Bertha stopped short for a moment, but recovered quickly. “I knew she was dead. I could tell jes’ by lookin’ at her.” She quickly slipped into the house.
Once she was gone, Leland said, “Interesting observation. I would have dragged her out, checked her pulse…” He smiled ruefully. “… and thoroughly compromised the crime scene.”
“Life is more important than evidence,” Diane said. “Still, I have to wonder if Bertha simply knew she was dead. We never found anything incriminating in her past. Maybe it’s time to check deeper. And where is her husband?”
“On a gambling junket in Atlantic City.”
“Let’s make sure of that. What else did you find out?”
“Ms. Sinclair was home baking cookies with Miranda when Mrs. Upshaw stopped by and said something about seeing Doctor Jefferson in Gryphon Gate. Mrs. Upshaw urged Ms. Sinclair to leave with her. The maid reports that Ms. Sinclair said something to the effect of”—he consulted his notes—“’I have no problem with Doctor Jefferson, other than he was a hotshot and had very little bedside manner, if you know what I mean.’ But Mrs. Upshaw said they had to all band together, that he’d taken advantage of her, too, and then she practically dragged Ms. Sinclair out of the house. I sent a couple of men out to look for them. They just spotted Mrs. Upshaw’s car at the clubhouse.”
“What does Doctor Jefferson have to do with this? How had he taken advantage of Toni and Lydia?”
Leland lifted an eyebrow. “The plot thickens.”
“The plot is already as thick as peanut butter. He’s not a resident, is he?”
Leland shook his head.
“Then how did he get into Gryphon Gate?”
“We’ll have to ask the good doctor ourselves.”
“Captain Robards,” Carnegie interrupted, apparently over his embarrassment. “Tiffany Turner is here to see you.”
Diane shot Leland a look. “Let’s see what Tiffany has to say about her new gal pal.”
* * *
Dr. Charles Jefferson would never forget the sight of that lifeless woman being shoved beneath the water.
He had seen her murderer.
Now Charles skulked around the edge of the golf course trying to stay out of sight. Damn those faxes! The first one had been a bust, bringing him to Gryphon Gate on a cold blustery morning, only to be stood up. The fax that had come this morning, though, was more specific: I know about the green-eyed children of Gryphon Gate. It’s going to cost you. Meet me by the koi pond in Toni Sinclair’s backyard. 2 P.M.
He almost hadn’t gone. What had he gotten out of the first visit, after all, other than a swift kick in the nuts? But then, he’d relented. He’d been amazed, really, that no one had connected the dots on the green eyes before. His best feature, but alas, a giveaway. So he decided to meet with the person, see what they wanted, and figure out how to deal with it.
Once again Charles had parked on Vanessa Smart-Drysdale’s property and slogged through underbrush and along the shoreline to Gryphon Gate.
Charles prided himself on being early; he was that rare physician who took his appointments on time, instead of making patients wait—one of the many reasons his patients loved him so. That had probably saved his life. Perhaps it had been he the murderer had intended to do away with, and the hapless woman had stumbled into the trap instead. He’d thwarted death, but she’d paid the price.
Yet, he was a skilled professional, far more valuable than any young woman could be. He brought people into the world. He, in fact, helped to create them. Why, he was almost a god!
At the koi pond Charles had had only an instant to weigh his options. Should he pursue the murderer, or try to help the poor victim?
Hippocrates won out.
Charles had rushed to the edge of the pond, but he was too late. The woman was clearly dead. So, Dr. Charles T. Jefferson, M.D., OB-GYN, A.R.T., had turned, and run the other way.
Even now her eyes stared sightlessly, seeming to accuse him.
He needed a drink. Or five. The thought of slogging back through the woods didn’t appeal. The nearby clubhouse did. He made his way there, hoping to procure a drink and find a quiet, out-of-the-way table where he could think things through. Of course he would go to the police. He was a law-abiding citizen. Well, mostly. But what was his story? He needed to get everything absolutely straight, to think through what he’d seen—and who he’d seen doing it.
The pretty, perky bartender wasn’t there to slip him a drink. Pity. Charles ordered something stronger than beer this time—a bourbon straight up, and he brazenly signed the chit with Laura Armbruster’s membership number. It’s the least Laura can do, Charles thought, sipping his drink gratefully, for a relative.
Thankfully, there weren’t many people in the bar. He recognized two of his patients huddled at a corner table deep in conversation. Luckily they hadn’t spotted him. Charles slipped around the corner to a quiet alcove, where he plopped himself down on a plump, upholstered bench, stared out the window at the approaching storm, and considered his options.
* * *
Aaron Kaplan was going to take a chance. Just one chance. He deserved it. Ever since old Siggy’d done that faceplant in the sand, Aaron had cooperated with the police. He’d given them Siggy’s precious notebook, for heaven’s sake.
But Aaron didn’t need the notebook for this particular victim, Dr. Charles Jefferson. Maybe he was no Sigmond Vormeister, Ph.D., but Aaron was pretty good at assessing people. Jefferson was a poseur—Aaron hated poseurs—and he was confident the doc wouldn’t have the balls to whack him back. He’d probably chew his manicured nails down to the quick, but he’d pay up.
Aaron wasn’t greedy. Twenty-five thou for his silence—barely one year’s college tuition—and he’d even make up some green-eyed uncle to dash rumors, should there be any, when Rachel had her child. Her pretty little green-eyed child.
Hell, it was a bargain!
Aaron left a message with the doctor’s answering service and, hoping that the rain would hold off a bit longer, took a victory skateboard ride through Gryphon Gate. As the wheels on his deck turned, so did the wheels of his mind. His very excellent, devious mind, he amended as he ollied over a curb. He’d hacked into Gryphon Gate’s Web site. He could have a lot of fun with what he knew. Oh, yeah, a lot of fun.
With his right foot, Aaron pushed his deck up the driveway, then turned, riding backward under the portico. Whoa! Doctor Jefferson was walking into the clubhouse. He nearly collided with the dude! With a practiced move, Aaron kickflipped his deck and caught it with one hand. He tucked it under his arm and headed toward the door.
Laura Armbruster was also heading for the front door, with the determination of a torpedo. Come to think of it, she kind of looked like a torpedo. A hungover torpedo.
Forget manners, he thought as they reached the entrance simultaneously. He straight-armed the door and started through—except he was no longer walking forward.
Mrs. Armbruster had pinched the back of his shirt and was pulling him backward. “Ladies first,” she said, pushing her way ahead of him and into the lobby.
“Hang on to your flip-flops,” Aaron muttered. Man, she hadn’t even noticed his T-shirt—stick figures on decks saying “Don’t Bust a Nut.” Mrs. A. hated that shirt. She regularly inspected the graphics on his apparel. But not today. Bad vibes! What was going on?
Aaron smoothed out his shirt and followed the club manager inside. Mrs. A. cruised through the bar like a shark on patrol. When her bloodshot eyes lit on the doctor, she made a beeline in his direction. Whoa, dude! The doctor was his. Aaron set his deck on the carpet and tried to skate past her, but the wheels wouldn’t budge in the plush pile. He abandoned his deck and raced toward her, aiming to cut her off.
“There he is!” Lydia Upshaw’s voice sounded from behind him. She was dragging Toni Sinclair by her striped Missoni sleeve while gesturing to Renée and Rachel, who were sitting at a table in a corner of the bar. The two women jumped up and headed to
ward the doctor, who was wide-eyed, just realizing he was about to be ambushed.
“I was here first,” Laura Armbruster said. “We have, er, church business to discuss.”
Aaron nudged her aside. “Take a chilly pilly, Mrs. A. I was here first. I’ve got … a condition I need to talk to him about.”
All five women turned toward him. Lydia said, “You have a condition? A condition? He’s a gynecologist!”
Aaron knew he’d lost this round. Laura rolled her eyes and relieved Charles of his drink. Lydia seized his other arm and began tugging the doctor away. “Ladies, I don’t have time right now—”
“I’m next!” Renée said, waving her hand like an eager schoolgirl.
Aaron decided to get urgently scarce. Those women had something pretty serious on their mind. Perhaps even murder, by the glint in their eyes. For another thing, he studied the club manager, who watched the circus for a moment with a tense expression on her face, then turned on her heel and retreated to a nearby bar stool. What exactly did Mrs. Armbruster want from the doc?
On second thought, maybe he’d stick around the bar and find out.
* * *
Dr. Charles Jefferson didn’t like it, not one little bit. His terror grew as his four former patients dragged him out the back door and around the pool, to a table that was blocked from view of the clubhouse by an ornamental stand of bushes. He was sure—at least, mostly sure—he could overpower these women, but he didn’t want to. Think of the publicity!
Renée shoved him down into one of the chairs. “We know.”
Rachel placed a hand on her small belly and tears filled her eyes. “How could you do this to us?”
“We trusted you!” Lydia added, poking her finger into his exceptionally hard chest. Her acrylic nail scraped at his skin.
Toni crossed her arms and said, “You’re a very unprofessional man.”
“Ladies, what are you talking about?” Charles tried. He was seriously outnumbered, and they knew it.
Lydia and Renée pulled out their wallets and, one by one, tossed photographs at him. From where they landed on the tabletop, three sets of green eyes peered out at him. “And the Anderson boys!” Renée cried. “Thank god they’ve moved to California!”
“And Rachel’s baby, too!” added Lydia.
Rachel burst into tears.
Charles did his best to look contrite. Not an easy task for a man like himself. “All right, so you’ve figured it out. But why are you all so mad?”
That shut them up—for a few seconds anyway. Rage suffused their faces with color, and they started moving toward him stiffly, like characters in a monster movie. For one insane moment, he tried to stand, but Lydia shoved him back down. “We should report you to the AMA,” she snarled.
Renée stared at Lydia as if Lydia’s law degree were printed on her forehead. “We could sue,” she suggested.
Charles held up a hand. “Ladies, ladies. I’ve given you beautiful children who may someday grow up to become famous! Doctors and scientists! Politicians! Your children have excellent bloodlines, you know. They’re related to the Thomas Jefferson. Think of it!” He added, “Not that you can actually claim that, of course, but, you’ll know in your hearts. You must admit, we all make gorgeous babies together. Right? They are gorgeous, right?”
This wasn’t working. Even Rachel looked enraged. Her arm shot out and shoved his chair backward. Luckily the clubhouse used tall-backed, padded chairs, or Charles might have cracked his skull open. Still, he felt less than dignified lying on his back with his legs flailing in the air.
“All right, all right. It was wrong. It was.…” Time to drag out his dirty laundry. Perhaps it would save his reputation, if not his life. “My wife will not have my children.” When that caught their attention—at least they weren’t looking quite as murderous—he continued on in a soft voice full of humility and shame. “It’s true. When we married, she said she wanted children. But afterward she refused. She didn’t want to ruin her figure or be tied down. Can you understand what that did to me? A man as beautiful as myself, as intelligent…”
Toni’s eyes narrowed, and he thought steam would shoot out of her ears, so he switched his tack. “… as loving and … giving, yes giving, as myself, not able to share that with offspring. It broke my heart.”
“Why couldn’t you just divorce her?” Renée asked, her voice dripping with skepticism.
“She funded my research, my office building—even me. If I left her, she’d have destroyed me.” Was he getting through? He couldn’t tell.
Lydia’s voice was cool, controlled. “Well, now we’re going to destroy you. DNA tests will prove just who fathered our children.”
Rachel was rubbing her belly again. “Is my baby … yours?”
He couldn’t remember. Dammit, he’d gone overboard. He knew that now, but the rush of power must have overtaken him.
“He doesn’t even know!” Renée shouted. “His sperm’s probably everywhere. We’ll get an investigative reporter, the police—the FBI!”
Charles’s mind was spinning at a hundred miles per hour. “Wait, wait! If you expose me, your own families will be hurt. What will your husbands think? Will they love your children the same way if they know the truth? And the children! What will you tell them?”
The women looked at each other, fear and puzzlement in their eyes. Charles tried to get up, but Lydia pressed her open-toed Fendi sandal hard against his chest.
“He’s right,” she said, addressing her cohorts. “We can’t let this hurt our families.”
Rachel said, “But we can’t let him get away with this!”
Lydia chuckled, glancing down at him with a devious gleam in her eyes. “Oh, he won’t get away with it. Toni, go check out the gardener’s toolshed. What we need is a nice long length of rope.”
* * *
Laura Armbruster gulped her Bloody Mary, hoping to ease her pounding headache. “Where did they go? What could they be talking about for so long?” She eyed the sulky teenager with the obnoxious T-shirt. “I’m next, Aaron,” she reminded him. “Ladies first.”
She had moved with Aaron to an intimate table that overlooked the pool outside, where the wind was drawing little eddies on the surface of the water. Laura had long ago lost sight of the doctor and his gaggle of admirers.
“Youth before beauty, isn’t that what they say?” Aaron responded, tipping back his Dr. Pepper.
“What could you possibly have to talk to Doctor Jefferson about? Certainly not a condition?”
He snorted. “It’s a condition all right. He owes me some money.” He tilted his head and studied her, making her nervous enough to tap her nails against her glass. “You’re a wild woman, Mrs. A. Never would have figured you for it.”
She lifted her chin in an automatic gesture. “I’m not wild. My bloodlines go back a long and distinguished way.”
He only laughed and flopped his gray and red-sneaker-clad feet up on a nearby chair. The hems of his jeans were worn to a frazzle. “I saw you at church, guzzling rum and dancing like a stripper on speed.”
Her stomach churned, as it did every time she got flashbacks of the horrible scene. “You were there?”
“Nah. Saw it on Gryphon Gate’s Web site.”
She would have thrown up right then if it hadn’t been such an undignified thing to do in public. Or even in private. “I’m on the Web site?”
“Yep. Maybe you should check into that. Like right now.” He pointed at his blue plastic watch for emphasis. “You still have time to get the pictures removed before everyone sees them.”
She would check into it immediately. She’d tear that Web site down. Wait! Doctor Jefferson should be back any minute, and she wasn’t going to let this snot-faced teen beat her to the punch. Laura settled back in her chair and imagined firing whoever had posted those pictures. And she had a very good idea who.
“Ah, don’t worry, Mrs. A.,” Aaron soothed. “What you did is no worse than what some of the people ar
ound here have done. And are doing.”
She picked up on the tantalizing tone in his voice. “What do you mean?”
“Oh, just that there are lots of secrets around here. Lots and lots. Even you have a few secrets, don’t you, Mrs. A.?”
She shifted uncomfortably. “What do you know?”
He gave a coy shrug.
She decided to appeal to his teenage ego. “You’re a very intelligent young man, aren’t you? I’ll bet you know a lot.”
His face lit up at her compliment, and he pulled his feet off the chair and faced her. “Sigmond knew everyone’s secrets, right? And he was very careful to keep them secret. He coded all of his notes. But I found the notes—and cracked the code.”
He was smarter than she gave him credit for. She leaned closer. “So now you know what Sigmond knew. What do you intend to do with the information?”
“I don’t intend to blackmail anyone, if that’s what you’re thinking. That’s a dangerous business, don’t you think?” He acted as though her opinion really mattered.
“Blackmail isn’t such a bad thing in certain cases,” she suggested carefully, feeling her way. “For a good cause, I mean. I don’t think God would frown on it then. That’s—well, that’s why I need to talk to Doctor Jefferson. I know a secret about him.”
Aaron’s eyebrows bobbed conspiratorially. “That he’s, like, the father of several of the children here at Gryphon Gate?”
She felt the air rush from her sails. So he knew that, too. “Is that why you’re here to talk to him?”
He started to give one of his noncommittal shrugs. “Whoa! That’s why you’re here to talk to him, right?”
She had a sudden urge for a cigar. Wait a minute. A cigar? She shrugged it off. “I just want what’s rightfully mine.”
Aaron’s smile was smug. “You want to be buried in the Jefferson family plot. I read about it in the notes.”
Those notes! She decided not to get indignant. She knew a lot of secrets, too, after all. Everyone thought she was a gossip, but she knew how to keep the important secrets. “Not just me,” she said. “I want my relatives buried there, too. It’s only right. I—we’re related to Thomas Jefferson, too. I plan to appeal to Doctor Jefferson to, shall I say, persuade his family to let us in. And I don’t mind using a little genetic pressure to get my way, if you know what I mean.”
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