The Lottery Winner

by Mary Higgins Clark

  “But Gregg will be with her.”

  “That poor guy’s so exhausted, the doctor said he could fall asleep standing up.” The detective nodded as he received a signal from the lieutenant. “We’re on our way downtown now. We’ll keep you posted, Mrs. Meehan. And thank you.”

  I’m going to go too, Alvirah decided, then realized Cordelia was bearing down on her.

  “Alvirah, I hate to do this to you, but won’t you please stay until noon? I really need the help.”

  “Sure, Cordelia. What do you want me to do?”

  “Sort the baby clothes. They’re such a jumble again. A lot of the sizes got mixed up last night. Some people are just so inconsiderate.”

  Cordelia hesitated, then said, “Alvirah, after you called last night, we were talking about the missing baby and everything, and Sister Bernadette said something that I’ve been wondering about ever since. She said that someone called and asked if we had baby clothes in the thrift shop. The caller said her granddaughter was visiting with her new baby and that her suitcase with the baby’s clothes had been stolen.”

  “Did the caller give her name?” Alvirah asked.

  “No. Sister Bernadette is sure she recognized the voice but she can’t put a face to it.” Then Cordelia shrugged. “Are we all grasping at straws?”

  * * *

  Somehow for the next hour Alvirah managed to keep a smile on her face as she sorted and matched and stacked the baby apparel. The hardest moment came when at the bottom of the leftover pile she found a tiny yellow wool jacket with narrow white satin nuching on the hood. It reminded her of the bunting.

  Then her eyes widened. Was it possible, she wondered? Could this jacket belong with the bunting? It must. In fact, she was sure of it! The same fine quality wool, the satin ruching. It must have been separated from the bunting and not been included in the shipment that went to the outlet near the Port Authority. She would turn it over to the police. At least that way they’d know the exact color and texture of the bunting.

  “Can I see that, please?”

  Alvirah turned. A woman of about thirty stood at her elbow. She was wearing a nondescript ski jacket and jeans. Her dark hair had a wide white streak down the center.

  Alvirah felt a sickening lurch in her stomach. The woman was the right size, the right age. And no wonder she had worn a blond wig and a scarf. Anyone would notice that bizarre hair. She would be easy to spot and to remember.

  The woman looked at her curiously. “You got a problem?”

  Silently, Alvirah handed the jacket to the woman. She did not want to say anything. She didn’t want the woman to pay attention to her, perhaps to recognize her. But then as suddenly as she had reached for it, the woman tossed the jacket down and hurried to the door.

  Oh God, it is her, Alvirah thought. And she recognized me. Not waiting to get her coat, she rushed to the door, but in her haste she tripped over the pull-toy a toddler was dragging, and fell. “Wait!” she called.

  Hands reached to pick her up. The mother of the toddler tried to apologize. Alvirah brushed past them and hurried onto the street. By the time she got to the sidewalk, the woman was halfway down the block.

  “Wait!” Alvirah shouted again.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder and began to run.

  Passersby looked at Alvirah curiously as she pushed her way through the crowded streets. Un-heedful of the chill wind and the snow that was starting to fall, she ran, keeping the woman in sight, hoping to see a cop.

  The woman abruptly turned left on Eighty-first Street. Alvirah caught up with her when she stopped at a car that was parked in front of the Museum of Natural History.

  The driver of the car jumped out. “What’s the matter, Dorine?”

  “Eddie, this woman is crazy. She’s following me.”

  The man hurried around the car and confronted Alvirah, who was panting for breath. “What’s your problem?” he demanded.

  Alvirah glanced into the backseat of the vehicle. A toddler and an infant were strapped in child seats. The infant had a mass of dark hair. “I was following you,” she gasped to the young woman, “but I see I’ve made a mistake. I’m sorry. When you picked up that little jacket, I thought you might be someone else. Then when you threw it down, I was sure you’d recognized me.”

  “I put it down ‘cause I could tell it’s too small for my kid,” she said, nodding toward the baby in the infant seat. “As for you, I never laid eyes on you, and the look you gave me, I thought you were nuts.” Then she smiled broadly. “Hey, listen, it’s okay. It’s Christmas Eve. Everybody gets a little unstrung, right?”

  Alvirah slowly retraced her steps to the thrift shop. I’m chilled to the bone, she thought. I’ll phone the police and let them pick up the jacket and I’ll go home.

  When she reached the thrift shop, she fended off questions the other volunteers threw at her. “It was nothing. I thought I knew that woman.” Then she headed for the table where she’d left the little yellow jacket. It was gone.

  Oh no! she thought. Tara, a teenage volunteer, was working nearby. “Tara, did you notice someone pick up an infant-sized yellow wool hooded jacket?” Alvirah asked her.

  “Yeah, just about three minutes ago. I’d helped her pick out some other stuff, clothes and blankets and sheets, then she spotted the jacket and was real pleased. She said that the other day she’d found the rest of the outfit in a different thrift shop. I guess it went with leggings or something. Wasn’t that lucky?”

  Alvirah thought her knees would buckle. “What did the woman look like?”

  Tara shrugged. “Oh, I don’t know. Dark hair. About your height. Late twenties or so. She had on a dark gray, no a dark blue ski jacket. If you ask me, she should have looked at the racks of women’s clothes while she was at it.”

  But Alvirah was no longer listening. For an instant she thought about taking the time to call for help, but she knew that every second was vital. She grabbed the teenager by the hand. “Come with me.”

  “Hey, I’m supposed to—”

  “I said, come!”

  As they rushed out the door, Cordelia was emerging from the back room. “Alvirah!” she shouted. “What’s wrong?”

  Alvirah took an instant to reply. “Send for the police. The kidnapper was here a few minutes ago.”

  Columbus Avenue was crowded with shoppers. Alvirah looked around hopelessly and stopped. “You said the woman had taken other things. What did she carry them in?”

  “Two of our big white shopping bags.”

  “If the bags are heavy, she won’t be able to move too fast,” Alvirah said, more to herself than to the girl.

  Tara seemed to suddenly understand what had triggered Alvirah’s reaction. “Mrs. Meehan, do you think the jacket went with the yellow bunting the cops were questioning us about? The bags were so heavy that I asked that woman how far she had to go and she said, not too far, just up to Ninetieth Street and over a few blocks.”

  Alvirah wanted to kiss Tara. Instead, she snapped, “Now listen hard. You go back inside and tell all this to Sister Cordelia. Tell her to have the cops blanket the area between here and Ninetieth Street. Tell her we’re closing in on Baby Bunting!”

  * * *

  The early morning’s pleasant mood that Wanda Brown had found so endearing in her granddaughter did not last. The baby had started fussing after her ten o’clock bottle and would not be soothed. Wanda didn’t dare raise the subject of more baby clothes again.

  Vonny grumbled and cursed and finally, to escape the infant’s wails, headed for the thrift shop. Now, as she hauled the heavy shopping bags through the snowy streets back to her grandmother’s apartment, the seven blocks from Eighty-sixth to Ninetieth and West End started to feel like miles.

  As she trudged angrily along, her nerves felt raw and stretched. “Damn kid,” she said aloud. “Damn pest, just like the others.”

  The baby was still screaming when she got back. Wanda, looking frayed and weary, held it in her arms, rock
ing it gently.

  “What’s the matter with her now?” Vonny snapped.

  “I don’t think she feels well, Vonny,” Wanda said apologetically. “I think she’s a little feverish. I don’t think you should take her out today. I think it would be a mistake.”

  Without acknowledging Wanda’s remarks, Vonny crossed to her grandmother and looked at the baby. “Shut up!” she yelled.

  Wanda felt her throat go dry. Vonny had that look, that angry scowl, that stubborn, blank expression in her eyes. Wanda had seen it before, knew how dangerous it could be. Still, she had to tell her. “Vonny, dear, Sister Maeve Marie phoned after you left. She’s coming in a few minutes with the Christmas basket. They started delivering them early because the weather’s turning bad.”

  Vonny’s eyebrows molded together to form a single, angry black slash across her forehead. “Did you ask her to come early, Grandma?”

  “No, dear.” Wanda patted the baby’s back. “Ssh . . . Oh, Vonny, her chest is getting raspy.”

  “She’ll be fine when I get to Pittsburgh.” Vonny stomped into the other room with the shopping bags, then returned immediately. “I don’t want to talk to that nun, or to show my baby to her. Give her to me. I’ll bring her into the bedroom until that nun is gone.”

  * * *

  Alvirah hurried uptown, her eyes constantly roving back and forth as she passed the intersections. Along the way she stopped passersby to ask if they’d seen a woman in a dark blue ski jacket carrying two white shopping bags.

  At Eighty-sixth and Broadway she lucked out. A news vendor said he had seen a woman of that description zigzag across the street. “She went toward West End,” he said.

  At Eighty-eighth and West End Avenue, an old man pulling a shopping cart claimed a woman with white shopping bags had passed him. He said he remembered because she had set her bags down for a minute. “She was mumbling to herself and swearing,” he said disapprovingly. “Some holiday spirit.”

  The first squad cars arrived as Alvirah reached Eighty-ninth Street. Tara had obviously given an excellent account of what had happened. “We’re going to canvass this whole area,” a sergeant told her crisply. “If necessary, we’ll make a house-to-house search. Why don’t you go home, Mrs. Meehan?”

  “I can’t,” Alvirah said.

  The sergeant looked at her with compassion. “You’re going to get pneumonia. At least sit in the squad car and stay warm. Let us take over from here.”

  It was at that moment that Sister Maeve Marie came up the block, carrying a heavy basket. Her short veil fluttered in the wind. Like Sister Corde lia, she chose to wear an ankle-length habit. When she saw Alvirah talking to the cop, her expression became startled. Moving as rapidly as she could, she hurried over. A former police officer herself, she knew the sergeant. “Hello, Tom,” she said, then asked, “Alvirah, what’s wrong?”

  When she heard, she exclaimed, “The baby’s kidnapper is in the neighborhood? God be praised!” Immediately the cop in her took over. “Tom, have you sealed off the neighborhood?”

  “That’s what we’re doingjust now, Maeve. We’ll be going from door to door in every building, making inquiries. But please try to persuade Mrs. Meehan to wait in the car. She looks like she’s going to keel over.”

  “Alvirah won’t keel over,” Maeve said briskly as other squad cars screeched into the block. “Alvirah, help me deliver the baskets. Two of us can move faster. Some of our people will be more likely to talk to us than to the cops. The van is parked at the corner.” She looked at the sergeant. “Illegally parked.”

  It was something to do. It was action. And Alvirah knew that Maeve was right. For fear of repercussions, old and sick people often didn’t want to get involved by cooperating with the police, even when they might know something critical. “Let’s go,” she said.

  “I have four deliveries on this block,” Maeve told her.

  The first basket went to an elderly couple who had not been outdoors since Thanksgiving. Their neighbor did their shopping for them. Alvirah rang that neighbor’s bell.

  When she came to the door, she talked freely. “No,” she said, “I’m in and out all the time and I’m one to gab with people, and nobody mentioned a new baby in this building.” Nor had she seen anybody carrying a baby in a yellow bunting in the neighborhood.

  The second delivery, three buildings away, was to a ninety-year-old woman and her seventy-year-old daughter. When Maeve introduced Alvirah, they knew all about her. Willy had replaced their toilet. “What a wonderful man,” they told her. Unfortunately, they knew nothing about a baby.

  At the third house, a woman with three small children had packages under the tree. “All of them from the thrift shop,” she confided in a whisper. “The kids are dying to see what’s in them.”

  But she too knew nothing about a woman with dark hair who had a new baby.

  “This is it,” Maeve told Alvirah as they shared carrying the last basket. “Wanda Brown is the nicest old woman. She’s pretty crippled with arthritis and doesn’t have any relatives except a granddaughter who lives somewhere in Pennsylvania. She doesn’t talk about her much, but apparently the poor girl’s experienced a lot of tragedy. She had two babies that died as infants.”

  They were about to enter the building at the corner of West End and Ninetieth Street. Down the block they could see policemen going from house to house. Then Alvirah and Maeve stared at each other. “Maeve, are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Alvirah demanded.

  “Sister Bernadette’s call from someone asking about the thrift shop because her granddaughter had a new baby and no clothes for it. Oh, dear God, Alvirah, I’ll get Tom.”

  Some raw instinct made Alvirah pull her back. “No! Let’s get into that apartment now.”

  * * *

  Vonny stood at the window watching the police activity below. The baby was lying on the bed, its cries reduced to tired whimpers. Then she saw a nun and another woman heading for the entrance ten floors below. Between them, they were carrying a basket.

  Vonny went out to the living room. “I think your Christmas basket is coming, Grandma,” she said flatly. “Remember, not one word about me and the baby.”

  Wanda smiled timidly. “Whatever you want, dear.”

  Vonny went back into the bedroom. The baby was asleep. Lucky for you, she thought.

  “It’s a three-room apartment,” Maeve whispered as she rang the bell and called, “It’s me, Wanda, Sister Maeve Marie.”

  Alvirah nodded. Every ounce of her being was vibrating. Please, dear Lord. Please!

  * * *

  The bell, a loud and raucous sound, echoed through the apartment. In the bedroom, the startled infant jumped and began to wail. An angry Vonny grabbed a sock, bent over the bed and scooped up the baby.

  Wanda Brown made her painful way to the door. Smiling nervously, she greeted Sister Maeve. “Oh, you’re too good,” she sighed.

  “Mrs. Meehan is helping me deliver the baskets,” Maeve told her.

  Alvirah brushed past the older woman, carrying the basket of food into the apartment. Her eyes raced over the small foyer and the cluttered living room. But there was no one else there. She could see into the kitchen. Pots were stacked on the stove, dishes piled on the table. But she could see nothing to indicate the presence of a baby.

  The bedroom door was ajar, and through the narrow crack she could make out the unmade bed and two sides of the narrow room. It had to be empty.

  She scrutinized the living room. There was nothing here to indicate the presence of a baby, either.

  “Wanda,” Maeve was asking, “were you the one who called about your granddaughter needing clothes for her baby? Sister Bernadette thought she recognized your voice.”

  Wanda paled. Vonny was up to her old tricks, hiding behind half-opened doors and listening. She’d be furious. And Vonny in one of her rages . . .

  “Oh, no,” Wanda said, her voice quavering. “Why would I do that? I haven’t seen Vonny in nearly five years
. She lives in Pittsburgh.”

  Alvirah knew that the look of intense disappointment in Maeve’s eyes was mirrored in her own.

  “Well, enjoy Christmas,” Maeve said. “We’ll leave the basket on the kitchen table. The turkey is still warm, but be sure to refrigerate it after you’ve had dinner.”

  Alvirah’s sense of urgency was overwhelming. Her premonition that the baby was in danger seemed stronger than ever. She wanted to get out of that apartment, to keep looking for her. She hurried across the room with the basket, carrying it into the kitchen. Then, as she turned, the sleeve of her sweater caught the door handle of the refrigerator, and the door swung open. She was about to close it when her eyes fastened on a half-empty baby bottle on the top shelf.

  “You did make that call!” Alvirah yelled at Wanda as she burst back into the living room. “Your granddaughter is here. Where is she? What did she do with Marianne?”

  Wanda’s terrified glance at the bedroom was enough to give Alvirah the answer she needed. With Maeve on her heels, she charged toward the door.

  Vonny stepped out from behind it. She was holding the baby at arm’s length in front of her. The infant’s mouth was gagged with an old sock and her eyes were bulging. “You want her,” Vonny screamed. “Here, take her!”

  Alvirah had just enough time in that split second to raise her arms, pluck the infant from midair and cradle it to her breast. An instant later, Maeve had yanked the gag from around Marianne’s mouth, and the blessed wail of an angry infant filled the apartment.

  * * *

  The ambulance raced down Ninth Avenue, its siren blasting as it rushed toward Empire Hospital. The medic in charge was bending over Marianne, who, securely strapped on the stretcher, was staring up at him.

  “She’s a tough little bird,” he said happily. “Other than a slight cold, I’d say she seems to be in remarkably good shape, considering the adventure she’s been through.”

  Alvirah was sitting beside the stretcher, her eyes firmly fixed on the baby. Sister Maeve Marie was seated next to her, wreathed in smiles.