Sold on a Monday: A Novel

At her desk, Lily reread the article for the third time, gripped by the latest report. According to the New York Times, the child had been abducted right out of his room in the family’s home, just over an hour north in Hopewell.

For Lily, the boy’s status as the son of aviation hero Charles Lindbergh was inconsequential. Save as a reminder: no amount of money, fame, or success made a parent entirely immune from suffering the unthinkable.

Every day this week, on her walk to and from the Examiner, she had anxiously anticipated paperboys shouting, Lindbergh baby returned! Home safe and sound! But the investigation was dwindling. Cold trails and blind leads were reducing the family’s meager hopes, now reliant on negotiations with the kidnappers.

One more child added to Lily’s prayers.

While her own son was never far from her worries, now neither were Ruby and Calvin. She wondered if they had known their mother was ill. Had she shielded the truth for fear they would refuse to leave her? Did they assume she just didn’t want them? If only they could have heard her true feelings straight from her…

The thought drew Lily back to the Times article. Aided by memories of Ellis’s old features, the human aspect of them, a revelation formed. While she couldn’t erase her own past, any more than she could ensure a good life for the Dillard children, maybe she could help, even in a small way, with the reunion of another family.

The chief was in his office alone. Now was the time to speak up.

Over the growing activity in the newsroom, Lily gave his door two cursory knocks before letting herself in.

“Chief?”

“Yeah, yeah. Lunch with my wife’s nephew. I got it.” Rising from his chair, he crushed out a cigarette in his ashtray. “I swear to Jesus, if this kid shows up late again—and I mean by two damn minutes—I’m walking out.”

Punctuality ranked only a hair below his penchant for accountability and, yes, truth.

As he unrolled his sleeves and refastened the buttons, Lily maintained her purpose. “Sir, after reading an article today, I was thinking about the Lindbergh case.”

“You and everybody else on the planet.”

“Yes…but, you see, the newspapers keep focusing on the hard facts of the case: the suspects and gangs they’ve ruled out, the searches through houses and ocean liners. Of all the quotes I’ve seen, from the police and Mr. Lindbergh, these are the predominant topics.”

“Miss Palmer, your point.”

“What about Mrs. Lindbergh?”

“What of her?”

“Perhaps an in-depth interview in the Examiner could help. She could talk about her son’s favorite foods and games and lullabies. We could include personal photos of their family, together and happy. A reminder that this is a real child, not just a bargaining chip for a ransom.”

The chief barked a laugh as he pulled on his suit jacket. “Tell that to the kidnappers.”

“That’s exactly what we should do.” Her boldness erased his smile. She eased herself back. “At the end of the day, these criminals are still people. If Mrs. Lindbergh directly appealed to them, to speak of the terror she and her husband are going through, it might prevent the child from being harmed. At the very least, readers might pay keener attention to potential clues right around them.”

“And let me guess. You’re just the one to land that interview.”

When Lily hedged, as she honestly hadn’t contemplated that far, he shook his head wearily. He thought she was being strategic, pouncing on the opportunity of a tragedy.

“I promise, sir, this isn’t about me.”

That wasn’t to say she had abandoned her writing aspirations. The fact that upon retiring, Mr. Schiller had been replaced by yet another sports columnist, of all things, continued to irk her, but that didn’t pertain to the issue at hand.

The chief waved her off as he put on his hat. “Mrs. Lindbergh’s probably been asked plenty and turned ’em down. What makes you think she’d even want the spotlight at a time like this?” His tone made the question rhetorical. He figured his secretary, the non-reporter, had no valid grounds for the suggestion.

Except she wasn’t speaking as a reporter. Nor as a secretary.

“Because as a mother I’d want to be heard.”

She caught herself only after the words were out. By then, the chief was checking his watch, the statement brushed off as hypothetical, and he strode out the door.

The answer to her pitch lay starkly in his absence.

• • •

Lily’s subsequent mood wouldn’t make her the most charming of company today. But since Clayton so rarely asked her out to lunch, as they largely separated their work and social interactions, she didn’t feel right about canceling.

“You sure you’re okay?” he asked once they had boarded the elevator.

She knew better than to say a negative word about her boss before leaving the building, but several strangers in front of them were busy with their chatter. She confided quietly: “It’s the Lindbergh baby. I just thought…”

“Ah. Of course,” he said, bewildering her.

“Of course?”

How would he know?

More important, why was he smiling?

He shook his head at her. “Like your mother keeps saying, you worry too much.”

He thought she was fearful about Samuel, of him disappearing in a similar way. But that wasn’t it. Not at this moment. Even so, the patronizing nature of Clayton’s words stung like salt in a recurring wound. She’d endured all the condescension she needed for one day.

“I was referring,” she corrected, “to an article in today’s Times.” Her tone came out a bit strong, but not enough to disturb the conversing strangers as the door opened on the second floor, where a rewrite man boarded.

Clayton studied her, clearly struggling to identify the problem. “So…you’re upset about what the police said. How they won’t work with Lindbergh’s so-called underworld emissaries?”

Naturally he had read the same article. Perusing the big morning dailies was expected.

“I suppose.” It was simpler to agree at this point.

“Well, I hope you can see why. Those crooks wouldn’t be helping out for nothing. There’d be favors to repay. Classic case of the ends not justifying the means.”

Lily’s mouth went slack. If Samuel were at risk of being harmed, she would stop at nothing to protect him. “And if the child were yours? Would those principles still take priority?”

Several passengers glanced toward Lily. The sudden quiet—from Clayton too—shot heat up her neck. She stared straight ahead, the tension brewing, until the door opened.

“First floor,” the lift operator announced.

Lily followed the group out, anxious for the open air. In the entry, Clayton gently tugged on her arm, guiding her to a stop.

“Lily. If something else is bothering you, anything at all, you can tell me. I hope you know that.”

After a second, she raised her eyes. From the sincerity in his face, the kindness in him, a tide of guilt crested over her. He didn’t deserve such a venting.

“I’m sorry, Clayton. I don’t mean to be irritable.” There was too much to explain, too many confidences to break. “It’s just been one of those mornings.”

His mouth steeped into his usual smile. “Working for the chief? I’d say that applies to almost every morning.”

She found herself smiling back as he planted a kiss on her forehead, a loving gesture that melted away the remnants of her frustration. “I’d bet a nice lunch at the Renaissance would help.”

Aware they were alone in the lobby, she followed an impulse to lean toward him. Or this, she thought and kissed him on the lips. When she drew back, the surprise in his eyes—from a reporter not easily taken off guard—filled her with satisfaction. “Now, shall we go?”

His reaction was morphing into delight. “To anywhere you’d like.”

“The Renaissance will do.” She warmly hooked his elbow, and together, they continued toward the exit. After stepping aside for a few people to enter, they joined the bustling of Market Street. The scent of roasting nuts from a vendor cart provided mild reprieve from wafts of city odors as she and Clayton wound their way toward the restaurant.

Glad to redeem their date, she asked about his newest leads, always guaranteed to launch him into conversation. And though she was listening, a thought pulsed in a corner of her mind. A tiny but persistent sliver.

One of the strangers back at the Examiner, coming through the door…there was something familiar. Those features… Lily knew them…

A block from the restaurant, she stopped. “Oh my God.” She visualized the scene again, verifying.

“Lily?” Clayton’s voice sounded distant, hollow. “What’s wrong?”

She looked at him, grappling for an answer. “I-I have to go back. I just realized.”

“What is it?”

There was no time to explain. “Go on in. I’ll catch up with you.” As she rushed off toward the Examiner, the world’s noises dropped away. There was only the thudding of her heart, her heels slapping pavement, and her hopes repeated like a prayer.

“Please,” she whispered. “Please still be there.”