by Dana Dratch
Kudos to Sheryl: J.B. loved his swing. Almost as much as he loved Baba.
She’d put him in it, fasten the seat belt, and crank the handle. It would play a calliope tune that sounded (to me, at least) like an ice-cream truck. He’d wave his arms and grin while Baba clapped along to the music, and Lucy raced around the sofa like a demented ferret.
Even the pup was warming to our little guy. One afternoon, when we had him on his little blanket in the backyard, Lucy carefully placed one of her favorite rubber chew toys on his tummy.
Another time, I heard J.B. giggling—and looked up to see her enthusiastically licking his toes.
For my part, I was spending most of my time either answering Aunt Margie letters or trying to get a lead on J.B.’s parents and Ian’s father.
And having about the same level of success with all three: zippo.
I was thrilled with my first batch of Aunt Margie letters—convinced I’d totally nailed the tone and cadence of her voice. And her commonsense wisdom.
I e-mailed them to Maya, who e-mailed them to Aunt Margie. A day later, the “edited” version popped up in my in-box. About five words were the same. And three of those were the byline.
Back to the drawing board.
Ditto with Ian’s father. I decided to start with what I did know and go from there. So I did a local property search. Turned out the inn was owned by an LLC. Which was fairly typical. That, in turn, was owned by another company out of London. Which was controlled by a corporation in the Caymans. And that’s where I hit a brick wall.
Nick had been right about one thing: his late hours in Ian’s kitchen gave him a front-row seat to the strange goings on at the Cotswolds Inn. While the pranks had stopped, Nick swore he saw shadows out in the garden after midnight at least once.
Neither one of us went near that basement.
But I had popped over to the inn a couple of times to take Rube some of Nick’s best wares. And commiserate on the pace of his progress with the story of Rosie and her duke.
My brother approached Ian with an idea that could prevent future sabotage: installing one of those DIY security systems with cameras you can control from your phone. Ian countered that his guests expected to be able to relax and unwind in complete peace and privacy. And apparently a multiple video camera setup sort of defeated the purpose.
I suspected the real reason had something to do with Harkins’s art collection.
While Baba and Nick kept J.B. happy and fed, it was my job to find his mom. And I was getting nowhere. But then it wasn’t like I could stick up fliers with his photo announcing “Found Baby.”
Could I?
On the off chance that J.B. had been left at the wrong house, I wheeled him and his pram around the neighborhood (and a couple of local shopping centers), until my legs nearly fell off. Other than a few strange looks from the neighbors—including one woman who confided that she “just knew” I was pregnant when she saw me snarfing Reese’s Cups at the neighborhood Halloween party—nada. No one seemed to know J.B. Or miss him.
I kept pumping my sources at the local cop shops for any info on missing people—especially babies, young women, and older men—for my “story.” Just in case, I even expanded the geography and reached out to contacts I had in Annapolis, Baltimore, Lancaster, and Philadelphia. Trip agreed to back me up, in case any of the cops checked to make sure the story was legit. None of them did.
Strangely, my first real break on J.B.’s parents came during one of the rare moments I wasn’t looking.
Nick had driven Baba to the grocery store. And after a hearty breakfast, J.B. was down for the count. Lucy was dozing next to his crib.
I needed to stretch my legs and get away from Aunt Margie. I didn’t dare run the vacuum with J.B. snoozing. So I opted to do a little tidying.
It’s amazing what you find when you clean. Under the sofa cushions: three magazines I didn’t even remember buying. I arranged them on the coffee table, grabbed the trash bag, moved an end table—and found a stash of treasures. Lucy.
There was one of my heels. Half of the pair I’d warn to the cocktail party. (Now a bit gnawed around the toe.) A wayward piece of carrot (Nick’s attempt to give her healthy teething snacks). A purple rubber bone (her favorite chew toy). And a small scrap of paper.
Thick, creamy stock. Expensive. The top and bottom were missing. Torn off. Or eaten.
The words that remained floored me: . . . sweet Ian—so sorry to have to do this. But there was no other way. I want you to meet little Alistair. Take good care of him. He’s your . . .
Flowing, beautiful script. Definitely a woman’s handwriting.
I flipped it over. Nothing.
I rifled through the rest of Lucy’s treasure trove. No more paper.
I scouted under the couch. Dust. Three quarters. And five peanut M&Ms.
They say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I contend it’s peanut M&Ms.
Since I hadn’t had any in the house since December, I chucked them into the trash bag.
For the next fifteen minutes, I held my own scavenger hunt. I found two dimes and a nickel. Six bobby pins. A crumpled dollar bill. Three tennis balls. And a fork. (I’m blaming Nick for that one.)
But no more bits of paper.
By now, I figured the rest of the note was either being processed by Lucy’s digestive system or had already fertilized the yard.
Sitting on the floor, I leaned against the back of the couch, unfolded my legs, and tried to wrap my head around this new information.
Alistair. J.B.’s real name was Alistair? And he wasn’t a Vlodnachek. He was a Sterling!
Ian had a child. Did Ian have a wife? Or a girlfriend? Clearly he had someone. Or had had someone at least a year ago, if Mega Baby Sheryl was right about J.B.’s age.
Alistair’s age, I corrected myself.
Damn.
I walked into my bedroom and peered into the crib. He was awake, staring up at me with those beautiful blue eyes. The last time I saw eyes like that, they were the color of a dark, stormy sky.
It fit.
“Hi, Alistair!” I said, trying it out loud. “How are you, little Alistair? Are you having a good day, Alistair?”
He gave me a gummy little grin and waved his chubby fists. Was it my imagination or did he seem relieved that someone finally knew who he was?
Chapter 25
After a quick change for Alistair—followed by a bottle for him and a cookie each for me and Lucy—I was just settling him in his wind-up swing when Nick and Baba came through the front door.
“Miya malenkaya reedka!” she said, scooping up little J.B. He gurgled and gave her a bright smile.
“Oh, now he’s your little radish,” Nick said, grinning. “And I’m just the hired help who carries your groceries. See how easy we’re replaced, Lucy?” he added, reaching down to give the pup a scratch behind one ear.
“Bah!” she said, patting him on the back with her J.B.-free hand.
Alistair, I mentally corrected. How many times would I have to remind myself? To me, he’d always be J.B.—James Bond Vlodnachek, the howling terror of Azalea Avenue.
I followed Nick out to his car. “I think I got a lead on J.B.’s family,” I said, as he handed me two Giant food bags.
“For real? Where are they? Who are they? Are they nice people?”
“Right across the street. Ian is his father. And his real name is Alistair.”
“You’re kidding! How did you find out?”
I told him about the note and Lucy’s hoard of loot.
“Man, I don’t think I want to be there when you tell him. That is serious. A secret baby? What about the baby momma?”
“No idea. We just got a piece of the note. Thanks to your little goat dog.”
“Hey, I puppy-proof this place regularly. Somebody breaks in and leaves a note where she can get it, that’s on them. Damn. I wonder how he’s gonna take it?”
“I wonder if he knows who and where the mothe
r is. And why she just dumped J.B. over here and ran. I mean, Alistair.”
“So when are you going to tell him?” Nick asked.
“Why me?”
“You found the note.”
“Yeah, and if your dog hadn’t eaten it, the little guy would have been home a week ago.”
“The dog ate my homework?” Nick said. “Lame.”
“Seriously, what are we going to tell him? And how? Besides, it isn’t safe for little J.B.—I mean, Alistair—to be over at that place right now. Hell, it’s barely safe enough for you.”
“Hey, I’m not the one who found a dead body and stolen art.”
“You do realize you’re making my case for me?” I said.
“Look, if you want me to sit in, I will. Face it, this is going to be awkward for both of us. For different reasons. But maybe he won’t want the little guy over there right now. So we could make him an offer.”
“You mean to keep him?”
“Just until the mother comes back. Or until things settle down over there. Or until Harkins comes home. Man, Ian’s having a rough week,” he said, setting the bags on the kitchen table. “But we have to clear it with Baba first. Right now, she’s doing all the heavy lifting.”
“That’s not a bad idea,” I said. “I mean, with Harkins gone, Ian’s working nonstop to keep up with the guests. And you remember what it was like here before Baba arrived.”
“Yeah, and I can’t imagine anyone would check in and pay money to go through that. The place would be empty in no time flat.”
“Ironic,” I said.
“How so?”
“Well, Paul the not-so-merry prankster was trying to shut down Ian’s business,” I reminded him. “But a sweet, innocent little baby could totally succeed where he failed.”
Nick grinned. “That’s because to really screw up someone’s life, you have to be family.”
* * *
Turned out, Baba loved the idea of a few more days with J.B. Or Alistair. Or her malenkaya reedka.
Now all we had to do was tell the father that he was a father.
I figured it was better to do it away from the inn. Fewer prying eyes and ears. And I was sort of hoping that if he saw how happy Alistair was over here, he might be more inclined to let him stay.
I phoned, and Ian agreed to “pop over for a quick chat.” But he couldn’t stay long. So this was going to have to be one of those “rip off the Band-Aid” conversations.
“Should I brew up a pot of tea, just to break the ice?” I called to Nick, as I ran around plumping cushions and gathering up baby and doggie toys.
“You’re telling him he has a kid. I think you’re going to need something stronger than tea.”
“We’ve got coffee, tea, generic soda, generic beer, and limbo cookies.”
“Yeah, I’ve got news for you—we’re out of limbo cookies.”
“Tea it is,” I said.
“OK, but if things get dicey, I’ve got a couple of cans chilled and ready to go.”
“Sounds like a plan,” I said, just as we heard a knock on the door.
I smiled when I saw Ian standing on the porch. Strangeness at the inn or no, I couldn’t help it. His eyes were a calm, clear blue today. So much like someone else I knew. He was holding a big bunch of pink flowers wrapped in newspaper. Idly, I wondered if it was the Tribune or the Sentinel.
“Hydrangeas! They’re beautiful! Thank you!” I said, accepting the bundle. So how would he take the news of his own little bundle?
“There’s a riot of them in the side garden,” Ian said. “Thought you might enjoy a few blooms indoors, as well. I notice your azaleas are really doing well.”
Small talk it is, then. This wasn’t going to be easy. “Well, come on in. Nick’s getting us a little tea.” As per our plan, Baba, Lucy, and Alistair had disappeared into my room. But the house still looked like a herd of buffalos had rumbled through it.
I saw Ian eyeing the baby swing.
“More family staying with you?” he asked.
“Not exactly,” I started, “That’s sort of why . . .”
“Here we are with some tea,” Nick said, showing up with a tray. “Hey, man,” he said to Ian. “Bet you could use a little break.”
“Definitely. The good news is, we’re fully booked. The bad news is, without Dad, I’m one man doing a two-man job.”
“Have you heard anything from his friends?” I asked.
Ian shook his head. “The ones I was able to reach haven’t heard from him in months. A couple of his closest friends are on some kind of photo safari. Tanzania or Zambia. No one seems to know exactly where. And they’re not due back for a couple of weeks. I was hoping maybe you’d learned something.”
I looked at Nick. Nick looked at me.
“No, nothing about Harkins,” I said. “There was actually another reason we needed to talk with you.”
“If it has to do with the escapades around the inn, thanks to you, they seem to have stopped,” Ian said, accepting the cup I’d poured for him and adding a little cream. Or, in this case, milk. “We haven’t had any incidents of mischief since Paul left.”
“No, it’s not that,” Nick said. “Look, there’s no easy way to say this . . .”
“We found a note over here this afternoon,” I said. “It was meant for you. Lucy actually ate most of it, then hid what was left. I found it just now when I was cleaning.”
I cast an eye around the living room. It didn’t look like it had been cleaned today. Or this month.
“Was it from my father? Is it about my father?”
“No, it has nothing to do with him,” I said, focusing on Ian. “This was from a woman. She needed to leave something with you last week. Friday morning. Only for some reason, she left it here. I don’t know why. I’m guessing the rest of the note might have explained that.”
I went to the dining room that served as my office and carefully retrieved the note from one of the small drawers in my rolltop desk.
“This is what’s left of it,” I said, gingerly placing the scrap in his hands as if it were a piece of the Dead Sea Scrolls.
I looked over at Nick. He nodded encouragingly.
“Alistair?” Ian said. “Who is Alistair?”
“He’s a baby. About three months old, from the looks of it. He was left on my kitchen table last Friday morning, along with a couple of clean diapers and a couple of bottles of formula. Sleeping in a very pricey car seat.”
“A baby?” The guy looked stunned. “It can’t be . . . my . . . baby.”
“Apparently. Granted, the note’s not a lot to go on. Can you think of who his mom might be? Or why she might have left him here, rather than talking with you herself?”
“Absolutely no idea,” he said, staring at the slip of paper. “This doesn’t make sense. I’m careful. Very careful. And fatherhood is most decidedly not in the cards right now, I can assure you.”
“Would you like to see him?” I asked gently.
Numbly, he nodded.
“I’ll get him,” Nick said, jumping up.
I prayed Alistair was in one of his charming moods. As opposed to one of his devil-baby moods. He’d been on his best behavior since Baba had arrived. Some of that may have been because she’d diagnosed him as “gassy” and started feeding him a top-notch brand of baby formula made from goat’s milk. But I’d seen what the little tyke could do to well-meaning yet inexperienced caregivers. I had my fingers crossed.
Nick brought him out, wrapped in the little blue blanket he’d arrived in. Which had been washed umpteen times since then.
Ian’s eyes were the size of saucers. A theoretical baby was one thing. But now the little guy was right here in front of him. And Papa Ian hadn’t even had nine months to prepare.
“Would you like to hold him?” Nick asked.
Ian nodded. I was beginning to wonder if he’d been struck dumb. Not that I could blame him.
“Here you go,” Nick coached him. “Juuuuust like a foo
tball. Or in your case, a rugby ball. And you have to be careful to always support his little neck. That’s the weak spot. Well, that and the back of the head.”
“Oh my Lord,” Ian breathed. I don’t think he realized he’d said it out loud.
For his part, Alistair looked amused. And curious. Ian lowered the little guy into his lap and looked into his bright blue eyes.
“Good Lord, he looks just like me,” he said. “I mean, as a child. My mother has photos. I looked just like this. Like him.”
It was the first time I’d ever seen him rattled. A dead body might not have fazed Ian Sterling. But a live baby definitely did.
Alistair, fresh off a nap, a bottle, and some Baba love, looked up and smiled. That’s when I saw Ian’s face melt.
“He’s mine,” he said softly. “He actually is mine.”
Ian reached out and traced the line down Alistair’s soft cheek. The little guy cooed.
“So you’re Alistair?” Ian said softly. “Alistair Sterling. I’m sorry we had to wait so long to meet. You are gorgeous, you are. Yes, sir.”
Alistair giggled. Poor Ian. This kid had him right where he wanted him. He’d be driving the Bentley at sixteen and cruising off to Harvard or Oxford two years later. I could tell from the look on Ian’s face that the little guy would want for absolutely nothing.
“Ten fingers, ten toes, and a huge appetite,” Nick said.
Ian smiled. “He smells wonderful,” he said, sniffing the top of that downy head.
“Most of the time,” Nick said, refilling his own teacup. “More on that later.”
“You cared for him? For a week?” Ian said, looking at me.
“We didn’t know what else to do. The mother obviously took good care of him. But for some reason, she left him here.”
“And she got past two dead bolts to do it,” Nick added. “That’s got to narrow the suspect pool a little.”
Ian gazed blissfully at his new bundle. “I wish I could think who he looks like. But the truth is he favors my side of the family.”
He was right about that. If this was a case on Paternity Court, it would be a slam dunk. Now if we could just find out who the mother was.
It was time for part two of our nefarious little plan. But I didn’t have the heart to interrupt daddy-baby bonding time.
