Fertile Ground (16 page)

“They could be lying. They could have hijacked the car.” She squeezed her eyes shut to block out gruesome images of Matthew with a gun held to his head, being dragged out of the car.

“They could have.” Barone was clearly placating her. “Neither one has a record. Of course, that may mean they just haven’t been caught till now. The CHP is taking them to West L.A.” where they’ll be questioned separately.”

“How did they drive the car out without a ticket?” She realized she was picking on the details to tear apart the whole.

“They stole an old Chevy and drove it into the lot to get a ticket. They parked the Chevy, hot-wired the BMW, and drove it right out, using the ticket from the Chevy. The exit kiosks have cameras that photograph the rear plates of exiting cars, so we’ll be able to find out exactly when the BMW was driven out.”

“Matthew always sets the BMW’s alarm. Wouldn’t someone have heard it go off?” “There are hundreds of cars parked in Lot C every day, all day. Car alarms are always going off. Dr. Gordon probably took a tram from Lot C to one of the terminals. It’s smarter than taking a cab to the airport—taxi drivers keep records.” The detective’s tone revealed grudging admiration. “He was lucky, too. If the boys hadn’t stolen the car, we would have found it earlier. Not that it matters. By the time you phoned West L.A.” Dr. Gordon was gone. Again, I’m sorry. I know this is a shock.”

She shook her head vehemently, even though Barone wasn’t there to see her denial. “But why would Matthew flee the country. Detective? He hasn’t done anything wrong.”

“You can’t ignore the allegations against the clinic,” he said gently. “Have you checked the clinic files yet?”

“It’s hard to know where to start, and things have been chaotic.” And she had never for a moment believed that Matthew was responsible for any wrongdoings at the

clinic. “Matthew does have a protected file in his laptop. He worked on it the night before he disappeared, after he left my apartment. I haven’t been able to access it yet.” “Keep trying. I’ll call you if I learn anything else.” She wasn’t sure now that she wanted to access the “Notes” file, to read what Matthew had taken pains to keep private. She wasn’t ready to learn that Barone might be right.

The house on Linden was a Spanish two story with sand-colored stucco walls, white trim on the large, mullioned windows and front balconies, and a red tile roof. Hot-pink bougainvillea cascaded low over the porte cochere to the right, almost kissing the black Jaguar that crouched, low and sleek, in the driveway. Aside from the buzzing of several lawn mowers down the block and the passing of an occasional car, the street was quiet.

Inhaling the perfume of freshly-clipped grass. Lisa walked up a wide herringbone-patterned brick path and three steps to the white double doors and rang the bell. She heard the sound of approaching footsteps. A woman’s voice said, “Yes?”

“May I speak to Mrs. Rhodes?” She held up her card to the peephole, then slid it under the door. “Please tell her I want to talk to her about Chelsea Wright.”

“Cowo?”

“Chelsea Wright,” Lisa repeated slowly. “Por favor, diga a la senora que quiero hablar con ella ace rca de una muchacha que se llama Chelsea.” She had picked up passable Spanish while working with Hispanic and Puerto Rican patients during her internship and residency and in the Manhattan clinic. She’d been using it extensively to communicate with patients who came from Mexm

ico and South American countries and whose English was nominal.

“Ah! La muchacha. Momenta.”

While she waited. Lisa glanced around her. To her left, a high wall of trimmed shrubbery provided privacy from the house next door. On either side of the entrance, in front of what she supposed were the living and dining rooms, tall, graceful birch trees threw lacy shadows on the windows and walls. Hugging the base of the house were lush clusters of impatiens, lobelia, and other multicolored spring flowers she couldn’t identify.

The door opened. A short, brown-haired woman in a knee-length black skirt and black, short-sleeved, crew neck sweater said, “Please,” and beckoned to Lisa, who followed her through a two-story foyer with beige marble floor tiles and a marble center staircase to the doorway of an enormous wood-floor rectangular kitchen.

Sitting on a black stool at a center island was a strikingly pretty woman with chestnut-brown hair pulled into a ponytail. She was wearing an olive-green cotton sweater and khaki slacks. In her arms lay an infant with its eyes closed, sucking contentedly on the nipple of a milk-filled bottle.

She smiled politely. “I’m Paula Rhodes. Berta says you’re here about Chelsea?” When Lisa nodded, the woman sighed. “I’ll finish feeding Andy, and then we can talk.” Her voice was soft and husky with a hint of a drawl.

“Of course. I can wait in another room. I don’t want to disturb you.” Lisa had planned on coming after work, but two new patients had canceled, leaving her morning free.

“Oh, that’s all right. Andy likes company, don’t you, sweetheart?” she crooned to the baby, who had opened his eyes. She bent down and delicately smoothed his forehead with her index finger. “We’re almost done, anyway. Please come in and make yourself comfortable.”

Still feeling awkward. Lisa approached the island and sat on a stool. “Thank you for seeing me, Mrs. Rhodes. I would have phoned first, but your number’s unlisted.”

“I know. If I ever forgot my own number, I’d be in real trouble.” She laughed lightly. “Please call me Paula. “Mrs. Rhodes’ reminds me of the Colossus, and I hate to think of myself as a giant statue with huge legs.”

Up close. Lisa saw fine lines around the woman’s eyes and across her forehead; she was probably in her mid-to late thirties. She wore almost no makeup, just a blusher and a pale mauve lipstick. Her nails were short and lacquered with clear polish, and on her wedding finger she had only a simple wide gold band.

“How old is your baby?”

“Three months next week. He doesn’t look it, I know, because he was born five weeks premature. But he’s catching up. Aren’t you, Andy?” She adjusted the tilt of the bottle, which was quickly emptying, leaving a filmy coating on the bottle’s sides.

“He’s beautiful.” He had a light layer of his mother’s dark hair; pink, translucent skin; wispy eyelashes. Babies’ eyes often stayed blue for the first year. Andy’s were navy. Lisa wondered if they would turn a dark, velvety brown, like his mother’s.

“He is beautiful, isn’t he?” Paula looked pleased. “He’s such a good baby, too.”

She sounded wistful. Or maybe Lisa was reading sadness into Paula’s tone because she knew her husband had died recently, or because, since Barone’s phone call, she hadn’t been able to shake the gloom that had settled around her like a shroud.

Paula removed the bottle from the baby’s mouth, set it on the island’s black granite counter, and carefully positioned her son’s face against her shoulder, which was draped with a diaper. She nuzzled his neck. “I love the smell of babies, don’t you?” She patted his back lightly, then rubbed it in small circles until she was rewarded with a delicate burp. “There we are.”

Supporting the baby’s head and neck with one hand, she slipped carefully off the stool. She was much taller than Lisa had thought, about five feet ten inches, and judging from her slim figure, she’d lost the weight she’d gained during pregnancy.

“I’m going to change his diaper and put him in for a nap. I won’t be long.” She left the room, still cradling the baby against her chest.

Lisa looked around and sighed. She would love a kitchen like this. The cabinets—there were so many-were made of knotty pine, as were the veneers on the Sub-Zero refrigerator and freezer and the dishwasher. Many of the upper cabinets had paned windows. Behind them, she could see an uncluttered arrangement of glassware and interesting-looking crockery probably chosen by a decorator.

A pile of magazines lay on the island counter, next to a simple glass vase of daffodils, a teak bowl filled with fruit, and a small black monitor, a little larger than a phone pager, from which Paula’s murmurs emerged against a background of static. Lisa picked up a copy of Parenting and was flipping through it when Paula returned.

“I hope I didn’t keep you long.” She raised the volume on the monitor and tapped the box. “Thank goodness for this. The house is huge, and I worry about not hearing Andy. The best thing is, I can clip the monitor on me and wear it around the house and in the yard. Can I offer you something to drink? Coffee? Tea? Something carbonated?”

“Water would be nice.” Lisa had downed three cups of coffee this morning and refused to have another.

Paula brought two bottles of Perrier from the refrigerator and perched on the stool she’d occupied before. “Your card says you’re with the Westwood fertility clinic that’s been in the news the last few days.” She filled Lisa’s glass, then her own. “You probably don’t know this, but my husband helped found it.”

“Actually, someone mentioned it.” As far as Lisa could tell, there was only normal curiosity in the woman’s tone. “You may have heard that Dr. Matthew Gordon, the head director, is missing. He’s my fiance, and I’m terribly worried about him.” At nine-fifteen this morning, just before she left the clinic, she’d spoken to Barone. The two teenage car thieves were sticking to their story.

He tended to believe them. Lisa wasn’t prepared to do that.

“I did hear. I can imagine your anguish,” Paula said quietly. “My husband, Andrew, died five months ago of a heart attack. I’m sorry,” she added quickly. “I didn’t mean to suggest that your fiance…” Her voice trailed off.

“I realize the odds aren’t good. It’s hard to give up hope, though.” Lisa wasn’t sure what to hope for. She’d lain awake for hours trying to decide which was worse-that Matthew had been killed by hijackers, or that he’d fooled her and everyone else. She took a sip of water to dissolve the lump in her throat.

“I know,” Paula said, her words conveying remembered pain.

“The detective investigating Chelsea’s murder thinks her death and my fiance’s disappearance may be connected. Chelsea donated eggs to the clinic, and Matthew was her doctor.” Lisa noted that Paula didn’t seem surprised. “Did she tell you about the egg donation?” “No, but why would she? It was on the news last night. They called it a bizarre coincidence.” Paula drew a circle in the condensation on the side of the cut crystal tumbler. “Was she paid a fee?”

“Twenty-five hundred dollars.”

Paula nodded. “She told me her parents had limited means and she was eager to earn enough money to attend private college. To be honest, I’m not sure I approve of young women without children donating eggs. Not that it’s my business. And I’m not in Chelsea’s circumstances. My parents were able to provide me with everything I needed. And Andrew was the most generous, giving husband.” She seemed lost for a moment in a private memory. “I don’t know what I can tell you about Chelsea that would be helpful. I met her only a week and a half ago.”

After Chelsea had come to see Matthew. “How did you meet her?”

“I placed an ad for a mother’s helper on several college bulletin boards. She called for an interview, and I liked her right away. Of course, I checked the references she

gave me—several teachers and some people whose children she baby-sat. They all spoke about her in glowing terms.” Paula reached for the fruit bowl and plucked a green grape. “I suppose you could call this another bizarre coincidence—the fact that a young woman who donated eggs at a fertility clinic gets a job as a mother’s helper for the widow of a man who helped build the same clinic. Do you believe in coincidence, Dr. Brockman?” Where was this leading? “Sometimes.”

Paula bit delicately on the grape. “I don’t. Not really.”

Lisa’s stomach muscles tightened. “Are you saying that when Chelsea applied for the job, she knew you were connected with the clinic? That she sought you out?”

Paula looked startled. “Heavens, no. Why on earth would she do that? No, I mean God or fate or whatever you believe in has plans for us, and we don’t always know the reasons. Chelsea and I were meant to cross paths, though briefly, just as she and your fiance crossed paths, just as you and I are sitting here now. Did you ever talk to Chelsea?”

Lisa shook her head. “There was something charming about her and refreshing, very genuine. I liked the fact that she planned to be a teacher because she loved kids. That came through-the love, I mean—when she played with Andy. He took to her immediately.” Paula smiled. A second later her face clouded. “I can’t believe she’s dead.”

“When did you find out?”

“She was supposed to move in two days ago, on Wednesday morning. At three I phoned her at home. To be honest, I was annoyed more than worried, and I wondered if I’d made the right choice. You know—if she’s late the first day, will she be responsible? Someone answered—a neighbor, I guess—and told me that Chelsea was dead. That she’d been murdered.” Paula shuddered. “I didn’t know what to say, I was so shaken. So I hung up.”

Lisa nodded in sympathy. “Chelsea’s parents didn’t mind that she was going to move into your house?”

“She said they were fine with it. She was concerned

about having time with her boyfriend. I told her she could invite him over to use the pool or the tennis court, but only if Andy was asleep and I was home. And she couldn’t take him up to her room.” Paula smiled lightly. “I guess I’m a little old-fashioned and overprotective, but Andy’s all I have, now that his father’s gone.” Her dark brown eyes glistened. “I’m sorry. I’m usually in control. I guess Chelsea’s death brought everything back.” “That must have been a nightmare for you, being pregnant and losing your husband,” Lisa said softly.

“Some days I didn’t know how I’d get through it. Andrew was an only child. I’m not close with his cousins-they still regard me as the Southern interloper, even though Andrew and I were married for over three years.” She had exaggerated her drawl. Now she flashed a brief, wry smile. “My parents live in Alabama. They’re elderly and can’t travel. When Andrew died, I was angry and terrified and alone. For weeks I stayed in bed. I barely ate. I wouldn’t see anyone except the doctor. He told me I was jeopardizing the baby’s health, and that brought me to my senses. Do you believe in God?”