Chapter 14
CHAPTER 14
Saturday Noon. The Museum at 4 th and Main.
“Mrs. Celia Masters?”
At the sound of Danni’s voice, the woman in the red coat jerked around to face them. Weariness rested on her features and a wariness too that Patrick recognized all too well. Celia Masters was terrified.
“That’s me.” Celia Maters’ reply came out in a husky rasp. “Are you Danni Blake?”
“I am.” Danni gestured at Patrick. “This is my friend, Patrick Danton, retired Army. He’s a friend.”
“Ma’am.” Patrick inclined his head. “If I may say so, you look like you could use something hot to drink. There’s a coffee bar upstairs. Why don’t we get something to warm us up?”
Celia Masters rigid features relaxed slightly. “I’d like that,” she said.
Upstairs, Patrick got the women’s order and brought it back to the table. Danni, he noticed, had chosen a table as far away from the staircase as possible. He gave them their hot chocolates from the cardboard holder, removed his own coffee and put the holder in a nearby recycle bin.
Danni had already engaged Mrs. Masters in conversation about the Museum and he was glad she’d waited to start the “interview” until he joined them.
“Your e-mail said that your daughter Robin vanished this past Tuesday,” Danni began with the facts. “I saw the TV report this morning. Is that right, Mrs. Masters?”
“Call me Celia, please.” The woman’s hand visibly shook as she picked up her chocolate. “She’ll be eleven on Valentine’s Day next year and is in the fifth grade in Maryville where we live.”
“I hear Maryville is lovely,” Patrick put in, wanting Mrs. Masters to feel his support. “Good college, nice parks.”
“Until Tuesday I would have said it was the safest place to raise a family.” Now it was Celia’s voice that trembled. “Never in my wildest dreams would I have thought that someone would take my daughter. And in broad daylight too!”
She stared into her cup and then put it on the table, giving Danni and Patrick enough time to exchange looks. “Was Robin coming home from school?” Danni asked.
“It was a half-day for school that day,” Celia explained. “But there’s a book box around the corner from our house. Robin loves to read so she’ll go there sometimes and put in a book she’s already read and get out another. It’s sponsored by the local library association and called ‘The Little Library Box’.”
“Did Robin go there that day?” Patrick asked.
Tears began to run down Celia Masters’ cheeks. “It’s my fault, she choked. “I’ve always let her walk there by herself and come back, as long as she’s gone no more than fifteen minutes. It makes her feel so grown up.”
“Ten is an important age to feel that way,” Danni agreed. “They want to be more grown up than they are and it’s hard to know how much freedom is safe to give them.”
“When she wasn’t back in fifteen minutes, I went looking for her,” Celia continued through her tears. “My husband calls me a worrywart but now he’s furious and said Robin being taken is all my fault.”
I don’t remember the TV report saying anything about Robin Masters being taken, just that she was missing. A throbbing began in Patrick’s shoulder, right where the bullet had grazed him. Another quick side long glance at Danni’s expression showed she didn’t remember that either. “Taken?” Patrick asked.
“A woman in the neighborhood who was raking leaves said she saw Robin at the book box when a car pulled up and Robin started talking to someone inside. She got excited and climbed into the back seat and they drove away. That was about two o’clock this past Tuesday.”
“Could the woman describe the car?” Danni asked.
“Only that it was a black four door Honda.” Celia wiped her face with a paper napkin. “I never should have let her go by herself after reading about what happened to Sara Turner,” she whispered. “I thought we were safe.”
“Do you think Sara Turner was ‘taken’?” Danni asked.
“What else could it be?” Celia demanded. “This is like what happened to those older kids this past autumn. Someone has taken her and my Robin.”
“Was you husband home at the time?” Danni asked and Patrick recognized the shift in her tone that suggested her thoughts were taking on ideas that were dark and unpleasant. He sipped his coffee and waited.
“No,” Celia said and for the first time, sounded irritated. “We separated last September after he joined this men’s group that espouses what they call ‘traditional values’ meaning men are the head of the household and all that. He even wanted me to quit my job as a graphic artist after his promotion two years ago, because he started making lots more money than he ever had. But that’s no reason for me to stop working at a job I love, is it? I’m not making what he does at LBM, but it’s still a decent salary.”
Thoughts running a mile a minute, Danni stirred her chocolate before asking “Your husband works for La Belle Monde? What does he do there?”
“He got a big promotion about six years ago and now runs the Advertising Department as some kind of VP. Helps determine what kind of advertising is done worldwide.”
“And the Maryville police of course, know all this?” Patrick asked.
“Yes, but my husband Charles is adamant about not talking to them too much or to the press.” Celia began to cry again. “He says we need to wait to see if someone demands a ransom but how can I wait? She’s my only child! My nerves are a wreck.”
She began to sob so hard that Danni moved to sit beside her and hold her. Passers-by glanced their way in a mixture of annoyance and curiosity. It seemed a long time before Celia stopped crying.
“I need t-to go,” she stuttered. “I just needed to talk to someone I thought would u-understand. Your article about S-Sara Turner was so sympathetic I thought you would–you know.”
“I’m glad I was able to meet with you,” Danni said. “And I would really try to work with the police as much as you can, no matter what your husband says.”
“Hmmph!” A flash of defiance crossed Celia’s face. “That stupid philanthropic men’s organization he joined wants to set women’s progress back a hundred years. Even the counselor we saw seems to think our marriage would be happier if I were a more ‘traditional’ wife.”
“And with advice like that, how many times did you see the counselor?” Danni withheld her chuckle at the barely suppressed laughter in Patrick’s question.
“Three,” Mrs. Masters told him. “And the first one was the intake appointment, information gathering. But after the next two and I saw the way things were going, I told my husband, ‘Not for me.’”
Remembering Sara’s note about being ‘out of there’, Danni asked, “Did you find anything a note or letter, or anything written from Robin after you realized she was gone?”
Brow wrinkling, Mrs. Masters said, “No, nothing like that. Why?”
“Nothing,” Danni said hastily. “Is there anything else you think we should know?”
“Yeah, here.” Mrs. Masters dug into her large handbag and pulled out a recent issue of a major news magazine. “There’s a story about that men’s philanthropy group my husband joined. It will tell you more about them. Honestly, even reading about them gives me the creeps.”
She left, her back straighter than it had been, leaving them to consider what she’d shared. “Wow,” Danni said at last. “This is getting beyond creepy.”
“You’ve got that right,” Patrick agreed, drumming his fingers on the table. “This thing with the controlling husbands is leaving a very bad taste in my mouth.”
“Mine too,” Danni said. “Would you get me a cup of tea if they have one before we go? I’m going to stand by the railing and look at the Christmas trees downstairs. I need to think.”
“You got it,” he said, clearing the table and placing the cups in the recycling bin. “Any special kind of tea?”
“Darjeeling or Earl Gray,” she said.
“Got it.” He headed toward the coffee kiosk at the far end of the hall, his long-legged stride quick and elegant while Danni propped her elbows on the railing over the Grand Hall to survey the annual Festival of Trees that raised so much money for local children’s charities. Maybe she and Patrick could come back tomorrow to see it. It would be a lovely way–
“Looks like you’re alone,” a male voice rasped. “This will teach you to mind your own damn business.”
Danni had just enough time to look up and find a misshapen, bleached face staring back at her before he shoved her against the mezzanine railing with such force, it sent her toppling over the side.
“Help!” Her scream cut through the piped-in music as she clutched at the top of the heavy canvas hanging on the railing, feeling it move under her hands and her shoes slid from her feet. Below her, other screams and shouts echoed around the hall.
“Don’t move,” and Patrick’s voice was a blessing as he leaned over the railing, his expression remarkably calm. “Give me one of your hands, very slowly, then the other. Can you do that?”
“Y-yes,” Danni stuttered, unclenching her right hand’s death like hold from the canvas and lifting it to him, wincing at the strength in his grip while she sucked in air into her lungs and her heart hammered with a rib-bruising force.
“Good girl,” he said, and she was dimly aware of people gathering around him, staring at her in horror. “No, don’t look down. Look at me and give me your other hand. Okay, I’ve got you. On the count of three. One. Two–”
He hauled her up and over the railing, sliding her down against him. Never had a floor beneath her feet felt so good.
And neither had the feel of a man’s arms around her.
This man’s arms.
“Are you alright?” he whispered into her hair.
“I’ve lost my shoes.” Danni gulped as her knees gave way. She might have made it to the floor if Patrick hadn’t gently put her back in place against him.
“We’ll find them,” he said. “Just as soon as you can walk.”
“I can walk,” she insisted.
“No, you can’t,” he corrected. “You’re still shaking too hard which is why I’m still holding you upright.”
“Oh?”
“Yeah,” he whispered again. “Oh.”
Can someone please tell me what the devil is going on here?” A man’s officious voice demanded.
The spectators spread apart, and Danni peered around Patrick to see a short, well-dressed, slightly portly man coming toward them. “Oh, Lord,” she murmured. “That’s Andrew Dempsey, head of the museum’s security.”
“He looks like a first-rate asshole.” Patrick rested his head on top of hers.
“Actually, he sorts of looks like that actor who played Higgins on the original Magnum PI series,” Danni whispered as Dempsey bore down on them, his handlebar moustache fairly bristling with anger.
“If Griff were here, he could tell us the actor’s name from memory,” Patrick murmured. Dempsey’s withering gaze could have melted cold butter.
“You can text him later and ask,” Danni hissed. “You’re my protector, try to look the part. He’s almost here, so hush.”
“As I said, what the devil is going on here?” Dempsey’s English accent rang out for all to hear.
“That guy there saved her life!” One of the spectators shouted, pointing at Patrick. “She fell over the railing and–”
“Thank you,” Dempsey snapped and fixed them with a gaze that would make the local prosecuting attorney proud. “And you two would be–?”
“I’m Danielle Blake,” Danni choked out. She leaned her head against Patrick’s chest, wrapped her arms around him and prayed she looked frail and helpless. “And this is–”
“Patrick Danton,” Patrick said, sounding positively possessive. I’m her boyfriend.”
“I leaned too far over the railing and fell,” Danni explained, hoping the tremor in her voice didn’t sound authentically pathetic.
“She’s been upset, sir.” Patrick added. “A friend of hers died recently and we came here in hopes of seeing the trees might make her feel better–”
“And he went to fetch me a cup of tea,” Danni put in. “Tea is so good for that, isn’t it? Knitting up the raveled sleeve of care?”
“Actually, it’s sleep that does the knitting, but I wouldn’t expect an American to know which play it’s from and who wrote it.” Beneath his moustache, Dempsey’s mouth twitched with contempt. “You’re certain no one hit you or try to push you over?”
“No,” Danni whispered, and she knew from Dempsey’s expression he didn’t believe either of them for a minute.
“Sorry for dropping her tea when I was trying to get to her,” and Danni knew if he weren’t holding her, Patrick would probably chuck Dempsey over the railing just to teach him a lesson.
Dempsey impatiently waved away his gesture. “Not necessary,” he told them. “Try not to lean over any railings in the future, Ms. Blake. You’re quite sure there’s mothing suspicious about this?”
“No, sir.” Patrick said as Danni could feel irritation thrumming through him like a drum. “I’d like to take her home now.”
“Then ‘stand not upon the order of your going but go at once.’” Dempsey’s smile was a smirk, and he inclined his head as he left.
He wasn’t two steps away, when Patrick called, “Mr. Dempsey?”
The little man turned; his expression bored. “Yes?”
“Your quote is from Macbeth,” Patrick said. “Act three, scene two. As for sleep knitting up? Same play, Act two, scene two.” At Dempsey’s astonished expression, Patrick bowed and added, “Shakespeare of course. C’mon Danni before the Bard gets the best of me, and I start my ‘To be or not to be’ routine.”
It wasn’t until they’d reached the Main Hall downstairs that they gave themselves up to laughter. Laughing because it was better than being scared and laughing because they were so pleased with themselves.
“Do you think he believed us?” Patrick gasped.
“Not for a minute,” Danni managed to say. “It really isn’t funny, but–”
“No, it’s not,” Patrick agreed, his laughter subsiding. “Did you get a look at the guy who shoved you?”
Danni shook her head. “He was wearing some kind of rubber mask,” she described. “Like the one Whoopi Goldberg wears in The Associate.”
“Oh no,” Patrick groaned. “You sound like Griff. Are you a movie buff too?”
“No,” Danni said. “I just happen to remember the mask in that movie.”
And then realizing what had just happened, and what might have happened, her trembling returned, and her knees gave way. Patrick caught her just before she hit the floor.
“C’mon, Danni girl,” he whispered, bringing her upright. “Let’s find your shoes and go home.”