Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  “Take a look, Tony, and I need copies before I leave,” Nicole said. “Do you see any problems in filling the orders?”

  “Only the fabric from Paris. Fortunately the bolt you brought here will suffice for these orders. My cutters and the girls on the sewing floor will be excited to have more work. I’ll get on the phone right away to the textile factory in Paris and have several bolts shipped FedEx.”

  “You know, Mr. Vinsenso, while we want the orders to be in the stores by December thirtieth, superior workmanship must not be compromised. Please don’t rush at the expense of quality. Nicole will drop by at least every other day to check,” Gilly said.

  “Don’t you worry, Mrs. Wilder. When Vinsenso says he can deliver a quality garment on time, Vinsenso will deliver.”

  “Wonderful. Nicole I’m going to head back to the apartment while you go over every line item with him. I’ll see you later. Thanks again, Mr. Vinsenso.” Gilly shook his hand and headed back to the subway.

  Standing on the station platform waiting for the next train, Gilly pulled a little notepad from her large tote to start yet another list. She heard the train and started to inch forward when she felt a sharp blow to her back pushing her forward.

  Horrified, she saw the edge of the platform—she was falling onto the tracks of the oncoming engine.

  Screaming, her arm flailed out but there was nothing to grasp but air.

  Everything went black.

  Opening her eyes, she tried to focus on the man standing over her. People were circling around, looking down at her.

  A medic rushed up pushing the crowd aside.

  Bending over, he asked if she was okay as he opened his case, promptly reading her pulse with a stethoscope the silver disk pushed to her wrist. Gilly knew her beat was erratic and she had a hard time focusing. Again he asked if she was okay.

  “I … I think so. I … I almost fell in front of the train.” She grasped her swollen belly, “My baby…”

  “We’ll take you to the Emergency Room … Mrs.—

  The other medic had her purse open. “There’s a card here for a Skip Hunter at the Seattle Times. That your husband?”

  “I …”

  “Don’t try to talk. We’ll call him. He can meet us at the hospital.” The medic held the card and placed the call throwing her purse beside the gurney.

  “But …”

  Gilly felt herself being lifted onto the gurney and whisked away through the crowd. She was lifted into a van. It screeched from the curb, through the streets, the siren blaring. The van drew up to the emergency entrance of the Swedish Medical Center. Her gurney was lifted out, the wheels snapped down, then rolled through the sliding glass doors to a sterile white room.

  A man, she presumed was a doctor, came in along with a nurse. The doctor muttered a few words to the nurse, she nodded and left. He poked and prodded looking to see her reaction, any indications that she felt pain. She didn’t seem to.

  Her head was throbbing and she closed her eyes. She felt a hand grasp hers and knew Skip was by her side.

  “Mrs. Wilder, you certainly had a scare.”

  Fluttering her eyes open Gilly turned her head and was able to focus on the man in the white coat addressing her.

  “Two things helped you avert a disaster. Your coat tangled with the wire on a trash container and a man grabbed your arm as you tumbled forward. He pulled you back, toppled over you just as the train pulled into the station. You have a nasty bump on your head from when you slammed into the pavement.”

  “My baby?”

  “I think your baby’s fine. No trauma around your belly. I want you to stay here for an hour just to make sure. We’ll put some ointment on those scratches on your knees and palms when you tried to break your fall. Then you’re free to go home. Mr. Hunter here said he’d see you got home safely. If you should have any spotting in the next couple of days, be sure to see your obstetrician right away, probably a good idea to visit your doctor in any case, but I don’t think you’ll have any trouble. Here, let’s get you sitting up on the edge of bed. Do you feel dizzy?”

  “Maybe a little. But I can see better.”

  “As I said you have a nasty bump but from what the medics said when they brought you in, you didn’t lose consciousness. Maybe for a few seconds when you sustained that bump. Take it easy for a couple of days.”

  “Thank you, Doctor. I will.”

  The doctor patted her on the shoulder, and hustled off to another patient. Skip crouched in front of Gilly, holding both of her hands.

  “You sure you feel okay to walk?” he asked.

  “Skip, someone pushed me,” she whispered.

  “What? Are you sure?”

  “Yes. I didn’t see him coming. The platform was very crowded. He couldn’t have run into me. I felt a sharp elbow or fist hit my back. But no one said anything about my being pushed. No one said they saw someone but then the medics rushed me away. No one asked any questions. Skip, I think it was Edward. I swear I heard him say ‘bitch’ just like on the card.”

  “I’ll talk to DuBois. He’s going to Wellington’s party tomorrow night, which, young lady, you are not attending.”

  “I beg your pardon, big brother. I am attending and if you’re reneging on your offer to take me, I’ll ask Maria to go with me.”

  “You redheads. Stubborn. Stubborn. Stubborn. We’ll talk about it tomorrow. If you feel okay, then…”

  “Then, you’ll pick me up?”

  “Of course. I’ll pick you up.”

  “Excuse me. Mrs. Wilder?”

  A man, his right arm in a sling and a heavily bandaged hand sticking out of the end, took a tentative step into the doorway. One leg of his trousers was torn at the knee, his jacket rumpled over his free arm. Fortyish. His short black hair was disheveled.

  Skip wheeled around, stepping in front of Gilly. “Who are you?”

  “Arthur Lewis.” The man tried to look around Skip at the same time Gilly pulled Skip’s arm so she could see the man.

  “I’m Ms. Wilder.”

  “Sorry to bother you, ma’am. I’m sorry I fell on you—hope I didn’t hurt you.”

  “You’re the man who pulled me back from the tracks?”

  “Yes. I was reading the newspaper, want ads. Here, I think this is yours.” The man pulled Gilly’s purse out from under his jacket.

  “But … how?”

  “The medics. They took you so fast they didn’t hear me. I tried to get their attention. They forgot your purse. Excuse me for squinting—my glasses broke.”

  “Mr. Lewis, have a seat. Please,” Gilly said pushing Skip to get the man a chair.

  Arthur Lewis sat down and looked up at Gilly sitting on the edge of the hospital bed.

  She sighed and leveled her gaze at the man. “Mr. Lewis, I felt a sharp … a punch in my back causing me to fall. Did you see—

  “Mrs. Wilder, a man bumped me just before you began falling, so I can’t say yes or no. It was a blur to be honest with you.”

  “Your hand’s bandaged … and that sling … what happened?” Skip asked leaning against the bed.

  “Sprained the wrist when I tried to break my fall.”

  “You said you were reading the want ads. What do you do?” Gilly asked.

  “I’m an accountant. Was an accountant. It seems nobody needs one these days.”

  Gilly mulled over what the man said for all of two seconds. “Well, I do. Not full time … a few hours a week … hopefully more soon. Want to take a crack at it?”

  “I don’t have my resume with me.”

  “You saved my life—two counting my baby. That’s the best resume in my book.”

  “But you don’t know if I can add two and two.”

  “Well, you returned my purse. Skip, is my wallet in there … next pocket …no, the other one.”

  Skip pulled out a wallet, waved it at her, his eyes bulging. What the heck was she doing?

  “So, Arthur Lewis, you’re honest. I guess you can lear
n two and two. If not, we’ll part company.” Gilly smiled sweetly at Skip who looked like he wanted to intercede big time. “Can you hand me one of my business cards? Center pocket.”

  Skip retrieved the card, handed it to her and pulled a pen out of his shirt pocket laying it in her outstretched hand with a slight bow.

  “Thanks.”

  Another sweet smile.

  “Here, Mr. Lewis, if you aren’t employed by January second, and if you’d like a few hours a week, say, two full days, and if you don’t mind working for a pregnant, red haired fashion designer, I’ll see you at one o’clock—just a half day to get your feet wet. Here’s the address. Ask for me.” Gilly handed Arthur Lewis her card.

  He stood tall, gave Gilly and Skip a hearty handshake and strutted out of the examination room.

  “Okay, Mr. Reporter—you told the doctor you’d take me home. Let’s go! I could use another aspirin.”

  Chapter 39

  ───

  Paris

  COUNT BEAUMONT, FACE RED with rage, nostrils flaring with each breath, stared at the doctor’s lab report lying in front of him. Maxime stood in front of his father’s desk, head down wiping his sweaty palms on his handkerchief.

  “Says here that you have enough sperm to impregnate a quarter of the women in France. One American would certainly not have been a problem for you.” The senior Beaumont spit out the words through clenched teeth. He saw his world crumbling. The hours, the money he had spent on his son—the best schools, the best clubs, the best women and for what? So he could impregnate a foreigner, a commoner? No! It must not be. He needed his son in the Senate in order to pass legislation, laws favorable to his clients’ legal battles. Because his son couldn’t keep his pants zipped their worlds were in jeopardy.

  He rose, stomped to the palladium window heavily draped with velvet, looked out at his vast estate—manicured flower beds and lawns, horses grazing in the fields beyond, a state-of-the-art barn and paddock.

  He whirled around. Eyes narrowing.

  “Tell me again the message this lunatic left on your answering service.”

  Maxime was a self-assured man, knew his way around the aristocracy, the government, his business contacts, and women, well, most women, but he withered when even in the shadow of his father. After all Maxime’s lofty living standard was due to his father’s wealth and his grandfather’s before that. His wife, Bernadette, spent her allowance from one end, as Count Beaumont deposited funds in the front end. Maxime was caught in the middle.

  “He was screaming,” Maxime whined. “Must have been drunk. Sounded drunk. He threatened to kill me, Father, if the money was not deposited immediately. He screamed that he was in terrible pain, that he had to have the money for an operation.”

  The Count poured a stiff shot of scotch. “If he’s in so much pain maybe he’ll do away with himself,” he muttered. He turned and snarled at Maxime. “Of course, you don’t know who he is, don’t know how to find him, so we’ll never know if he’s dead or alive. Wire $25,000 tomorrow. Maybe that will placate the bastard until we can get rid of the problem.”

  “I thought the problem would have been eliminated by now.” Maxime slumped in a soft black leather chair and stared into the flames flickering in the stone fireplace—a fire that didn’t warm the chill of winter but flared with the heated words of his father.

  “Well, so did I,” Beaumont said. “But it seems the woman is always surrounded by a fortress of people since her bungled accident at a subway station. My contact is pushing forward. He has a new plan. Fool proof he says. But he has to be careful because of her gaggle of protectors. Time is running out. If we don’t resolve the situation before the baby is born then the operation becomes much more difficult.”

  Bernadette backed away from the library door, strode quickly back down the hall to her mother-in-law’s sitting room. Bernadette always wangled herself an invitation to accompany her husband when he visited his father especially after what she overhead the last time. Maxime didn’t go to the estate very often and truth be told, liked to have his wife with him. The bitchy woman provided fortification—his father didn’t like tangling with her.

  The logs in the sitting room had been reduced to a mound of smoldering cinders. She called the servant’s quarters asking that someone attend to the fire.

  “…And bring me a glass of sherry. And, oh, yes, a few of those tasty crackers and that baked Camembert cheese you served with lunch. See that the cheese is warm.”

  Bernadette stood before a mirror mounted over a French Provincial console table. Admiring her profile, she smoothed a blonde strand into place. “So, Maxime is the father. At any rate he didn’t deny it and the doctor confirmed the fool is capable. Of course, he couldn’t prove it by me.”

  Spring, Bernadette thought. The little bastard will be born in the spring—maybe April. I’ll let this little charade the Count is orchestrating play out. If the woman gives birth, I’ll be ready. If she’s alive that is. She heard a rap on the door, and a man entered immediately rebuilding the fire along with a maid carrying the tray of refreshments. “Madame, your sherry.”

  “Please, let Maxime know where he can find me when he’s ready to leave.”

  Bernadette slathered a cracker with the cheese and took a sip of her sherry. Moving closer to the rekindled flames in the fireplace, a smile slowly crossed her face. A baby, she thought. A baby with Beaumont blood would certainly ensure her lifestyle. Especially since she would know the secret of its birth. How wonderful and she wouldn’t have to go through the painful, messy process of bearing the child herself. Without a baby the Beaumont blood line ceases with Maxime. Maybe she should hire her own detective. Someone to keep tabs on when the little treasure appears and the best way to bring the little darling to me. Oh, I can just see their faces when I walk in and present Maxime and his father with the baby.

  Our baby.

  Chapter 40

  ───

  Seattle

  PARTY TIME!

  With his gold bars safely in a bank vault, Philip Wellington was going to enjoy himself playing Father Christmas even though Christmas was two weeks away. His new facility manager directed caterers, florists, musicians, and decorators in a panoply of motion, color, and aromas of delicacies emanating from the kitchen, all wrapped in the music of the holidays. Philip specifically asked for a rotation of musicians throughout the day so everyone could enjoy the music as they worked.

  The party had been written up in the society section of the newspaper. The guests included those who had participated in solving the biggest gold robbery ever pulled off in the State. The reporter, Skip Hunter was listed immediately after Seattle’s Police Department Detective Mirage DuBois followed by a Ms. Wilder and her grandfather, Clay Wilder who had been key in finding the initial location of the heist, but too late as the bullion had already been moved.

  While the staff readied the mansion for the party that evening, Philip visited homeless shelters donating money and soliciting a list of what would help the shelter directors in their mission. He visited Seattle’s Salvation Army and the Red Cross slipping each director a large check. His final trip was to Wal-Mart where parents in a few weeks would be surprised when picking up their children’s toys from layaway to find that the balance had been paid.

  Late afternoon, when the comings and goings of delivery vans were at a fevered pitch, a man slipped in the front door along with a florist and asked a woman wearing an apron if there was a library. She pointed down the hall and scurried off. The man followed her directions and found the door open, a florist positioning a large bouquet of roses on a table. The man stepped to the desk, looked to see if anyone was watching. No one paid any attention to him as he laid a small box in the center of Mr. Wellington’s desk. The box, wrapped in brown paper, was addressed to Gillianne Wilder. Satisfied, the man sauntered down the hallway and out the front door, his limp barely noticeable and certainly not by the harried delivery men and women.

 
; As evening descended the glow of the mansion grew when holiday lights strung inside and out were turned on to greet the guests. There was a slight chill in the air. The forecast was for a light snow—Mother Nature adding her touch to the festivities. Cars began lining the street as guests streamed into the mansion. A gray sedan pulled up and parked behind a black Lincoln another car immediately pulling behind the sedan. The driver of the sedan remained in the car unnoticed as guests passed chatting in excitement, exclaiming over the multitude of lights dotting the grounds of the mansion where they were about to join the party. The man scrunched down, pulled his coat tight around his neck and smiled. He visualized Gilly’s face when someone, perhaps Mr. Wellington, handed the box left on his desk to her—if not tonight, then tomorrow, or soon.

  ───

  SKIP STRAIGHTENED HIS BLACK tie, pulled on the black suit jacket, and looked in the mirror. The engraved invitation to Wellington’s party indicated appropriate dress in small letters at the bottom: Semi-formal. Agatha sat next to Skip’s shoe, both checking his image in the mirror. “Okay, girl, nothing more I can do here.”

  At the apartment Nicole answered the door and Skip stepped inside placing a quick kiss on her cheek in greeting. Neither indicated remembering the first time they met in Paris. He greeted Maria with a hug when she emerged from the kitchen, dishtowel in hand. Asking about Gramps, Maria said that Anne and Will had received invitations and were driving over together.

  The bedroom door opened and Skip’s heart stopped. Gilly stepped through the open door wearing a short, black filmy skirt that fluttered around her knees, the black silk stockings camouflaging the scrapes she had sustained the day before. A black sequin halter top skimmed just below her hips, the baby bump accentuating the glow on her face and the sparkle in her green eyes. Her red hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders.