by Donna Ball
“Mike is terrific with kids,” I assured her. “He’s got three of his own.”
Jack added gently, “We’ll call the hospital later, okay? Let’s go tell everyone she’s okay.”
Ruth frowned a little. “You don’t suppose Dolly is really going to go through with the living Nativity tonight, do you?”
“If I know Dolly, and I do, she will,” I assured her. “And the less fuss we make about it the better for everyone concerned.”
Jack gave a wry half smile. “She’s right, hon. There are going to be a bunch of kids lined up wanting to pet the donkeys and the sheep as soon as the choir finishes, and we’re part of the act. Let’s get back.”
I said, “Hey, Jack. When you set up the manger, was there a doll in it?”
He thought for a moment. “Yeah, come to think of it, Dolly came by just as we were leaving and left the doll. It was wrapped in a scarf or something the same color as Ruth’s robe. They were supposed to match.”
I nodded. “I wonder what happened to it.”
Jack looked at me curiously and I explained, “Whoever took the doll out of the manger to put the real baby in had to get rid of the doll somewhere.” I shrugged. “You guys had better get back before Dolly comes after you. I’ll have a look around.”
Of course it wasn’t my job to look around, but I was curious. If I were a desperate young mother looking to anonymously exchange a real baby for a doll in the middle of town square with all kinds of people milling about, I probably wouldn’t have wanted to carry the stolen doll very far. I poked around the stable as best I could, looking behind bales of hay and underneath the straw that lined the manger, in the shadows behind the stable and in the corners inside. I wished I had brought Cisco with me. He had an uncanny knack for sticking his nose in places it didn’t belong, and he loved toys—especially when they didn’t belong to him. If the doll had been hidden anywhere around here, he would have found it. I borrowed the shepherd’s crook to stir around the contents of the two nearest trash barrels, but I didn’t find anything bigger than a half-eaten corndog. By that time Deke, Buck’s number one deputy, had arrived, and I was reminded that I was starving.
“Where’s Buck?” I asked him. Buck usually liked to handle this kind of thing himself.
“Got a call,” Deke replied truculently, and scowled at the notepad he took out of his pocket. Since our divorce had become final, some of the men on the force felt it was a sign of their loyalty to Buck to be rude to me whenever possible. “You know anything about this?”
“No,” I admitted.
“Get on out of here, then.”
I returned his scowl, but I really didn’t want to get into an argument with him that would delay my dinner even further, so I turned away, muttering, “Great police work, sport.” But my natural sense of good citizenship got the better of me, so I turned back and added, “The doll is missing.”
He glared at me. “What doll?”
I pointed at Jack, who had taken his place with Mary in front of the empty manger. “Ask Joseph,” I suggested and waved goodbye as I made my way through the crowd.
I stopped to bring Maude and Aunt Mart up to speed on events, so that by the time I walked into Miss Meg’s Diner there were only a few customers left—mostly old men who had seen enough Christmas parades in their lifetime and were enjoying a cup of coffee and ESPN turned on low at the counter. I ordered a barbecue sandwich with extra French fries and sweet tea before I even sat down, then sank into a booth by the window, stretching out my legs.
I rarely came into town without one of the dogs, so it was a treat to be able to lean back, relax and enjoy a meal in a restaurant without worrying about who was waiting for me in the car. The view of the Christmas tree was spectacular from my seat in the window, and as far as I could tell the police investigation hadn’t disrupted the festivities much at all. I had finished my sandwich and was swirling the last few fries around in a paper cup of ketchup, contemplating the last slice of lemon meringue pie that was displayed inside the cooler by the counter, when the bell over the door jingled and Miles Young walked in.
Miles is, for all intents and purposes, the man behind Hansonville’s spectacular Christmas parade this year. Because of him, Reardon Real Estate could afford a prize-winning float with lights and sound. Because of him, our new animal shelter was well underway and the stray dogs had twinkle lights on their collars. Because of his tax money, the Christmas tree had new lights and the volunteer fire department had a new engine. I had heard he had also given generously to churches, food drives and under-privileged children’s groups. He was Mr. Popularity around these parts lately, but I remained skeptical.
Miles Young knew how to run a PR campaign, and that was exactly what he was doing; it was no coincidence that every time he wrote a check he was smiling into the camera. He had done enough interviews about what a positive impact his new resort development was going to have on our county to run for office. Because of him, my beautiful mountain was scarred with deadfalls and roadbeds, wildlife was being displaced, and someday soon a multi-million dollar country club would be looking down on my back yard. But because of him, construction workers—the industry that had been hardest hit by the recession in our area—had jobs and children had presents under the tree. It was hard for most people to hate him these days. Myself included.
He stopped at the counter and placed an order. Then he saw me and came over, accompanied some distance behind by a young girl in a green puff coat and red toboggan hat who appeared to be attached to an electronic tablet by a set of earphones. Her eyes never left the screen as she trudged across the room.
Miles grinned as he reached me and leaned down to kiss my cheek, bringing with him the smell of the cold outdoors and Polo cologne. “Great job with those sheep, sugar. I was rooting for you.”
I wriggled uncomfortably, glancing around to see who had noticed. “Miles, please. No PDAs.” But my stomach fluttered with pleasure and my heartbeat had a ridiculous little catch in it. There’s no accounting for chemistry. Absolutely none.
I probably should have mentioned Miles Young is the “kind of” rich boyfriend Miss Esther thought I should have. It’s not that he’s kind of rich; he’s very rich. It’s that he’s kind of my boyfriend. The kind-of part refers to the fact that I think he thinks he wants to be my boyfriend; I am very far from being sure. At all.
I added, “I didn’t know you were in town.”
“We just got in in time for the parade.” He slid into the seat opposite me and stretched out his hand for the girl, beckoning her over. She plopped down beside him without looking up.
I raised an eyebrow. “And who’s this?”
Miles reached over and plucked off her hat, tugging one of the ear buds out of her ear. “Mel,” he said to the little girl, “say hello to Miss Stockton. Raine, this is Melanie. My daughter.”
____________
SIX
I’ll admit it, I was surprised. I’m not sure why, but I’d never thought of Miles as having children. There was no reason he shouldn’t have children. I knew he was divorced, and he was in his forties, after all. But I was surprised.
I had never dated a man with children before.
I tried to hide my reaction with a quick smile to the girl. “Nice to meet you, Melanie,” I said.
She muttered something without looking up.
She was probably nine or ten, a little on the plump side, with a riot of brown curly hair that was currently suffering from an unfortunate chin-length cut that caused it to stick out in all directions. She wore black- framed cat-woman glasses that were so unattractive I knew her mother had let her pick them out for herself. This, I knew, was the acclaimed “awkward phase” all girls went through just before puberty. I remembered it all too well.
I glanced at Miles, still smiling. “I didn’t know you had a daughter.”
Before he could answer she said, still without looking up, “Bet you didn’t know he had three ex-wives, either.”
My smile
was starting to feel a little frozen. “No. I didn’t.”
Meg arrived with a cup of coffee for Miles and a mug of hot chocolate for Melanie. She set the last slice of lemon pie before Miles.
My smile faded. “I was going to order that.”
Miles said to Meg, “Bring another fork, will you, Meg?”
“Sure thing, Mr. Young.”
Okay, I've said it before; I’m not that wild about kids. It’s not that I don’t like them, exactly; it’s just that I don’t see the point in them. They’re messy and noisy and not that interesting. They’re always asking questions. They make every conversation a chore and I’d rather have dinner with a three-year-old golden retriever than a three-year-old child any day. In fact, I’m always a little suspicious of hotels that allow children but ban pets, and I avoid them when I can.
But because part of having a therapy dog often involves working with children, I have learned how to be polite to them. So I turned to Melanie and inquired pleasantly, “How old are you, Melanie?”
She did not look up. “How old are you?”
I stared at her. I made a few sputtering noises that were punctuated by a nervous laugh. I looked at Miles, expecting him to correct his daughter, but he was busy smiling his thanks at Meg as he accepted the second fork. My mother would have marched me right out of the restaurant and made me wait in the car if I had ever even thought of being so rude to an adult, but all Miles said to his little girl was, “Are you sure you don’t want some of this pie, honey?”
“I told you, I hate lemon. Can I get back to my movie now?” And, not waiting for an answer, she stuffed the other ear bud back into her ear and tuned us out.
Frankly, I was glad.
Miles pushed the pie to the center of the table and I accepted the fork he offered, stabbing off a big meringue-covered piece from the end. “So,” I said, “What are you doing here? I thought you were spending the holidays in Aruba or someplace.”
He gave a small shrug. “I thought about it, but when the chance came up to spend Christmas with Mel, naturally I jumped on it.”
“My mom dumped me on him,” Melanie said, her eyes fixed on the screen of her tablet. “She’s in Brazil on her honeymoon with some tennis dude.”
I lifted an eyebrow. “Great hearing,” I commented.
Miles kept his expression perfectly flat as he said, “Mel’s mother can be a little impulsive.” And the note of cheer he injected into his voice sounded forced as he added, “But it all worked out great for me. I don’t get to spend nearly enough time with my girl.”
I dug into the pie again. “How long are you staying?”
“A few days. We’re on our way to see my mother in Myrtle Beach. I thought we’d check out the bunny slope at Far Heights, and I need to meet with some contractors while I’m here.”
I said, “Wow. Skiing and the beach for Christmas. Lucky kid.”
He cut into his first bite of pie. “Actually,” he said, “it was supposed to be Aspen and St. Bart’s, but I had already rented out my condo in Aspen for the holidays, and Mel’s mother forgot to leave her passport with me. So it’s going to be a low-key Christmas.”
“You’ve got a condo in Aspen?”
He smiled. “And a beach house in the Virgin Islands.”
And three ex-wives and a daughter. How many other things did I not know about him?
Not that it mattered. He wasn’t really my boyfriend. We weren’t really even officially dating. We were barely casual friends. Acquaintances at best.
My cell phone rang and I was glad. I fumbled to unzip my vest pocket and take it out.
“Where are you?” Buck asked without preamble.
I frowned at his abruptness, but knew it only meant he was under stress. I could hear the crackle of police radios in the background. “Still in town, why?”
“Listen, can you meet me at…” I could picture him consulting his notebook, “the entrance of the Heavenly Homes trailer park? I need you to go with me on a compassionate call.”
I blew out a breath. Since the Hanover County Sheriff’s Department had lost its only female deputy–due to the fact that she preferred sleeping with my husband over working with him—those informal duties that were deemed to require a woman’s touch had fallen to whomever Buck could snare. These usually involved female prisoners or minor children who, in Buck’s opinion, would be put at ease by the presence of a woman. And to be fair, he did usually try to find someone who was at least on the county payroll—someone from DFACS or the Health Department, or occasionally even my Aunt Mart, who, as the wife of the retired sheriff, at least had plenty of experience.
On the other hand, part of my therapy dog work was as a volunteer crisis counselor, which usually meant showing up with my dog and staying quiet while traumatized children or victims of violent crime clung to Cisco and tried to believe in a world that would one day be normal again. Accompanying an officer to inform the family of a loved one’s death was not exactly within the scope of my duties, but it wasn’t entirely outside them either.
“I tried Peggy but she’s on her way to the hospital to fill out the paperwork on that abandoned baby and everybody else is either still at the parade or out Christmas shopping,” Buck went on. Peggy Miller was Hanover County’s only licensed social worker, and she ran the Department of Family and Children’s Services with a staff of four overworked and underpaid clerks. I could see where this was headed. “I’ve got to go tell a minor child that her daddy is dead and remove her from the home. It sure would be a lot easier on her if it wasn’t a couple of policemen with guns she saw when she opened the door.”
I groaned out loud, rubbing my forehead. Miles speared another piece of pie. I said, “Who is it?”
“The victim’s Earl Lewis. The daughter’s name is Ashleigh. Thirteen or fourteen, I think. Far as I can tell, no other relatives in the state. The mother died four or five years ago.”
“I don’t know them.”
“No reason you should. He wasn’t exactly what you’d call an outstanding citizen. That poor kid couldn’t have had much of a home life, but I guess it was better than no home life at all.”
Now you know why everyone likes Buck. He genuinely cares about other people. He knows how to put himself in their place. And when he says things like that, he puts me in my place too.
I sighed. “Okay. I’ll stop by and pick up Cisco. It’s out Highway 16, isn’t it? Past the old cannery?”
“Yeah, just pull up beside the entrance sign, I’ll lead you in.”
I watched Miles eat the last bite of pie. “So what happened? Traffic accident?”
Buck hesitated just a moment. “Murder,” he said. “He was stabbed in the throat.”
I didn’t spend a lot of time saying goodbye to Miles or to his ever-so-charming daughter. That was probably rude of me. And I’m really not certain what it says about me when I was relieved to trade the warm diner and coffee with an attractive man to rush to the aid of my ex-husband at a crime scene.
My house was on the way to the Heavenly Homes trailer park, and all three dogs came scrabbling to the front door when I pulled up—despite the fact that two of them were supposed to be securely crated behind a closed door. As I have told my students repeatedly, it’s pointless to correct a dog for undesirable behavior after the fact, so I pretended not to notice that Mischief and Magic had once again let themselves out of their crates without permission. I turned all three dogs out into the yard briefly for a toilet break, settled the Aussies down with a chew bone, and grabbed Cisco’s therapy dog vest from the front closet. Cisco looked from Mischief’s chew bone to me with a hurt expression on his face until I opened the door and invited, “Okay, boy. Load up!” Then he dashed out into the dark, tail spinning like a propeller blade, and he was sitting beside the tail gate of the SUV with an excited grin on his face when I got there.
Cisco fogged up the back window with his breath while I made my way down the dark and almost deserted highway, looking for the sign th
at heralded the entrance to the trailer park. I would have missed it had I not seen the patrol car parked just inside the entrance, and I pulled in beside it, next to the wooden sign with the faded lettering that read, “Heavenly Homes.” Buck put his car in gear and led the way down the gravel road.
The trailer park was one of those that had probably been a pretty good deal fifteen or twenty years ago. Most of the homes were double-wides, and the little squares of yard were not too close together. Behind front windows I could see the twinkle of Christmas tree lights, and some had even gone to the expense of decorating their roof lines and setting fluorescent snowmen in their front yards. Only a few of the drives were occupied by rusted-out cars on blocks, and one fellow with an obvious sense of humor had even strung a row of multi-colored Christmas lights around the open hood of his.
Buck pulled into the short dirt drive that led to a darkened double-wide at the end of the block. He got out and stood in that watchful manner that is second nature to every policeman, his hands resting on his utility belt, looking around. I opened the back of the SUV and gave Cisco a firm command to stay while I snapped on his vest and leash. I knew he obeyed only because he hadn’t seen Buck yet.
I released Cisco and walked him up the drive toward the patrol car. The minute he saw Buck, he forgot everything he had ever known about heeling, and I knew I’d never get him back under control until the two of them had greeted each other. So when we were three feet away I gave up the struggle to keep him by my side and said, “Okay, release,” as he dashed toward his hero. At least I got to pretend it was my idea.
I glanced around in the glow of the neighbor’s Christmas lights while Buck bent down to rub Cisco’s wriggling body, telling him what a fine fellow he was. The only cars in the drive were ours, and there wasn’t a light on inside. It was barely eight o’clock, and I didn’t think a teenager would be in bed already. I could hear the neighbor’s television through the thin glass windows of the trailer but not a sound from the one in front of us.
