Sloane Monroe 06-Hush Now Baby

by Bradshaw, Cheryl

  Teresa Foster was tiny, the kind of tiny that, at first, made me suspect she led a life of clean eating, consuming nothing but fruits, vegetables, and green smoothies. And yet she had a half-eaten cherry pie sitting on her desk with a fork sticking out of it. Why bother with a plate when you can dig right in?

  I’d arrived at the Precious Gift Adoption Agency alone, having told Cade I needed the day to myself. I needed a breather, a moment to get centered, to focus on the task at hand. I hadn’t had any “me time” for days. Making myself useful seemed like the only way to drive the repeated visions of Hannah’s death from my head.

  Cade never asked where I was going or about my conversation with Bonnie. He just nodded and said he’d come to a kind of truce with the chief, who had just learned of Hannah’s suicide. The sand had slowly sifted through the hourglass until there was nothing left except lost time. If Finn wasn’t found within the next week, the chief would retire, having gone out with an unsolved case on his hands. This left him with humble desperation, willing to accept help anywhere he could get it in order to wrap the case up, retire with a clear conscience. Even if solving it led to the kind of grizzly outcome no one was prepared to accept, it would bring the kind of closure he so desperately wanted.

  The chief had even extended a small courtesy to me, telling Cade he’d allow me to provide assistance if I stayed out of everyone’s way. Out of the way to me meant out of sight. I accepted the olive branch, deciding I’d do everything in my power to make today count, starting with Teresa Foster. While I talked to her, Cade drove to the home of Miguel Alvarez. If his wife hadn’t learned the truth by now, she was about to be enlightened.

  I looked at Teresa. “You were the one who worked with Serena and Jack on finding them a baby, correct?”

  Teresa sectioned off a mouthful of pie and took a bite, allowing flakes from the crust to pepper her desk, joining the other casualties that had previously fallen by the wayside. I’d cordoned off the section of the desktop in front of me, and was a couple seconds away from suggesting she allow me to clear hers as well before I stopped myself.

  “We’ve never had anything happen like this before at Precious Gift. We’ve been helping prospective parents adopt babies for the last nineteen years. We have an impeccable track record. We successfully match eighty-nine percent of our families in the first eighteen months, and fifty-five percent within the first twelve.”

  What a perfectly orchestrated speech. Apparently she thought I was a candidate.

  “You didn’t answer my question.”

  “Oh, right. I’m not supposed to talk about my clients. You know, confidentiality and all.” She grabbed a packet out of a drawer, flopped it down on the desk, interlaced her hands on top of it. “Now, as I said on the phone, the application fee is $750 and your first deposit will be $8,000. I’ll need both amounts before we can place your profile on our website and start showing you to potential birth parents.”

  “Who exactly do you think I am?” I asked.

  “Mrs. Redmond. We spoke on the phone about an hour ago. Right?”

  “Wrong.”

  I took out one of my cards, used my pointer finger to slide it over to her, watched her eyes expand when she read the words “Private Investigator.”

  “Oh. Oh my. I probably shouldn’t be talking to you.”

  “Why?” I asked. “Haven’t you already spoken to the police?”

  “They asked me a few questions. I’m sure I wasn’t much help. I have no idea what happened to that baby or why our agency was targeted.”

  “Targeted? What makes you think your agency is part of this?”

  She squeezed her eyes closed like she wanted to regurgitate what she’d just said. “Oops. Poor choice of words. What I meant to say is, we look at our clients as family, so an attack on them is an attack on us.”

  I rapped my fingers along the edge of the desk, tried to decide whether her explanation had been a quick save or if there was a remote chance she was as innocent as her button-up, flowered dress suggested. She fidgeted with a pencil, flipping it around and around in her hand like she was helpless to make it stop.

  “Were you at the hospital when Hannah gave birth to the baby?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I was there to witness Hannah sign the adoption consent form.”

  “Did you have any problems getting her to sign?”

  “Hannah hesitated for a few minutes when I gave it to her. I wondered if she’d changed her mind, until her aunt reassured her.”

  “After she signed, what happened?” I asked.

  “Like I said, I told all of this to the police already.”

  “Doesn’t hurt saying it one more time then, right?”

  She glanced around the room. Seeing no one, she continued. “After Hannah signed, she kissed the baby and handed him to her aunt. Her aunt took him to Jack and Serena, who were waiting in the hall.”

  “While you were there, did anything unusual happen? Anything out of the ordinary?”

  “Like what?”

  “Any people there that shouldn’t have been? Any family members who weren’t supposed to know about the adoption and found out somehow?”

  “Besides the aunt and the Westwoods, no other visitors stopped by to see Hannah. Not while I was there, at least.”

  “What about phone calls?” I asked. “Did Hannah get any calls?”

  “If she had a phone with her, I never saw it. After the baby was born, I didn’t stay long. It was busy that night.”

  “Busy how?”

  “There were more people on the maternity ward than usual. More than I’d ever seen in any of my previous visits.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “It was like every woman who was due that week had spontaneously gone into labor on the same night. There was another woman who had so many visitors coming and going, the doctor on call started sending them away so they wouldn’t disturb the other patients.”

  “So it’s possible someone could have been there, for Hannah, and you may not have noticed?”

  She shrugged. “Guess so.”

  “This other family you mentioned, do you happen to know their names?”

  “Well, I do. I probably shouldn’t—”

  “Giving me the name isn’t going to hurt anything. The other family isn’t your client.”

  Wearing her down had been easy so far, I figured, why not keep pushing?

  “I … guess you’re right. Besides, they made a big splash of it by announcing the birth of their baby on the front page of the paper, so it’s public knowledge anyway.”

  “I take it they’re someone well known around here then?”

  She nodded.

  “Mayor Bronson and his wife.” Teresa glanced to the side, flinching when she spied a man making a beeline in our direction. “I can’t say anymore. Really, I can’t.”

  The man stuck out his hand well before he reached me. “Lyle Smith. Manager. How are things going here?”

  He was tall and had the bone structure and swagger of a person I imagined gave motivational speeches for a living.

  “Sloane. Client. Fine.”

  “What, no last name?” He laughed at what I presumed he thought was a witty remark until neither one of us joined in. He then cleared his throat into the center of his balled-up fist and tried to recover. “Anything I can help with, questions I can answer?”

  The pencil Teresa had been fidgeting with came to an abrupt halt. It nose-dived from her hand, making a tinging sound when it hit the desk. She snatched it up, shoved it back inside the drawer.

  I stood.

  “I think I have all the information I need.” I held my hand out toward Teresa. “I almost left here without my packet.”

  “Right.”

  She placed it into my hand, did her best to play along, act natural, even though her hand was visibly shaking when she handed it to me.

  “I’ll talk this over with my husband tonight and get back to you.”


  “I look forward to hearing from you,” Teresa said, even though it was obvious she hoped to never see me again.

  “I hope you’ll consider Precious Gift,” Lyle added. “We’d love to help you and your husband find your baby.”

  Find my baby.

  A baby for me.

  For a moment, I almost forgot it had all been a charade.

  CHAPTER 33

  The Bronson residence was located at the end of a private road surrounded by an array of quaking aspen and pine trees. The set-up made the property and its vast surroundings look like a fortress, probably because it was one. All that was missing was a guard at the gate.

  I passed through the entrance, driving in between two massive, wood logs, hoisted at least fifteen feet in the air. A third log was nailed across the top, framing the outside. A three-foot-wide metal sign was suspended from the center. The sign had an etched nature landscape along the edges, and in the center, the name BRONSON was presented in capital letters. Although the primitive nature of the sign wasn’t my taste, it was a spectacular display for a family who lived on a spectacular piece of prime Jackson Hole real estate.

  At first glance, the ranch-style home stretched out so wide on both sides, it looked like two or three houses next to each other with shared common walls. A double-door in the middle indicated it was a single residence. The front door opened before I stepped out of my car. The Bronson’s lived at the end of a private drive, and I wasn’t expected. A man walked toward me, leaving a woman hovering in the doorway, her curious eyes fixed on me.

  While the woman didn’t look much older than thirty, I guessed the man was pushing fifty. He had unruly, sand-colored hair and a trimmed beard. When he half-grinned at me, I noticed one of his eyes was slightly bigger than the other, or maybe it just looked that way because one was circular in shape and the other was shaped more like a leaf. Eye shape aside, he reminded me of a younger version of Clint Eastwood, and I couldn’t stop staring.

  “Can I help you?” he asked.

  “Mayor Bronson?”

  “That’s right.”

  He had a raspy, yet pleasant tone.

  “My name is—”

  He held up a hand, stopping me. “No need, Miss Monroe. I know who you are, and I know why you’re here.”

  “You do?”

  I couldn’t see how. I hadn’t told anyone I was coming.

  “Is there anything you don’t involve yourself in?” he asked.

  “I take it you’re friends with Chief Rollins.”

  Mayor Bronson came to a stop a couple feet in front of me, feet shoulder-width apart, arms crossed tight in front of his denim, button-up shirt. “I know Harold. Why?”

  “Can I talk to you about the night your wife gave birth? I understand she delivered the same night Hannah Kinkade did.”

  “She did.”

  “I was told there was a lot of traffic on the maternity ward that night.”

  “By whom?”

  “Doesn’t matter, does it?”

  He cocked his head to one side, squinted like he was trying to decide what he thought of me. “S’pose not.”

  Mayor Bronson’s wife approached from behind. “Colt, who’s this?”

  “My name is Sloane Monroe,” I said.

  She smiled. “I’m Lizzy. You were the one who found those girls last year, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Are you helping find the missing baby?”

  “Trying to,” I said. “That’s why I’m here. I was hoping I could talk to you about the night you were in the hospital.”

  Before I could say anything more, a familiar truck turned up the drive. It came to a stop a couple feet away, and the window went down.

  “Sloane, what brings you here?” Chief Rollins asked.

  I didn’t answer.

  Mayor Bronson nodded at the chief then looked at me. “Look, Miss Monroe. We’ve already sat down with Harold, told him everything there is to know. I think it’s best you try a different approach.”

  Precisely what I was trying to do.

  “I respect your opinion, Mayor, but I don’t agree.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I’ve thought a lot about this case over the last few days, and I’ve come to realize something.”

  “Go on.”

  “This entire time, I’ve based my theories about the kidnapping on statistics, knowing in similar cases, most signs point to a friend or family member. What if we’re going about this all wrong? What if the person that took Finn wasn’t someone who knew Hannah was pregnant or knew the Westwoods were adopting?”

  “What are you suggesting?” he asked.

  “I’m suggesting it was someone outside both family circles. A stranger.”

  “We’ve considered all possible motives and suspects, Miss Monroe,” the chief said.

  “What proof do you have to back your theory?” Mayor Bronson asked.

  “None. Yet.”

  The mayor draped an arm around his wife, kissed her on the cheek, and walked to the passenger side of the chief’s truck, pausing before he got in. “Take it up with the chief when you do.”

  “Mayor Bronson, if you’d just allow me to ask a few questions, I’d really—”

  “Proof first, Miss Monroe. I’m a busy man.”

  I stood, watching the truck roll back down the road, my hope for a good lead rolling away with it. Halfway to the front entrance, the truck slowed. It seemed the mayor had anticipated my next move just in time, realizing with him gone, I’d attempt to strike up the same conversation with Lizzy. He was right. I would have.

  “I’m sorry,” Lizzy said. “I wish I could answer your questions.”

  I appreciated the sentiment, but I wasn’t satisfied. And I wasn’t about to finish the day without some definitive answers.

  CHAPTER 34

  I drove about four or five minutes before I felt it, an overwhelming sense of fear and helplessness. Failure. It started the same way it always did, a seed of discord inside my stomach, growing at an accelerated rate, like it had been stimulated with rich fertilizer. If I didn’t calm it down, if I didn’t tame it, I knew what would happen next. It would consume me, explode into an attack that would bring my search for Finn to a screeching halt.

  I’d experienced the sensation off and on since I was a child, my earliest recollection being the first time I watched my drunken father take a swing at my mother. His powerful fist had connected with precision, dislodging one of her teeth. It shot across the room, plopping down on the carpet in front of me. My father turned my direction, saw me hunched in a ball in the corner, peeking at my mother, peeking at him. The fact I was out of bed when I wasn’t supposed to be angered him all the more. I can still hear the sound of his footsteps as he approached me, raising his hand once more. I braced for impact, accepted my punishment, until the saving grace of my mother flung herself in front of me, shielding me with her body.

  The fear. The anxiety. The helplessness. At the tender age of seven, I was too young to be conscious of what I was feeling or why. I just knew I didn’t feel right. I felt sick inside, and I didn’t know how to make myself better.

  I relied on instinct. I knew I needed to protect my mother, my sister Gabby. Five years later, with help from a baseball bat, I did. That’s the day I became strong. That’s the day I hardened. Maybe it was even the reason why I’d always sabotaged my relationships with men. Or why I picked the wrong men. Or why I pushed the right ones away. My father had been the poorest possible example of a loving husband and father, leaving me with nothing but the kind of acidy taste in my mouth I’d never been able to wash out.

  Over the years, I’d learned how to spin my bouts of anxiety into strength, suppress the negative memories, and focus on the positive ones. It worked most of the time, until something triggered my past, and then it all came flooding back again in one long, perpetual flashback. Every life. Every death. Every success. Every failure.

  I jerked the steering wheel, pulled the
car to the side of the road, closed my eyes, and practiced my breathing. Sometimes it worked. Other times, like now, it didn’t. My lungs tightened, and as I struggled for even the smallest of breaths, I embraced my anguish, took out my phone, and dialed.

  CHAPTER 35

  I sat in a room painted a soft, eggshell blue, staring at a variety of framed Monet knockoffs hung in groups of three on every wall except one. Very precise. Very organized. The simplistic perfection should have put me at ease. It was the exact kind of room I lived for—everything in its place—and yet I longed to be outside the office again.

  I tapped the toe of my shoe on the smooth, gray rug and contemplated what I was doing here and why. I felt better now. Over the past several minutes, I’d managed to ease some of my tension, reverse my inner turmoil until it was almost the size of a seed again.

  Deciding my decision was made in haste, I stood up as the door to the left of me opened. A teenager stared at the ground, her hands in her pockets as she passed me. Another woman, who looked to be in her late thirties, stood in the doorway. I turned, thinking I’d walk out behind the teenager, even though I was well aware it was too late.

  “Sloane?”

  I addressed the woman speaking to me with a nod. Dressed in a tank top, a long, colorful maxi skirt, and sandals, she wasn’t anything like what I envisioned a shrink would be. Her hair was fashioned in a loose ponytail, and her face, while devoid of makeup, had such a bright complexion, she didn’t need any.

  “Hi, I’m Elodie. Come on in.”

  I entered her office expecting to see a leather sofa, brown, with pleated, oversized circles pressed into the cushion. There wasn’t one. Instead, I was met with a simple couch. A loveseat. Beige, just like the color of the walls in her office. The couch was small, simple. Not quite big enough for two, although I guessed some couples squished together anyway in a forced display of affection.

  Elodie sat behind a desk across from me. She turned a page in her notebook, rested it on her lap.

  “What brings you here today?”

  What brought me in was a moment of crisis and the fact she’d had a sudden cancellation.