SH Medical 08 - The Baby Dilemma

by Diamond, Jacqueline

  “Sea glass. It’s a rare color, possibly from an old perfume bottle.”

  “You collect these.” Of course, he’d seen the shadow boxes. “It glows like a precious gem. What’re those purple stones called?”

  “Amethysts.” She wasn’t sure why, but she added, “My Aunt Bree and I used to enjoying hunting for these. She always said if she wanted to send me a sign from the afterlife, it would be purple glass.”

  “A sign of what?”

  That was hard to answer. “Reassurance. Approval. Maybe a nudge in the right direction, assuming I can figure out what that is.” Quickly, to avoid mentioning the subject of her thoughts, she said, “What makes the glass special is that it has a history, even if I may never know the details. It might have fallen from a ship far away, or been carried off by an ancient wave.”

  “How romantic.” The hard planes of his face softened as he gazed at her.

  “In olden times, people believed that whenever a sailor died, mermaids would cry, and their tears turned into glass.” Paige stopped. Why was she enthusing about this to Mike Aaron, of all people?

  As he released her hand, his gaze slid down her denim jacket to her embroidered jeans. Irritated, she braced for a crack about how much he’d preferred her in a bikini. Instead, his deep voice said, “Shall we walk? I guess I’m like you. I need to cool down in motion.”

  “Sure.” Although it felt strange to be strolling together as if they were old friends, Paige set out alongside him.

  “How did you get so interested in sea glass?” Mike asked as a teenage girl trotted past with two small dogs straining at their leashes.

  “Originally, I planned to collect shells.” Paige had quickly dropped that idea. “That was until I discovered that the little animals were sometimes still inside them. Even when they’d died, you have to boil the shells to preserve them.”

  “And keep them from smelling to high heaven?”

  Her nose wrinkled. “You got that right.”

  They crossed a grassy area where a couple of children were playing Frisbee with their parents. Paige estimated their ages at around three and five, a tiny girl and a sturdy boy. Which would her baby be? She had names picked out already: Bree for a girl, Brian for a boy.

  Mike’s voice penetrated her thoughts. “Is there a way to figure out where the glass comes from?”

  “Sometimes you can tell by the color.” Paige had researched the subject on the internet. “Certain shades come from plates that used to be given away as prizes during the Depression era. Others come from whiskey and soda bottles dating back fifty years or more. They aren’t necessarily valuable, but they make beautiful jewelry.”

  “My ex-wife only liked jewelry that cost a bundle.”

  “Oh, come on!” Surely the beauty of the object was what counted. “Maybe she just likes the look of pearls or precious stones.”

  “Nope. Unless it was hard on my wallet, it didn’t count,” he said. “It didn’t start out that way. When we met, she was a dispatcher. Lively and fun to be around. A lot of guys wanted to date her, and it felt great that she’d chosen me. After we got married, things that hadn’t bothered her before became a big issue.”

  “Like what?”

  “My working overtime, putting in rotating shifts. I supposed the fault was partly mine. I didn’t take her to dinner very often, didn’t bring her flowers. Maybe she was lonely. After a while, whenever I drew an inconvenient shift or had to spend my day off in court testifying, the only way to pacify her was to buy her earrings or a bracelet.”

  “As a sign that you cared about her, surely.”

  “Partially,” Mike conceded. “It was easier than fighting. We fell into a pattern—she threw a tantrum, I bought her off. Or anyway, it felt like I was buying her off. But let’s not dwell on that.” Mike caught her elbow to help her over a tumble of rocks that divided the small park from the quay. “Getting back to your glass collection, I didn’t see any identifying information on the shadow boxes. With all this history, I would think you’d try to document it.”

  Paige was more than happy to return to that subject. “I got compulsive for a while, trying to label everything,” she admitted. “Then I realized I’d stopped looking at the beauty of the glass, so I threw out all my notes.”

  His stride broke. “You threw them out?”

  “Does that shock you?”

  A hint of his citrus shaving lotion tickled her nose. “Kind of.”

  “You would never do that,” Paige guessed.

  “Throw away my hard work?” he returned. “Not without good reason.”

  “Losing touch with what’s important is good reason,” she said.

  Mike started to answer, but apparently thought the better of it. “Interesting point of view,” was all he said.

  They reached the wooden quay that edged the harbor. Built on pilings over water, it anchored a series of small private piers that extended outward at right angles, securing sailboats, motorcraft and a few yachts. To their left, on the inland side, an array of shops offered swimwear and surfboards. Most were closed at this early hour except for one selling tackle and bait. Ahead, a few hardy fishermen perched along the public pier, lines trailing in the water.

  “I wonder if they ever catch anything,” Mike mused. “They seem to enjoy just sitting there.”

  “Aunt Bree once caught a halibut, or so she claimed.” Paige suspected her aunt had bought it at a fish market, but she’d been too tactful to say so. In any case, it had tasted delicious. “She said she caught sole and turbot sometimes. And once a stingray.”

  “Ouch! What did she do with it?”

  “Cut it loose, I presume.” Even small rays could inflict nasty wounds.

  “How do you treat a stingray injury, Doc?” Mike asked. “Any home remedies?”

  Paige shuddered. “It’s not like a jellyfish sting that you can sometimes get away with soaking in vinegar. With stingrays, there’s a serious risk of shock and infection. As far as I know, there’s no specific antidote to the toxin, but antibiotics and careful monitoring can usually mitigate the damage. Is this really what you want to discuss on a morning like this?”

  “What I’d like to discuss is unfortunately confidential,” Mike said. “Not that I couldn’t use feedback.”

  “A case?”

  “That’s right.”

  Nearby, on the deck of the Sea Star Café, a few hardy souls sat eating breakfast beneath heat lamps. A grizzled man was reading a newspaper, while a young couple and their toddler watched a pelican study their breakfast from a nearby post. A couple of seagulls circled noisily above, alert for crumbs.

  “Isn’t your brother getting back from his honeymoon today?” Paige asked. “Surely you could talk to him.”

  “This client would rather not involve my staff. Sensitive matter.” His forehead furrowed. Whatever was going on clearly troubled him.

  “Why don’t we stop for a muffin?” Although Paige had eaten two slices of toast at the house, irresistible baking scents wafted from the café.

  “I’m game.”

  They stepped into a cocoon of warmth amid the aromas of coffee, cinnamon, chocolate and apple. “Grab a table by the window,” Paige said, not that they had much competition in the nearly empty café. “What would you like?”

  “You have a seat. I’ll get the food.”

  She fixed Mike with a stern look. “You are not in charge, Detective. I’m buying, so what’ll you have?”

  He chuckled. “You’re a tough cookie.”

  “Would that be an oatmeal cookie or a chocolate chip cookie?” She could see both varieties displayed in a glass-topped plate on the front counter.

  “Blueberry muffin and a cup of coffee.”

  “Done.” She chose
an apple fritter for herself, along with herb tea, and resisted the temptation to add a lemon tart. If she weren’t careful, she’d balloon out like some of her patients. How many times had she blithely counseled them to moderate their weight gain? Only now did she understand the ferocity of their cravings.

  As she waited for the barista to prepare the order, Paige studied Mike across the room. His thick, wind-tousled hair only added to his rugged impression, as did the watchfulness he maintained. Glancing out the window and then at the door seemed like second nature to him.

  A memory haunted her. About a year and a half ago, she’d come here with a colleague she was dating at her old medical practice. Her mental image of Dr. Harry Myers made quite a contrast, with his pear-shaped build—narrow shoulders, heavy hips—and thinning hair. At the time, she’d found him attractive enough. They’d gotten along well, enjoying easy conversations and an uncomplicated relationship between equals.

  Paige had begun to imagine a future for them, until Harry attended his twenty-year high school reunion and dropped her for his old girlfriend. Paige had found the atmosphere at work strained, especially after Harry showed up at a staff barbecue with his fiancée clinging to his arm, flashing a large diamond ring and giggling at his every word.

  It had been a narrow escape, she supposed. She’d been so eager for a husband and a child that she’d been prepared to settle for a man who seemed simply good enough. In retrospect, she’d been more disappointed than wounded.

  Now, if it were Mike…

  Her jaw tightened. She didn’t want to fall for this guy. Too hard-edged, too self-contained, too dangerous to her equilibrium. Thank goodness she knew in advance that they weren’t suited.

  When the barista called her name, Paige collected a fragrant tray and carried it to the table. Mike inhaled appreciatively. “That’s my idea of heaven. A beautiful woman with a tray of food. And don’t take that the wrong way. I’m not being sexist.”

  “The hell you aren’t.” She set the food down and took a seat. “But I’ll forgive you this once.”

  They sorted out their drinks and goodies. After consuming a few bites, Mike leaned back. “I wish I knew why this case bothers me so much.”

  “Could you talk about it hypothetically?” Paige had occasionally solicited Bree’s advice on the emotional aspects of cases by changing the details to protect the patient’s privacy.

  Mike didn’t have to think for long. “Okay, here’s the problem. If, or rather when, I tell this client what she asked me to find out, it might cause her to take action that could harm her.”

  “She’s suicidal?” Paige guessed.

  “No. She might confront someone she shouldn’t touch with a ten-foot pole.”

  “Can’t you warn her?” That seemed obvious.

  “I can’t be sure that will stop her.” He drummed his blunt-tipped fingers on the table. “Also, something about the situation doesn’t add up. I keep wondering what might be going on beneath the surface.”

  Having finished her apple fritter, Paige focused on Mike’s concern rather than on the alluring array of baked goods across the room. “Doesn’t your client want to know the whole truth?”

  “Not necessarily. I’ve already found the answer to the question she asked me to research.” He took a sip of coffee.

  “But the more she understands, the better armed she’ll be against this person, right?” Paige said.

  His distant gaze came into sharp focus. “That’s a good point. If she authorizes me to pursue the matter further, she isn’t likely to take action in the meantime. And by then, she should have a better idea what she’s up against. It seems obvious now that I hear it from you.”

  “All I did was reflect back what you were saying.”

  “You’d be surprised how rare it is to find someone who listens well.”

  “You don’t have to tell me,” Paige answered. “Some of my patients are starving for someone who’ll pay attention.”

  “I thought women confided all their problems in their girlfriends.” He cocked his head.

  “Not everyone has close friends.” Especially when they work long hours and lose the one person they trusted most. “Ideally, they’d be able to share with their husbands or boyfriends, but a lot of men have trouble opening up.”

  “I suppose you could say that about me.” That was quite an admission, coming from Mike. “I grew up keeping my thoughts to myself.”

  “Your parents must be good at communicating. They’d have to be, to deal with all those foster kids,” Paige said.

  “They were great,” he confirmed. “We had family councils, and any child who stayed more than a few weeks got professional therapy, which included sessions with my parents. Marianne and I were another story. We felt more like staff than kids.”

  She could imagine how that might happen. “Did you complain?”

  “I just accepted the way things were.” Mike stopped to observe a rowdy group of teenagers jostling each other in the doorway. He relaxed when they sorted themselves out and headed for the counter. “My sister and I were both affected, though. She’s a dentist, like Dad, and unmarried, like me. I don’t think either of us wants children.”

  “That must disappoint your parents.” Her own parents had adored each and every one of their numerous grandchildren.

  “Oh, my foster sister Lourdes has two kids, my brother Denzel has one and of course Lock and Erica are expecting.”

  Was that a note of hurt in his voice, that his parents lavished so much love on his siblings? “I’ll bet they’d be surprised to learn how you feel. They may take you for granted, but the love for a child runs deep.”

  “I’m hardly a child now.” He eyed their empty dishes and cups. “Ready to go?”

  Not really, but the place had filled up and people were standing in line for tables. “Sure.”

  Outside in the brisk sea air, Paige wished impulsively for Mike to wrap a protective arm around her. Already, though, he seemed to be drawing into his private distance.

  That retreat, following his self-disclosure, was understandable. All the same, she missed that tender side of Mike. Now that she’d glimpsed his vulnerability, it was going to be harder than ever to hold him away.

  But for her peace of mind, she had to.

  Chapter Ten

  From Harbor Bluff Drive, Mike could see only a sliver of the Hightowers’ home, sheltered behind a white stucco wall draped with pink bougainvillea. He halted his car in front of the locked wrought-iron gate and announced himself over the speaker.

  A moment later, the gate clicked open. He drove onto a concrete parking circle textured and tinted to resemble paving stones. The single-story white home sprawled atop a bluff, a few palm trees and a bird-of-paradise plant softening the classical pillars in front.

  Gemma had emailed yesterday, changing the meeting place from his office to her home. Her husband would be attending a League of Cities meeting in Los Angeles this morning and, with almost no chance of his dropping in unexpectedly, she preferred the privacy.

  As he got out of his sedan, Mike noted the pristine condition of the off-white paint as well as a new oak garage door with stained-glass windows. Expensive stuff for a real-estate broker struggling in a down market.

  At the door, a maid in a gray-and-white uniform ushered him inside. They crossed a faux-marble entryway, went down a short hallway past a home office, and entered a large carpeted room set with velvety couches and silk cushions. On an end wall hung a giant TV.

  Expansive windows overlooked a curving pool. Beyond it lay a lower bluff that held the Harbor View Hotel and, beyond that, the harbor where yesterday Mike and Paige had shared breakfast. While buildings obscured most of the quay, the two of them might have been briefly visible during their stroll had anyone been watc
hing with binoculars.

  “Coffee, Mr. Aaron?” the housekeeper asked.

  “No, thank you.”

  “Mrs. Hightower, she be here in a minute.” With a shadow of a smile, the woman departed.

  Mike started to set his briefcase on a low table, changed his mind out of deference to the satin finish and put it on the floor. No wonder Gemma didn’t want to risk losing this gorgeous place in a divorce. And no wonder Yelena Yerchenko coveted it, if that was indeed her motive.

  The woman had no doubt visited, perhaps several times, as a guest at parties. According to his research, the escrow company owner had done considerable business with Roy’s brokerage. Nothing unusual about that. In fact, they’d likely been acquainted for the better part of a decade, yet according to Mrs. Hightower, the affair had only been going on about a year. What had changed?

  A shift in air pressure announced the arrival of the lady of the house. Wearing high heels and encased in a tight knit suit, her hair sleek in its chignon, Gemma Hightower entered with the carriage of someone making an entrance at the yacht club. Mike wondered if she was on her way to an event or if she dressed this way all the time.

  Possibly both.

  “Detective,” she said by way of greeting. “What do you have for me?”

  As Mike retrieved the folder from his case, she perched on the front of a chair, angling her long legs to one side like a model. She must have learned to do that during her days as a debutante in Virginia, where she’d grown up in a patrician family near Washington, D.C. Her father had been a mere bureaucrat, but her mother’s family had a high social rank dating back to pre–Civil War days.

  Mike researched his clients as well as their targets.

  “Here’s what I found.” Seated on the couch, he presented photos along with his written report.

  Holding them with her fingertips, Gemma turned pale. “That’s Yelena. I never thought…” Swallowing hard, she thrust the shots back into the folder as if they burned. “Do I really need to read the report?”