Baby Be Mine by Diane Fanning Read Free Book Online Page B

they waited with other law enforcement officials for the arrival of the residents of the farmhouse.

8
    T he morning of December 17, Kevin and Lisa bundled up the baby, hopped in the car and headed up South Adams Road. Red-tailed hawks soared overhead or perched with seeming disinterest on fence posts—their large white chests glistening in the sun of a new day.
    Most of the trees alongside the road were dormant and bare. The monotony was broken by the occasional evergreen and the odd dusty gold orbs hanging from the branches and lying at the feet of the black walnut trees.
    A frugal farm wife like Lisa Montgomery would see bounty in that wild crop. Lovers of the black walnut gathered up the fruit this time of year and spread them across their basement floors to dry. When the outer shells darkened and turned brittle, they’d carry them out to the driveway and run them over a few times to dislodge the inner shell from its covering. Anyone who attempted to remove the outer surface by hand would have fingers marked for weeks with adeep brown stain that no amount of Lava soap scrubbing could wear away.
    The uncovered shells would not yield to a nutcracker. It took a hammer to shatter that surrounding casing and retrieve the nutmeat. After all that work, the occasional dud walnut—its contents shriveled and inedible—was a major disappointment. Many would wonder why anyone would bother going to all that trouble. But those who did knew the rewards—the satisfaction of living off the earth coupled with the pleasure of eating a walnut with ten times the flavor of a store-bought English walnut. That joy in harvesting bounty from the land was a bedrock value of agricultural communities across the Midwest.
    About 9:30, Kevin, Lisa and the baby they named Abigail made it to the Whistle Stop Cafe for breakfast. The Whistle Stop was in the middle of the block-long strip of buildings that was downtown Melvern.
    As they stepped through the door, the mouthwatering aroma of sausage and bacon sizzling on the grill and biscuits baking in the oven made their stomachs growl in anticipation. Inside, the café was small, cozy and down home. Up the middle, two long groups of wood-grained Formica tables butted end to end from the front door to the kitchen. On either side, individual tables for four ran up the length of the side walls. All the tables were flanked by rigid chairs of black metal with maroon vinyl seats and backs.
    The two side walls were decorated with old photographs, baskets and an assortment of antique kitchen tools with their red and green handles and splotchy rust spots. In celebration of Christmas, a tree covered with white lights stood in one corner and a clear glass bud vase filled with artificial red poinsettias adorned each table.
    The menus featured good, old-fashioned diner fare with daily home-cooked specials—chili and meatloaf were sell-out favorites in the cold weather months. The pies were homemade and the coffee was just fifty cents a cup.
    Country music played at a low level—too soft to coverthe occasional clank and scrape from the cooking area in the back. A tall counter with a cash register blocked a complete view of the kitchen, but it was still partially visible to most of the diners.
    Kevin and Lisa rarely patronized the café, but Kevin’s parents were well known among the regulars. The couple sat down at a small single table and Lisa set the baby carrier on the floor by her feet. They ordered fried eggs, bacon and hash browns.
    As in most small establishments, the arrival of a baby—any baby—was an event that generated happy excitement. Everyone wanted to see her. All made cooing sounds in the infant’s direction with the hope that they would be rewarded by a gassy imitation of a smile. One of the customers carried the baby from table to table showing the little treasure to the dozen or so people present while Kevin and Lisa ate. Kevin’s eyes sparkled. His