Kentucky Woman

by Mike J. Brogan

  “Ellie Stuart to see Jessica Bishop.”

  “Oh … yes, Jessie’s ‘spectin’ y’all.” She smiled and spoke into her headphone.

  “She’s fixin’ to come right down. Just put these visitor badges on and y’all kin wait over yonder.” She jingled her bracelets toward some chairs. They walked over and sat beside a table stacked with science magazines.

  Ellie looked up at a wall painting entitled The Blueprint of Life. It showed DNA’s double helix interwoven like two slinkies twisted together.

  “So, how long have you known Jessica?”

  “Since clay bunnies in kindergarten. Hers were better.”

  “What’s she like?”

  “Nice, attractive and six-three.

  “Wow!”

  “In eighth grade she was already six-one. Lots of cruel jokes. ‘Duck Jessica – there’s a satellite!’ She laughed it off, but I know it hurt. She smart, earned a pre-med scholarship to U of K.”

  Ellie heard footsteps. Turning, she saw Jessica in a white lab coat and safety glasses around her neck. Her large dark-green eyes and auburn hair looked good with the band of freckles sprinkled across her face.

  Ellie stood and hugged her, then they looked each other over for a second.

  “Jessica … you look like America’s Next Top Model!”

  “Marry me!”

  “Later,” Ellie said. “Meet Quinn Parker.”

  They shook hands.

  “So, Jessie, what’s new?”

  “Jim is new! Jim is six-feet-seven. Jim is a man I can finally look up to.”

  Ellie remembered Jessie’s prom date was five-six.

  “Jessica’s pager beeped. She looked at the number, frowned and turned it off. She was obviously busy.

  “So, Ellie, on the phone you said you needed an independent paternity test of your DNA.”

  “Yes.”

  “Whose DNA do you want us to compare it to?”

  “Leland T. Radford.”

  Jessica blinked as though trying to recall the name, then her eyes shot open. “Wait – the wealthy man who died down in Manchester a few weeks ago?”

  Ellie nodded.

  “You really know how to pick ’em!”

  “DNA will decide that.”

  “True, but we’ll need some of Mr. Radford’s DNA.”

  “Southern Genetic Lab got his DNA from Manchester Memorial Hospital where he passed away a few weeks ago.”

  “That helps.”

  “Why?”

  “We handle most of Manchester’s DNA work here. And I know the right person there. But on the phone you said Southern Genetics determined your DNA did not match Mr. Radford’s.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But,” Quinn said, “we think that test may have been flawed, or maybe altered.”

  “Southern Genetics is an excellent facility, and highly respected.”

  “Yes, but someone there might have been … negligent, or maybe even forced to alter the DNA test.”

  “Forced? Why?”

  “Because certain people could lose a lot of revenue if Ellie is Mr. Radford’s sole heir.”

  Jessica paused. “I see …”

  “The probate court date is in four days,” Quinn said. “Any chance we can get the test results in a couple of days?”

  “That’s quick. Can you ask the court for a postponement?”

  “If we do, everyone will know we’re running our own independent test.”

  “So …?

  “Someone might try to tamper with it here.”

  Jessica’s eyes widened.

  “Jessie …?” Ellie said.

  “Yeah?”

  “Please keep this test secret just between us …”

  “Sure, but why?”

  “Someone’s tried to kill me.”

  “More than once,” Quinn added.

  Jessica’s mouth dropped open. “Jesus, Ellie! Why didn’t you say so? I’ll get your test done within the next thirty-six hours.”

  The door opened and a lab technician walked in. He swabbed the inside of Ellie’s cheeks, placed the swab kit in an envelope, sealed it and left.

  “I’ll call as soon as I have something.”

  Ellie and Quinn thanked her and left.

  Driving back to Louisville, Quinn said, “I’m concerned they might learn about Jennifer’s test and mess with the results?”

  “I’m concerned they may mess with Jessica.”

  FORTY THREE

  Ellie was excited, pumped up! She was going on a date!

  Quinn had called it – ‘A date to Celebrate Your Birth Mother.’

  But still a boy-girl date!

  Tonight, she and Quinn would not spend time with lab technicians swabbing her mouth for DNA.

  Tonight, with a little luck, Quinn’s mouth might swab hers!

  This was maybe her fifth date in two years. And the only one she really wanted to go on since Mark Miller was killed in Afghanistan.

  But one thing about tonight’s date with Quinn puzzled her – why me?

  Why ask me out when drop-dead gorgeous, filthy rich, debutante-to-be Jennifer was so clearly in love with him? It made no sense.

  Unless … Ellie thought, Jennifer put Quinn up to it, made him ask me out – as a prank – so that Jennifer could then regale her society pals with sidesplitting stories about Quinn’s date with the hick chick … “poor Ellie had to scrape manure off her clodhoppers before they’d let her in the restaurant.”

  Is that what tonight’s date is about? A sham? Would Quinn go along with that? She’d only known him a few days. Did she really know him that well? Did she misjudge him?

  No – dammit!

  The Quinn she knew would never do that to her.

  She shook off her hick chick insecurities and checked herself in the mirror. Her slinky black dress, her only fancy dress, eleven bucks at Sam’s Seconds Shoppe, looked pretty good for a second-hand knock-off of a Donna Karan knock-off. She wondered if it was appropriate for the swanky restaurant Quinn said he was taking her to?

  The doorbell rang. She walked to the front door and looked through the peephole. Sarah, their neighbor. Ellie opened the door.

  “Sorry, wrong house,” Sarah said.

  Ellie laughed.

  “Look at you, Ellie! Quinn hasn’t got a chance!”

  “Thanks, Sarah.”

  Sarah stepped inside. “Wow! That dress and those ankle-strap shoes! Promise me you’ll have a great time.”

  “I promise.”

  “And a romantic time.”

  “Ease up, mom!”

  Sarah laughed, but Ellie realized that in many ways Sarah had become her surrogate mom, mentor, confessor, and pinch-hit-caretaker for Celeste. Ellie knew that if by some highly DNA miracle she inherited enough of Radford’s wealth, she would offer to pay off the mortgages on Celeste’s and Sarah’s homes, and arrange for both loving women to live their remaining years like Queens of Sheba.

  She heard a car pull into the driveway. Looking outside, she saw Quinn step from his TrailBlazer like a GQ model. He wore a blue blazer, light-blue shirt and gray slacks. The evening sun tinted his hair chestnut-brown.

  She hurried outside.

  “You look wow!” he said, scanning her from head to toe.

  “Thanks, and you didn’t fall off a turnip wagon.”

  He smiled. “You up for some great French cuisine?”

  “Oui! Oui, monsieur!”

  “We’re dining at Le Relais.”

  “THE Le Relais?”

  “The very one.”

  She knew Le Relais had long been one of Louisville’s best restaurants. Although reasonably priced for a gourmet restaurant, a meal there probably equaled her weekly food budget.

  They got in Quinn’s car and drove off. As Quinn turned the corner, she saw an unfamiliar gray Saab parked nearby with an unfamiliar bearded man wearing sunglasses behind the wheel. The man watched them as they drove by.

  She turned to Quinn. “So,
Mr. Parker, how does a struggling law student afford dinner at the very chi-chi Le Relais?”

  “Dinner’s free.”

  “Really?”

  “Yep. Two years ago, a University of Louisville fan won a ton of money when I caught the winning touchdown against Vanderbilt. He gave me three free dinners for two at Le Relais. This is my third dinner. I’ve been saving it for someone really special … but no one special came along … so I figured what the hell, I’ll take you instead.”

  “Golly whiz, thanks.” Ellie laughed, even though she knew the other two dinners were with Jennifer.

  Minutes later, they pulled up at the Le Relais restaurant located in the old Bowman Field airport terminal. She’d read that Bowman Field was the longest continually operating airport in the United States and that World War One pilots had trained there.

  A valet took their car and as they walked under the green neon Le Relais sign, she heard a plane take off.

  Like her relationship with Quinn maybe.

  And just maybe … like her relationship with Mark Miller had. As a freshman, she fell hard for Mark, an electrical engineering senior. Mark had a National Guard scholarship, a 3.9 GPA, and summa cum laude sense of humor. He was a scary-smart farm boy with strawberry blond hair. They hit it off in part because they’d both been adopted.

  She remembered their drive back to his charming home in Shelbyville, Indiana. They visited his foster parents, and his aunts who owned the successful Three Sisters Books & Gifts store. Ellie had fallen in love with the people and the town.

  Then … three weeks into Mark’s master’s program, the National Guard sent him and his unit to Fort Bragg for basic training and then deployed him to Afghanistan.

  Seven months later, he came home. She wept as they carried his flag-draped pine box from the C5 cargo plane. One of twelve KIAs that week.

  Mark’s death devastated her. Since then, she dated just a few times. Nice guys from school. But no Mr. Magic. To be honest, she wasn’t looking for Mr. Magic. She wasn’t looking to feel that kind of loss and pain ever again.

  But then came Quinn. From the start she was attracted to him. He was considerate without forcing it, intelligent without demonstrating it, a big man on campus without flaunting it, and, oh yeah, I almost forgot, handsome without strutting it.

  But now, as they walked into Le Relais, she saw something had changed in his eyes.

  Something was troubling Quinn. And it was serious. As she wondered what it could be, she failed to notice something across the street.

  The unfamiliar gray Saab had just parked.

  FORTY FOUR

  “You’re positive?” Mason Marweg asked.

  “Yes!” the man said. “She’s not his daughter. DNA proves it!” How many times will this pushy little dwarf ask me the same damn question?

  They sat at a picnic table in a sprawling forest twenty-five miles east of Louisville. They were alone, surrounded by lush evergreens and a crystal blue lake he’d rather be fishing in than listening to the loud-mouthed midget.

  He looked at Marweg’s three big aggressive wolverines circling the picnic table. He despised the filthy beasts almost as much as he despised Marweg. The man demanded things: Give me the sole right to buy Radford’s twelve thousand acres. Give me two more numbered offshore accounts to stash a few million in. Give me thirty percent off my legal fees. Greedy little bastard!

  On the other hand, the dwarf had paid him fat legal fees over the years.

  The wolverines growled, begging permission to attack a squirrel taunting them from a tree.

  “How precise is this DNA test?” Marweg demanded.

  “99.999% accurate!” he said. “And a second DNA test will be equally accurate in proving she’s not Radford’s daughter!”

  “How can you be so sure?”

  “Because I am, Marweg.”

  “So, when do I get Radford’s 12,000 acres?”

  “Two months after probate.”

  “That’s too damn long!”

  “Two months. Radford stipulated it in his will.”

  Marweg glowered.

  The squirrel jumped to the ground and ran. Marweg snapped his clicker and wolverines raced after it. The squirrel scampered up another tree a split second before the wolverines’ jaws snapped shut. The squirrel continued taunting them, thinking they were dogs. Big mistake. The largest wolverine shot up the tree and clawed the surprised squirrel’s tail as it leaped to another tree.

  Marweg clicked his clicker twice and the bear-like animals came back and sat.

  “I want my 12,000 acres!”

  “You’ll get them!”

  He knew Marweg would pay almost any price for Radford’s land. As CEO of one of the largest conglomerates of coal companies in Appalachia, Marweg had lusted after Radford’s twelve thousand acres for many years. But tree-hugger Radford refused, saying he’d do anything to “protect the forests from strip mines, strip malls and strip clubs!”

  “Where’s the mining survey that revealed vast coal reserves?” Marweg asked.

  “Dead and buried.”

  “And the surveyor?”

  “Dead and buried.”

  Marweg nodded approval. “And the selling price?”

  “Still the same, Marweg. With my fair fee tacked on, of course.”

  “Of course.” The dwarf frowned begrudgingly, then fluffed his wind-blown pompadour up a couple inches.

  At thirteen thousand dollars per acre, times twelve thousand acres, the purchase price was nearly one hundred and sixty million dollars. My sales commission, after everything, is a sweet four million dollar slice of the bituminous pie. Life is good.

  “What if she goes outside for an independent DNA test?” Marweg asked.

  “I’ll know.”

  “And then what?”

  “That test will also prove she’s not his daughter.”

  “And if she goes for another test?”

  “Same result. Don’t worry, Marweg.”

  But Marweg would worry of course. His raisin-size eyes zigzagged like a Chinese ping-pong match.

  He stood up on his five-inch elevator shoes, clicked his clicker and said, “Car!”

  Shamur, Goba and Goliath hurried over and crawled in the back seat of the black Rolls Royce.

  The chauffeur then opened the front door. Marweg got in, rolled down the window and asked, “Tell me again why I should not worry?”

  “Because dead people don’t inherit,” said Heinrich De Groot.

  FORTY FIVE

  Ellie sat in the Le Relais, a restaurant she could never afford … with a friend she could never thank enough. Quinn had changed her life.

  She looked around at the stylish décor. Le Relais was the most elegant restaurant she’d ever been in. It was also the only elegant restaurant she’d ever been in. She ran her fingers over the starched double linen tablecloths and watched the white-coated waiters glide like skaters between tables covered with damask tableware and green-shaded lamps.

  A tall, mustached waiter walked up to their table.

  Quinn turned to her. “Ellie, our meal is free … so order whatever you’d like.”

  “Thanks. But my knowledge of French cuisine consists of … le French fry. Please order for me.”

  He nodded and ordered, and the waiter soon returned with two large glasses of Bordeaux.

  When the waiter left, Quinn stared at her for several moments, his brow furrowing into a very serious look. He started to speak, stopped, then grew even more serious.

  What was bothering him?

  “There’s something I should tell you,” he said.

  She waited.

  “Jennifer and I are … .”

  Please don’t say – engaged!

  He paused. “We are ah …”

  Don’t say it -

  “ … we’re breaking up!”

  “Oh …”

  She leaned back against her chair, stunned, and yes, relieved. And then she saw sadness in his eyes and felt bad
for him. Or, was his sadness due to second thoughts about the breakup?

  “I’m sorry, Quinn.”

  He shrugged.

  She’d sensed he had issues with Jennifer, but nothing this serious.

  “It must be difficult for you both.”

  “Less difficult than continuing, Ellie. The breakup’s been coming for months. I spoke with her about it yesterday for a long time.”

  Ellie nodded. “How is she handling this?”

  “Angry at first. But now, she’s says I’m just confused and will soon return to my senses – and to her.”

  “Could she be right?” Please say no.

  He paused, then shook his head. “No …”

  She eased air out through her lips.

  “But what about the great job offer her father got you at Wagner, Hoffman and Musterman, Louisville’s best law firm?”

  “It’ll probably be withdrawn.”

  “That’s too bad, Quinn.”

  “C’est la vie! as one says in these parts. But hey, I’m senior editor of the Law Review and will graduate with the Order of the Coif. A sleazy ambulance chaser firm might snatch me up.”

  “A good firm will.”

  The waiter placed their meals on the table.

  Ellie stared at the delicious-looking food. She considered whipping out her phone and taking a picture, but knew she’d look, as the French say, très gauche.

  They began with Le Relais’ tasty Salade Maison, then a pâté du chef, followed with some grilled tomatoes sprinkled with Parmesan cheese, and finally some veal slices sautéed in a light garlic mushroom sauce that made her mouth water. The Bordeaux enriched the taste of everything.

  As they finished, she said, “Quinn, everything was fabulous. Incredibly delicious. I’ve never eaten food this wonderful. But I can’t eat another morsel.”

  “What? Dessert is very special.”

  “High calorie?”

  “No, just high.”

  “I don’t do drugs.”

  “Follow me, Mademoiselle …”