by Dana Dratch
“The baby!” I hissed. “Nick—where’s the baby?”
“He’s in my room. He’s fine.”
After Simmons jumped in and hit the door locks, he rolled down the window. “Be seeing you soon, Mr. Vlodnachek,” he called in a thin, clear voice. “And I hope you have a license for that mutt. Because I’ll be contacting animal control.”
Nick broke and ran toward the van. “I’ll kill you, you slimy little toad! I will boil that fat little body in oil and serve you on toast!”
Simmons apparently didn’t trust that Nick wouldn’t be able to pry him out of the van with that spoon. He gunned the engine and sped off down the street.
On the walkway, Lucy sat back on her haunches and howled.
“Hey, come on, you little goofball,” Nick said, strolling back up the lawn. “Knock it off.”
Instead, Lucy arched her back and took it up half an octave. And a few more decibels. “Ra-rara-ra-aaahh- oooooo.”
Nick kneeled, ruffling the fur on the top of her head. “It’s OK. Calm down. It’s oooooo-kay, baby.” To me he said, “She’s finding her inner wolf. We’ve been watching the Nature Channel online.”
“That explains a lot. OK, if County Guy wasn’t here for the baby, what was he here for?”
“Me.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The bakery. He shut me down.”
“Noooo!”
“Yup,” he said, grimacing.
“Why?”
“Simmons is from the health department. I don’t have a license, so they closed the kitchen. I’m out of business.”
“Jeez, Nick, I’m really sorry. I had no idea you needed a license. I feel awful.”
“It’s not your fault. I knew. I just kept putting it off until I had a little more money. Besides, I made sure everything was super clean. I mean, if a client gets sick, that’s not exactly good for business. But I was just getting started, and I wasn’t making much, so I thought I had a little more time.”
“What happened?”
“One of my competitors ratted me out.”
“Which one?”
“Don’t know yet. Simmons wouldn’t say. But I’ll find out. Then I’m going to have some fun.”
“Boil him in oil and serve him on toast?”
“I was up until four a.m. baking. I downloaded a few Game of Thrones episodes to stay awake. I think it kinda seeped into my subconscious.”
“I tried that with Univision. Flipped it on while I slept, hoping my brain would absorb a little more Español.”
“Did it work?”
“Nein. Animal control?”
“Lucy’s fully licensed and up-to-date on all her shots. He’s just trying to throw his weight around.”
Three guys on speed bikes, clad in helmets and racing togs, whizzed down the block. One of them lifted a hand in a wave.
Automatically I waved back.
“Neighbors?” Nick asked.
“Never seen them before,” I admitted.
“Empty threats or no, we’d better keep Lucy on the leash when she’s out of the backyard for the next few weeks,” I said. “Just to be safe.”
“Yeah, that’s probably smart,” he said, giving the pup a full-on tummy scratch. She thumped her tail in delight.
“So what happens to the stuff you’ve already baked?” I said, remembering the chocolate chip cookies that had populated the kitchen earlier this morning. “Did he confiscate it?”
“He threatened to, but he’s not legally allowed. I’m also not allowed to sell any of it.”
“So I have a kitchen full of limbo cookies?”
“Yup. Eat ’em or freeze ’em. Doesn’t matter to me. Worst part is, if I can’t fill this order, I have to give back the deposit. Which I already spent on supplies. And I’m gonna lose what could have been a really good client.”
“And by ‘good’ you mean . . .”
“They eat a lot of cookies, and their checks don’t bounce,” Nick said.
“OK, I can only guarantee one out of two.”
“So I’ve noticed.”
“Hey, what about Ian?” I said, snapping my fingers.
“I can’t sell them to him. I don’t know how, but that little weasel Simmons is wired. What’s worse, my next order is actually for Ian,” he said, rubbing his forehead. “Damn!”
“No, I mean, what if you set up shop temporarily in Ian’s kitchen? He’s running a B&B, so the kitchen’s fully licensed. Plus, half his business these days depends on booking afternoon teas and fancy luncheons, which means he really needs you. And you know he can’t bake.”
We’d sampled Ian’s attempts at pastry in the not-so-distant past. Let’s just say that Lucy, who still raids the occasional trash can, wouldn’t touch the stuff.
“I could sweeten the deal,” Nick said, gaining momentum. “Give him a discount for the use of his space.”
“There you go,” I said. “And it’s only temporary. Just while you’re getting your kitchen certified.”
“If Simmons has his way, that’ll never happen,” Nick said, shaking his head. “You should see the list he gave me.”
“Hey, if there’s anything I learned in newspapers, it’s to take things one crisis at a time. First, you get around the police barricade. Then you worry about what you’re going to say to the bomb squad.”
“What did you say to the bomb squad?”
“Asked them about the detection dogs. Find the right topic and people talk—they can’t help it.”
“Well, I’m supposed to deliver the cookies this afternoon, but the actual event isn’t ’til lunch tomorrow. If Ian says yes and I can reschedule the delivery, I might still be able to do this.”
“You do realize that while you’re across the street baking cookies, I’ll be over here putting a dent in the last batch?” I said.
“Not to mention tending to the needs of little James Bond Vlodnachek. I call him J.B.”
“For real?”
“I changed his diaper first. I get to name him,” Nick said. “And he deserves something cool. It came down to that or Idris Elba Vlodnachek. Besides, if he’s going to be living here, we have to call him something.”
The guy had a point.
“OK, well, while you go talk to Ian, I’ll look after J.B.” I said. “After that, we hit the store for supplies. We’re going to need a lot more milk.”
“For the baby?” Nick asked.
“Him too.”
Chapter 6
Twenty minutes later, Nick came through the door with a grin on his face and a bundle of pink mini roses in one hand.
“From your admirer across the street,” he said with a flourish and a bow.
“Can I take that as a yes to you bogarting his kitchen?” I asked, taking the bouquet and heading toward the kitchen in search of a vase.
“Hey, as far as he’s concerned, I can move in,” Nick said, trailing behind me. “But I think the discount I offered him on his orders may have had something to do with it. Plus the fact that his B&B guests are going to smell bread, cakes, and cookies the minute they walk through the door. Your buddy Ian even offered to let me order ingredients through his supplier, as long as I reimburse him. And he gets stuff for a lot less than I’ve been paying at the warehouse store. I’ve got to do some math, but even after giving him a cut on the price, I’m going to be clearing more money.”
“That’s fantastic!”
“His kitchen’s got everything. Man, this is going to make it so much easier. And the best part is Simmons and my mystery competitor are gonna plotz. But the place has already been inspected and licensed, so there’s not a damn thing they can do.”
“At least this buys us some time to get this place retrofitted,” I said, filling a big jelly jar with water and settling the flowers in it.
“Yeah, I’m getting the second third of the emu money soon. I figure that should cover most of what I’ll need. If you don’t mind someone hacking up your kitchen.”
Part of the reason Nick moved in: He’d divested himself of his first business. And his first fiancée. Leaving the business had been the easy bit.
It was an emu ranch in the middle of the Arizona desert. Going in, he knew it would be hard work. But he’d enjoyed it—and the emus.
The secret pot patch had been a surprise.
Once Nick found out what his burnout business partner had been up to, he’d destroyed the existing crops, planted some garden-variety vegetables, and arranged to sell the place—lock, stock, and emus—to a local university. They were turning it into a green research station and studying the effects of emu dung as a soil additive. Turned out the stuff was magic as a fertilizer. As his partner had discovered.
While the college reps offered the most for the ranch, they wanted to pay for it in three installments. But they’d also promised to give the emus a comfortable home for life. Nick accepted and made them put that last part in writing.
Naïve he wasn’t.
Now he was camped out here, rebuilding his professional life. And recovering from Hurricane Gabrielle. And that last part was gonna be a lot harder.
Suddenly, a high-pitched wailing cut the air. And it was joined by a plaintive howl.
“Oh jeez,” I said, sprinting for the living room. J.B. was settled in his carrier on the living room table. His mouth was open wide, his eyes were scrunched shut, and his face was a deep shade of pink.
Lucy, inconsolable, turned his sorrowful solo into a duet.
I reached for the baby, thinking human contact would reassure him. No dice. If anything, the shrieking went up half an octave. And his face turned crimson.
I bounced him gently on my hip. “Hey, little J.B. Are you having a good day? Later we’ll go for a nice walk with Lucy and Uncle Nick. Won’t that be fun? Won’t that be fun?”
Apparently, J.B. did not think that would be fun. J.B. had had it with all of us. He shook his tiny fists, opened his sweet little bow mouth even wider, and screamed until his whole body quaked. I didn’t see how so much rage could fit into such a tiny body.
“Try singing to him,” Nick suggested.
“Did that work when you changed his diaper?”
“No, he kinda dozed through that. I’d just fed him, and he could barely keep his eyes open.”
“What did you feed him?” I hollered over the din. Whatever it was, I was willing to give him more of it now. By the gallon, if necessary. “Row, row, row your boat,” I tried gently.
“His mom—or whoever—left a couple of bottles of milk in his carrier. After two of those, he slept like—well—a baby.”
“Got any more of that stuff?” I said. “Gently down the streeeeam . . .”
“Nooo,” he hollered over the screaming. “There were only two bottles and two diapers. We’re out of both.”
“I’m pret-ty sure you’re only sup-posed to give them one at a time,” I sang, loudly.
“Well, J.B. asked for seconds.”
“Uh, how exactly did he do that?” I hollered at Nick, while bounce, bounce, bouncing the screeching bundle on my hip. J.B.’s lung power was truly impressive. He didn’t even stop to breathe.
“He screamed the minute I took the empty bottle out of his mouth and didn’t stop until I popped another one in there. Reminded me a little of Uncle Ernie.”
“Nah, Ernie’s a happy drunk. C’mon, Captain J.B., row, row, row your boat, gently down that stream . . .” I sang, trying to sound cheerful and kid-friendly.
J.B. wasn’t having it. And the pup threw back her head and let out a bloodcurdling howl.
“We need to do some-thing,” I sang to the tune of “Row, Row, Row Your Boat.” “This is get-ting worse. It sounds like we’re mur-der-ing ba-bies and puppies. Some-one will call the cops.”
“OK, we split ’em up,” Nick said. “You take Lucy and hit the grocery store for diapers and formula. I’ll stay here with J.B. until you get back. Then I have to go to Ian’s for the rest of the day and bake. Fair?”
“Fair,” I said, handing off the squalling, squirming bundle of fury.
For his part, J.B. didn’t miss a beat. At least he was an equal opportunity screamer.
“Just the grocery store,” Nick shouted over the din. “No fair making extra stops.”
“I promise nothing,” I replied, grabbing my purse and Lucy’s leash. “And get out of my head.”
Chapter 7
Even after I pulled into the grocery store parking lot, I swore I could still hear J.B. crying.
On the plus side, I was pretty sure those high-pitched screams had liquified what was left of my earwax. And maybe an eardrum.
I gave Lucy a quick walk through the grass island on the far side of the lot for a last-minute break before we headed into the store. Nevilleson’s was one of the few markets left that wasn’t part of a chain. And it had a “don’t ask, don’t tell” policy on emotional support dogs. As long as your pup was well-behaved and your credit card cleared, Neville-son’s didn’t care.
“Remember, you’ve got to be a good little girl,” I said to her as we hustled inside.
Lucy looked up at me, puzzled. Like didn’t I realize that our little visitor had suddenly lowered the yardstick for good behavior? Substantially.
“Yeah, but J.B. doesn’t get to go for fun car rides and groceries,” I explained to her. “Because he’s not as well-mannered as you are.”
I had to admit, the thought of spending the rest of the afternoon with a screaming J.B. had me seriously considering absconding to a nice quiet coffee shop for a few hours. One with a dog-friendly patio. I felt for Nick. By now, he’d probably lost most of his hearing.
I grabbed a cart and hit the dairy aisle. I reached for a half gallon of 2 percent, reconsidered, and grabbed a gallon jug. “Now we look for diapers,” I said to Lucy.
I rounded the corner and skidded to a stop. Diapers. An entire aisle of diapers. There must have been ten different brands. And all of those brands had different sizes and types. Daytime diapers. Nighttime diapers. Diapers for travel. Diapers for active babies. Diapers for babies with sensitive skin. Diapers with aloe. Clothlike diapers. Scented diapers. Diapers with cartoon characters.
It was worse than the tampon aisle.
After reading the backs of a dozen different packages, I gave up and dialed Nick. “How much does he weigh?” I shouted into the phone.
“Shhhhh!” he said. “It’s your silly aunt Alex. Yes, it is! Yes, it is!”
“Oh my God, did he stop crying?” I was amazed. And a little ashamed.
“Yes, he did. Who’s a good boy? Who’s a good boy?”
“OK, so what does the good boy weigh?” I asked.
“Should I ask him or just check his driver’s license?”
“Apparently, they size diapers by weight,” I told him. “No weight, no diapers.”
“You don’t have to ask me twice. Do you have a bathroom scale?”
“I don’t even have a postal scale.” With a supermodel for a sister, I’d learned early that letting a scale rule your day was no way to enjoy life. And Annie was big on enjoying life.
“Hang on,” Nick said, and I heard some shuffling on the other end of the phone. “Let’s see. J.B., come to Uncle Nick. Up you go. And down. And up. And down. Now let’s sit you down again. That’s my man. OK, just an estimate. but I’d say he feels like about twelve pounds.”
“Were you doing lifts?”
“Yeah. And he’s a lot lighter than the hand weights I’ve been using at the gym.”
“How did you calm him down? Did the singing work?”
“Not exactly.”
“OK, as the person who has to sit with him this afternoon, how exactly?”
“I fed him,” Nick said.
“You said we didn’t have any bottles left.”
“We didn’t. I had to get creative.”
“How creative?”
“I read somewhere that breast milk tastes a lot like vanilla, so . . .”
“Not
my fro-yo?!”
“Trust me, it was for a good cause. J.B. is smiling at me right now.”
“That’s just gas,” I replied. “And if it’s not now, it will be in fifteen minutes.”
“When you’re getting bottles, make sure you get the ones that are BPA-free. Otherwise it could mess up his hormonal development.”
“He has hormonal development?”
“According to WebMD. And don’t even get me started on diaper rash. If you ever want to see pix that will keep you up nights . . .”
“Does it say anything about how to prevent it?”
“Cornstarch. And zinc oxide cream, if he does get it.”
“Hang on, let me write this all down.” I remembered his earlier comment and added frozen yogurt to the list. When I looked up, Lucy was sniffing giant cartons of formula across the aisle. “OK, what about the diapers? They’ve got about a zillion different kinds. Were there any labels on the ones he was wearing—anything that would give us any hints at all?”
“Nada,” Nick said.
“What about the tabs—any words or animals or cartoons? Seriously, I’m looking at the Great Wall of Pampers here.”
“OK, lemme check. I’m gonna have to wash up after, so I’ll have to call you back.”
While Nick combed through the trash for clues—or whatever—I scoped out shelves filled with formula. It was almost as bad as the diapers. A dozen different kinds. Formula made with milk, goat milk, soy milk, and rice. Fortified with iron. Fortified with calcium. Liquid. Powdered. Supplemental for breast-feeding. Supplemental for solid food.
How did moms navigate this stuff? I felt like I was taking the final exam for a class I’d never attended.
J.B. was doomed. My brother was at home feeding him ice cream. And I was standing in the baby aisle in a stupor. Whoever J.B.’s mom was, she’d definitely picked the wrong house.
That’s when it hit me. Maybe she had broken into the wrong home. Was it possible she’d intended to leave J.B. with one of the neighbors—someone who knew him—instead of us?
I knew the Clancys down the block. But not whether they had a friend or relative with a baby and a set of lock picks.
There was crotchety Mr. Rasmussen behind me. But I couldn’t picture anyone asking him to care for a goldfish, let alone a child.
