She wondered about her own parentage. What if she and J Bird weren’t related by blood to her father? But they were.
Delia had twenty-seven more days. She balanced on her tiptoes at the edge of her new life, ready to dive into the world of serving deliciousness: croissants, oatmeal bread, and homemade pasta with fresh lemon. The dream of the café with Juniper was within reach.
But there was no one for Hayley, and if there were, Ira would have found them by now. She sank back on her heels.
“I only have this, found in the pocket of one of the male victims. It’s a receipt, cash, unfortunately, for a store in West Hartford.”
“What kind of store does it come from?” Relief entered the picture again.
Ira picked up a copy of the receipt, a photocopy of the crumpled rectangle forming an island on the paper.
Ira held the paper in front of him, stretching his arms out to accommodate his aging eyes. “Artemis Hardware Store. West Hartford, Connecticut.”
“There’s really a hardware store named Artemis?”
“I wouldn’t make that up. Probably a family name.”
Ira handed the paper across the desk. In the upper right-hand corner was stamp that said, South Portland Police Department. The receipt recorded three items: four boxes of Ziploc bags, a flashlight, and eight D batteries. Were they planning on making a lot of sandwiches? Unlikely.
As if he heard her thoughts, he said, “Remember, the police are already suspecting heroin traffic. The location fits the drug pipeline. Heroin dealers are great supporters of plastic baggies.”
Hayley’s photo, taken at the hospital where she stayed the first night, sat on top of the thin file folder. Her brown doe eyes caught a glint of light in the room from an overhead fluorescent light in the hospital. Her hair, still embroiled with a piece of bubble gum on the left side, near the crown, was soft brown.
“They were unable to get a last name from her. When they said, ‘Hayley what? What’s the rest of your name?’ she shrugged and honestly didn’t seem to know. It makes me wonder if her parents had been too busy doing something else, like running heroin, to teach the child her full name. At least there was no answer. She also had no response to the deaths.”
Delia had been at this long enough to resist the urge to make assumptions, to set them aside until the facts rolled in. Ira was normally ready to wait for all the facts too, but something about Hayley brought out a simmering anger that Delia rarely saw in him. The full blast of over identifying with a particular child could hit any of them, at any time.
“Have the police faxed the photo to authorities in West Hartford? Did they take the photo to the hardware store?”
“Yesterday. Nobody remembers the girl. The woman who generally works the cash register at the hardware store thinks she remembers a man buying the Ziploc bags. But he wasn’t someone she knew.”
“What happens next if we can’t find relatives?” asked Delia.
She wasn’t new at this; in fact, she’d been at her job too long. Her personal expiration date had come and gone.
Ira pushed up from his chair, his fifty-something belly, not huge but the size of a soccer ball split in half, had grown since she started her job ten years ago. Juniper reminded her often that ten years was enough.
“You know what happens next. We take her out of the emergency placement and find an extended placement for her.” He grabbed his car keys from the top right drawer. “Come on. We’re going to see if there is something that Hayley can tell us.”
Delia rarely saw Ira interacting with kids anymore. His reward for being a competent, sensitive, exacting caseworker meant that he rose through administration like a hot air balloon. His job was filled with the big picture of fund-raising and dancing around regulations.
Delia caught up with him in the hallway after gathering her dark brown L.L. Bean briefcase.
“Is she in Portland?”
“No, South Portland.”
The parking garage was in the same block as their office. The brief respite of fresh ocean air filled her nose with light salt and fish that had been fried in olive oil along Commercial Street.
They took Ira’s RAV4 Toyota that he and his wife had used to haul their kids to soccer games, music lessons, and camping trips. The last daughter was in college but they held onto the car, the two of them rattling around in the all-wheel drive vehicle. Ira paid for a monthly rate at the parking garage rather than hunting for parking spaces on the street as Delia often did.
They hadn’t teamed up on a case in several years, not since Ira was promoted to director, right about the time that Delia refused a promotion into administration. But here they were, like an old couple reuniting after an amicable divorce, seated next to each other amid the intimacy of the SUV. They left the parking garage, skirted the daydreaming pedestrians along Commercial Street, and crossed the Casco Bay Bridge into South Portland.
They pulled up in front of a ranch house that had been renovated with an added second story. The first level was covered in vinyl siding, the second was covered in shingles stained with a gray/white oil that the entire neighborhood seemed to be fond of.
Delia had long since noticed that people in the gated communities, or who lived in the five thousand-square-foot houses, rarely signed on to become foster parents. The houses where foster parents lived were modest: three bedrooms, two baths, small rooms, white Corelle plates, thin towels, and big hearts. At least all the families that Ira trained.
Ira was meticulous about training and accepting foster parents. Having gone through the system as a child, he knew that even one foster parent who turned their home into a child version of a dog kennel would doom the whole system. He was wary of foster parents who treated their kids with anything less than bountiful, loving care. On a good day, the system teetered on the edge. Newspapers only covered the worst disasters in foster care, not the hundreds who found a safe harbor.
“Which family did you put her with?” she asked. Normally she would have asked this first thing. With her resignation, she was slipping, not as careful. She had to pull herself together; she was still working for the kids. She wasn’t done yet.
“Erica and Tom. They’re relatively new, but I trust them. They understand that she might well regress, wet the bed, act out, have nightmares, stop talking. They have one child of their own who is in high school, a girl, and a very friendly Maine Coon cat. I didn’t start doing this yesterday.” Ira tilted his head and did something with his lips that made one side of his well-trimmed mustache jump.
“I’m still afraid of making a mistake, of making this situation worse,” he said, doing a slow nod. “I remember when I first started and it hit me like a truck. What if I make this horrible situation worse? What if I make a mistake and trust a foster parent who flips out and can’t handle a kid who starts raging and tossing their toaster around their kitchen? What if I put a kid with a foster parent who was really a sexual predator, the kind who’s been waiting all of his adult life to have little kids put into his care? Terrifying, isn’t it?”
This was exactly what made Ira the best. He knew how wrong everything could go with one weak link among the foster parents. He never forgot, never got complacent.
* * *
Two tricycles marked the edge of the driveway.
“Has the art therapist been here yet?” asked Delia, opening the passenger door.
They passed the trikes and the last of a row of petunias, already going leggy before the cold nights of fall.
“Not yet. She’s on vacation,” he said, pressing his fingers on the beige doorbell. The door opened and a wave of cooking smells tumbled out.
“Hi, Erica. I smell dinner cooking. You never disappoint.”
CHAPTER 12
Erica ran her hand through her dark blond hair. “What you smell is dinner, but so far, Hayley’s favorite thing to eat is a hotdog, plain, no mustard and no ketchup.”
Delia followed Ira into the house. “This is Delia, the caseworker I t
old you about. We thought we’d visit with you and Hayley for a short time.”
Delia shook hands with Erica. Her touch was warm and soft. Strong. Erica’s dark blue pants, made of the indestructible fabric that hikers wear, stopped right below her knees. She was barefoot, but a tan line along the tops of her feet came from the pair of Tevas in the corner.
“Are you a hiker?” asked Delia.
Erica laughed easily. “My husband says I look like a model for the Appalachian Mountain Club. We get out whenever we can. My daughter doesn’t love it as much as we do, but we’re good at bribing her. I was just telling Hayley about a little walk we could take and have a picnic.”
Erica looked back into a room beyond. “She’s in the kitchen now, helping me with some mixing.” She wiped her hands along her pants. “Hayley has never gone on a picnic and tells me that Emma is waiting for her.”
Emma Gilbert? The female victim? Not Mommy, but Emma. Is there a Mommy, Delia wondered.
Erica stepped back and pointed toward the kitchen. “Come in and join us. I’ll make some fresh coffee.”
Erica already understood Ira’s insatiable coffee habit.
The kitchen was hot. Erica took a peek into the oven and said, “Sorry about the heat. I cook several meals ahead on days when I can.” The sliding glass door was open. Erica’s head spun around. “Hayley? She was just here.”
Any comfort that Delia felt when meeting Erica evaporated, and in its place, her solar plexus braced for an assault. A missing child was one thousand times worse than a child of unknown parentage.
Erica ran to the door and stepped onto the deck. “Hayley?”
Delia and Ira were one step behind her. There in the backyard was a girl, standing in the middle of a raised garden bed, holding a cucumber. A Maine Coon cat, as large as a beagle, pressed its head against the girl’s leg, looking every bit like a guard dog. When the girl looked up, she put the cucumber behind her back.
Delia sighed. Thank God for children who were inquisitive and went no farther than garden beds. She looked out at the yard. And thank God for fenced back yards, which Delia normally didn’t like, but at this moment, she appreciated the benefits.
Erica hopped off the Trex-floored deck and walked calmly to Hayley. “Do you like cucumbers? I do too.” She sat down on the wood rim of the raised bed. “Can you show your cucumber to my friends Ira and Delia?”
This was their cue. Delia walked over to the garden bed and sat down on the grass. “Hi, Hayley. I like to pick cucumbers too. Can I help?”
Hayley’s light brown hair, freshly shampooed with something floral, hung to the top of her shoulders. Everything that she wore was new. The few clothes she was wearing when she was found were part of the crime scene and were taken from her at the hospital. To her huge credit, Erica found clothing that looked similar to help Hayley feel comfortable. Her yellow T-shirt didn’t have a princess on the front but it did have a friendly looking dragon with wings. Her blue shorts were too big, ballooning around her skinny thighs. Her legs, dappled with scabbed insect bites, were strangely flaccid for a child. Wouldn’t she have been running, jumping, and skipping wherever she had been?
“Emma likes cucumbers,” said Hayley.
No one had made the leap to tell the child that Emma was dead. While it was likely that Hayley had either seen the murders or the aftermath, making the final conclusion was not straightforward for young children. She had blood on her body when they found her; she made contact with the victims. This was far too complicated for a first visit. A therapist and Erica would be the best people to present the ultimate truth about the dead woman.
Hayley brought the cucumber in front of her. “Emma is dead.” She nodded solemnly and reached down to touch the cat’s head. “I told Louie and he is sad.”
Delia never knew how young children would respond to death. For some, the death of a parent or caretaker was beyond comprehension and the child blocked it from their reality. For others, they struggled to understand the forever absence that death caused and talked about it with a frankness that caused adults to crumble. Hayley was in the latter camp.
Erica reached over and stroked the large cat. “Our cat’s name is Louie,” she said in a tender voice.
“What helps Louie when he is sad?” asked Delia, not wanting to lose the thread, yet venturing as lightly as she could.
The cat, a hefty twenty pounds at least, chose the moment to swat a bumblebee from midair with his large paws and eat it. “He likes cat food. It comes in a can,” said Hayley. She looked at Erica. “Will the bee sting him in the mouth?”
Erica smiled. “He likes bumblebees and I don’t think they’ve ever stung him. I’ll go get a can of food and we can feed him together so he won’t be so sad about Emma.”
Ira knew what he was doing when he picked Erica. The woman had dialed into this child.
Erica rattled around in the kitchen and returned with a can of Friskies and a small red bowl. She pulled the tab on the can and the sound ignited Louie, ears up, eyes alert. “Hayley, take this spoon and please give Louie two big scoops.”
Had she fed a cat before? Or was this the first time? Delia watched for everything that might help.
“Do you have a kitty?” she asked.
Hayley shook her head. “Emma says we can’t have a cat in our car.”
Did they live in a car? There was no car at the crime scene.
“Do you sleep in your car or do you sleep in a house? I sleep in a house,” said Ira. Delia was so focused on the moment that she almost forgot Ira was there.
Hayley squatted near the bowl and carefully scooped out two spoons of cat food. “Louie sleeps with me. I have a bed now,” she said, pointing to the house.
Erica tilted her head toward Ira. “He doesn’t have fleas and he’s sort of a love chunky. All the kids love him. I hope that’s okay.”
Delia could think of no one who would begrudge this child the simple comforts of the furry creature.
“Did you and Emma sleep in a bed?” asked Delia.
Hayley peered at Louie’s fine dining with fascination. “He likes his food.” She ran her hand along his spine. Louie, without a one-second delay in eating, raised his back in a curve to meet Hayley’s palm.
The maze of talking with young children was fraught with dead ends. When the path was open with kids, Delia could sense a difference in the light. The path wasn’t blocked yet.
“Is Emma your mommy?” Delia said, while reaching to pet Louie. If the cat would stay put, Hayley might keep talking. According to the emergency workers who were at the hospital, the only thing Hayley said was her name. They were in the midst of a conversation cloudburst now.
“Emma reads books to me. We sleep in the car when the tigers come.”
Delia slowed her breathing. She felt the end of the path closing in, the light changing.
“Did the tigers hurt Emma?” She rubbed the back of Louie’s head while he cleaned his face with one paw.
Hayley pulled her hands into claws, opened her mouth wide and roared. “Like this,” and she roared again. “Tigers are bad. Louie said he will fight the tigers if they come.”
The door of words slammed shut. Hayley put her thumb into her mouth and turned away, rocking side to side.
Ira and Delia stood up, both knowing how long a child could endure what must feel like an onslaught of hard questions, dragging Hayley into dark days with dangerous tigers.
“It’s time for us to leave. Good-bye, Hayley. Thank you for showing us the beautiful cucumber. Good-bye, Louie,” said Delia.
Erica walked them back as far as the kitchen, looking over her shoulder at the child, who hummed and rocked while sucking her thumb. “I’m going to stay outside with her and read a story. I understand now why she feels more comfortable outside.”
“We can see ourselves out,” said Ira. “I’ll call you later.”
Back in the car, Ira backed out of the driveway. “What was Emma Gilbert doing, dragging that child around? A
nd who were the tigers?”
Delia pushed a button to roll down her window. “We know they weren’t the good guys. Thank God for Louie. Maine Coon cats are more dog than cat. I’m surprised Louie doesn’t bark.” Delia kept seeing the small girl comforting Louie, offering the cat what she so desperately needed after the carnage.
Ira turned right and eased out of the neighborhood, past the buzz of a lawnmower, the flashing light of a mail truck.
“That’s what makes tigers so dangerous. You don’t hear them coming.”
CHAPTER 13
Hayley
“Are there tigers in kindergarten?” asked Hayley. She had a bowl of Cheerios in front of her on the dark blue kitchen island. If Hayley were able to fly above the kitchen, the kitchen island would look like a pond. Emma told her a pond was smaller than a lake.
This was not the kind of cereal that Emma gave her, not the chocolate kind with little chips of dried marshmallows.
Erica was the lady who took care of her now. Emma was gone. Hayley told Erica that she understood dead. She was not a baby. Emma was dead, although Hayley still wondered at times if Emma would surprise her by coming back, drive up in the car with her Star Wars sleeping bag in the back seat and say, “Time to go, Miss Sweetie Pie. Hop in.”
Now she was stuck in this tall chair with a bowl of small, donut-shaped cereal and there was nothing special about it. The cereal was small, hard, dry, and dull. Erica thought she should eat the whole bowl. Hayley couldn’t. She’d rather do anything than eat this cereal.
Erica loaded up a blender with yogurt and green stuff and bananas and dry powdered stuff. She pushed a button that made a noise as loud as ten pots and pans all clanging together. Then it was quiet again.
Erica poured the gooey stuff into a glass and drank it with tiny sips. She probably didn’t like it either. How could she? “Why do you think tigers might be at school?”
The Tiger in the House Page 5