The Yellow Packard (12 page)

“Just like her mom,” George shot back. “Okay, I won’t bail you out. I’ve got a book I want to read anyway. If you need anything, just pick up the phone and let me know.” Just then the bell over the front door jangled.

“I will,” she shot back. “Got to go, someone just walked in. See you later.”

Carole put the phone down and glanced over to her daughter. “You just stay right there and play. Mommy will be back when I’m finished with this customer.”

Sweeping through the door that separated the office from the main part of the small store, she noted a heavyset man in a dark suit looking at a display of plastic yellow roses. His skin was clammy and in spite of the cool weather, there was a bit of sweat beading on his brow.

“May I help you?”

“Perhaps,” came his carefully measured reply. “That’s a great song you got playing on your radio.”

“I can turn it down if it is too loud. My daughter and I love it.”

“No, I like it, too,” he assured her, “but I didn’t come in about the music. I spotted something through the window that kind of interested me.”

“A flower?”

“No, a piece of furniture.”

“We don’t sell furniture,” Carole apologized, “just flowers.”

“But that rolltop desk over in the corner of the room. The one you have the card displays setting on. That is a nice piece.”

Carole’s eyes darted to the oak desk. “The former owner of this store got that at a sale a few years back. She is just storing it here until it can be shipped out to California. That’s where she lives now. I can’t sell it, but if the price was right she might. Going to be a lot of trouble to move a few thousand miles. I could write her a letter if you want to offer a price.”

“Yes,” he said, his gloved hand tracing the upper of his three chins. Walking over to the desk, he lightly rapped on the top. “It’s solid. The finish is in good shape, too! Does the rolltop work?”

“I don’t know,” she admitted. “We can see.” Reaching the handle, she slowly pulled it down. Stubbornly at first, the top moved. A second, harder pull moved it through the carved channels and down to the top of the desk’s work area.

“It’s noisy, but it works.”

“You’re right about that noisy part,” he quipped. “I couldn’t even hear the radio playing when you pulled it down. Let me try it.” He pushed it up, and as soon as it got to the top he yanked it down. He continued the up-and-down exercise a half-dozen more times until Carole reached down and put her hand on his to stop him.

“Please, if you keep doing that you’re going to give me a powerful headache, and I didn’t bring any powders to work with me today.”

He glanced past her to the front window and smiled. “The desk isn’t really as large as I thought anyway. But I would like to buy some of those red carnations that you have in the window. Could I purchase a half a dozen?”

“Sure. Do you want them in a vase?”

“No, a box will be fine.”

“I’ll get them for you.”

As Carole retrieved and counted the carnations, her customer stood beside the counter and observed the quiet, unhurried traffic passing by the shop. As much to make time pass as to create conversation, she called out, “Not much happening this time of the day in our small town. Where are you from?”

“Chicago.”

“You here on business?”

“Just passing through,” he explained.

Carole pushed the lid down onto the box and tied a piece of twine to secure it. She pushed it across the counter as she announced, “That will be two twenty-five.”

The visitor reached into his pocket and produced two ones, setting them beside the box, before separating three nickels and a dime from his change with his gloved hand. Placing the coins in her hand, he thanked her, picked up the box, and headed toward the door. As he stopped outside, Tommy Dorsey’s “All the Things You Are” came on the radio.

“The station’s playing some great music today, aren’t they, Rose?”

The little girl didn’t answer.
Must have fallen asleep
, Carole thought.
Probably completely worn out from last week.
Moving quietly back through the door to the office, she peeked around toward the play area. Rose wasn’t there. She wasn’t in bed either. In fact, she was nowhere in the room.

“Rose,” she called out frantically. “Rose, where are you?”

There was no answer.

She raced over to the back door. Though they rarely used it, maybe her daughter had decided to go out into the backyard area to play. The fact that it was slightly ajar gave Carole a measure of hope. Yanking it open, she glanced out into the snow-covered yard. There were no small footprints, but there was a set of large ones both coming and going, and the back gate, which was never used, was open. Carole’s heart began to race. Where was she?

Maybe George came and got her, she reasoned. Racing back into the office, she hurriedly called home. One ring, two, three, and finally a fourth!

“Hello.”

“Honey, it’s me, did you come and get Rose?”

“No,” came the groggy reply. “I tried to read some, but I must have fallen asleep on the couch.”

“Nooooo!” She cried. “Oh, Lord, no!”

“What’s wrong?”

“George, she’s gone.”

“What?” He now sounded fully awake.

That’s when she saw it—the note sitting in the middle of her desk. It looked like a child’s art project. Letters had been cut out and glued to a white piece of paper. The message was clear.

“She’s been kidnapped,” Carole whispered into the receiver.

“What?” George shouted. “How can you be sure?”

“I’ve got the note in my hands. It says, ‘I have your kid. Don’t call the cops or she dies. Get $5,000 in small bills. Will call with instructions.’ George, what are we going to do?”

“Don’t move. I’ll be right there.”

Chapter 20

G
eorge sprinted the eight blocks from their home to the flower shop. He rushed through the front door, leaving it wide open. A quick survey assured him Carole was in the back. Five quick steps took him to the office. She was standing over her daughter’s dollhouse, her chest heaving, tears rolling down her cheeks and dropping to the floor.

“Carole!”

She slowly turned to face her husband. Her eyes were already red, her face drawn, and her mouth quivering. She tried to form words, but her lips only made it through a single syllable, “Why?”

George had no answer. And as much as he felt called to throw his arms around Carole and try to soothe her fears, a greater calling demanded his attention. Rose was gone, and it was his job as a father to bring her back.

“Where’s the note?”

Carole pointed to the desk. Spotting it, George quickly read through the very simple message. They were going to have to wait to get further instructions. But when would they come?

“We need to call the police,” she whispered, moving toward the phone.

“No!” he shouted while catching her hand and gripping it tightly enough that she flinched in pain. “I’m sorry,” he said, in a much lower tone as he released his grip. “But we can’t. If we do they might kill her.”

“But how would the people who took her know?” she demanded between sobs. “The police always tell you to call them. That’s what they say on the radio. They’ve preached that since the Lindbergh baby was taken in ‘32.”

“Well, the people who say that on the radio don’t have kids who have been taken,” he shot back. “And the Lindbergh baby was killed, so you can’t go by that. Now, let’s figure this out. Go lock the front door, and put the C
LOSED
sign on the door. Then come back here and we’ll talk this through.”

Wiping her eyes, Carole walked through the door and into the shop’s main room. When he heard her snap the lock, George stepped over to the back door. He slowly opened it and peered out at the lawn. There were fresh footprints in the snow. Stepping out, he made an impression beside one of them. Whoever had taken Rose looked as though they wore a size or two smaller than his tens, but it was definitely a man’s shoe.

“You found the tracks,” Carole whispered as she came up beside him.

“But they don’t tell us much,” he sadly explained.

“George, what are we going to do?”

Her voice was filled with such great pain he wanted to cry. Yet he couldn’t let himself break down. Not now! He didn’t have an answer, at least not one that would comfort his wife, so he bit his tongue, shook his head, and stayed silent. Closing the door, he glanced back to the note as another dilemma hit him.

Five thousand dollars! Where was he going to get that kind of money? He only had a few hundred in the bank.

“Why Rose?” Carole asked in a pleading tone that forced his eyes back to hers. “We aren’t rich. We don’t have anything that is worth anything. I thought people kidnapped rich people’s children. You know, like Lindbergh’s baby.”

He’d already wondered the same thing. It simply made no sense. Did the man who took Rose have him confused with someone else? His eyes wandered to a framed advertisement from
Life
hanging on the wall. That image showed him leaning against their yellow Packard with Rose sitting on the car’s long hood. That just might be it. The fact that they had done a few national ads and had some spots on Packard-sponsored radio programs might have led someone to believe they had money. That was the only reason that made logical sense.

The phone’s ringing literally caused both of them to jump into each other’s arms. Their eyes locked onto the black, Western Electric desk model as it rang a second time.

“Answer it,” he urged her. “And don’t let your fear show in your voice.”

He allowed his arms to fall and pushed her toward the desk. She took two hesitant steps forward and reached for the receiver. After a final look back toward her husband, she picked it up.

“Carole’s Flowers.” She all but choked on the words.

“Is this Mrs. Hall?” The voice was so loud and strong that George could understand every word from where he stood.

“Yes,” she quietly answered.

“I have your daughter.” George didn’t miss Carole’s quick intake of breath. Instinct demanded he hold his breath as he waited for her speak.

“Is she all right?” Carole’s question was tinged with both fear and hope.

George closed the distance to the desk and put his head next to his wife’s. He listened carefully to the caller’s measured words.

“She is fine, and she’ll stay that way as long as you follow my directions.”

“I’ll do whatever you want,” she assured him. “I just want my baby back.”

“Have you called the cops?” His tone was demanding.

“No.”

“Good. Don’t even think about it. Now, about the money.”

George grabbed the phone from his wife. “We don’t have that kind of money.”

“You bought that flower shop,” the man calmly replied. “Folks who can do that have a lot more than what I’m asking for. So you can get it. And if you don’t, then you’ll need to come up with money for the kid’s funeral. Do you understand?”

“If you hurt our daughter!” George barked.

“You’ll do what?” The man on the phone chuckled. “You don’t know who I am, and you don’t know where I am. I could walk past you in five minutes, and you wouldn’t have a clue that I’m holding your kid. I’m the only one who can make a threat here. Get used to that fact or suffer the consequences. You got it?”

George didn’t answer. He didn’t have to. He didn’t have the cards and he knew it.

“I’ll give you two days to get the money. Sometime on Wednesday afternoon I’ll call this number. You’ll be told where you need to make the drop and when you can pick up the kid. Up until then you just keep living your life like you always do. You go to work, you have your wife keep the shop open, and you don’t let anyone know that your kid’s gone. You understand?”

“Yes,” George quietly answered

“And you, Mrs. Hall?”

“Yes?” she said.

“If you don’t get the money and follow these instructions to the letter, if you slip up anywhere, the kid dies.”

The line went dead. George looked to Carole. What in the world could they do?

As Carole sobbed, he collapsed in the desk chair and thought back to the night Rose had been born. It seemed like just yesterday he’d wondered if he was up to the job of being able to protect her and keep her safe. It hadn’t even been three years, and the answer was now painfully obvious.

He had failed!

Chapter 21

I
t’s my fault,” Carole wailed as George turned and shot her a helpless look.

“Could you hear enough to know what he said?” George asked.

“I heard it. If only I hadn’t insisted she stay with me today. If only I’d let you take her.”

“If they wanted her,” George softly declared, “they would have waited until tomorrow or the next day. It’s not your fault. Neither of us could have anticipated this.”

“But why us?”

Her question lingered in the air for thirty seconds. He didn’t want to admit what he sensed, but as she stared at him with that helpless, forlorn, and hurting expression, he had no choice. “This guy probably thinks that because we did those Packard ads we are celebrities. After all, we both signed a few autographs.”

“But that only paid two thousand dollars,” she argued. “That went to buy our house. Then all we got was a thousand a year to keep endorsing them. They are asking for more than that!”

“You and I know that,” George explained, “some of our friends do, too, but this guy probably doesn’t.”

He held out his arms to her, but like a wounded animal, she backed off, fear and mistrust in her eyes.

“The car? It’s that car I asked you to sell so long ago. The one you just had to have. That’s why Rose is gone?”

He shook his head. He didn’t blame her for lashing out. He deserved it. In fact, he wished she’d scream at him or maybe just beat him senseless. But there may be more, and she’d had to know it all.

“Carole,” George softly said, “there is something I don’t understand. He said something about us buying the flower shop.”

“So it might be my fault for buying the shop?” she asked, her face twisting, suggesting a pain too great to endure.