Beachcomber Baby

by Stephanie Queen

  “Hello, Dane. I was expecting your call,” Madeline said in her warm, inviting, yet sophisticated voice. She exuded complexity and compelled interest and trust. Damn but she would have made a knockout governor. Peter was luckier than she was.

  “We’re en route, but I had some background questions for you before we get to the church. Shana and I are an engaged couple looking to arrange a wedding.”

  “What a perfect cover. Give Shana my condolences.” She said it straight and he laughed.

  “What can you tell me about this home for unwed mothers project?”

  “Besides the fact that it’s oddly old-fashioned and Father Donahue’s brainchild? What’s more odd is the level of embracement by the church’s volunteer community. I’m involved because it’s been expanded to include divorced or abandoned mothers and that automatically includes abused women. I’m not saying that there aren’t lots of non-teenaged women who get pregnant and need to raise children on their own, and I’m not saying that they couldn’t use some help, but the concept is not necessarily serving the most needy—the pregnant teens and teen mothers are specifically excluded. Father Donahue thinks there are already plenty of places serving them. But the teen pregnancy rate bumped up to eight percent in recent years and there are only three homes in Boston to provide shelter and training to teen mothers.”

  “You think he’s out of touch.”

  “I think he has a personal agenda. Especially now.”

  “I tend to agree. What’s the plan?”

  “He wants to rehab a house with a training facility and make services available. The community responded because he wants to use pro bono services from the parish. Everyone would donate a few hours of their time weekly or monthly. This parish is chock-full of professionals. We have doctors, nurses, psychologists, lawyers, teachers—you name it. It could work.”

  “What are you donating?” He couldn’t resist.

  She laughed. “Why, my sparkling personality, of course. Seriously, my stamp of approval was all that was requested—and cash. And connections. I get to make phone calls. It’s awkward—or would be—I need to wait until I have a better handle on what to say. I need to crunch the mission down to one succinct line before I call anyone.”

  “Good luck with that.”

  “Don’t worry—I’m a message cruncher from way back.”

  He laughed. Shana nudged him. She wanted the phone so she gave it to him and stood. He needed to go outside for some of that rejuvenating sea air. He needed to think.

  What the hell was Father Donahue doing? What was he hiding and who the hell was this mother who needed his help? And most importantly—who the hell wanted to steal the baby so badly they’d shoot a nun?

  Maybe it was for money. Maybe Father Donahue was being blackmailed. That would definitely be something to hide.

  Chapter 6

  Dane rapped the knocker on the rectory door while he held an arm around Shana’s shoulders. She reached out and pressed the doorbell button. He heard the chime from deep behind the substantial door.

  “They’d never hear you knock on this fortress.”

  “I was going to try the doorbell next. I like knockers.”

  She turned to him and squinted. He grinned and squeezed her in, smelled her hair, and whispered, “Especially yours.”

  The door opened, saving him from whatever abuse she would have subjected him to. Disappointment wafted through him like a mild breeze as he drew on his mask for the business at hand in the form of a pleasant, bland smile. Shana did the same and she leaned into him in a submissive way that was all pretense. He knew this for a fact.

  They finally met with Father Donahue again. This time he wore his priest uniform with the white collar and black short-sleeved shirt starched and formidable-looking. Sister Anne—or so Dane presumed—sat in a side chair. There were two additional vacant guest chairs ready and waiting for him and Shana. He let Shana sit while he stayed standing. She gave him a very subtle lift of her brow, but accepted his tactics, whatever they were. At least in this he could count on her letting him take the lead without a struggle.

  “This is Sister Anne,” the priest said without preamble. Sister Anne nodded at them. That was the end of the introductions. Evidently, Sister Anne already knew all about who they were.

  “Thank you for taking the time to talk with us, Sister.” Shana was deferential and sincere—and therefore at her best, in his opinion.

  Sister Anne smiled. Shana would have another conversation with the good nun—without Father Donahue chaperoning, and Dane had no doubt the nun would confess all to Shana—recognizing a fellow female protector. Dane couldn’t help the swell of pride in spite of the complete inappropriateness of the timing. He didn’t come out of character for anyone else to see, but he reined himself in and turned to Father Donahue with his no-holds-barred business look—others referred to it as the shark look—and spoke.

  “We’ve done a little research on you, Father. I need you to be completely honest and forthcoming with all the details or we will advise the governor to send in the officials. Today.”

  The priest visibly gulped, but he said nothing for a few beats. Almost long enough for Dane to ask the ladies to leave.

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Would you like me to spell it out for you?” Dane slipped a look at Sister Anne.

  “I thought you wanted to speak with Sister Anne. If not, then perhaps we should speak alone.” He sounded stilted and nervous but resolute, maybe still partly in denial. Clearly, he prioritized saving his reputation. Maybe at all costs.

  But not at the cost of any harm to a baby—not on Dane’s watch.

  “Father, we know you’re being blackmailed.”

  In his peripheral vision, Dane could see Sister Anne’s eyes go wide. Father Donahue jumped to his feet. Dane wasn’t sure if he was going to jump over his desk and attack him, but Donahue was apparently too worried about Sister Anne’s sensibilities—and his very precious reputation. The priest looked at the nun and said, “Excuse us, Sister Anne, please leave us for a few minutes. I’ll call you back in when—”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll go with Sister Anne and talk with her,” Shana said as she stood, reaching for Sister Anne’s arm as a helpful escort.

  “I don’t think—”

  “Don’t worry about Sister Anne, Father,” Dane said with enough steel in his voice to draw the priest’s attention back to him and the matter at hand. Shana’s instincts were good. Sister Anne might know more than Father Donahue wanted her to talk about. The priest was worried. Dane saw the sweat popping out on his otherwise perfectly groomed temples.

  “Have a seat,” Dane said, and he pulled one of the visitor’s chairs up close to the desk, front and center, and leaned forward, invading the priest’s space. The priest sat, slowly.

  “You’re here at my invitation. I want you to protect Paulette. There is no need for—”

  “Lying. There’s no need for lying or hiding things from me.”

  That deflated the priest and he fell back against the cushions of the very cushy chair and looked at Dane with misery in his eyes.

  That gave Dane a momentary spark of empathy, but it evaporated as he thought of Paulette and her mother and the shooter and whatever Father Lothario was hiding.

  “I suppose you’re right. I can’t very well call you in to help and only give you part of the story. I either trust you or I don’t.”

  “That’s right. And besides that, Shana and I—we’re good at our jobs, so we’ll find out everything anyway. And it’ll cost you more. And, this is the most important part, Father, if you’re lying and delays cost the harm of one hair on that baby’s head, you will have us both as enemies for the rest of your life.” He spoke quietly in his best killer voice, but without anger, with only resolve.

  Father Donahue’s skin turned the shade of milky oatmeal, which Dane remembered from childhood and had seen on more than a few men’s faces in his lifetime. Never a good sig
n. He waited for the priest to compose himself.

  “I—I’ll tell you what I know and what I suspect. But believe me when I say, most of this is a mystery to me and I’m counting on you to help—to protect every hair on Paulette’s precious head.”

  Dane nodded. “Good. First question. What means more to you—your reputation or Paulette’s safety?”

  “What? Why—of course, Paulette’s safety.” He’d hesitated enough to set up a permanent distrust in Dane’s mind. There was no guarantee that Father Donahue was telling the truth about that—to himself or Dane. He nodded again.

  “What kind of question is that? It should be—”

  “But it’s not obvious.” Dane finished for him. “When the rubber hits the road and we may need to take chances with your reputation in the name of preventing harm to Paulette, then we need to know we can count on you.”

  The priest remained silent and grim.

  “Question number two—not really a question—give me the note.”

  “I already told you—”

  “Give it to me. I’m a trained professional. One you hired to do a job. I need to see the note for myself.”

  Father Donahue pushed back his chair and stood. His face remained grim—and a little resentful, like a recalcitrant pupil. Dane felt like grinning, but then he remembered baby Paulette—and that this man was her father. He wasn’t sure how well that would turn out—for either of them. But he reined in his resentment and watched the priest go to an antique chest of drawers—small drawers, like an old apothecary cabinet. It was black and ornate but handsome with the kind of patina you couldn’t fake. He slipped a key from his pocket—a very small key—and put it in the keyhole in the top center drawer, turned it, and pulled the drawer handle. He took a slip of white, lined paper from it.

  Dane smelled the perfumed paper from across the desk. Donahue sat and held the note for a beat first and then reached out and put it down in front of Dane. It was still folded.

  Dane read it. Aside from the mildly embarrassing reference to “their song,” it was a desperate plea for help. The writer never said Paulette was Donahue’s daughter, but it was implied—like it went without saying. She asked him to protect Paulette. He looked up at the priest.

  “Question number three. Are you being blackmailed?”

  “Yes. You already knew that—or figured it out.” Donahue bit the words out. Dane waited for more. Because he knew there’d be more.

  “I got careless. Stupid. I got what I deserve.” Father Donahue spoke reasonably, almost academically. “But not Paulette. She doesn’t deserve this.”

  “Tell me everything that happened. From the beginning.”

  “That morning—two days ago—I was in the church, clearing the altar after morning mass.” He paused and pressed his lips together. If Dane could see inside the man’s head he figured there’d be some kind of war going on. The good guys had better win the battle because Dane didn’t relish the idea of getting tough with a priest. But Father D looked across the room at nothing in particular and carried on.

  “I’d just come out of the anteroom. I heard a baby and thought someone had come in so I stepped down off the dais. And right there in front of me, in the front pew, I found the baby. It didn’t register at first that she was abandoned. I looked around for her parents. It was apparent she was a girl—all dressed in pink with a pink blanket. I remember thinking I wouldn’t have much time to spend with the new mother because I had Madeline Grace about to visit at any moment. I sat down next to the baby and couldn’t resist lifting her from the carrier. That’s when I noticed the note. I read it and was stunned. I was so taken aback. I didn’t know what to do. I should have known—I’d been paying blackmail for several months, but it never occurred to me then. The connection didn’t occur to me.” He stopped talking and his eyes wandered to the distance like he was looking back at his life and not liking what he saw.

  Or maybe that was Dane passing judgment. He heaved a deep sigh. In truth, he had no right to judge. Using a more tolerant tone, Dane prompted the priest to go on with his account.

  “I sneaked the baby into the rectory through the backdoor, but that’s where I ran into the governor’s wife. I stopped midstride. She was approaching me from the gate to the front drive. I had the babe in my arms and she had a question in her eyes. Right until she stepped up to me and took the baby from my arms and looked down into her face.

  “Then she looked back up at me and her expression was wary, but I knew she knew, and I wasn’t up to lying to her. She can unnerve a man, that Madeline Grace.”

  “Yes. There’s a lot of that going around.” Dane thought of Shana and wondered how she was doing with her unnerving of Sister Anne.

  “What did you tell Mrs. Governor?”

  “I told her I found the baby abandoned in the front pew of the church. She asked what I was going to do. I decided that was a good sign. A sign of a tolerant soul. So I told her I realized that normally one would call social services in these circumstances, but I would like to find the mother. I wanted very much to have some time to do that.

  “She called her husband then. Took out her phone and dialed without another word and asked him. He asked to speak to me and we struck a deal.”

  “Did you tell the governor you wanted to find the mother because you were concerned about who the baby might be and that you didn’t want her in the system?”

  “Not exactly. I told him I didn’t want her in the system, yes, and that I wanted to find the parents.”

  “And for some reason the governor thought you might be able to find her parents because…?”

  “I told him I had some ideas of who they might be and that it would be best for the parents if we could handle it outside the system.”

  “So you asked for a week and the governor gave it to you.”

  “Yes. Now I have five days left.” The priest gave him a hard stare like maybe he was wasting his time and his money, but Dane didn’t care. This was about Paulette.

  “Who’s the blackmailer?”

  Father Donahue sat back at the abruptness of the question, but answered quickly enough.

  “That’s the million-dollar question. I don’t know.” He looked pained and frustrated now.

  “Not the baby’s mother?”

  “I thought that at first. But now I don’t think so. Why would she leave Paulette with me if she was the blackmailer?”

  “What’s behind this charity project for down-and-out single mothers? Is it a thinly disguised way to help Paulette and her mother on the QT?”

  “No. Well, yes it could help. But I believe in the cause—”

  “Don’t bullshit me.”

  He slumped forward and bent his head forward, resting it in his hands.

  “It was Sister Anne’s idea.”

  Dane had not seen that one coming. He automatically looked toward the anteroom door where Shana and Sister Anne had disappeared.

  “Would you like something cold to drink?” Sister Anne said as she walked to the sideboard in the cozy little den attached to Father Donahue’s office. It was a comfortable, masculine space with all the creature comforts of a man cave—except it was clearly built for a party of one. There was one good, large, worn armchair with an ottoman next to the hearth and positioned in front of a fairly new, fairly large television. The only other chairs were a pair of less substantial side chairs. Shana took a seat in one of them and said she’d love some ice water.

  In truth she’d love something stronger, but that was the breaks with a church case. Sister Anne brought her ice water and took the other side chair. Shana took a sip and set the heavy crystal glass on the small table between them. The church’s decorator could have been a time traveler from the middle ages. The colors were all dark and the style of the hard furnishings like the sideboard was ornate. She focused on Sister Anne.

  “How long have you known?” Shana asked.

  Sister Anne looked down and took a deep breath and gulped again. Sha
na felt like giving her the glass of water, but she knew better than to show mercy at this stage of the investigation. Dane would be proud. She felt like a heel.

  “I don’t know. A while.”

  “Tell me about it.” She didn’t say because it’ll make you feel better but those were the implied next words.

  “I’ve been working at the rectory for about a year and a half now. And I don’t know how long ago it was that I noticed, but at some point I did. I noticed he—Father Donahue going out at night. He’d leave late—I’d be in my room reading and the place would be quiet—shut down for the night—by maybe about nine o’clock or so. He must have thought I was asleep or too busy to notice. At first I didn’t think too much about it and figured he had business and it was none of my business. But after a couple of weeks of pretty regular nighttime absences, he never said anything about it. I waited for him to mention it—for someone to mention it or say something about where he might be going—like to an event or a late-night basketball league or something. Other nights he’d be out—it was earlier and he’d get home by ten or so. But these nights when he went out late, well, I had no idea what time he came in at first. And then one night I decided to find out. After I got curious and could no longer invent excuses for him. I waited up.”

  “Did you confront him when he came in?”

  “Yes. I waited up in the kitchen and he came in that way, through the backdoor. He stopped short and looked guilty as sin the second he saw me. I didn’t even say a thing. He didn’t say a thing. Not that night.”

  “Nothing?”

  “Not a word. He rushed past me and went up the back stairs and left me in the drafty kitchen with the door wide open behind him. Maybe he thought I was going to chase him down and demand an explanation or something. He was in a hurry to get away.”

  She sighed and looked pensive for a beat and Shana let the nun gather herself. She had a feeling Sister Anne was glad to be getting this off her chest and Shana didn’t mind playing therapist for a few more minutes.