“The canvas is damaged. Why—?”
“I left it at the beach when I brought her in. The storm got to it before I did. I don’t know the whys and hows, Liam. All I know is that she is the first thing that I’ve managed to get out on paper in a decade.”
He came and slid down the wall opposite her, feet next to hers, reaching across the narrow passage. He picked up the sketch of Mia and propped it on his lap, studying every detail. “She’s not the first abandoned baby you know.”
“Of course not. I know that.”
“I don’t mean in general. I’m talking about right here, in Scottburgh, over the last eighteen months. She is the third that I know of.” He looked Isobel straight in the eye.
She saw something in his expression that twisted her gut though she couldn’t say why. Her gaze dropped to her hands on her knees.
He carried on, “I’ve tried to trace the other two through the foster system, and I’ve gotten nowhere. I’m not convinced they’ve been well placed. I don’t know that they are safe.”
“And their moms? Dads?”
“The other two were single moms. Both suicide cases. Something is not right here. Mia needs a safe place.”
Isobel reached over and took the picture out of his hands. “Why does it matter to you?”
“It just does. That’s beside the point. This little girl needs you.”
“You don’t know what you are asking.” She fought to stop the trembling in her suddenly cold hands. I don’t do babies. I can’t.
He switched sides, sitting close to her. She could feel the warmth from his arm on her bare skin. “Just think about it. That’s all I’m asking.”
“Fine.”
Liam opened his mouth as if he was about to say more, closed it, and bumped shoulders with her. “Thanks for the tea”—he held out his soggy shirt—”and the swim. It was fun. We should do it again.”
Isobel cringed. “I have a better idea. Let’s not do that again.”
“Ha! Where’s your sense of adventure anyway?” His sudden grin was broad. It masked the emotion in his eyes and disarmed her completely. “I must be on my way. I’ll be in touch.” He got up and held out his hands to help her off the floor.
She put her hands in his without thinking. Warmth filled her.
“Oh! Just so you know—visiting hours don’t apply to you because she’s in a private room.”
Like a bucket of ice water on a fire. Fizzle. She wanted to smack him. “You don’t know when to stop, do you?”
He ignored her. “Anytime, really. Just pop in.”
She glared at him and tilted her head to the open door.
“I mean it, anytime.”
“Oh, please. Just go!”
****
Liam removed his shoes and rolled his shoulders to warm up the muscles. He picked up a lime-green bowling ball and hoisted it in front of himself to test the weight. Music pumped through the room. Why Nass couldn’t just find a dark corner of a restaurant was beyond him, then again…the noise level was perfect for clandestine conversation.
Detective Rupert Nass came through the door, his gaze scanning each lane of bowlers. He smiled when he found Liam. Shorter than Liam and without a scrap of extra body fat, he moved with restless energy.
The two old school chums had spent their senior years vying over top marks in the grade, and each found a lifelong friend in the process.
Nass wasted no time picking out a steel grey ball. “I’m going to thrash you today.”
Liam slapped him on the shoulder, “Good to see you too, mate.”
Nass’s first throw took out eight pins. “So, what’s up?”
Liam released a ball. Six pins fell. “It’s time for the police to step in and do their job. It can’t go on like this. Have you found the worm in your apple yet?”
“Brigs, I’ve narrowed it down to three guys I don’t trust. It’s going to take time. Tell me about the intercept.”
Liam faced his friend, feeling the weight of the ball in his palm. “We’re out of time. How many more kids must disappear before you make a move?”
“I’m as frustrated as you. Tell me about the intercept.”
“A two-year-old was brought in by a woman, an artist. Same set up. She found the child on the beach tied up with a red scarf. The beach was deserted, no sign of parents. The girl is in stable condition in hospital. If not for the kindness of a stranger, she’d be another number on your books right now. You need to find the insider, and you need to do it now.”
Nass let fly. Gutter ball. He stood silent for a moment and then turned. “To be frank, I don’t want my guys anywhere near this little girl until I know who I can trust. I need you to buy me some time. A couple of days. Do whatever you have to. If this blows up, I’ll take the heat.”
4
The flea market was a sprawling expanse of texture, colour, and noise that would take a full day to explore from one end to the other.
Isobel retied her laces and settled her backpack between her shoulder blades. She was keen to spend the day doing just that.
It was barely 8 AM, but the sun was up-and-at-’em like a lifeguard on duty at a toddlers’ pool.
Her cottage was clean, the canvasses were blank, and Isobel’s head was full of thoughts she’d rather not think. The flea market was a welcome distraction.
Incense hung thick in the air around the first stall. The clothing on offer was hand dyed in India, soft saris with embroidery in rich jewel colours. She moved on. Africa-inspired animal prints themed the next stall. Cushions with black and white zebra stripes, cheetah-spotted rugs, lampshades from delicate ostrich eggs.
Isobel kept walking. She stopped once to buy a fruit smoothie, then on again, sipping cold liquid through a straw and allowing her surroundings to permeate her senses, to flood her soul. The taste of summer berries lingered on her tongue.
In a corner of the market, a white tent hung suspended over long tables set up for a craft workshop. Fifteen adults bent over mosaic creations in various stages of completion. A slim lady in black flitted between them like a restless butterfly, tweaking a shard of mirror here, adjusting a blue tile there—guiding her students into perfection of their craft. She had a shock of red hair that bobbed as she moved. Samples of the artwork created in the tent hung at intervals along the edge of the space.
Isobel found herself drawn in, studying each piece critically. A sapphire and emerald swirling piece with a seashell as its focal point made her smile. It was simple but effective, cleverly done.
“Incredible how something so broken can be so beautiful, isn’t it?”
Isobel turned.
The red-head teacher stood behind her, her gaze firmly fixed on the seashell piece.
Isobel nodded, not answering.
“What makes it beautiful is how each piece catches the light and reflects it in its own unique way.”
“True. I’ve never thought about it like that.”
“Have you ever done mosaic work?”
“It was one of the subjects I enjoyed most at art school.”
“Aaah! A true artist. I knew it. I can spot these things you know. My name is Rochelle de Lange.”
“Isobel.”
“Well, my dear Isobel. Come and see what we’re up to.”
Isobel settled in a chair as a grey-haired student called for help.
Rochelle leaned over her student to position a fragment of mirror, “Ow!” The sharp edge of the mirror had sliced a deep gash in her finger. “I think I hit a vein. This is a real gusher.”
The student dug in her bag for a tissue. “Will this help?”
Rochelle wrapped her finger, but the tissue soaked through in seconds. “Thanks, Dotty, but I’m going to have to find a plaster.” She looked over to Isobel with a questioning shrug of her shoulders, “Everybody—this is Isobel. She is an artist. If you need help while I’m gone—you can ask her. OK?”
The question was for Isobel, who took one look at the bright red tissue
and nodded. “We’ll be fine. Off you go!”
“I’ll come with you, Roch,” said an elegant lady with a sleek brown bob. “You shouldn’t go by yourself.”
They left quickly leaving Isobel facing fourteen pairs of eyes, all looking at her and blinking like owls in the dark.
She did the only thing she knew how to do. “Anybody stuck?”
A petite, blonde twenty-something stuck her hand up. “I have a duck here that looks more like a bread roll. Help?”
The group chuckled as Isobel went over. The next forty-five minutes flew by as she rescued Miriam’s ducks, corrected the angle of Suzy’s mirror waterfall, and helped Joe choose colours to suit a stained-glass-inspired piece for his granddaughter. A strange peace filled Isobel as she tackled troubles of small consequence. Other people’s troubles, not her own. Troubles she was able to fix.
Rochelle came back, flustered. “I’m so sorry, people! We walked forever before we found plasters, then the ATM was out of cash. One thing after the next. What a nightmare! Anyway! How are you all doing?” She took a quick walk between the two tables, casting a sharp eye on each one’s progress. “This looks good!”
In his slow drawl, Joe said, “She ain’t you, Miss Rochelle, but this Isobel? She’s the next best thing, she is.”
“I’m so glad it worked. Thank you, Isobel! Right everyone, that’s it for today. We’ll be back tomorrow at the same time to finish these off.” She grabbed Isobel’s arm just as she was leaving. “I’m looking for someone to help me teach. My daughter has just had twins.” She smiled a little wearily. “I want to be free on occasion to be Grandma. Think about it.” She pressed a small purple business card into Isobel’s hands.
“Sure.” No way.
“You know where to find us.”
5
Isobel unlocked the door to her cottage. She felt light for the first time in forever. She even hummed a bit of a half-forgotten song that stuck with her from when she was little. Maybe moving here had been a good decision after all.
She poured mango juice into a tall glass and unpacked her bag. Right at the bottom was Rochelle’s business card. Instead of throwing it away, she found herself sticking it up with a sickly yellow banana fridge magnet right next to Liam’s. Doesn’t mean I’m actually going to call.
A warm puddle of sunlight drew her to the couch closest to the sliding door. She settled in, tucked her feet under her, and sipped slowly, savouring the quiet.
The rude buzz of the doorbell ripped through the silence.
Isobel jerked, slopping sticky mango over her hand. “What now?” She peered through the spy-hole.
Melindi peered back, this time with baby and all.
Isobel slid back the heavy bolt, resisting the urge to lick her sticky hand, and opened the door.
Ben clutched his mom’s leg with his good arm. He sported a whopping shiner around his left eye. He stared at the floor, his normal cheeky grin replaced with the ashen face of a dead man walking.
The baby on Melindi’s hip was red in the face and crying.
Melindi looked as if she might cry too. “I need help,” she shouted, to make herself heard over the crying.
Isobel managed to keep the sympathetic face glued on through sheer willpower. A thousand excuses flowered and died in her mind. “What’s going on?”
“Ben got into a fight at school. The headmaster phoned, he wants to—” She shifted the squirming baby to the other hip and dropped the nappy bag on Ben’s foot.
The tin of formula hit with a crack, and Ben’s eyes filled with tears. He buried his face in her leg again and sobbed.
She bent down to soothe him and nearly dropped the baby, who doubled her screaming efforts. “He wants to see us. But I can’t take Lilly, and my help didn’t show up.”
Isobel’s mind ran. Alone with a crying baby? Heck no!
Yet Melindi stood like a palm tree in the middle of a hurricane, each arm full of a crying kid. Only palm trees didn’t have tears running down their cheeks.
“Give her here. It will be fine.” She felt her palms go sweaty even as the words left her mouth.
“You sure? I just don’t know what else to do.”
“It’s fine, really.”
“I don’t know how to thank you.” Melindi handed over the nappy bag. “She’ll need a bottle in about half an hour. Just add water and shake. Everything you might need is in this bag.” She kissed Lilly’s fluff-covered head and handed the screaming child to Isobel. “We’ll be back as soon as possible.” With a worried backward glance, she took Ben and left.
Lilly screamed flat out for the next hour.
Isobel tried everything. She walked outside with her in the warm sunshine, then worried that the rest of the neighbours might be wondering who was being murdered, so she hurried back inside. She sat the child on the bed and played peek-a-boo.
Lilly didn’t like it and fell backwards weeping her objections.
Isobel made the bottle…Lilly flung it across the room. It landed in the washing basket with frightening accuracy.
Isobel began to wonder whether she should throw a spectacular tantrum of her own and cry louder than Lilly. Maybe it would have some effect. It was only the pounding headache that had lodged itself in the base of her skull that stopped her. She did the only thing she knew would calm her shattered nerves. Put the kettle on. Tea first. Nervous breakdown after.
“Sorry, kiddo. I really need to get rid of this sticky hand.” Isobel had been through the entire Lilly saga sporting her eau de la mango juice. With Lilly on her hip, she turned the tap on to rinse it.
Lilly stopped crying as if someone had flicked her switch. She leaned out of Isobel’s arms and reached for the water. It trickled over her fingers, and she chuckled, though her eyelashes were still wet with tears.
Isobel was shocked. She ran the water a little faster.
Lilly leaned way over, trying to catch the stream with two hands.
Isobel sat her on the sink with her feet in the basin, water within reach. Lilly shrieked with glee and clapped her hands sending water flying. She gasped with each cold drop that hit her face. Could this be the same baby who would have given an ambulance a run for its money mere minutes ago? It didn’t take long for her clothes to be soaked through. It was a small price to pay.
Isobel drank her cup of tea in peace and figured it was time to try the bottle again. She braced herself and turned the tap off.
On cue, Lilly started crying. Moving as quickly as humanly possible, she changed Lilly into dry clothes, nearly getting her head through the arm hole twice before it popped through the right hole.
Lilly helped by wriggling as much as she knew how and letting out heartbroken wails at regular intervals.
The pounding in Isobel’s head had levelled up to a sledgehammer and seemed intent on cracking her skull open. Between the noise and the stress of managing this little six-month-old dictator, she didn’t stand a chance.
Retrieving the bottle from the laundry basket, she picked up Lilly’s blanket with her toes, transferred it to the same hand that held the bottle and walked out back to the swing bench trying not to drop any of her cargo. An ancient flowering frangipani tree hung umbrella-like over the swing, throwing random patterns of dappled shade and light. Two swings for one house seemed extravagant, but Isobel liked it.
She tucked Lilly firmly in her arms, fumbled to get the blanket over her, and put the bottle to the child’s mouth, before kicking off the grass to get the swing moving.
Lilly fought long enough to let out a few more obligatory sobs in protest, then took to the bottle and quieted down, drinking furiously. Before long, the movement of the swing took effect and her eyelids grew heavy. Her sucking slowed, her breathing deepened, and the weight of her tiny body shifted as she relaxed. She drew one last shuddery breath and slipped off to sleep.
Isobel sat still, too scared to move, letting the motion of the swing come to a natural stop. She put the bottle down on the swing next to her and
decided against wiping the milk from the corners of Lilly’s mouth. There was something magical in this moment. A wave of thorough contentment washed over her, sitting on the swing holding a sleeping baby. If only this was real, this peace, this joy. Isobel felt herself breathe—truly breathe!—again.
Seconds later, unavoidable in its wake, a rough wave of jagged memory crashed down on her, smothering her beneath its terrible weight, threatening to rip through her soul.
The baby in her arms played catalyst, and she sat in the speckled twilight—neither in the light, nor in the dark and wept for what could have been.
For the life that had been stolen from her.
6
As the sun rose, Isobel made up her mind. After another night of fitful sleep that did nothing more than put creases in her sheets, she knew it was time to move on. She took a headache pill from a bottle in the cupboard, thought for a moment and took another. It took a whole glass of water to wash away the bitter taste.
This place was not working out. The only creative spark she’d found tied her to a tangled mess of painful, unanswered questions and dark places in her soul she had no desire to revisit.
She ran a cloth over the counter-top, glanced out the window, and sighed. It’s not every kitchen that looks out over the sea. That, she’d miss. The rest of it? I can do without all this drama.
Melindi had fetched Lilly shortly after she’d fallen asleep. The poor woman was so caught up in managing her own troubles that she hadn’t noticed Isobel’s dire frame of mind. She’d gushed gratitude non-stop, while Isobel sported the fake “I’m OK” face that she had perfected so long ago. It worked its magic: Melindi had taken her baby and left with no awkward questions.
Between Mia, Lilly, and the bulldog of a doctor, it was all getting too much.
Isobel took her car keys off the hook in the passage. Nine AM was as a good a time as any to pick up some empty boxes to start packing. She’d already shut and locked the door when the phone rang. Any other person would have left it to ring. It was not in her genes to ignore a ringing phone. Letting herself back in, she ran and picked up. “I’m looking for Isobel.”
Finding Mia Page 3