by MJ Rodgers
“Yes, Mr. Carmichael. Ms. West and I have just flown in from Washington State to see you and your wife. Do you have a few moments you can give us?”
Kevin scratched his receding chin with his white-gloved hand as his dark eyes studied Adam. “All the way from Washington State?” he finally said. “Well, I guess I can’t send you back without at least a cool drink. Come on in.”
As they stepped indoors, Kevin shut the door behind them. Whitney didn’t find the interior of the house that much cooler than it had been outside. She slipped off her light cotton jacket but still felt as though she was about to melt.
Kevin escorted them into the den and closed the door. The room was equipped with a noisy window air conditioner that managed a modest cooling. Kevin gestured toward the vinyl lime-colored couch in the corner and walked behind the portable bar with the simulated wood counter.
“Lemonade or orange juice?”
“Orange juice,” Whitney said, taking a seat on the vinyl couch and immediately feeling herself stick to it.
“Just water,” Adam said as he sat beside her.
Whitney thought it odd that Kevin didn’t take off his gloves when he fixed their drinks. “So what can I do you for?” he asked as he set the drinks in front of them.
Whitney took a long drink of her orange juice while at the same time offering a quiet prayer of thanks for the blessed coolness of Washington State summers.
“Mr. Carmichael, do you know Patrice Feldon?” Adam asked.
Kevin blinked at Adam in surprise. “Patrice? Well, yes, of course I know Patrice. Wait a minute. Did she send you?”
“I’m here representing her interests,” Whitney heard Adam say carefully.
“You’d better hold on, Mr. Justice,” Kevin said making for the door. “My wife is going to want to hear this, too. She’s been waiting for word from Patrice for a long time now.”
Kevin had reached the door. He opened it and yelled, “Linda. Someone is here about Patrice.”
A moment later a fortyish woman, wearing a cotton blouse, shorts and no shoes, entered the room, drying her hands with a dishcloth. She had short, dark hair, a pretty, round face and a happy smile.
“Patrice sent you?” she asked eagerly.
Adam rose and introduced himself and Whitney.
“Please sit down, Mr. Justice,” Linda said. “So, finally we get word. How is Patrice?”
“Mrs. Carmichael, I regret to inform you, but Patrice is dead,” Adam said in his deeply formal voice.
Linda Carmichael sank onto the seat next to her husband. Whitney watched her face go through a reverse of those before-and-after pictures of a face-lift recipient. Instead of losing ten years, Linda aged ten. She slumped against her husband.
“Oh, no. When?”
“Seven years ago,” Adam said.
“That’s why she stopped coming by,” Linda said on a long exhale of air. “All along I’ve been telling myself she was just too busy. I didn’t want to think…damn.”
Linda bit her bottom lip. Kevin wrapped an arm around his wife’s waist as a tear escaped from the corner of her eye.
“I’m very sorry, Linda,” Whitney said.
Kevin looked accusingly at Adam. “I thought you said Patrice sent you.”
“No, I said I represent her interests, Mr. Carmichael, and I do,” Adam replied calmly. “I’m executor of Patrice’s estate. I’m looking for two beneficiaries she has named in her will. I believe you can help me find them.”
Linda’s sigh was deep and sad. “Patrice didn’t have any family. Sorry, Mr. Justice. We can’t help. Doctors Esther and Jacob Rubin of Seattle might be able to assist you. I have their telephone number around here somewhere.”
“Ms. West and I have already spoken to Dr. Esther Rubin,” Adam said. “I think these beneficiaries might be relatives of yours. Their names are Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael.”
Kevin and Linda Carmichael looked at each other and then at Adam. For a moment neither of them spoke. Then Linda leaned forward. “Patrice made Huntley and Brinkley beneficiaries in her will?”
“That’s correct.”
“How did she do it? I mean, did she just say give Huntley and Brinkley such and such amount of money?”
“It would be inappropriate of me to discuss the particulars with anyone other than the beneficiaries,” Adam said. “Can you tell me where I might find them?”
Kevin smiled as he rose to his feet and helped his wife to hers. “We can do better than that, Mr. Justice. We can take you to them.”
Adam and Whitney followed the couple down the hallway to the back of the house. Kevin pushed open the screen door and stepped out onto a short, shaded patio. In a portable Doughboy swimming pool, a young boy and girl squealed and splashed each other.
“There are Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael, Mr. Justice,” Kevin said, a big, proud smile on his face. “Our children.”
ADAM WAS SITTING back in the hot den with Whitney and Linda a few minutes later. Kevin had stayed outside to supervise the children. Linda had filled Whitney’s glass with more orange juice and Adam’s with more iced water. She sat on the lime vinyl sofa across from them and sipped lemonade.
“I should have guessed Patrice would do something like this,” Linda said. “Not that I expected her to die, of course. Never that. But since she has, I can see her leaving what she had to the kids. She knew Kevin’s disability pension wouldn’t let us give them what we once hoped to.”
“Your husband is disabled?” Whitney asked.
“He got both his hands caught in a printing press at the metropolitan newspaper he worked at ten years ago. They had to amputate at the wrist.”
“He manages very well. I never would have known,” Whitney said.
“They fitted him with prostheses. He’s gotten so good with them he can fool people. Patrice mentioned the Rubins in her will, too, didn’t she?”
“It would be inappropriate of me to discuss—”
“You don’t have to worry, Mr. Justice. I know all about Jacob and Esther and what they do. And what they meant to Patrice.”
“How do you know this, Linda?” Whitney asked.
“I used to live up in Seattle near the Rubins. My folks used to drive some of the kids to swimming pools during the summer. I was the one who brought Patrice to them.”
“You brought Patrice to the Rubins?” Whitney repeated, leaning forward. “From where?”
“Now, there’s a good question, Ms. West.”
“Please call me Whitney. It’s extremely important for us to know about this, Linda. Where did Patrice come from?”
Linda took another sip of her lemonade as her eyes drew to Whitney’s. There was a strange look on her face. “Patrice didn’t come from anywhere.”
“What do you mean?” Whitney asked.
“Patrice was always a bit of a mystery, even to those of us who knew her best.”
“How did you meet her?” Whitney asked.
“In a way I’m never likely to forget.”
“Please tell us.”
Linda sighed. “Well, now that she’s dead, I don’t suppose it matters.”
“Yes?” Whitney said, putting all her encouragement in her tone.
Linda took another long sip of her lemonade and set the glass on the table. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees. “I had just turned twenty-two. I was living up in Seattle with my folks. I was walking home alone late at night after going to a show. I was pulling my coat a little tighter around me when suddenly I saw her out of the corner of my eye.”
“Patrice?” Whitney asked.
“Yes. She was standing against a lighted store window; looking inside just like she was window-shopping. No shoes. Her dress and sweater badly torn, what was left of a red silk scarf tied around her waist. She was covered in dirt and dried blood.”
“What did you do?” Whitney asked.
“The Rubins were just down the block. My folks had confided their secret to me the year befo
re, so I knew they took in abused kids. And if ever there looked like a kid who had been abused, it was Patrice. I walked up to her, draped my coat around her and told her I would help her. She said nothing, just kept staring into the store window like I wasn’t there.
“She offered no resistance when I took her to the Rubin house. Esther and I put her in a warm tub to wash the dirt and blood off her skin and hair. The soles of her feet were abraded and bleeding. She was developing some bad bruises on her arms and legs, but Esther found no other injuries.
“Esther was worried about shock. I called my folks and told them I was staying at the Rubins’. Esther put Patrice in a pair of pajamas and tucked her into bed. I lay beside her and held her hand. She never moved nor made a peep the entire night.”
“And in the morning?” Whitney asked.
“When I woke, she was standing beside the bed looking at me. Her hair was a mass of golden curls falling to her waist. Her eyes were huge violet orbs. For a moment, I swear to God, I thought she was an angel.”
“What did she say?” Adam asked.
“She told me her name was Patrice Dulcinea Feldon and that she was twelve years old. She was very emphatic about it, even spelled her name and recited her birth date several times. I asked her how she came to be standing in front of the store window. She just kept repeating, ‘I wasn’t supposed to be there.’ When I asked her about her mother and father, she said she didn’t remember having a mother or father or any family.”
“What about the bruises and blood and the state of her clothes?”
“She just kept answering ‘I wasn’t supposed to be there’ to every question. That’s all she ever said.”
“Esther and Jacob must have looked for someone she belonged to,” Whitney said.
“A policeman friend of the Rubins ran the name Feldon through their files. Nothing. He looked through all the police reports in the area that night. Still nothing. Esther checked for her birth certificate in county records throughout the state so she could get the names of her parents and an address. But there was no birth certificate for her there. Everywhere Esther looked, she came up empty.”
“And you found out no more?” Whitney asked.
“No. She wasn’t really friendly to me at first. It wasn’t until later, when Esther placed her in one of those unofficial foster homes and she came to the Rubin house for her therapy sessions, that we got to know each other.”
“You were in therapy at the Rubin house?” Whitney asked.
“I had a bad experience with a boyfriend who beat me up. I was a mess there for a while. Both Esther and Patrice helped, me to get through it.”
“Who was the foster family that raised Patrice?” Adam asked.
“I wouldn’t tell, Mr. Justice, even if I knew, which I don’t. Esther is as protective of her foster parents as she is of the children she places in their homes.”
“You must have kept in contact with Patrice, Linda,” Whitney said. “She knew about your children.”
A quiet smile stole across Linda’s lips. “Yes. She knew about my Huntley and Brinkley, better than anyone.”
“Why do you say that?” Whitney asked.
“When Patrice turned eighteen, she came to see me. I had met and married Kevin by then. She still looked like an angel with all that golden hair and that angelic smile. I told her that Kevin and I had been trying to have a child and that when we did, I hoped I had a daughter who looked just like her.
“I saw her off and on during the next few years. It was always without warning when she’d show up at the door. That was Patrice—unpredictable in so many ways. One day she pressed me about why I hadn’t had that daughter I had talked about.
“That’s when I told her about how I’d tried all the fertility drugs. Nothing was working. The fertility doctor that I had spent our savings on said there was no hope. I had no fertile eggs left.”
“An early menopause?” Whitney asked.
“He didn’t know. Anyway, Patrice explained that she was working with a scientist who had developed a new fertility process using donor eggs that was very successful. There were no negative side effects, and the research was reaching the stage where the next step was to be human trials. She asked me if I wanted her to arrange for me to be in the first of the trials.”
“And you agreed?”
“Agreed? I jumped at it. Kevin had lost his hands by then. We were so despondent and in need of hope. But then Patrice called me and told me that there would be a delay in going forward with the project. She told me she would be in touch and not to lose hope.
“But nearly a whole year went by, and I didn’t even hear from her. And then, when I finally did, it was so strange. She called me and told me everything was set. She was expressmailing me some pills that I was to take each morning and night for two months. She gave Kevin the name of a lab that would collect his sperm over the same period. She said there was no cost involved. She had gotten us into a trial, and everything was covered.
“The unlabeled bottle of pills arrived in a brown-paper envelope. When the two months were up, airplane tickets to British Columbia appeared in the mail along with a note from Patrice that said a representative of this pharmaceutical firm would meet us at the airport.”
“What pharmaceutical firm was that, Mrs. Carmichael?” Adam asked.
“Let me think. Emerson? No, Emery. That was it,” Linda replied. “Emery Pharmaceuticals.”
Whitney and Adam exchanged glances as Linda went on.
“A nice young woman from Emery Pharmaceuticals met us at the airport and said we had to hurry because the fresh embryos had arrived and would not be viable for long. She drove Kevin and me right to their lab. They drew my blood, tested it, examined me from head to toe and then artificially implanted me with the embryos. Then they gave me more pills to take for the next eight weeks, and Kevin and I were on the next plane back.”
“So fast?” Whitney asked.
“Yes, and I was not reassured by the rapidity, Whitney. The quick-in-and-quick-out treatment was unsettling. Still, eight weeks later my doctor in Las Vegas confirmed my pregnancy and declared it a miracle. Seven months later I gave birth to my miracles—my little girl, Huntley, and my little boy, Brinkley.”
“They’re fraternal twins?” Whitney asked.
“Both donor embryos I was given made it to term. My babies turned seven and a half years old last week.”
“Seven and a half? Patrice must have placed them in her will right after they were born,” Whitney said, mostly to herself.
“She didn’t have to do it,” Linda said. “She’d already given me the greatest gift of all—my children. How much did she set aside for them?”
“A third of her estate,” Adam said. “How much they actually receive will depend on what debts arise and whether the will withstands challenges from possible blood heirs.”
“Well, if there isn’t enough to start a college fund, it won’t matter. It’s the generosity of her gesture that counts.”
“Providing that the will is upheld and debts are not substantial, there should be enough for college for Huntley and Brinkley, Mrs. Carmichael,” Adam said. “Patrice’s estate is worth in excess of thirty million dollars.”
Linda Carmichael dropped her glass of lemonade. About the same time it was crashing to the floor, a loud commotion arose from the other side of the den door and it burst open.
Huntley and Brinkley Carmichael came charging into the room, squealing in delight as Kevin growled and chased them.
They were still in their wet bathing suits, their damp dark hair drawn back off their smiling faces as their quick little bodies eluded their father. They were beautiful children, obviously well loved and cared for, glowing with good health and humor.
But when Whitney looked into their laughing eyes, her heart sank sadly inside her chest.
Chapter Ten
“It’s me, Jack,” Whitney said glumly into the telephone receiver from her room at the Luxor Hotel in Las
Vegas.
“Whitney? What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” Whitney lied, trying to imbue her voice with a little more animation. “I just wanted to call to let you know we didn’t get back from Overton in time to catch the plane. I’ll be spending the night in Las Vegas.”
“And…?” Jack said suggestively.
Whitney realized that her attempt to lighten her tone hadn’t succeeded. She normally didn’t keep secrets from Jack. And she admitted to herself that if this one concerned anyone else but Adam, she would have confided in her partner.
But this one did concern Adam, and that changed everything. She didn’t examine the reason for that too closely. She was afraid to scrutinize it too carefully.
“I’m just tired, Jack,” she lied again.
“Just…tired?” Jack repeated.
“It’s been a long day, and you know what a lousy traveler I am. Plus I’ve just spent next month’s mortgage payment at a hotel boutique buying an outfit so I’d have something to wear to dinner tonight.”
“Just a minute. Did I hear right? Whitney West went to a hotel boutique to buy a dress? The same Whitney West-whose clothes are so old the tags inside them read Made In America—blew a bundle on a new outfit? Uh-oh.”
“What’s with the ‘uh-oh’?” Whitney said, immediately on the defensive. “I’ve been known to buy something new once in a while.”
“Once in a very great while—and then only if there was a man involved. The last time you splurged on an outfit it was for Skip. Oh, no. Wait a minute. Don’t tell me you’re falling for Adam Justice.”
Whitney chuckled at the note of overblown abhorrence Jack had deliberately put in his voice. She knew now that he wasn’t serious.
“What’s happened to your standards?” Jack asked, his tone rising in unmitigated horror. “This Justice guy represents corporations! He’ll take you to business banquets on your dates! Do you know how many boring speeches you’ll have to listen to? How much overbaked chicken you’re going to be forced to eat? And that will be only the beginning. Those people are into that networking thing. You’ll be dragged to all their indigestible events. Have you ever tasted raw fish and sesame seaweed?”
