Stani had
obviously been acquainted with Betsy Mason, she had phoned him at the
hotel.
They had been seen leaving
together.
But where did this other man
come into the picture?
He would never
know until he could find someone who had seen them along the way.
He didn't even know where they had been that
night, where to begin looking for the trail.
He would have to hire an investigator, who could make discreet inquiries
on his behalf.
He'd had great success
with that sort of thing in London when he'd found John Kimble.
During the year
Stani turned ten years old, Milo had received a series of disturbing
letters.
The first, from a man
identifying himself as Harry Moss, had been a birthday card for “my son.”
It had arrived in July.
Stani's birthday was in April.
Milo hadn't mentioned it to Jana, but it had
concerned him enough that he had stopped allowing Stani to ride the bus alone
to his lessons.
By that time, there had
been several publicized concerts, featuring a formal photograph of Stani in his
tuxedo, proudly holding his violin.
There had also been a small layout in one of the pictorial magazines,
showing the boy as he went through his busy routine of lessons and rehearsals,
as well as a photo of him with Jana at the park near their flat.
Milo couldn't imagine that this man wanted to
harm Stani, but still, one could never be too cautious.
When the second
letter came, a brief note stating that he “knew what Milo was up to” and he
intended to take care of his own, Milo had tried to make some inquiries on his
own.
The letters had been postmarked
from a little town in the Scottish lowlands, not far from the border with
England.
He'd had a vague impression
that Stani's father had returned to Glasgow when he left his family, but a
small rural village might be an easier starting place.
Telephoning the post office, he had asked if
by chance Harry Moss was known to them.
He said he was an old friend from Harry's days in the London pubs, and
had heard Harry might be living there now.
He might have some work for Harry if he could be located.
The woman at
the post office had said with some disdain that she might have heard the name,
but she didn't give out that kind of information over the telephone.
If he was so anxious to find this Moss, he
could direct a letter to him in care of the post office, and she'd see if he
could be located.
Milo had done
just that, composing a very sympathetic letter assuring Harry Moss that the boy
was well and happy.
While he could
understand a father's concern for his son's welfare, he wrote, he felt it would
be in the child's best interest to leave him in the secure environment he'd
come to consider his home.
He'd sent the
letter off, and at the same time he'd begun to look around for someone to act
as bodyguard for the boy.
They had been
fortunate indeed to find John Kimble.
A
former police investigator, John offered his services as a security escort and
did a little private investigation on the side.
He’d been intrigued by Milo's offer to take on the job of watching over
a small boy whose talent impressed even his untrained ear.
John quickly became part of the household,
making himself useful as he kept an eye on Stani and Jana when they were home
alone.
Stani was fascinated with this
mysterious man, who showed him how to lurk about unseen in the bushes at the
park, but also had time for lengthy chess games, and even tried to teach him to
play football.
Milo asked John
to make some inquiries through those channels open only to the police.
In the midst of this period, yet another
letter arrived, stating that Harry had an opportunity to talk to a journalist
about “their situation” and was seriously considering exposing Milo's
“exploitation of the lad's God-given talent.”
At last John had run him to ground in a tiny village on the southern
coast of Scotland.
Milo merely wanted
proof, John told Harry Moss, that he was in fact Stani's father.
Then he would be willing to work out an
arrangement satisfactory to them both.
All Harry could offer, other that some vague stories of Stani's first
year of life, the color of his hair and the memory of Stani's mother as a cold,
selfish girl, was a faded photograph of a toddler who could have been anyone's
child.
Nevertheless,
Milo had sent John back to Scotland with a generous sum of cash.
In exchange he wanted Harry's assurance that
he would not come near Stani without first obtaining Milo's permission.
He never told Jana about the cash, though of
course she understood why John Kimble had become a member of their
household.
Nothing more was heard from
Harry Moss.
They had been
in New York for over a year when Milo received a letter from John, with a
newspaper clipping enclosed.
John wrote
that he thought Milo would like to know what had become of the man who claimed
to be Stani's father.
The clipping was a
piece from a small local paper, detailing the death of a familiar figure in the
community.
Harry Moss, long known for
his fine fiddle playing, had been killed one night recently.
While walking along a dark road, coming home
from playing his fiddle in a nearby town, he had been hit by a car.
The driver had stated that he never saw the
man until he stumbled into his headlights.
Harry Moss and his music, the article concluded, would be missed.
John closed his letter with a reminder that
he would always be available should Milo need his services for Stani again.
When they had
moved to New York, Stani had chaffed at no longer having John to play chess or
cards with.
He worried that without John
he would never learn to get around in a strange city.
Even Jana said she would miss having a man
about who knew how to use a hammer and take out the garbage on the proper
day.
Now Milo wondered if John would be
interested in making an unexpected trip to the States over the Christmas
holiday.
Chapter Thirteen
Christmas Eve
dawned clear and very cold.
Emily was
thankful for the constant soft rumble of the furnace, knowing today her fire
would be no match for the near zero chill.
She had enjoyed a long hot shower, dressed in her last clean clothes,
and devoured a stack of toast and jam by the time Jack's car pulled through the
gate.
He came to the door, his arms
loaded with boxes and bags all bearing the familiar logo of “Martha Jean's
Boutique” and a broad smile creasing his face.
“Good morning,
Miss Haynes.
I see you're up with the
birds.”
His eyes traveled from her still
damp hair, to her William and Mary sweatshirt, and stopped at her fuzzy pink
bedroom slippers.
She tried to
relieve him of some of the packages, but he pushed past her to the table by the
window.
“Wow, you sure gave her holiday
sales a boost!
What
is
all
this?”
As quickly as he set down his
load, she began to peek into the bags.
“Now wait just
a minute.
Some of these can't be opened
until tomorrow.
It's not Christmas yet!”
Her eyes wide,
she stepped back.
“You bought me
presents?
Oh, Jack, you didn't have to
do that.”
“Sure I
did.
You may not have a tree, but you
can still have presents.”
He nodded
toward the decorations on the mantel, at the same time pulling out two large
boxes.
Handing her one, he said, “Here,
try this on, just to be sure.
And take
this too.
I have no idea what's in
here.
Martha Jean took care of the
unmentionables.”
Again, his face was
stretched in a wide grin, as he passed her a small bag rustling with tissue
paper.
Within minutes
she returned from the bedroom, standing at the foot of the stairs for his
inspection.
The dress, red and gray
plaid trimmed in black velvet, was perfectly suited to her tall, slender
form.
Jack paused for a minute to take
in the effect, caught off guard.
“This is
beautiful, Jack.
I would never have
chosen anything so nice.
Does it look
all right?”
In answer, he
held out the other box.
“Try these on.”
She sat on the
couch to pull on the tall, black high-heeled boots.
Standing, she smiled into his eyes.
“I'm almost as tall as you are.”
Twisting and turning, she inspected herself
with a look of increasing awe.
“This
must have cost a fortune.
I'll pay you
back, I promise.”
He frowned down
at her.
“Don't be silly.
We're family, remember?
You're the only person I'm going shopping
for.
You can count on that.
I must say, we didn't do too bad, me and
Martha Jean.
You look like. . .what is
it I want to say?
Like a young
lady?
You've grown up, Jiliand
Emily.”
His tone was half-teasing, but
there was a hint of disappointment, too.
Emily
giggled.
“Ugh!
No one's called me that in a while.”
“They were very
proud of that name.
'J and D surrounding
Lilianne, and Emily because it has a nice literary ring'. . .,” he quoted
sternly.
“. . as in
Emily Bronte or Emily Dickinson.”
She chimed
in.
They laughed together at the shared
memory of her parents' frequently repeated explanation of their choice of names
for their daughter.
“I haven't felt
so spoiled in a long time.
Thank you,
Jack.”
She hugged him, sensing that they
were both dangerously close to tears.
“You've more
than earned a little spoiling.
Now I've
got to get back to work.
I'll pick you
up at ten tonight, okay?”
He watched as
she walked gracefully toward the bedroom.
“Your folks would be proud of you, you know that.
You've turned out just like they planned.”
She wanted to
say “thank you,” but the words wouldn't come.
She was sure he understood.
When dark came,
she prepared her supper, thinking it was a sad day when her Christmas Eve feast
was yet another in a long line of ham sandwiches.
She switched on the radio and sat at the
kitchen table to eat, listening to a live holiday broadcast from Washington.
When the operatic soprano had concluded the
program with “O Holy Night,” the announcer returned, and Emily turned up the
volume to catch what he was saying.
“We regret that
Stani Moss was unable to appear tonight as planned.
The young violinist was seriously injured in
an automobile accident several days ago and is currently being treated in a New
York hospital.
All of us here wish Stani
a speedy recovery.”
She turned off the set,
trying to grasp what had been said.
He
was gone, hundreds of miles away.
She
might never know how he was now.
A
sudden sense of loss, of bereavement, flooded over her.
Seeking some way to relieve the ache in her
chest, she told herself she would pray for him.
Instead of torturing herself over his well-being, she would place him in
God's hands, where he had really been all along.
Prayer, as
always, calmed her.
She wasn't sure how
prayers were answered, but she knew the act of praying invariably eased her
fears and cleared her mind of worry.
She
asked God to guide the doctors caring for Stani.
She prayed that he would find comfort and
strength as he went through the pain of recovery.
And, if it were part of the plan for her own
life, she added the request that maybe, someday, she would know he was well
again.
She felt better about Stani,
knowing he was in far more capable hands now.
As to her own bruised feelings, she was confident they would heal in
time as well.