The Maypop Kidnapping

by C. M. Surrisi

  I dress and hurry down to the kitchen to make toast with apple butter and a slice of cheddar. Five minutes later, I am standing at Mom’s side of the bed with the plate and a napkin. She doesn’t move, so I lower the plate to her nose. One eyelid opens.

  Her lips barely move. “I guess this means you haven’t heard from Blythe?”

  “Correct.” I wave the plate. “Just like you like it.”

  She groans. “It’s Saturday morning.”

  “Yes, it is.” I use her arguing-with-me-will-do-no-good voice.

  She flips back the covers, sits up, and yawns. I don’t know if it’s because she’s rested or weary. I don’t care which.

  I continue calmly. “We are going to Ms. Stillford’s to check on her.”

  Mom rubs the bedhead out of her hair.

  “Fine,” she says and takes the plate from me. The last thing I see before the bathroom door shuts behind her is her jaw working on a bite of toast. Mom’s willingness to do this actually gets me more worried.

  I force myself to sit still as I wait in the car.

  Through the big picture window in Mom’s office, I watch her switch on the light and lean over her real estate desk. I know she’s digging in the drawer that has all the Maiden Rock keys. Before long, she climbs into the car with Ms. Stillford’s house key in her hand.

  We head toward Gusty’s. I know Mom needs Dad’s morning blend.

  “I’ll go in and get your coffee,” I offer.

  “We’ll both go in.”

  “Do you want to get a cinnamon bun?” I ask. I am sure this makes me sound reasonable and not panicky.

  “Maybe. Are you hungry?”

  “No.” No. No. No. I just want to get going.

  We pull into Gusty’s parking lot. Inside, John Denby is at the counter warming his hands around a mug. Dad has a large pan of buns on the counter. He wields two forks as he pulls the buns apart and moves each one onto a plate. Hot, sticky icing strands trail across the counter.

  John Denby turns to Mom as we walk in and says, “You gals going up to Blythe’s?”

  Dad puts a carryout cup of coffee and a bun in front of Mom and winks at me.

  Mom nods at John Denby and splashes cream into her coffee. “Just a quick check to satisfy Quinnie.”

  I hate it when she does this—says something to somebody else that is really a message to me.

  “Want me to come along?” John Denby asks.

  Mom says, “Nah, I got this.” She rips off a piece of cinnamon bun and lifts it to her mouth. Some brown sugary goo gets on her chin and she grabs a paper napkin from the holder. The goo drops onto her favorite yellow sweater before she can nab it. Oh, no.

  “Darn it!” She dips the napkin in the water glass and blots the spot.

  “Remember the time she went on the Save the Whales protest and forgot to tell anybody?” John Denby asks, but it’s not really a question. “She’s a flighty one.”

  “You can say that again,” says Mom. I watch the blot get bigger as she fusses.

  I don’t remember anything about saving the whales. “What protest?” I ask, but they ignore me.

  This is making me crazy, but if I want Mom to go with me to Ms. Stillford’s and be serious about it, I have to keep my mouth shut. I can’t yell that John Denby always talks down Ms. Stillford when she’s not around because he has hurt feelings that won’t go away because she broke their engagement a hundred years ago. And I can’t yell that Mom always bashes on Ms. Stillford when she’s not around because they disagree about what’s good for Maiden Rock. So I’m quiet. I look at my phone. It’s 7:05, and I wonder if my little Ouija board knows if Ms. Stillford is back home safe and sound.

  I make a perfectly calm effort to get Mom moving.

  “I’ll wait for you outside, Mom,” I say.

  “OK. I’ll be right there,” she says.

  But it’s 7:27 before she comes out. I know this because I look at my phone every minute, and because that’s when the incident happens with the sisters.

  Headlights pop out of the convent driveway. Mom sees them and runs to our car and pulls out a monster-sized flashlight and positions herself at the side of the road. The sister’s van barrels toward her. Mom raises her arm and waves the light in a broad arc to flag them down. The van brakes screech. The sisters skid sideways, directly at Mom. I scream. Tires squeal. The van driver regains control and brings it to a rocking halt.

  I look at Mom. Her eyebrows have joined into that scary unibrow. Her cup is on the ground by our car, but most of the coffee has soaked into her sweater, near the grease blot. It’s starting to look like she’s wearing leopard print.

  Mom takes her time walking to the driver’s window. She taps the window three times with the flashlight. I can see two faces in old-fashioned nun’s habits as the window powers down. The sisters have worn wimples for as long as I’ve known them, even though most nuns dress like normal people now.

  “Sister Rosie.” Mom pauses a moment to see if either of the nuns says anything. “Where is the fire?” The words go into the van like little puffs of dragon breath.

  Sister Rosie, the driver, looks as small as a large woman can look.

  “I know, dear. I’m so sorry. I didn’t know anyone was out this early.”

  Whoa. I know right away this is the worst answer ever. Even I wouldn’t make this mistake.

  “Really, Sister? You were speeding because you didn’t think anyone was around?”

  “Well, I didn’t mean it like that, dear.”

  “I don’t know what to say, Sister. You speed when there are no people around, and you speed when there are people around. I’m not seeing any difference.”

  “I know, dear. I’m so sorry. Give me a ticket. Go ahead.”

  Mom takes a step backwards and bounces her flashlight against her leg. “Well, I haven’t heard that one before,” she says. She stares at the drainpipe on Gusty’s roof like she’s trying to remember something, but I know that look. She’s trying to calm down.

  “I guess it’s in God’s hands,” says Sister Rosie.

  Uh oh, another wrong answer. I could tell that Sister Rosie was kidding, but Mom does not look like she’s in the mood for a joke.

  “I don’t know about God’s hands, Sister. But I’m giving you a final warning.” Mom takes a step toward the van and leans over to look Sister Rosie in the eye. “If I catch you speeding again, you will get a ticket, and if you keep getting tickets, you will lose your license. And I don’t think that is what God expects from you. And while we’re at it, how’s the separating for recycling going?”

  Sister Ethel, who’s sitting in the passenger seat, leans over and whispers to Sister Rosie behind a cupped hand. When she’s done, Sister Rosie sits up straight.

  “Thank you, dear. Bless you, dear,” says Sister Rosie like she’s following instructions from Sister Ethel. “You don’t need to worry. From now on, I will be a model driver. And yes, we’ll separate the paper and the glass. We know.”

  Mom stands back and watches as Sister Rosie throws the van in gear and accelerates at the speed of a tortoise.

  At that rate, I imagine they will get to Rook River tomorrow.

  Mom turns to me. “Where are they going at this hour anyway?”

  That is a sheriff kind of question. Where would these two nuns be going at 7:30 on a Saturday morning?

  “Probably the Walmart in Rook River,” I say.

  “I guess even nuns buy toilet paper in bulk,” Mom mutters.

  8

  As we pull into Ms. Stillford’s yard, the sun popping up over the ocean makes me squint. I run to the front door ahead of Mom. She takes her time getting out of the car. Spiro bolts from the woods, his back arched like a Halloween cat, and hops sideways toward me. I lean down and pick him up. The tuna fish smell still clings to his whiskers.

  Mom knocks on the front door—normal at first, then harder.

  “The back door’s unlocked, Mom.”

  “That’s not the proto
col, Quinnette.”

  I rub Spiro’s ear, and he pushes his head into the palm of my hand, which is still tender. I loosen my grip on him and carefully set him down.

  Mom steps back and digs for the key in her pocket. It falls to the ground, and I scoop it up and hand it to her. She tells me to stop hovering.

  Mom turns the house key in the brass lock and puts her shoulder into the door. Spiro shoots past us, through the paneled entryway and the coat closet, down the hall, and up the stairs.

  “Blythe?” Mom calls. She opens the coat closet door and looks up and down.

  There’s a row of suitcases on the floor of the closet, small, medium, and large. The spot for Ms. Stillford’s extra-large suitcase is empty. The coats on the hanging bar have been separated and pushed aside. Two empty hangers rock in the middle of the bar.

  Mom turns and looks at me. “Looks like a suitcase and a couple coats are gone.” It sounds half like an accusation and half like a confirmation.

  “I didn’t look in here yesterday,” I admit. But that doesn’t mean she wasn’t kidnapped . . . Except people don’t pack for a kidnapping.

  We move into the living room. Mom stands in the middle and slowly turns in a circle. I do the same. Then she walks toward the dining room. I pull out my phone and call Ms. Stillford’s number. In my ear, I hear it ring then roll to voice mail. In the dining room, I hear . . . nothing.

  I walk toward the dining room table. “Her phone’s gone!”

  “I thought you said it was on the dining room table?”

  “It was, Mom. It was right there on the table yesterday morning.”

  I point to the spot where it had lit up when I called it.

  Mom walks around the dining room table and leans down to look across the surface, as if a new angle will show a mark where the phone had been.

  “Call it again,” she says.

  I dial, get the voice mail, and hand my phone to her.

  Mom clears her throat.

  “Blythe, this is Margaret, calling on Quinnie’s phone. We’re at your house because we were a little concerned that you missed breakfast yesterday and we haven’t heard from you. Please call me when you get this message and let us know all is well.”

  She presses END and hands it back to me.

  She moves on to Ms. Stillford’s office. It’s decorated in what Ms. Stillford calls microcosm-of-her-brain style. An Acadia National Park cup stuffed with pencils and pens, a stapler, a dish of rainbow paper clips, a little Maine souvenir burlap pillow stuffed with balsam needles, tabbed notebooks, half of a chocolate bar, a black felt monkey with a pink face, a box of something called Sanctity Tea. Open books are stacked next to the computer. Ms. Stillford always has books piled up that way—like she’s in the middle of researching something. I look at the titles: The Botany of Desire: A Plant’s-Eye View of the World, Manual of Flowering Plants, Red Lily Guide to Hydroponic Gardening.

  The computer screen is dark, but the little green light glows. Another thing I didn’t notice yesterday.

  “The computer’s on, Mom.”

  Mom takes a tissue out of her pocket, wraps it around her finger, and presses the space bar. The monitor wakes up to a screen about hydroponic gardening. There are two tabs at the top of the screen. One tab says Common Name Passionflower or Maypop. The other says Quinnie Boyd. Mom clicks on the Quinnie Boyd tab. It’s the short story that I sent Ms. Stillford last week about things in my bureau drawer. She’s in the middle of writing comments on it using Track Changes. Mom’s eyes scan the page.

  “Cha-cha-cha polka-dot panties?” She looks at me with wide eyes.

  “It’s a story, Mom. It’s supposed to be funny.”

  “Oh-kay.”

  She walks away from the computer but says, “Don’t touch it. Just leave it on. Let it go back to sleep.”

  She heads into the kitchen. I hurry to get ahead of her. “Look at the apple, Mom.”

  “What apple?”

  “Hey! It’s gone.” The knife is gone too. And the bread bin is closed.

  I open the cabinet under the sink and look in the trash basket. The browned apple halves are at the bottom. Next, I run to the cupboard and yank it open. There it is. “See, there’s the peanut butter jar. The lid’s on.”

  Now Mom is looking at me like I’m crazy.

  “I see it.” She spins and gives the kitchen another scan. “Looks like it’s clean and ready for Blythe to go on a trip.”

  She walks out of the kitchen toward the stairs, and I hear her gasp.

  “Stay back, Quinn.”

  I lick my lips and gulp.

  “There’s blood on the banister.”

  I rush up behind her and see the red smear from my cat scratches.

  “Wait, Mom. That’s my blood.”

  “Don’t be silly.”

  She takes her phone out of her pocket.

  “No! Wait a minute. It is my blood.”

  I show her my hand with the bandage and stand on the steps and demonstrate where I grabbed the banister. She takes my hand and turns it over to see the palm.

  “How did this happen?”

  “Spiro. I was holding him and jumped out of my hands.”

  “When?”

  “Yesterday morning.”

  “Oh, Quinnie. Did you put antibiotic cream on it?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “You wait here. I’m going to take a sweep upstairs.” As she disappears around the bend in the stairway, she yells, “Don’t touch anything.”

  I yell back, “Should I wipe off the banister?

  I can’t hear her answer so I run up after her.

  When I see the bedroom I freeze.

  The closet door gapes open. Bare hangers crowd together where dresses hung neatly yesterday. A scarf is sticking out of the top bureau drawer. The hairbrush is gone!

  I walk through the bedroom with my mouth hanging open. In the bathroom, Ms. Stillford’s medicine cabinet door is ajar, and there are empty spots where pill containers had been. The toothbrush is gone!

  “Mom, someone has been here.”

  “Yes, Quinnie. It looks like someone named Blythe Stillford has been here,” she says. “In her house, packing for a trip, cleaning up, and leaving. Probably for the weekend.”

  A million images flash through my mind. Did she leave and then come back? Did she come back and then go away again?

  “Ms. Stillford? Are you here?” I scream.

  “Calm down, Quinnie. Let’s get out of Blythe’s house. She’s obviously not here.”

  “But what about her phone? Why didn’t she call me back? Why didn’t she answer it? Why didn’t she come to breakfast? What about the first day of school?”

  “I agree with you about that. I intend to have a serious talk with her about starting school on time.”

  I might be a little mad at Ms. Stillford now. It looks like she grabbed some clothes, cleaned up her kitchen in a big hurry, then took off again. And she has her phone and she has my messages and she knows how worried I am and she hasn’t called me.

  “The car.” I pull at Mom’s sleeve. “Let’s see if it’s still here.”

  I run to the garage fully expecting her car to be gone. But there sits the blue Volvo, still poised for action.

  “Mom, she wouldn’t come back and pack a suitcase and walk away. She had to be with someone. Or maybe someone else was here.”

  “Let’s go, Quinn.” Mom sounds irritated. “This is looking more like a case of her being inconsiderate than being kidnapped.”

  “No, wait. I know something is wrong,” I say.

  Mom rubs her temples with her fingertips. “Sometimes you are the most measured, logical, intelligent girl, and sometimes you are, well, overly excitable.”

  “But the car?” My voice comes out feeble and shaky.

  “She could have been picked up.”

  “But the phone?”

  “Maybe she forgot her charger.”

  Then for some crazy reason, I flash on a possible expl
anation. I know that saying it will probably stir up a lot of trouble, but I have to make a choice: to avoid Mom’s anger or to save Ms. Stillford.

  “Mom. Listen to me . . . I think maybe Owen Loney kidnapped Ms. Stillford.”

  “What?” Her voice is shaky, soft, halting.

  “You know how he always hangs around her, all puppy-dog faced, and he’s always offering to give her rides and fix her house, and you and Zoe’s mom say he’s got the hots for her—”

  The next thing I know, Mom grabs my upper arm and practically pulls me off my feet toward the car. She doesn’t look at me while she talks. “Quinnette, you don’t go around accusing honest, hardworking people of horrific felonies. Have you lost your senses? Who are you?”

  “Ouch, Mom! That hurts.” I try to jerk my arm away, but she tightens her grip and steers me into the backseat of her car.

  Mom’s hands squeeze the steering wheel as she drives. She keeps her eyes straight ahead. By the time we reach our house, I have a bucket of tears ready to gush, but they won’t come.

  Mom parks but doesn’t get out of the car.

  “Go in the house, Quinnette. I’m going back to Gusty’s and then to Rook River for groceries. Do not leave the house while I’m gone. Are we clear?”

  I jump out of the car, slam the door, and stomp up the steps.

  Mom sticks her head out of the car window. “Are we clear?”

  I spin around, lift my chin, and yell, “Oh yeah? Well, who are you? You’re supposed to be the sheriff. You’re supposed to care about the victim. You’re a mother. You’re supposed to care about your daughter. I don’t know who you are either!”

  “And Quinnie . . . you’re not ordering unusual underwear online, are you?”

  “No, Mom. It’s a story. I made it up. It’s called fiction. Don’t you know that?”

  Her face is as tight as a stiff sail. “All I know is that you better not be ordering some kind of cha-cha pants online, whatever those are.”

  9

  I sit on the floor of my room for a long time, waiting for tears to flow, but they don’t. I’m sure Mom’s fuming, and I should feel worse than I do about yelling at her that way, but this is not about us right now. It’s about Ms. Stillford. Her safety is the most important thing.