The Case of the Red-Handed Rhesus (A Rue and Lakeland Mystery) by Jessie Bishop Powell Page A

It’s compulsive. What should I do?
    Dishonest in the Big City
    Dear Dishonest:
    Tell me the truth.
    Nora
    Stan and Adam were both right. Merry did cause problems simply by being herself. But we didn’t need a lawyer. With guidance from a state advocate, we were soon cleared to formally meet the twins.
    We all agreed that their unique circumstances required a slow transition. But even Ann, our advocate, was disappointed in us for setting our hearts on these particular kids when there was no way to be sure they would come to us.
    “This isn’t how it works, folks,” she said. “You’re supposed to evaluate possibilities while the state determines appropriate placements.”
    “I think we’ve already gotten to do more evaluating than most parents, and rumor has it that these two will be hard to place.”
    “You’re right. Please don’t mistake me. I’m elated to have a pair of parents willing to adopt two special needs children. But I need to evaluate their specific needs and your ability to meet them.”
    “We’ll learn,” he said. “We aren’t expecting easy.”
    “You have absolutely no idea how hard it’s going to get.”
    “Please,” I told her. “We’re willing. Let us try.”
    “The first meeting date is set,” she said. “We can see how things go and move forward from there.”
    It was a nonsensical sham of a meeting, held in the artificial setting of the social services office. Natasha was also with us, and all the twins had been told was that she was worried about their adventures and wanted to spend some time with them to make sure they were all right.
    “This is stupid,” said Sara, as soon as we came together in the playroom chosen for the gathering. Lance and I had seated ourselves in child-sized chairs around a child-sized table. Natalie Forrester sat on the floor with Natasha. Merry and Ann stood by the door, apparently guarding it should one of the children attempt to bolt.
    “Sara,” said Natalie. “Be polite.”
    “I’d love to know why it’s stupid,” Merry said. The door was outfitted with Plexi-glass on top, and the sun shone in the windows of the corridor beyond. Our advocate’s summer tan looked deep and golden in this light. Merry, in contrast, looked more sallow and put-upon than usual.
    Sara, don’t give her ammunition.
This was supposed to be a casual get-together between them and Natasha where we adults merely happened to be present. We were not, in Merry’s words, “to raise their hopes unnecessarily.” Like Ann, she still feared we would back out.
    Sara sighed loudly. She and William had retreated as far from the adults as they could get, but we were still all crowded together. The room was not large. “Fourth of all,” she said, “Playdates happen in houses. Ninth, we come here to get ditched. Every time. And
seventh
, we
all . . . all know
Natty and Adam are trying to get rid of us. Who knows where we’ll go? We probably won’t ever see Tasha again, so we’re here to say goodbye.”
    A babble of adult voices rose in protestation, but none of them even began to answer the challenge Sara had issued. She didn’t speak in the monotone her folder would have led me to expect, and her cross-armed posture showed body language wasn’t totally alien to her. Obviously, her folder wasn’t fully descriptive. I decided to take its contents with a grain of salt. Aside from its recitation of obvious facts, such as the twins being biracial and Sara being talkative, it seemed to be made largely of Merry’s random observations anyhow. The parts from Natalie Forrester were much more likely to be helpful.
    We adults dribbled into silence as quickly as we had started talking. It was Natasha who finally took up Sara’s gauntlet. “You’ve got it wrong,” she said.
    “But they
are
getting rid of us, Tasha,” Sara wailed. Suddenly, she was only six again, six and scared. “And so are you!”
    “I know they are.” Natasha looked only at Sara, or she would have