The Cradle Robber

by E. Joan Sims

  He leaned forward and looked at me earnestly. “But you should give me a second chance, Paisley. I have changed. And a large part of that was your doing. After you exposed my drug habit I went into rehab, and now I’m completely clean. I tried to straighten out my marriage, but it was too late. My wife left me six months ago.”

  His narrow little eyes squenched up as if he were going to cry, but it was hard to tell what Winston was feeling. His facial expressions were just a tad off, as if he weren’t quite sure how he was supposed to feel. I reached out and gave him an awkward pat on the arm just in case.

  “I am sorry, Winston.”

  “Are you, dear lady?” he asked. “Of course, you know how I feel. My great loss, I mean—and the loneliness. I heard you had quite a romantic fling with Bert Atkins before he disappeared. You must be lonely, too.”

  I began to regret my offering of sympathy, but I was feeling so much better about Cassie I let him get away with his intrusion into my private life.

  “Yeah, well. So you think I have a heart condition?” I asked with an effort to keep my voice steady.

  “No, no, nothing that serious,” he said with a reassuring smile. “I’m quite certain that all of your symptoms are due to stress. They’re classic signs of hyperventilation and post-traumatic reaction. Of course, it doesn’t hurt to play it safe, so perhaps you should make an appointment sometime soon for that EKG. Meanwhile, I’ll give you a prescription for a mild sedative which will keep you on an even keel.”

  “I don’t like taking pills,” I said, making a childish face.

  “I don’t know many of my patients who do,” he laughed. It sounded almost natural.

  “Are you sure there’s nothing seriously wrong with me?”

  I was too superstitious to accept the double good fortune of having my frightening symptoms amount to nothing and finding out that Cassie was okay at the same time.

  “Let’s check your heart one more time,” he smiled. This time it was genuine.

  He placed the cold stethoscope between my breasts and listened intently.

  “Nothing wrong there. Please turn around, if you don’t mind, and slip your pajama shirt down in the back.”

  I did as he asked, and breathed deeply on his command.

  “So what…”

  “Shhh.”

  I waited impatiently while he listened.

  “Turn, please. No, leave your shirt down.”

  I did as he asked, but I was beginning to feel uncomfortable. If there was nothing wrong with me but an overactive nervous system, why, I wondered, was he spending so much time on my chest.

  “I hope you took the precaution of protecting your skin when you were living in the tropics. You’re quite fair, you know, Paisley. With that lovely red hair and light green eyes, you’re a prime candidate for skin cancer.”

  “Watch it, Doc,” I laughed uncomfortably. “If I didn’t know better I might think you were flirting with me.”

  He stuck the stethoscope down under my left breast, and leaned closer to me.

  “And if I were, would you like it? Would you like this?” he whispered as he brushed his palm against my nipple.

  I jerked back and pulled his hand out of my shirt. “What the hell!”

  “Come on, Paisley,” he smiled salaciously. “You’re a beautiful woman. You’ve been alone too long. You have needs—the strong physical needs of a woman in her sexual prime. I couldn’t give you a better prescription for what ails you than me.”

  “You?” I gasped.

  “Why not? I’m free, you’re free—and you’re obviously attracted to me.”

  It was a very short distance from the end of my patience to his throat. I grabbed his stethoscope with both hands and pulled it tightly against his Adam’s apple.

  “You creepy little worm. I’d rather have leprosy than you!”

  “Please!” he gasped, his eyes protruding and his face turning red.

  “In a minute—when I let you go—you’re going to grab your little doctor bag and be out of here in half that time. And you can spend the next few days wondering if I’m going to report you to the State Medical Board. It’s ‘two strikes and you’re out,’ isn’t it? This little charade would pretty much finish you.”

  I pushed him back as hard as I could and laughed while he fumbled around with his belongings. His coat billowed like a starched white sail behind him as he ran out of my room. I heard the back door slam in the distance and grinned.

  I felt better than I had in weeks.

  Chapter Twenty

  Mother came back and tapped lightly on my door while I was getting dressed.

  “Winston left in quite a hurry. Did he have an emergency?”

  “I guess you could say that,” I laughed, enjoying the sound of wicked delight in my voice.

  Mother stood in the doorway for a moment watching me, then walked over to the front window. For a moment she gazed sadly out at the trees—raw of limbs and leaves—and the twisted lawn furniture. Her voice was quiet and very serious when she spoke again.

  “Paisley, I understand that you and Cassandra have a language common only to the two of you. Perhaps you take it for granted that I am privy to the understanding of it; however, I assure you I am quite in the dark about this whole affair and I would very much appreciate being apprised of the situation.” She smiled gently, chidingly, and continued, “I have been very worried about you both for the last few hours. I think it only fair that you let me in on what’s happening.”

  She sat gracefully in my grandmother’s dainty rose-covered brocade chair and crossed her legs at the ankles. She looked elegant and poised in a pewter linen pantsuit and white silk blouse. The Sterling family pearls gleamed lustrously at the base of her slender neck. She was a lady through and through, and she made me feel like a heel. Typically, I reacted like a spoiled brat.

  “That really was a mouthful, Mother. Why can’t you just say, ‘what the hell’s going on?’ and save us both a lot of time?”

  Her dark eyes filled with tears, and the guilt that only a mother can engender sliced stiletto deep into my heart.

  “Okay, okay! I’m sorry,” I said with a deep sigh. I had lost again.

  I sat down on the bottom of my bed and angrily pulled on my socks. “I really am sorry, Mother. This has been a hell of a morning, and even though I am relieved that we heard from Cassie, I’m still jumpy. Please repeat her exact words and I’ll explain.”

  Mother dabbed at her eyes with a lace-edged handkerchief and sniffed ever so delicately while she pretended to recall the telephone conversation. I took advantage of the pause to rummage through the bottom of my closet for some dry shoes.

  “Have you seen my old moccasins?” I turned to ask.

  “Please don’t interrupt me, dear. I’m thinking.”

  I crawled around on the floor of the closet tipping over boxes and turning up dust bunnies to no avail. “Damn, damn, and drat!”

  “I think I have it, dear,” she called.

  “My shoes?”

  “No, Cassie’s exact words.”

  I crawled out of the closet and sat on the hooked rug by the bed to give Mother my full attention. It was obviously what she was wanted all along.

  “She said to tell you that she was fine and would come home as soon as she could. That part I understood completely.”

  “How did she sound? Was her voice strained? Was she stressed?”

  “May we please leave that for later?”

  I gritted my teeth in annoyance, but gave her a nod so she would continue.

  “Then she said to tell you to please give her Aunt Amelia her new address. That’s what sounded so odd to me. I thought I knew all of Raphael’s family, but for the life of me I cannot recall an Aunt Amelia. And there’s no one on our side of the family named Amelia.”

  “Of course not,” I grinned. “She’s talking about Amelia Earhart.”

  Mother sat back in the chair and stared at me in astonishment, the guilt game forgot
ten.

  “How in the world do you know that?”

  “Bartlett’s. She had Familiar Quotations on her bookshelf. It was open to a statement about courage attributed to Earhart. I had mentioned it to Cassie once before. She must have looked it up recently. I don’t remember the exact words, but it’s something about courage being the price for freedom.”

  “My goodness! What a clever girl!”

  “She is that, isn’t she?” I said with a fond smile. “And you don’t know the half of it. The address part is even better. She’s protecting us by keeping her whereabouts a secret like Rafe’s family did.”

  “And how do you feel about that, Paisley, dear?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aren’t you going to say one of your nasty words and go charging off half-cocked to find our precious child?”

  “Way to go, Mother!” I shouted happily.

  I never did find my beloved old Cole-Haans, and therefore I was out of sorts right from the beginning of our trip to town. After a lot of arguing back and forth, I finally convinced Mother not to report Cassie’s disappearance to Andy Joiner, but we both decided we needed Horatio’s sage advice.

  I was relieved to find the visitor’s parking lot at the funeral home empty. It was a rare event. Funerals are one of the premier social events in Rowan Springs, particularly when Horatio was in charge, and there usually was one at least every second day.

  I pulled around to the back entrance and parked next to the door. Two limo drivers were taking advantage of the lull in business by washing and polishing Horatio’s fleet of shiny black hearses. They waved and tipped their hats to Mother and went on about their business.

  “Umm,” I muttered under my breath, “looks like you’re fairly well known in these here parts, Ma’am.”

  “Don’t be foolish, Paisley! I hardly ever come here.”

  A thin bleached blond with skin the color and texture of an old saddlebag came out of the funeral home just as we got to the door. She was carrying a makeup case and a bag overflowing with brushes and a hair dryer.

  “Hi, Miz Sterling,” she shouted with enthusiasm. “Nice to see you again so soon. This your daughter Priscilla?”

  Her grin was wide enough to show us more than we wanted to know about her lack of dental hygiene and excessive use of tobacco. I tried to slip through the open door without acknowledging her remarks, but Mother, ever the lady, placed a restraining hand on my arm.

  “Paisley, this is Ruby Dawn Coleman.”

  The admonishing look in her eye gave me no choice but to smile and make an attempt to be pleasant to the woman.

  “Hello.” I might have said more, but Ruby Dawn didn’t give me a chance.

  “Mr. Raleigh says you write books, honey. I been wantin’ to meet you for the longest time. My boyfriend says I ought’a write a book about all the things I’ve seen in my line of business.”

  “Oh, really? And just what is that?” I asked politely.

  “I do hair and makeup for them.” She leaned in closer and whispered loudly, “you know, the dead. I get to work on all kinds of folks, young, old—lots of teenagers who need extra special makeup. You know, from goin’ thorough windshields an’ all. Yes, sir, I could write a book. Maybe we could have a drink sometime, huh? Discreet like a’ course, this bein’ a dry county and all, and you could give me some pointers. Could ya,’ huh, honey?”

  With every word she kept advancing on me. I backed up—my retreat ultimately halted by the door. Her last question enveloped me in a miasma of drug store perfume, stale tobacco smoke, and bad breath. I wanted to run for my life. The thought of having to spend any amount time with this dreadful woman frightened me into silence.

  Mother came to my rescue. “I’m sure my daughter will be more than delighted to send you some books on writing, dear. However, she has signed a legal contract not to work with budding authors in case she might inadvertently borrow one of their ideas. We must protect our fledgling artists. You do understand, don’t you?”

  Mother’s voice was soothing and persuasive. As she spoke, she expertly guided Ruby out of the doorway and toward the parking lot, allowing me to escape into the air-conditioned sanctum inside.

  It had been a while since I had been in Horatio’s lair. His older sister had been in sole charge of the decor until her own demise three years ago. From the looks of things, Horatio had made some improvements. Dema Raleigh’s taste ran to large oil paintings of hunting scenes with dead animals, and heavy mahogany furniture reminiscent of English manor houses. She had never married, although there were rumors of a torrid affair with a British officer during her wartime service in London. Toward the end of her life she was confined to a nursing home catering to Alzheimer’s patients. Once a nurse confided to Mother that Miss Dema Raleigh was known to shout, “Tally ho!” whenever her rectal temperature was taken.

  “That young woman is a walking, talking, country music song,” laughed Mother as she came through the door. “You might want to reconsider and invest some time conversing with her, dear. She has seen quite a lot.”

  “So did Ma Barker, Ted Bundy, and Charles Manson.”

  “That’s quite enough, Paisley. I get the point. Sometimes you can be quite tiresome, dear.”

  “Yeah, well, you know what? Today is not my favorite day. My darling daughter has disappeared, I had a fainting spell, my mother’s physician groped me, and now a makeup artist for the deceased wants to become my new best friend.”

  I stomped angrily down the corridor toward Horatio’s office. The thick foam soles of my new sneakers caught on the thick pile of the new carpet causing me to trip twice before I reached the fancy hand-carved door to Horatio’s office. Dema had ordered the door from the Philippines shortly before she became ill. It was one of the few touches that Horatio had retained.

  I knocked, and waited impatiently to be invited inside. I couldn’t believe my extended lack of good fortune when none other than Andy Joiner opened the door.

  “Paisley! What are you doing here?” he asked in a voice heavy with suspicion.

  It was not like Andy to be heavy-handed, or rude. I was too surprised to think of anything that wouldn’t give us away. Once again, Mother’s Southern lady manners saved the day.

  “Andy, dear. How nice to see you. How are Connie and the girls?”

  Chapter Twenty-one

  Andy, red-faced and obviously angry, murmured something unintelligible that contained the phrases, “…in bed with a cold…fine, I guess…and getting ready for kindergarten graduation,” and practically ran for the exit. Bemused, Mother and I stood there for a moment, then heeded Horatio’s polite request to enter his office.

  “How are you today, Paisley, dear?” he asked as he came around his desk to greet my mother warmly. He clasped her hands and tenderly kissed the one on top, then showed Mother to a comfortable armchair and motioned for me to sit across from his desk. When he had taken a seat in the leather chair that had been his father’s, he turned back to Mother.

  “I hope you’re well, Anna, my dear? I was quite concerned when you called to say you were coming. Your voice sounded a bit strained.”

  “Ah, Horatio,” smiled Mother, “as perceptive as ever. You have every reason to be concerned. I’ll let Paisley fill you in on the sordid details, but it comes down to the dreadful fact that our Cassandra has been kidnapped. And,” she continued as she stopped him from picking up the telephone, “While we know from her own admission that she is in no immediate danger, we are understandably ill at ease. Nevertheless, Paisley and I have decided to heed her wishes and not contact the police.”

  “Paisley?” he said with a stern lift of his elegant eyebrows, “Begin, please. And I warn you beforehand not to succumb to temptation and leave out details that might be self-incriminating.”

  I grinned and shook my head. He knew me so well. I took a deep breath and told them everything, including some of the “self-incriminating details” that I had kept from Mother.

 
The telling of the tale took about fifteen minutes. Horatio interrupted several times to ask questions that I failed to see the importance of at the time. I indulged him anyway. I was not eager to be on his naughty list because it became obvious as I talked that I had zoomed to the top of Mother’s—where I could remain, possibly, for life.

  When I finished, she let me have it.

  “I cannot believe,” she said with tears in her eyes, “that you would take your beloved daughter on such an impetuous and dangerous escapade.”

  Horatio took a pipe out of his pocket and fished around in the humidor for his favorite tobacco. Mother’s tears didn’t move me that much. I had seen too many over the years, but when I saw Horatio’s hand tremble ever so slightly as he filled his pipe, I was filled with instant remorse.

  “You’re right!” I admitted guiltily. “I should never have taken her with me—no matter how hard she begged me.”

  Horatio offered a small but reassuring smile. “I know how persuasive Cassandra can be, Paisley. You mustn’t be too harsh on yourself. I’m sure you feel pretty rotten about the whole thing.”

  “Right again,” I sniffed loudly. “And deep down inside,” I confessed, “I have this dreadful fear that I might not ever see her again—just like Rafe.”

  I choked back tears and made a mighty effort to pull myself together.

  “You got some tea, maybe?” I hiccoughed at length. “I’ll brew it.”

  “How about luncheon instead?” asked Horatio consolingly.

  “Oh, I don’t think I could…”

  “Nonsense, Paisley. Some stout southern cuisine under your belt is just what the doctor, no, make that the mortician, ordered. How about you, Anna, my dear? What say we take our errant child to the Pelican for lunch?”

  In spite of Mother’s protestations we headed out for “that dreadful greasy spoon.”

  Horatio explained that he wanted to talk to Wanda Blake. She was the one person who could describe the man who came to the restaurant looking for us last night. For some reason, Horatio tended to agree with me that it was someone other than Fatty. It didn’t occur to me to ask him why until we pulled into the Pelican’s parking lot.