Wendy Hornsby - Midnight Baby

For the first month or so after my ex-husband moved out, I went upstairs every night with the sense that an onerous burden had been lifted. There is nothing worse than going through the motions night after night out of habit, because you haven’t embraced the inevitable alternatives, with someone you wish had missed his freeway off ramp. Had gone over the side, maybe. Into the cold, unforgiving waters of the San Francisco Bay, perhaps.

Anyway, the relief wears off after a while and you begin to notice that one person can’t warm a king-size bed. Mike had helped warm the sheets for a while. Then, when he was gone, medium-priced chardonnay and Bowser had now and then sung my lullaby. I preferred Mike.

“Martha,” I said, “would you mind if I used the telephone?”

“By all means, dear,” she said graciously.

While Martha and Regina uncapped a new bottle of bourbon at the wet bar, I called Mike’s pager and programmed in Martha’s number. If he was still in Long Beach, there was no point in both of us driving all the way back to the Valley for dinner. Separately. I was thinking about his handcuffs when I rejoined the others.

Regina made room for me beside her on a velvet settee. “Martha knew Hillary’s mother.”

“Tell me about her,” I said. I hoped to keep the conversation away from Hillary’s fate. I had already told too many people. “Tell me what sort of mother she was to Hillary.”

“Hanna was a wonderful mother.” Martha seemed thoughtful. “Very careful. Now, I personally raised my children to be independent. Hanna kept little Hilly awfully close to her. Smothered her, to my way of thinking. Does that sound catty?”

I smiled. “If that’s being catty, please, go ahead. I want to know what Hillary’s home life was like.”

“It was a good life by most measures. The Ramsdales certainly wanted for nothing. If Hanna smothered Hillary, well, perhaps no one could blame her. She wasn’t a young mother, you see. Hillary was a blessing that came somewhat late in life. A surprise, after Hanna and Randy had given up on children. I think that being an only child of older parents can be a special burden, don’t you?”

“Yes,” I said. “I can see how it could be. Do you think Hillary was unhappy?”

“Good Lord, no,” Martha snapped. “Randy would not permit his girls to be unhappy. He doted on Hanna and Hillary. He would move mountains for them.”

“You said that Hillary was a surprise. Thinking back, do you think the baby was a welcome surprise?”

“Hanna always said so. She had some female problems. I don’t remember what, exactly. Hanna did tell me that she had lost several pregnancies and had a little one who died very early on. Very sad for her. So of course, after that much heartache, a healthy child like Hillary would be something of a miracle, don’t you think? Now, I only know what Hanna told me. The Ramsdales bought the house next door because of our school district. They moved in in time for Hillary to begin kindergarten. I didn’t know her as a baby.”

I was keeping two columns of figures in my head, Amy Metrano’s age when she disappeared, Hillary’s age when she entered the local picture. Four and a half and fivish. Could work.

“Was Randy as protective as Hanna?” I asked.

She pursed her thin lips. “Oh yes. More so, I believe. Poor man was desperately lost after Hanna died. And he worried so about Hillary. I am persuaded that’s why he married again so soon. He wanted to find another Hanna.”

“Was the second wife like Hanna?” I asked.

“Physically, very much so. As is Elizabeth.” Martha looked at me. “Would you call that kinky?”

“I would, yes.” My response seemed to please her.

“I always thought so, too. Poor Randy. You cannot judge a book by its cover.”

“Meaning,” I said, “that beyond their appearance, wives two and three were not like Hanna?”

“Precisely.”

The telephone rang before Martha got into her wind up.

“Excuse me, please.” She creaked to her feet and picked up the receiver. After hello, she did some listening. Then she told the caller, “It certainly wasn’t me, sir. But I can offer you Regina Szal or Maggie MacGowen. What’s your pleasure?”

I knew it was Mike returning my page. I had been standing beside Martha during most of this exchange. She seemed to be flirting a bit, so I waited. She was chuckling when she handed me the receiver.

“For you, dear,” she said, and mouthed, “Man.”

I put the receiver to my ear. “Mike?”

“I take it you’re not in trouble,” he said. “Who’s the old girl?”

“She lives next door to the Ramsdales.”

“Jesus Christ, Maggie,” he exploded. “What the hell are you up to?”

“Hi, honey,” I cooed. “Nice to hear your voice, too.”

He drew a noisy breath. “Sorry. But someday you’re going to get into a deeper hole than you can get yourself out of.”

“That’s why I keep your number in my pocket, cupcake.”

Finally, he laughed. “Okay. What’s up?”

“Are you still in Long Beach?”

“No. I’m home. Michael and I are watching the end of the ball game. Waiting for you.”

“I’m leaving in a few minutes.”

“Good. Who all have you talked to?”

“People at the yacht club, the next-door neighbor. Guido and I made some pictures. I showed them to Leslie Metrano.”

“And?”

“Rang no bells.”

“Seen any signs of the Ramsdales?”

“None.”

“If you do run into either of them, Maggie..

“Yes?”

“Stay away.”

“You’re as bossy as Lyle.”

“The thing is,” Mike went on, “if anyone hurt you, I’d have to kill him. So far, I’ve had a clean week and I want to keep it that way.”

“Bye, Mike,” I said.

“Did you hear what I said?”

“I heard you. I gotta go.”

“You gotta get home. We’re hungry.”

“Bye.” I hung up and went back to Regina and Martha.

“Everything all right, dear?” Martha asked.

“Fine. But I’m out of time. May I come back and talk with you again later? Maybe tomorrow?”

“Certainly.” She smiled sweetly. “I was wondering whether you knew when Hillary and Randy would be coming back.”

Regina pulled in a breath, getting ready to spill the big news. I grabbed her arm and squeezed and she seemed to get the message.

“It seems that everyone believes Hillary and Randy are somewhere in Europe together,” I said. “Do you know when they left? Or where they went?”

“I’m sorry. I don’t know that. Randy moved out next door after an especially nasty fight, sometime last winter. Elizabeth told me he had gone abroad. And not long afterward, Hillary joined him.”

“When did she join him?”

She drew in a squeaky breath as she thought. “March? Yes, I think it was the middle of March. Hillary brought me some shamrocks for St. Patrick’s Day, as she always does. And that was the last I saw her.”

“Did she say where her father had gone?”

“No. She did tell me she wasn’t getting along well with Elizabeth and wanted to be with her father. Apparently, Elizabeth sent her right along. I enjoy gossiping with you, dear, but you really should ask Elizabeth.”

“She isn’t home,” I said. “Any idea where she might be?”

“There was a policeman here earlier today, and he asked the same question of my housekeeper. We were trying to think. To be honest, I can’t quite remember. Since Randy left, Elizabeth seems to come and go rather irregularly. I don’t keep close tabs.

The boat has been gone for some time. A week perhaps. Maybe she’s gone off to Catalina.”

“If she comes back, will you call me?”

“That’s what the policeman said, too. Who should I call first, you or him?”