No offense, p.7
No Offense, page 7
Inwardly, Molly wanted to die. Naturally her (ex-)boss was in the same yoga class, and apparently, she lunched regularly with the library’s most generous donor.
Mrs. Tifton gave the panting Daisy a squeeze and said, “Oh, Daisy! I always knew you were a very smart dog!” To Molly and Meschelle she said, “She is, you know. She’s very perceptive. When I’m feeling down, she crawls onto my lap and licks my face. So I’m not surprised she did the same to that girl. You’re just as brave, you know.” This was to Molly. “I understand you sat with her until the ambulance came. You simply must let me make it up to you.”
“Oh,” Molly said, laughing nervously. What was the delightfully eccentric widow going to do, offer her a cash reward? Not that Molly would mind, but as a public servant, she couldn’t possibly accept. “That’s quite all right, Mrs. Tifton, it’s part of my—”
“I know,” Mrs. Tifton interrupted, snapping her fingers. “You must come with me this weekend as my date to the Red Cross Ball.”
To Molly this was nearly as mortifying as being offered a cash reward. Not that she didn’t want to go to the ball—she did. She’d heard all about it from Joanne, who had never been (“It’s three hundred and fifty dollars a ticket!”) but knew people who had, and described it as “the most glamorous party on Little Bridge, black tie with an all-you-can-eat buffet that includes locally caught stone crab claws, champagne, and of course a chocolate fountain.”
It wasn’t that Molly wasn’t grateful. She simply didn’t want the widow to pay for her ticket. It wouldn’t be ethical.
“Oh, Molly,” Meschelle said, cutting Molly off before she could even draw breath to protest. “You have to go. It’s the best party of the year. I’m going, to cover it for the paper.”
Molly felt her resolve wavering.
“I already bought twelve tickets,” Mrs. Tifton said. “I’m taking the entire yoga class, aren’t I, Phyl?”
Phyllis—whom Molly would never in a thousand years consider calling Phyl—said, in her calm, throaty voice, “She is. We’re all going.”
“See?” Mrs. Tifton threw Molly a triumphant look. “You have to come. Especially since we have so much to celebrate.”
Molly was puzzled. “We do?” She didn’t see what there was to feel happy about. Their library had been vandalized, apparently by kids who were, according to Meschelle, unstoppable. What was so good about that?
“The girl!” Mrs. Tifton cried. “She’s in the ICU, but she should do just fine. I called the hospital, and they told me so.”
“Really?” Meschelle’s eyebrows were raised to their limits. “They usually only give information about patients to family members.”
“Oh,” Mrs. Tifton said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. “They know me there.”
Of course they do, Molly thought, wryly.
“And do you know what else they said?” Mrs. Tifton asked, and went on without waiting for a reply. “They said that she’s Baby Aphrodite’s mother!”
Molly wasn’t a bit surprised, given what she’d seen in the media room, but Meschelle snatched up her phone and quickly hit record.
“Really, Mrs. Tifton?” she asked. “May I quote you on that for an article I’m writing about the abandoned baby for the Gazette?”
“Why, yes, you may!” Mrs. Tifton cried. “You can say that Dorothy Tifton has it on good authority that the poor girl found in the children’s media room of the new library today is the mother of Baby Aphrodite.”
Molly was beginning to get a very bad feeling about all of this.
“Oh, Mrs. Tifton,” she said, sliding from her booth. “I don’t think that’s the kind of news we should be sharing right now. It might hamper the sheriff’s investigation.”
Mrs. Tifton instantly looked stricken. “Oh, dear! I wouldn’t want to do that.”
“It’s fine,” Meschelle said, giving Molly a dirty look. “It’s just the local paper, not the New York Times. I’ll tie it in to the story I interviewed you for, Molly—which, by the way, I’m going to need photos for.”
Molly froze. “Photos?”
“Yes. You know, of you by the bathroom stall where you found the baby, and all of that.”
Molly thought, fleetingly, of both how unflattering the florescent light in the girls’ bathroom was and how disapproving the sheriff was going to be when he found out about the story.
“Don’t worry, we’ll make you look good,” Meschelle said, only partly reading her mind. “I’ll send one of the staff photographers over to the library this afternoon. Okay?”
Molly knew she’d dug her own grave. There was nothing for her to do now but lie in it.
Chapter Eight
John
The day was turning into a debacle. It had started out badly enough, with the discovery of the girl and the vandalism in the library, and it had gone downhill from there. His deputies weren’t too happy with his request that they canvass the entire neighborhood around the old high school for possible CCTV footage of the Sunshine Kids, since they’d “done that already” during previous break-ins and found nothing.
His tech crew was even less happy with his order that they swab and fingerprint everything they’d found in the media room where the librarian had discovered the unconscious girl.
“Everything?” Murray had balked.
“Yes, everything. And don’t forget to match them against that box from yesterday, the one they found the baby in.”
Murray had looked around at the mess in dismay. “Sheriff, most of this stuff is garbage. You want us to fingerprint garbage?”
“Yes, I do.” John didn’t see why he had to explain himself to his own tech crew, most of whom, it was true, had been hired by Rich Wagner, the previous sheriff, and were still loyal to him, even though he’d turned out to be a douche of the first order.
If John wanted garbage swabbed for DNA and also fingerprinted, it was his right to ask for it to be swabbed for DNA and fingerprinted. That’s what these guys got paid for.
Things didn’t improve when John returned to his office to find a five-foot-long plush dolphin sitting in his desk chair.
“Marguerite,” he yelled when he saw it.
Marguerite sauntered slowly down the hall from her office, a cup of coffee in her hand.
“It’s for Baby Aphrodite,” she said, when she saw what he was upset about. “On account of her rising from the ocean waves.”
John thought his head might explode. “I don’t care who it’s for. Get it out of my office.”
“There’s nowhere else to put it. There’re baby toys and boxes of diapers and formula all up and down the—”
“I don’t care. Just get it out.”
Marguerite sighed. “Sure, Chief. What do you want me to do about the bachelor party riding a goat down Truman Avenue?”
“The what?”
“A bunch of guys down here to celebrate their pal getting married found a goat somewhere—unless they brought it themselves—and are now taking turns riding it around downtown.”
“For Christ’s sake.” Was the entire country going insane? “Send Martinez down there to arrest them for drunk and disorderly.”
“Can’t, Chief. He’s over at the bus station checking a suspicious passenger. Could be Dakota. You sent a Be On The Lookout for him, remember?”
“Well, send Reynolds, then. And tell him to get that goat over to the petting zoo, and have the vet come over to check it out for injuries.”
“Got it, Chief.”
“And stop calling me Chief. I’m the sheriff, not the chief of police.”
“Right, Chief. I mean, Sheriff.”
John glared at his computer screen. Sometimes he wondered how he’d managed to become not only a sheriff but also a zookeeper. The population of Little Bridge was so small that it could sustain only a minuscule animal shelter, so overflow abandoned or abused animals tended to end up in the care of law enforcement. It had been John’s decision early on in his tenure as sheriff to begin using an outdoor area of the jail as part animal hospital, part permanent petting zoo. Studies showed that recidivism decreased in individuals who spent time during their incarceration working with animals, so John saw to it that whatever nonviolent inmates he deemed worthy of the privilege were allowed to care for the numerous sloths, snakes, tortoises, alligators, parrots, rabbits, chinchillas, pigs, chickens, ducks, miniature horses, and now, apparently, goats that were housed there.
Did it bother John that the hard-bitten homicide detectives with whom he used to work back in Miami occasionally sent him teasing gifs of himself in overalls and a sun hat, shoveling manure?
Not as much as it bothered him that law enforcement agencies from across the country contacted him almost daily, begging him to take on injured animals they’d found in drug raids or other busts, and that he usually had to say no because his “jail zoo” was already at capacity.
He didn’t think things could get any worse until he went to try on his dress uniform to make sure it fit before the Red Cross Ball.
“Marguerite!” he shouted, staring down at himself in dismay.
Marguerite came strolling in, this time holding a turquoise reusable water bottle in her hand. “Something else wrong, Chief?”
He showed her. “My dress pants don’t fit.”
She was unimpressed. “It’s called aging. It happens to the best of us. Try squeezing three kids out of your ying-yang, like I did. It happens even quicker.”
“Well, these fit last week,” he said, tugging on the waistband of his trousers. “What am I supposed to do?”
“Stop drinking beer,” Marguerite suggested. “My husband stops drinking beer and he drops ten pounds overnight. It’s God’s joke on women.”
“I only drink one beer a night.” John looked mournfully at his reflection in the full-length mirror attached to his office’s closet door.
“Actually,” Marguerite said, taking mercy on him, “you don’t look so bad for your age, Sheriff.” For all she liked to razz him, he noticed she’d been softening toward him, often bringing him an extra café con leche when she stopped at the Coffee Cubano on the way to work (which was probably not helping with his waistline). “Maybe the cleaners made a mistake and delivered the wrong pants. They do it all the time. I’ll look into it for you.”
He relaxed—as much as the tight pants would allow. “Thanks, Sergeant.”
“Don’t mention it. I’ll get that dolphin off your hands now, too, if you want.”
“No.” John glanced at the stuffed animal grinning so maniacally from behind his desk. “I’m starting to like it. Maybe I’ll take it over to the hospital later myself.”
She shrugged. “Suit yourself.”
After he’d changed back into his regular uniform, John moved the dolphin to a corner and sat down at his desk, then brought up the file on Dylan Dakota. Everything about the kid, including his name, was fake—everything except the very real harm he’d caused to people and property, including the young girl who was currently in the Little Bridge ICU.
Her condition was stable, but if she hadn’t been found when she had, and gotten help, she could have died. Thank God for Molly Montgomery—and no thanks to Lawrence “Larry” Beckwith III, aka Dylan Dakota.
Of course, John didn’t have proof that Larry was behind any of this. That’s why he needed the DNA swabs and fingerprints. If Larry turned out to have anything to do with what had been done to the new library or to the girl, John was going to find some way to nail him this time, fancy lawyer or no fancy lawyer. And when Larry landed in his jail, John would make sure he’d get zero privileges. That kid wasn’t going to set one foot in the Little Bridge jail petting zoo.
John was poring over his notes on Beckwith and getting hot under the collar all over again when there was a tap on his office door.
“What?” he bellowed, thinking it was Murray with another complaint about the task he’d been assigned.
Only it wasn’t.
“God, Daddy, it’s only me.” His daughter, Katie, came in, then closed the door behind her. “If you yell at everyone like that, it’s no wonder no one here likes you.”
He stared at her. She was wearing her Snappettes uniform, nothing more than a red bodysuit with a tiny pleated skirt and matching red tennis shoes. “I’ve asked you before to change out of that thing before you get here,” he groused. “And who says no one here doesn’t like me?”
“It’s obvious none of them like you.” Katie leaned over his desk to give him a peck on the cheek. “Except maybe Sergeant Ruiz. The rest of them are still devoted to that gross old Sheriff Wagner. But they all like me, and it’s because I wear this thing. Everyone loves the Snappettes. We represent everything that is good and wholesome in the world. Did you forget you were supposed to meet me after school today for dance practice?”
Startled, he glanced at his watch. “Is school out already? Sorry, honey, it’s been a crazy day.”
“I heard.” Katie turned toward the stuffed dolphin. “Everyone’s talking about how they found Baby Aphrodite’s mother bleeding to death at the new library. Hey, who dropped this off? Is this for Baby Aphrodite? It’s supercute.”
Could his deputies keep nothing confidential? “Who told you that the girl in the library is the baby’s mother? And stop calling her Baby Aphrodite. That’s not her name. The baby doesn’t have a name yet.”
Katie flopped into his office visitor’s chair, draping her long legs over one of the arms and swinging her red-sneakered feet. “Aw, come on, Dad, it’s all over town that the new librarian found her, just like she found the baby. And what’s wrong with Baby Aphrodite? I like it. Can I have the dolphin if no one else wants it?”
“No, you may not. Whoever left it meant for the baby to have it, not you. Listen, honey, I don’t have time for dance practice today, I have an actual crime to solve.”
Katie snorted. “Oh, as opposed to a fake crime like all those burglaries that keep happening around town?”
He glared at her, not finding the joke funny. “Exactly. In fact, the two might be connected. So if you could just scoot on home—” Then something dawned on him. “Hey, wait a minute. How did you even get here?”
She rolled her eyes. “Duh, Dad. Uber.”
“You Ubered?”
“Yes, Dad, Mom set up an Uber account for me. She said it was the least she could do, considering how busy you are and the fact that she isn’t around and you’re the one who has to drive me everywhere. Remember?”
He did dimly remember discussing something along those lines with Christina, and even agreeing to it.
But now, seeing the plan in action, he did not like it one bit.
“I don’t want you alone in cars with strange men you don’t know, especially dressed like that.”
“God, Dad.” She rolled her eyes, as she did at nearly everything he said these days. “Could you be more nineteenth century? All of the drivers are superprofessional because they want a good rating and tip. And besides, you’ve been teaching me self-defense since I was five. Can we just drop it and get to what’s important? How am I going to teach you to dance if you don’t even show up to practice?”
He thought about this, and how woefully underqualified he was to raise a teenage daughter. He wondered if the parents of the girl Molly Montgomery had found in the new library had felt the same way, and if that’s how she’d ended up in her current predicament. Had she gotten pregnant and run away (or been kicked out of the house), or become pregnant while on the road? Was Larry Beckwith III aka Dylan Dakota the father of her baby? Was he the one who’d put that newborn in an empty trash-bag box and left her in a toilet stall for Molly Montgomery to find?
If he was, John would find a way to make his existence here on earth a living hell. Once he was in jail, John would assign him to beachcombing duty, making sure he was out there in his bright orange coveralls raking up seaweed in the blinding sun every day from sunrise to sunset.
Molly, he thought, would know all the right things to say to Katie. Molly was a children’s specialist. It said so, right on the signature line of that Facebook entry she’d written, instructing the entire town to call the infant Baby Aphrodite.
“I have an idea,” John said, smiling suddenly at his daughter, who’d gone sulky at the implication that she wasn’t old enough to handle Uber on her own and was now picking black polish off her nails and letting the flakes fall onto his floor, a habit he found irritating.
She did not look up from her nails. “What.”
“Let’s go to the library.”
This made her lift her head in astonishment. “Why would we do that?”
“They have books to teach you how to dance, don’t they?” He was already getting up from his chair. “And videos.”
Katie did not stir from her seat. “Dad. They have videos online. For free.”
“Everything is free at the library, too. You just have to apply for a card. It’s my fault, really, I should have gotten you one a long time ago. Let’s go.”
Katie unfolded herself reluctantly from the visitor’s chair. “This isn’t about you wanting to check out books on how to dance. This is about the Baby Aphrodite case, isn’t it?”
He glanced at his reflection in the mirror, just to make sure his hair was all right. He’d had it cut recently over at the barbershop—regulation length—but you could never be too sure. It was streaked with gray here and there—depressing, but only to be expected with a teenage daughter and a job like his—but otherwise, he thought he looked okay.
“No, no,” he said, tightening his tie. “I really want to learn, Katie. And you know books are the best way to learn anything.”
She was unimpressed. “If you need to do something for the case, Dad, all you have to do is say so. Especially if it’s for Baby Aphrodite. You know the whole town is backing you on this one. Not like the High School Thief, who some people are thinking of as a kind of Robin Hood.”
He threw her a startled glance. “They are?”
