Little Lamb Lost

by Margaret Fenton

  She looked like a washed-out version of herself. Her brown hair draped limply around her pale face. The neck of her faded uniform hung so that her shoulder was exposed. She adjusted it after she sat down. Whatever irritation I’d felt toward her dissolved.

  She picked up the receiver on her side of the cubicle. “Hey,” she said in a small voice.

  “Hey. How are you?”

  “Okay. You know. Like the Big Book says, one day at a time.”

  “I thought the service for Michael was nice.”

  “Me, too. Nona did a good job.”

  “Why didn’t you tell me about Zander?”

  Her eyes filled with tears, which she immediately wiped on her jumpsuit. “I hated not tellin’ you about him. But I couldn’t. You know who Zander’s daddy is?”

  “Yes.”

  “Zander’s daddy didn’t want me to have Michael. He gave us money to … anyway, I couldn’t. I just couldn’t. That was my baby.” She wiped her eyes on her sleeve again. “I may not have had him for long, but at least I had him.”

  That got to me. I took a second to gather my emotions and put them in their box. Then I said, “Zander said he was at your house the night before Michael died.”

  “He came by.”

  “Did he bring the GHB?”

  “No. He wasn’t allowed in the house if he was high. I meant it, too. I wasn’t about to get caught havin’ nothin’ to do with drugs again.”

  “So he wouldn’t have hurt Michael? Or you?”

  “No way. I know Zander’s got problems, but he was a good dad.”

  I hated to think what rating scale we were using if Zander Madison qualified as a good father. Probably the same one that would rank Al Mackey as a good husband. I raised a skeptical eyebrow.

  “No, really. He was. He’s got problems. He’s an addict. I been giving him stuff to read about the Twelve Steps. He tried to get straight before. He ain’t there yet, but he’ll get clean when he’s ready. He was real good about bringing me and Mikey stuff. Sometimes he brought me money or diapers or toys for him. That’s why we couldn’t never tell Zander’s dad about Mikey. If he found out, he’d take away Zander’s money. And, well, we needed it.”

  Alexander Senior’s best move would be to adopt a little tough love and cut Zander off altogether, but saying it wouldn’t make any difference. It was also easier said than done. “Okay. If Zander didn’t bring the GHB to your house, who did?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But you have an idea. What’s Flash got to do with all this?” I told her about my visit to his house. “Was he stalking you again?”

  Her eyes teared up again. “Claire, really, just forget about it. I pled guilty. It’s over.”

  “Not for me it’s not.” A hot stab of anger wedged itself into my gut and stayed there. “I’m in serious trouble. Not only have I been threatened, but I could lose my job. Or worse.”

  “Why?”

  “The State of Alabama is investigating whether giving Michael back to you was a mistake. My mistake.”

  “No —”

  “Yes. I could wind up taking a lot of the blame for this. If you know who killed Michael —”

  “No! I —”

  “Was it Jimmy Shelton?”

  “Leave Jimmy out of this. He don’t know nothin’. ”

  “How can I reach him?”

  “You can’t. Leave him alone.” This time the tears spilled over, and she didn’t bother wiping them away. They made dark speckled drops on one of the orange stripes. “Please. I’m sorry about your job. I am. But knowin’ what happened ain’t gonna make any difference. Not for me or Mikey.”

  “Why?”

  “Just leave it be.”

  Nothing I said was making an impression. I gave up. “Do you need anything?”

  “No.”

  “Really?”

  “Well —”

  “What?”

  “Zander’s supposed to be paying my bills for a while. There was a power bill due when I got locked up. And the cable one too. Could you run by the apartment and make sure Zander paid them? Make sure there ain’t no mail in the box? Mamma said she could do it, but it’s way outta her way to come into town.”

  “No problem.”

  “You sure? Please don’t be mad at me. I promise, if I could tell you everythin’, I would.”

  Her tear-streaked face was pitiful. “I’m not mad.” I gave her a reassuring smile. “I’ll come back and visit after I check on your mail.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Take care of yourself, Ashley.”

  We hung up, and the guard, with one hand firmly gripped on Ashley’s arm, led her through the door to the jail. I took the elevator down to the lobby and retrieved my bag, then drove south on 20th Street and over Red Mountain.

  I passed the entrance to Vulcan Park, memories drifting back to the Fourth of July and my date with Grant. I turned onto a road that wound its way up the mountain, through the wrought-iron gates of The Club, to a broad, covered driveway where uniformed valets waited. The restaurant, with its carpeted lobby and gilded mirrors, was the polar opposite of my last destination.

  The hostess checked a list and waved me through to the dining area. Marlie, a woman I’d volunteered with before, was spreading a pink damask tablecloth onto a long trestle table. Boxes of pink roses sat next to the table. Seeing them triggered thoughts of Grant, again, and that I needed to call him to confirm our date for tomorrow.

  Marlie and I chatted easily as we set up the registration table, stacking piles of literature about Our Mothers Have Wings next to brochures about breast cancer and breast health. We placed the pink roses in bud vases on each of the round luncheon tables along with the printed program for today’s talk. The entire back wall of the room was glass, with doors that opened to a large terrace offering a spectacular view of downtown Birmingham.

  Back at the registration table, we organized the name tags and the registration list and waited for the attendees to arrive. I scanned the list of people coming, relieved to see Karen Madison was on the first page of the forty or so names listed. At ten to eleven the first of the women arrived, most of them dressed exquisitely in expensive suits. I greeted people, handed out name tags, pointed out the rest room. Kelsey came in, with the guest of honor in tow, and led him to the head table. At last, at eleven twenty, I overheard a woman say to Marlie, “Madison. Karen Madison.”

  I turned from the person I was checking in to see a tan woman in her late forties. Maybe early fifties. Her hair was dyed ash blonde and it looked like she had just stepped out of the salon. The white silk suit she was wearing wouldn’t have fit me, even if I could have waved a magic wand and lost at least ten pounds on the spot.

  Five people were waiting behind her to check in. Marlie thanked her for coming, marked her name off the list, and handed her a pinkframed name tag. As she walked into the dining room, I said to Marlie, “Be right back.” I grabbed my purse from under the table and took off before Marlie had a chance to protest. I followed Karen to the table she chose, near the back, and as she settled herself I hung my purse on the chair next to hers. For good measure, I wadded up the delicately folded linen napkin and placed it on the chair. Then I scooted back to the registration table.

  I checked in two people waiting as, over my shoulder, I heard Kelsey’s “Good morning” echo over the sound system. We welcomed a few stragglers as Kelsey gave a short speech about the history of Our Mothers Have Wings. Lunch would be served first, with the doctor’s speech over dessert.

  When they started serving the food, Marlie and I left the three remaining name tags on the table and joined the others. Marlie headed for the head table to sit near Kelsey, while I went to the place I had reserved earlier. The five ladies at my table were already eating a first course of a mixed greens salad. Introductions went around the table as I poured vinaigrette and helped myself to one of The Club’s famous orange rolls. I nodded a greeting to Karen when it was her turn to say her na
me. No one asked each other what they did for a living. It was assumed this kind of thing was it.

  Small talk broke the ice as the women conversed with those next to them. Karen and the lady on her other side were discussing favorite vacation destinations as I munched my salad, sipped my iced tea, and used my best table manners. I waited until they had revisited St. Croix and Naples and there was a break in the conversation. Then, as etiquette dictated, Karen turned to me with a smile.

  “Claire, isn’t it?” She double-checked my name tag. “Yes, that’s right.” I pretended to study hers. “Karen. Nice to meet you.”

  “Nice to meet you too. Have you been volunteering with OMHW long?”

  “About five years. I lost my mother to breast cancer when I was thirteen.”

  “Oh, I’m so sorry.”

  “Thanks. What about you? Did your mother —”

  “Yes, four years ago.”

  “Then I’m sorry too. I used to lead a group for grieving daughters.”

  “I’ve heard of it. Kelsey told me how great it was. Maybe I should have come.”

  “We’re hoping to get it going again soon.” I shot another obvious glance at the tag on her chest. “Madison. As in the Madison Foundation?”

  “Yes, that’s us.”

  She had Zander’s eyes, I noticed. Michael’s eyes. Green-blue, intently focused on mine. “That’s a wonderful organization. You do so much for the community.” Two of the other women at the table were listening to our conversation and concurred.

  “Thank you. We try. There’s a lot to do.”

  “Well, I know OMHW appreciates any help they can get.” I cast my first line. “It’s just so important to educate women about their risks, especially if they’ve lost a relative to breast cancer. I mean, it could save lives. The lives of your children. Or, grandchildren.”

  I studied her carefully, and it was there. The slight jerk in the eyebrows, the just-a-little-too-quickly way she tore her gaze from mine, the intense, sudden interest in her empty salad plate. I pressed it. “Do you have kids?”

  Then relief. Convincing herself I’d just made an innocent remark. “Oh, yes. Two.”

  “Grandchildren?”

  A nervous laugh. “No, no. Mine are still a bit young for that.”

  “Oh, I’m sorry. How old are they?”

  “My youngest, Kaylin, she’s seventeen. In high school. My son’s in college.”

  “That’s wonderful. What’s he studying?”

  She was growing more and more uncomfortable by the second, the carefully coiffed image starting to get tenuous. “Finance, like his father.”

  “That’s great. Where?”

  “Auburn.”

  “So he’s home for the summer?”

  “He’s doing summer term.”

  “Oh, so he’ll be graduating early.”

  “We hope so.” She was desperate to change the subject now, as the white-jacketed waiter removed our salad plates and refilled our teas. “Lunch smells delicious,” she said. But she wasn’t going to get off that easily. Another woman at the table picked up the kid thread and shared that she had two daughters, both in college. That sparked more stories about offspring as the waiter brought our chicken, until it eventually came around to me again when one of the ladies asked if I had any children.

  “No, not yet. Maybe someday. I’m not married.” I flashed my bare left hand. “Of course, nowadays, a lot of people have them without getting married.”

  Karen Madison dropped her knife. It fell off the edge of the plate and left a sauce stain on the tablecloth. She picked it up and placed it back on her dish. The other women went on about out-of-wedlock births and teen pregnancy and how times had changed. I jumped back into the conversation with my second hook. “Speaking of kids, did you see the story last week about the toddler who died? Overdosed on drugs.”

  That did it. Karen Madison started to shake. A small tremor in her hands and only noticeable if you were looking for it. She picked up her napkin from her lap and wiped her mouth indelicately, smearing her lipstick. “Excuse me,” she murmured, and walked quickly toward the bathroom.

  Leaving the ladies discussing the shame and tragedy of Michael’s death, I followed Karen.

  `

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Karen Madison had locked herself in one of the stalls. I leaned on the marble vanity and waited, noting that the elegance of The Club permeated even to the ladies’ room. I studied the intricately patterned wallpaper until the toilet flushed.

  She saw me resting against one of the sinks, my arms folded. Whatever composure she’d managed to regain dissipated like a spray of perfume.

  Voice shaking, she said, “I thought I recognized your name from OMHW, but that wasn’t it. Your name was in the paper. You were the social worker on the case.”

  “What case?”

  “You know damn well what case. Michael’s case.”

  I paused. Then, “You have his eyes.”

  All the strength left her like the air out of an untied balloon. Her

  knees buckled, and I moved forward to catch her if she collapsed, but she held out a hand, stopping me. I retreated. She bent over, gulping breaths through her mouth for a minute, then stood up straight. The first signs of tears glistened in her eyes and she fanned them away. Outside, Kelsey was introducing the speaker.

  “Why are you doing this to me?”

  “I want to know what happened to Michael.”

  “His mother killed him.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “How did you find out he was my grandson?”

  “I was going to ask you the same thing.”

  Another gulp.“My son, Zander, he has … a problem. With drugs.” I nodded. “Go on.”

  “His father and I are desperate. We’ve tried — we’ve done all we

  know how to do. We’ve sent him away. We’ve tried locking him in the house. I thought, one day, if I could just find out where he went. Where he got the drugs. Two weeks ago, Friday morning, I followed him. He went to Ashley’s apartment. He took Michael to the park. I confronted him. Oh, God.”

  She was shaking again, on the verge of collapse. In the dining room, the doctor was talking about research results. Karen covered her eyes.

  “Do you want to sit down?” I gestured to an upholstered bench near the door.

  “You don’t understand.”

  “Tell me.”

  “No one can know about this. Please.”

  “I’m not going to tell anyone. Does Alexander Senior know?”

  She nodded, once. “You must think I’m a terrible person, but if this got out —”

  “I understand. I swear, I won’t tell anybody.”

  “Alexander could lose everything. I don’t know what his board of directors would do if they found out about Zander. About his problems. They might lose confidence. Do you know what I mean?”

  “I do.” I stepped forward and gently touched her arm. “I promise. I didn’t find out who Michael’s father was until recently. There’s no need to put it in the DHS record or to make it public. I just want to know what happened to Michael.”

  “Ashley killed him.”

  “Ashley’s —” Another woman from the luncheon entered the rest room, smiling and nodding to us. Karen, more together now, greeted her back. We waited until the other woman finished, washed her hands, and left.

  I picked up where I’d left off. “Ashley’s screens were all clean. She was doing well.”

  “So she relapsed.”

  “Maybe not.”

  “What, you think it was Zander? That it was Zander’s drugs?” “What do you think?”

  I could tell the thought wasn’t a new one to cross her mind. She mumbled, “I don’t know.”

  “If it was, then Ashley’s protecting him.”

  Another luncheon guest entered the bathroom. Karen said, “We’d better get back.”

  We returned to the table. My chicken was gone, replaced by a slice
of cheesecake topped with a mound of strawberries. I picked at it as I tried to look like I was paying attention to the doctor, who was reciting statistics about success rates of various cancer therapies. But my mind was on Karen. And her husband. Both of them had quite a motive for murder.

  The doctor wound up his talk and Kelsey thanked us all for coming. Karen gave me a long, pleading look. I nodded and mouthed, “Don’t worry,” as the women at the table said good-bye and gathered purses. I stayed behind to help Kelsey and Marlie pack up, watching as Karen put on a confident smile and said a few friendly words to Kelsey before leaving, head held high, out the double doors to the valets’ area.

  I was home by two, glad to strip out of the confines of the skirt and into shorts and a tee. I meandered into the kitchen, opening the refrigerator for lack of anything else to do. Three ice-cold Michelobs sat on the top shelf and on impulse I grabbed one. Careful, I told myself, you’ll wind up like Al Mackey. Big potbelly and a dirty recliner, drunk at four in the afternoon.

  I didn’t have to worry. I fell asleep on the couch before I hit the bottom of the bottle. I woke with a start from a strange, colorful dream, hearing the familiar sound of the mail carrier’s Jeep as it started, stopped, and started again. I heaved my lazy ass off the couch to go get the bills.

  Mail. Damn. I was supposed to go by Ashley’s and make sure Zander had paid the bills. I’d forgotten. I was tempted to blow it off until Monday, but then I remembered she’d said some of the bills were late. Two more days could matter. After a quick visit to the bathroom, I pointed my car to Ashley’s.

  The interstate was jammed with cars. It was just after four o’clock and the beginning of rush hour. I turned onto back roads and wound my way to Southside, through UAB’s campus and eastward. The route was taking me straight past Lakeview. On a whim, I hung a left, then left again until I was in the parking lot next to Kaleidoscope, the dance place. There were three other cars in the lot.

  What had appeared a cool, contemporary structure last Monday now merely looked like the former-medical-office-turned-bar that it was. The neon-painted windows didn’t look nearly as hip in the glaring sunlight. No bouncers stationed outside to monitor access. No faint reverberations of music.