Rock-a-Bye Bones

by Carolyn Haines

  * * *

  While Tinkie prepared the formula for the baby, I searched the attic for the nursing rocker. It had been used for generations of Delaneys. Once I found the antique chair, I took it to the private detective offices. Tinkie could feed the infant and work. Multitasking might mitigate the bonding. “You can see how the other half lives, working moms and all.”

  Tinkie was a natural. She had a dishcloth on her shoulder and the baby sucking a bottle in her arms as she settled into the chair and slowly tipped to and fro.

  “You look like you know what you’re doing.” I was shocked. Tinkie was no sloucher in the child-care department. The baby had also been diapered.

  “I’m not a total nitwit. I’ve fed and clothed infants before.”

  “When?” I realized that in my thirty-four years it was possible I’d never cared for an infant longer than two or three minutes.

  “Sarah Booth, a bunch of the girls we went to college with were married and pregnant before we graduated. Baby showers, parties, lunches. Most of those children are in grammar school, if not high school.”

  I tried to wipe the blank look from my face, but I was too late.

  “You’ve never taken care of a baby?” she asked.

  I could only pray Jitty wasn’t listening in on this conversation. I’d never hear the end of it. “Maybe I just don’t remember.”

  “The feel of a child in your arms is something you’d never forget.”

  I’d held the infant, and my life wasn’t significantly changed. Sure, she was adorable, and she had tugged at my heart because she was so alone, with her mother missing. But that was where my thoughts went. To the missing mother. “I’m sure I’ll get a taste of caring for the baby once the newness wears off for you.”

  “Keep it up with the old-time colloquialisms—you’re sounding more and more like your Aunt Loulane, who died a spinster.”

  “Below the belt, Tinkie. She gave up a potential husband to take care of me.”

  She laughed, and I was reminded of silvery chimes. She had the purest, lightest laughter when she was truly happy. Holding and feeding that infant had put her in hog heaven, to yet again quote an Aunt Loulane turn of phrase.

  “Taking care of you was more important than any man,” Tinkie said. She pierced me with her serious, blue gaze.

  “You know the baby is going home to her mother. You can’t fall in love with her, Tinkie. It will break your heart.”

  “Oh, posh, Sarah Booth. I’ll have her for two days at the most. We both know if her mother isn’t found by then, Coleman will have to put her into the system. Sure, I’ll be attached, but it isn’t like I’ve taken her to raise. She has a mother. I know that.”

  I sent a laser blast of truth-seeking her way and read only guileless innocence in her eyes. “Don’t get hurt.”

  “I wouldn’t dream of it.” She winked.

  “Then let’s get on the stick looking for the baby’s mother. I hope to goodness she’s okay. That was a lot of blood.”

  “It sure was.” Tinkie lifted the baby to her shoulder and burped her. “I think just until the real mother is found we should call her Libby, after your mother, Sarah Booth.”

  Shock rippled over me. Tinkie read my reaction and grinned. “We can’t keep calling her baby or infant or it. She needs a name, and I’d like it to be Libby.”

  “Sure,” I said, more pleased than I wanted to admit. “We can call her that until her real mother tells us her name. Now I’m going to run out to Betty McGowin’s house and talk to her.”

  Betty was the best-known midwife in the area. Some said she had more expertise than the ob-gyns that came to Zinnia three days a week from Memphis. “Coleman is checking the hospitals.”

  “Sure thing.” Tinkie slipped the baby into a papoose-type carrier where she had both hands free. “On your way back, would you pick up something sweet from Millie’s Café? I have a craving.”

  “Sure thing.” Now I was really worried. Tinkie never ate dessert. She had the figure of a sixteen-year-old because she didn’t eat sweets or junk food. “I’ll bring a surprise.”

  I was out the door before Tinkie could change her mind. I left them sitting in the rocker, the early morning sun creating a golden aura around them like a Madonna and child.

  It was a half hour drive to Betty McGowin’s house and on the way I had plenty of time to rationalize how okay it was for Tinkie to take charge of baby Libby.

  * * *

  A baying hound crept out from under the front porch of Betty’s house. I recognized the same determination to defend her owner that my hound displayed. No one was likely to sneak up on Betty McGowin, that was for sure.

  “Hush that up, Blanche Dubois,” Betty said as she came out on the front porch, drying her hands on an apron. I hadn’t seen an apron like that since the last time I’d seen Aunt Bee on The Andy Griffith Show. Betty was a tall, angular woman without an ounce of fat on her bones. She stood at least five-eleven, maybe six feet tall, and she was midnight black and spoke with the diction of the lower Delta.

  “Can I help you?” she asked, coming down two of the three porch steps to stand beside the blue tick hound that could have been a kissing cousin to my wonderful Sweetie Pie.

  “Sarah Booth Delaney.” I held out a hand. “Would you mind if I asked you a few questions?”

  “Libby Delaney’s girl?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “I can see her in you, and your daddy, too. I heard you were a private investigator.” Her face gave away no secrets. “You’re here working on a case?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m looking for a woman who gave birth last night.”

  “And what wrong thing has this woman done?” Betty was in complete control of the conversation.

  “She hasn’t done anything wrong. Someone left a baby on my front porch. The baby is fine, but there was a lot of blood by the bassinet. I need to find the mother. She may be seriously hurt.”

  Betty’s expression didn’t change, but she waved me up the steps and into her house. The first thing I noticed was a copy of Da Vinci’s painting of the Last Supper. I’d seen the same print several times in homes across Sunflower County, and it reminded me of Mrs. Horne, one of my beloved grammar school teachers. I used to stop by her house in the afternoons and she attempted, unsuccessfully, to teach me to knit. “This picture reminds me of one of my favorite teachers. She had one just like it.”

  “Mrs. Lucy Horne left me that painting when she died,” Betty said. “She set a great store by it, and she knew I did, too.”

  “Mrs. Horne died while I was in New York.”

  “Yes, when she was ailing, I would stop by her place for a cup of coffee and a talk. She often spoke about you and your parents. She never believed the wreck that took your folks was an accident, Sarah Booth.”

  Her statement startled me. “Did she say why she didn’t believe it was an accident?”

  “She wasn’t well, and I didn’t press her, though in hindsight I wish I had.”

  I wished for one ten-minute conversation with Mrs. Horne, who was not the kind of person to see conspiracies behind every camellia bush. Why had she said such a thing to Betty McGowin? This was a subject I needed to probe, but not right now. I had to find the baby’s mother or little Libby would end up in the welfare system. And it was possible the mother would face charges for abandoning her child.

  “I want to talk about this later, but right now, I need to find the mother of this baby. The sheriff has given me forty-eight hours before he calls child protective services. Can you help me?”

  Betty waved me into a kitchen chair and put two coffee cups on the table. From an old-fashioned Dripolater she poured dark, aromatic coffee. “I may be able to help. Tell me about the baby.”

  I gratefully sipped the coffee. “She has red hair and possibly light eyes. Too early to tell. She’s healthy and Doc said the mother hadn’t been abusing alcohol or drugs. She’s a healthy infant who needs her mama.”


  Betty listened, her intent gaze searching my face for whatever clues she could find. “Anything unusual about the baby?”

  I debated how much to say, but it seemed pointless to ask for help and then withhold useful information. “The child is polydactyl.”

  “I see.”

  I knew then she knew the mother. The question was, would she tell me? As a PI, I had no authority to make her talk. Coleman did, but I didn’t want to threaten Betty with the law. It seemed wrong. “Please help me find the mother. I swear I’ll do whatever I can to make sure she receives medical treatment and is reunited with her daughter. If this drags on too long, it will be worse for her.”

  “I don’t know the mother.”

  I read her face. “But you know the family.”

  “I may have delivered the mother. It’s not a Sunflower County family. If the baby is related to the family I’m thinking about, they live in Bolivar County.”

  This wasn’t good. Coleman’s jurisdiction was Sunflower County—and no further. “What’s the name?”

  Betty shook her head. “They gave me a false name, and it was years ago. The only thing I really remember is that the baby girl had six toes on her right foot, and the mother didn’t seem surprised.”

  “That baby must be this baby’s mother. Are you sure you can’t remember?” This was more than frustrating, but I didn’t doubt Betty’s sincerity. She had no reason to fabricate such a story.

  “You might check with the health department. This family, as I remember, didn’t have reliable transportation. They came to the Sunflower County Health Department because it was closer than either Rosedale or Cleveland. Bolivar is a big county and hard for those without a good means of travel.”

  “I’m not the most popular person at the local health department. The nurse, Mrs. Skinner, thinks I should be in prison.” When I’d first become a PI, Tinkie and I had broken into the local health department for some much needed records. The head nurse there had a long memory.

  “And you think I might be?” Betty laughed. “Times have changed a lot and the best doctors in Memphis and Jackson work with me and other trained midwives. But there are still those who view me as little more than a witch doctor, and that nurse you’re referring to is one of them. When I get a pregnant mother with complications, I send them to the clinic where a doctor can help them. These young girls, some of them are hooked on bad things.” She shook her head. “Drugs are takin’ a toll on our young people, Sarah Booth. And their babies.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Coleman talks about the drug problem and how it’s taken over rural America. Thank you for this information. I’ll try with the health department.” I finished my coffee and stood. “Doc Sawyer says many nice things about you. He values what you do.”

  “Doc knows I serve wealthy families and those who can’t afford the hospital. If it weren’t for me, things could be a lot worse for some young mothers and their children. I urge them to see a doctor, and the ones who can afford it do. The others rely on me and my herbs.”

  “If you should be visited by a mother who just delivered, would you let me know?”

  “I will,” she said. “You have my word. A baby should have its mother. And while a girl will sometimes give up a child because she wants to do the right thing for the infant, she should do it in the light of day, not in the darkness of night. For her own sake as well as the child’s.”

  “Thanks, Betty. I’ll let you know what I find out.”

  “It was June when I delivered the little girl with six toes. If my memory serves me, she’d be close to graduating from high school.”

  “That’s a good place to start.”

  I gave the hound a pat on my way to the car, and when I turned around, Betty was on the porch. She gave a wave and then went back in her house. Funny how we were linked by Mrs. Horne and a print of a famous painting. Betty was someone I could count on if the chips were down.

  Driving to the local health department brought back many anxiety-producing memories of school vaccinations and encounters with the head nurse, who always seemed to have it in for me. To my delight, the nurse was on vacation, and the young woman at the front desk had no memory of me or my past.

  When it came to giving me access to health records, though, she was as intractable as her boss. I left with nothing—except an idea. I dialed the source of all knowledge in Sunflower County, Cece Dee Falcon, society editor at The Zinnia Dispatch. Several months ago I’d read a story in the paper about the health department receiving a grant to put all of their medical records on computers. Those computers would link with the mecca of Mississippi medicine in Jackson.

  Cece, who in high school had been Cecil, was one of my closest friends. Her bravery in claiming her life on her terms made me humble. And her keen ability to sniff out information and her slender hips made me envious.

  “Hello, dar-link,” she said, sounding more like a Gabor than the real deal.

  “Cece, I need some information from the health department. I have to find a family with polydactyl propensities.”

  “And why should I help you?” she asked archly. “Seems like the stork made a delivery to Dahlia House early this morning and no one bothered to call me.”

  Uh-oh. “That’s why I’m calling now.”

  “Day late and dollar short, Sarah Booth.”

  All I could do was offer an apology. “I have forty-eight hours to find the real mother before the baby has to go to child services. I’ve been a little busy. I knew Tinkie would fill you in.” It was a guess, but not a wild one. Tinkie probably stopped by the newspaper to visit Cece while on her way to Zinnia to buy little Libby the latest fashions.

  “Tinkie did stop by.” Cece’s frosty tone melted. “She is adorable, Sarah Booth. Right down to her six little toes!”

  Nothing like a baby to bring a person to her knees. “So can you help me with the health department records?”

  “What do you need?”

  “Some information on a client from about seventeen years ago.”

  The silence told me my request was complicated. At last Cece spoke. “Harold knows someone who might be able to help. I’ll give him a call.”

  Harold, because of his work at the bank, was well connected in the world of international finance—a world where computers ruled. He’d come to the aid of Delaney Detective Agency more than once with “unusual” ways to obtain information.

  “You’re the best, Cece.”

  “This comes with a price tag, you know.”

  I could easily visualize her wicked grin. “Whatever it is, I’ll pay it.”

  “I’ve been itching to do a story on Betty McGowin, the midwife. A feature. Will you talk with her about it?”

  “Sure. I’m not certain I have any influence, but I’ll try.”

  “Your mother helped get Betty established as a midwife here,” Cece said. “Libby Delaney went to bat, with help from your father and Doc, against the medical establishment when they tried to shut Betty down.”

  Far back in my memory, a slim bell rang. I’d been a child, but I had a vague memory. “Betty does a lot of good for people.”

  “She does. And I want to tell her story. Several Nashville celebrities have hired Betty to move in with them while waiting on the birth of a child. She sure can zip her lip, though. I can’t even get her to talk to me.”

  “I’ll ask,” I promised. “Now let’s find the baby’s birth mother and then I’ll focus on your story.”

  “Stay by the phone.” There was a click and Cece was on the case.

  4

  I was on the way to Hilltop, Tinkie’s home, when the phone rang. Harold went on a ten-minute rant about little Libby’s personality and beauty before I could get a word in edgewise.

  “Can you get the health department records?” I finally inserted my question.

  “All but done,” he said. “I should have an answer for you soon.”

  I was curious about one point. “Does it ever worry you when I ask for somet
hing like this?” Harold was one of the most ethical people I knew. He kept the bank’s information close and never divulged personal financial information. He wasn’t the kind of man who meddled in the business of others. Yet he never failed me if he could help with information that cracked a case. He’d hired a hacker to get medical information without even a hint of hesitation.

  “Sarah Booth, you’ve never asked me for anything meant to harm another person. Justice rides a slow horse, and sometimes that horse needs a little help going uphill. I see you as the one-woman embodiment of the Justice League. In fact, I’ve ordered you a Wonder Woman costume. You’ll indulge me by trying it on, won’t you?”

  Harold’s trust in me was never to be taken lightly. “Thank you, and I would be honored to play Wonder Woman.”

  “I can visualize you in that delightfully skimpy costume with your golden lariat of truth. You could, maybe, lasso me and tie me up.”

  Harold was taking this way over the top. “Uh, we’ll see.”

  “It’s a small request, Sarah Booth.” He sounded slightly hurt.

  “I’m not really into role-playing like that, but maybe for next Halloween.”

  “I’ll hold you to that promise. And just so you know, I called Coleman, who got a warrant for the records.” His baritone laugh rang through the phone. He’d snared me, hook, line, and sinker.

  “Well played,” I said. “And just so you know, when I see you, I’m going to hurt you.”

  * * *

  To my surprise, Oscar was at Hilltop. His new silver Infiniti was parked at the steps, and when I let myself in the front door, I heard him in the kitchen with Tinkie.

  “What does little Libby want? Tell Uncle Oscar.”

  I stopped in my tracks. Oscar was speaking in baby tongues.

  “Isn’t she a doll? Tinkie asked. “Oh, Oscar, having her here is like a gift from God. I can’t imagine life without her.”

  I called out as I entered. “I’m in the house!”

  “Come on in,” they chorused.

  To my amusement, I found Oscar with a towel on his shoulder and the baby in his arms. From a naked newborn, little Libby had turned into a seven-pound fashion plate. She wore a perfectly coordinated pink polka-dot onesie and a headband sporting a huge peony and little pink glitter booties. The outfit was a bit saggy because it was too big, but Libby made it work.