Free Peony Street by Pamela Grandstaff

up with the afghan; the soft blue one, not the scratchy red one. Set the kitchen timer for one hour, and he can’t get up until it dings, whether he sleeps or not. As soon as he gets up he has to pee, which he can do by himself, and then he gets some juice.”
    Sammy removed his pacifier, said, “the yellow sippy cup with the monster truck,” and then stuck his it back in his mouth.
    “Got it,” Claire said.
    Claire went in the living room and sank down in the upholstered rocker in which her mother had rocked her and her brother many years before. Sammy climbed up on her lap and snuggled in her arms. He took out his pacifier and pointed it at his mother.
    “Bye, Hannah,” he said. “Be good.”
    “Bye, Sammy,” Hannah said, and waved as she went out.
    “Daddy sings everything alright,” Sammy said. “You knowed it?”
    “I’m sorry,” Claire said. “What song is that?”
    “Two little birds on the front porch,” he sang, “singing sweet songs, melody four and two, singing, this is my messy to you-hoo-hoo.”
    “That’s Bob Marley,” Claire said. “I think.”
    “Sing it,” he commanded, and put his pacifier back in his mouth.
    He snuggled back down with his head on her shoulder, sucked on his pacifier, and reached a tiny hand up around her neck. Claire wished she had thought to make him wash his hands after he held the owl pellet. As she rocked the chair springs twanged just like they had all those years ago.
    Luckily Claire knew all the actual words to “Three Little Birds” by Bob Marley, and Sammy was asleep by the end of the second chorus. His body went completely limp and his hand dropped from her neck. Claire smelled the top of his head. His tangled golden curls smelled like baby shampoo and wood smoke.
    Claire reflected that there was no way she could exactly duplicate the many colors of his hair, although she liked to think she could come close. The client would have to be dark blonde to begin with; a darker shade and she’d have to bleach it and then use toner, which was harder on the hair. Silently she calculated all the colors she would have to mix to get four different shades, from dark caramel to medium golden blonde to light honey to platinum. She would have to use foils and weave the color in a few strands at a time. It would take hours; she would charge a fortune.
    Mackie Pea ran into the living room, jumped up on the other side of Claire’s lap, turned around two times and curled up. The little dog didn’t seem to mind Sammy being there. Claire reflected that Mackie Pea seemed to have a facility for adapting to change; it was a good thing.
    Claire considered worrying about being a murder suspect, about how her folks were doing, and about what in the world she was going to do with the rest of her life, but decided instead to just put all that aside and enjoy holding Sammy and Mackie.
    “Every little thing is gonna be alright,” she sang quietly.
    Instead of putting Sammy on the couch she closed her eyes and continued to rock him until she, too, fell asleep.
     
     
    Scott had been sparring with Sarah for over an hour, but he knew he was right and was determined not to back down. He’d spent the morning interviewing local people, trying to find someone who saw or heard something, anything that would help Claire.
    “She says she lost her cell phone,” Sarah said. “But how do we know she didn’t steal his and hide them both? I say we get a search warrant and turn her parents’ house upside down.”
    “With Claire’s permission and her cell phone service provider’s assistance I procured her call and text log from the past week,” Scott said. “There was no record of phone calls or texts to the victim for twenty-four hours before the time she says she lost her phone, or any calls or texts going out after.”
    “You expect me to believe that whoever found or stole her phone didn’t use it to make calls?”
    “Claire’s phone has a security feature that requires a pin