Missing Since Monday

by Ann M. Martin

  “Dad!” I cried, jumping up. “How’d you get home so early?” I ran to him and he put his arms around me.

  “We rented a private plane in Saint Bart’s. I’ll tell you the whole story some other time.” He released me, greeted Mike, and turned to the detectives.

  The introductions began.

  I decided to brave the worst. I went to Leigh and helped her off with her raincoat. She accepted the help with stony silence.

  “How are you?” I asked tentatively.

  Leigh glared at me. “How do you think?” she said. And then, “How could you let this happen?” Each word was a shot like gunfire.

  “It wasn’t our fault,” I protested. “Talk to the police. You’ll see. We put Courtie on the school bus. She just never made it to school. It could have happened to any kid.”

  “But it happened to Courtie—while we were gone.”

  “Thanks to me, at least she knows what to do out there on her own.”

  Leigh started to say something, but Dad turned away from his discussion with Lamberton and Becker and waved us into silence. When the detectives had filled Dad and Leigh in on everything—the clues, the search, the investigation, what had happened the day before—Becker took Leigh into the den and Lamberton took Dad into the living room, and the questioning began. Becker closed the den door, so I don’t know what went on in there, but I guessed that she was grilling Leigh about Jack Tierno. In the living room Lamberton went over the same stuff he had asked Mike and me.

  Dad answered a couple of questions about Mom, sweating profusely even though the house was damp and slightly chilly from the rain.

  “Why are you so interested in our mother?” I asked finally.

  “It’s not just your mother,” Lamberton told me. “We’re interested in Mr. Tierno, too. You see, if a missing child is of divorced parents, very often the abductor is one of the parents.”

  “But Courtenay’s parents aren’t divorced,” I protested. “They’re Dad and Leigh, and they’re right here.”

  “We’re simply considering all the angles,” replied Lamberton, “and at the moment we have little to go on except the fact that Jack Tierno apparently was jealous that your father and stepmother could have a child when he and his wife were unable to.

  “Now, Mr. Ellis,” he continued, “I’d like some more details about your divorce and about the custody arrangements for Maggie and Mike. It’s somewhat unusual for the father to be granted full custody.”

  Dad was starting to turn pale. I glanced at Mike. Mike was frowning.

  “Maggie, Mike,” said Dad. “Would you please leave the room?”

  Lamberton looked sharply at my father.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Just leave, please.”

  “No.”

  “Come on, Maggie,” said Mike. “Let’s go.”

  “No,” I repeated more firmly. “If Dad has something to say about Mom or us, we ought to be allowed to hear it.”

  “I disagree,” said Dad.

  Lamberton began to look impatient. “Would you like to go down to the station for the questioning?”

  My father appeared to consider the suggestion. But I cut in. “Dad, this is ridiculous. She’s our mother. And Courtie is our sister. We have a right to know anything about them and this case.”

  For a long moment, my father sat unmoving, his head bowed. At last he said, “Maybe you’re right, Maggie, but what you and Mike are going to hear is not going to be easy for you. There are things I’ve tried to keep from you. Someday, when the time was right, I might have told you the truth. Unfortunately, this is a terrible time and a terrible way for it to come out … If any of this is too difficult for you to handle, I—well, I’ll have to answer the questions anyway. I’d still prefer that you not be here, but … ” He trailed off.

  At that moment, wild horses couldn’t have dragged me away. I was consumed with curiosity.

  “All right,” said Lamberton, adjusting his heavy frame on the couch. “I’ll go back over what I know already. Your wife left you eight years ago?”

  “That’s right.”

  “And she left voluntarily?”

  “No.”

  No? “What do you mean, Dad?” I asked.

  Dad looked at Lamberton, who nodded as if to say, “It’s okay. Go ahead.”

  “The court asked her to leave,” said my father. “She’d been charged with child abuse—neglecting and mentally abusing Maggie and Mike. When the divorce was final, I was given full custody. Jessica wasn’t even allowed visitation rights.”

  I gasped. “That’s not true!” I cried. “Our mother wouldn’t hurt us. She had to leave because … because that’s the way she is.”

  Dad couldn’t look up. “I’m sorry,” he said slowly, “but that’s not so. That’s the story I’ve told you and Mike, but it isn’t true.”

  “You wouldn’t lie to us, Dad,” said Mike. I watched his stricken face. I could see the anger and fear and hurt, everything I was feeling. “You’ve taught us not to lie,” he continued. “What are you covering up? Why are you lying now?”

  “I’m not lying,” my father repeated patiently. “I lied before. For all those years. I was trying to protect you and Maggie. I was hoping you wouldn’t have to remember or understand the years with Jessica. I was trying to keep you from being hurt—again.”

  Before I could protest, Lamberton broke in and I listened numbly. “I’m afraid I’ll have to ask you to describe the abuse, Mr. Ellis. How did your wife hurt the children?”

  “Oh, it wasn’t physical abuse,” Dad replied quickly. “Jessica never raised a hand to the children. But in many ways she was a child herself, and she simply couldn’t cope. When she needed peace, she’d leave the children and just take off, even when they were quite little. Maggie bore the brunt of the mental or emotional abuse, I’m afraid, although I don’t know why. When Jessica became angry with Maggie, she would simply lock her in a closet and leave her there, sometimes for hours. If she felt particularly angry, she would hurt something belonging to Maggie, usually her dolls. That was one reason the psychiatrist who testified at the court hearings recommended that Jessica be separated from the children. He felt that Jessica’s hurting the dolls represented what she wished she could do to Maggie. He said it was probably only a matter of time before that symbolic abuse became real.”

  I couldn’t believe the words that were coming from my father’s mouth. Liar! I wanted to shout.

  Lamberton was writing away in his notebook. “Do you have any idea where your wife is now, Mr. Ellis?”

  Dad shook his head. “None. I’d be surprised if she were still in L.A. She moves constantly, as Maggie and Mike told you.”

  “At least something was true,” muttered Mike.

  My father sighed. “She honestly is a free spirit, and really does drift from place to place, taking pottery classes or doing whatever strikes her fancy.”

  “Please think,” Lamberton pressed Dad. “Any idea where she is?”

  “I’m sorry. After the court decision, she’s kept her distance from us. As far as I know she hasn’t even returned to the Northeast. The postcards she sends come from California, Florida … For a while she was living somewhere in Canada, but that was several years ago.”

  “What the hell does all this have to do with Courtenay?” Mike exploded suddenly.

  “It may have everything to do with her,” said Lamberton sternly. “I’m sorry this is painful for you, but if you don’t let me proceed with the questioning, you’ll have to leave the room.”

  Mike slumped sullenly in his chair.

  After a moment, Lamberton said, “Despite the denial of visitation rights, has Mrs. Ellis ever seen the children?”

  “No,” replied Dad.

  “Has she ever tried to see them?”

  My father paused and cleared his throat. “For the past ten months she’s been trying to reverse the decision on the visitation rights. If she can do that, she hopes those rights will lead t
o shared custody of the children.”

  My mouth dropped open. “You never told us!” I accused him.

  “I didn’t see any need to. I’m fighting to deny all of her requests. There’s no reason for you and Mike to get caught up in this mess.”

  A glare from Lamberton made me close my open mouth.

  “Is Mrs. Ellis angry?” asked Lamberton.

  “Very.”

  “Is she the kind of person who’d want revenge?”

  “Yes.”

  “No,” I whispered, but no one heard me.

  “Could she have taken Courtenay?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “Dad!”

  “Maggie, shut up. Shut up right now.” Dad stood suddenly. He had never told anybody that I knew of to shut up. His face was beet red and he was boiling with anger. “For God’s sake, this isn’t any easier for me than it is for you. Do you think I’ve enjoyed living a lie? Do you think I’ve liked sneaking around and keeping secrets … and bursting your bubble about your wacky, beloved mother? This is no picnic. I loved your mother once, too.” He sat down and addressed Lamberton. “I think this is farfetched. Jessica is unstable, but why would she take a child that doesn’t belong to her?”

  “Because of what Courtenay stands for,” answered Lamberton quietly. “Your new life, your happy marriage, everything she couldn’t have.”

  Dad nodded. “Yes, I see.”

  “Do you have any pictures of your ex-wife?”

  “Only old ones. I haven’t seen her since she left. She could have cut her hair, grown it, dyed it. She could look like an entirely different person.”

  Lamberton nodded tiredly. “But an old picture is better than nothing.

  “Now,” he went on, “I am going to ask all of you not to mention this to anyone—your friends or relatives, and especially not the press. Oh, you can tell your wife, of course,” he said to Dad. “But it’s imperative that we keep this angle absolutely private. For one thing, if the first Mrs. Ellis did take Courtenay, we don’t want her to know we’re on to her. If she thinks she’s not a suspect, she may let her guard down. For another, there’s the chance that Mrs. Ellis isn’t involved at all, in which case we want the public to help search for Courtenay as they would any other missing child. However, Jessica Ellis is our prime suspect.”

  “You are crazy!” I screamed, leaping to my feet. “You and Dad both. My mother wouldn’t do something like this, and I’m going to prove it.” I ran up the stairs to my bedroom.

  8

  On the Air

  A LITTLE WHILE LATER, I tiptoed down the hall and sat at the top of the stairs, listening. Lamberton and Dad were still talking. I didn’t know where Mike was.

  “Are we doing everything we should be doing to locate Courtenay?” I heard my father ask.

  Lamberton explained to Dad about the NCIC computer and the need for publicity.

  I crept halfway down the stairs and looked at them through the railings of the banister. “There’s one other thing, Dad,” I said. He glanced up, surprised.

  I told him about Search for the Children. “They called back this morning. I talked to them for a while, but they want to speak to you.”

  “Thank you, Maggie,” he replied.

  Dad contacted Search for the Children immediately. It was a national organization located in California. Dad called them on their toll-free number and talked to the woman I had spoken with that morning. They talked for a long time. The organization would help us distribute photos of Courtenay—on posters and milk cartons—nationwide. Work would begin right away, although the photos themselves could not actually go out for several weeks. The woman gave us tips on conducting our own search for Courtenay. She said that Search for the Children would work directly with the police and the FBI, on Courtie’s case.

  When Dad got off the phone, he looked haggard.

  I retreated to my room.

  At four-thirty that afternoon, Mike came into my room. “The TV crew is downstairs,” he said, “and the detectives are done with Dad and Leigh. They want us all to go on the news show.”

  “Now?” I asked.

  Mike nodded. “Stay tuned for the Leigh Ellis Show,” he said wryly.

  I didn’t attempt a smile. “I don’t really even want to be near Dad,” I said.

  “Maggie, I think that for the sake of the search we’re going to have to put some of our feelings aside. If you want to prove that Mom didn’t take Courtenay, then we have to do everything possible to get Courtie back—so Dad and the police can see who did take her, that it wasn’t Mom. And that means a regular all-out search, which the police seem to want anyway.” I guess.

  “Come on. I know you can do it. And remember, we’re not supposed to say anything about Mom.”

  “I know. Okay. Give me five minutes to get myself together.”

  The camera crew was setting up in the living room when I started downstairs in the old jeans and flannel shirt I’d been wearing. When I saw the crew, I went back upstairs, changed into new jeans and a sweater, and went down again.

  Our living room looked like a real TV studio. A makeup woman fixed my face for the cameras and bright lights, clucking over my freckles and red hair. Later, two men posed Dad, Leigh, Mike and me on the couch, which wasn’t at all easy, considering Leigh was mad at Mike and me, and Mike and I were mad at Dad, so nobody wanted to be near anybody else. The men tried us in nine different arrangements before they seemed satisfied.

  At last the cameras began rolling. Robert Ford, anchorman for the Channel Three Eleven O’Clock Nightcast, interviewed each of us plus Lamberton and Becker. He asked Mike and me the most questions since we were the ones who had put Courtenay on the school bus. Then he stupidly said to Leigh, “And how does it feel to know your four-year-old is out there somewhere—frightened and confused?”

  “How do you think it feels?” Leigh snapped. “It feels wonderful. Wouldn’t you be thrilled to pieces if your daughter were missing?” Then she began to cry, and when the camera zoomed in for a close-up of that novel sight, Leigh jerked her head up and said, “Turn that thing off! Don’t you have any respect for a person’s grief?”

  I bet that none of that would be on the news that night.

  I was right.

  But a lot of the rest of the interview was on. As Becker had said earlier, it was important to capture for the public the personal, human-interest aspects of Courtenay’s disappearance. She said this was because the more people who were aware of the disappearance and the more people who were out there keeping their eyes peeled for a little tawny-haired kid, the better the chances for Courtie’s recovery. Becker also said that the best way to capture the public’s interest was to make Courtie and our family as real as possible, and therefore as sympathetic as possible.

  Which was how I ended up leading Robert Ford upstairs to Courtie’s room, with a remote camera rolling away behind me the entire time. When we reached her room, Ford looked around, a fake expression of grimness on his face. The camera panned from side to side, taking in everything—Courtie’s brass bed with the collection of dolls (Cabbage Patch, Raggedy Ann and Andy, Leigh’s old Betsy Wetsy), her building blocks, the little bookcase overflowing with children’s books that Dad had brought home from the office, the rocking chair, the desk with legs that looked like crayons.

  Ford turned to me and the camera rolled on. “Tell me about your little sister,” he said, overly earnestly. “What does she like to do? What kind of child is she?”

  I thought for a moment. “Courtie is very smart,” I replied. “She likes to be read to. She likes to draw pictures.”

  “Here at her desk?” asked Ford, indicating the crayon table.

  I nodded. “Yes. And even though she’s very adult because she’s around grownups so much, she has this great imagination. She likes to dress up in her mother’s clothes. She’s gotten married twice—without any groom.” Ford smiled. “And she makes up long, wild stories. She also,” I said, feeling a catch in my throat
, “has nightmares. If you—if anybody out there has my sister right now, please help her if she cries at night.” I began to cry myself. Of course the camera moved in. “She, um, thinks there’s a red mitten under her bed that snores,” I went on. “It scares her to death. You should know that.”

  Ford moved the microphone from my mouth to his. “A plea for a missing child,” he said in his show-biz newscaster’s voice. “Would you like to add anything to your statement, Maggie?”

  I nodded into the camera, the tears still rolling down my cheeks. “Just please give her back safely,” I whispered. “If you’ve taken my sister, please let us have her back. She belongs here in her room.”

  “Thank you, Maggie Ellis. This is Robert Ford, Channel Three News Nightcast.”

  The camera clicked off.

  “That was beautiful, kid, beautiful.”

  I looked at Robert Ford and decided that both his hair and his tan were fake. Then I fled to my room, leaving him and the cameraman to find their own way downstairs. In my room, I stood at my window, gazing outside. The rain was clearing up slowly. I spotted the Channel Three van parked in our driveway and decided to wait until it left before I left my room.

  As I stood looking, I realized that our house had become a curiosity. Most of our neighbors were still out searching, but other people kept driving by and slowing down for a glimpse of the home from which a child was missing.

  Our street was a busy place. I also saw several newspaper reporters in the driveway behind the Channel Three van. I knew they’d been hanging around since the night before. Lamberton and Becker seemed pleased with this. They liked the publicity and would throw tidbits of information to the reporters every now and then.

  The TV people began to leave our house, but it was taking them a while to load their equipment in the van. I settled into a more comfortable position, determined not to leave my room until that van was backing down our driveway. I saw Caroline and Sandra, two of Courtie’s friends, playing in Caroline’s front yard. I noticed that Mrs. Babbitt, Caroline’s mother, was outdoors with them, watching them anxiously. I saw Martha walking by in a great hurry and wondered if she would come over.