Alfred Hitchcock’s Mystery Magazine. Vol. 44, No. 7 & 8, July/August 1999

She sighed, started another dragon, this time a tall skinny one wearing polka dots. “They acted funny when I told ’em about Aunt Nell. I rode over there on my bike, and I was pulling on Miss Rosalie’s arm to come help, and she just told that Hancil man to put the ironing board in the back of the car. I rode back to the shop, and they came after me.”

“Where were you when Nell — when the accident happened?”

“At Ed’s Dairy Cheer. I ride down there on my bike every day after lunch for a popsicle. It’s not that far.”

I stifled my urge to count the number of popsicles she’d devoured in an afternoon. “Nell had given you permission to ride down to Ed’s? And she was okay before you left?” I was walking semicircles behind her.

“Yeah.” She was nodding, the ponytail bobbing furiously. “I hid my bike under the porch, then got under a drop table in Aunt Nell’s shop, and they came in there to find me. I said a prayer, then you came in.”

I have to admit I was flattered, being an object of divine intervention and all, but I couldn’t stop thinking about the El Camino packed with boxes, a lamp, the ironing board. Rosalie had said they were going on vacation, and I’d been confused, wondering what kind of original oddball would take an ironing board and a lamp on vacation. “Are you saying they were just pretending to help Nell?” I asked.

She nodded.

“They got all interested in it the minute you walked in.” The dragon wore clown shoes.

“Was Rosalie nice to you, before?”

“Kind of. She’d come in to shop for knickknacks and stuff. Sometimes she’d buy me coloring books and stickers. I liked her okay until today. She called me a name. I didn’t like the way she said it.” She drew little dragon puppets on the skinny dragon’s outstretched hands. “Do you think I’m vinegary?”

“Nope. But I like vinegar. Used to drink it right out of the bottle when I was your age.” She laughed, high and giggly, then got back to the dragon.

I wandered around the office in the same circle, remembering Rosalie’s words after I’d introduced myself. Small world... I rifled through a couple of drawers in Jeb’s file cabinet, but I couldn’t find a file on Rosalie Sikes or anybody named Timmons, then opened the closet door in the loft area and braved the catacombs again, this time feeling nothing but a sense of urgency I hadn’t experienced in a long time.

I hoisted out a box of files containing the S’s and T’s, then shut the closet door with my foot, catching sight of Rosalie Timmons herself strutting up my office steps wearing the same pink outfit hanging off her thin bony frame. Her mouth was set in a permanent frown as she reached the top step. I continued to hold the box.

“I could cause you a lot of trouble.” She shook a finger in my face. “Taking that child off like that in that rickety old rattletrap of a truck! That’s what I’d call kidnapping.” I glanced at Merry, who’d already scampered beneath the desk.

“She’s just fine here with me, and besides, I called the sheriff—”

“Sheriff! He don’t have the right to give you permission to take an unknown child into your home!” I noticed Hancil toddling across the service porch outside. Rosalie stiffened, reminding me of her ironing board, and held her voice low. “She knows me, Miss Murdock, and I will take her home with me now. Merry? Merry, honey-pie?” She proceeded to flit about my loft like a pink mosquito. “Come to Miss Rosalie, sweetheart, I’ve got some dumplin’s on the stove. Is Merry hungry?”

I dropped the box and stood in front of my office door, propping my arms against the door casings. She actually laid a hand on me, trying to push her curly bleached head under my arm. “Merry, I am taking you home!” She shook her spindly fists in the air and stomped her pink shoes to make her point.

“Over my dead body,” I said, fresh out of dignity.

“We’ll see about that.” She glared, then marched down the stairs and out the door.

“We’ll see about that,” I mocked sitting on the floor and rummaging like a maniac for an incriminating file.

“She gone?” called Merry from somewhere over my shoulder. Two little arms wrapped themselves around my neck.

“Gone as a goose,” I said squeezing her hands. She tiptoed to the window and stared out, like a little princess trapped in a castle, waiting, wondering about her future...

Rosalie Sikes’ file, almost five years old was near the bottom of the box in a thick gray folder. I sat on the floor, Merry tapping her pen on the desk, and read a judgment denying an adoption petition on the grounds that “Petitioner Rosalie J. Sikes is not a person suitable for the above task.” The decision was based on a prior felony conviction, referencing case #90-CI-682.

I scribbled the case file number on my hand and asked Prudence Geasley to babysit Merry for an hour or so while I made a little trip to the county seat of Jones’ Fork for a dose of paydirt.