Ain't She a Peach? Page 8

  “What is he doing out here alone?” Frankie asked as Eric opened a bottle of water and offered it to the boy. The toddler grabbed it and gulped it greedily, spilling a good part of it down his front. Frankie took a peanut-free granola bar from her kit and offered it to him.

  “What’s your name, sweetie?” Frankie asked.

  The boy ducked his head against the truck seat. Eric frowned at her. “You don’t know him? I thought you knew everybody.”

  “I’ve never seen him before, which in itself is weird. Unless he’s a tourist’s kid?” She didn’t want to give voice to the even less preferable options roiling around in her head—abduction, incapacitated parents, or abandonment. Lake Sackett was generally immune to bigger problems like those, but it couldn’t stay insulated forever. Suddenly, she was glad it was Eric Linden by her side, handling this situation, and not Sheriff Rainey. It was possible Sheriff Rainey wouldn’t have spotted the boy because he was playing with his radio, and would have driven right past him.

  “Hey, buddy, can you tell me where you live?” Eric asked gently as the boy shook his head, grinding his face into the upholstery. “Can you tell me your name?”

  The boy didn’t answer. Herc whimpered and propped his feet on the lip of the door, nudging at the boy’s bare leg with his nose. The boy jerked at the cold, wet contact. He stared at Herc for a long time, tiny eyebrows furrowed, and he reached out slowly.

  “Wha’s dis doggy’s name?” he asked, not quite touching Herc’s head.

  Frankie wasn’t sure why a simple question in that reedy voice was enough to bring tears to her eyes. But the fact that the boy was able to speak, that he was whole enough to ask about a dog, flooded her with relief.

  “This is Herc. It’s short for Hercules. He’s a police dog, sort of,” Eric said.

  “Herca-lees, like the cartoon?” the boy asked.

  “Yep, Hercules like the cartoon. Because Herc is so smart and strong. You want to pet him?”

  Eric quietly gave the command for “still” and Herc was practically a statue. The boy ran his stubby fingers between Herc’s ears, patting him gently. Herc looked to Eric, as if asking permission to touch the tiny human. Eric nodded ever so slightly and Herc pressed his head into the child’s hand. The boy’s tiny body seemed to relax and turned away from the seat.

  “See? Hercules is a nice dog. He’s my friend. He’s big and brave, just like you. Can you be even braver for me and tell me your name?” Eric asked, in a tone so patient, Frankie could have mistaken him for a kindergarten teacher. What was worse, she couldn’t think of anything to say to the boy after her rejected granola gambit. All she could do was uncap some gentle disinfectant for the boy’s bug bites and dab at them while he was distracted.

  “I’m Chase.”

  Eric nodded and smiled. “Do you know your last name?”

  Chase shook his head.

  “Do you know where you live?” Eric asked.

  “ ’Tlanta,” Chase said, grunting and shooting Frankie a nasty look when she cleaned a deeper scrape on his leg.

  Eric stepped in front of Frankie and her evil bottle of antiseptic. His voice was bright and encouraging. “You live in Atlanta? That’s awesome! Do you like it there?”

  Chase nodded.

  “How did you get all the way out here?”

  Chase said solemnly, “Seein’ Aunt Weeda.”

  “Weeda?” Eric turned to Frankie, who pursed her lips.

  “Mommy’s aunt. She’s loud.”

  “Weeda. Weeda. Maybe he means Rita? Rita Carstairs?” Frankie looked to Chase. “Does that sound right? Rita Carstairs?”

  Chase jerked his little shoulders. Frankie took out her phone and found Rita’s Facebook profile. Shuddering, she scanned through several highly inappropriate bar photos before landing on a damn-near respectable selfie of Rita’s face. She showed Chase her phone. He nodded vehemently and jabbed his grubby finger at the screen. “Aunt Weeda.”

  Frankie grinned. “Rita’s place is over on Pecan Road. It’s about half a mile that way.”

  “Got it. If you have her number, call it. If not, message her over Facebook.” Eric buckled Chase into his car as best he could without a booster seat. Herc jumped in the backseat and put his head on Chase’s leg. Chase patted the dog’s head and began jabbering about something called PAW Patrol. Frankie reached over the seat, shrugging out of her coroner’s jacket and tucking it around Chase’s bare legs.

  Frankie had assumed for years that her biological clock had never ticked. She liked Marianne’s boys just fine, but she didn’t look at Nate and Aiden as babies and think, I need my own. The moment they cried, she happily handed them right back to their parents and walked away to her diaper-free safe space. But now, with this poor sweet kid who had been lost and scared and probably just wanted his mama? She got it. She wanted to cuddle Chase close to her side and thought fighting bears made of lava would not be a step too far to keep him safe.

  She blamed this shift in maternal instinct on Eric. Clearly his presence had scrambled her brain, and not in a fun, recreational way.

  Frankie was reluctant to take her eyes off the baby, even to dial Rita’s home number. When she did, she got a busy signal. She’d never been so glad to see Rita’s little cabin. So many things could have turned out differently in this scenario. What if she and Eric had taken a different route to her place? What if they’d been twenty minutes later or earlier? Chase could have been hit by a car. He could have fallen into a creek and drowned. He could have died of dehydration or exposure. He could have been hurt by an animal. She could have ended up with this boy on her table by the end of the day. She shuddered. She hated juvenile cases. She closed her eyes and gave thanks that she’d been spared that task.

  They pulled into Rita Carstairs’s driveway just in time to see a woman in pajama pants and sneakers scrambling like mad to open her car door as she struggled into a hoodie.

  “Heads up,” Frankie said quietly, putting her hand on Chase’s leg.

  “I see it,” Eric murmured, slowing the SUV.

  The younger woman turned to see the police car and her face crumpled, as if she was expecting the worst possible news. But the moment she spotted Chase in the window, she dropped her purse, shrieked, and ran at them. Frankie could see the tear streaks on the woman’s cheeks from across the yard.

  “Chase!” the woman screamed, slapping her hands against the back window before Eric could put the truck in park. Herc barked sharply, placing himself between the newcomer and Chase, as if he was warning her that he didn’t quite trust her with his new human.

  “Down, Herc,” Eric said firmly.

  Herc whuffed, but he settled down when Chase grabbed at the woman, happily shouting, “Mamamamamamama.”

  The woman was caught between giving the toddler kisses all over his face and checking him over for injuries. She unbuckled him and cradled him against her side. “Baby, oh, honey. Oh my God. Are you okay? What happened?”

  Chase buried his face in his mother’s neck and shook his head. She looked up at Frankie and Eric, eyes glassy. “Where did you find him? I just woke up a minute ago and he was gone!”

  “What’s your name, ma’am?” Eric asked.

  “I’m Jenna Wollmack. I’m Chase’s mom.”

  “Can I see some ID?”

  Jenna nodded and retrieved her purse from Rita’s lawn. Eric checked it against some scary police database for outstanding warrants and criminal history. Rita Carstairs came outside, bottle-blond hair askew, wearing sleep shorts and a Lynyrd Skynyrd T-shirt. An unlit cigarette dangled from her lips and she seemed absolutely unperturbed at the sight of a police car in her driveway at dawn. “Hey, Frankie. How’s your mama?”

  “Hey, Rita. Just fine, thanks.”

  Now that his mother had been located, Chase was way more interested in getting on the ground and playing with Herc. Eric slid out of his truck and gave Jenna her license back. “Ms. Wollmack, we found your son about half a mile from here, on the side
of the highway, by himself.”

  Frankie was sure Eric didn’t mean for the judgmental tone to taint his voice, but it hung there in the air, letting the woman know that her parenting skills were being scrutinized.

  Jenna’s eyes welled up with hot, shimmery tears. “Oh my God, honey, I’m so sorry.”

  “You’re very lucky this didn’t turn out some other way. You’re very lucky we were the ones who found him,” Eric said, the judgmental tone now in full force. Apparently he did mean for it to taint his voice.

  “Do you know how he managed to get out of the house?” Frankie asked gently, shaking her head just the tiniest bit at her “partner.”

  Jenna wiped at her cheeks, balancing Chase’s fidgeting form on her hip. “His preschool just had Fire Safety Week and they made sure the kids know how to work the locks on the doors to get out if they need to. We still have the childproof lock at the top of our door at home, but my aunt Rita doesn’t. I just didn’t think he’d try it. His daddy’s at home while we’re here visitin’, and I didn’t think he’d try to go out without Daddy. He talked about going to see the goats at the Morrows’ farm down the road before bed last night. Maybe that’s where he was going?”

  Chase’s head popped up from his mother’s throat and he nodded emphatically. “Like the goats. They run their heads into each other,” he said. “Make a big noise.”

  “But you have to wait until Mommy goes with you before you can see the goats,” Jenna told him, her voice getting shriller and shriller as she went on. “You can’t leave the house alone. Do you know what could have happened! You could have been hit by a car! You could have stepped on glass! You could have fallen in a ditch. Someone could have picked you up and Mommy never would have seen you again!”

  Eric placed a calming hand on Jenna’s shoulder, interrupting her descent into a well-deserved panic attack. “Has he ever done anything like this before? If I call Child Protective Services in Atlanta, are there going to be any cases with your name on them?”

  “Never,” Jenna said, glancing toward her aunt. “He has everything I didn’t have growin’ up. My husband and I work a lot, but we’re good parents. Call his preschool, his pediatrician, my neighbors, anybody. They’ll tell you this kind of thing never happens. I haven’t had a drink or a smoke since I found out he was comin’ along. I breastfed him until he was a year old. He’s at all the right percentiles, sees the doctor for every sniffle. He’s had all of his shots. I take him to story time at the library. I buy freakin’ organic food, even though it costs an arm and a leg. I’m a good mom.”

  “Okay, okay,” Eric said, his shoulders relaxing as he held his hands up in what was maybe an I don’t think you’re a completely terrible parent gesture. “I’m sure you are. Just give me those phone numbers and I’ll follow up with your pediatrician and the school. But for right now, I don’t see any reason Chase can’t stay with you.”

  “Thank you,” she said, sniffing.

  “Just be more careful with him, ’cause he was pretty determined about gettin’ down the highway,” Eric said, ruffling Chase’s hair.

  It took a little more paperwork, and Eric discreetly checking Jenna’s criminal background, before they left Rita’s driveway. Chase also had to be convinced to let go of Herc’s collar, because he was pretty sure Herc needed to come home with him. Herc seemed half convinced himself, and was so pouty, he actually fell asleep in the backseat on the drive back to town.

  “I would snark at you for bein’ kind of rough on that poor mom, but I can see why you took the scared-straight route,” Frankie said.

  Eric hesitated before saying, “I know, I just—I thought about what could have gone wrong and I got a little loud. I am going to follow up with the school and the doctor. I want to make sure I did the right thing.”

  “I get it. You actually handled it pretty well, talkin’ to Chase like that. I couldn’t get him to open up, and I basically look like a cartoon character.”

  “You learn which questions to ask and how to ask them. I’ve had cases like that before, where I was out on patrol and found a little kid wandering alone down the street. But it was because Dad was passed out under a buncha beer cans. Or Mom was at work and the kid was bein’ watched by siblings who were way too young for the job. Or no one was watchin’ at all and no one cared. This was better. At least someone cared.”

  It was at moments like this that she was fully aware of how sheltered her childhood had been. She’d been fully supervised by a team of caring adults and medical professionals at all times. If she’d wandered any farther than her porch, there would have been a helicopter search.

  Also, Eric’s move to Lake Sackett was starting to make sense if working in Atlanta required a questioning strategy for wandering urban children.

  Eric added, “And Chase’s mom was so freaked out, that kid’s going to be sleeping in a safety-deposit box for the rest of his life.”

  “So all’s well that ends well,” Frankie said brightly. “Except for Chase, who will be livin’ in a steel bubble.”

  “I think I’m gonna go get some breakfast, try to earn some leeway from Ike. I’ve almost got him to the point where he doesn’t glare at me when I walk through the door.”

  “Wow, you wore him down quicker than most.” She pursed her lips. For a moment Frankie thought maybe he would ask her to join him, but he didn’t. And that disappointed her more than she thought it would. She considered herself to be delightful morning company, once she was caffeinated, and sharing pancakes was something you did with a friend when you’d been through both the traumatic aftermath of a fatal wreck and finding a lost child. Okay, probably not in most friendships.

  She let her head loll back on the headrest.

  Fine, they were the type of acquaintances who merely informed each other of their breakfast plans but didn’t extend invitations. Even after fatal wrecks and baby rescues.

  FRANKIE CLOSED THE lower lid on Truman Waller’s casket. She was proud of the picture she’d created for Mr. Truman, a man who’d been strong as an ox most of his life, only to have that strength sapped away by a stroke. With a padded suit and careful makeup, she’d managed to round his features and shoulders out to the shape he’d been in during his best years.

  “Okay, Mr. Truman, I’ve done the best I can. I think your family will like seein’ you just a little bit like the way they remember you.” She gave the knot in his tie one last adjustment and rolled the casket over to the elevator. “I will miss your bad impersonation of Dale Earnhardt, which everybody thought was Jeff Foxworthy. No one really understood why you were impersonatin’ either one, to be real honest about it. And I will miss the way that you always carried ladies’ groceries to their cars, not because you thought they were weak, but because it was the nice thing to do.”

  Frankie rolled her shoulders and stretched her back. Mr. Truman was her third client of the day and she was feeling the hours on her feet. She had some closing paperwork for Mrs. Wannamaker’s death certificate and then, if she was lucky and no one died, she might be able to sit for a while. She flopped into her chair and pored over the test results she’d printed that morning. “Jane Doe’s” fasting blood glucose was damn near perfect. Her white blood cell counts were well within acceptable ranges. Her liver enzymes and kidney function were normal. Considering the amount of deep-fried foods she ate, her cholesterol levels were almost miraculous. She was the picture of health.

  “Jane Doe, you are a persistently healthy basket case,” she muttered, poring over the numbers again. She would enter them into a spreadsheet later, and use tracking software to determine any bothersome trends.

  ’Cause that was normal.

  As county coroner, Frankie had access to medical testing equipment that—technically—was supposed to be used to determine cause of death in suspicious cases. And once a month, Frankie used that equipment to test her own blood chemistry and give her a week or two where she didn’t worry about the possibility of adult-onset diabetes or organ failure
. She wrote off the testing as “calibrating the machines,” which was technically allowed, but honestly, the only thing that kept her from testing herself weekly was the threat of being accused of misuse of county equipment. Like Eric, she didn’t want the words gross incompetence anywhere near her employment records.

  Access to an i-STAT handheld blood analyzer wasn’t the sole reason she took on the coroner’s job. It was just a very important fringe benefit.

  “Knock-knock!” Margot yelled from the stairs as Frankie jumped and shoved her test results into a drawer.

  “Is this some new thing you’re doing before you walk into rooms?” Frankie asked casually as Margot poked her head through the mortuary doors.

  “No, I’m just giving you time to tell me whether there are any bodies being prepared before I walk in.”

  “Everybody is either covered or in a drawer,” Frankie said.

  Margot swallowed thickly. “You promise?”

  “Yes,” Frankie said. “I wouldn’t expose you to anything that would scare you. That wouldn’t exactly build a close cousinly relationship, now would it?”

  “I don’t think ‘cousinly’ is a word, but I’m touched by your thoughtfulness,” Margot said, stepping carefully through the doors as if she was preparing for something to jump out at her at any moment. Margot looked considerably more composed today in a black suit that emphasized the curves she was developing thanks to Southern pork and carbs. Frankie guessed Kyle had done something to persuade Margot to stay in bed a couple of extra hours, but for the sake of her own mental health she did not picture what that “something” was.

  “Why do you look like you’re about to tell me that all of the abs in the Marvel Cinematic Universe are airbrushed on? Is something wrong or are you just that uncomfortable to be walking in here?” Frankie asked as Margot crossed her work space and headed for her computer.