The last thing John felt prepared to deal with when he got home that night was mother-daughter drama. But that’s exactly what he encountered, even though his daughter’s mother lived one hundred and fifty miles away.
“Hi, Dad.” Katie was waiting for him in the dining room. This was a bad sign. If she was not in her room, on her phone, texting with her cousin Nevaeh, it meant something was wrong.
John, being a trained investigator and also a father, could tell that even more was wrong than usual, because Katie had cooked. Katie did not enjoy cooking and usually ate at Nevaeh’s house or waited for him to bring home takeout.
But tonight, she obviously wanted something from him, since she’d not only set the dining room table using all of their best china—his ex, Christina, guilt-stricken over leaving him with primary custody, had also left him with all of their wedding presents and all of the furniture they’d collected during their thirteen years of marriage—but also thrown something into the oven that smelled suspiciously like Katie’s go-to emergency healthy-dinner recipe, chicken marinated in salad dressing.
John realized it was going to be a long night and threw off his hat and tie, undid his belt, and went to the refrigerator for a beer.
“What’s up, Katie?”
“Dad.” Katie followed him into the kitchen. “I know you’ve had a busy day. I heard about the baby. Is he okay?”
“She. And the baby’s fine.”
John opened the oven door and glanced inside. Yep. There it was. Assorted chicken parts floating in store-bought low-calorie Italian salad dressing. Not that it wouldn’t be tasty, even if it was fairly healthy. It’s just that she only made it when—
“Well, that’s good. I heard people are calling her Baby Garbage Sacks—”
“What?” John cracked open his beer with more force than he’d meant to, startled by her words.
“Baby Garbage Sacks,” Katie said. “On account of her being found in the library in a garbage bag?”
“Of all the—” Now John was annoyed. “Where did you hear that?”
Katie shrugged her thin shoulders. “It’s all over Facebook.”
“Well, please inform your Facebook followers or friends or whatever they are that the baby was not found in a garbage sack but in a box, and—oh, hell.” He took a swig from his beer. “I’ll have Marguerite do it in the morning.”
In addition to being an excellent sergeant, Marguerite Ruiz also ran the sheriff’s web page, on which John kept the public up to date on important information such as who had been arrested for what lately. The discovery of this baby at the library would fall into that category. He couldn’t have misinformation floating around, especially given the fact that, upon pulling into his office earlier, he’d found his desk almost literally covered in boxes of diapers, pacifiers, and baby clothes and toys. And not just his desk, either, but the desks of his deputies, all of whom seemed to think the donations were a hilarious joke.
But it wasn’t a joke. The good people of Little Bridge—and even neighboring islands—were donating this stuff for the infant he now knew they referred to as Baby Garbage Sacks, or some such nonsense. They were donating the things out of the kindness of their hearts, of course, but it wasn’t necessary. The infant was in perfectly good hands at the NICU, and as soon as she was deemed healthy enough—which the doctors had assured him would be soon—she’d be transferred into foster care, probably with the Russells, who were damned fine people. There was no need for all this donated formula and Tickle Me Elmos. It certainly didn’t look professional around the office, especially since his deputies kept tickling them and setting them off for laughs.
“Well, that’s good, Dad,” Katie said. She was hovering around him as he pulled off his boots. “That’s really great to hear. I’ll be sure to let everyone know. . . . So, Dad, there’s this dance at school—”
“What’s his name?” John realized he was going to need a second beer. He tried to stick with only one per day on school nights, but if there was going to be a discussion about a boy taking his daughter to a dance, he might need two to get through it, depending on who the boy was.
“It’s not that kind of dance, Dad,” Katie said with a laugh. “It’s a dance performance. I’m giving it, with the Snappettes.”
John relaxed. “Oh, your dance troupe. Oh, that’s fine, Katie, fine. Congratulations. When is it? I’ll make sure I’m there.”
With his new position as county sheriff had come a lot of responsibilities John hadn’t had as a detective. His social calendar was full, although not in the way he would have liked. He was constantly being called upon to attend fundraisers and political events that required him to wear his dress uniform, often outdoors in the blazing heat. It was a wonder to him that he had time to solve any crime, let alone ones as bewildering—and complicated—as the High School Thief and the Garbage Bag Baby.
His daughter’s dance recital would be a welcome relief—he’d be sure to have Marguerite mark it down on the schedule as a priority. Katie really was a talented dancer, and the school auditorium was fortunately air-conditioned.
“Dad, you’re not listening. It’s a special dance.” Katie sank into one of the dining room chairs beside him. Christina had insisted on ultrasuede because it’d been both stylish at the time and wouldn’t show dirt with the baby—Katie. Christina had had all the chairs stain guarded. They looked as new as the day they’d arrived, much like Katie’s eyes, as blue as his own, but of course years younger and filled with an innocence he’d lost long ago looking at burned-up corpses in dumpsters in Miami back when he’d worked homicide there. “It’s a mother-daughter dance.”
He nearly choked on his beer. “A what now?”
“A mother-daughter dance. Every year all of the Snappettes from previous classes get together and perform onstage with the current Snappettes. They do a really old number from like, the nineties, and then a number that the current class of Snappettes is working on. It’s one of the biggest fundraisers of the year.”
John shook his head in bewilderment. “Fund-raiser for what?”
“For the Snappettes, of course. You know we’ve been invited to perform at the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day Parade next year. It’s a huge honor, but we need to provide for airfare and housing, plus costumes, for thirty girls and eight chaperones. That’s a lot of money.”
John nodded as if he understood what she was talking about. It seemed like he was always doing this. Ever since his pretty, vivacious daughter had auditioned for and gotten into the high school’s all-female dance troupe, she’d been happier than he could ever remember her being. This was good, since she’d been a little down, first over the divorce, then the move to Little Bridge, and then finally her best friend’s acquisition of a boyfriend, Marquis Fairweather, a fine young man of whom John approved because he did well in school, played sports, and kept himself out of trouble.
Even though the Snappettes’ name was absurd (literally, they were named after the fish most commonly found in the local waters, the red and yellowtail snapper) and seemed to rehearse an ungodly number of hours, Katie loved the camaraderie and creative outlet of her school dance troupe.
“Dance,” she’d informed her father dreamily one day after another grueling four-hour rehearsal, “is my life, Dad.”
So what was one more performance now?
“Well, honey,” he said, taking another swig of his beer. “Sounds good to me. I will definitely be there. How long till we eat? That chicken smells good.”
“No, Dad,” Katie said. She was scowling. “I don’t think you heard what I said. It’s a mother-daughter dance.”
He was still confused. “Well, no, I heard you. And you can invite your mother down for it. I’m sure if you give her the date in enough time, she’ll be able to—”
“Dad, you don’t understand.” Katie’s voice had gone hard as flint. “The mothers and the daughters perform in the dance together. Onstage. Rehearsals start now. And continue for the next twelve weeks. The performance is in June.”
Now John realized what the problem was. And why he probably was going to need a second beer after all.
“Well, honey,” he said, carefully. “I don’t think that sounds real fair to the girls like you whose mothers don’t live on the island. Or what about girls whose mothers are too busy with their jobs to spend twelve weeks rehearsing for a dance?”
He knew for a fact that several of the girls’ mothers on Katie’s dance team fell into this category. Like Molly Montgomery, for instance. Not that she had any children—he knew this, because, God help him, he’d found a little time to google her and discovered her social media page (she had only one). He’d learned from it that she was completely devoted to her job as a children’s librarian. Or at least that’s what he assumed since she only posted pictures of books and links related to books, libraries, and reading. There were no photos of herself—no selfies that some women seemed to love so much—and not a single photo of whoever had given her the ring that was now gone from her left hand.
This, he felt, was a good sign. Of what, he wasn’t sure.
“And how about the girls who don’t have mothers?” he asked. “Or who have two dads? Or whose mothers can’t dance? What if there’s a girl who has a mother like me, who has two left feet?” He did a fumbling step-ball-change, attempting to lighten the mood. “Are they gonna make those moms perform anyway?”
Katie did not crack a smile. “Of course they aren’t. People like Leila’s mom, who runs her own restaurant, or Sharmaine’s mom, who’s a surgeon, or Kayla’s mom, who just had a baby—obviously no one expects their moms to participate. We have some of the old Snappettes alumni coming back to take their places. It’s fine. We’ll be fine. Except—”
He saw those blue eyes he loved so much fill with tears. It was exactly as he’d feared. Something was wrong.
“Except what, sweetheart?” He reached out to brush back a soft lock of her dark hair as she bent her head.
“Except I asked Mom if she would dance with us, and she said no. She’d just make a donation.”
He’d known this was coming, of course. Of course she’d already asked Christina, and of course Christina had said no. What else could Christina say? She had a thriving design business back on the mainland. It took three hours—and that was in good traffic—to drive to Little Bridge, and another three hours to get back. She couldn’t spend that much time driving back and forth for twelve weeks of rehearsals, several times a week.
And for what? A fundraiser? It was simpler to send a check. Which is what practical, level-headed Christina had very sensibly offered to do instead—especially considering how much they’d already paid for all of Katie’s dance gear and choreography fees, which was nearing a thousand dollars for the year so far.
“But that isn’t the point,” Katie explained to John, who’d wrapped his arms around his daughter, pulling her in for a big bear hug as she sobbed. “It isn’t about the m-money!”
“I know,” he said into her hair as he patted and rocked her. “I know. But we’ve talked about this before. You’re mother just isn’t—”
“—that maternal.” Katie pushed away from him and wiped her eyes. “I know. She’s never been like other moms. She loves me, but in her own way.”
John looked down at his daughter’s wounded face and wished there was something he could say that would make the hurt go away, but he knew that there wasn’t. Lord knows he’d spent enough time in marriage counseling with Christina to learn that she’d given all she could to the two of them, and that the offer to run for sheriff of Little Bridge had been the best thing ever to happen, as it had given them both the chance to make a clean break—from one another.
“But,” Katie said, pulling her phone from her back pocket—it was never far from her—and studying her reflection in it to see how much damage the tears had done to her eyeliner, “Mom not wanting to be in it isn’t a total loss. It kind of gave me an idea.”
“Oh?” John examined his beer bottle. If he was careful, there was enough left in it to get him through dinner. “What’s that?”
“Well, I think the whole mother-daughter dance thing is kind of sexist, anyway. I mean, it’s so done, you know?”
“Yeah, I agree. What do they think, women don’t have jobs?” His thoughts wandered, once again, to the pretty librarian he’d met earlier in the day. What would Molly Montgomery have to say about the idea of a mother-daughter dance? Plenty, he imagined. She certainly had plenty to say about every other subject, especially his job and how he performed it, which according to her was not very well.
The bell on the timer chimed in the kitchen, letting them know that the chicken was ready. Katie sprang to her feet to pull it from the oven, suddenly joyous again. John occasionally envied teenagers and their ability to swing from the pits of sorrow to the heights of happiness in mere seconds.
“Well, I started thinking: Why does it have to be a mother-daughter dance, anyway?” Katie asked from the kitchen. “Just because traditionally the Snappettes have always been female. But why can’t there be a male Snappette? There’s no rule that says there can’t be.”
John nodded at this, absently peeling away the label on his beer bottle. “Did you know that President George W. Bush was a cheerleader?” he asked. “And so was Eisenhower. And Samuel L. Jackson.” He wondered if Molly Montgomery knew this. Probably she did, because she was a librarian. He wondered why he cared so much what Molly knew. He doubted she’d given him a second thought, except to curse him, maybe. She had definitely not looked up his social media. Not that he had any, except the departmental sheriff’s account that Marguerite ran. “Many great men in our history have been male cheerleaders.”
“I keep telling you, the Snappettes are dancers, not cheerleaders, Daddy.” Katie came out of the kitchen with a large platter of delicious-smelling chicken in her oven-mitted hands. “So my idea is that, in cases where a mom can’t, for whatever reason, be in the mother-daughter dance, then dads should be allowed to fill their place.”
John eyed the gently steaming pile of chicken. Legs and thighs were his favorite, and there were plenty of these, each browned to perfection and oozing their juices on the platter before him.
“That’s a great idea, honey,” he said, inhaling the savory scent of the chicken. “You should totally do it. Now, why don’t you sit down and eat with me before this chicken gets cold?”
“Really, Daddy?” Katie slid into her favorite chair, beaming. “You mean it?”
“Of course I mean it. You make the best chicken on this island.”
“No, I mean, you’ll be in the Snappettes mother-daughter dance in Mom’s place? You know everyone would love it—you being the sheriff and all—and it would be a great thing, proving how sexist the whole thing is. And it would raise a ton of money—”
John spat out the swig of beer he’d taken, which was unfortunate, since it was the last of the beer from the bottle.
“Daddy?” Katie asked. “Is everything all right?”
“Everything’s fine,” he said, in a tone he hoped sounded convincing.
“So does that mean you’ll do it?”
He gave her a wan smile as he rose from his chair. “Of course I’ll do it. Anything for you, honey.”
“Then where are you going?”
“Just to the fridge.”
Molly Montgomery was going to see him onstage with the Snappettes. He might as well have another beer.
