Through the Darkness

CHAPTER 4

Late Monday morning I dropped Paul off at Reception, leaving him in the capable hands of Heather, one of the female guides, looking sturdy and persuasively Teutonic in her polo shirt and shorts. In a former life, Heather could have been a hostess on QVC selling Handcrafted Tiffany Style Pet Bobble Head Accent Lamps to third-world villagers. She’d nearly signed me up for a tourmaline facial and a warm stone rubdown before I came to my senses and remembered that I’d promised to help Dante review résumés, and made my escape.

I found Dante hanging massage school diplomas on his office wall, the largest of three adjoining rooms in the elegantly furnished, walnut-paneled suite. He looked spiffy and very much in charge in his Perry Ellis, four-button pinstripe suit. In answer to my “Hi,” Dante laid the hammer on the credenza next to a bronze bust of Dante Alighieri and greeted me warmly. “Thanks for coming, Hannah.”

“Nice suit.”

He smiled. “I wasn’t so sure about the buttons, but Emily liked it. So either I’m way out of style or I’m starting a trend.”

“Where did that come from?” I asked, pointing to the bust of the poet. I was certain it hadn’t been there the last time I’d visited the office.

“It was my grandmother’s,” he said, resting a hand on the statue’s head. “It used to glare at me from on top of the bookshelf in Grandfather’s library, daring me to leave before finishing my homework.”

Four-year-old Dante had been staying with his grandparents the weekend his mother and father died of carbon monoxide poisoning on a camping trip to the Santa Cruz Mountains. His grandparents had raised him, but both were gone now. Everytime I found myself getting annoyed with Dante, I remembered this, and tried to focus on his strengths rather than his shortcomings. We were the only family the poor boy had.

“What happened to the rest of your grandmother’s things?” I asked.

Dante hugged himself, as if trying to compensate for his loss. “We auctioned everything off,” he said. “Emily and I sank it all into the business.”

“I’m sure your grandmother would have approved,” I said, meaning it.

“Yes. Well, let me get you started.” Almost absentmindedly, Dante gathered up some plump file folders from his desk and led me into the adjoining office. Through the plantation-style shutters the sun drew railroad tracks of light on the polished desktop. A flat screen monitor sat to the right, a telephone to the left.

Dante switched on the overhead light, a blaze of crystal prisms the size of a basketball. “This is where our business manager will hang out, whenever we hire one, that is.”

I stood there like an idiot, admiring the decor. Must be nice. When I managed the Records Department at Whitworth and Sullivan, I had been assigned to a cubicle so deep within the bowels of the building that when I ventured out for lunch, it took me five minutes to find a window to look out of to see if I needed to take an umbrella.

Dante laid the folders on the desk and flipped one of them open. It contained several dozen envelopes.

“Have you opened them yet?” I asked.

“Not yet. The postman brought them this morning.”

I groaned.

Dante chuckled, flipped the folder closed and handed me another one. “Let me give you this one instead. These are the folks who are coming for interviews this afternoon. I’d appreciate your feedback.”

I hefted the folder, weighing it. “Oh, this will cost you big, Dante.”

His eyebrows flew up. “I told Emily we couldn’t afford you.”

I laughed. “But I’m so easily bribed. Say, with lunch?”

“No problem, then. When you’re ready, just call François in the kitchen and tell him what you’re in the mood for.”

“Deal.” I walked to the window, raised one of the slats and peeked out into a glorious expanse of… parking lot. Clearly, Ruth and her Japanese gardener friend hadn’t made it around to this side of the building.

“Let me leave you to get on with it, then.” A few seconds later my son-in-law poked his head back around the corner. “If you need me, I’ll be in the conference center.” He checked his watch. “I’ve got an interview with Shape magazine at eleven-thirty. Wish me luck!”

And before I could say “Break a leg,” he was gone, leaving me alone with the folders.

It didn’t take me long to discover that in the world of job applications, at least, not much had changed since I left Whitworth and Sullivan. Dante’s ad had plainly stated “list salary requirements,” but three of the first five applicants whose résumés I reviewed had failed to do so.

Yet, I didn’t want to eliminate an otherwise qualified candidate simply because he or she couldn’t follow directions.

Or maybe I did.

Someone rapped smartly on the door, and I looked up with some relief from the employment history of Claudia Marie Harris, who evidently thought that printing her résumé on paper the color of Pepto Bismol would get her noticed. An attractive brunette about Emily’s age stood in the doorway, looking damp and frazzled.

“Sorry to interrupt,” she said, “but can you tell me where I could find Dante?”

“He’s in the conference room,” I told her, “but he’s busy with interviews at present. Have you checked in with reception?”

“No.”

“That would be your best bet, then.”

“Thanks.”

After the woman had gone, I returned to Ms. Harris. I learned that she was a cosmetologist and a “rabid typist.” I filed her résumé in the trash.

Stephen Davis had taken “curses in accounting” at Anne Arundel Community College. Circular file for Stephen, too.

laura elizabeth barnes kept all the books for garner, butters and aaronson in chestertown, maryland, and offered to revolutionize accounting for dante’s paradiso, but not, I thought, until she got her shift key repaired. Toss, rim shot, ker-plunk.

And how could you take seriously any applicant who used teeny-tiny type, or really weird fonts, or an e-mail address like kissmygrits@yahoo.com?

Suddenly, I needed a drink.

Tucking a handful of résumés under my arm, I wandered into the Natatorium, homing in on the refreshment center at the far end. I passed half a dozen clients who were stretched out on the lounge chairs surrounding the pool, each wearing the spa’s distinctive terrycloth robe-pink for women and lime green for men, with the spa logo embroidered on the left breast pocket. Several other clients were perched on the edge of the pool, their legs dangling in the water.

Feeling out of place in my chinos and T-shirt, thinking, Damn, I’d rather be swimming, I thumbed through the box of Tazo tea, and selected a China Green Tips packet. I tore open the packet, dropped the tea bag into my mug, pumped in some boiling water, and carried the mug over to a lounge chair, thoughtfully dunking.

The résumés I’d brought with me weren’t much better. One guy had a three-year gap in his employment history that made me wonder if he’d been doing time up at Jessup State Detention Center. Another closed his cover letter with: “Thank you for your time. Hope to hear from you shorty.”

I sighed and sipped my tea, finding it hard to believe that Dante had preselected these losers and was actually planning to interview them. Maybe I’d picked up the wrong folder.

I turned the pile over and started at the bottom.

Ah, this was more like it. Karen Barton, like Dante, had attended Haverford College, but unlike my son-in-law, she had graduated, with a B.A. in anthropology. Apparently the job market for anthropologists had dried up because Karen had gone on to earn an advanced degree in aesthetics and cosmetology from Spa Tech Institute of South Portland, Maine. Karen’s hobby was knitting. I liked the girl already.

Roger Haberman was next. Now, that was interesting. The only Roger I knew was married to our priest, Evangeline Haberman. I checked the heading for an address, and saw that Roger lived on Monterey, the same street in West Annapolis as the parsonage. According to his experience block, before their move to Annapolis from California, Roger had been a CPA but was now working as a bookkeeper at Eastport Yacht Sales. Eva’s Roger all right.

None of the applications included photographs, but I’d been introduced to Roger when Eva got the call to St. Cat’s, and I’d caught glimpses of him at the party, looking stiff and uncomfortable in a rented tux. I remembered Roger as about five-foot-ten, handsome in a rugged, outdoorsy sort of way, with dark wavy hair, combed straight back. We hardly ever saw him at church-Eva often joked that her husband was a Methodist. Roger’d popped into a vestry meeting once, whispered quietly into his wife’s ear, then just as quickly popped back out again. His infrequent appearances at St. Cat’s gave new definition to the term “low profile.”

I checked Roger’s salary at Eastport. No wonder he was looking for a new job. For someone with his experience, which included an MBA from Boston University, Eastport Yacht Sales was paying peanuts. Clearly Eva was the breadwinner in the family.

Feeling confident that Dante had at least two viable candidates to interview that afternoon, and lulled by the lyrical strains of a Mozart symphony wafting down from the speaker over my head, I leaned back in the lounger and closed my eyes.

I was hovering on the fringes of sleep when somebody bumped my chair.

“Sorry, ma’am. I was just collecting your mug.”

“That’s okay,” I said dreamily, looking up at the young man and trying to focus. “Is that a menu?” I asked, pointing to the gold-embossed, green leather-bound folder under his arm.

“Right. I’m Steve. What can I get you?” he asked, handing it to me.

I took a few moments to drool over a list of delicious-sounding selections. Although sorely tempted by the Fruited Chicken Curry Pita and the Turkey Wraps with Apples and Cabbage, I finally ordered a sensible pear salad, and asked that it be delivered to the office.

Back in the office, somewhat reluctantly, I had just started opening envelopes, scanning résumés, and sorting them into piles by job title when Alison popped in carrying my salad on a tray, along with a side of Parmesan Pita Crisps and something aggressively orange in a tall glass. “Was just on my way to the gift shop, so François asked me to deliver this,” she said, setting the tray down on the desk.

“What’s that?” I asked, pointing to the glass.

“Papaya drink,” she told me. “That was my idea.”

The drink turned out to be heavenly, and the salad-a confection of Anjou pear with arugula, bleu cheese, and cinnamon-roasted pecans-equally divine. I was noisily sucking the last of the payaya drink up through a straw when Emily poked her head into the room.

“Mom, is Timothy with you?”

“No. I thought he was in the nursery.”

“Have you seen Alison?”

“She just left. She brought me a salad, then said she was going to the gift shop. Wait a minute.” I picked up the phone and dialed the two digit extension for the gift shop. Alison picked up. “Alison, you don’t happen to have Tim with you, do you?”

“Sorry, no.” Alison paused to speak to a customer. “That’ll be ninety-eight fifty, Mrs. Lewis.” I heard electronic beeps as Alison ran the purchase through the credit card machine. “Is there a problem?” she asked.

“I’ll let you know,” I said, hanging up the telephone. I looked at Emily and shook my head.

“Could he be with Dad?”

“I doubt it.” My stomach lurched. Something was terribly wrong. “Your father’s with one of the new girls, getting a massage and a facial. How about Dante?”

Emily grabbed onto the door frame for support. “No, I checked the conference room first. He’s still talking to that woman from Shape.” Suddenly, she slumped over, resting her hands on her knees, and began to sob. “Oh my God, oh my God, I left Tim alone in the nursery for just a minute. He was napping in his playpen. I came back, and he’s gone!”

I took a deep breath, struggling to stay calm. Somebody had to, because my daughter was coming unglued. “C’mon.” I grabbed Emily’s hand. “Let’s look again.”

Emily and I tore down the hall and burst through the doors of the day care center. Never had the room looked so vast and so empty. Tim’s playpen sat where it always had, but except for Lamby and a half-consumed formula bottle of orange juice, nothing. Our little boy was gone.

“Do you think Tim learned to climb out of the playpen?” I panted. “Kids can surprise you. Maybe he climbed out and crawled away?” Even I knew I was grasping at straws.

Emily shook her head miserably. “I’ve checked everywhere. The bookshelves, the closet, the toy box, under the slide. I was only gone for two minutes, Mother, I swear!”

“Where the hell did you go, Emily? The restroom?”

The creases deepened on Emily’s brow. “God, noooooh! Somebody called from the office and told me that Dante needed me out on the loading dock to sign for some exercise bikes. Tim was sleeping so soundly, I didn’t want to disturb him, so I ran out to the loading dock, but by the time I got out there, the truck was gone. Two minutes!” she wailed. “Where could a baby have got to in two minutes?”

I helped Emily into a chair, then checked the French doors that led to the patio. They were firmly closed. If Tim had managed to escape his playpen and crawl away, he hadn’t left the nursery that way.

The only other door led into the main hallway. I looked at Emily and we both had the same thought. “The swimming pool!” I yelled.

Emily knocked over her chair in her rush to get out of the room. When I caught up with her, she was standing at the edge of the pool, staring into the water. Except for gentle ripples generated by two women swimming lazy laps, the water was crystal clear. No floundering child. No small, lifeless form lying on the bottom.

Emily was crying now, big heaving sobs. “What kind of a mother am I? How could I have been so stupid?”

Close to tears myself, my heart pounding in my ears so loudly I could barely think, I tried to sort it out. Emily’d left Tim alone for two minutes, maybe three. Add the time to find me, call Alison, and search the day care center, another five minutes, tops. If somebody’d snatched little Tim, they might still be in the building.

So I did the only sensible thing.

I pulled the fire alarm.