“It’ll be okay, sugar,” she said. “My husband did the exact same thing to me, and I survived it.”
“He did?” Connie looked up, black streaks on each cheek where mascaraed lashes had bled.
Gigi nodded. “Only he went to Costa Rica with his personal trainer, not an orthodontist. Left me with nothing but the kids, the house, and his Hummer.”
“That bastard,” Connie whispered, struggling to her feet.
“They’re all bastards—”
Connie’s startled scream cut her off. Gigi turned to look in the direction of Connie’s stabbing finger. The golf cart, previously parked at the top of a slight rise, was trundling toward them, gaining speed as it came. The two women leapt aside as the cart hurtled past, spewing clubs from the bags strapped in the back, and drowned itself in the lake.
Gigi lay on her stomach, heart thudding and arm aching, stunned by her narrow escape from the runaway cart.
“Goose shit!” Connie wailed.
That struck Gigi as a strange expletive until she pushed herself up and surveyed the splotches on her St. John top and skirt. It was too gross, as Kendall would say. Her suit was ruined, her arm hurt, she’d failed in her attempt to deliver the summons, and she’d probably be sued by the golf course for borrowing the cart and letting it commit suicide in the water hazard. Gigi felt like following its example but bit back her tears, used her good hand to haul Connie to her feet, and began the long walk back to the clubhouse under the amused or appalled gazes of assorted golfers, homeowners, and triumphant geese.
I was mounting the stairs to the courthouse, a rosy brick building with a clock tower surmounted by a cupola, before I realized I had no idea what Russell Ziegler looked like. I asked a guy in a lawyerly three-piece suit if he knew him and got “The dude ain’t representin’ me” in return. Oops. Who knew it was so hard to tell the lawyers from the criminals?
I got luckier the second time around, asking one of the uniformed security guards about Ziegler. “Medium height, buzz-cut hair, glasses,” she said. “Try Courtroom Four.”
I thanked her and slid into the courtroom, scanning the crowd. Apparently the judge had just declared a late lunch recess, because the few people in the room were straggling toward the door. I returned to the hall and snagged a man fitting the guard’s description. “Russell Ziegler?”
“Yes?” He squinted at me as if trying to place me. Wearing a stylish four-button suit with a yellow shirt and tasteful tie, he was younger than I’d expected, in his midthirties.
I handed him a card. “I’m Charlotte Swift. I spoke with Jacqueline Falstow yesterday, and she told me you arranged their private adoption with Elizabeth Sprouse?”
“Yes?” A guarded look came into his eyes.
“I’ve been hired to locate the baby’s father. Do you have a few minutes?”
He made a show of looking at his watch. “A couple. We only have a half hour break. Judge Garmin thinks we’ll conclude our cases faster if we’re hungry. This way.”
I followed him down the hall, noting he had a slight limp. He paused in a room with vending machines and bought a Payday and a Mountain Dew. Lunch in hand, he led me out of the courthouse and took off at a brisk pace down the sidewalk, not slowed by the limp. “A walk clears my head,” he said, taking a bite of his candy bar.
Downtown’s tall buildings buffered us from the wind, and the sun was comfortably warm; I wasn’t averse to a walk after all my time driving. I let Ziegler chew and swallow, then asked, “Can you tell me how you met Elizabeth Sprouse, paired her up with the Falstows?”
From the way he screwed up his face, I knew what was coming. “No can do. Privilege, you know.”
“What could be privileged about how you hooked up with Elizabeth? Never mind,” I said, waving the question away before he could turn on his heel. “Can you at least tell me when you met her?”
He considered the question, then said, “January. I can talk about her, but not the Falstows. They’re my clients.”
“Did Elizabeth have her own lawyer?”
“Not that I know of.”
“So she had no one looking out for her interests?”
He shrugged. “I don’t know that she needed anyone—she seemed like a really sharp cookie.”
Right. The sixteen-year-old didn’t need advice entering into a legal contract. I bit my tongue.
“Lots of the teenagers come to see me with their folks, their moms, at least. A few come with the baby’s father. Not her. It didn’t seem to bother her to be alone, and she was really savvy.” He glugged half his soda.
“How so?”
“She’d obviously done some reading about private adoptions.”
“Did she tell you she was adopted?”
He turned his head to look at me. Light glanced off the lenses of his glasses. “Was she? No.”
We jaywalked across Tejon Street to get to Acacia Park. Mature trees cast pools of shade over the walkways, and a loud crowd of kids gathered around the Uncle Wilber fountain, where the tuba-playing figure of Uncle Wilber emerges on the half hour to play his tune. Faint oompahs drifted our way as we stepped aside to give joggers the right-of-way.
“What did she tell you about the pregnancy?”
“Virtually nothing. She saw a doctor, of course, one I recommended, to make sure she and the baby were healthy. Then, after I matched her with Jacquie and Stefan, I was pretty much out of the picture.”
I wasn’t sure I bought his noninvolvement, but I couldn’t see how it mattered. “How pregnant was she when she came to you?”
“Completely,” he said with a small smile.
I rolled my eyes. “How far along?”
“Six weeks.”
I counted back to late November or early December. “Did she say who the father was?”
“Sorry.” Ziegler shrugged and shot his empty soda can into a trash barrel. “Two points!”
“Don’t you ask for that information? Don’t the adoptive parents want to know the baby’s health history?”
“Sure. But what can I do? If the girl doesn’t want to tell, I’m not getting out a rubber hose to beat it out of her. You’ve got to understand . . . this is a hard time for these girls, Ms. Swift.” He stopped and faced me, his eyes serious behind the thick lenses. “They’re scared. Sometimes of their parents, sometimes of actually giving birth. Some of them are scared they’ll be pariahs at school or with their friends. Some are worried that having a baby will tube their chances to go to college or have a career. I don’t add to their pressure. When I represent a teen mother trying to find a home for her baby, it’s my job to make things easier for her, match her up with a loving family she can feel comfortable giving the baby to, help her out logistically, if necessary.”
It sounded like a rehearsed spiel, as if he were hawking vinyl siding or time-share condos. “Did Elizabeth need ‘logistical’ help?”
“Like I said, she wasn’t my client, but I don’t think so. She was still living at home, she said.”
I wondered exactly when Elizabeth had run away from home and moved into the grotty apartment. The timeline probably didn’t matter.
I tried one last time as Ziegler picked up his pace and headed back across the street to the courthouse. Savory smells from a sidewalk hot dog vendor followed us and made my stomach rumble. “Did she say anything at all that might help me find the father? Refer to a boyfriend? Anything?”
Dodging a panhandler without making eye contact, Ziegler said, “Well, I’m not sure why, but I got the feeling she was extra nervous about discussing the guy. She completely clammed up whenever I brought the subject up and got this look in her eye. Not the gooey ‘I’m so in love with him’ look some of the girls get. A wary look. Maybe the guy was married, or prominent in some way, like a TV personality or athlete. One seventeen-year-old I helped was pregnant by the father of the kids she babysat. His wife brought the girl to see me.” He gave a mock shiver at the memory.
“Could Elizabeth have been r
aped or sexually abused?” I asked, lowering my voice as a chattering herd of twenty-something women swarmed around us.
“Always possible,” he said. “That would certainly explain why she didn’t want to talk about it.” The sun winked on his glasses, and I couldn’t read his expression. He handed me his card. “Call me if you know any pregnant women who might want to go the adoption route.”
I put a hand on his arm as he started to turn away. “Could Stefan Falstow have been the father?” I don’t know where the question came from. Maybe the surrogate idea had jarred it loose, or maybe it was the way Ziegler avoided talking about how he met Elizabeth.
His eyes went blank-TV-screen dead. “I’d advise you not to repeat that as a question or an accusation, Ms. Swift, unless you’re looking for a slander action.” He jerked his arm away from my hand and limped into the courthouse.
Hm. A sensitive spot, maybe. Moving thoughtfully back to my car, I checked the messages on my cell phone. Two calls I’d return later and then one from Gigi. I listened with growing incredulity to her babbling about stealing a car—was that possible?—and then about a drowning. Since I hadn’t gotten any calls from the police, I decided Gigi must not be under arrest, and clearly she wasn’t the one who’d drowned, so she was just going to have to cope on her own. I didn’t have time to fix whatever new catastrophe she’d orchestrated before meeting Linnea. I called Gigi’s number, hoping to encourage her to work things out, but she didn’t answer. I left an upbeat message, affirming my faith in her ability to get the situation straightened out, and told her I’d meet her back at the office after interviewing Linnea.
I didn’t immediately spot Linnea when I arrived at the Liberty High School stadium. Built primarily for the hordes of football fans who descended on Thursday, Friday, and Saturday evenings in the fall, it had seating for several thousand and a track that circled the football field. I wished I’d brought a jacket as anvil-shaped thunderheads piled up and the wind, which had been blowing all day, ushered in a new chill to nip at my bare arms. People say that if you don’t like the weather here, just wait ten minutes, and today looked like it was proving them right.
No one challenged me as I walked onto the track. It didn’t look like the girls were busting their butts in the coach’s absence. A few of them jogged at a warm-up pace while others stood in small groups talking. A figure separated herself from one of the groups and came toward me. Linnea’s outré hair and makeup looked incongruous in the red tracksuit, but her long, slim legs promised speed.
“Let’s sit on the bleachers,” she greeted me, heading for a concrete ramp.
We settled onto the front row bleacher. The metal was still warm from soaking up the earlier sun, and I pressed my palms against it. Linnea watched as one of her teammates ran. “She’s a pronator,” she observed. “See how her feet slant in?”
She could be a Terminator or an alligator, for all I cared. I touched Linnea’s arm lightly to recall her attention. “Linnea, you said that Elizabeth told you she had been hired as a surrogate parent, but the couple adopting her baby said she was already pregnant when they met her.”
“Really?” Linnea didn’t look too surprised. “Elizabeth always was something of a drama queen. I guess choosing to become a surrogate sounded better to her than admitting she got careless. You’d think with how easily you can get condoms from drugstores or in restroom vending machines, that everyone would use them. But no.”
Linnea’s voice had a bite, and I could see why Elizabeth might not have fessed up to an unplanned pregnancy.
“Give me a name, Linnea.”
“A name?”
“Since we know Elizabeth’s pregnancy wasn’t the result of a surrogacy in vitro procedure, who’s your top candidate for the baby’s father? What’s the first name that comes to mind?”
“Wes Emmerling,” she said finally. “They hooked up a couple of times. He spread rumors about doing her. Maybe he really did.”
Sounded like a great guy. “He’s a student?”
She shook her head. “Not anymore. He graduated in June. I think he works for his dad’s landscaping company. Unless he’s already left—he got a scholarship to some school in Virginia, UVA or William and Mary or somewhere.”
My pulse quickened. Virginia. That’s where Elizabeth told Ian she wanted to move. “Do you know the name of his dad’s company?”
“Sorry.”
“No problem.” I could find it easily enough. “After you helped deliver Olivia, what did Elizabeth do?”
“Well, that’s the thing. She called those people—the couple she was doing the surrogacy for—oh, I guess it wasn’t a surrogacy but just an adoption, and told them she’d changed her mind.”
Whoa. “You overheard this conversation?” That certainly didn’t jive with what Jacqueline Falstow had told me about Elizabeth calling to arrange delivery of the infant.
“Oh, yeah. She said she wanted to keep Olivia. I was in the kitchen, and I could hear them yelling through the phone.”
“Him or her?”
“I couldn’t tell. Maybe both. Elizabeth was panicky when she hung up, worried they’d take Olivia. She wanted me to hide her at my house, but my folks would’ve had a cow. I told her she should go to the police.”
“Did she?” I knew the answer to that one.
“I don’t think so. Before I left, she looked calmer, said she had a better plan, thanked me for everything and gave me a hug. That was the last time I talked to her. I called her every day, left messages on her cell, but she never called back.” A bleak, lost note sounded in her voice, and she turned her gaze back to the infield. I thought she was blinking back tears.
“I’m really sorry for your loss,” I told her. I wanted to hug her, but she didn’t strike me as the touchy-feely sort. “It’s hard to lose a friend, especially when you’ve been through something like that.” I paused for a beat, then said, “This is really important. Who would Olivia have asked for help, besides you?”
Linnea brought her thumb to her mouth and gnawed on a cuticle. The black nail polish had chipped, leaving a Dalmatian dog effect on her nails. “I should have helped her,” she said.
“You did help her. You did more than many adults could or would do for their friends.”
My conviction glanced off her like an arrow off armor. “Yeah, right. Maybe she called her birth mother?” she offered after a moment’s thought. “You said she found her. Or maybe Mr. Van Hoose.”
“What?” A fat drop of rain plopped onto my cheek, and I looked up. The clouds were swollen to breaking point, pregnant with rain and hail. Lightning zigzagged across the sky in a burst of eerie blue-white, and the girls on the field stampeded for cover.
“He’s the counselor,” Linnea yelled over the rumble of thunder. “Beth spent a lot of time with him last fall, thought he was the bomb.”
Could Jack— I didn’t want to go there. “C’mon, we’ve got to get inside,” I said, nudging Linnea off the bench. Metal bleachers were not where I wanted to be in an electrical storm.
Rain began falling in earnest as we scurried down the ramp, but Linnea stopped me short of the tunnel that led to the locker rooms. We huddled under a shallow overhang. “Do you think the Falstows killed her because she wouldn’t give them Olivia?” she asked, her green eyes troubled. She looked young and confused and wet, no longer the doctor wannabe capable of coping with a medical emergency. “If I’d told someone . . .”
“It’s not your fault,” I said. “No way. You should call the police, though, and tell them what you know. It might help with their investigation.”
Her face registered “unconvinced,” and a second later she was dashing away from me, legs pumping hard. She spun into the center of the field, lifting her arms as the rain sluiced down, washing over her.
13
“Please tell me you didn’t really steal a car and drown someone,” I said to Gigi as I walked into the office half an hour later, drenched to the bone. I immediately kicked off my
pumps and stripped away my sodden knee-high stockings; barefoot was better than squelching. I wanted a snifter of cognac but made do with a Pepsi.
Gigi looked, if anything, worse than I did. Grass and some squishy greenish substance speckled her expensive knit suit, and her coiffure looked like someone had been at it with a hay baler. Her eyes, though, sparkled in a new way, and she rolled her chair over to my desk as I plunked into my chair, inhaling Pepsi.
“It was a golf cart,” she said, hitting the t hard, “and I didn’t really steal it—just borrowed it.”
She launched into a tangled report of serving Connie Padgett with her summons, and I became lost in the tale of the golf cart chase, enraged golfers, and malevolent geese. It seemed, though, that Gigi had managed to serve Padgett in the end.
“So after I talked the golf course manager out of suing us over the cart,” Gigi finished her story, “I took Connie home and made her a cup of tea, and we talked—and before I left I gave her the summons and the name of the best divorce lawyer in town!” She flourished her pink cast in the air triumphantly.
“Yours?”
“Les’s.”
“Good work, Gigi,” I said. I felt a twinge of guilt over what Gigi had gone through and suggested, “Why don’t you take the rest of the day off? And get your suit dry-cleaned at the agency’s expense. We can write it off.” I sniffed. “What have you got all over it, anyway?”
“Goose poop,” Gigi said, her enthusiasm fading somewhat as she surveyed herself.
We both wrinkled our noses, and Gigi gave me a tentative grin. Before I knew it, we were laughing.
“Go home,” I said. “I’ve found it pays to keep a change of clothes in my car. If you’re going to stay in this business, you might want to think about having a gym bag with extra clothes here, too.”
Swift Justice: A Mystery (Thomas Dunne Books) Page 16
