Tom Lehrer's gravely voice jolted me awake with “Fight Fiercely Harvard.” According to the dashboard clock, I'd been asleep for twenty minutes. Damn! I sat up in panic. What if I'd missed her? But angels must have been watching over me because Barnhorst's car was still in its parking space.
My stomach rumbled, responding to the aroma of fried dumplings wafting over from the Joy Luck carryout in the strip mall across the street. Joy Luck prepared some of the best Chinese food in the Annapolis area, and they delivered. I gazed wistfully at my cell phone, wondering if they'd deliver hot and sour soup to my car.
I rummaged in my purse, looking for a granola bar, a roll of LifeSavers, a stick of gum, anything to tide me over until dinnertime, if, God forbid, I had to sit in Joanna Barnhorst's stupid parking lot that long, when something red flashed in the mirror. I glanced up from the dark maw of my purse to see Joanna walking toward her car, balancing the baby on her hip.
Today, Jenny was a symphony in pink: pink-checked dress with crimson smocking, pink bonnet, and pink socks, trimmed with white lace. Ugh. No wonder Jenny looked so solemn. All that pink would make even the most girly-girl barf.
I scrunched down in my seat, watching in the mirror, as Joanna Barnhorst crossed behind me to her car. In her free hand, Joanna carried an old-fashioned plastic infant seat, the kind with a handle that doubled as a stand when you wanted to prop your kid up in front of the TV to watch
Sesame Street
. I scowled in disapproval at the molded plastic and cheap metal. Not U.S. DOT-approved, that was for sure. I doubted they even made child seats like that anymore, and wondered if she'd picked it up secondhand at the Salvation Army Store.
I watched as Joanna strapped Jennifer into the infant carrier, positioned it in the backseat, fussed with the seat belt for a bit, then climbed in the car herself and drove away.
I started my car and followed at a prudent distance as Barnhorst turned left on Bestgate Road, left again on Generals Highway, circled the mall, and pulled into the parking lot of Toys 'R' Us. She emerged from the store twenty minutes later pushing one shopping cart containing Jenny, two boxes of disposable diapers, a case of Similac, and a Britax car seat. She dragged a second shopping cart behind her, this one containing a box that identified its contents as a Jeep brand stroller.
For the child's sake, I was happy to see the Britax, arguably the Rolls Royce of infant car seats, but the combination of items in Barnhorst's two carts pegged the meter on my suspicionometer. Surely these were items that the mother of a ten-month-old child should have had all along?
I watched Barnhorst install the Britax in the backseat of her Toyota, a complicated procedure, I knew from experience, that involved the use of seat belts and anchor straps. While she struggled with that, Jenny played happily in the shopping cart, sucking on the ear of a stuffed rabbit.
I held my breath, then let it out slowly.
Lots of children chew on their toys that way, Hannah
.
But even in my inexpert opinion, the evidence against Barnhorst was mounting. “Jenny” was the same age as Timmy. She had the same color hair and eyes. But most of all, it was a feeling deep in my gut that if I rushed up to the baby now, “Jenny” would spread out “her” little arms, grin from ear to ear, and shout, “Gramma!”
Dream on, Hannah
. Timmy was a brilliant child, but even at ten months his vocabulary was limited to “Dada,” “Mama,” “light,” and “shoe.” I'd need more evidence if I wanted to convince anyone other than Emily or myself that this child was actually ours.
While Barnhorst was tangled up in seat belts and anchor straps, I worked my digital camera out of the bottom of my purse and aimed it in her direction. With my thumb, I zoomed in nice and close on the baby's face and took a picture, then turned the lens on Joanna Barn-horst's head as she bent over the backseat. “Turn around, damnit!”
Barnhorst obliged, and I clicked the shutter. “Gotcha!”
She turned, and I snapped another picture, this time in profile. And another.
Barnhorst loaded her remaining purchases into the trunk, strapped Jenny a thousand times more safely into the new car seat, and drove north up Generals Highway. I followed as closely as I dared, loitering two cars behind as she turned into Sam's Club, a discount warehouse store opposite the Annapolis mall.
This time I decided to follow her into the store. I put on my sunglasses and the hat I usually use for gardeningânot much in the way of disguise, but under the circumstances, it would have to do. Ahead of me, Barnhorst produced her Sam's Club membership card and flashed it for the guy guarding the door. I lost a few precious minutes scrabbling in my bag for my own membership card, but caught up with the pair of them as she turned right past the jewelry kiosk and chugged into the clothing aisle.
Kids' clothes. I should have guessed. Judging from the number of outfits she was buying, little Jenny might well have been triplets.
I kept a safe distance as Barnhorst pushed her clothing-laden cart down the book aisle. From behind a rack of leather jackets, I watched as she parked Jenny near the best sellers, turned her attention for a while to the latest Nora Roberts, and read the final page of it. She put it down, picked up and also rejected two other best-selling novels, then wandered along the aisle, past the Bibles, past the cookbooks, past the dictionaries, to the section where the children's books were displayed.
While Barnhorst appeared to be examining a pop-up book for minute flaws, I took a big chance. I popped out from behind the jackets, wandered up to the cart as nonchalantly as I could with a heart that was practically hammering out of my chest, and looked into the child's eyes. “Hey there, Timmy,” I whispered.
A smile spread over Jenny's face with a wattage so bright it could have lit up the entire city of Annapolis. Her arms and legs quivered with excitement.
I poked her gently in her plump little belly with my index finger. “Who does Grandma love?”
After what happened next, it would take more than a ridiculous pink lace bonnet to fool me. Out of Jenny's mouth rolled Timmy's distinctive bubbling, burbling, gurgling chuckle.
I had nearly forgotten about Joanna Barnhorst when I caught sight of her chugging back up the aisle, a stack of children's books in hand. With the lecture I'd received from Dennis that morning still fresh in my mind, I quickly abandoned my plan to snatch Timmy from the cart, ducked my head and slipped around the corner into the office supplies aisle, where Barnhorst passed me several minutes later. I followed at a discreet distanceâexamining computer paper, marker pens, paper shredders, and athletic socksâas Barnhorst swung wide, made a U-turn, and headed for an end-of-aisle pyramid of matching luggage. A few minutes later she trundled back down the aisle toward me dragging two suitcasesâone large and one smallâand heaved them into the cart.
I slipped away, muttering under my breath.
I hope you don't think you're going anywhere with those suitcases, bitch, because I'm going to get you. Sooner or later, I'm going to get you
.
I followed Barnhorst back to her apartment and waited, seething, until she was safely inside, before calling for reinforcements. My options were limited.
Paul was in charge of running the carpools that day.
Ruth had a shop to run, and as much as I loved my sister, even she would be the first to admit she was a bit of a flake.
My friend Nadine Gray, a.k.a. the retired mystery novelist L. K. Bromley, would have leapt at the chance in a New York minute, but, alas, Naddie was on an extended trip to her sister in Seattle, a visit unexpectedly extended by the sister's emergency appendectomy.
My father was so far away managing an engineering project for a contractor in Saudi Arabia that we'd voted as a family not even to tell him about Timmy, unless we had to.
That left me with Connie.
“Hey,” I said, when she answered the telephone. “Are you free right now?”
“I don't like the sound of this.”
“You've lived with Dennis so long that you're beginning to sound like him,” I teased.
“I'm eating lunch,” she said, ignoring the jibe. “Where else would I be at one o'clock in the afternoon?”
I moaned. “Don't mention food. I'm starving, but I can't let this woman out of my sight!”
“What woman?”
I explained about what I'd found out about Joanna Barnhorst, her daughter “Jenny,” and about the suitcases. “Seriously, Con, I'm in a real bind. I want to print out the pictures and take them to the spa to see if anyone remembers seeing Barnhorst there on the day Timmy disappeared.” I paused for breath. “And I also have to pee.”
“In that case,” Connie said, “I'll be right over.”
“Thanks, babe. I'll relieve you by dinnertime. I promise.”
It would take Connie approximately twenty minutes to reach me from the family farm in south county, so I spent the time watching Joanna's apartment as sharp-eyed as an eagle on a rock.
And I swear I didn't blink.
Not even once.
With Connie safely in charge of the Barnhorst
watch, I rushed home, hooked my camera up to my computer, and uploaded the photos, examining them one by one as they flashed by in a sinister slide show across my monitor screen.
I selected a full-frontal shot of the child I was sure was Timmy, cropped out the background, blew it up to five-by-seven, and printed it out.
For Barnhorst, I printed both a full face shot and a profile. I toyed with the idea of printing them out on the same piece of paper, like a wanted poster. Even if the Barnhorst woman hadn't stolen Timmy, which I seriously doubted at this point, anyone who'd overdress a child like that or drive around with her in such a flimsy car seat deserved to be on a wanted poster.
After the printer spit out the last copy of Joanna's picture into the paper tray, I tucked the photos into a manila envelope, then telephoned Emily. My youngest sister, Georgina, answered the phone instead.
“Any news, Georgina?”
“I'm afraid not.”
“Well, I think I have news for you.” I confessed to Georgina what I had been up to that morning.
When I finished, my sister said, “Paul is going to kill you when he finds out about it, you know. And I don't think the cops are going to be too pleased that you're stepping all over their toes.”
“Frankly, Georgina, I don't care if the Maryland State Police, the Anne Arundel County Police Department, and the entire Federal Bureau of Investigation tack my picture up on their bulletin boards and hurl darts at it. Not if it brings Timmy home.
“I was hoping to bring the photographs over for Emily to look at,” I continued. “Is she up to it, do you think?”
“Oh, she's up to it, all right, Hannah, but she's not here. Emily's gone off with her new best friend, that Erika Rose.”
I could picture Georgina's lip curling with distaste.
“They printed up a pile of handbills warning the residents of West Annapolis about Roger Haberman, the pedophile living in their midst. They used one of Roger's self-portraits, too. They downloaded it from the PredatorBeware website.” Georgina paused. “At least you can see his face in this one.”
On my end of the telephone, I cringed just thinking about it.
“They're putting up posters?” I could understand why Emily would want to do this, but so soon after our effort to put posters all over town asking for the public's help in finding Timmy, this new effort left a bad taste in my mouth.
“You bet. She went off with a fistful of them, a roll of cellophane tape, a box of tacks, and a hammer. I suspect they're plastering West Annapolis. Erika's been whipping her acolytes into a frenzy because the Habermans live just two blocks from West Annapolis Elementary School, you know.”
I did know. The school dominated the small residential neighborhood, taking up an entire city block.
“I tried to talk Emily out of it,” Georgina continued. “Dennis was here earlier, and he tried to talk some sense into her, too.”
I could just picture it. Dennis pacing, wearing a path in Emily's carpet, lecturing his niece and thinking: it's hopeless. Like mother, like daughter.
“Dennis warned Emily that Roger could charge her with harassment,” Georgina continued, “but it was no good. Emily's one hundred percent convinced that Roger Haberman had a role in Timmy's disappearance, and she's not going to let it drop.”
“Emily can't help it. It's genetic,” I said, thinking about what I, her mother, had been up to that morning.
Georgina snorted. “So I've noticed.”
After Georgina promised to have Emily call me the minute she got home, I tucked the photographs under my arm and drove out to Paradiso. I planned to show the photos to Dante first, and then to other spa employees, to see if anyone recognized Joanna Barnhorst, or had seen her hanging around the spa.
For Dante's sake, I was glad to see that the Spa Closed notice had been taken down from the gates. Two cars trailed behind me as I drove up the drive, and with the parking lot three-quarters full, the spa appeared to be in full operation.