“But not a great husband?”
How I wished that I had the time to ask my questions properly. But then again, maybe a little shake up was what was called for in this situation.
“My leaving probably had more to do with being a bad wife. After all, I did promise to stay by Nathan’s side through good times and bad. I just couldn’t accept how Nathan had changed after losing his job.”
“But he remained a good father?”
“Look, I know what you’re getting at. I’ll admit it. I had a bit of a breakdown. I made a mistake, and now I’m trying to correct that mistake.”
“By suing for protective custody?”
“That’s right,” she said, beginning to sound more assertive.
“When was the last time you saw Daniel?”
“It was his birthday party, at his father’s apartment, a little over a week ago.”
“How did it go?”
“What do you mean?”
“Did Daniel seem happy? Was he happy to see you? What was your impression of his state of mind?”
“Daniel is always happy. He was especially happy since it was his birthday. And yes, he was very happy to see me.”
“What about your husband?”
“He was obviously depressed, but he made the best of it.”
“Was he happy to see you?”
“I don’t know what you’re implying, but I trust my husband. Down deep inside, I still love the man.”
“Then why are you separated and suing for child custody?”
“Look, I really have to be going,” Nancy insisted, obviously flustered.
“Alright,” I said.
Rising, I handed her my business card. At the same time, I hoped that she didn’t read to closely since that card clearly identified me as a parking enforcement officer.
“If you think of anything else, don’t hesitate to give me a call.”
It didn’t even dawn on me until I was out the door that this was not my investigation and that I should have been instructing Nancy to call Gordon. Oh well, what’s done is done, I reasoned. I went back to my rounds.
As I methodically laid down my chalk lines, I ran the new information I’d obtained from Daniel’s mother through the ANALYTICO processor in my mind. After my brain had broken down the data, stored it, and then retrieved it to identify correlations, I came to the obvious conclusion that Nancy had been foolish to leave her son with his distraught father. But then the outcome had already proved this hypothesis. The other thing I concluded was that, other than displaying poor judgment, I could accuse Nancy Evans of nothing else. In the end, I determined that the answers I was seeking must lie with the father.
During my lunch hour, I stopped by Tara Lee’s place hoping to borrow an extra dining room table for Thanksgiving. I was surprised to find her home in chaos. I was even more surprised when she greeted me enthusiastically rather than shooing me away. Wafting over the tumult of trucks and workers in her yard was a distinctly unpleasant odor.
“Oh, Chloe,” Tara Lee said, rushing to my side. “I’m so glad you came. I was about to call you.”
“What happened?” I asked, watching as men slogged through a quagmire of mud in Tara Lee’s backyard.
“It’s the septic system. It’s backed up and now my backyard is floating in … well, who knows what. But whatever it is, it doesn’t smell pleasant at all.”
“It sure doesn’t,” I readily agreed.
“That’s why I need your help,” Tara Lee said, grabbing my shoulder and fixing me with her doe-eyed desperate look.
I don’t think anyone ever told Tara Lee that this was more the look of a rattlesnake than a doe. Still, I couldn’t resist a plea for help.
“Okay, I’ll bite. What can I do for you?”
“You can hold the Annual Lit Wits Thanksgiving Dinner at your house.”
“Oh, I don’t know, Tara Lee,” I said, backpedaling as fast as I could. “My house is already very full.”
“Yes. I’ve heard you’re already having a large gathering that several of the Lit Wits plan on attending.”
“Yes, that’s true, but…”
“Then what’s a few more?”
“But I have a small place,” I tried.
“Chloe, you can’t expect me to have the dinner here, can you?” she asked, gesturing toward the stinking swamp that had once been her beautifully manicured lawn. “What do you expect me to do? Turn our friends out on the street on Thanksgiving?”
“Well, I suppose that wouldn’t be nice.”
“Besides, if we merge the gatherings, I can step in and arrange everything for you.”
“I could probably use a little help,” I admitted.
“Good. Then it’s settled. I’ll get in touch with Lucy and Rosemary to finalize the plans and together we’ll take care of everything.” It figured that my mother and mother-in-law would be in on this with Tara Lee.
“I was hoping to be involved myself.”
“Chloe, you’re so sweet,” Tara Lee said, patting my cheek, “but you have limited organizational skills and are a disaster in the kitchen. You let your mother, mother-in-law, and me take care of everything. You’ll be glad you did.”
“Just how many people do you plan on having over to my place for Thanksgiving?” I asked, beginning to get a little testy.
“That is neither here nor there. No matter the number, we’ll all be assured a good time. Oh, thank you, Chloe,” she said, giving me a mature woman hug and an almost peck on the cheek. “Once again, you’ve saved the day.”
I stood dumbfounded, feeling more than a little shell-shocked. How had I let this happen? I had now lost count of how many people were coming to my home for Thanksgiving dinner. And what would Mr. Jackman say about having his dinner plans upset? I tried to think of something to say to unsay everything that had just been said, but nothing came to mind.
“You know, Chloe,” Tara Lee said, interrupting my thoughts. “My parents used to be quite involved in their community when I was young. This was especially true around the holidays.”
And then, without any prompting at all, she told me her story…
The Story of the Christmas Piñatas
My parents grew up during the great depression. As a result, as adults they were very frugal, but valuing and sharing everything they owned with the neighbors. For example, though we weren’t rich, we were the first in the neighborhood to put in a pool. Soon after it was built, my mother instituted White Flag Day. On this day, she would fly a white flag out in front of our home (a portion of sheet stapled to a stick) and while that flag was flying, our pool was open to anyone in the neighborhood that wanted to come swimming. That’s the kind of people my parents were.
Though White Flag Day usually turned into a huge party for the kids, my favorite gathering was Christmas Eve and the build up to it. And here’s how it would happen.
Starting on Thanksgiving weekend, my brothers, parents, and I would build piñatas. We’d begin by blowing up a balloon and tying a string around it, then we’d hang the string from an old lamp stand that we kept especially for piñata making. Next, we’d make up a bowl of paste made from flour and water and cut old newspapers into long strips. Then we’d run the newspaper strips through the paste and stick them to the balloon until we’d formed a shell around it. After the paste had dried, we’d apply cardboard cutouts, depending on the shape we were making, and then cover the whole structure in colored crepe paper. When the figure dried, and the balloon had shriveled, we’d have a finished piñata.
Each year we’d make two or three piñatas, and our designs became more elaborate as we became better at the craft. From Santa to snowmen, birds to cows, we made them all. And we learned as the years went past. For example, if you don’t give a piñata enough time to dry, it splats when hit with a stick rather than cracking. We learned that lesson the hard way.
Christmas Eve, my parents, brothers, and I would bundle up and go out Christmas caroling. We’d begin at th
e next door neighbor’s house and move door-by-door around the block. At each house, we’d add additional parents and kids to our number and our singing would grow in volume. By the time we’d made it all the way around the block and back to our home, we’d have gathered a huge number of people.
None of us were particularly good singers, but what we lacked in talent we made up for in enthusiasm. However, the only truly cringe-worthy aspect I remember was what we did for our Jewish neighbors. You see, we only knew one Jewish song. The Dreidel Song. And we sang it with gusto at every Jewish household we came to. I can only imagine now how our Jewish neighbors must have cowered behind their doors, hearing the gentiles drawing near, and realizing that they would be expected to smile through yet another rendition of that same old song.
Anyway, back at our home, the piñatas would be brought out. After first being filled with candy and coins, the string on top of a piñata would be tied to a rope that was thrown over a rafter in the garage. My father would man the other end of the rope, pulling the piñata up and down to make it harder to hit. One at a time, children would be blindfolded and armed with a stick, usually a broom handle, with which to try to break the piñata.
I still to this day remember how my father would howl with laughter as each kid tried in vain to strike a piñata with that stick. Eventually, one would get in a lucky blow. Either that or my father would allow one of the smaller kids to smack away at an unmoving piñata. When the piñata broke, the candy and coins would fall to the garage floor, and all of us would dive for it. Afterward, the next piñata would be hung and the fun would begin again.
From block parties to bridge night, White Flag Day, and caroling, it seemed like we had more of a sense of community in my childhood days. I miss it all very much. It’s why the Lit Wits dinner is so important now. It’s the way I keep my parents’ memory alive.
* * *
I stood entranced by Tara Lee’s story and engrossed in my own memories of holidays past. Tara Lee had a broad smile on her face and appeared to be immersed in her own happy memories. I felt as if we were sharing one of those rare moments that people, unlike Tara Lee and me, share from time to time.
“Now, why did you stop by, Chloe?” Tara Lee eventually asked.
“I don’t remember,” I confessed.
“Well, I’m sure it will come to you,” she said, patting my arm. “And when it does, you give me a call.”
And with that, Tara Lee left me to go march back and forth across her patio playing foreman, all the while hollering through the hankies pressed to her nose at the addled workers rushing about to address her sewage problem. I turned and staggered back to my patrol cart in a daze. I snapped back to the present when Blue licked the back of my hand. I had been sitting in my cart staring into space. I patted her on the head and smiled.
“That’s a good girl,” I assured her, and started up my cart. “Blue, you haven’t asked anyone to Thanksgiving dinner, have you?”
“Woof,” she replied.
I took that as a no.
There was still time to have a quick lunch at the park. Few nice days remained before winter, and I laid out a beach towel on the grass in a dry patch under an elm tree, which Blue and I shared. We also shared my turkey and cheese sandwich, but not my apple since Blue isn’t fond of fruit. When lunch was over and I had everything all packed up, I altered my afternoon rounds to take me down Maple Avenue to Nathaniel Evans’ apartment.
Again I remained parked for a time in the street in order to monitor the neighborhood. It appeared to me that Mr. Evans’ apartment was far more secluded than that of his wife and that there would be ample opportunity to hide a child in the sleepy neighborhood where no children played and no one sat out on their porches. I walked to Mr. Evans’ door on the second floor and rang his bell. To my surprise, he was home.
“Yes, can I help you?” he asked, peeking through the crack in the doorway.
“Mr. Evans?” I asked.
“Yes.”
“I’m Chloe Boston with the Hope Falls police department. I was hoping to ask you a few questions.”
“I’ve already talked to the police.”
“This is a follow-up interview.”
He hesitated, continuing to examine me with one eye through the crack in the doorway.
“Alright. Hold on a minute while I get dressed,” he said, and closed the door in my face.
I waited outside his door, growing all the more suspicious with every passing moment. Eventually he returned and unchained the door to let me in.
“Sorry about the mess,” he said as I entered.
The living room I stepped into was surprisingly neat. He stepped over to the coffee table and brushed a few crumbs onto a plate. While he carried the plate into the kitchen, I took a look around. I could see no cardboard boxes; everything had been unpacked. The ugly, puke-brown carpet had lines in the nap indicating it had been recently vacuumed. There were a few toys stored neatly in a box in the corner. When Mr. Evans returned, he was straightening a tie. I noticed then that he was dressed impeccably and didn’t fit the standard depressed person profile in my eyes. In fact, he presented himself as cool and collected. I took a seat on the sofa and he sat on the edge of an easy chair facing me.
“What can I do for you, Officer?”
“I had some questions regarding your son.”
“Yes?”
“The last time you saw him, at the park. Did he seem alright to you?”
“What do you mean?”
“Was he happy?”
“Daniel was always happy.”
“Had the two of you had a recent fight?”
“No, of course not. Danny and I love each other very much.”
“Was there any reason that Daniel would want to run away from home?”
Instead of answering the question, Mr. Evans looked uncomfortably across the room. I felt that I was on to something with this line of questioning.
“What is it, Mr. Evans?” I asked. “You can tell me.”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he replied, redirecting his attention back to me. “I can think of no reason Danny would want to run away from home.”
“How about friends? Is there a friend he might have gone away with?”
“No. Danny didn’t have any close friends.”
I found his response both strange and sad. I moved on.
“Were there any favorite hiding places that Daniel had near the park? Did he like to play in the Wash?”
“Look, I already went over all of this with Officer Gordon,” he snapped. “It should all be in the police report. You can read my answers there.”
“I’d like to hear the answers directly from you.”
“No. Daniel never played outside of the park.”
“To your knowledge.”
“To my knowledge.”
“And you saw no strangers hovering around the park while you were playing on the swings?”
“As I told Officer Gordon, no, I did not!”
“How is Daniel’s relationship with his mother?”
“He loves his mother very much.”
“Did he possibly love and want to be with his mother more than you?”
“Look, where are these questions leading?”
“Mr. Evans, I’ll be straight up with you. Do you think there’s any chance that your wife is hiding your son from you?”
Again, he looked uncomfortably across the room. He licked his lips nervously before answering.
“No, that’s not possible.”
“Is it possible that someone other than your wife is hiding your son?”
This time when his eyes strayed, I looked in the same direction to find that he was looking to a closed door in the back of the apartment, probably a bedroom door.
“I’m done answering your questions, Officer.”
“I have only one more question,” I replied.
“What is it?”
“Where is your son, Mr. Evans?” I asked point
blank. “Is there something behind that door you don’t want me to see?”
“I think it’s time that you left,” Mr. Evans said, rising.
It was only then that I noticed he was quite large and muscular, especially when compared with me. If I’d been a foot taller and weighed another hundred pounds, I might have pressed the issue. Since I wasn’t, I rose and allowed him to guide me to the door.
“If you think of anything you’d like to tell us,” I stopped to say, “don’t hesitate to give Officer Gordon a call.”
“And what was your name again, Officer?”
“Chloe Boston.”
I stepped across the threshold and turned to say more. Once more the apartment door was shut in my face.
I tried not to speed on my way back to the station, not that one can generate any great speed in an electric powered meter maid’s cart. I was so excited when I made it to the station that I didn’t take the time to tie Blue up outside, opting to take her with me inside to the Chief’s office. When I arrived, the door was closed and locked. My knock produced no response.
“What do you need, Boston?” Officer Larry Bryce asked me.
“I need to talk with the Chief.”
“The Chief left me in charge, so what do you need?”
I considered spilling the beans to Bryce, but thought better of it. To convince someone to send out a unit and arrest Nathaniel Evans would take some doing. Everything would go much smoother if I had a sympathetic ear, and the Chief was probably the most sympathetic ear I could find in the station.
“When will the Chief be back?” I pressed.
“Tomorrow,” Bryce said, scratching Blue behind the ears. “In the meantime, you can raise him on his cell.”
Again, I thought it better that I not try to convince the Chief of what I’d found over the phone. I was frustrated, but it looked like I would have to wait until tomorrow to break the case. In the meantime, I was reasonably confident that Daniel would remain safe and sound in his father’s apartment during the night. I thanked Bryce and started to lead Blue out to my waiting tricycle.
“Oh, Boston,” Bryce interrupted.
“Yes?”
“Is there anything I can bring to Thanksgiving dinner?”
Beast of a Feast Page 6
