Caroline Burnes - Familiar Lullaby

The night is a little chill for the humanoids, which means they’ll stay inside. Clotilde and I will have the lovely veranda all to ourselves. We can still hear the music and watch the bipeds do the dance of power and politics. And we can dine at leisure, without censure or interruption. Goodness, after my last case in New Orleans I’m glad to be home. I think I might have to take a breather from the P.I. business. I think a few weeks of Clotilde…what’s that?

Someone is climbing over the wall in Preston’s backyard. The guest list was exclusive, but I hardly think this party is worth breaking and entering. A sleek, elegant black shadow—hey, it could be me if I were a biped. Except this one is a woman! I wonder if it’s one of those pushy media types.

No, she’s carrying a basket. A big basket. And she’s being very, very careful not to be seen. I think this must be one of those surprise delivery services. You know, the ones that drop off expensive gifts in deadly secret. Let me say, I highly approve of this delivery gal. She’s got a pair of gams that Ginger Rogers would envy—long, lean and well-muscled. And the torso sitting on top of them screams “kick-boxing fool.” She climbed that wall like it wasn’t twelve feet of solid cement. And she can crouch and run—a talent for a biped, and don’t forget it.

The basket is pretty heavy, too. And she’s leaving it on the veranda. Very stealthy lady. A secret gift basket. Someone has sent Clotilde’s humans a lovely basket of food for the party. And guess what! I’m going to make sure there’s nothing in there that might make a humanoid sick. That’s part of my feline duties—to consume any suspicious foodstuffs. I’ll just give bat-woman another second to fly back over the wall…. Now I can make my move on the food basket. I hope it’s a good, salty ham. It looked to weigh about ten pounds or so.

There’s just nothing like a ham—uh, oh, this ain’t no smoked piglet. It’s alive and kicking, and it’s about to start crying for mama. That woman abandoned a baby! A real, live humanoid of the smaller version. A humanette. A muchacha. A bambino. A babette.

Oh, my goodness. It’s so newborn its eyes can’t focus. She can’t see Uncle Familiar hovering over her. And it’s too cool out on this veranda for a baby! What was that woman thinking?

Thank goodness, here’s Clotilde. One look at the little bambino and I can see a plan in her eyes. Yes, I know Rose and Preston have wanted a baby for years. Yes, I know they’d make perfect, loving parents. Yes, I know they could give a child all the advantages. But that doesn’t negate the fact that this child belongs to someone—someone who climbed a wall and dumped it here.

Clotilde has found a note. And the baby is starting to cry. Much as I hate to do it, I think I’m going to have to find Eleanor. Clotilde wants to keep this baby, but whoever abandoned a child deserves to be punished. Severely punished.

A lot of people view living creatures as disposable. If they don’t want a kitten, or a puppy or a baby, they just throw it away—toss it out somewhere and hope someone will find it and want it.

Or toss it out and just let it die of starvation.

This burns me up! I know, from personal experience, what it feels like to be tossed. And though Clotilde may view this as a gift from God, the long-legged humanoid who brought this baby here is soon going to view me as the avenging angel. Okay, here’s Eleanor. She’ll know what to do to keep the little whippersnapper from crying so.

MEL HASKIN leaned against the wall and took in his surroundings. Enough food for an army lay deserted on buffet tables where chilled bottles of champagne still resided in ice buckets. Yes, this was one party that had come to a screeching halt. And all for the little bundle that a handsome, dark-haired couple hovered over.

Eleanor Curry taped the diaper into place and then relinquished the baby to Rose Johnson.

“I’m a veterinarian, not a pediatrician,” Peter Curry said, “but that baby isn’t more than ten hours old. He’s been well taken care of.”

“There’s a note, officer.” Eleanor glanced at the woman with the infant as she picked up the note and read aloud. “‘His name is David. He has the power to slay Goliath, and you must protect him from his enemies. Keep him safe and always remind him of his mother’s love and her sacrifice to protect him.”’

“I will protect him. We will.” Rose Johnson cradled the baby in her arms and looked up to meet her husband’s gaze. He nodded firmly.

“Rose, a crime has been committed,” Eleanor reminded her. “You can’t keep this baby.”

“Watch me,” Rose said. She settled on the sofa with the child in her arms and the beautiful calico cat purring at her side. “Even Clotilde thinks he belongs to us.”

Mel gingerly took the note that Eleanor Curry offered him.

“I’m afraid it’s been handled by quite a few people,” Eleanor said apologetically. “When Familiar found the baby, we all became a little excited. We passed the note around the party. It’s just that…well, we weren’t actually thinking of the baby as a crime at the time.”

“No one saw the drop?” Mel asked. He personally was avoiding the baby. It wasn’t that he didn’t like children. In fact, one day he hoped to have a couple. But with the work he did, he viewed babies and small children as victims. They had no voice, no way to protect themselves against whatever rotten deal their worthless parents happened to hand out to them.

Just like the baby in this case. So what if the mother had named him—the Biblical name of a young man who slew a giant? And so what if she’d left him on the doorstep of a wealthy home—a place where he was obviously wanted and would have every advantage?

None of that made a difference. Not to him. No matter how the facts were dressed up, the story was the same. Some young woman had gotten herself pregnant and had the kid. Then because the kid would inconvenience her life, she’d dumped the responsibility on someone else.

In Mel’s book, that was a crime that deserved prosecution. And he was just the man to do it.

“Meow.”

He was pulled from his thoughts by sharp claws in his shin. He looked down into the green eyes of the sleekest black cat he’d ever seen.

“Meow.”

“What?” He looked around to make sure no one had heard him talking to the cat.

The cat turned quickly and went to the basket, which had been put beside the sofa. With one expressive black paw, the cat patted the basket.

Mel picked it up and examined it. His fingers brushed against the blanket the baby had been wrapped him. Soft. Very soft. He pulled the pale blue wrap out of the basket and shook it out. He’d never felt a baby blanket so soft. His fingers rubbed the texture. Cashmere! Incredible.

And the cat was tipping the basket over to indicate a tag. He looked at it. Not just an ordinary wicker basket—this one was signed. A handmade basket. Now that was a clue. As discreetly as possible he returned the blanket to the basket.

“I’d like to take these items as evidence,” he said.

“I’d prefer that you didn’t,” Rose Johnson said quickly. “Those may be all this little boy has to remember his mother by. I’d like to hold on to them and give them to him when he’s older.”

Mel sighed. He was going to have his hands full now. In her mind, Mrs. Johnson had adopted this child. She was already planning his future.

“The baby will have to be taken to DHR,” he said as gently as he could. “It’s the law, ma’am.”

“Surely we can work something out, detective,” Preston Johnson said, stepping forward. “We’ll assume complete responsibility for this child.” He put his hands on his wife’s shoulders. “We’ll hire a full-time nurse, if that would help. We’ll start a college fund.”