This Little Baby

by Joyce Sullivan

  Paulina felt the solemnity of the occasion filter into her heart the moment she entered the century-old church and saw the closed black coffin surrounded by a bank of purple-and-gold chrysanthemums. A photo of Jean-Luc was placed on an easel. Gil’s hand lay firm in her own. She squeezed it gently, as if to say she knew soon he and his family would be laying Cindy to rest.

  Fifty mourners turned out for the funeral. Gil was handed a bilingual program that invited family and friends to gather at the home of Alain Valiquette after the service. The service was conducted in French, with the odd bit translated into English. Paulina assumed the woman dressed in black in the front pew was Jean-Luc’s mother. Several people shared the pew with her. Other relatives? Friends? During the short service, a young man in his early twenties with a thin face and a sharp nose left the front pew and delivered a eulogy. Even from a distance, his dark eyes appeared swollen. Paulina’s French was still in the rudimentary stages, but she recognized the word ami. Alain Valiquette had been Jean-Luc’s friend. Had Alain met Cindy? she wondered.

  There had been no mention of Cindy’s name thus far in the ceremony. But then, the family may have preferred it that way, given the media’s suggestion that Jean-Luc had murdered Cindy, then committed suicide. Gil seemed to be listening intently.

  “Can you understand anything?” she whispered, her shoulder brushing against the solid pillar of his arm. It was oh-so-tempting to continue leaning on him. Bad enough their fingers were still woven together. When had their roles become reversed? When had she started drawing strength from him instead of offering her own?

  He glanced down at her and her mouth went dry at the chiseled handsomeness of his face and the penetrating blue of his eyes. Memories of their night together flashed unbidden into her mind. Heat laced through her as her gaze focused on the sensuous shape of his lips. He nodded and mouthed, “I’ll tell you later.”

  Through strength of will, Paulina sat up tall and studied those assembled. How many of them knew of Jean-Luc’s relationship with Cindy? She recognized the director from the community center. Robbins and Zuker were in the back of the church.

  With a final hymn, the service was over.

  Paulina and Gil departed down a side aisle to avoid the line of people forming to offer their condolences to the grieving family. “We’ll introduce ourselves at the house, where it’s more private,” she explained.

  Robbins intercepted them at the entrance. “Detective,” she said with deference, defiantly keeping hold of Gil’s hand. Robbins would think she was trying to hide something if she let go now. Paulina realized, to her surprise, that she was comfortable with this intimacy with Gil.

  “Ms. Stewart. Mr. Boyer. Might I have a word with you privately? Some information has come to light concerning Mr. Tweedie that I thought you should be made aware of.”

  Paulina didn’t trust Robbins’s smooth, rehearsed voice. She knew his experience told him the obvious suspect usually did it, but Paulina knew Gil. Sooner or later, Robbins would change tacks.

  “What have you got, Detective?” Gil asked gruffly.

  Robbins’s gray eyes flicked from Gil to Paulina. “We’ve interviewed Tweedie again. He claims he was at a home-building event for the homeless in Moose Jaw, Saskatchewan, when the child in Swift Current was kidnapped.”

  “How far is Moose Jaw from Swift Current?” Paulina asked.

  “One hundred and seventy-two kilometers—slightly under a two-hour drive. We’re checking into the possibility that he still could have done it. This event lasted a week. He could have left for several hours without being noticed. By the way, there’s still no word on Elva Madre yet.” He turned to leave, then paused, reaching into the breast pocket of his gray tweed blazer for a pair of dark sunglasses. “Keep in touch, eh?”

  “We will, Detective,” Paulina replied.

  “Do you think he knows we had Renée infiltrate Newcombe’s office?” Gil murmured, leaning close to her so that she could smell the spicy aftershave on his jaw.

  “No.” Paulina watched Robbins conferring with Zuker. An unsettled feeling shimmied beneath her breastbone. “But you can be sure Robbins will be noting who we talk to at the gathering.”

  When they were in Gil’s car alone, Paulina asked what Alain Valiquette had said during the eulogy.

  Gil inserted the key in the ignition and frowned, flicking his finger at the silver football dangling from his key ring.

  “He said Jean-Luc was his best friend. They went to school together and partied together. Alain helped JeanLuc fix up his Mustang. When Madame Deveau was transferred to Quebec City four years ago with her employer, Jean-Luc stayed here. Alain made a joke that they used to lift weights too, but no matter how hard he tried, Alain’s muscles never measured up to Jean-Luc’s.”

  “It sounds as though they were good friends.”

  “Yeah.” Gil drew a weary breath and let it out slowly, his massive shoulders rising and falling with the movement. “I want to hate Jean-Luc, but I can’t. I’m sorry he’s dead. I’m sorry Cindy’s gone, too. Maybe they could have been happy together—I don’t know.” He flicked the football again. It spun wildly on its chain. Gil stared at it, his somber expression reflecting his acquiescence of Cindy’s relationship with Jean-Luc. “I just want Mikey back safely.”

  Paulina let her hand rest on Gil’s rock-hard thigh. “I know.”

  Gil started the car. They drove to the Valiquette residence in contemplative silence. Paulina let Gil take over the introductions to Jean-Luc’s mother, since the woman didn’t appear to speak English.

  “Je suis desolée…” Paulina murmured, expressing her sympathy. She felt the petite woman’s watery brown gaze upon her as Gil made an explanation. She heard Gil mention Cindy’s name, but Madame Deveau shook her head and pressed a lace-trimmed handkerchief to her lips.

  “Merci Excusez-nous,” Gil responded.

  Paulina felt Gil’s hand at her elbow. He drew her aside to a quiet corner of the small bungalow. “I told her we found her son and that you’re a private investigator and we’re doing what we can to assist the police. She doesn’t mind that we’re here.”

  “Good.” Paulina fingered the lapel of his black wool suit jacket, unable to keep herself from touching him. “Where’d you learn to speak French like that?”

  “Playing hockey and football when I was younger.”

  “Hmm. I’m impressed.”

  “You are?”

  His arms tightened around her, securing her in a cocoon of warmth and strength. His lips brushed across her forehead. “Good, because impressing you happens to rank very highly on my list of priorities.”

  Paulina wasn’t sure whether to be alarmed or pleased by his admission. She took a step backward, relieved that he released her easily. “Why don’t we try to find Alain?”

  Alain was on the back deck staring out at the neatly mown lawn, a bottle of beer clenched in his hand. He swiveled toward them when Gil called his name, his eyes bloodshot.

  “It’s okay to speak English,” Alain said, cutting off Gil’s introductions. “You knew Jean-Luc?”

  “Actually, we were the ones who discovered his body,” Paulina explained. “He’d been dating Gil’s sister-in-law Cindy D’Ange—”

  “He didn’t kill her,” Alain said vehemently, his eyes flashing. “He was obsessed with her, but Jean-Luc wouldn’t kill her. He wouldn’t hurt a baby, either. I told him it was a no-win situation—her with a husband and a kid, but he wouldn’t listen to me. He was sure it was all going to work out.” He took a long swallow of beer. “You want a beer?” he offered. “There’s a cooler in the kitchen—”

  “We’re fine,” Gil said.

  “When did that conversation take place?” Paulina asked curiously.

  “A few months back, I guess.” His words were slurred. Paulina imagined the beer clutched in his hand was not the first he’d had that day. “Jean-Luc banged up his Mustang and brought it into my auto-body shop. All he could talk about was sa blonde
—how he’d met her at work and fallen in love with her. How this woman was having problems with her husband and was very unhappy, but she was worried about leaving him for Jean-Luc because of the kid.” He made a helpless gesture with his free hand. “He was sure it was all going to work out.”

  Paulina felt guilty for intruding on his grief. “Did you know Cindy’s husband died?”

  Alain nodded. “Out. I remember Jean-Luc phoning and telling me that. His voice was so strange, I knew something was wrong. I think he felt bad. He wanted the guy—how do you say?—out of the picture? But he wasn’t wishing him dead or anything.”

  “I understand,” Gil said tightly. A look passed between the two men.

  “Alain, when’s the last time you talked to Jean-Luc?” Paulina asked.

  Alain fixed his dark eyes on her. “Eleven days ago when he sold me his Mustang.”

  Chapter Ten

  Paulina stared at Alain in amazement, unable to believe her ears. “Jean-Luc sold you his Mustang?” she parroted.

  “Oui. He wanted a car with four doors because of the baby. I thought it was strange—he loved his Mustang.” Alain shook his head, his voice slurred. “I told him he could park it outside my auto-body shop with a sign in the window and he could sell it himself—just like that.” He ineffectually tried to snap his fingers. When no sound emerged, he tried a second time, then abandoned the effort.

  “But Jean-Luc couldn’t wait,” he continued. “He’d seen a used car he wanted and the owner told him there were other interested parties. Jean-Luc and I fixed a price. He wanted a cashier’s check. He was going that evening apres souper to finish the deal.”

  “So, Jean-Luc came to see you a week ago Wednesday to sell you his car?” Paulina clarified, wondering how much she could rely on Alain’s inebriated recollections.

  “Oui, that’s what I said.” He leaned close to her, his breath reeking of beer. “Why do you repeat back what I say?”

  Paulina flushed. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to.” She felt Gil’s hand settle protectively on the small of her back, letting her know he was there if she needed him. “What time of day did Jean-Luc come see you?”

  Alain’s narrow jaw tightened with belligerence. “What difference does it make?”

  “A great deal.” Paulina touched his shoulder gently. “Someone tried to make it appear that Jean-Luc killed Cindy on Wednesday, then committed suicide on Saturday. You may be the only one who can prove your friend couldn’t have killed Cindy.”

  Alain cursed under his breath and threw his beer bottle into the yard. It hit the grass, bounced and rolled to a halt beneath a hydrangea. “He phoned the night before and said he wanted to come by the shop the next morning early, but I had a big job to finish and told him midi would be better. He arrived about then. We went to McDonald’s for lunch, then I had a look at his car at the shop.”

  “What time did he leave?” Paulina asked.

  Alain rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “I don’t know. Two o’clock, maybe three. We went to the bank to get a certified check.”

  “Did Jean-Luc mention where Cindy and Mikey were while he was with you?”

  “No.”

  Paulina shared a speculative glance with Gil. Cindy had died between noon and eight that Wednesday evening. Assuming Alain was telling the truth—the surveillance cameras at the restaurant and the bank could confirm that—it would indicate Cindy had died in the early afternoon. Since their flight to Reno left at 7:00 p.m., Paulina figured Cindy and Jean-Luc had probably agreed to meet in the late afternoon and Cindy hadn’t shown up as scheduled.

  “Wait a minute,” Gil said, doubt still evident in his tone. “If Jean-Luc sold you his Mustang, why was he still driving it?”

  “I was going to pick up the Mustang after he knew when he could take possession of the new car. He said he’d call me and let me know.”

  Gil raised a dark brow. “Weren’t you worried he was going to stiff you?”

  “Even though he’s my friend, I’m not stupid. He signed it over to me.”

  Paulina spotted Zuker rounding the corner of the house. She hooked her arm through Alain’s arm, feeling him sway unsteadily on his feet. “Come on, there are a couple of detectives who need to hear what you just told us.”

  “CAN I BUY YOU DINNER?” Gil asked Paulina as they drove past Parliament Hill. He slowed for a red light, training his gaze toward the Sunday afternoon tourists snapping shots of the majestic Gothic Revival buildings that housed the country’s government, to avoid looking at her. He knew she’d say no. But he had to ask.

  She responded just as he’d predicted. “I don’t think that would be a good idea, Gil.”

  The light changed. Gil punched the gas pedal and the car surged forward. “Why not?”

  “You know why.” She paused.

  Yes. He knew. She was worried dinner might be the prelude to another night of lovemaking, and she didn’t want to encourage him.

  Gil risked a glance at her, saw the pale pink of discomfort on her cheeks. The starry quality of her eyes. As his body responded to her beauty, he felt a defeating tightness in his chest he hadn’t experienced since he was an adolescent.

  Paulina stared at her fingers in her lap. “We haven’t really talked about the other night.”

  He let go of the stick shift to run his knuckles over her stockinged knee. “Regrets?” he asked huskily.

  She edged her leg away from him. “N-no.”

  Gil let out his breath, suddenly aware he’d been holding it. He wasn’t sure he could stand the idea of her regretting what had happened between them—not when the experience had profoundly affected him.

  “Good,” he said. “Me neither. My ego quite enjoyed the part where you cried out my name and fainted.”

  “Gil!” She blushed an attractive shade of scarlet.

  He couldn’t resist teasing her. “That’s exactly the way you said my name before you collapsed.”

  Her mouth dropped open, but then she collected herself quickly. “It’s not going to happen again.”

  “I know. That’s why you’re not having dinner with me.”

  He parked down the block from her office. He turned to face her. The golden sunlight lancing through the window picked up the blue highlights in her black hair. For a fraction of a second, her eyes were wide and dubious as she gazed at him. For once, she didn’t look completely sure of herself. But he could see the determination stealthily taking over.

  “You’re absolutely one hundred percent certain you don’t want a family someday?” he asked her solemnly.

  Paulina sighed. “Gil, I can’t answer that question. I don’t have a crystal ball that allows me to see into the future. All I can say is that devoting myself to these missing kids is what feels right to me at this stage of my life. My dad had this philosophy that some things are meant to be. I know I was meant to help these kids, but I’m not certain I was meant to have children of my own.” She tilted her head and smiled at him, her eyes clear and honest. “Is that the explanation you needed to hear?”

  “Yes.” Gil smiled back, even though it hurt. He touched her chin with his finger. “Hey, the day isn’t a total bust. At least I know for a fact Mikey is Ted’s kid. And we found out Jean-Luc probably didn’t kill Cindy. The money that Robbins confirmed the police found in Jean-Luc’s wallet corroborates your theory that Cindy and Jean-Luc meant to go off together. It’s still confusing, but it gives me hope Mikey’s alive and well somewhere. You have my utmost respect, Ms. Stewart—always.”

  He leaned closer, his mouth hovering above hers. The dilation of her eyes and the unconscious parting of her lips was a bittersweet victory. “Even if you don’t want to sleep with me again.” Her pulse fluttered wildly at the base of her slender throat. He placed a kiss on her cheek, nearly groaning aloud at the silken softness of her skin. Why did people always want what they couldn’t have—and not want what was theirs for the asking?

  She stroked his cheek with the tip of her finger and for a crazy
, heart-pounding moment Gil thought she was going to move her lips to join with his.

  “Thanks for understanding,” she said very softly. “I expect to see you in my office tomorrow so we can go over your strategy for accessing the information in Newcombe’s files. Don’t forget to keep your ideas legal. You won’t be much of a guardian for Mikey from a jail cell.” With that, she opened her door and stepped onto the sidewalk, the fullness of her black dress swirling around her slim legs as she slammed the door closed.

  Only the fact that he respected her and her choices kept him from escorting her to her door. He watched her walk away, admiring her carriage and her confident, ladylike stride. He hoped someday he’d be married to a nurturing, sexy woman who’d keep him so content he’d never lie awake at night and wonder about Paulina.

  PAULINA TOLD HERSELF not to turn and look as she heard Gil drive away. This time he hadn’t waited for her to get upstairs. Her blood thrummed unsteadily through her body. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or disappointed he hadn’t come after her. She supposed she should be relieved. But all she felt was…restless.

  She kicked off her high heels the moment she entered her apartment and padded to the refrigerator for a can of ginger ale. Sitting on the couch, she rummaged through her briefcase and came up with a legal pad and her gold pen. Automatically, she wrote the date and time on the top line, then stared at the rest of the page until her thoughts started to flow in an orderly fashion. She quickly noted the details of their attendance at Jean-Luc’s funeral, the information Robbins had given them about Elva Madre and Tweedie, and the conversation she and Gil had with Alain.

  Paulina twirled her pen pensively. Clearly, Robbins and Zuker had been interested in what Alain had to say. The fact Robbins had never mentioned the money in JeanLuc’s wallet suggested the police had been looking for a killer with a motive much stronger than sixty-five hundred dollars worth of greed right from the start. Which still made Gil their most likely suspect—especially if Robbins had had a chat with Vern Newcombe.