Coffee, Kids, and a Kidnapping (A Charlotte Ritter Mystery Book 1)

  Copyright © 2017 Alyssa Helton

  All rights reserved.

  Cover Design by Melissa Stevens of The Illustrated Author Design Services

  Ebook formatting by Melissa Stevens of The Illustrated Author Design Services

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Table of Contents

  DEDICATION

  CHAPTER ONE

  CHAPTER TWO

  CHAPTER THREE

  CHAPTER FOUR

  CHAPTER FIVE

  CHAPTER SIX

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  CHAPTER NINE

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR'S NOTE

  OTHER WORKS

  COMING SOON

  THE LION TAMER'S DAUGHTER

  This book is dedicated to my three amazing children. They inspire me to keep fighting, keep moving forward, and to keep reaching for the stars. I love you more than coffee!

  chapter one

  Honk! Honk!

  “Mom, the light’s green! Go!” squealed my thirteen year old daughter.

  “I can, believe it or not, see colors. It’s this van. It’s twelve years old. It doesn’t take off at break-neck speed.”

  “It’s just that if I’m late for practice, I have to run the fence.”

  “Coach Jim will understand.”

  “If I have good behavior, I get a soda right?” came a voice from the far back seat of the van.

  “Yes, Tommy. Good behavior while your sister practices softball, and you get a green Sprite.” I nodded, trying not to get to flustered.

  We pulled into the ballfield parking lot with three minutes to spare. Carrie jumped out and ran to join her team. All that worry about running…

  Tommy held onto my arm as we walked to the stands. He was fifteen and nearly six feet tall, but autism didn’t allow him to be a typical teenager. He wiggled his fingers in front of his face and scripted lines from Monsters, Inc.

  “I love you, schmoozy poo!” he said, giggling.

  Finding a spot on the end of a row, I sat down while Tommy paced back and forth in the grass behind the dugout. He wore headphones connected to an older iPod Touch that we got for a great deal on Ebay. He sat and watched YouTube videos of his favorite shows: Rugrats, Spongebob, Annoying Orange and anything by Pixar. Thank God the park had Wi-Fi.

  The bleachers were aluminum and had gotten scorching hot in the Florida sun. Whoever’s idea it was to have metal seats and no awning to cover them ought to be strung up by his heels. I spread out a blanket to sat on it and took a sip of my hazelnut coffee I’d brought from home.

  “Carrie, do you have water?” I yelled towards the dugout.

  “Yeah, Mom! I grabbed a bottle out of the cooler!”

  She played for the Pirates and they wore black baseball pants and black shirts with black hats. Did I mention the Florida sun? I worried about her dehydrating or at least getting overheated. Being a blonde, she had a fair complexion.

  “Everybody out on the field! Let’s move!” Coach Jim shouted in gruff tone.

  The girls poured out onto the field and get into position. Carrie was playing shortstop for the first time this season, and she was ready for action. Knees bent. Eyes on the batter. The ball was hit! A grounder… heading right for Carrie! She ran forward, scooped up the ball and hurled it to first. Out!

  “Good job, ladies! Stay alert in the outfield!” Coach Jim said clapping his hands and almost cracking a smile.

  Another hit and it was a pop fly toward center field. No one called it and it landed between two outfielders.

  “What was that? You gotta call it, dirt bags! Call it! What’d I say?” He shouted, no longer clapping.

  The girls answered back in unison, “Call it!”

  Sure, Coach Jim sounded a bit rough; calling them dirt bags and all, but, the girls knew he was really just a big teddy bear and they loved him. He’d call them by the wrong names and pretend to have a heart attack when they’d screw up. But, he also drilled them on good defense and had no qualms benching them if their grades dropped. He and his wife treated the team like their own kids, only a little less strict.

  “Maymay! It’s gone! They took it off forever!” Tommy came crying. It sounded like the end of the world was eminent.

  I looked at the iPod and saw that it was offline. “We just have to connect to the Wi-Fi again, buddy. I can fix it,” I assured him.

  A few seconds later, with a whispered prayer and a quick reconnect, he was back to watching his videos.

  My oldest son, Joseph—a senior in high school—had stayed home to do homework. I decided to call and check on his progress.

  “Hey, Mom. I’m working. I promise.” He said as soon as he answered the phone.

  “Hello to you, too. I was just checking in. How’s it going?”

  His voice turned pitiful. “Painfully slow. This essay is a beast. And I’m starving.”

  “You’re always starving. I’ve got supper in the crock pot. Don’t touch it! Wait ‘til we get home.” I told him with my best stern mom inflection.

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m gonna grab a soda and get back to writing.”

  “Alright. Just be thankful you have the internet to do your research. When I was in school—“

  “Yeah, I know. You had to go through catalog cards and microfiche, spend days at the library, yada, yada, blah, blah, blah.”

  “I could always break out the encyclopedias,” I quipped.

  “That’s alright. I’m thankful, really. Completely filled with gratitude for how easy I have it.”

  “That’s my boy. I’ll text you when we leave the park.”

  I know what you’re thinking. How sarcastic. How rude. Well, sarcastic, yes. But, rude? Never. Joseph was as good a kid as you could find anywhere. Sarcasm is our love language. Same with Carrie. The only one who didn’t completely grasp that concept was Tommy. Another byproduct of autism.

  It was finally Carrie’s turn at bat. The ball went right over the plate. Strike! Another ball went right through the zone. Strike 2! On the third pitch she swung her new bat and to everyone’s surprise she hit a double. I cheered and Tommy stopped watching videos long enough to clap his hands for her. Later in the practice, she caught a pop fly but I missed it because I was watching for Tommy to walk back from the bathroom. That had always been one of the toughest parts about being a single parent; especially having a special needs child. Only having one set of eyes, one set of ears and two arms. I couldn’t be everywhere I needed to be nor could I do everything I needed to do. Fortunately, the kids were old enough to realize that I did my best.

  “Mom, did you see my catch?” she asked as we’re walking towards the van after practice.

  “I saw the second one. Just heard about the first one. Sorry. Tommy had to use the restroom.”

  “No worries! At least you saw one. And next Saturday during our first game, there’ll be more for you to see!”

  “Better be!”

  We arrived home and the smell of barbecue chicken carried me through the front door like Bugs Bunny in one of those cartoons, riding a wave of a delicious smell. I dished out the pulled chicken and its tangy sauce over piles of rice because, as my kids knew well, I was the chicken and rice queen.

  “Chicken and rice version sixty-four,” I announced.

  The kids laughed and grabbed plates. Tommy sat down to his pla
ce at the table with four used soda cans now filled with water.

  “Mom, why does he do this? What is with this soda obsession?” asked Carrie, who worried about her brothers like a mother hen.

  “I’ll give you the only answer I know to give. Because autism. We may never know why he does what he does.”

  “Red Coka Coley has been fighting with green Sprite so he’s in time-out,” Tommy explained as he turned his Coke can around.

  “Oh.” replied Joseph. “Okay then. So, what’s for dessert?”

  “We just sat down to eat supper!” I shouted in joking exasperation.

  “I know. I’m just thinkin’ ahead.” He explained as he took a bite of chicken.

  “Popsicles in the freezer in the garage, watermelon in this fridge or there’s a couple cookies left from the weekend…I think. Did you get that essay completed?”

  “Yep,” he replied in between bites. “And I found seven more images for my laptop wallpaper.”

  Joseph’s autism manifested as Asperger’s. He was very high functioning; in honors classes in school, tested mid-level in his grade. But, there were quirks. Making lists, listening to music and finding images from his favorite movies and TV shows for his computer were his favorite activities. For example, just that morning he’d shared with me his list of his twenty-five favorite male actors of the big screen.

  “Can’t wait to see them,” I told him, trying my best to seem excited.

  Not that I didn’t like to see what he was interested in; I did. But, it had been a long day and I was tired. Nevertheless, I ate my watermelon while looking at pictures from Inception and Alien and discussing the evolution of special effect technology.

  The kids helped me by rinsing their dishes and placing them in the dishwasher while I wiped down the counters. Then my phone rang. It was my boss, Dan Baker, a family law attorney who specialized in custody cases and adoptions. I was his research assistant. My occupation bugged my kids to no end because I was one of the few parents who was actually more tech-savvy than the average teenager. Not with social media, but general internet searches and government documents. If you gave me a name I could find every available document on that person and their relatives going back five generations.

  “Hello, boss,” I answered.

  “Good evening, Charlotte. Sorry to bother you at home. I just remembered I’ll be in late tomorrow because I have to be in court, and I left that Williams file on my desk. Thought you might need it and would be wondering where it was.”

  “Thanks for the heads up. I do have a couple more things to finish up with that case. I brought home the Murphy files to review tonight so I can get a head start in the morning.” I said.

  “Terrific. I’ll see you and Cole around lunch time.”

  Hanging up the phone, I grabbed the dish towel and snapped it towards Carrie.

  “Aaah! What’s that for?”

  “For sneaking a second cookie! Did you really think I wouldn’t see that?”

  She and Joseph started laughing and running around the house while I chased them with the towel. Tommy grabbed his headphones and ran upstairs to escape our nonsense. It lasted about ten minutes.

  “Alright, enough of that. I’ve got some work to do, and I’m sure you’ve got homework—reading or studying or something?” I questioned Carrie.

  “Just a couple chapters to read. Won’t take me long. You’ve got more homework than we do! Why are you always bringing work home?”

  “I honestly get more research done here at home. At the office, there’s so many distractions like phone calls, finished cases to file away, paperwork for court. If I wait ‘til you all go to bed, I can sit at my desk with peace and quiet and actually focus.”

  “I get that. As long as you’re researching for work and not, oh you know, running a background check on my softball coach…or the boy that asked me to the school dance!”

  “That only happened once and technically I didn’t check his background. I checked his father’s.”

  She looked at me through squinty eyes and wrinkled her nose. “Same difference!”

  “Go read a book,” I ordered, waving her off to her room. “I’ve got laundry to do before I have to tuck Tommy in.”

  I finally got everyone settled into their rooms and told goodnight. Tommy’s ritual was no less than six steps: a hug, a kiss, him saying “goodnight,” me saying “goodnight,” him saying “be good,” and me saying, “you, too.” It had always been our thing. Yes, sometimes it felt like a drudgery, but I tried to remember it was something he needed to do in order to feel relaxed enough for bed. It was something he only did with me, and it was sweet.

  Sipping my evening tea, I start scanning pages in the file for our new adoption case. The Murphys had been the foster parents for eight year old Maddox since he was three. My job was to find any relatives that might pose a threat to the adoption. A lot of times, these relatives wanted nothing to do with raising a child that isn’t their own. Otherwise, the kid would have been placed with them for foster care. Occasionally, however, a relative would catch wind of an upcoming adoption and cause an uproar; either because they felt the child should remain in the family or they thought they’d get financial benefits if they took custody. In this case, Maddox’s parents were both killed when the meth lab they were running exploded. No living grandparents. No siblings. No one coming forward to claim this little boy. No one, that is, except the Murphys.

  My eyes were so heavy, I could barely read any of the documents—no matter how hard I stared. I gave up and stuck the file in my bag by the back door. Grabbing a pen, I wrote a note to remind the boys to take showers the next morning and taped it to the fridge. I knew they’d see it if they beat me to the kitchen for breakfast.

  The next day was Sunday and with church not starting ‘til ten thirty meant I’d get to sleep in. Hallelujah!

  chapter two

  Maymay, I need a towel!” hollered Tommy.

  I stuck my head out from the covers and grabbed my phone. I could’ve slept another ten minutes. Why wasn’t he getting a towel from the closet? Oh, yeah. They were still in the dryer.

  “Maymay, did you hear me?” came another frantic shout.

  “Yes, Tommy, I’m coming!”

  Feeling part thankful that he saw the note about showering and part aggravated that I missed out on ten minutes, I threw on my robe and left the comfort of my room. It was bright in the hallway because Tommy seemed to think all the lights needed to be on once he was awake.

  “Go ahead and get in the shower. I’ll bring you a towel and put it by the sink,” I told him.

  Slowly maneuvering down the stairs, I smelled something familiar.

  “Do I smell coffee?”

  “Yeah, I made you some,” said Carrie with a smile. “I heard Tommy yelling for you and figured you’d need it.”

  “That’s why you’re my favorite,” I joked.

  “Hey, I’m sitting right here,” Joseph mumbled with a mouth full of waffle.

  “You’re my favorite, too,” I told him.

  “You have two favorites?” he asked, finally swallowing.

  “I have three. You have seven favorite movies based on comic books, so don’t judge me.”

  Joseph laughed and turned his attention back to the waffles. I sipped my coffee and grabbed a towel from the dryer.

  “If anyone needs a towel, just grab one from here. I’ll fold them later…after church. Be sure to put your dishes in the dishwasher.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Carrie said, walking away with a piece of turkey bacon in one hand a cup of iced tea in the other. “I’m gonna start getting ready.”

  “We don’t have to leave for two hours,” I reminded her.

  “I know.”

  Joseph shook his head. “Must be a girl thing.”

  “Says the boy who takes a forty minute shower.”

  “Yeah, but I can be dressed and ready in five minutes!”

  I took Tommy the towel and retreated to my room wi
th my coffee so I could read my devotional. It was about patience and it quoted Ephesians 4:2: “Be always humble, gentle and patient. Show your love by being tolerant with one another.” Great. This one was really stepping on my toes. I could be patient with my kids, especially Tommy, as I understood the need for it. But patience with other people? That’s a different story. I said a quick prayer, asking God for help with this particular matter and started getting dressed for church.

  Needing to leave no later than ten fifteen, I started calling the kids downstairs at…ten fifteen.

  “Guys, let’s go! We’ve gotta leave now!”

  “Coming!” shouted Carrie from somewhere. I wasn’t sure where exactly.

  “Five seconds!” yelled Joseph.

  “Holy roosters! I can’t find my shoes!” Tommy ranted.

  Five minutes later (and ten minutes late) we ran to the van and peeled out of the driveway at warp speed. Thankfully, Tommy’s shoes had been found by the back door before we started our frantic SWAT team style, tear-the-house-apart search.

  I parked in outer Mongolia and the four of us speed-walked to the church doors. Carrie and Joseph took Tommy to his special needs Sunday school class before they joined the youth group in the chapel. Grateful that it wasn’t my Sunday to sing with the praise team, I took a bulletin from Sister Agnes and looked for an empty seat in the back. The music had begun, everyone was standing and the lights were dimmed so that was hard to see an available place to sit.

  “There you are! I was beginning to think you weren’t coming,” Momma Pat whispered in my ear as she gave me a hug.

  Mama Pat was a member of the group I affectionately referred to as the Gaggle of Grannies. This group of four older women had taken me under their wing. Like the time they caught wind that I had asked a man for his email address. The Grannies descended on me with loving rebuke for being so forward. Little did they realize he was one of Carrie’s softball coaches. Even when they were made aware of their error, they took it upon themselves to share with me the proper etiquette they had been taught “back in the days of decency.” Of course, I once called an ambulance when I spotted seventy-six year old Mammaw Sellers prostrate on the floor through her living room window. She had actually been resting between yoga poses. My bad. Anyway, they loved me and I loved them and we looked out for each other…whether we liked it or not.