Finding Sky (A Nicki Valentine Mystery Book 1) (14 page)

Twelve

I didn’t want to get April in trouble, so I called her mom on the land line.

“Jen?”

“Who’s calling?” She sounded understandably wary of an unfamiliar, late-night caller who knew her name. 

“It’s Nicki, the mom who brought April home.”

“Nicki! Hi. How are things? I hope you have good news.”

“Not yet, but I’m working on it. I’m sorry for calling this late. But I have a question for April if that’s okay. It’s about Beth’s grandparents.”

“Of course. Do you think Beth could be with them?”

“They don’t live too far away, so I want to check. Do you know anything about them?”

“Not a thing. Let me get April before she falls asleep.” She yelled for her and said it was me. We said goodbye, and after April picked up, I waited to hear Jen disconnect.

“Hey April. Sorry to call back. I came up with something after we talked, and I wanted to run it by you. Did you know Beth’s grandfather is an OB-GYN?”

“A pregnancy doctor?”

“Yes. She didn’t mention that?” 

“No.” She was quiet for a moment. “Maybe a long time ago and I forgot. But that’s so weird. It’s like why didn’t she ask him for help? She had no money, and she was really scared.” Another pause. “Then again, wait. That would be
gross
. It’s her grandfather. And he’d probably tell her mom anyway.”

“You think?”

“After the first time she ran away? Yeah. Her whole family was really mad.”

“What about
after
she told her parents she was pregnant? Do you think she’d go to him then?”

“No, because she had a doctor by then, Dr. Ryan. And she’s cool. The agency recommended her.”

“Where is her office?”

“At the hospital. King County General.”

“Okay. Thank you so much, April.”

We hung up.

Before bed I put directions to Dr. Rush’s home and office in my purse. Even though April had doubts, the Rushes were a stone I couldn’t leave unturned. The trip would take an hour or so, depending on traffic, which would be worse on a Friday. If I went while the kids were at camp, I’d practically have to turn around when I got there, which would be pointless, and bringing them would be a mistake. I envisioned breaking up arguments, serving snacks, and hearing, “I need to go” several times, all while attracting attention or missing something important. No way. I’d have to get a babysitter or...I guess there wasn’t an “or.” I forced my brain into overdrive, a difficult task, but it responded. The best time to visit would be during the day—either when Dr. Rush was on his way to work or on his way home. I wanted to see him and his wife on the move. I called his office and listened to the recording: open from 9 a.m. to 12 p.m. and 1 to 4 p.m. Lunch from 12 to 1 p.m. That might be another chance to observe him.

Maybe Mom could come over in the morning, entertain the kids for a few hours, and then drop them off at camp. If my day was productive, she could even be “on call” to pick them up. Longing for sleep, I reluctantly dialed her number and pulled out my PI class information. I needed to review surveillance techniques, not just for Saturday’s class, but for the next day’s activities.

At 1 a.m., I forced myself to lie down with the light off. I still couldn’t relax, since I had a mental checklist a mile long to review. Mom had agreed to babysit, and while that helped immensely, it also meant I had to straighten up the house again, pack the kids’ backpacks (bathing suits, towels, goggles, lunches, snacks, water bottles), choose outfits according to the weather (which required digging through clean laundry), plan breakfast, provide tips for sunscreen application, explain the carpool lane, and set out pool passes and a movie in case Mom got desperate. I’d done most of these things already, but what else? What else? Oh! I had to let the camp know Mom would pick up the kids. I turned on the light, found a sticky note, and posted it on the bathroom mirror. “Call camp. Now!” Reminders only help if I use them
right away
. But I couldn’t call at night. 

I went back to bed, set the alarm for 6:30 a.m., and switched off the light, wishing I could do the same for my brain.

My shower woke Sophie, who dashed into the bathroom, where I tried the impossible—hiding in a glass enclosure. Whoever invented see-through showers didn’t have kids in mind. Or modesty. I gave thanks for steam and soap scum.

“Sophie,” I said. “Can you wait in my room, honey? I’m almost done.” I tried to sound nonchalant. I’d always wanted to be one of those people who didn’t care if their little kids (not to mention friends, sisters, mothers, locker room buddies, etc.) saw them naked. Bodies were something to be proud of, right? Whatever.

“Mommy! I see your...”

“I know, sweetie. I’m in the shower. Go sit on my bed please.”

“But...”

“You can pick an outfit for me. How about that? Go in my closet and see what matches.”

She obeyed, and I hustled to finish the necessities, throw on a towel, and moisturize my face.

“Wow,” I said when I saw her selection. A red sundress from the depths of my closet. I hadn’t seen it in years. She’d “matched” it with a pair of black velvet pumps I’d never worn. They were so out of date they needed to be shipped to a country where they were just starting to enjoy
21 Jump Street
.

“Do you like it?”

Ahhh. The familiar parenting challenge: How to be honest without being hurtful.

“I love it,” I said.
On me in the ’80s.
“It’s a great color.”

“Are you gonna wear it?”

“You know, that dress is
so
nice that I’m going to save it for a special [lonely] night, when I’m going out to dinner at a special restaurant [the drive thru]. Can you help me find something pretty, but not so fancy, for today?”

“Yes,” Sophie said. “The shoes are fancy too.” She sounded apologetic.

“Yes, they are. You did such a good job matching fancy with fancy! Why don’t you put them away for another time?”
Like the past.
She bobbled off and tucked them in a box, which I mentally marked DONATION.

I glanced at the clock and realized I was in a hurry. Or, more accurately, I
needed
to be in a hurry. I grabbed a rumpled brown T-shirt from the closet and navy blue sweat shorts from a drawer.

“That’s not pretty,” Sophie noted.

“Oh darn. You’re right. What do you suggest?” I slipped on undies beneath my towel, donned a bra over the towel, and then finally slipped the covering down.

Sophie paid no attention. She was focused on my open dresser drawer. If she didn’t magically produce a cute outfit in seconds, I’d have to settle with my choice.

“I like these.” She yanked out jean capris.

“Perfect!” I swept them out of her hands and shoved them on. “Good job Sophie. Is this brown shirt good?”

“No.”

I zoomed into the bathroom and slapped on makeup while she dug through my shirts.

“Here, Mommy.” She held up a T-shirt she’d made at preschool. It had colorful scribbles and handprints all over it. I was hoping for something that would make me blend in.

“Oh, I love that shirt,” I said. I put it on and admired myself in the bathroom mirror. “Let’s go downstairs for breakfast. Grandma’s going to be here any minute.”

“Yay! Grandma!”

I ushered her out and grabbed my brown T-shirt on the way.

Mom was holding a gift bag, complete with a giant white bow, when I opened the door to let her in. Certain it was for the kids, I turned to them and said, “Look what Grandma brought.”

“Hold on,” she warned. “This is for Mommy. But I think they’ll like it too.” She smiled and put the bag in my hand. “I stopped at Target this morning and got something you
really
need. Please don’t be offended.”

“Okay,” I said, afraid to open it in front of anyone. We headed for the kitchen, where I showed her the day’s supplies and instructions.

“Simple,” she exaggerated. I wasn’t sure whether that should inspire confidence or concern. “Now open your present.”

After giving the bow to Sophie, I blindly reached through several layers of pink tissue paper as if we were playing the “guess what this is” Halloween game. Instead of feeling grape eyeballs or spaghetti brains, however, I felt an unidentifiable, heavy cardboard box. It took both hands to pull it out.

My jaw dropped when I saw what it was. “A navigation system! I totally need that.” It had been eons, I realized, since I’d received a gift that cost money, and this was just what I wanted, right when I needed it. “Thank you!”

I tackled Mom with a hug and returned immediately to the box, noting the kids’ dumfounded looks only after I’d started connecting wires.

“Do you guys know what this is?” I asked.

They shook their heads.

“It’s a machine that gives us directions so we don’t get lost.”

“You need that,” Jack confirmed.

I laughed. “It’s true. And you know what’s really cool? It talks.”

“Make it talk.” Sophie said. “Make it talk!”

“Well it works in the car,” I said, “so I’ll test it today, and if it works great, we’ll go for a drive with it tomorrow.”

We had a deal. I was on my way.

Waving goodbye to the innocent trio on the doorstep, it was hard to believe I was investigating something so disturbing. My stomach knotted as I imagined scenes I didn’t want to see
. Please, please, please, wherever Beth is, let her be alive,
I begged.
And don’t let her be alone. Please let her be with someone safe and caring.

My thoughts were interrupted by a loud electronic voice insisting I turn left, for which I was thankful, as much for the directions as the distraction. Countless robotic commands later, I found myself in front of a ranch-style home that matched Dr. Rush’s address. Other than being neatly mowed and mulched, with trimmed, squat shrubs dotting its perimeter, it had no personality. Black shutters. Off-white siding. Taupe garage doors and front entrance. It looked unloved.

Since it was on a corner lot, I turned onto the next street, where that side of the house had no windows, just a brick chimney. A U-turn allowed me to park in view of the garage, from which I hoped Dr. Rush would emerge. If he and his wife left separately, I realized, I wouldn’t know which one to follow.

I glanced at the clock (8:24 a.m.) and the houses around me. They were small with big yards, so I hoped the distance between us provided some cover, but in case it didn’t, I put the navigation system in the glove compartment and pulled out a Virginia map. If anyone got suspicious, I’d say I was lost—again. It had worked last time. Then I turned off the car, left the radio on softly, and sat watch until the last remnants of air conditioning seeped away.

I’d just cracked my window for fresh air when I heard the unmistakable noise of a garage door rising. Using the sound as cover, I started the van and saw a black sedan back out of the Rush’s garage. A balding man was at the wheel with a gray-haired, female passenger, who was looking down. Neither seemed to notice me.

After they pulled onto the street and took a right, I followed, reminding myself if I lost them, I’d simply go to Dr. Rush’s office. I had the address
and
the navigation system. I was set.

That didn’t turn out to be necessary, since his office was only a few miles away, and there weren’t many turns en route. Apparently the woman, who I guessed was Mrs. Rush, was coming along, because they parked in front of a four-story cement building and got out together. I drove by, noting their clothes for future reference, and parked a block away at a coffee shop. In my rearview mirror, I could see the couple entering the building, so I headed into the shop, where I used the bathroom, changed into my brown shirt, and ordered an herbal tea to go.

Still not feeling “gathered,” I returned to the car to deliberate. I could follow them into the office and ask creative questions, such as, “I was here seeing a [dermatologist/podiatrist/psychiatrist/whatever], and I saw your sign. Are you taking new patients?” If the answer was
yes
, I’d give a sob story about being new in town with a pregnant daughter. Or maybe I should use this opportunity, when Dr. and Mrs. were out of the house, to investigate. What if Beth was there, and I was missing a chance to see her? Oh my gosh.

But here I was, and both ideas seemed important, so I stepped out of the car.

The sidewalk was wet, not from rain, but from being washed with a hose, which was coiled and dripping by the coffee shop. It created a “fresh start” feeling I needed.

I left my too-hot-to-sip tea in the car and strode purposefully toward the office building. Something helpful was
going
to happen. It had to. Kenna’s image filled my mind and, corny as it sounds, my heart. Yearning for a child was primal, and she’d felt it for so long. Too long.