All She Ever Wanted Part 29

Anyone watching would never guess that they were missing their baby.

Chelsea dropped her book on the kitchen table and took a seat. She needed to be near Leo in the sweet smell of rolls baking in the oven, the warmth of pots on the stove. The pasta water started to boil over, and Leo adjusted the lid without missing a beat in his conversation.

"No, Dad, Chelsea didn't see anything." Leo wore his headset so he could cook hands-free. "She just didn't. She was asleep." He paced away from the stove, grabbed a bag of Italian cheeses from the fridge, and tossed a handful into the Florentine sauce.

He was making Chelsea's favorite dish-turkey meatb.a.l.l.s with spinach in a white cheese sauce-and she hadn't even asked him for it. Ordinarily, the smells would have drawn her to the stove to sample the sauce, but food was just a staple now-a bitter pill to swallow. A way to stay healthy until Annabelle was back.

"Dad, I wasn't here and Chelsea was asleep. It just happened, and we're doing everything we can to work with the police to find Annabee."

Chelsea put her head down on her book, its cover smooth and cool against her cheek. She could imagine Mitch.e.l.l Green's rapid-fire questions, and she was glad she couldn't hear them. Similar questions still echoed through her mind, refusing to be silenced. Doubt was an oily sheen over her conscience, preventing any sense of peace from soaking in.

"Tell your dad I said hi," Chelsea said, lifting her head. Sometimes an interruption got her father-in-law off the path of interrogation. Thankfully, her own father had been quiet but supportive. He had offered to fly up from Florida, but with his bad hip, she couldn't imagine him hobbling onto a plane right now.

"Chelsea's right here. She says h.e.l.lo." Leo c.o.c.ked an eyebrow at her and she made the signal for cut. "And I've got to get going, or I'll burn the sauce."

She looked down at the book, Your Baby's First Year. Before Annie's birth, she had read the entire thing through. Now, she'd checked in every few weeks to refresh her memory. Leo was fascinated by how Annie's behaviors matched the descriptions of development. "You're a textbook baby!" he always said when she squeezed his finger or followed him around the room with her eyes.

And now, Annie was coming up on four months. They would be able to try her on solid foods for the first time, since she had good head and neck control. At last, they could sit her in the high chair. Chelsea thought about bringing the chair out of the closet and setting it at the end of the table. Would that be a good omen-a positive step toward bringing her home-or a reminder of the terrible limbo they were all in?

"We're just about ready to plate it." Leo poured the pasta into a drainer and stepped back from the steam. Usually, he called, "Facial!" and they both laughed at the silliness of it. Someday, Annie would laugh along with them.

She would be back. Most stolen babies made it home safely . . . in the cases when they were stolen.

"What are you reading there?" Leo asked.

She lifted the cover of the book to show him and his brows sank down. "Do you think that's a good idea?"

"She's going to be four months soon. I want to know what she's doing."

Whether she's with us or not.

He turned back to the stove. "What does it say?"

"At four months the baby can try solid food. And one of the big milestones is communication. She'll begin to notice when people are around her, and she'll respond to their actions."

"She's already doing that," Leo said. "Do you remember last weekend when I had her on the kitchen counter in her bucket seat, and I was doing peekaboo?"

"You kept hiding behind the fry pan."

He nodded. "It cracked her up. She definitively gets it."

"And she smiled." That cherubic smile, her eyes lit with glee. At that moment Chelsea could see Annie's face so vividly. She could imagine the chubby folds of her arms and imagine her sweet scent.

Earlier, while the plumber had been working on the valve in the bathroom, Chelsea had gone into Annie's room and closed the door. The need for Annie had been like a physical craving, primal and pure.

In the closet, she had pulled the little hanging outfits together and pressed them to her face. The baby powder smell of Purex was sweet, but it wasn't Annie.

She had felt her way around the room, trying to find something that reminded her of Annie. A picture, a stuffed animal, the musical chime on the mobile over the crib.

How strange to know that these weren't Annabelle's things. Not really. It was a room designed for a baby, but the collection of books, the squishy blocks, and the white pine crib might have belonged to any infant.

In the end she had curled up in the corner on the snowy carpet they'd had cleaned in preparation for Annabelle starting to crawl. Huddled in a ball, she stared up at the green elephants marching across the wall.

Had Annie stared up at those elephants from her crib?

Did she know that elephant girls spent their entire lives in a tightly knit family?

"Elephant mom bats her eyes, telling her baby to reach for the sky."

Chelsea helped Leo with the dishes. As she stowed the meatb.a.l.l.s and washed the pot in soapy water, she realized that it had been months since she had stood at the sink beside her husband.

"I've been so out of it," she said. "You've been doing all of this stuff since Annie was born. If I were you, I'd be annoyed with me."

"Nah. You had your issues." He dried the plastic sauce spoon and shoved it in the holder. "But I'm glad you're back."

The phone rang, and they both turned to check the caller ID.

Grace Santos.

A knot twisted painfully in Chelsea's stomach as Leo nodded toward the phone. "Go ahead."

Her mouth was dry. "Grace, have you found her?"

"Not yet, but I did get the lab report back, and I know you and Leo will want to hear this. The m.u.f.fins checked out fine, but the frosting was laced with a strong sedative."

"What?" When Leo turned to her, she pressed the speakerphone b.u.t.ton. "I've got you on speaker, Grace. Leo is here."

"I was just saying that the baked goods left on your porch contained a sedative. A prescription sleep medication, and plenty of it."

"Really." Leo winced. "So someone planned this. Someone set Chelsea up."

"It appears that way."

Chelsea's throat grew tight as the truth set in. Someone had drugged her and then stolen her baby while she was asleep. She hadn't acted out one of her dark visions from the postpartum depression insanity.

"So it was the drugs . . . that's why I didn't hear the intruder. That's why I can't remember where I left Annie or how I got to bed."

"Memory loss can be a side effect of this type of drug. Dizziness, disorientation. Some people report sleepwalking, even episodes where they get in the car and drive without knowing how they got there."

Leo came up behind her and gently pulled her against him. "I guess the next question is, who would do this to Chelsea?"

"And what kind of person masterminds a kidnapping this way? I mean, what does it mean about our chances of finding Annie?"

"This type of planning is typical of an infant abductor," Grace said. "It helps to fill out the profile of our suspect. I just wish the fingerprints at the scene were more definitive. Right now there are some partial prints that we haven't been able to identify."

It wasn't really an answer to her question, but Chelsea was getting used to hearing the detective think out loud. Grace went on to mention something being off with Helen Rosekind's credentials. They were still investigating it, but had trouble reaching Helen. Leo pa.s.sed on her contact number, and they ended the call.

"I will never eat another m.u.f.fin again," Chelsea vowed.

"I'm glad Grace figured out why you couldn't remember that night," Leo said, "but this is really scary. What if you'd eaten all the m.u.f.fins?"

"There's too much trauma going on now to play the 'what if' game."

"You're right." Leo's arms tightened around her, and she leaned into him, feeling loved and secure.

"What do you think she's doing now?" Chelsea asked. "I keep worrying that she's not being fed or changed."

"I know. I hope someone's talking to her . . . holding her. Or maybe not. Maybe it's better for her to get really annoyed with them. She has that angry face now, right? She should lay that on the kidnapper, with one of those shrieking wails that can take the paint off a wall."

Thoughts of the baby made her aware of the heaviness in her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "I need to pump again."

"Okay, Chels." Leo placed a kiss on her cheek and his arms fell away.

Sitting on the bed upstairs, with the machine humming, she tried to relax at the thought of Annie's little laugh, which they'd be hearing more of, come the fourth month.

If we get you back, I'll make sure you laugh every day, Chelsea promised. Things will be different.

The ritual of expressing milk had become Chelsea's own vigil to draw her daughter back to her. If she kept producing milk, Annabelle would return. Those bottles lined up in the fridge, carefully labeled and dated, would not go to waste.

When she finished, she carefully labeled the bottle and carried it down to the kitchen to store it. Leo was putting away the dry pots as she leaned into the fridge and blinked.

The bottles were gone.

"Leo?" She shuddered as betrayal chilled her veins. "I had seven or eight bottles in here . . . what happened to them?"

Chapter 38.

"Did you enjoy your time with your dad?" she asked. "You know I didn't want to leave you, but it's good for a baby to be with her daddy, too."

Annabelle twisted away from the voice, her face puckering. She was tired and hungry and the sweet voice wasn't helping either of those things. She whimpered, clawed at her chin, whimpered again.

"I know you're hungry." The woman pressed the nipple to her lips. "Drink up, little one. This is much better for you than the formula you've been getting."

Annabelle frowned when her lips were teased with the rubber nub. This wasn't good and familiar. It was too hard, attached to something even harder and colder.

"Come on." The voice was patient. "You must be hungry."

The baby attached her lips to the cold nub and began to suck.

"That's it." The woman wriggled into a different position, not so comfortable for the baby, who had to stretch her neck to get the bottle.

"Is it yummy? This is what you need."

Her face, at the end of the long shaft of the bottle, was familiar. Round eyes and a s.h.i.+ny nose the baby could almost reach out and grasp. She had lips, too, but the baby rarely saw them smiling like the big smile that sang to her each night. A low, rumbly voice that made her smile, too.

"And just so you know, I thought of everything. Those first two bottles? Poured them down the drain, just in case there was any trace of the sedative left." Her big eyes came close. "I can't have my baby girl getting anything that might hurt her."

Annabelle blinked. This was different, and she missed the warm, soft body she always melted into at feeding time.

"Drink up now, baby girl. It's mother's milk. Very good for you," she said as Annabelle looked at her sternly. "Probably the only good thing she ever gave you."

Chapter 39.

"So, best case scenario, what is this old man going to tell us?" Chris asked as they waited for Ira Rosekind to appear in the reception area of the a.s.sisted living facility.

"All about Helen Rosekind." Grace smiled at an older woman who walked past at a good clip. "We know she's not the woman who was providing nursing services for Annabelle Green, but maybe there's a link between Rosekind and the woman operating under her nursing credentials. If the sitter is faking it, she must have gotten Rosekind's credentials somehow. Maybe they met. It's worth a shot."

"You know, we should have thought of the baby nurse earlier," Chris said. "That's part of the profile in a lot of infant abductions. They pose as medical personnel."

"You're right."

"A little late to be right. I have this weakness with doctors and nurses. I tend to trust them," Chris said, a wry look on his face as he watched a nurse in formfitting white pants push a wheelchair toward them.

The man in the chair was hunched over but alert, his eyes s.h.i.+ning behind silver spectacles.

"This is Mr. Rosekind," the nurse said.

"Ira Rosekind. And I gotta say, I don't get visits from police detectives every day. Tongues are going to be wagging around here."

Grace was charmed by his begrudging smile. "Mr. Rosekind, thank you for seeing us. We have a few questions about your wife, Helen."

"May she rest in peace. Or are you here to tell me she faked her death and ran off to Tahiti with a younger man?"

Chris shot the man a grin. "Is that what you suspect?"

"Ach! No." Ira waved off the notion. "I was there when she pa.s.sed. My Helen is gone. That's why I'm wondering why you're here." He c.o.c.ked his head. "Why are you here?"

"We're trying to locate an infant who's been abducted," Grace said. No need to beat around the bush.

The old man squinted. "The Annabelle Green case? I saw that on television. That's a terrible thing. What does my Helen have to do with that?"

"It appears that the woman who's worked as a baby nurse for this nice couple has been posing as your wife," Grace explained.

"Is that right?" He shook his head. "I have to say, that part doesn't surprise me. Some shyster stole Helen's ident.i.ty after she died. How's that for the bottom of the barrel? Stealing from the dead!"

"How'd you find out about it?" Chris asked.