hit the hospital later, see what the doctor says. Right now I want you to get over to her house and see what the hell’s going on. This can’t be a coincidence, coming on top of that missing kid.’

  ‘No kidding. Sir.’

  ‘Put some clothes on.’ He hung up before she did.

  Sonora clicked the phone off and grabbed her robe, hanging from a brass hook on the back of the door. Her teeth chattered. She felt cold from the inside out. She belted the robe, shoulders hunched together.

  She patted Clampett, the world’s best dog, sound asleep outside the bathroom door. He opened and closed his eyes, snorting sleepily. He looked exhausted. Sonora peeped in at the kids, arms folded, her feet making wet prints on the carpet.

  The hell with white shirts and ties. She was freezing. She was going to layer herself in two sweaters, at least.

  She wondered what they had done with the finger.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Sonora wore jeans – they’d been black once, were now charcoal, more formal than plain blue denim. Crick wouldn’t like it, but she wasn’t going to risk the khakis out on the farm looking for Joelle Chauncey. She found her favorite oversized white shirt – Abercrombie & Fitch, after-Christmas sale, she told everyone, though she’d actually paid full price. She had a thing about white cotton shirts, but only if they were perfect.

  She paused in front of the mirror, glanced over her shoulder at the bed, debated whether or not to curl up, just for a minute. She had pulled the new bedspread down, fluffed the pillows and laid her favorite quilt out so that she could go straight from the bubble bath to a warm bed.

  Clampett padded past her, jumped to the bed and curled up in the center, resting his nose on the quilt.

  �
�What are you doing, dog?’

  His snuggled deeper into the quilt, tail wagging.

  Sonora wondered why people made jokes about a dog’s life.

  She went through her ties and found one that had fallen down behind the lingerie bag, God knew when. She’d forgotten she had it. Hunter-green print with just a touch of red. It was still knotted from way back when some boyfriend or another had done it for her. Some day she’d have to learn to do it for herself. She tried to learn one good skill from every man she dated.

  Sonora tweaked the bottom flap of the tie, left the knot loose and comfortable. Pulled the sides of her hair back with a velvet clip and smeared the eye pencil under her eyes a little so Crick would see how tired she was and not complain about the jeans.

  She grabbed a black sweatshirt and a zip cotton jacket that she’d stolen from the last guy who had asked her to marry him. He’d died soon after, caught in the crossfire of a case Sonora tried not to dream about. Bad timing all around. The relationship was coming to an angry end – a month later and he would not have been a target.

  She had been so furious with him.

  She could look back now with a certain regret – his hats, his wardrobe, his assumption that he was the center of the universe. But he had not been particularly nice to her children, the cardinal sin, for a single mother. He had not realized what a privilege it was to be accepted into the fold. She wouldn’t waste time feeling bad.

  She wondered what happened to his clothes. He’d had some kick-ass jackets.

  She headed for the kitchen. Food had not magically appeared. There was plenty of dog food for Clampett, but next to nothing for the kids. Leftover macaroni and cheese for breakfast? No milk, no cereal, the bread was moldy so it wouldn’t work out, even toasted with blackberry jelly, which for some reason she had in spades – three unopened jars.

  She tapped her finger on the counter top. She needed to get to Delaney’s place, and she needed to meet Helen at the farm to look for Joelle. Two places at once.

  But the kids had to be fed. And you couldn’t send out for breakfast in the morning like it was pizza, and besides, she didn’t have any cash.

  Motherhood first.