“Break your hearts?”
“Private adoptions are crazy—they expect you to pay all the birth mother’s expenses and then she can change her mind and keep the baby anyway. We can’t afford to take that risk,” Tara explained. “We were thrilled when we found out about the El Centro Orphanage.”
Kevin wished he dared warn her about the pitfalls, but that involved too great a risk of word getting back to Ms. Reed. Obviously, Ralph hadn’t heard about the problems yet.
He’d go ballistic if anyone threatened his family. He’d been a hard-driving cop before leaving to start a security business half a dozen years ago.
Later, he’d invited Kevin to join him as a partner. However, a preliminary assessment had indicated his company was expanding too fast and had become overextended financially. Kevin preferred to work alone, although by now he presumed Ralph must be on a firm footing.
“How did you hear about El Centro?” Alli asked.
“From Reverend Weatherby,” the blond woman replied. “He’s our pastor at the Serenity Fellowship Church. He referred us to Dr. Graybar.”
Mentally, Kevin congratulated Alli on turning up another potential source of background. The minister ought to have an objective view of the adoption service.
“Have you already completed the process?” Alli inquired.
“Not yet.” Tara beamed. “We’re flying down to Costa Buena in a couple of weeks. They’ve found our little girl! Would you like to see her picture?”
“Sure.” The other woman produced a small photo, over which Alli made complimentary remarks.
Kevin didn’t detect any signs of baby-hunger in her manner. He knew the symptoms from his sisters in bygone years: the wistful longing that revealed they were dreaming of holding a small bundle in their arms. Not Alli, as far as he could tell. He wondered if she even wanted kids.
He did, although not right away. Kevin considered it imperative to be prepared emotionally and financially before making such a major life change.
He tuned back in to hear Alli say, “You must be thrilled,” as she returned the picture.
Ralph Durban wrapped one arm around his wife. “We can’t wait,” he said. “We feel like Rosita was meant to be our daughter.”
“I can’t resist buying adorable baby clothes and furniture,” Tara mentioned. “My husband’s been really understanding.”
The authorities in Central America might cut off the adoptions at any time, Kevin thought. He hated to consider how devastating the blow would be to this eager couple.
“Best of luck!” Alli announced as she caught Kevin’s arm and practically spun him away from the Durbans. In a low voice, she muttered, “Do you have to glare like that?”
He hadn’t realized his emotions showed. “I was thinking about whoever’s preying on these parents. I’d like to wring his neck.”
“Have a lemon bar.” She indicated the buffet. “That ought to sweeten your mood. But don’t expect me to feed it to you.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Do you want me to straighten your collar?” she teased in a wispy voice. “Ooh, Kevin, those little darlings wrinkled it.”
He chuckled at her imitation of Nora. “Jealous?”
“Do I still have any lipstick on?”
She’d made another conversational leap. “A little. Why…”
Leaning forward, she smooched him on the cheek. “There.” Alli stood back to admire her handiwork. “The mark of the possessive female.” She winked. “You can go wash it off now if you want.”
“One of these days, I’m going to have a clue what you’re all about,” he said ruefully, but resisted the urge to dig out a tissue and wipe his cheek. He wasn’t about to give her the satisfaction of making him squirm.
As Alli wandered off, Kevin spotted his mother across the room, watching with a puzzled expression. Apparently, she didn’t know what to make of the audacious Ms. Gardner, either.
The discovery that Alli had flummoxed his mother made him like her a little. At least she’d earned her keep for the weekend.
Chapter Seven
Alli slept well that night in her makeshift tent, except for waking up two or three times in the middle of fiercely unsatisfying dreams involving Kevin, rumpled clothing and a great deal of lustful panting.
The astonishment on his face when she’d kissed him last night had been priceless. The man had no idea how charming his natural reserve made him. If only he were the type of man to indulge in a casual relationship, they could have a great time and then go their merry ways, but he’d rejected that.
She certainly didn’t want anything serious. Not with Kevin arousing turbulent emotions best left unexamined. Not with his huge baby-loving family hovering around, either.
When she finally crawled out of her shelter, Sunday-morning light filled the living room and the scent of pancakes and maple syrup floated irresistibly from the kitchen. After straightening her nightgown, which covered her decently even if it did cling in a few places, she followed her nose.
Kevin sat at the table, reading the paper over a plate bearing the remains of toaster waffles. His dark plaid bathrobe fell open at the throat, revealing no sign of pajama tops underneath, and the dark stubble on his cheeks gave him the rakish air of a buccaneer.
For one fleeting but tempting moment, Alli considered slipping onto his lap and discovering exactly what he had or had not worn to bed. However, Kevin hadn’t given any indication of welcoming such intimacies.
“Leave anything for me?” she asked.
“There’s more in the freezer,” he said without looking up. He was reading the sports section.
She found the waffles, wedged four of them into the toaster oven and rustled up a plate. From a neat stack of newspaper piled on a chair, she retrieved the front section.
On page one above the banner ran a story carrying not only Payne’s byline but also a thumbnail photo of him. The headline read: Mayor Raises More Questions Than Answers.
She immediately grasped the tack the article was taking. “I don’t believe it. He used the stuff he stole! Did you read this?”
“Did I ever tell you my theory about why they bury sports inside the paper?” Kevin turned a page, careful to keep it smooth. “They put it in the middle in case the rest of the paper suffers damage.”
“Because it’s the most important section,” she finished for him. “That must be your way of telling me you read it first.”
“Precisely.”
“Since my finely honed sixth sense tells me you don’t want to be interrupted, I’ll keep Payne’s story to myself,” Alli said, and returned her attention to the article.
Kevin’s nose twitched slightly, an indication that he’d expected her to fill him in. However, after the way he’d blown her off, he could hardly admit to being curious, and Alli wasn’t about to indulge him.
Leaving him to stew, she read on. Couched in the casual style of a column rather than a news story, the article took a folksy approach to recapping allegations that the mayor had claimed special privileges for his business, and speculated even further:
Has LeMott really left his questionable past behind him, or are the inmates now running the asylum? Don’t the people of Serene Beach have a right to see the mayor’s complete financial records, even though the law doesn’t require him to fess up?
Payne hadn’t written this, she thought, but it wasn’t Ned’s style, either. She remembered that J.J. sometimes ran the desk on Saturday nights. He contended it paid to take a hands-on approach, since not only did more people read the Sunday paper than the daily editions, they often read it more thoroughly.
So it was the managing editor who’d risked running the story. Either he’d thrown caution to the winds or he believed Payne had evidence to support the speculation. She guessed that the reporter had lied about that. Why not, since he lied about everything else?
Following the stolen outline, the article alluded to earlier attempts by authorities to
link LeMott to loan-sharking and racketeering.
How hard are the police working to find out what happened to the witnesses who disappeared? How motivated are they to locate them now that LeMott plays a key role in setting the department’s budget?
It ran on in that vein. Alli had dreamed up those questions in an idle mood. Later, she’d learned that loan-sharking and racketeering fell under the aegis of the FBI, not local authorities, but hadn’t bothered to change her notes because she’d never expected to see them in print.
“It’s irresponsible,” she said when she was done. “Just plain wrong, and probably libelous, too.”
“Hmm.”
“As if you cared!”
“The mayor isn’t my problem.” Having finished with sports, Kevin cast a disgruntled glance at the still-unavailable front section and reached for the business pages.
While Alli ate her waffles, she tried to focus on other news stories, but her thoughts returned to LeMott. Although he might seem just a colorful local figure to a relative newcomer like J.J., she considered him a force to be reckoned with.
In his late forties, the man had first surfaced as the owner of several pawnshops in Las Vegas. Later, he’d moved to L.A., where he’d taken over a small chain of small liquor stores. Soon, he’d bought a mansion in Serene Beach, and rumors began to fly that he dabbled in laundering money for the mob and loaning his profits at excessive rates.
Always one step ahead of the law, he’d sold the liquor outlets, hired a public relations agency to whitewash his image and taken over a struggling chain of computer stores. Gossip swirled that he was staging backroom gambling tournaments for high-stakes bettors, and rumor had it that federal, state and local authorities had all taken their turns at trying to nail him. Witnesses, however, had a way of refusing to testify or vanishing.
As the High Tech Emporiums forced one competitor after another out of the field, the stores had expanded from computers, software and peripherals to include games and sponsored online competitions. A year earlier, LeMott had won election to the city council and, a few months ago, his fellow council members chose him as mayor after Vice-Mayor Cathy Rodale, who’d been in line for the job, abruptly turned it down.
It was at that point that Alli had begun her investigation, trying to find out if LeMott was bribing or threatening people in city government who got in his way. She’d made discreet inquiries among the planning commission and in the public works department, always sensitive to how touchy this probing would be if anyone learned of it before she was ready to go to print. All of her sources had understandably insisted on remaining anonymous to the public, and Ms. Rodale had refused to discuss the subject at all.
Alli had persuaded the mayor to grant an interview about his plans for the city. A thin man with small eyes and a pencil mustache, LeMott had wreathed the city hall office in cigar smoke.
After giving short shrift to his duties as mayor, he’d expanded on his political ambitions. Soon, he’d declared, Serene Beach would have a new congressman, and since he had the wherewithal to finance his own campaign, he wouldn’t be beholden to anyone.
If you’re a thug, who cares that you’re not beholden to anyone? she’d wondered, but carefully stuck to straightforward questions. Why was he declaring his intentions with the next congressional election almost a year away?
“I want to make sure any potential rivals understand what they’re up against,” he’d answered.
To Alli, this had sounded like a threat. The humorless cast to his face and the way he’d alternately avoided her gaze and stared for too long gave her the creeps. It also infuriated her that J.J. and Ned had ignored the obvious fact that she and not Payne had conducted that interview, which last Thursday’s exposé had quoted liberally.
She considered it unlikely that Klaus would sue the Outlook, despite the carelessness of today’s story. He undoubtedly knew that libel suits took years to wend their way through the courts, cost a fortune and were difficult to prove, especially for a public figure like him. Plus, a lawsuit would require public disclosure of business dealings that he’d probably prefer to keep quiet.
In any case, with the blackmailer threatening to clamp down by Friday, Alli had a more urgent story to pursue. After finishing her meal, she went to shower, and dressed with care. This time, a business suit seemed appropriate for the day’s planned activities.
She emerged to find Kevin absorbed in the LeMott story. “What are you doing?” she demanded.
He glanced up, startled. “Trying to figure out why the newspaper thinks racketeering is a matter for the police department.”
“Because they’re stupid,” Alli said. “You’d better hurry. I checked the schedule in the paper and it starts in half an hour.”
“What does?” he asked blankly.
“Church. We’re going to talk to the Reverend Alistair Weatherby.”
“He can’t talk to us during the service,” Kevin pointed out.
“He might not talk to us at all,” Alli said. “I’ve probably got ‘lapsed churchgoer’ stamped on my forehead. Besides, if he thinks we’re investigating a crime, he might not be very frank.”
“Are you suggesting we lie to a minister?” Kevin raised one eyebrow.
“No, just that we ask a few questions about the orphanage without telling him any more than we need to. We’re only gathering background, remember.”
He set down the paper. “Did you say half an hour?”
“Yes, and we’ve got to allow fifteen minutes to get there. What are you waiting for?”
He opened his mouth as if to argue, then shut it again. Score one round for her, Alli thought.
KEVIN HADN’T FIGURED OUT what it was about Alli that made him dig in his heels. He’d been eager to learn what was in the paper not so much because he cared about the investigation as because he wanted to hear the latest installment in the ongoing soap opera that was Alli’s life. But he’d made the mistake of mouthing off, with the result that she’d shut him out.
He felt as if his mental well-being required him to keep her at arm’s length. Yet she formed a natural center of attention wherever she went—at last night’s party, and even here in the Serenity Fellowship Church, where her eyes glowed with pleasure as she listened to the choir.
The group had won well-deserved fame for its harmonies. Kevin, relaxing as best he could in a pew, found that the soaring hymns combined with the airy, sunlit sanctuary to give him a feeling that might almost be described as spiritual.
Amid a swell of music, the Reverend Weatherby arrived at the pulpit like a mellow bass note anchoring a chord. Despite having a face that reminded Kevin of a basset hound’s, he possessed a sonorous speaking voice and a heartfelt, unpretentious manner.
Later, Kevin couldn’t remember what the pastor said, but he would never forget when they all joined in song. The minister’s resonance, the choir’s inspiration and Alli’s pleasant alto lulled him into contributing his own tenor line, which might not win any prizes but managed to stay on pitch.
“You’re a good sport,” she told him afterward, amid the chatter of the dispersing congregation. “I figured you’d glower through the whole thing.”
“Just call me the singing detective.” Kevin tracked Weatherby’s progress as he crossed the sanctuary. “I wonder if he teaches a Sunday-school class afterward.”
“Let’s go head him off.” It seemed an impossible task, but Alli had a talent for navigating crowds, Kevin discovered. Her cheerful “Excuse me!” coupled with high-voltage forward propulsion, persuaded all but the most obstinate or distracted congregant to clear a path.
They caught up with the reverend in a hallway that appeared to lead to the classroom wing. “Could you spare us a moment?” Kevin asked. Remembering Alli’s warning not to be too forthright about their mission, he added, “We’re trying to find out about adoptions.”
The minister regarded them sympathetically. “You should contact Dr. Graybar’s office, near the community hosp
ital. He’s placed a number of youngsters from an orphanage in Costa Buena.”
“Do you know him very well?” Alli asked. “Is he reliable? We’re afraid a foreign adoption might be difficult.”
A woman down the hall waved at Weatherby. “Everyone’s seated,” she called. “Will you be long?”
“Only a minute.” To Alli and Kevin, he said, “I’m leading a Bible-study group. But I can always spare a moment for a nice young couple like you.”
Surely anyone could see that they were neither a couple nor particularly nice, given their duplicity, Kevin thought, but he dismissed his reservations. “Have you seen the orphanage personally?”
“Yes. I went down there last year to donate clothes and toys,” Weatherby told them. “It seems very well organized, and the church members who’ve adopted from there consider themselves blessed. Dr. Graybar’s office can help you with the home study and paperwork.”
“Nobody’s run into any problems?” Alli persisted with wide-eyed innocence. “I read something about an investigation. Maybe it was a different orphanage.”
“No, El Centro has had a bureaucratic snafu in the past month or so,” the minister agreed. “I talked to my contacts down there and they assure me it’s just a mix-up.”
A mix-up? That made a convenient excuse, Kevin thought.
“We’re a little anxious,” Alli added, as if confiding her deepest secret.
Weatherby glanced toward the woman who was watching him from the end of the hall. “I understand how vulnerable you feel. If you’d like to make an appointment for counseling, please call me in the morning. Right now, I’m afraid I must go.”
“Thanks!” she said. “You’ve helped already.”
“We appreciate it,” Kevin seconded.
They didn’t speak again until they reached the parking lot. “We’re such a nice young couple,” she quipped. “It would be a shame if we broke up.”
“If that’s your way of asking permission to stay at my place longer, no chance.” He spoke without a moment’s consideration. That was a good thing, because otherwise he might have been tempted to give in, for the entertainment value if nothing more.
The Baby Scheme Page 9
