Cockatiels at Seven (18 page)

“How can she just leave him here like this?” I said.

“I know it feels like a big imposition,” Michael began.

“Screw the imposition,” I said. “I’m not talking about the effect on us. Clearly Timmy needs a safe place to stay for whatever reason—no problem. He can absolutely stay here as long as he needs to. But what kind of a mother could leave her kid somewhere for
three days with people she doesn’t know that well, on no notice, and not even call to see if he’s okay?”

“A pretty lousy mother,” Michael said. “Which Karen isn’t, as far as I can see.”

“You’ve only met her a couple of times,” I said. “How can you possibly know what kind of a mother she is?”

“From Timmy. He’s a pretty good kid. Rambunctious and headstrong—I suspect she’s a little more indulgent than I would be—kids need limits. But then again, we don’t know what he’s like at home, under normal, unstressed conditions. I suspect she does a decent job of parenting, so dumping him here on no notice and disappearing for days isn’t in character. Which means there must be something else going on. I have no idea what.”

“I have a whole lot of ideas,” I said. “None of them reassuring.”

“Such as?”

“Maybe she only planned to leave Timmy here a little while but hasn’t come back or called because she was physically unable. She could be dead, seriously ill, kidnapped, in jail, in a looney bin, or traveling on a spaceship to the third moon of Jupiter with a malfunctioning deep space radio.”

“Plausible,” he said. “Well, except for the spaceship theory. No one goes to the moons of Jupiter anymore. So twentieth century! Alpha Centauri, maybe.”

I smiled to show that I appreciated his attempt to lighten my mood, not because anything was going to strike me as funny under the circumstances. Michael shoved his hand into a sock, waggled two fingers at me
through a hole in the toe, and then pulled it off and tossed it into the rag bin. Okay, I chuckled slightly at that.

“Second possibility.” I went on. “She is physically able to come back or communicate with us if she wanted to, but has some reason not to. Which would pretty much boil down to bad guys after her, and she’s afraid to lead them here, or even to communicate with us. Afraid of involving us—and Timmy—in whatever danger she thinks is after her.”

Michael paused with a half-folded towel in his hands to ponder that.

“Problem with that theory is that Timmy’s whereabouts aren’t exactly secret,” he said. “Anyone who really wanted to find him could, anytime.”

“So maybe she’s only afraid that something will happen to her and doesn’t want it to happen with Timmy nearby,” I said.

“Or maybe she was—and is—too stressed out to think it through and realize that someone trying to find her could use Timmy as leverage. As a hostage.”

“Which would mean Timmy’s in danger.”

We both involuntarily glanced up at the ceiling. We could hear Timmy squealing with delight at something.

“I’ll kill anyone who tries it,” I said. “Maybe I should take him away someplace. Hide him until this blows over.”

“I’d feel better if you were both here, with lots of friends and family around,” Michael said. “I think that’s safer in the long run than trying to go it alone. And frankly, Karen on the run from bad guys doesn’t seem
to me the most likely option. I can think of at least one you haven’t mentioned yet.”

“Such as?”

“She’s dodging the police. Not necessarily because she’s done anything wrong,” he added, seeing my face. “But what if she’s afraid they’ll arrest her—for Jasper’s murder, or for the embezzlement—and thinks she needs to be free to clear herself?”

“Seems unlikely,” I said, shaking my head.

“Are you the only person who thinks maybe she could do a better job of finding the bad guys than the police?”

“I don’t think I can do a better job,” I protested. “Chief Burke has the skills and the resources. But he’s got other things on his plate, and you can’t expect him to drop them all to focus on looking for Karen and—”

“And you can,” Michael said. “What if Karen feels the same way and is off doing what she thinks is the best thing for her and Timmy’s future?”

“So we trust Karen?” I said, after a bit.

“We keep our minds open,” Michael said. “And how about if I drop by the station tomorrow and make Chief Burke aware of our concerns about Timmy’s safety?”

“You think he won’t listen to me?”

“I think maybe he’ll be more inclined to listen to me when I do my concerned, overprotective husband routine. And did I mention that I offered to give Dr. Driscoll a ride tomorrow? I’m sure he won’t mind coming into the station for a few minutes to look stern and disapproving if the chief doesn’t take me seriously enough.”

“And since Dr. Driscoll is Karen’s department head,” I said, nodding.

“More important, Dr. Driscoll’s department ultimately oversees the Camcops, with whom Chief Burke is working so hard to build a more congenial relationship . . . .”

“Oh, excellent,” I said.

“Normally I like to avoid all this town versus college political stuff,” Michael said, shaking his head. “But this is serious.”

“Thanks,” I said. We folded and hung in amicable silence for a few minutes, until I came across a t-shirt I’d never seen before.

“This isn’t yours, is it?” I asked, holding it up.

“No,” he said. “What’s ‘Death Cab for Cutie’?”

“A band Rob likes,” I said. “I don’t mind him using the washer and dryer, but I draw the line at doing his laundry for him.”

“It could be the t-shirt Timmy puked on,” Michael said.

“Puked? When? Why didn’t anyone tell me?”

“Relax,” Michael said. “This morning, before you got up. It was only a little bit, and it only happened because Rob was tossing him in the air too soon after breakfast. He’s fine.”

Okay, Timmy was fine. But if taking care of kids was going to turn me into a nervous wreck . . .

I’d worry about that later. We finished folding all the laundry and Michael offered to put it all away. The laundry room was empty—well, except for the snakes. I stuck out my tongue at them—after all, they’d been flicking theirs at me for hours now. They didn’t seem to notice.

Up in the kitchen, Rose Noire was fixing dinner—for the rest of us as well as Timmy. Mother, of course, was supervising. I heard a lively game of tag going on in the hallway and went out to see. I found Dr. Blake sitting on the hall bench, watching as Dad, Rob, and Timmy raced up the stairs.

“So,” he said, when the giggling had retreated to the second floor. “I understand you had quite an exciting day!”

I blinked in surprise, and glanced quickly over my shoulder to make sure he was talking to me.

“That’s one word for it,” I said. “I actually think ‘lousy’ is a better adjective for any day that includes finding a dead body.”

He beamed.

“Tell me about it,” he said. He leaned back and folded his hands, gazing at me expectantly. It was rather like the way Timmy looked when I’d agreed that yes, yes, I’d read him another story.

“Why?” I asked. “I didn’t see a single endangered species all day.”

“There’s more to life than endangered species.”

Who was this—the pod Dr. Blake?

“Yes,” I said. “There are also animal welfare and the responsible stewardship of the earth’s resources, but I don’t think I did anything today to further those causes, either. Or hinder them,” I added hastily.

“Well, what the hell did you do, then?” he asked.

Okay, that was closer to the real Dr. Blake.

“I went looking for my friend Karen again,” I said. “And found her estranged husband’s dead body.”

“Yes, that Jason somebody.”

“Jasper,” I said. “Jasper Walker. And then I had lunch with a friend and did some research in the library.”

A pause.

“That’s it?” he said.

I nodded.

“Then elaborate. Give me a little local color. You found a body. That must have been exciting. Did you check his pulse? Attempt CPR? Or just assume he was dead?”

“He’d been dead several days,” I said. “So no, exciting wasn’t exactly the word I’d use, and you couldn’t pay me enough to check his pulse, and as for CPR, let’s not even go there.”

“Several days? Did you check to see if he had any pets that might need rescuing?”

I knew there had to be an animal angle to this.

“I called the police,” I said. “And they took custody of his dog.”

Blake frowned.

“I fed the dog some cheese crackers,” I offered, just so he wouldn’t think I was completely stone-hearted.

“Cheese crackers,” he repeated.

“I didn’t have any nutritionally sound dog food with me,” I said. “And he wasn’t starving, and at the time I didn’t know the poor thing had been orphaned.”

He continued to gaze at me for a few moments, as if hoping I’d offer something more interesting.

“What kind of dog?” he asked, finally, though it sounded as if he was only asking to be polite.

“Big dog,” I said. “Maybe seventy-five or eighty pounds. Some kind of mixed hound. Very friendly.”

He nodded, then got up and strode off with a preoccupied look on his face. Just then Michael came out of the kitchen door and strolled over.

“He’s up to something,” I said.

“Your grandfather? Why do you think that?”

“He’s been asking me to tell him what I did today.”

“Egad,” he said. “I’ve been guilty of that a time or two myself, haven’t I?”

“Yes, but you’re actually interested in what I’ve been doing, or at least have a vested interest in pretending to be. Dr. Blake tends to ignore anything that doesn’t have an animal angle.”

“And your day didn’t?”

“Well, there was a dog. He seemed mildly interested in the dog.”

Michael nodded.

“If I go back there again, I’ll drop by and check out the canary farm,” I said. “Just so I can give him the lowdown. Though I can’t imagine why I’d want to go back. And odds are canaries are too mundane to intrigue him.”

“Dog fighting,” Michael said.

“What?”

“Maybe he’s investigating dog fighting. He’s got that show he’s working on about cock fighting—maybe he’s expanding it to include dog fighting. Illegal animal fighting in general. Was the dog a pit bull or a bulldog or something?”

I shook my head.

“Big, friendly hound dog,” I said. “The kind that just looks puzzled when Spike runs up and tries to pick a fight.”

“Still, if Blake is showing an interest in ordinary domestic dogs, you can bet it’s some kind of animal welfare issue,” Michael said. “And the show on cock fighting hasn’t aired yet, so maybe they’re still doing some filming.”

“That would make sense,” I said. “Of course, there’s another explanation.”

Michael cocked one eyebrow.

“He could just be trying to take an interest in what I’m doing,” I said. “Trying to build a relationship. You know what he’s like—brilliant as hell, but with absolutely no social graces. Maybe it’s not his fault that he does the whole relationship-building thing so oddly that I react with suspicion. Maybe I’m just too hard on him.”

“Maybe you are,” he said. “But much as I like the old guy, he has pulled some crazy stunts. Like that whole cock-fighting raid that landed him and your father in jail. Here’s a deal for you—you keep an open mind on whether Blake’s got an ulterior motive when he interrogates you. And I’ll see if I can use my irresistible charm to find out what he and your dad are up to.”

“Deal,” I said. “And if he is investigating dog fighting, or more cock fighting, see if you can get him to at least consider working within the system this time.”

“Definitely. Meanwhile, I’m supposed to tell everyone that dinner will be on the table in five minutes.”

“While you’re at it, remind Dad and Dr. Blake about the snakes.”

Since we were eating rather late, I took Timmy up to bed as soon as he’d finished dessert. We only had one difficult moment, when I had successfully wrestled him into pajamas and picked up the toothbrush to begin the battle over brushing. He suddenly stopped fighting and just looked at me.

“Mommy not coming back?” he asked.

“Of course Mommy’s coming back,” I said. “Soon. Just not tonight.”

He nodded, and didn’t put up much of a fight about brushing his teeth. Was he really reassured? Or had he given up on his mommy? Surely kids didn’t give up that easily? If this went on much longer, maybe I should find a child psychologist to help Timmy cope with it all. For that matter, if this went on much longer, I might need a shrink myself.

I shoved the thought away to concentrate on Timmy. I read him a story. Handed him a sippy cup of milk. Maybe I was starting to get the hang of this parenting thing after all. I tucked him in, turned the night-light on and the main light off, tiptoed toward the door, and was just stepping into the hall when he sat bolt upright again.

“Want Kiki,” he said.

I returned to the crib and checked. No, Kiki wasn’t
there. And Timmy hadn’t thrown her on the floor beside the crib.

“Here’s Blanky,” I said, plucking the green blanket from the rest of the covers and toys. “You lie down and try to sleep, and I’ll go look for Kiki. I’m sure he’s just downstairs. I’ll be back in—”

“Want Kiki!” Timmy threw Blanky overboard and howled with such volume that everyone in the house came running to see what was wrong. Dad even brought his medical bag. Once I’d convinced everybody that Timmy was unhurt, I formed them all into a posse to search the house and yard for Kiki.

Who was nowhere to be found.

In between bouts of searching, various members of the family pitched in on the effort to calm Timmy down and lull him to sleep. Rob and Michael gave him endless horsie-horsie rides, all ending up in the crib where Timmy still refused to lie down. Dad brought in an awesome assortment of living creatures for Timmy to inspect and pet—snakes, prairie dogs, iguanas, ducks, small monkeys, bats, and a half-grown skunk that he swore had been de-scented. Rose Noire dabbed lavender and chamomile essential oils on the light bulbs, put Mozart on the portable CD player, and tried to demonstrate yoga breathing exercises. Seth Early—who had heard Timmy’s wails from his lurking post across the street and come running—even offered to bring in some sheep to help calm him down. I wasn’t sure whether Timmy was supposed to count them or cuddle them, but since even the smallest of them weighed at least 150 pounds and none of them had been washed in weeks, we passed.