Baby Please Don't Go: A Novel (2 page)

2

Three weeks earlier

On Monday afternoon, Lock drove the blue county car out to Red Cedar Woods. He wore a tailored navy blue suit. The address was an enormous farmhouse surrounded by stands of mature trees, wildflowers, and grazing horses.

The house had a vast front lawn, at least an acre. At the foot of the driveway stood a wrought-iron gate, high and ornate, flanked by two vigilant stone lions. A couple of decomposing newspapers lay on the grass. The gate was open. Lock drove through and pulled up close to the house. He got out, carrying a file folder attached to a clipboard. A kid’s bike and a few toys lay on the lawn by the side door.

Lock rang the bell. He waited a full minute. No answer. He knocked loudly, and a young woman answered, wearing rubber gloves and holding a soapy dish scrubber. She shuffled her round body to music from her earbuds. Lock looked around at the spacious kitchen.

He glanced at his clipboard.

“I’m looking for Mrs. Natalie Mannheim.”

The girl reached for the clipboard.

“I’ll take it,” she said loudly.

“Nothing to take. I want to speak with Mrs. Mannheim.”

“Oh,” she said, squinting at him. “Okay. I guess you can come in.”

Lock stepped past her into the kitchen and set the clipboard down on the countertop. He slid the envelope out from under its clamp. He leaned against the counter, waiting for the girl to get Mrs. Mannheim.

The kitchen was immaculate but contained no evidence of use, no sign that a family spent mornings in it together. There was no fresh fruit, no hanging garlic, no plants. Sterile.

“Actually, I can take that for you,” she said, nodding toward the clipboard.

“Please tell Mrs. Mannheim an investigator with the Brandywine County Child Protective Services is here and needs to speak with her.”

Again, over the music in her head, the girl shouted. “Sorry, Mr. Mannheim’s not home yet.”

He reached toward the girl with the intention of yanking out her earbuds, but then thought better of it.

“I asked for
Mrs.
Mannheim.”

The young woman scowled.

“I’m here because I’m following up on some information we received,” Lock said.

A voice came from beyond a partially open sliding glass door at the far side of the kitchen. From his viewpoint—mostly obstructed by the kitchen island and the spotless pots, pans, and cooking utensils suspended over it—Lock could see someone else entering the room. Another woman, most likely Natalie Mannheim. “There’s a car in the driveway, Candice. It’s not Carlo, is it? We talked about that.” She saw Lock and asked, “Who’s this?”

“Don’t know. He just came to the kitchen door,” Candice said.

Lock retrieved the clipboard from the countertop, knowing it demonstrated authority. A clipboard told the people he visited that there was already paperwork—that the county had been thinking about them for who knew how long. It put them on the defensive. People didn’t like the idea that the authorities had been watching them. In Lock’s experience, it didn’t make them any more likely to tell the truth, but their nervousness made it easier for him to spot the lies.

The woman slid the door closed behind her and took a few steps toward Lock, holding out her hand. “I’m Natalie Mannheim,” she said.

She was pretty. More than pretty. She was barefoot, maybe five years younger than him and wore her hair short. She had a white shawl draped over her shoulders, just sheer enough to make Lock think she didn’t have much on underneath it. Lock dropped his eyes for a moment and noticed her toes, each one bejeweled with colorful, exotic stones set in silver rings. He looked her in the eye and shook her hand.

“I’m Lochlan Gilkenney, an investigator from Brandywine County Child Protective Services.”

Candice looked at Mrs. Mannheim. “I thought it was some delivery or something for Witt.”

Mrs. Mannheim scowled. “This has something to do with Witt, doesn’t it?” She looked Lock up and down.

“Witt is Wittley Mannheim? Your husband?”

She nodded.

“Right now, we don’t know the situation. That’s why I’m here,” Lock said.

Mrs. Mannheim took a step toward Lock. “Get out. Get out of my house right this instant. You have no right to be here. I swear I’ll call the police.”

“If I don’t call them first.”

Mrs. Mannheim folded her arms and sighed. “There’s no reason for you to be here. My kids are fine.”

“There’s nothing to get upset about,” Lock said. “I have a few standard questions. I just need to make certain the children are okay.”

“I told you they’re fine.”

“And as soon as I’m sure of that, I’ll go. I’m sure you have a lot to do today, and so do I.” Lock looked at the table and the chairs around it.

“Okay, yes. Please sit down. I’m sorry, I know you’re just doing your job.”

She paused, and Lock knew she had missed his name. The rich ones usually did at first.

“Lock Gilkenney.”

Mrs. Mannheim nodded. “Candice, is there any coffee for Mr. Gilkenney?”

“I just washed the carafe,” Candice said. She didn’t offer to make more.

“Never mind,” Mrs. Mannheim said. Candice lingered at the sink, wiping a dishcloth back and forth on the countertop.

Lock slid a chair out from under the kitchen table, sat down, and opened the file folder clamped to the clipboard. He removed a few sheets of paper and scanned each one quickly. She sat down across from him and folded her hands, resting them on the table.

“Okay, Mrs. Mannheim—”

“It’s Natalie.”

“Natalie, then. We received a report about your children,” Lock said, eyes still on the forms. “Two young females, names and ages unknown. Someone says there may be a problem.”

“Who says that? What kind of problem?”

Lock read, “Not getting prescribed medication, car seats aren’t used. Inadequately dressed for cold weather conditions.”

“That’s ridiculous,” Natalie said, unfolding her hands and pointing at the paperwork. “How could someone say my kids aren’t getting their medicine but not even know their names?”

“Good question. Who do you think called this in?”

“Wild guess? My husband. Or his lawyer.”

Lock leaned back to take a pen from his pants pocket and made a note. “You and your husband are having problems?”

“Something like that. Witt’s ringing up lots of hours with a divorce lawyer. And reporting me to the authorities is part of some game they’re playing.”

Lock rocked back on his chair and stretched toward a photograph on the nearby refrigerator. He tugged it out from under a magnet and examined it.

“You have two children. There are three in this photo.”

“The big one is their cousin from Seattle,” said Natalie. “The two younger ones are mine.”

Lock consulted his papers and made more notes. He looked back at the photograph and studied the faces and body language of the girls. Nothing appeared to be out of the ordinary.

“Names and ages, please?”

“Dahlia. She’s two years old. And Edwina, she’s four, going on fifteen. Do I have to answer your questions?”

“No. I can fax them to the Red Cedar Woods police and they can stop by to discuss it. It’s up to you.”

“I wouldn’t have to answer them, either, would I?”

“Eventually you would, but that’s not really the issue here. Mrs. Mannheim, I’m not here to cause you trouble. I’m here to make sure your children are okay. It’s an inconvenience, and a little scary, I know. But if you’ll answer my questions, I’ll be out of your hair quicker.”

“Go ahead,” she said. “I wouldn’t want you to write down that I’m being uncooperative.”

“Thank you.”

“The older one’s name—Edwina—that was Witt’s idea,” Natalie said. “J. Wittley Mannheim, Jr.,” she said in a voice like an MC at a charity award ball. “Why I went along with the name Edwina, I can’t tell you—and now she’s stuck with it. Edwina. Any day now, they’ll start calling her ‘Eddie’ for short. Anyway, letting him name her Edwina is your proof that I really am an irresponsible mother.” She pressed her wrists together and held them out across the table toward Lock. “Handcuff me and take me away from here. Please.”

“I don’t have handcuffs.”

“I bet you do,” she said. Lock met her mocking eyes for a second and crooked an eyebrow. He glanced away. She didn’t. He caught himself starting to smile.

Natalie looked toward Candice. “Candice, can you water the ivy in the living room and check the wash?”

Candice headed out of the kitchen, but Lock stopped her. “Hold up, Candice.”

She didn’t hear him.

“Candice!” Natalie said, raising her voice loud enough to be heard over the music.

Candice stopped and turned around.

He raised his voice too. “Please take the earbuds out.” He waited for her to do it and said, “You see the Mannheims all the time. What’s your opinion of how the kids are doing?”

“I’m not here
all
the time. I’m just the nanny,” she said with a smirk.

“Answer the man’s question, Candice.”

Candice shrugged. “The kids are fine. I make sure of it, and so does Natalie.”

“What about Mr. Mannheim?”

“He’s an asshole. Always yelling, always so negative, and ten times worse when he’s drinking.”

Natalie frowned at Candice’s choice of words, but Lock didn’t think she disagreed with her.

“Have you ever seen him be inappropriate with the kids?” Lock asked.

“No.”

“Do you think someone saw you with the children—at a playground or store or somewhere—and called in a complaint about you?”

“I take care of Dahlia and Edwina great. Only a liar would say anything bad.”

“It’s true,” Natalie said.

Lock made another note. He said, “What’s your last name, and how long have you worked for the Mannheims?”

“Candice. Taylor. T–A–Y–L–O–R. And I’ve worked here almost a year.”

“Thanks for your help,” Lock said.

Natalie said, “Can you get my blue dress out of the dryer? It’s going to wrinkle.”

Candice made a face. “You’re going to wear that blue-and-beige thing? Why?”

“Now, please,” Natalie said. After Candice left, she turned to Lock and shrugged. “She’s sassy as hell, but the kids love her.”

Lock asked, “Where are the children now?”

“Locked in the basement,” she said.

Lock laughed, surprised. “Well then, I think we’re done here. Thanks for your time.”

She smiled at him and said, “They’re at Red Cedar Woods Children’s Academy,” she said. “The driver drops them here around three thirty.” She glanced at the clock on the oven. “They’ll be here any minute now.”

“If they’re in school, why do you have a nanny?” he asked.

“She’s mostly for nights and weekends,” Natalie said. “And she does some of the cleaning, too. Plus, she’s the only one with the key to the basement.”

Lock laughed again. She stood and said, “Sorry, I need to put something else on. I’m freezing in here. I was taking care of my flowers when you showed up, and it’s almost eighty in the solarium.”

Lock watched her walk out of the room, and he thought she knew he was watching her. He smiled and shook his head. She wasn’t as bad as he had first thought. Bored, disappointed in her marriage, maybe, but not a bad person. He hoped that whatever he discovered during his investigation wouldn’t ruin that perception.

She returned soon wearing yoga pants and a sweatshirt and went to the refrigerator. “Water?” she asked.

“No thanks. You keep flowers?” Lock said.

“Blue orchids,” she said, and then, “Actually, there’s no such thing as a blue orchid. It’s a lie. Orchids are found in nature in every color except blue and black. The blue ones you see in a garden center or grocery store, they’re dyed. Future blooms will be white. My orchids are a shade of purple as close to a blue as you can get. That’s why I’m going to win the prize at the Philadelphia Flower Show in March.”

He watched her pour a glass of water from a pitcher, and in the reflection on the sliding glass door, she caught his eye.

“Are you sure you’re from Brandywine County?” she asked. “You dress better than I’d expect. Are you sure you’re not a private investigator for my husband?”

“Practically certain.”

She sat down again, and he handed her his business card. Their fingers touched for a moment. She rubbed her thumb over the gold-embossed official county shield on Lock’s card.

“That complaint you have?” she said. “Probably Humphries’s idea. Humphries is Witt’s lawyer. It’s based on nothing.”

“Filing a false report to a government authority is serious business.”

“I’m sure it is. I hope my husband gets in trouble. In August, we went to a marriage counselor,” she said. “Witt has a thing for girls half his age. Every one of them looks identical. They usually look something like me, only younger. I just had my thirty-fifth birthday. There was this one he flirted with for hours over the counter at a mall jewelry store. He leaves Edwina in charge of her little sister on a bench in the mall. A four-year-old watching a baby not even two years old. In a mall. Someone called security, and security called the police. They couldn’t find Witt for twenty minutes.”

Lock made a note.

“Which mall?”

“Concord. Witt told the police he had his eye on the kids the whole time. He said it wouldn’t happen again. The marriage counselor told him if that kind of thing gets to court, the judge would see that the more reliable parent gets primary custody. Witt laughed at the counselor and told her that his lawyer said it would take more than that.”

“He’s probably right.”

“Witt does the math fast,” she said. “He’d have to pay child support. Ten or fifteen thousand a month, I guess. You’re here because Humphries is trying to build a case against me so Witt gets sole custody and doesn’t have to pay.”

“Ten or fifteen thousand?”

She shrugged. “He’s not stupid. He’s good at making money.”

Lock made another note. “You understand that I need to see your children and I need to talk to Mr. Mannheim.” He put his notes into the envelope. “I’ll tell you, though, that based on what you’ve told me and my observations here this afternoon, I don’t get the sense that your kids are in imminent danger, so...” He opened his calendar. “How’s tomorrow night? I’ll come back and see the children and Mr. Mannheim. Tuesday. Seven thirty?” he said.