Finders Keepers (47 page)
Authors: Fern Michaels
Thea Roland was cremated six hours later. Barnes carried the square metal box that was wrapped in coarse brown paper and tied with string. The box was still warm when he boarded his midnight flight to Buenos Aires. He placed it gently on the first-class seat next to his own; Thea's reserved seat.
He slept deeply and peacefully with the knowledge that the ugliest deed of his life was finally going to be made right.
Jessie stood back to survey Luke's handiwork. “It's a beautiful tree, Luke. It smells wonderful, too. Wherever did you get these gorgeous ornaments?”
“My mother collected them. Some belonged to my grandparents. Each year she added a few new ones. She saved all the stuff I used to make in school. They're kind of brittle, but I guess macaroni wreaths can survive anything as long as you spray paint them. I always hang them front and center. I think I was in the fourth grade when we made jewelry boxes for our mothers at Christmastime. First we painted a cigar box, then we laid out the macaroni shells to spell our mother's name, glued them, and sprayed them red and green. We glued velvet on the bottom. My mother kept her jewelry in it until the day she died. Not the dime-store stuff, the real
jools.
My dad gave her an emerald bracelet that year. She put it right inside. As I got older, I'd often go into her room to see if her stuff was still in it. Each time a piece of macaroni fell of, she'd glue it right back on.”
jools.
My dad gave her an emerald bracelet that year. She put it right inside. As I got older, I'd often go into her room to see if her stuff was still in it. Each time a piece of macaroni fell of, she'd glue it right back on.”
“How wonderful. That's such a nice memory. I don't have any like that. Christmas was always . . . I don't know . . . there was always
so much
. Half the time I didn't open everything until days later. We made things in school, but my mother just put them in a drawer. One Mother's Day we planted a marigold in a milk carton. The flower was really pretty, like soft butter. I saw it in the kitchen trash a day or so later. My best memories are the ones where Sophie and I were together. I miss her so much. Do you think there will ever come a time when I don't get all choked up at the mere mention of her name?”
so much
. Half the time I didn't open everything until days later. We made things in school, but my mother just put them in a drawer. One Mother's Day we planted a marigold in a milk carton. The flower was really pretty, like soft butter. I saw it in the kitchen trash a day or so later. My best memories are the ones where Sophie and I were together. I miss her so much. Do you think there will ever come a time when I don't get all choked up at the mere mention of her name?”
“In time. Everything takes time, Jessie. You have to open yourself up, though. So, do we do tinsel or garland?”
“Tinsel. It makes it all shimmery when the lights are on. Tell me what's in the present. I'll tell you if you tell me,” Jessie teased.
“Oh, no. You have to wait till Christmas Eve. That's how we do things around here. I don't think Buzz ever got so many presents. Jelly has quite a few, too. I see two for me, two for you, and umpteen zillion for the dogs. It does look festive, I'll say that.”
Jessie laughed. “The paper and the ribbon cost more than the gift. One year Sophie gave me seven pairs of underwear with my name and the day of the week on them. I used to go into the bathroom at school to change into them because my mother thought they were tacky. I loved them. I was devastated when I outgrew them. Phone's ringing,” she said cheerfully.
“I'll get it. Don't even
think
about climbing that ladder to put the star on top. I'll do it.”
think
about climbing that ladder to put the star on top. I'll do it.”
“You're pretty bossy today. It must have something to do with all those watered-down spirits we've been consuming.” Jessie giggled as she hung a glass ball with a hand-painted old-fashioned Santa on it that was so beautiful it took her breath away.
“Jessie.”
“Uh-huh. I hope you're going to tell me that was my father on the phone with his flight information. I thought they'd be here by now.”
“I don't think they're coming, Jessie. That was the airport. They said a large package addressed to you at this address was put on their flight this morning. Your parents did have reservations, but canceled them. I'll pick up the package if you want me to.”
“They're not coming? But . . . my mother said they were. Daddy agreed. Maybe something happened. Do you think I should call? It's probably a box of Christmas presents. I would appreciate you picking it up if you don't mind. I'll finish the tree and, no, I will not attempt to hang the star. I think I will call my father as soon as I can locate his number. I must have my address book with me in my purse.”
Jessie's mood of exuberance changed to one of trepidation when she finally located her address book and placed a person-to-person overseas call. She felt nervous and jittery when the call took longer than anticipated. When the operator came back on the line to say the phone was disconnected, Jessie said, “Are you sure?”
“Yes, ma'am.”
“Can you find out when it was disconnected?”
“I'll try, ma'am.”
Jessie waited, her heartbeat quickening at the silence on the other end of the line.
“Maâam, it was disconnected at two o'clock Barcelona time.”
“I see. Thank you. Have a nice holiday.”
Jessie sat down on the bottom step of the ladder. Her mind whirling, she watched the dogs sniff and scratch at the pile of presents under the tree.
What time is it in Barcelona now? Five hours
ahead
of us
, she thought. That meant it was one o'clock in the morning in Barcelona. “Such a brilliant deduction, Jessie,” she muttered to herself.
What time is it in Barcelona now? Five hours
ahead
of us
, she thought. That meant it was one o'clock in the morning in Barcelona. “Such a brilliant deduction, Jessie,” she muttered to herself.
A small worm of fear started to crawl around inside Jessie's belly. Nothing short of a catastrophe could keep her mother from coming to the States. Why would they disconnect the phone if they were still there?
Something was wrong.
It was nine-thirty when the front doorbell rang. The dogs leapfrogged to the front foyer as Jessie opened the door. “Western Union, ma'am. I have a cablegram that was routed to our offices for Miss Jessica Roland Kingsley. Sign here.”
Her heart thundering in her chest, Jessie signed for the cable. Her hands shook so badly she could barely open the envelope. The message was short and concise.
Mrs.
Dorthea
Roland died today
at
noon. Her body was cremated
at four
o'clock.
Dorthea
Roland died today
at
noon. Her body was cremated
at four
o'clock.
Jessie gasped as she reached out to the banister for support. She looked at the cable a second time. It was signed “Barnes Roland.” There was no, “Dear Jessie,” no “Love, Daddy.” Why did he say “Mrs. Dorthea Roland”? Why didn't he say, “Your mother passed away”?
Jessie lowered herself to the steps, the dogs at her feet. She was still sitting there when Luke returned an hour later, a large cardboard box under his arm.
“Ho! Ho! Ho! I come bearing Christmas presents. I hope the tree is done. Jessie! What's wrong?” Luke said dropping to his knees at the bottom of the steps.
Jessie handed him the cable.
“I'm sorry, Jessie. Do you want to go over there? If you do, I can make the arrangements. It might be a little rough with the holiday flights, but a death takes precedence. I'm sure we can get you an emergency flight. Or, you could charter a flight.”
Jessie shook her head. “I knew something was wrong. I felt it all day. Actually, I've felt it for a long time now. I don't feel anything. I want to feel sadness, but I don't. My mother died, and I don't feel anything. That certainly doesn't say much for me as a daughter. I did try to call, but the operator said the phone was disconnected. That must mean my father left to go somewhere. As much and as often as they squabbled, they were lost without one another. He had Mama cremated so she would always be with him. What am I supposed to do, Luke?”
“Whatever feels right. I think you're in shock right now. I'll make some tea. My mother always made tea when things weren't . . . right. Tea was always a magic word in our house.”
“When I spoke with Mama she said she was fine. She used to . . . when she wanted more attention than I was willing to give, she'd plead illness to throw guilt on me. Daddy would have said something. People don't just . . . die. Well, I guess they do, but I never thought it would happen to my mother. She was really excited about coming back to the States. Why didn't Daddy call me? This cable is so strange, so unlike him. He must be in shock, but he usually has a handle on things. Luke, don't you think the wording in the cable is strange? It sounds like a stranger wrote it, not my father. Why did he sign it âBarnes Roland.' Doesn't he consider himself my father any longer?”
“Why don't you open the box, Jessie. Maybe they wrote you a letter to send along with the gifts. I'm sure your father was in total shock. He did what he had to do. Men aren't good at things like thatâin my opinion. Do you want me to open the box or make tea first. We'll sit in front of the tree with the dogs, drink our tea, and open the box. How does that sound?”
“It sounds
grim
, Luke. Shall I give each of the dogs a present? Will you listen to me? I sound like things are . . . normal. My mother just died, my father had her cremated, and he's nowhere to be found. I don't feel any kind of emotion, and I'm going to sit here, drink tea, and open presents. What's wrong with this scene? What's wrong with me?”
grim
, Luke. Shall I give each of the dogs a present? Will you listen to me? I sound like things are . . . normal. My mother just died, my father had her cremated, and he's nowhere to be found. I don't feel any kind of emotion, and I'm going to sit here, drink tea, and open presents. What's wrong with this scene? What's wrong with me?”
“Nothing's wrong with you, Jessie. Stay put till I come back.”
Luke stood in the doorway, the tea tray in his hands, staring at Jessie and the dogs. How lost and vulnerable she looked. He felt his chest swell as an overpowering protectiveness washed over him. He had to do something to wipe the stricken look from her face. Just when things were starting to look up for her this had to happen. Death was never easy, as he well knew, but death at this particular time of year was always more traumatic.
“It's hot, Jessie, be careful,” Luke said, setting the tray on the floor. He sat alongside of her, a kitchen knife in his hands. “It's taped and tied. Are you ready to open it?”
“I guess so. Mama did love to shop.”
Luke's jaw dropped when he folded back the stiff flaps of the cardboard box. “There aren't any presents, Jessie. Just some scrapbooks.”
Jessie sighed. “Mama loved to take pictures. I guess they're the family albums. Daddy must want me to have them. I don't want to look at them, Luke. My mother was incredibly photogenic. Daddy, too. I always looked so . . .
round. ”
round. ”
“If you let me look at your baby pictures, I'll let you look at mine. Why do mothers always want to take that bare-assed photo of you they pull out to show your girlfriend the first time she visits?”
“I'd love to see your baby pictures, but I have none to show in return. Mama said Daddy didn't know how to work the camera or he'd run out of film. She wasn't good about taking baby pictures. Then when I was two or so they took me to a studio for portraits. From that point on there are all kinds of pictures. Sophie was always grumbling that we didn't have baby pictures to compare. It would have been nice, though, to have some, so when my own baby arrives, I could, you know, compare.”
Luke poked around the box. “There are four of them. Once your dad got the hang of the camera, he must have gone wild. Let's look at least one of them.”
“All right. Remember now, I look
round
. That's another way of saying I was chubby until I was in my teens.”
round
. That's another way of saying I was chubby until I was in my teens.”
“Look at you now! These aren't photo albums, Jessie. Look, they're full of newspaper clippings. Old ones. They seem to start around 1957. Jesus!” Luke slammed the photo album closed and tossed it back in the box.
“What do the clippings say? Are they about my dismal dance recitals, my tinny piano recitals, my command birthday parties?”
“None of that. They . . . they're about a kidnapped child named . . . named Hannah Larson.”
“What? Let me see that! I don't understand,” Jessie said flipping through the pages. “Why would my parents keep something like this? Who is Hannah Larson?”
“I suspect she's you, Jessie. These are your missing baby pictures.” Luke's arm went around her shoulder.
Jessie shook off his arm. “Are you saying I was kidnapped and that I'm Hannah Larson?”
“That would be my assumption. It certainly would explain the dreams, and look at this. The Larsons had a dog named . . . Jelly. Read this article, Jessie, it will break your heart. You always scream for Jelly in your dreams. I guess when you were snatched, for lack of a better word, the dog broke loose and ran after the car.”
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