The Curious Case of the Missing Figurehead: A Novel (A Professor and Mrs. Littlefield Mystery)

by Diane Noble

  “It’s hard enough to open yourself to such vulnerability in a loving relationship. But after you’ve been betrayed—and by the same man who is trying to win you—it must be a hundred times harder.”

  She nodded. “I told him I needed time.” She blew her nose and gave me a watery smile. “He knows it’s an issue, and he wants to talk to you about it.”

  I drew in a deep breath. “Whoa. Me? One more question,” I said and reached for her hand. “Does Chloe Grace know Sandy is her father?”

  “No. She thinks he’s my friend.”

  The doorbell rang, and I grabbed my wallet and headed for the door. Saved by the delivery man.

  Except, when I opened the door, Sandy grinned at me with the pizza box in his hands. Behind him, I saw the familiar pizza sign on the top of a car pulling away from the curb.

  “I intercepted your delivery man,” he said, and when I reached into my wallet, he shook his head. “Please, put that away. This one’s on me.”

  Katie’s face lit up as she stood and watched him come toward her. He was still as good looking as ever. Tall, broad shouldered, coloring the same as Chloe Grace’s. Even his eyes were the same shade.

  He strode to where Katie stood waiting, set the pizza box on the counter, and gave her a hug. She smiled into his eyes, but the moment had ended—thank the Lord—before Chloe Grace came running into the kitchen.

  “Let’s eat, shall we?” I said, my voice perkier than I felt. “Chloe Grace, help me set the table, will you?”

  “Let me help you, C.G.” Sandy winked at her, making her grin stretch even wider. They went together to the kitchen sink to wash their hands. He gave her a lesson in scrubbing thoroughly the way surgeons do before operating. Her eyes were wide.

  “You do that every day? Operate on people?”

  He squatted so he was at eye level with the child. “Not every day, but lots of times during the week. The rest of the time, I see patients in my office.” He stood again and reached for the pizza as I handed Chloe Grace the flatware.

  “Holy cannoli,” Chloe Grace said, looking up at him with wonder as he placed the pizza at the center of the table. “Would you operate on me if I got sick? Or how about Gramsy? Or Mommy?”

  Sandy laughed, patted the top of her head, and then sat down beside her. “Sure,” he said. “But I don’t think we need to worry about that for a long, long time. Look at you, you’re as healthy as any seven-year-old I’ve ever seen.”

  I sat across from him and had a good view of his eyes. I thought I detected a shadow of regret as he mentioned her age. He’d lost all those years with her. There was no getting them back. He and Katie might reconcile, perhaps remarry, but that kind of desertion can never be completely erased.

  I didn’t know if I could hold my tongue when it came to telling him how I felt. Knowing myself, I probably couldn’t.

  After Katie took Chloe Grace upstairs to brush her teeth and get into her PJs, Sandy helped me load the dishwasher. “I’d hoped to have a private conversation with you,” he said when we finished. “Is now a good time?”

  I nodded. “Yes. Please sit.”

  He waited while I popped some frozen cookies into the microwave. And then I sat opposite him.

  “Katie told you about us … what’s been happening over the past few weeks.”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned toward me earnestly. “It started with a longing to see my daughter. I wanted to be part of her life. I knew—know—I made a huge mistake when I left them all those years ago. I’d hoped that I could just see her from time to time.”

  “You never sent a penny of child support. Katie put you through medical school, and as soon as you graduated, you left her for someone else. She sacrificed everything for you. You left her penniless and devastated with a newborn infant.” I stood, unable to look at him. My hands were trembling when I reached for the plate of cookies. I closed my eyes and counted backward from ten to calm myself.

  When I turned, concern was written on his face. “I know I have no right to ask this of you, but do you think you could give me another chance?”

  “It’s taken Katie years to get over you, to get her life together. She’s done a stellar job of raising Chloe Grace. It’s taken her almost seven years to complete her degree—she’ll graduate with honors this coming year. She did that while working two jobs most of those years.

  “And now you come waltzing back into her life and want to patch everything up?”

  “Everything you say is true,” he said quietly. “I have no right to ask for another chance. To ask for your daughter’s hand in marriage again.” He shook his head slowly, his shoulders slumped.

  For a moment, neither of us spoke. Then he said, “Is there any way I can prove it to you?”

  “Prove it?”

  “Prove to you, to Katie, and to my daughter, that I want us to be a family. I’ve changed. I’m not the same man I was seven years ago. How can I convince you?”

  I thought again about the need to forgive seventy times seven. Much easier said than done, in my thinking. How I wished Hyacinth were here to be part of this conversation. She knew firsthand the heartache Katie had endured; she’d been there once herself. She’d have some choice words for the man sitting in front of me.

  She was also all about forgiveness. And deep down, so was I. And about second chances, when it came right down to it.

  But that was an easy position to hold when considering anyone except my beloved daughter and granddaughter. After what he’d done, after the devastation my daughter suffered, I really didn’t think I could live it out.

  I stood and placed my hands on my hips. “You have some nerve, waltzing in here—the great Sandborn Ainsley, MD—to sweep my daughter off her feet the way you did seven years ago.

  “You don’t deserve reconciliation. You don’t deserve Katie or Chloe Grace. You hurt Katie deeply and that’s very hard for a mother to forgive. You are asking too much.”

  He stared at me as if I’d stolen candy right out of his hand.

  “As for second chances,” I said, taking a step closer to him, “I don’t think so, at least not from me. Not yet. Already, I can see that you are stealing my granddaughter’s heart. I only hope you don’t trample it the way you did her mother’s. And you’ve said nothing about love.”

  Instead of giving me the sharp retort I expected, he moved his gaze to the entrance to the dining room.

  Before I turned I knew who was standing there. Chloe Grace. Big tears filled her eyes and her light spray of freckles stood out against her white face. I knew she’d heard my scathing words. My heart threatened to break.

  Chapter Twenty

  Hyacinth

  Hyacinth settled into the space she’d made for herself in the rental truck. She’d tucked some dirt-smudged quilts into place behind the crate that she assumed held the Lady. It was the right size, but then so were others. She fought the urge to drift off. She needed to be awake if someone opened the back of the truck.

  She checked the phone she’d lifted off the thief she called Child. It had gone from “no signal” status to zero percent battery power. Frowning, she put it back in her pocket.

  The rental truck bounced along the road on its way to heaven only knew where. They stopped for gas; she heard voices outside the truck, the click of the gas cap, and then the flow of gasoline. She held her breath, waiting for one of the men to open the back of the truck to check on its contents.

  The problem was, as usual, she needed a ladies’ room. And she was thirsty. And hungry.

  She pondered the problem. Even if she could slip out without being seen, there was probably a parking lot to cross. She might be a bit tattered because of all she’d been through, but there was no mistaking her bright curly red hair with magenta streaks; her bright, though wrinkled and dirty, colorful top; and—she sighed—the skinny jeans with r
hinestones on the derriere.

  She stood, the image of a restroom with running water taunting her. She moved to the door and tried to raise it. It was one of those lift-up types that rolled up into the ceiling of the body, so it would make a lot of noise. The men were likely to notice immediately.

  Hyacinth gave the door a quick once-over, mentally measuring how much she’d need to open it in order to slip out. She was a beautifully built woman of a certain size—she never thought of herself as a double-digit number on a clothing tag, only in terms of being beautifully built. Or wonderfully made, if she thought about it in biblical terms.

  She was nimble and quick. She could do this. The image of a bathroom became fixated in her mind. Thirst became stronger than caution. She knelt and gently pulled up on the handle, so she wouldn’t make any noise.

  It wouldn’t budge. She tried it again. And again. She fell back onto a short stack of moving quilts in dismay. Maybe it was just as well. She still hadn’t solved the dilemma of being seen … and recognized.

  She looked down at the quilts, and an idea took root. She grinned and yanked at the handle, harder this time. It moved. She pulled it up just far enough to squeeze through. A gust of fresh air entered the truck, and she breathed it in gratefully.

  She dropped to the floor and peered out. The rear of the truck faced a dollar store in the center of a strip mall with half its storefronts boarded up. Rusted grocery carts were scattered in every direction. She smelled fast food, which made her stomach growl but also told her the men might be taking a food break.

  She wriggled underneath the rolling door and dropped to the ground, thankful she’d landed feetfirst. She reached back into the truck for a quilt, shook it out, and wrapped it around her head and shoulders.

  Hyacinth forced herself to walk with slow steps, shoulders stooped and head down, to the nearest rusty shopping cart. She tried to push it forward, but it had a wonky wheel and wobbled sideways, jerking her along with it. She almost giggled. The wonky wheel added a nice touch. She’d never been inebriated in her life, but she imagined that someone watching her right now might think she was.

  The thieves had no idea she’d hitched a ride. Even so, she didn’t feel entirely safe in her disguise.

  Creeping around the gas pumps, she got a better view of the mini-mart and adjoining fast-food joint. Sure enough, there were Lagasse and Child sitting at a counter, facing her way. They seemed to be in a heated conversation, animated hand gestures flying between bites of greasy burger.

  She huddled closer to the wire cart and wobbled faster to the mini-mart entrance. Now out of the thieves’ range of vision, she removed the quilt, dropped it into the cart, and scurried across the store to the restroom area.

  She knew she didn’t have much time, so she gulped as much water as she could hold, drinking straight from the faucet. A middle-aged woman with thin permed hair and glasses came in, stopped and stared, her mouth dropping open.

  “Sorry,” Hyacinth said, water dripping from her chin. “I’m just so thirsty.” She bent her head and drank again.

  “Is there anything I can do for you?” the woman said. “I saw you come in with the cart. Are you going through tough times?”

  She reached into her purse. “Is there anything you need? Bottled water? Food? I can buy you a meal next door.”

  Her kindness touched Hyacinth, but every second counted if she was going to make it back to the truck undiscovered. “I’m in a hurry, but I need you to get in touch with someone for me. Would you do that?”

  The woman nodded.

  “Do you have paper and a pen?”

  The woman reached into her purse again and pulled out both, and handed them to Hyacinth. She wrote El’s name at the top and then her phone number. “Call her, tell her you saw me and that I’m fine. I would do it myself, but my phone battery is dead. Tell her where we are …”

  The woman studied the paper. “Yes, fine. I’ll do that.” Then she looked back to Hyacinth as if she recognized her from someplace.

  “Thank you,” Hyacinth said. “You have no idea how fortuitous your coming in here right now is. Thank you.”

  Hyacinth raced into one of the stalls to do her business, and the woman left without another word.

  A few minutes later, she left the ladies’ room and headed for the cart and quilt, just beyond the glass door. The woman she’d given El’s cell number to was talking to the clerk at the cash register. She gestured toward the restroom as if telling him who or what she’d witnessed. Puzzled, Hyacinth quickly ducked behind a shelf filled with paperbacks and DVDs.

  She had put her trust in this woman’s kindness, but now it appeared she might have turned her in to the management. Her heart fell as the clerk strode over to the hallway leading to the ladies’ room.

  Hyacinth hurried back out the front entrance, grabbed the quilt, and wrapped it around her body, covering her head. She revved up the speed on the cart, its wobbly wheel rebelling every step of the way. After a glance into the fast-food joint—where she saw the men emptying their wrappers into the trash can—she abandoned the cart. With a fast shuffle, she moved toward the truck, rounded the corner, and dove into the opening, slamming the door behind her.

  It was only then she realized she’d left the quilt on the ground behind the truck. And it was too late to retrieve it.

  She plopped onto the stack of quilts behind the crate, breathing hard as she tried to catch her breath. Several minutes passed. She scrunched her eyes closed and waited to hear the doors of the cab open and close. It didn’t happen.

  Suddenly she heard voices from outside. They moved toward the back of the truck. She cringed, wishing she’d remembered the quilt. There was an expletive, some questions, and then laughter.

  She sat up to hear better as the back door lifted and someone tossed in the quilt. “Somebody’s loss is our gain,” one of the men said, laughing. It sounded like the one she called Lagasse.

  Then Child said, “Wait a minute. These look exactly like the ones in the truck. Here’s the logo.”

  “You don’t suppose …?” Lagasse said, his voice taking on an edge. “You don’t suppose that … that woman somehow caught up with us.”

  “You’re paranoid,” Julia Child said. “Of course not. How’d she get here, anyway?” His laugh was condescending. “Thumbin’ a ride?”

  “Well, I’m gonna just have a look-see for myself. Make sure all’s clear. You know how the boss can be. He thinks we got rid of her.”

  She heard the creak of metal as one of them pushed up the door.

  Hyacinth’s entire body ached something fierce. She kept her eyes closed for a few minutes, trying to determine where she was and how she got there. And why her head felt like a watermelon that had been dropped on concrete.

  The scent of damp, freshly mown grass filled her nostrils, birdsong twittered down from overhead, and from a short distance away, the sounds of a rollicking spiritual sung by heavenly voices carried toward her. Clapping accompanied the music, peppered by several hearty shouts of “Amen” and “Praise the Lord.” The organist played with such enthusiasm that Hyacinth pictured a bouncing bum on the bench and dancing feet on the pedals.

  She opened her eyes, slowly sat up, and looked around. Tombstones. Old tombstones. She was in a graveyard, of all things. How did she get here? She tried to remember, but she was still too groggy to make sense of it. Judging by the tombstone nearest her, she’d apparently spent the night near a man named Samuel “Uncle Sam” Johnson, who was beloved by his family and had been born in 1830 and died in 1879.

  At the bottom a gentle grassy slope sat a small country church. Its steeple rose from a pitched roof, and its windows and front doors were flung wide open.

  The congregation launched into another song, just as rollicking as the one she’d woken to. “Oh, happy day …!”

  She stood and stretched, looked down
at her tattered and soiled clothing, and shuddered. A glance around told her the thugs she’d been with had finally succeeded in getting rid of her. They hadn’t even given her one of the quilts.

  The vision of that quilt, the one she’d wrapped around herself to slip into the convenience store, brought it all back to her. She reached up and touched the back of her head. When she felt a lump the size of Rhode Island, she nearly cried out. One of the thieves had certainly knocked her out cold. Again.

  She was thirsty and famished, so the first task at hand was to make her way to the church and ask for help.

  It took some doing, given her hunger, thirst, and the state of her throbbing head. But she made it. She spotted a rusted bike leaning against a shed at the back of the church. She certainly didn’t feel like hopping on and riding away right now.

  The singing faded, and as she drew closer, she heard the preacher working up a head of steam, preaching about being ready for the Second Coming. He paused after each fiery sentence and the congregation shouted “Amen” or “Preach it, brother!”

  Hyacinth hesitated at the entrance, worried about interrupting the sermon just when he seemed to really get going. But she took a deep breath and stepped inside. A woman about her age and robust size stood by the door with a stack of bulletins in her hand. She started to hand one to Hyacinth, but instead of taking it, Hyacinth motioned for her to come outside.

  “I’m in need of some help,” she said, after they’d stepped away from the open doors and windows.

  “Then you’ve come to the right place.” The woman’s expression was kind, her dark eyes seemed to see more than just a tattered and tired woman on the church doorstep. “You look like you’ve been on quite a journey.”