by Dana Dratch
Ian lived catty-corner across the street. But no way anyone could have mistaken my tiny bungalow for his elegant Victorian B&B.
And with a couple of dead bolts on every one of my doors, J.B.’s mother had to have been really motivated. Or truly desperate.
The phone in my hand rang. Nick. “Tell me you got something.”
“You mean, besides the obvious,” he said.
“You’re getting extra karma points for this one.”
“Actually, it wasn’t that bad. I don’t know what everyone always complains about. It’s like little rabbit pellets. And it hardly smells at all. Anyway, the diaper had sticky tabs with little blue cartoon pandas on them. And there seems to be some thicker padding in the front, not just between the legs and in the back.”
I scanned the shelves. Daytime diapers. For boys. Featuring Peter the Panda. Bingo!
“Got it. And you’re relatively solid on the twelve-pound thing?”
“Plus or minus a few pounds, yeah. Which reminds me, I’ve got to get to the gym tomorrow. Oh, and don’t forget the wipes. And according to the mommy blogs, we’re gonna need a lot of them. Preferably something hypoallergenic.”
I whirled around and faced the other side of the aisle. Lucy had curled up on the bottom shelf of the shopping cart, and her eyelids were getting heavy. Hosting our new little guest was stressful for all of us. And I’m guessing the visit from Simmons was no picnic, either.
“Any idea what kind of formula J.B.’s mom used? ’Cause I gotta tell you, it’s like Baskin-Robbins out here.”
“Not a clue,” Nick said. “But the bottles are plastic. And they say ‘Gro-Ryt’ on the side. I think we should get glass, though. It’ll limit his exposure to phthalates and BPA, plus it’s dishwasher safe.”
“More WebMD?” I asked.
“BabyMama.com,” Nick said.
At this rate, I figured he’d be writing his own blog by the end of the week.
Chapter 8
I opened my front door cautiously. Lucy and I looked at each other.
Silence.
The pup trotted in, and I followed, juggling two economy-sized packages of disposable diapers. They were too big even for grocery bags. And I had three more in the car. The damned things cost a fortune. I didn’t know how many we were gonna need. But if J.B.’s appetite was any indication, I wanted to be prepared.
Nick was sacked out on the couch. Apparently, J.B. had that effect on people. Once the crying stopped, everyone around him was so weary, they collapsed.
Including J.B. himself.
He was snoozing in his carrier. Only this time it was settled on the low living room table. I prayed he’d sleep until dinner. Or breakfast.
Nick had done his bit. So I unclipped Lucy’s leash. She dashed into the kitchen, and I heard her lapping from her water bowl in the kitchen.
Fifteen minutes later, I’d stocked my linen closet with diapers and my pantry with formula. Hopefully in a variety that our little guest would enjoy.
I’d also cornered the market on glass baby bottles and BPA-free nipples. Although I had absolutely no idea what I was supposed to do with them.
Was it like jeans, where you could wear them a few times before you washed them? I reasoned it was more like wineglasses: wash them first, just to get out any residual dust that might ruin the flavor of your drink. I suspected J.B. might appreciate that. I loaded up the dishwasher, murmured a silent prayer, and hit START.
And wasn’t there something about boiling baby bottles—either with or without the formula, then cooling them, so that the meal was sterile? Hopefully, Nick had the 4-1-1 on that part, too.
“Puppies are a lot easier,” I said to Lucy, who rotated her ears as she looked up at me with big, black eyes. “Even with scooping the poop.”
Minus a few doggie no-nos, like chocolate and onions, Lucy ate pretty much what we did. With some good, nutritional puppy food as a base. Sunday morning scrambled eggs. One-third of any bacon that came into the house. And her all-time favorite: hamburgers. Preferably with Nick grilling.
Next, I grabbed the coffeemaker and made a fresh pot. With J.B. in residence, we were gonna need some extra caffeine.
Nick strolled into the kitchen, yawning and stretching. “I thought I smelled coffee.”
“Five more minutes and you would have smelled grilled cheese.”
“I’ll go back to sleep.”
“So how bad was it? And, more important, what tips do you have for me?”
“Keep his tummy full, and he’ll sleep through anything.”
“Maybe that’s why his mother left him here. She couldn’t afford the food bills.”
“No lie,” Nick said, grabbing a frying pan and throwing it onto the stove. I handed him the bread.
“Any chance she was just overwhelmed?” I asked. Or maybe that was simply my personal take on the whole baby thing.
“I dunno. With J.B., it’s almost like he knows he’s supposed to be somewhere else. With some-one else.”
“So he thinks we’ve kidnapped him, and he’s trying to alert the proper authorities?”
“OK, not exactly. But, like, babies bond with their parents. Especially their moms. They know their voice and their smell and their touch. It’s comforting. Suddenly, he wakes up, and the only person who ever loved him is gone. And to babies, love is survival. I mean, this is the person who does everything for you. ’Cause you can’t do it yourself.”
“So he recognizes that the person who loves him and feeds him and changes his diapers is gone. And in her place . . .”
“Two of the original three stooges,” Nick said, dropping some butter into the pan and flipping on the burner.
“Yikes,” I said. “Kinda puts the scream-fest into perspective.”
“Imagine if you woke up in a strange house and all the familiar faces were gone.”
“If they were feeding me and doing my laundry, I might be OK with it. Kinda like a spa vacation.”
“We’ve got to reunite him with his mom,” Nick said, tossing bread in the pan, along with a few slices of cheese and a couple of generous dollops of salsa. “You’re a reporter. How do we do that?”
I’d been thinking of almost nothing else since we’d found the little guy this morning. Was it only this morning? It seemed like a week ago.
“Well, for starters, it would help to know if any young moms are missing. I could talk to one of the police flacks and see what I can learn. But unless we want them rolling up to confiscate little J.B., I’m gonna have to keep it fairly generic. Like I’m working on a story on missing women in general. Or something related to postpartum depression. But if you’re OK with it, I’d also like to talk to Trip. We can level with him. And if anyone’s gone missing in the last few days, he may have heard something. At the very least, he can keep an ear out.”
“Yeah, that sounds good,” Nick said, as he flipped the sandwiches.
“I was thinking about it in the store. What if she just got the wrong house?”
“You mean like the time Santa left me that doll with long red hair, so I gave it a crew cut?”
“No, that was you opening the wrong present. The gift tag said ‘Alex.’”
“I was three. I couldn’t read yet. But you mean, like, one of the neighbors could have been the real target?”
“Yeah, although I don’t know who. I hate to admit it, but until Lucy moved in, I’d never even met most of my neighbors.”
“Yeah, the little pup is really a social butterfly. Aren’t you?” he said to Lucy, whose eyes were riveted on the sizzling frying pan. “So, should we start taking J.B. for walks? See if anyone says anything?”
“You mean besides, ‘Gee, I didn’t realize you were pregnant—who’s the unlucky father?’”
Nick slid the sandwiches onto plates. Then he threw some leftover meat loaf into the pan, followed by a little more butter and a few dashes of various spices.
“Just how hungry are you?” I asked, incredulous.
; “This one’s for Lucy. She needs some good protein.”
“Gotcha. So did those websites you cruised give you any ideas on J.B.’s age? I mean, if we’re trying to track backward, it would help to know when he was born.”
“You know who’d know?”
“No.”
“C’mon, Mom had four kids,” he said, pulling out a paper plate and neatly emptying the contents of the pan onto it. “She has to know the difference between a two-month-old and a four-month-old.”
He carefully placed the plate on the floor next to our table and dropped the frying pan into the sink. Lucy was trembling. And the look in her eyes was primal. Like a wolf cub. But she waited until Nick backed off before she pounced.
He grabbed his plate and slid into the chair across from me. “Plus, Mom probably won’t turn us in to the cops.”
“Don’t count on it. Besides, it’s been a few decades since her baby was a baby. Physically, anyway.”
“You’re just afraid she’s going to blame all this on you,” he said, taking a bite of his sandwich.
“I am, and she will,” I said, slicing my sandwich crossways. “Let’s use the resources we’ve got handy first. If we have to call her later . . .”
“Coward.”
“Definitely.”
Chapter 9
Nick left for Ian’s just after lunch. Lucy tried to go with him.
I totally sympathized.
Before he left, I handed him a big glass mason jar. Filled with tollhouse cookies, it had a lopsided red bow on top.
“Is this for snack time, so I can make friends with the other kids?”
“That’s a present for Ian. To say ‘thank you’ for the flowers. And the party invitation.”
“’Nuff said.”
J.B. was sleeping soundly in his carrier on top of the living room table. I’d even adjusted the blinds so the sun wouldn’t hit his face and wake him.
I sat on the sofa next to him, leafing through the notes I’d taken during my meeting with Marty. But I was bracing, just waiting for the alarm to go off. Like in elementary school when they announced fire drill day.
Finally, I couldn’t take the silence any longer. I grabbed the phone and dialed Trip.
“Trip Cabot, editor extraordinaire.”
“Have you got a minute? It’s kind of an odd story.”
“Is it weird that I don’t even have to ask who this is?”
“You’ve got caller ID.”
“Yeah, but with you I never need it. Besides, I’m not sure I should be speaking to you. Rumor has it you’re working for the competition.”
Aunt Margie’s home paper was the Washington Sentinel—the big competitor of my old newspaper, the Washington Tribune. Trip hadn’t stopped teasing me about it since I took the assignment. He was also the one who’d convinced me I’d be crazy not to do it.
“I promise this has nothing to do with newspapers. What do you know about babies?”
“As much as any happily single gay man living in DC and working eighteen-hour days. That is to say, nothing. Why? Oh God, you’re not pregnant, are you?” he whispered.
“Not unless it’s the Second Coming.” Our running joke was that my love life had been in a bit of a drought. It might have something to do with my recently having been accused of murder and threatened with prison. Or it could be me.
“OK, this stays strictly between us. Someone left a baby at my house.”
“You mean, like, they forgot and left it behind after a raucous party?”
“No, I mean like ‘broke in in the middle of the night and put him in his carrier on my kitchen table.’”
“Damn. So much for your improved security.”
“I know. I feel like calling the locksmith and demanding a refund. Look, has anybody gone missing lately? Someone who might have had a baby within the last six months? Or have any babies been kidnapped?”
“I can keep an ear open. The sad thing is, if the mom is a teenager or living on the street, her disappearance might not have even been reported.”
“This doesn’t feel like that, somehow,” I said, struggling to put what I was sensing into words. “Out in the middle of the burbs? Beating out a couple of dead bolts? And mine isn’t exactly the biggest, most expensive house on the block.”
“Which is what you’d want, if you were going to play stork with your own baby,” he said quietly. “Although, from the outside, your place looks pretty idyllic.”
“What do you mean?”
“Two young up-and-comers, a cute puppy, a nice neighborhood,” he said.
We both digested that one.
“So you think the mama knows you?” he asked.
“I don’t know. Here’s what bugs me. I was up until after two working on a story. Nick was in the kitchen baking until four a.m. But when I got up at six, the baby was already there. Asleep in the kitchen, with all the doors locked. That’s a pretty small window of time for someone to just get lucky.”
“So you think someone was watching you guys?”
“I think they had to be. Plus a car on the street for that long, especially at that hour, would draw attention. At least, I hope it would.”
“OK, I’ve waited as long as I could. What happened with Mr. Cute at the little soirée last night? Spill!”
“We split a bottle of champagne in the kitchen after checking out his fuse box.”
“Is that what the kids are calling it these days?”
“No, really, the power went out. I helped—well, I held the flashlight—while he fixed it. Then we went into the kitchen, and he opened a bottle of champagne.”
“Very promising start.”
“And we kissed.”
“Way to bury the lede, Red. So Uncle Trip was right to push you out of the nest?”
“Oh yeah. Although, it would have been a lot better if Lydia Stewart hadn’t been popping in every couple of minutes. The woman is relentless. When she couldn’t get him out of the kitchen, she told everyone the party had moved, and they all piled in. When I left, Ian was making scrambled eggs for the stragglers.”
“Well, technically, I guess they are his paying guests. Sounds like it would have been rude to shoo them away. What you two need is an excursion off-site.”
“That’s exactly what Ian said when he walked me to the door.”
“His door or yours?” he inquired pointedly.
“His front door,” I said firmly. “Ian wanted to walk me home. But Harkins had disappeared, and he was afraid to leave a crowd of tipsy guests in the kitchen unsupervised.”
“Sounds like New Year’s Eve at the Farm,” Trip said, referring to the 500-acre estate that was his childhood home. “So where is he taking you?”
“We haven’t even had time to compare schedules. I was out of here first thing this morning for the Aunt Margie thing. And now we’re taking care of a baby. And trying to find his parents. I hate to say it, but Ian’s going to have to take a backseat for a few days.”
“From what you’ve said, I’m guessing the parents either know you or they live near you,” Trip concluded. “Any chance the baby could be Nick’s? From his life in Arizona?”
Oddly, that thought had never occurred to me. I looked over at the sleeping bundle. Nick did seem to be better with him than I was. But that didn’t mean anything. Did it?
“I don’t know. And, to be fair, I’ve never actually seen the little guy with his eyes open.”
“He’s been there all day.”
“Yeah, and he’s always sleeping or crying. Either way, eyes shut tight. I couldn’t even tell you what color they are. But if he’s Nick’s or if he belongs to someone we know, why the drop and run? Wouldn’t you at least leave a note? Or knock on the door and say, ‘Hey, I need someone to watch J.B. for a few hours—can you help me out?’”
“J.B.?”
“James Bond Vlodnachek. Nick’s idea.”
“OK, we’ve got to get that kid back to his mom quick, before you two scar him for life.”<
br />
“You have no idea.”
Chapter 10
I refilled my coffee cup, dumped in some milk, then grabbed a plate and five of Nick’s chocolate chip cookies. I figured I’d better stockpile calories while J.B. was asleep. When he was awake, there wasn’t time to eat. Or hit the bathroom. Or blink.
Next to my feet, Lucy sat up very straight and looked up at me. Pointedly.
Nick had given her a bath in the backyard yesterday morning. So her white tummy and fawn-colored coat were even cleaner than usual. While she was a short-haired dog, she was still very much a puppy. So she still had a lot of her puppy fat and puppy fluff.
“You’re absolutely right,” I said, reaching for the mason jar that held her favorite bone-shaped treats. “Cookies for me means cookies for you, too. That’s only fair.”
I pulled out two treats and held out one for her. I figured I’d keep one in reserve for later. But not much later.
That’s when we heard it. Three short screeches followed by one long wail. J.B.’s version of Morse code. Now if I could only figure out what he wanted. And who he was.
I opened the back door, tossed the second dog biscuit into the yard, and looked over at Lucy, who had the other bone-shaped cookie in her mouth. “It’s OK,” I told her. “Save yourself.”
Lucy scampered across the kitchen and hopped down the back steps. I closed the screen but left the door open. Screaming baby or no, I needed to keep an eye on the pup, too. Especially with Simmons lurking around.
I popped into the living room. “It’s all right,” I tried to reassure J.B. “It’s gonna all be OK, little man. Your aunt Alex is here. I’m right here.” I unbuckled the car seat and lifted him out. That’s when it hit me.
Diaper-changing time.
My brother could say what he wanted about “almost no smell.” That’s not what I was getting. Either Nick was suffering from severely blocked sinuses, or J.B. was saving his best stuff for me.
I lowered him back into his carrier, buckled him fast, and raced around the house gathering supplies.
With no changing table, I figured the glass-topped coffee table was the way to go. It was big enough, plus the oak frame made it good and solid. And it was easy to clean. If what I was smelling was any indication, that would be crucial.
