Fertile Ground (44 page)

Or Matthew. More and more, she’d forced herself to face the possibility that Matthew, desperate to ensure the clinic’s success, had gone along with Nestle’s schemes. And now she knew he’d implanted Nestle’s patient, Paula Rhodes, with Chelsea’s eggs.

Because of Grace, Chelsea had known, too. What had Paula done when Matthew told her that Chelsea wanted to find the woman who’d received her eggs, that Chelsea had been underage when she donated? Had Paula called Nestle in a panic? Had she called him again, even more frantic, when Chelsea appeared on her doorstep and asked to see the two-month-old infant boy she claimed was the product of her ovum?

Nestle must have panicked, too. He would have realized immediately that if Chelsea filed a lawsuit, the truth

about the donor egg manipulations would come out. Killing Chelsea wasn’t the answer. Her murder would instigate the investigation of the clinic, which Nestle feared.

Killing Chelsea and Matthew solved everything. The police, believing that Matthew was a fugitive, would suspect him of her murder. The medical authorities would blame him for the donor-egg switching. As far as Nestle knew, Matthew was the only one, aside from himself and Paula, who could identify the recipient of Chelsea’s eggs. So Paula and her son were safe.

How much did Paula Rhodes know about what had happened? Obviously she’d lied to Lisa about putting an ad on a college bulletin board for a mother’s helper. Chelsea had sought her.

Had Nestle told Paula to string the girl along until he figured out what to do? Hire her as a nanny, Paula. Make her think she’ll play an important role in little Andy’s life. Was that what he’d advised her?

Or had that been Paula’s idea?

And how had she felt when she learned Chelsea had been murdered? I’d like to help pay for her funeral, she’d told Lisa. Had that been an expression of guilt because she’d realized what Nestle had done? Or had she been trying to impress Lisa with her compassion? The coffee was ready. Lisa filled a mug and took a sip—too hot. From her hall closet, she brought the phone directory to the kitchen counter. Taking another sip of coffee, she searched for and found the number for the Rhodes Foundation in Beverly Hills.

A woman answered the phone. Lisa identified herself and said she’d like to speak to the head of the foundation.

“Would that be Mr. James Rhodes or Mr. Curtis Rhodes?”

She had no idea. She wasn’t sure what she expected to learn from Andrew Rhodes’s family, didn’t know whether any of them would talk to her about Paula. She did remember Paula saying that Andrew’s cousins disapproved of her. She hoped that wasn’t another lie. “Mr. James Rhodes.”

“I’m sorry, he’s not in.”

“Is Mr. Curtis Rhodes in?” Lisa asked, more amused than annoyed. She felt like laughing for the first time today.

“Yes, he is. May I tell him what this is about?”

“It’s personal.”

“I see.” A note of polite caution. “Hold on, please.”

On the counter, next to her beige ceramic canister set, Lisa noticed yesterday’s mail, still unopened. She took a bite of her sandwich, drank more coffee, and slit open the envelopes. More bills. An invitation to speak at a seminar on infertility treatment—obviously issued when her life had been normal.

“Dr. Brockman? Curtis Rhodes. How can I help you?” The man had a pleasant, well-modulated announcer’s voice.

“This is a little awkward over the phone. I wonder if I could meet with you this morning.”

“I have a full schedule today. Monday would be better.”

“It’s very important, or I wouldn’t be bothering you. It’s about Paula Rhodes.” A beat of silence. “I see.” His voice was ten degrees cooler. “Are you representing her in some capacity?”

“Not at all. But I need to speak with you. I can be at your office in fifteen minutes.”

“Why don’t you make it an hour from now, at my home?”

The address he gave her was in the Flats, on Palm near Elevado, just a few blocks from Paula.

A uniformed maid ushered Lisa into a formal living room that was three times the size of her apartment. The furniture was ornate—curved wooden-framed sofas with Queen Anne legs, upholstered in a heavy burgundy floral brocade. Swagged drapes cascading onto the dark, polished hardwood floor. Crystal sconces at either end of the black-marbled fireplace.

“I’m Curtis Rhodes,” a tall, gray-haired man said when she entered the room. “This is my wife, Celeste. My brother, James. My sister-in-law, Eleanor.”

They were all in their mid-fifties. Lisa guessed. All casually elegant, to the manor born. Celeste’s blond hair had been swept into an artfully simple French twist. Eleanor’s hair, naturally gray, was cut short and matched the shade of her silk suit. Both women were wearing short strands of pearls.

Feeling as though she was facing a tribunal. Lisa accepted Curtis Rhodes’s offer to sit on one of the needlepoint chairs. “I appreciate your talking to me,” she began.

“I hope you won’t consider me too rude if I ask you to get to the point,” James said. His voice was thicker than his brother’s. “How do you know Paula? Are you her physician?”

“No. I met her while trying to get information about my fiance. Dr. Matthew Gordon. He headed the West wood fertility clinic that’s under investigation. He’s disappeared, and the police think he’s dead.” She wondered tiredly how many more times she’d have to recite this explanation. “I heard about that,” Celeste said. “I’m very sorry, Dr. Brockman.”

Murmurs of assent from the others. All four Rhodeses, she sensed, were suddenly more relaxed.

“Didn’t Andrew invest in that clinic?” James asked his brother.

Curtis nodded. “Paula convinced him to—or should I say her half brother, Jerome, did. He’s a silent partner in the clinic. Is that why you met with Paula, Dr. Brockman? Because of Andrew’s connection with the clinic?”

Jerome Nestle was Paula’s half brother? “Not exactly. You probably know that a young woman who donated eggs to the clinic, Chelsea Wright, was murdered.” She saw nods and continued. “Chelsea was Dr. Gordon’s patient. I found out Paula hired her to be a mother’s helper for her son, Andy.”

A snort from James. “I’m not surprised. I can’t see Paula taking care of a child herself.”

Lisa felt a prickling of excitement. She’d been right to

come here. “Really? She seemed very devoted when I was with her.”

“Paula’s a wonderful actress,” Celeste said with quiet sarcasm. “No doubt you’re wondering why we’re talking so openly about her.” She smiled. “It’s no secret that we dislike her. She’ll be the first to tell you, although she’ll make us sound like snobs who disapproved of her background. Am I right?”

“Something like that.” Lisa nodded.

“Don’t let her drawl and her beauty fool you the way she fooled Andrew,” Celeste said. “She’s a terrible, terrible person. She can be very cruel,” she added quietly.

Curtis patted his wife’s hand tenderly. Lisa wondered what painful episode they were remembering. Though she’d come here with suspicions about Paula, it was hard to reconcile what she was hearing with the lovely, caring, sensitive woman she’d met.

“Why are you here?” James demanded.

“I have reason to believe Paula may be involved with Chelsea Wright’s murder, and with my fiance’s as well.” She flushed under their stares, suddenly alarmed that she’d made a mistake by revealing what she knew. Or maybe they thought she was crazy—a grief-stricken fiancee. Wasn’t that what Nestle had charged? Would they call Paula the minute she left?

“When you phoned me at the office,” Curtis said quietly, “I thought you were her therapist. Paula has been sending out feelers indicating that she’s under a great deal of stress because of Andrew’s death, and because she’s wondering whether we’re going to contest the will.”

Lisa relaxed against her chair back “Why would you do that?”

James said, “Because she killed Andrew. Is that a good enough reason?”

“James, we don’t know that.” Curtis glanced at him reprovingly.

Now it was Lisa’s turn to stare. “She told me he died of a heart attack.”

“He did,” Curtis said. “He was only forty-six, but he’d been taking medication for his high blood pressure

and arrhythmia for years. We’ve spoken to his cardiologist. He was shocked by Andrew’s death. In his opinion, Andrew’s medical problems were under control. But that doesn’t mean anything.”

“She did it,” James insisted. “Doctored his medicine somehow.”

“Doctors don’t always know what’s going to happen,” Eleanor put in softly. “Younger people have died from heart attacks without having had any previous symptoms.”

Lisa guessed she was the peacemaker in the family. “Why would Paula kill him? Weren’t they happy?”

“I know for a fact that Andrew was miserable,” Curtis sighed. “He was staying in the marriage because he wanted to have a child, but a year ago he hinted he was planning to divorce her. Then, miracle of miracles, Paula got pregnant.”

“She knew about the terms of the will,” Celeste said. “She understood that he wouldn’t divorce her if she could produce an heir.”

Lisa frowned. “Why did he want to have a child with her if he was miserable?”

They exchanged glances.

Curtis cleared his throat. “Andrew was wealthy in his own right, but he stood to inherit over a hundred million dollars that his parents had put in a trust. The money would go to him only when he had a natural child—boy or girl.”

“But he would have divorced Paula right after the baby was born!” James exclaimed. “I’m convinced of that.”

“I’m not so certain,” Celeste said. “He would have had to give her a great deal of money, since she’s the child’s mother. And he wouldn’t have wanted to give up custody.”

“Not to that witch,” James snarled.

It was as though they’d forgotten about her. Lisa thought. They’d obviously had this conversation before.

“The thought of Paula as a mother gives me the chills.” Celeste touched her throat. “Poor Andrew. He

must be rolling in his grave when he thinks that his son is in that woman’s hands.”

“What if it isn’t his son?” From James. “I still say it’s possible she fooled him. I know they were barely having sex in the months before she got pregnant.”

“All it takes is one time.” Celeste coughed.

“The paternity tests showed that Andrew is the father,” Eleanor said patiently. “You know that, James.”

“Well, she did something,” he grumbled.

“She arranged to have Chelsea’s eggs implanted in her,” Lisa said. They turned toward her and stared at her again. “Chelsea found out that Paula received her eggs. I don’t know what actually happened after that, but I believe that Chelsea approached Paula.” Had Paula been trying to conceive for a long time? Or had she known when she married Andrew that she had a condition that would present problems?

“I told you!” James’s face was mottled with triumph.

“Assuming she got this girl’s eggs, how did she manage to get Andrew’s sperm?” Curtis asked.

Lisa chewed on her bottom lip. “You said Andrew was trying to have a child. Did he ever undergo any tests?”

“Yes, he did. He was concerned when Paula didn’t get pregnant right away. She had tests, which indicated she was fine. He took tests, too. Paula’s brother handled everything.”

Lisa nodded. “He probably froze Andrew’s sperm when Andrew gave a specimen to be tested.”

James grunted. “Clever bastard.”

They sat in silence for a while. Lisa heard the muted ticking of the ornate, glass-encased gold clock sitting on the fireplace mantel.

Curtis spoke first. “Maybe James is right. Maybe she did kill Andrew. Maybe she worried he’d find out about the egg donation.”

“How?” Celeste asked. “How would he find out?”

“I’m sure there are tests to determine who the mother is.” Curtis looked at Lisa.

“There are,” she told him.

“So we’ve got her!” James rose. “I’m going to call Russell. This should break the will.”

“Not necessarily,” Curtis said. “Since Andrew is the father and Paula is the birth mother, a judge will probably decide that little Andrew is, as the will stipulates, a ‘natural heir.” What do you think. Dr. Brockman?”

“You’re probably right.”

“So she gets it all—millions of dollars.” James shook his head and slumped down into his chair. “Disgusting.” “Not if the police prove that Paula was involved with Chelsea’s murder,” Lisa said. “They’re planning to arrest her half brother for medical fraud.” She explained briefly what she thought Nestle had done. “I believe he killed Chelsea and Matthew.”

“What do the police think?” Curtis asked.

“They have someone else in custody right now.” She told them about Norman Weld. “I don’t think he killed anyone. I’m going to tell the detective in charge of Chelsea’s investigation what I found out today—that Paula received her eggs. I hope that will convince them that Nestle is involved with the murders. If they arrest him and interrogate him, maybe he’ll implicate Paula.”

“Implicate, my foot,” James said. “Paula’s the killer, not her brother. He’d be better off in jail, where she can’t get at him, too.”

“Do you have proof of all this?” Curtis asked Lisa.

“One of the nurses can identify Paula—she recognized her when she had the embryo transplant done at the clinic. She knows Paula received Chelsea’s eggs.”

James snorted. “Let’s hope Paula doesn’t find out about her.”

Lisa couldn’t stop thinking about Paula.

After leaving Curtis Rhodes and his family, she stopped at a kosher deli on Pico and ordered a hamburger and fries. Not a great idea, since she’d be having a full Shabbos meal tonight at the Presslers, but she was suddenly very hungry.

Sitting in the elegant Rhodes living room, she’d been convinced by the family’s condemnation of Paula. She wondered now if James and the others weren’t prejudiced against their late cousin’s wife because she wasn’t one of them. Because she was from Alabama and had a drawl. Because instead of having the good taste to be born into wealth, she’d married into it.

Ten minutes ago Lisa had been willing to believe that Paula was a cold-blooded manipulator who’d conceived a child and killed her husband for millions of dollars. What if she were simply a woman who had been desperate to conceive because she’d wanted to hold on to her marriage? And now that her husband had died, she was desperate to hold on to their child?