UNDERGROUND

  IN OCEAN ALLEY

  ELAINE L. ORR

  Copyright © 2018 Elaine L. Orr

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN: 978-1-948070-08-9

  Library of Congress Preassigned Number:

  DEDICATION

  To the next generation: Ellie, Sadie, Grayson, Peyton, and Caitlin. May they all love to read.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  With thanks to the Decatur Critique Group – Angela, Dave, Debbie, Marilyn, and both Sues.

  CHAPTER ONE

  I’VE GOTTEN USED TO people asking about our three-year old twins Lance and Leah. They are cut-ups, of course, but they are best known for their chaotic births.

  I knew when my water broke that Scoobie and I needed to hustle to Ocean Alley’s Hospital. My smart husband credits a sixth sense for calling an ambulance to take us there. He says my expression was akin to a mix of bad gas and a hard kick to the kidney.

  In any event, Lance was born in the ambulance and Leah just inside the emergency room entrance. Better than the lobby, I suppose.

  Aunt Madge says the heavens looked upon us kindly, and Scoobie’s best friend George wishes he had organized a pool to wager on the time between first pain and first baby.

  Three years later, afternoons are about the only quiet time I get. The twins take a nap, bread dough is ready to go into the oven, and Cozy Corner B&B guests are about town or in their rooms. I don’t nap but I close my eyes.

  The sharp rap on the front door jerked me awake. For a second I wasn’t sure whether I was in the B&B or Scoobie’s and my place. Home, I was home. So the person at the door would likely be someone I knew. I didn’t bother to check my hair in the hall mirror.

  A glance out the peep hole showed the buds that had turned to light green leaves on our maple tree, and a familiar shape. I opened the door. “Sergeant Morehouse. Haven’t seen you in ages.”

  “You musta been behaving, Jolie.”

  I stood aside so he could enter, and quietly closed the door. “Twins are sleeping. They just…” I took in the bags under his eyes and haggard expression. He looked older than his forty-odd years. “Are you sick?”

  “No.” He’s been in our living room many times, so he settled himself on the sofa and gestured that I should sit near him.

  Any other time I’d have thought this presumptuous behavior in my own home, but today I could tell something had him on edge. “What’s up?”

  “I’m looking for Kevin.”

  “Gee, now that the boys are in high school, we mostly only see him at track practice.”

  He nodded. “Yeah, I thought Terry mighta heard from him.”

  “Heard from him? Where is he?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “But, your sister knows, right?” Morehouse spent a lot of time with his two nephews, and Scoobie’s much younger brother Terry was close to Kevin. At Morehouse’s request, Kevin, a year older than Terry, had introduced Terry to other kids in middle school when the death of their father brought Terry to Scoobie and me four years ago.

  “She’s worried sick. His bed was empty this morning, and he didn’t show up at school.”

  A soft grunt from the baby monitor drew our attention, but when nothing else followed I looked back at Morehouse. “Kevin wouldn’t run away would he? I mean, he’s never been in trouble or anything.”

  Morehouse ran a hand through his closely cropped hair and stood to pace our long living room. “He’s been moody since that emergency appendectomy a couple months ago. We thought maybe some effect from the anesthesia.”

  I nodded slowly. “I saw him throw the baton when he missed handing it off in the relay a couple weeks ago, but I guess I don’t see him enough to have noticed moodiness.”

  Morehouse’s phone beeped and he read a message. “Huh. You know Sandra Cartwright at the hospital?”

  “Friend of Aunt Madge’s. Director of nursing.” And also attended Aunt Madge and Harry’s church, First Presbyterian, or First Prez as it’s called. She also helped a few times at Harvest for All Food Pantry, which is located at the church.

  “Yeah. Looks like she maybe had a heart attack yesterday, then fell and hit her head. Madge is all over town these days. Did she hear about it?”

  “I think she would have called. Sorry to hear.”

  He studied the message. “Our guys did a wellness check. Her day off yesterday, so no one had looked.”

  Ugh. “She always looked so healthy. She wasn’t even sixty was she?”

  Morehouse shook his head. “Probably about that. Too damn bad.” He stuffed his phone in the pocket of his polyester pants. “But no need for police, so I gotta get back to the station to get the guys to help me put up signs. I’m hopin’ the chief’ll authorize an Amber Alert.”

  “Doesn’t there have to be an indication of potential harm…” I stopped. “I’ll help put up signs. I can take the kids in the stroller to the boardwalk, and go in all the businesses.”

  He smiled slightly. “All that stroller walking. No one would know you got kids if you weren’t pushing ‘em.”

  I took that as a compliment that I didn’t look my thirty-four years. My five-foot-three frame actually looks more fit than before the kids. “Thanks.”

  He turned to leave. Over his shoulder, he said, “Ask Terry to call me, would you?”

  “Sure.” I stayed seated, and Morehouse remembered not to bang the door as he left.

  As I thought about it, I vaguely recalled Terry telling Scoobie that Kevin had been a butt-head about something, but I didn’t know what the issue was. I gazed around our cozy living room and tried to imagine our house if Terry were suddenly gone. I shivered.

  Maybe Kevin was out of sorts about his grades or a girl. Surely he would be back soon.

  When in doubt, I call Aunt Madge. Now that she’s running for mayor of Ocean Alley, she is all over our two-mile long, twelve-block deep town. I’m trying to bother her less.

  As I listened to her phone ring, I remembered that she and her husband-campaign-manager Harry had several meetings Monday afternoon, including at Silver Times Senior Living. She said if she couldn’t grab the senior vote she didn’t stand a chance of winning.

  I smiled as I thought of her campaign slogan: Madge for Mayor: Let Experience Speak for You. Scoobie altered two of her signs to say: Madge for Boss: Do What She Says. They are under other signs in a pile on her coffee table, so she hasn’t seen them yet.

  My call went to voice mail. “Just saying hello. And Sergeant Morehouse says to keep an eye out for his nephew Kevin. He’s…” I didn’t want to say missing. “He’s upset about something. You don’t need to call me unless you see him.” I hung up without mentioning Sandra Cartwright. Better to relay that news in person, or at least on the phone rather than in a message.

  I sent a quick email about Kevin and Sandra Cartwright to Megan, who volunteers with Scoobie and me a lot at the food pantry. Since Megan also runs Java Jolt coffee shop, she would be able to let others know about finding Kevin and remembering Sandra.

  At the end of the email, I asked her to let Max know. He loves to assist almost anyone, and helps Megan empty trash and such at Java Jolt, a form of thanks for the broken pastry pieces she supplies him with.

  The always-good-natured Max sustained a TBI during the Iraq War. He has become part of our network of friends, not a friend I would have expected to have, and one whose repetitive speech patterns sometimes confuse the twins.

  I glanced at the clock on the mantle above our fireplace. At roughly three-fifteen, Scoobie would arrive home after work in the hospital’s Radiology Department. I’d head next door to the Cozy Corner to put the two loaves of bread, already rising, into Aunt Madge’s oven.

  Sandra's death would hit the hospital hard at any time, but especially now. In a tourist town like Ocean Alley, the hospital is busiest during the peak season. At the Jersey shore that's summer, so the hospital was gearing up.

  Scoobie had mentioned the hospital inpatient census was especially low this winter. That meant less income and reduced hours for some staff. So far, Scoobie hadn't been affected. But some people grumbled, and Sandra had a gift for calming staff as well as patients.

  I took a few minutes to put lunch cutlery in the dishwasher and toss trucks and balls into the toy box at the far end of the living room. If someone had told me four years ago that Scoobie and I would not only be married but the parents of three-year old twins, I’d have scoffed at the idea. Or freaked out.

  When we looked for a new house before the twins were born, we’d been thrilled to find the large Cape Cod cottage, on D Street next to the B&B, on the market. Our friend Lester Argrow, the most annoying real estate agent in Ocean Alley, knew we were looking and persuaded the couple who owned it to sell a year earlier than they planned.

  He told us he’d informed them he foresaw a dip in home prices. Apparently he also implied Aunt Madge was ill, because when we moved in they pronounced her recovery “miraculous.” I never bothered to ask Lester what they meant.

  The front door opened and Scoobie came into the kitchen and kissed my cheek. “Hello, Domestic Goddess.”

  “Very Funny.” I kissed him on the lips. An afternoon kiss, not a bedtime kiss. ”Kids are still sleeping.”

  He grabbed a banana from a bowl on the kitchen table. “How’s Leah’s cold?”

  “Much better, but I’m starting to think Lance might be coming down with it.”

  He mimicked my mother’s tone of voic
e. “You need to get those children on a schedule.”

  I threw the sponge at him. “I think they’re coming for Thanksgiving.”

  Scoobie simply nodded. My mother is a thorn in anyone’s side, but his mother had been more or less evil incarnate. I try to be grateful for my parents’ interest in the twins. And be glad she and Dad live in Florida.

  I opened the fridge and took out apple juice to fill the twins’ sippy cups. “Sergeant Morehouse came by. He…”

  “What did you do?”

  I looked at Scoobie, half in irritation, and had to smile when he wiggled his eyebrows at me. “He had a serious request.” I relayed the information about Kevin, then remembered to add the sad news about Sandra Cartwright.

  Scoobie sank onto a chair near the kitchen table. “Gee. No word on Sandra at the hospital before I left for home.”

  “Morehouse got a text while he was here. He said something about no one having checked earlier because yesterday was her day off.”

  Scoobie squared his shoulders. “Damned shame, but let’s focus on Kevin first. Terry was irritated at him the other day. Something about Kevin missing track practice and Terry having to time the other runners for the coach.”

  I tightened the lid on Lance’s cup. He’s managed to unscrew it a few times. “I wouldn’t think that translated into running away.”

  Scoobie tossed the banana peel into the trash can under the sink. “But if Morehouse doesn’t think Kevin would just hoof it, something’s going on. When the twins wake up, I’ll load them in the Odyssey and we can watch track practice. Maybe I’ll pick up something.”

  The monitor announced that Leah was awake. “Gotta get to the Cozy Corner.” I blew Scoobie a kiss. “Have fun, Daddy.”

  And he would.

  I half jogged from our wide front porch to the wrap-around one on the three-story Victorian B&B. Aunt Madge bought it thirty years ago, just after Uncle Gordon died. She repaints it a soft blue with white trim every few years, and her carpentry skills keep it in great shape. Since Harry moved from his place to hers, she has a helper.

  I keyed in the code on the pad at the outside door, which opens into a small hallway near the guests’ breakfast room. George added the keypad to Aunt Madge’s security system a couple of years ago. She loves it. She tells guests the code and then changes it weekly.

  Aunt Madge has the only B&B in town that provides an afternoon snack, which partially explains why the B&B is as busy as she wants it to be. Which sometimes is not busy at all. I noticed yesterday that her calendar showed the week before the upcoming municipal election as a time not to accept any more guests.

  I turned on the Tiffany lamp on the sideboard, just outside the great room. I would serve the hot bread – plain and cheddar cheese – on it, along with the tea. Sitting next to the lamp was a framed photo of Aunt Madge’s dogs, Mister Rogers and Miss Piggy. My black cat, Jazz, sat on Mister Rogers’ back.

  When I first moved into the B&B seven years ago, Jazz terrified the dogs. Now they can’t get enough of each other. But the dogs are old, roughly ten. Aunt Madge adopted the exuberant retrievers from the local shelter, so their ages are estimates.

  The twins use the dogs as pillows when they play in Aunt Madge’s great room. I dread the thought of one of them passing.

  I walked through the swinging door that separates the guests’ breakfast room from Aunt Madge and Harry’s living space. Their great room, a combined kitchen and living room, is my favorite place on earth. Scoobie would not be jealous. He loves to be here, too.

  The pecan cabinetry and butcher-block countertops are relatively new, and blend well with the oak table and antique ice box. Kind of like Aunt Madge. A perfect mix of old and innovative.

  The great room opens onto the back deck. I felt chilly. The thermostat showed sixty-five, so I switched on the heat before turning on the oven.

  A glance out the sliding glass door showed the dogs curled into each other on a large bean-bag bed on the back porch. Aunt Madge and I coordinate their trips outside during her campaign.

  I went to the counter to peer under the towel covering the rising dough. Terry, a much better cook than I, likes to punch it down and put it in the bread pans to bake. But he wouldn’t be home in time today.

  However, three minutes later he charged into the great room, dropped his backpack on the floor, and stared at me. “Kevin is missing!”

  I pointed at the large oak table. “His uncle told me. Sit.”

  He glanced at the counter. “I can punch the bread while we talk.” He walked to the sink and began to wash his hands.

  “Scoobie was going to go to track practice to see if there was news, but I gather it’s been called off?”

  He dried his hands and pulled the bowl to him. “Yeah. We’re spreading out to see if we can find him. I wanted to tell you guys and then I’m going into the Popsicle District to walk the streets.”

  I studied his handsome, fifteen-year old profile. Except that he lacks a beard and has brown hair rather than blonde like Scoobie, the brothers look much alike. Well, half-brothers, but we’ve never used the term.

  Terry arrived, not merely unannounced but unknown, on our wedding night four years ago. Life changed forever.

  We’d expected to be parents in a few months, but the addition of a grieving ten-year old gave us instant experience. He’s more like a son to us than brother or brother-in-law. The twins call him their brother, in large part because Terry announced he didn’t want to be called uncle. We’ll eventually sort it out for them.

  They recently asked why Scoobie and Terry have the last name O’Brien, and mine is Gentil. I kept my family name because neither my parents or my dad’s brother had sons. The name would be gone if I didn’t keep it.

  Gentil means nice in French and Jolie means pretty. Clearly my dad’s French Canadian ancestry was in full bloom when he suggested the name for his second daughter. Or, as Scoobie says, he could have been smoking something.

  Terry hit the rising dough as if it was a punching bag. “The thing is, I knew something was bothering him. I asked him a bunch of times. Last time he told me to F off, and I’ve hardly talked to him for a week.”

  I took plates from a cabinet. “You don’t feel guilty do you?”

  His shoulders bent forward. “Kinda do.”

  “Don’t. He made his choice for some reason that made sense to him. We’ll help find him and bring him home.” I said this with more confidence than I felt. If Kevin had left the night before, he’d have a big head start. “Did he take his car?”

  Terry shook his head. “That’s why we’re looking in town.” He placed the two loaves into baking pans and then the oven.

  Something occurred to me. “How did you get here if Kevin didn’t drop you off?”

  He picked up his backpack and walked with me into the breakfast room. “I’m gonna jog over to the Popsicle District. Can I call you guys for a ride back?”

  “Sure. Wait. Call Scoobie. He may have already loaded the Odyssey to take the twins to the high school. He can pick you up and drive you to the Popsicle District. There's a stroller in the van.”

  It registered that Terry had not answered my question about a ride home, but I decided not to push it. He pulled out his phone and punched the number for Scoobie as he walked out of the Cozy Corner.

  I could envision him walking through the neighborhood of multi-colored bungalows, peering into yards and the occasional vacant house. In early May, most summer cottages had not opened for the season. Better to have Scoobie and the twins with him than someone call to report a burglar.

  I spent the next hour setting up for the afternoon snack, wiping my kids’ fingerprints off the sliding glass door in the great room, and letting the dogs in and out to play in the small back yard. In between tasks, I made a final to-do list for the Harvest for All fundraiser, which would take place on the boardwalk in a few days.

  For the first time, we had a Cinco de Mayo theme. Megan’s daughter Alicia has Hispanic heritage through her father, and over the winter she teased me about the Mexicans defeating the French attack in 1862. Scoobie chimed in and said she could put her cultural pride to work and help us plan the next fundraiser around a Cinco de Mayo theme.