Drowning Barbie by Frederick Ramsay Page A

was blocked because her immediate superior was eight years younger than she. And as Leota’s inquiries about openings elsewhere evinced no interest from any other library, and because her boss did not seem interested in leaving, she’d settled in to making a career in eastern Virginia. After her fiftieth birthday she had abandoned all hope of an alternative venue and started to count the days until she had accumulated enough time and age to start drawing a modest pension. Social Security would come soon after—that is if the system didn’t collapse from years of being raided by a Congress eager to spend other people’s money.
    She also had cousins in Picketsville—Flora and Arlene, who ran a diner. They rarely spoke and never exchanged Christmas or birthday cards or, indeed, correspondence of any sort. The coolness in their relationship stemmed from two unrelated occurrences that happened at about the same time. One had to do with a dispute over a set of Spode china each claimed their mutual grandmother had wanted them to have and a misunderstanding about funeral arrangements. Then, of course, there was the problem of the ex-Marine. They never spoke of that either. As all these events are intertwined in that part of their collective consciousness where emotion and often-rash decisions are made, there would be no resolution. Leota turned her back on her family and settled in the east, as far from them as she could manage.
    On this particular Monday afternoon, Leota sat in her pickup, its motor idling, as she wondered if she had made the right decision about the girl and if she ought to retrace her route westward again. Perhaps she should have given Flora more of a heads-up. Dumping the girl on her without any warning would not sit well with the eldest of the cousins. Then, had she thought through what she’d done? Should she have taken her back to Picketsville at all? Of course, the child needed to be told about what happened to her, but in the end, what good could come from that? She had not bothered the caseworker, since that person had not been any help before.
    The girl, Darla, had not come to live with Leota of her own free will, exactly. A representative of the commonwealth’s Child Protective Services office had offered the child an either/or choice. Go to jail or be placed in one of the foster homes known to service incorrigible children. Leota knew the girl’s history, and knew that she had been the victim for most of it, and therefore had done nothing to warrant the label incorrigible. But, like it or not, her checkered past landed her there. As luck would have it, Leota heard that the case was in process and knew the remanding official. She persuaded the official to place Darla with her, with the promise that Leota would provide both the care and the security the child required. So, Darla had not been sent to the stringently regulated home she was destined for, to join those like her with similar and nearly always misunderstood histories. In a very real way, Leota thought of the girl as the daughter she might have had.
    Leota became distressed after she’d coerced a summer intern into hacking into the court’s sealed records and discovered Ethyl Smut had petitioned the court to re-hear her custody claims. The thought of the girl falling back into that woman’s hands was unthinkable. What kind of society would ever entertain that possibility for even a minute?
    Well, Leota’s promise to provide security had been breached. The girl was gone, so Leota dutifully reported her as missing to the caseworker. So sorry. Now what?
    ***
    Ike did a double take at the entrance. Darcie Billingsly had settled into the dispatcher’s desk. For years he had always glanced to his right, waved to Essie or Rita and walked to his office. Not Essie—Darcie. She had the headset on and was busy chatting with one of the patrolling deputies. If Ike had to guess who, it would be Chester