Fertile Ground (17 page)

Lisa was surprised by the question. “Yes.” “I stopped believing when my husband died. But when I witnessed Andy’s birth—” She inhaled audibly and closed her eyes for a second, and when she spoke again, her voice was a reverential whisper. “He was perfect, and I knew with absolute certainty that God existed.” She laughed self-consciously. “I sound like a typical first-time mother, don’t I? With all the births you see, I suppose they become routine.”

“Actually, every time I deliver a baby I’m awed by the miracle of birth, and my faith in a divine being is reaffirmed. It’s one of the rewards of my profession. Don’t tell my colleagues. Faith isn’t very scientific.” Lisa smiled.

“Maybe not, but it’s nice to hear it’s still alive. In young adults, too. Chelsea believed in God. She mentioned it during our interview. At first I thought maybe she was trying to make a good impression, but she seemed sincere.” Paula frowned, then began to roll her

water glass between her slender fingers. “She did say something about fanatics … something about not liking zealots who pushed their religion and opinion on others. She said she’d had an unpleasant experience a while ago with someone like that.” Paula shrugged. “I guess we all have.”

“She wasn’t more specific?”

“No. In general, she was upbeat, cheerful.” “The bartender at the restaurant where she worked said Chelsea had been very unhappy until just recently.”

“Really?” Paula cocked her head. “I didn’t see any evidence of that. Well, except for a few days before she was killed. She called to tell me when she’d be moving in, and she sounded tense. She said someone had been phoning her for the past few days and hanging up when she answered. She figured it was kids playing pranks, but it annoyed her.”

“I don’t blame her.” What if it hadn’t been kids? What if the caller had been someone sinister, trying to track Chelsea’s movements? What if that same someone had decided that Matthew posed a threat, too?

“Maybe the police should know about the calls.” Paula sounded troubled. “To tell you the truth, I’m surprised they haven’t contacted me. Do you think I should call them?”

“Definitely. Talk to Detective John Barone.” Lisa took his card from her wallet and wrote the precinct’s phone number on a slip of paper Paula handed her. “Thanks for your time,” she said, moving off the stool. “And good luck with your son. He’s lucky to have a loving, caring mother like you.”

“Thank you for that.” A smile lit Paula’s face. “I’m trying. I’m becoming active again with organization work, because it’s important, and because I don’t want to smother Andy. That’s why I need a mother’s helper. And I’m thinking of taking a few clients. I’m an interior designer. That’s how Andrew and I met—I decorated this house.”

She walked Lisa to the door. “I know that Chelsea’s

parents have financial problems. I’d like to help pay for her funeral.”

“That’s a lovely gesture,” Lisa said, touched by the woman’s thoughtfulness.

“Who knows? Maybe that’s why Chelsea and I were brought together, so that I’d have an opportunity to help.” Paula looked pensive. “I’ve never met her parents. They may be proud, and I don’t want to come across as Lady Bountiful. I assume they’ve been in contact with the clinic, since Chelsea donated eggs there. I wonder if you could extend my help anonymously.”

The Wrights were unlikely to accept an offer Lisa brought them. And they’d probably view an anonymous offer as an attempt to pay them off. “Your best option is to have Detective Barone talk to them.”

“You’re right. I can’t even begin to imagine what those poor people are going through, losing a child. If anything happened to Andy …” She hugged her arms and shivered. ‘ “When I first brought him home from the hospital, I checked him constantly when he was sleeping. I’d put a mirror under his nose to make sure he was breathing.” She looked at Lisa anxiously to see her reaction.

“You’re not the first mother who’s done that.” Lisa smiled to show she understood.

Paula nodded. “I don’t do that anymore—well, not often.” She laughed shyly, as if embarrassed by the admission, then sighed. “I hope you hear good news about your fiance.”

Ted Cantrell was striding past Reception to his office when Selena called out, “Dr. Cantrell? May I see you a moment, please?” in a falsely sweet voice that set his teeth on edge. There were several patients in the waiting room, so of course he had to stop and smile as he waited for the office manager to get out of her chair and come over to him.

She moved with him out of earshot of the patients. “Your nurse, Brenda, has been frantically looking for you. She says you were scheduled to do a retrieval forty minutes ago and disappeared. I’ve been paging you for over half an hour. Where were you?”

He glared at her. “You may not be aware of this, Selena, but I don’t report to you.”

“Your patient was sedated. Dr. Cantrell.” Her voice was cool, unruffled. “Luckily, Dr. Davidson was available.” “Luckily for Brenda, you mean. For your information, I wasn’t told about the retrieval. This isn’t the first time she’s screwed up, by the way.” He scowled.

“Brenda says she reminded you about it yesterday.”

“Brenda is lying to cover her butt,” he hissed. “I don’t need to defend myself against a stupid, incompetent woman who no doubt got her nursing degree because of

affirmative action. You can tell Brenda she’s fired.” His face was mottled with anger.

“You can tell her yourself. Doctor.”

He stared at her. “You’ve been rude since Dr. Gordon’s absence. I intend to report your insubordination to Mr. Fisk.” He had an urge to put his hands around her thick neck and squeeze.

“Why don’t you do that. Dr. Cantrell? I intend to talk to him about several things as well.”

Their eyes locked. He glanced away first and, swiveling sharply, stomped off to his office. Once inside, he slammed the door and switched on the small television on top of his credenza. Hanging up his navy sport jacket on the coat tree in the corner of the room, he listened to the stock report and grimaced.

He paced around the room, then sat at his desk and drummed his fingers on the leather mat. With an abrupt motion he stood and walked out of the room to Matthew’s office. He glanced around him, then opened the door and entered.

He checked the file cabinet first, thumbing through the folders quickly. Then he moved to Matthew’s large desk. He was shutting the bottom right-hand drawer when the door opened.

“You shouldn’t be in here!” Grace exclaimed softly from the doorway. She stared at him.

He smiled, thinking again what a mousy little thing she was. He walked around the desk toward her and saw her cower. “It’s all right. I was just looking for some notes I lent Dr. Gordon.”

She stepped inside. “You should have asked me to look for them.” Her arms were folded across her chest.

“You weren’t around. Sorry.” He paused, then shook his head. “This must be a terrible time for you. Grace,” he said softly.

She bit her lip and nodded.

“I know how close you feel to Dr. Gordon, especially since he helped you conceive your little girl. So it must be that much harder to accept that he’s betrayed you.”

Her blue eyes widened and she blinked rapidly. “Betrayed?” ‘

“The police found his car at the airport. It’s pretty clear he left the country.” He sighed. “I’m so sorry. Grace. I thought you knew. It’s been on the radio all morning.”

“No, I—” She stopped. “No, I didn’t know.” Her eyes teared. She wiped them with her fingers.

He sat on the corner of the desk. “That’s why I need my notes. With everything going on lately—Dr. Gordon’s disappearance, all these crazy allegations—I don’t know what’s going to happen, which files the police may seize.”

No response from Grace.

“I know you’ve heard horror stories about me. I’m a monster. I’m difficult. I have a terrible temper.” He was pleased to see her blushing. “Don’t be embarrassed. Some of it’s true. Grace—I won’t deny it. I’m a perfectionist. I have a low tolerance for stupidity and inefficiency. Sometimes I yell before I think. I’m not proud of that.” He lowered his head, then looked up at her. “I’ll bet Dr. Gordon never yelled at you.”

“No, he didn’t.” Her eyes were tearing again. She sniffled.

“Well, why would he? If I had someone like you working with me, I wouldn’t yell, either. You’re a terrific nurse. Grace. Dr. Gordon raved about you.” Ted smiled warmly.

“Thank you.” Her tone was sober.

“When things settle down, maybe you’d consider working for me. We’d make a great team, Grace.”

“I don’t think I want to work here anymore,” she whispered.

He slipped off the desk and approached her. “You’re upset. Grace, and confused. I am, too.” He rested his hand on her shoulder.

She licked her lips. “I’m scared.”

He waited for her to continue. When she didn’t, he said, “Maybe it would help if you talked about it. Grace. I’m a good listener.” He smiled gently.

She shook her head.

“Is it the legal problems? Dr. Gordon’s disappearance? That girl’s murder?” Grace flinched, and he knew he’d touched a chord. “Is Dr. Gordon’s disappearance connected with the murder? Did he tell you something before he left?”

“He didn’t tell me anything.” She backed away. “I have to go.” She was avoiding looking at him.

“You’re holding something back. Grace.” His voice was almost a whisper. He was careful not to step closer. “I can tell. You’d feel so much better if you told me.”

“Leave me alone!” she cried. “I don’t know anything! I don’t want to talk about this anymore!”

She walked to the door and held it open wide and waited until he left Matthew’s office.

The guard stopped Lisa before she entered the clinic. “Mr. Fisk’s looking for you. Dr. Brockman. Selena said if I saw you, to tell you to go right to his office.”

She tensed. “Thank you, Victor.”

Obviously Edmond had heard about Matthew’s car. She hadn’t phoned him about it last night; she hadn’t been in the mood to deal with his anger at Matthew. She wasn’t in the mood to deal with it now, either, but she had no choice.

Fisk was behind his desk. Seated facing him were Walter and Enid Wright, looking more washed out than yesterday, if that were possible, and a gray-suited woman in her forties with chin-length blond hair and red-framed glasses.

So this wasn’t about Matthew. The suddenness and acuteness of her relief made her head throb.

“This is Dr. Lisa Brockman,” Fisk said to the woman in the suit, who swiveled and nodded at Lisa. “Dr. Brockman, you’ve met the Wrights. This is their attorney, Jean Elliott.”

Lisa had heard of her—she was a high-priced attorney who specialized in headline-making cases dealing with the rights of birth parents versus adoptive parents. Lisa

sat on a folding chair to the left of the Wrights, who avoided looking at her, and wondered how they could afford the attorney’s services. Maybe she was doing it pro bono. Maybe she saw another headline.

Fisk addressed Lisa. “According to Chelsea Wright’s birth certificate, which her parents have brought with them, Chelsea turned eighteen nine months ago, on August fourteenth of last year. They would like to see the waiver she signed when she entered the donor program. I’ve asked Grace to bring it in the hope of clearing up this unfortunate matter.”

If Edmond was worried, he was hiding his feelings well. Lisa’s stomach was churning, and she had no idea why he wanted her here. No one made an attempt to break the silence, which seemed to last forever until Grace timidly entered the office and handed Edmond a manila folder.

Fisk made a ceremony of putting on his bifocals before he opened the folder and thumbed through its papers. “Here we are. Ms. Wright signed her waiver on August twenty-eighth of last year.” He flipped a page. “And here, on the medical and history profile she filled out, she wrote that she was eighteen, and that her birthday was August fourteenth. She signed this document, too. So as you can see, the waiver is legal and valid.” He passed both documents to the attorney, who handed them to Walter Wright.

Walter stared grimly at the papers, then gave them to his wife. “You’re saying that just because she was eighteen and two weeks, she knew what she was doing?”

Jean Elliott put a comforting hand on his arm.

Fisk leaned forward. “It gives me no pleasure, Ms. Elliott, to upset your clients. They’ve suffered a tragic, insurmountable loss, and all of us here feel for them.” He paused. “As to the legal disposition of Ms. Wright’s harvested eggs, she gave them up voluntarily and permanently.”

“Doesn’t it matter that she’s dead?” Walter demanded softly.

Fisk sighed. “This is a waiver identical to the one your

daughter signed.” He bent his head and read: ” “I understand that I do forever hereafter relinquish any claim to or jurisdiction over my donated ovum and any embryos or offspring that might result from my donated ovum.” ” He looked up. “I wish there were something I could do, but I can’t, not without compromising the welfare of the patients who have placed their trust in our hands.”

There was another silence.” Then Enid said, “This isn’t Chelsea’s signature,” and everyone stared at her. “This isn’t the way she makes her capital C or or her s’s. And she doesn’t loop her (. I know her handwriting. I practiced with her since she was in kindergarten. This isn’t hers.”

Walter Wright turned to Lisa. “Well, you didn’t waste any time trying to cover up, did you?” His look was withering.

The suspicion flashed through her mind that this was why Edmond had wanted her here—if something was wrong, blame would lie at her feet. Her palms were clammy. She took a deep breath, mustering up indignation. “Mr. Wright—”

“Dr. Brockman has done nothing wrong.” Edmond’s voice was iron. “I would be careful, sir, before I accused anyone.”

“Walter, let me handle this.” The attorney took the papers from Enid and examined them again, flipping back and forth several times between the first and third pages. “What about this, Enid?” she asked, pointing to the back of the eight-page medical history questionnaire. “Is that Chelsea’s signature?”

Enid studied the paper, then said, “No, it isn’t,” with newborn confidence that left no room for argument. She was angry now. Her face was flushed.