Beachcomber Baby (Beachcomber Investigations Book 3)

by Stephanie Queen

  “He never gave any explanation, but it was this unacknowledged thing between us. It was strange. After that he treated me with greater deference and respect than ever—I didn’t mind keeping his secret—until now. Because the first time I laid eyes on the baby I saw the resemblance. Father D brought the baby straight to me after Ms. Grace left.”

  “Tell me about that—what did Ms. Grace say? What was Father D’s explanation to her?”

  “Father D tried to tell Ms. Grace that this kind of thing was why he wanted to start the house, but she gave him one of those looks and stood without saying anything—almost accusing him just with her eyes. She would have made a great nun schoolteacher.”

  “Did Father D give her any explanation?”

  “He begged her for time to find the mother, who must surely be desperate. He must have stashed away the note from the mother before he saw Ms. Grace. I never saw it. I’ve still never seen it.”

  Shana nodded. She knew why Father D was holding that note close. She hoped dearly that Dane got it from him before he destroyed it—if he hadn’t already.

  Sister Anne continued. “He was in a hurry to get Paulette hidden away, right away.”

  “Where were you when all this happened?”

  “I was in the anteroom. They had walked inside to the front parlor—where he usually took guests. He sounded nervous.”

  “I bet. So you have anterooms off of every room in this place?” Shana shouldn’t have said that out loud, but Sister Anne laughed. Shana liked the nun. Sister Anne was no more than a few years older than her and probably considerably less experienced in worldly matters, but she managed to take things in stride.

  “I don’t know how he managed it, but Madeline Grace left without holding or really getting a good look at the baby. Father D convinced Ms. Grace to give the baby a chance before putting her into the system, so she called her husband. I heard them arrange for a week’s forbearance.”

  “So Madeline—Ms. Grace left and that’s when you came in?”

  “Yes.” Sister Anne stopped talking but Shana could see volumes in her face, as she was probably thinking about the baby—tenderness, concern and regret, if she wasn’t mistaken.

  “Tell me about the breakin. Every detail. Every minute detail from the first second—from before the first second, leaving nothing out.”

  “It was early—about ten past five—but I was up feeding Paulette. She was so good and I sat in my chair wishing it was a rocker, and holding her and feeding her and falling in love with her, to be perfectly honest.” She paused a beat and sighed. Shana knew exactly what she meant. She stifled her own sigh and almost frowned to prevent the longing from taking hold. What the heck was wrong with her anyway?

  Maybe this was the reason Dane didn’t like baby cases—because he didn’t want to be reminded of the kind of life he’d given up.

  Sister Anne continued, thank God, saving her from going down that ditch of thought.

  “I heard someone in the hall. My door was slightly ajar and I had a soft light on but the rest of the place was dark—not nighttime dark but that dim light of dawn. This is a dark house with lots of big windows covered in heavy draperies and tall buildings all around blocking the sun.

  “Anyway, I wasn’t concerned that I heard someone in the hallway. I didn’t think it would be Father D up so early, but others sometimes rise at dawn for prayer.”

  “How many of you live here?”

  “Me, Father D, Father John and Father Carl and Marian, Father D’s personal assistant or girl Friday or whatever you want to call her. She runs the parish administration pretty much. This is her third pastor.”

  “And she lives here?”

  “Long ago the tradition of offering room and board as part of the deal, to compensate the parish mother, was established. It used to be a nun I’m told, but there are few nuns who wanted that post and once they hired Marian they’d discovered gold. She was—is a widow with no children and not much family so it suited her well to live here.”

  “Okay—so you figured someone else was up and in the kitchen.”

  “Yes, it would not be unusual for Marian to get coffee started although it’s supposed to be my job.”

  “Did she know about the baby?”

  “No. I knew better than to let on and it was making me nervous because I couldn’t imagine keeping the baby there without Marian knowing. I got up to close the door, holding the baby, and that’s when I saw him. The man who shot at me.” She inhaled deeply. “I think now maybe if I hadn’t gone near the door, he wouldn’t have found us and—”

  “It’s not your fault, Sister Anne. He would have found you. No question. Besides, you didn’t let him get the baby, did you?”

  “No. He rushed toward us and I tried slamming the door shut and locking it but he got to us fast. I backed away and frantically tried to think where to hide the baby. I knew—somehow I knew it was about the baby and that they were after her. In the end I held her, shielding her from him with my body and my shawl.”

  “So he barged in the room…”

  “No, he was quiet, but quick. He came in—at first I didn’t see any gun. I was focused on his eyes and the ugly tattoo on his neck. When he stepped closer—maybe three feet away—I could smell vodka on his breath.”

  “Vodka? You’re sure?”

  She nodded. Shana waited for the explanation of how she knew this. It wasn’t something Shana would be able to distinguish—maybe she could learn something.

  “I’m very familiar with the distinctive smell—almost an absence of smell—astringent with a hint of rotten potato. I know because I grew up smelling it on my mother every morning. Except on those mornings occasionally when it was stale beer or whiskey.”

  Shana nodded and kept herself neutral.

  “Okay. Any other identifying marks? Describe the tattoo.”

  “It was some kind of symbol—like a letter from a foreign alphabet with an upward spike. The spike was wrapped in barbed wire and there was a skull sitting on top of it. It made me shiver to look at.”

  “Good memory.”

  She nodded. “They say memory is heightened when you’re experiencing emotional trauma or anxiety. I think they’re right.”

  Shana didn’t say anything or give any indication that the tattoo had any significance, but she knew it to be a favorite between Russian mob and criminal mob wannabes. She said, “Tell me what happened next.”

  “The man grabbed me by the arm and reached for the baby. I kicked out at him and swung away.”

  “Did you yell?”

  “No. It’s funny—I should have. I should have screamed right then and there, but I didn’t. At least not until he pulled the gun out. Which was stupid in hindsight—that’s when I should have kept quiet. He said he didn’t want to shoot a nun but he would if I didn’t shut up. I backed away and my bed was between us. He said to give him the baby—that it clearly wasn’t mine and it was his. I said no and picked up the Bible from my night stand—quick like—and threw it at him. Then I dashed toward a connecting door—

  “Don’t tell me—to another anteroom?”

  She smiled—no laugh this time. “No. To a bathroom. But the bathroom had another door to the hallway too.”

  “And that’s when he shot you?” This was unprofessional. Shana shouldn’t be leading her this way, but the nun looked so troubled. Sister Anne nodded.

  “I got him good—with the surprise—but he scrambled after me and before I got through the door he shot the gun.” She paused and frowned, as if remembering something else.

  “What?”

  “He wasn’t very good with the gun. He seemed awkward with it.”

  “How so?”

  “He fumbled. He didn’t seem to be holding it like he knew how. He changed his grip as though it was made for someone else and didn’t fit him. Maybe that’s all it was. But he wasn’t thinking. If my scream didn’t alert others his gunshot surely did.”

  “Give me the timeline—ho
w long was he in your room?”

  “Less than a minute.” She paused and thought. “Maybe less than thirty seconds. It all happened pretty fast.”

  “At what point did others become alerted into action?”

  “I’m not sure. I think I remember hearing someone call out asking if everything was okay but I don’t remember when—before the gunshot—maybe before my scream and maybe that’s when he took out his gun—his eyes turned wild and desperate.”

  “Tell me what happened after you got shot?”

  “It hit me in the thigh. I guess it was a graze but it hurt like a—I saw stars. I stumbled into the bathroom and pulled the door shut behind me and managed to hang onto Paulette. I dropped to the floor. I felt blood, sticky and wet and warm, pooling around me. I kept the baby under me, praying that I’d have the strength to keep her safe in case he wanted to shoot his way into the bathroom. But he didn’t.”

  “So you didn’t see him escape?”

  “No. I heard commotion and yelling and glass breaking—the window. I later learned that he jumped out the window before anyone saw him. Next thing I knew, the others—everyone from the house—had barged into the bathroom to find me there. They were panicked when they saw blood. Marian took charge. She didn’t blink an eye about the baby. No one did. You’d think they would have. I figured at the time that Father D must have told them. But I don’t know. All I know is I haven’t said a word to anyone about it.”

  “Did Father D ask you not to talk about it?”

  “No. He didn’t have to ask. I thought it was the right thing to do.”

  “He’s lucky to have you.”

  “It’s not about him.”

  “What is it about?”

  “It’s about my own standards. It’s what I would want me to do if I were him. It’s about doing unto others.” She ducked her head and turned away, attempting to hide a flush of embarrassment.

  “I understand.” Shana did understand, but it was still a shock—a pleasant one—to find someone like Sister Anne in real life.

  Shana knew from the police report that the man had come in through the backdoor where he’d broken a lock, but how the hell did he know where to go to find Sister Anne once he’d gotten inside?

  “How do you suppose he knew the layout of the place?” she asked.

  “I… don’t know.”

  “Could he have visited earlier? Do you have visitors on a regular basis?”

  “Yes. We entertain them in the front parlor mostly. Occasionally in Father D’s study.” She sent her eyes in the direction of the anteroom door that lead back to the study—where Shana hoped Dane was making progress with Father D.

  “If he came earlier for a visit—to familiarize himself with the place, where would he have entered and who would he have spoken with?”

  “Most likely Marian. She has a reception desk near the front door. We have some day help who would have answered the door, but Marian would have screened the visit.”

  Shana would need to speak with Marian forthwith. “Would he have to sign in or register or something?”

  “Yes—I believe Marian keeps a log—you’d have to ask her.”

  “Let’s do that.” Shana rose. Standing tall, she would have loved to stretch, but kept herself in professional mode. She figured she’d gotten everything she could from Sister Anne. They needed a break, in any case. Shana was about to give her card to the nun and tell her to call if she remembered any more details when Sister Anne spoke, beating her to the punch.

  “By the way, I forgot to mention—he had an accent.”

  Shana waited, sensing something important. She stilled everything but the increasingly rapid beat of her heart.

  “It was a Russian accent—or maybe eastern European.”

  Chapter 7

  Once Shana got past feeling foolish for not asking outright about what the man sounded like, she realized this was very useful information. It helped confirm that they were looking for a short wiry Russian or Eastern European with a very distinctive tattoo.

  “Let’s go talk to Marian.” She indicated to Sister Anne with a sweep of her hand that she expected to be led to the woman in question. Sister Anne looked reluctant, but she turned and led Shana to another door, one that blended into the paneling. Shana had noticed it before, but figured it was a closet or maybe a bathroom.

  Sister Anne opened it and they stepped into a dark hallway.

  No way that guy knew his way around this place without doing some homework. He’d never have found Sister Anne without running into someone. Then something occurred to her.

  “How do you suppose this man knew you had the baby? He couldn’t have been wandering the halls looking for the nursery—he must have had some idea where he was going and who he was looking for.” She didn’t expect an answer from the nun, but she got one.

  “He must have been watching us.”

  “Yes.” It was the same conclusion Shana had come to. It was Shana and Dane’s assumption that whoever it was might still be watching. Hopefully only from the outside.

  “Have there been any new employees hired lately, Sister Anne? Among the day help you mentioned?”

  They walked down the dark hall, which was lit by candlestick-shaped lamps, presumably to give the space a solemn feel. But Shana’s overriding feeling was of medieval doom and it was not comforting—the opposite of comforting, in fact. Solemn in a creepy way. She could see how the place might intimidate a visitor—even an intruder. Even a seasoned Russian thug.

  “Maybe we should let Father Donahue know we are going to talk to Marian—and Mr. Blaise as well?” Sister Anne stopped in the hall after a few steps. Shana figured the door they’d just passed was a door to the den—another secret door. There were a lot of doors and halls and connecting ways to get around in this house. By her innate sense of direction, Shana calculated this was a back hall running parallel with the main hall where they’d entered before. She wondered what was on the other side of the house, but didn’t ask.

  “We don’t need to—” Shana was saying when the offending door opened.

  Dane stepped into the hall. If he was surprised to see them, he showed nothing. Father Donahue, stepping through the door and closing it behind them, was another matter.

  Even in the dim lighting, Shana could see his surprise and embarrassment and saw his eyes dart from Sister Anne to her. He said to Sister Anne in a tone like he had a right to know, “Where were you going, Sister Anne?”

  Shana noticed the past tense. She looked at Dane. He lifted one brow about a quarter inch. She saw it because he did it all the time when he wanted to communicate with her without saying. She agreed with him.

  “They’re probably going the same place we are, Father D. Let’s all go talk to Marian, shall we?” Dane swept them along with a wave of his hand like he was a tour guide—like he knew where he was going in this labyrinth. He probably did. She didn’t bother keeping the half-resentful-half-admiring feelings at bay. It was no use.

  The four of them trooped back to an opening in the hall—not quite a lobby—where Shana could see the kitchen to the right and another less dark hallway to the left. Straight ahead was the hall where they came in with the stairway. They entered the room opposite the parlor.

  Marian, she presumed, sat behind a desk, which could be described as the feminine version of Father Donahue’s desk. Ornate and old world but in a more delicate way, not as heavy or dark. The rose-toned wood panels were solid but less thick. It was exactly as she’d expect in this place.

  Marian, on the other hand, was nothing like she expected. I ought to make an effort to not be so influenced by stereotypes, she thought. She would be less so after today.

  The woman stood, looking at Father Donahue, and smiled at them all. She was not the motherly type, nor old, as Shana would have predicted. If Marian had been widowed and around for twenty years, she must have been a teen bride.

  A lovely graceful beauty greeted them with a flashing smile of perfec
t pearly teeth and a Shirley Temple dimple. She had auburn hair and green eyes and a very lithe figure. Father Donahue must be nuts about her. Maybe this explained his succumbing to temptation—and his insistence that he wasn’t so bad. He might have seduced his own girl Friday after all. It also explained Sister Anne’s reticence. Shana knew womanly competition when she saw it. It was genetic. They couldn’t help themselves—even if they were pure of heart. Sister Anne and Marian were in competition for Father Donahue’s attention.

  Maybe it was the distinct, uncomfortable undercurrent, the kind inspired by feminine jealousy and the only rise in hostility by a female he was both amused by and a little frightened of, but Dane sensed the up-spike in a disturbance all around him—including from his own girl. He decided it was time he took over in earnest.

  “Marian?” He said with an outstretched hand as the shapely, impeccably dressed woman rose. She wore Kelly green in a perfect complement to her coloring. She was a bright anomaly in this otherwise dark, oppressive place. Father D was doomed with a dish like her greeting him every morning.

  “Yes. Marian Dollie.”

  Dane’s smile was far more gracious than his thoughts. Father D harrumphed behind him. No wonder they all referred to Marian by her first name. That was one mystery solved.

  “We need to see your records for visitors in the past, say thirty days. We also need to ask you a few questions. Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.” She sat back down, picked up a pair of stylish black-framed glasses that made her look like a cat woman, and competently opened to her old-fashioned handwritten logbook to a specific page. She handed it to him.

  “Would you like a seat?” She looked around at the rest of the crowd and added, “I only have one chair. Should we all go into the anteroom?”

  Another anteroom. Every goddamn room had a sinister small twin lurking behind it, it seemed. He loved this place.

  “Yes. We should,” Father D spoke up. Carrying the substantial leather-bound logbook that looked like something out of a midcentury hotel, Dane followed Father D, Marian, Sister Anne, and Shana toward the paneled door at the back of the small reception room. The private space in back commanded more square footage than the public face out front. There were plenty of places to hide a baby here. If Father D really wanted to.