Megan
I wasn’t on the work schedule for the police department on Saturday, but I wasn’t going to let a little thing like not being on official duty and earning no pay keep me from doing my job. The abandoned baby had become an obsession for me. It had been over a week since the cute little thing had been left at the fire station. In the meantime, what might have happened to the person who’d stitched the cry for help into the baby’s quilt? I was almost afraid to think about it. Then again, thinking about it motivated me to keep going until I had some definitive answers. If there was any chance a woman was in jeopardy, I was going to save her. To hell with those fairy tales in which the damsels in distress waited for a prince to save them. We women would work together to save ourselves.
I planned to leave Brigit at home today. She’d earned a day off. Besides, I wanted to spy incognito today. As many times as Brigit and I had cruised by the compound in my squad car, we could be raising suspicions within the People of Peace. Better for them not to know I was keeping a close watch.
Frankie was already awake, sitting in her pajamas at the table and drinking coffee, when I wandered into the kitchen at just a few minutes after seven. I wasn’t surprised she was up. Working rotating shifts as we both did screws with your biorhythms.
She ran her eyes over me, taking in the fact that I was already dressed in jeans and a light sweater. “Going somewhere?”
“I’m going to spy on the cult compound,” I told her as I pulled the canister of oats from the cabinet to make a quick bowl of oatmeal. “Thought I’d try to be less conspicuous today.” I pulled out a pot and filled it with water. “What’s on your agenda for the day? Got some time you can spare?”
“I’ve got derby practice at four,” she said. “I’m free until then.”
“Want to come with me?” I asked. It couldn’t hurt to have another set of eyes check out the place. Maybe she’d notice something I didn’t. Besides, it would be nice to have human company. Brigit was a great partner and a good companion, but our conversations tended to be very one-sided.
Frankie shrugged. “Sure. Why not?”
We ate breakfast and soon we were heading to the compound in Frankie’s Nissan Juke. Though her car was red, it was still less conspicuous than my two-seater Smart Car. She’d generously allowed me to drive.
As we were going up the hill that overlooked the church property, a white Chevy pickup hauling a flatbed trailer crested it, coming from the opposite direction. There’d been a white Chevy pickup in the compound, hadn’t there? At this distance, all I could tell was that there were two people in the cab. But as it drove past, I caught a glimpse of the man at the wheel. He had a long face, a snub nose, and sunken cheeks, just like the man in the police sketch.
Oh my God. Is it him? The man who abandoned the baby?
I hooked a U-turn as soon as we were over the hill where he wouldn’t be able to see us in his rearview mirror.
“Whoa!” With her right hand Frankie held on to the dash for dear life, her left hand bracing against the ceiling. “Give a girl some warning next time!”
“Sorry!” I cried as I careened across the gravel shoulder and back onto the asphalt. “The guy who dropped the baby just drove by in that truck. At least I think it’s him.”
“So we’re going to follow him?”
“Yes. I want to see where he goes.” I reached into my purse, retrieved my binoculars, and handed them to Frankie. “Keep an eye on him with these. I can’t get too close or he’ll be on to us.”
“Gotcha.” She took the binoculars from me, removed them from the case, and put them to her eyes.
I slowed for a few seconds to put some space between our car and the truck before driving up the backside of the hill. The truck had about a quarter-mile lead on us by that point, far enough that they might not spot us behind them, yet close enough that we could follow their movements.
“What’s on the trailer?” I asked.
“A couple of wooden benches and rocking chairs,” she said. “There’s some wooden crates, too, but I can’t tell what’s in them.”
We tracked them for several turns before they headed onto Highway 377 toward Granbury. Fortunately, this road was more heavily traveled, and we could blend in more easily.
Frankie lowered the binoculars. “How far are we going to follow them?”
Theoretically, they could drive as far as the southern tip of Argentina from here, but I doubted that was their plan. “They sell their furniture to the public,” I told Frankie. “They’re probably taking it to a store in Granbury.”
Granbury was a quaint town, with an old-timey square and a half-dozen bed-and-breakfasts that brought weekend tourists in from around the metroplex. It would be the perfect place to sell handmade furniture.
We trailed them until they took an exit down Fall Creek Highway. Just before entering town, they pulled off onto a smaller paved road where dozens of people were setting up tables and canopies to sell their wares. A sign near the road announced FARMERS MARKET TODAY 8 TO NOON.
“Let’s give them time to set up,” I said, “then we’ll go check things out.”
I drove past and continued on into town, where we parked and waited for half an hour, chatting and catching up. Despite the fact that we lived together, the two of us were often like ships that passed in the night, rarely home together and, even if we were, rarely both awake at the same time. I told her about Ollie’s old army buddies coming to visit, and she told me about a new recruit on the Fort Worth Whoop-Ass derby team.
“She puts me to shame,” Frankie said.
“I doubt that.” I’d seen Frankie play multiple times. She was incredibly fast and agile, the star of her team.
“It’s true,” Frankie insisted. “She skates at the speed of sound. At our last bout, she made a sonic boom.”
“Well,” I said, “there’s nothing wrong with being second-best.”
“Says the woman who’s bound and determined to make detective in the shortest time possible.” She rolled her eyes and cut me a knowing look.
“Okay,” I acquiesced. “There’s nothing wrong with you being second-best.”
We shared a chuckle.
Once we thought we’d given it long enough, we drove back to the farmer’s market. Cars streamed into the parking lot, shoppers eager to get there early for the best selection of fruits, vegetables, and other merchandise. We parked and headed toward the booths. I had never been face-to-face with the man who’d left the baby, but I realized that Jebediah or Father Emmanuel might have described the cop who’d come to the gate to him. Still, I was probably unrecognizable. My long hair was down today, rather than up in the tight bun I wore while on duty. I also had much more makeup on, and had purposely avoided wearing anything in dark blue. My jeans were faded and my sweater was a soft lavender color that coordinated with my tennis shoes. Perhaps Personal Style Consultant Felicia Bloomquist would approve of this outfit?
There was a mere hint of fall in the air this morning as Frankie and I passed bin after bin of sweet potatoes, okra, onions, peppers, and zucchini. I stopped at a booth and selected four large sweet potatoes to purchase. They’d make a good side dish. Frankie, in turn, bought a loaf of fresh banana bread. I also stopped at a booth selling homemade dog biscuits and bought three of the largest size for Brigit.
“There they are,” I whispered to Frankie as I spotted the man from the truck. He stood under a portable vinyl canopy, speaking with an older couple who were examining one of the wooden rockers. As the men spoke, the woman plunked her sizable butt down in the chair and tested the thing out, going so far as to swing her legs upward to see just how far the thing would go. I half expected her to cry “Wheee!” Though he was turned sideways and I could only see his profile, it was clear the man selling the furniture was the same man in the police sketch, the same one from the fire station video.
As we approached the booth, I noticed a thirtyish woman in what appeared to be a handmade dress sitting at a table on the other side of the furniture display. A knit shawl was draped about her shoulders. Though a ribbon tied at the back of her neck attempted to tame her coarse hair, it bushed out around her makeup-free face. She must have been the second person in the truck. On the tabletop in front of her were mason jars filled with jams, jellies, and fruit preserves in shades ranging from orange to red to blue. The hand-dipped candles and candleholders were displayed, as well, along with silverware and napkin holders similar to the ones I’d seen in the bait shop. Folded quilts hung on two wooden racks behind her.
Could she be the baby’s mother? Hard to say with her belly hidden behind the table.
Frankie and I ventured up to her display in what I hoped was a nonchalant manner. Difficult to feel inconspicuous when your heart is beating a thousand times a minutes and your body temperature is up ten degrees.
I eyed the labels on the jellies. After speaking with the woman at the country store, I’d researched the Texas Cottage Food law and learned that the products required a label including the common name of the product, the name and address of the food operation, a statement that the kitchen was not inspected by government health inspectors, and a statement disclosing whether the product contained any common allergens such as nuts, milk, or eggs. Interestingly, while the labels on these blueberry, raspberry, and peach products reflected the address of the church compound, they did not identify the People of Peace as the name of the food operation. Rather, the label identified the producer as Mary Seeger. It seemed that the People of Peace were trying to remain under the radar, to draw as little attention to themselves as possible.
I gave the woman a smile. “Are you Mary?”
She smiled back and nodded.
“I’m having a hard time deciding,” I told her. “They all look good.”
She stood from the folding chair she’d been sitting on and I surreptitiously glanced at her abdomen. Though the dress she wore wasn’t tight, it was fitted enough for me to see she had no telltale baby bump. Having four younger siblings, I remembered it took two to three months for my mother’s belly to return to normal after she had each of them. This woman hadn’t given birth recently. She wasn’t the baby’s mother.
Then who is? And is she all right?
“The raspberry jelly is my favorite,” Mary suggested. “Would you like to try them?”
“Heck, yeah!”
“Me, too,” Frankie added.
She shook several crackers from a box onto a napkin and spooned a small dollop of the various jellies onto each of them. Frankie and I tried each of the samples. They tasted fruity and fresh.
“They’re all so good.” I shrugged. “I still can’t make up my mind.”
“You could get a jar of each,” Mary suggested. “Then you wouldn’t have to decide. They’re normally six dollars apiece, but I’ll give you all three for fifteen dollars if you’d like.”
I laughed. “You’re a good salesperson, Mary. I’ll do it.”
While she placed the jars of jelly in a small paper sack, I gestured to the quilts. “Those blankets are beautiful. Did you make them all yourself?”
“No,” she said. “I’m not that handy with a needle and thread. I stick to canning.”
I stepped over to take a closer look. “Who made them, then?”
“My sisters,” she said.
I wasn’t sure if she meant actual blood-relative siblings, or if she’d used the term “sister” to refer to her fellow female members of the church. To get clarification, I said, “That’s a lot of quilts. How many sisters do you have?”
She offered another smile. “I’m blessed with many.”
So much for clarification, huh?
I lifted each of the quilts on the racks to take a look at those underneath. Just like the quilts at the Benbrook Burgers, Beer, and Bait shop, these quilts included a range of designs, many of which were the same as the ones for sale at the store. It made sense that the quilters would duplicate their designs. By repeating the same patterns, they could complete the quilts faster and thus earn the church more money. There was the same red, white, and blue blanket covered in Texas flags. The dark blue blanket with stars and moons. The pastel patchwork. Another featured the flowering magnolia tree I’d seen on a quilt at the store, while another included the prickly-pear cactus design. But none featured the bluebonnets I’d seen on the baby’s blanket or on the quilt at the shop.
I looked back at the woman, hoping my questions would seem merely curious rather than an attempt at interrogation. “Do your sisters work together on these blankets? Or do they work on them separately?”
“We have a sewing circle,” she said, “but each of the sisters works on her own unique design.”
Her words told me two things. The fact that she’d said “the” sisters instead of “my” sisters meant the women she referred to were not biological relatives. The fact that the quilts were not a group effort and that each woman had her own special design told me the bluebonnet blanket could indeed be a clue as to the identity of the baby’s mother, just as I’d suspected.
“These are very pretty,” I said. “Do you have any others I could look at?”
“Sorry,” she said. “That’s everything we made this week.”
What did it say that there was no bluebonnet blanket here? Did it mean the baby’s mother hadn’t made a quilt this week? If so, why not? Was she recovering from the birth of her child? Could be. Then again, my mother was always back to near full speed after a few days of rest. Could the fact that there was no bluebonnet quilt here mean that the baby’s mother was hurt … or worse?
Next to us, the couple decided on the rocker, and I heard the man who’d abandoned the baby offer to carry it to their car. He turned around and, for the first time, I got a good look at him head-on.
Oh my God.
Beginning above his brow and running down across his left eye and cheek were four distinct pink lines. Someone had clawed this man’s face, hard. But was it an offensive move or a defensive one? And who had done it? Could it have been the baby’s mother? Or maybe it had been Mary. Were Mary and this man husband and wife? Had she found out he’d fathered a child with another woman and attacked him in a resentful rage? This was the stuff of soap operas. Was it also the stuff of the People of Peace?
My eyes moved to the man’s arms and hands. While wounds to the face tended to be offensive, meaning the person with the wounds was the victim, scratch marks on the arms and hands were defensive injuries, indicating the wounded person had been the primary aggressor and the victim had tried to fight them off. Unfortunately, the man wore not only long sleeves that completely covered his arms, but he wore work gloves as well. His arms and hands were completely hidden. If there were defensive wounds on his arms and hands, there was no way of knowing.
I knew it might seem rude to ask about the scratch marks but I also knew the chances of me getting another opportunity to do so were slim to none. I had to take a chance. Besides, when he’d glanced my way, there’d been no flicker of recognition or even suspicion. He had no idea I was the cop who’d come to the gates of the People of Peace, hoping to get inside.
I gestured to his face. “Ouch. That had to hurt.”
He glanced my way and hesitated just a brief second. “A little,” he mumbled as he turned his attention back to the chair and picked it up.
“What happened?” I asked.
He cut a sideways glance at me, and it wasn’t a happy one. “I tripped. Got scratched by a saw.”
The man was likely lying. The scratches seemed too wide and long to have been made by a saw. Plus, there were four of them, equal to the number of fingers (not counting the thumb) on a human hand. What were the odds of that? My instincts told me they’d been made by a human. But who? The baby’s mother? Had he gotten into a fight with her?
“I’m a nurse,” I told him. Hey, if he could lie, so could I. It was only fair. And purportedly being a nurse would explain my interest in his injury. “You should put some cream on that to prevent infection and scarring. You should get a tetanus shot, too, if you’re not current.”
“Good advice. Thanks.” Turning his back to me, he addressed the couple. “Where to?”
The woman motioned back toward the north parking lot. “We’re parked that-a-way.”
With that, they headed off.
I turned back to Mary. “The furniture is really well made. It must be nice to have a husband who’s so handy.”
“Zeke?” She shook her head slightly. “He’s not my husband.”
I made a mental note of the man’s name. Zeke. Possibly short for Ezekiel. “He’s not?”
“No.”
She didn’t elaborate and it seemed like it would be awkward and obvious I was fishing for information if I asked more questions. Instead, I handed her three fives and accepted my bag of jellies.
I bade her good-bye as Frankie and I walked off.
“We’ll be back here in two weeks if you want more!” she called after me.
I mentally filed that information away. It might come in handy.