Fertile Ground (13 page)

Lisa nodded.

“You gotta have hope, you know?” He picked up a tumbler and dried it. “I don’t know what I can tell you that’ll help. I was the last one Chelsea talked to that night, but I guess you know that if you talked to the police.”

She hadn’t known that, but she nodded again. “Did she say anything unusual that night?”

He put the tumbler down. “Nope. She was in a good mood, happier than she’d been in a long time. Oh, and these two producers? They were hitting on her, offered her a part as a stripper in a movie. She thought it was funny.” Ramon sounded wistful. He wiped an imaginary spot on the counter.

“Were they regulars?” “Nope.” He leaned forward, pressing his palms against the counter. “I told the detective about them, but Cal-he’s the manager?—he said he knows them. Strictly small-time, but legit. He gave the detective their names and stuff.” Ramon scooped a handful of peanuts into his palm and dropped them into his mouth.

It was unlikely that the producers, who had made themselves visible and were known to the restaurant manager, had followed Chelsea and killed her. “You said Chelsea was in a better mood. Was she upset before?”

“Oh, yeah. She was always cheerful with the customers, but she’d get that look in her eyes, like the world was going to end soon. Yeah, she was depressed in a big way.” He was silent for a moment, lost in thought. “She wouldn’t tell me why, though.”

Chelsea had refused to tell Matthew, too. “Why do you think she was more cheerful that night?”

“The new job. The police didn’t tell you?” He rolled his eyes in disbelief. “See, she was tired of waiting tables, tired of the late hours, tired of men hitting on her. And I think that murder back of the art store shook her up bad, you know? So she got herself a job as a live-in babysitter. I said, “Hey, Chelsea, you gonna watch The Hand That Rocked the Cradle to get some pointers?” We laughed about it. Did you see that movie?”

Lisa said no, she hadn’t.

“Creepy. Anyway, she had two more days here, then she was supposed to start her new job. Man, she was excited to be getting out, you know?” His face clouded. “I teased her about it that night. I told her she’d be begging for her job back. But she isn’t coming back, is she?”

“Whiskey, please,” a man at the end of the bar called. “Neat.”

Ramon excused himself. Lisa nursed her Coke while he filled a shot glass and slid it in front of the man, who handed him a folded bill. The bartender thanked him and slipped the bill into his shirt pocket.

“Do you know who Chelsea was going to work for?” she asked when Ramon was standing in front of her again. Maybe she’d mentioned something in passing to her new employer, something that would provide a clue to her murder.

“She didn’t say. And I didn’t ask, you know? Maybe she told Melissa or Yvonne.” He shrugged.

“Did she say anything about Dr. Gordon?”

“Who?” His brows creased.

“My fiance,” she said and saw him turn pink.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry.” He grinned, obviously embarrassed. “No, she never mentioned him. I didn’t know she had medical problems.”

Lisa thanked him for his time. “You have my card. If you remember anything else, please call me?” She was beginning to sound and act like Barone, she thought as she slid off the stool.

“Sure. Hey, good luck, okay?”

Melissa didn’t know who’d hired Chelsea. She’d felt terrible when she heard Chelsea was killed; she’d never heard of Matthew and looked surprised when she read Lisa’s business card. “Why’d she go to a fertility clinic?” she asked, turning the card over as if the answer lay on the other side.

Lisa explained about the egg donation.

“Really? Did she get paid for this?” Her amber flecked eyes widened when Lisa told her the fee. “So can anyone do this?”

Her eyes were calculators. Lisa thought, mildly disgusted with the waitress, who seemed more interested in making money than in the fact that a co-worker had been killed. “You have to qualify,” she said and briefly explained what was involved.

“Fertility shots, huh? They make you bloated, don’t they?” Melissa frowned. “I’ll think about it.” She looked at the card again before she tucked it inside the pocket of her apron and walked away, her dark brown ponytail swinging with every step.

Yvonne hadn’t heard of Matthew or the clinic, either. She didn’t know who had hired Chelsea as a mother’s helper, but she remembered Chelsea saying it was someone wealthy.

“High society, that’s all she’d say,” the redheaded waitress told Lisa. She was wearing a miniskirt and silk T-shirt identical to Melissa’s. Her face was chalk white except for maroon lipstick and black kohl smudged on her eyelids. “A Beverly Hills home with a pool and a great library. Chelsea kept talking about the library. She was really into reading and school.”

“I think she wanted to be a teacher,” Lisa said, recalling what Barone had told her. Or was it Matthew?

“She loved kids. That’s why she took the job. She wanted to have a dozen of her own.” Yvonne nodded, as if remembering. “The job had the perfect setup, too. She’d be living in this great house and have time off for college.” She sighed. “God, it’s so sad. I come here and keep expecting to see her.”

“Chelsea never mentioned her new employer’s name?”

Yvonne shook her head, making her shoulder-length auburn curls dance. “That’s what the detective asked. Chelsea was so hyped up about her new job, I think she was afraid if she talked about it, something would happen to spoil it. Or someone would snatch it away. There was something about her new boss …” She frowned, concentrating, then shook her head again. “Sorry.” “That’s okay. If you remember, call me at the clinic. And thanks for talking to me.” Lisa walked over to the cashier and was paying for her Coke when Yvonne came running up to her.

“I remembered! Chelsea said this woman was the head of a group that raised money for kids who had some illness. I thought of it just now because you’re a doctor and all. But I can’t remember what the illness was.” She inserted a burgundy-lacquered fingernail between her teeth, then turned and scanned the room. “Hey, Melissa?” she called. “Come here a minute, will you?”

A moment later Melissa was standing in front of them, looking annoyed. “I hope this is important,” she said, cinching her tiny waist with her hands.

“Remember Chelsea said this woman she was going to work for was involved with some group that raised money for a kid’s disease? What disease was that?”

“Sorry. I don’t remember.” Melissa started to walk away.

Yvonne grabbed her arm. “Yes, you do! You said you had a cousin with the same thing.”

“Oh, that. Juvenile diabetes.”

Oh, that. Lisa was taken aback by the woman’s blase

attitude toward a serious medical condition. She stared at Melissa, who said, “Okay, that’s it, then?” and returned to her station.

“That’s all I remember,” Yvonne said. “I hope it helps.”

Lisa was still thinking about the other waitress. She said, “It’s a place to start,” and thanked Yvonne again. On her way out she passed the bar.

Ramon smiled and waved his towel at her. “You gotta have hope, you know?”

She was trying.

Edmond had called. So had Sam, several times, and Selena. Lisa tensed as she punched the office manager’s home number, but Selena had no news about Matthew. She’d phoned to see how Lisa was doing and to fill her in on clinic business.

“The Minute by Minute reporter phoned,” Selena told her. “She’s calling again tomorrow. Also, there’s something I think you should know.” She sounded uncomfortable. “Rumors are going around that the clinic will be closed down. A lot of the staff are worried. Ava called from Cannel—she wants to know if she’ll have a job when she gets back from vacation.” Selena laughed uneasily.

Ava was a divorced mother of two teenage boys. Selena and her husband had a mortgage to pay and two sons and a daughter in parochial schools. Of course the staff was worried.

“I haven’t heard anything, Selena. You know I’d tell you if I did.” Was that why Edmond had phoned? To give her the bad news? “I know. But some of the staff are looking around for other positions. And Grace is really depressed. She always looks like she’s been crying. Maybe you can talk to her tomorrow.”

Grace was devoted to Matthew. She’d been on staff from the day the clinic had opened, and he’d helped her and her husband conceive their daughter. “I will talk to her. Thanks for telling me about it, Selena.” Not that she had encouragement to impart.

“One more thing.” She sounded hesitant. “Two of Dr. Gordon’s patients want to transfer their frozen embryos to other facilities. I’m sorry to bother you with this.”

“No problem.” Lisa supposed it was natural that Selena was turning to her—she was, after all, the missing director’s fiance. “I’ll contact them tomorrow. I’m sure we’ll be getting more of those requests. All we can do is try to reassure the patients about their embryos. If they insist on removing them, we can’t stop them.”

She thanked Selena again, making a mental note to contact her patients personally. Then she phoned the police. No, they hadn’t heard anything. They knew where to reach her, the woman detective handling the case said pointedly.

In her bedroom she changed from the navy skirt and pale gray blouse she’d worn all day into a pair of jeans and a black cotton sweater. A white basket piled high with clothes she’d washed three days ago in the basement laundry room sat accusingly in the corner. Her radio was set to the oldies station she listened to while she did her fifteen-minute morning exercise routine. She turned it on—they were playing “Be My Baby”—and dumped the basket’s contents onto her ecru woven jacquard comforter. She called Sam.

“I’ve been trying you all night,” he said with a note of urgency. “I looked for you earlier at the clinic, but Selena said you’d left and were really upset. I tried Matthew’s place, too.”

She felt suddenly less lonely, knowing he was worried about her. Tucking the cordless receiver between her ear and shoulder, she sat cross-legged on the bed and told him about Selena’s concerns, about her interview with Ramon and the waitresses, about being questioned by the reporter, about Chelsea’s parents. “I felt like such an

ogre, Sam. I don’t blame those poor people for hating me.”

“Not your best day, huh?” He sighed. “I feel for the Wrights. First they lose their daughter, now their grandchild. But you don’t make the rules. And they don’t hate you. Lisa. They’re heartbroken, and they have to direct their anger somewhere. You were the most convenient target.”

“I suppose you’re right.” Still, she felt at fault. You should be ashamed of yourself , Walter Wright had said.

“I wonder why they came to you, instead of to me or Ted. You shouldn’t have had to deal with this Lisa.”

She placed a pale yellow, long-sleeved cotton shirt on the bed and smoothed away its wrinkles, taking pleasure in the simplicity of the act. “Barone must’ve mentioned my name and Matthew’s when he told them Chelsea had donated eggs.”

“And thanks to Fisk, you had to deal with the reporter, too. And then you played detective at the restaurant. Why didn’t you call me? I would’ve gone with you.” He sounded hurt.

“I didn’t want to bother you, Sam.” She folded the shirt, then picked up another. The singer on the radio was asking someone to be his little baby. It would be nice, she thought, to have someone else assume all her worries.

“It’s no bother. Isn’t that what friends are for? Tell you what—I’ll come over. We’ll watch a video, play gin, do something to take your mind off all this, at least for a while.”

The thought was tempting, but she knew he was as tired as she was. “Thanks, but I’ll be okay.” She heard a click—someone else was trying to call. Thinking it might be the police, she hurriedly said good night to Sam, then pressed the plash button on her phone and said hello.

“Did you get my message. Lisa?” Edmond asked.

No “Hello.” She detected a hint of annoyance in the board of director’s voice, which in turn annoyed her. “I was about to phone you, Edmond. I just came home.”

“I’m sorry to disturb you, but Georgia and I are anxious

about Matthew. Have you heard anything?”

“No. Nothing.” She pulled a white sport sock out of the pile of clothes and hunted for its mate, wondering whether Edmond was sitting on a throne-size chair. It’s good to be the king, Mel Brooks had said in one of his comedies. The thought made her smile.

Edmond’s sigh was audible. “I suppose that’s good news, isn’t it? How did your meeting go with the reporter?” ‘

Was that why he was calling? She located the other sock and folded both together. “Actually, she’s nice.” She gave him a summary of the interview. “She wants to film an egg retrieval and transfer. I told her I’d tell you.”

“The publicity would be terrific, but I don’t think patients would consent, do you? Especially now.”

“No.” Why was he asking her opinion? To make her feel involved? It had occurred to her that by having her meet with Gina Franco, he’d distanced himself from the clinic and its problems.

“If she asks again, tell her I’m taking it up with the board. So all in all, it went well, do you think?”

“She was fascinated with what we do, but she’s not convinced that switching embryos is impossible, even though I showed her how careful our documentation is. And she did focus on the high cost of assisted reproduction and the low success rates.”

“I hope you mentioned our refund policy.”

He sounded annoyed again. Lisa could picture his patrician frown. “She read about it in the material you sent her. I explained how it worked.”

“Well, let’s hope she includes that in the piece she does and that it doesn’t end up on the cutting-room floor. How were things in general today? More cancellations?”

“Unfortunately, yes. And there are other problems.” She repeated what Selena had told her. “I think a talk from you would bolster the staff’s morale, Edmond. And you might want to send a reassuring letter to all our patients.”

“Good thinking. Lisa. I’ll talk to the staff tomorrow.

And I’d like you to draft a letter tonight, if you can, so that we can send it out immediately to the patients.”