The Case of the Questionable Quadruplet

by Jacqueline Diamond

  “One limited study isn’t definitive.” Recognizing that no amount of logical discussion was likely to broaden his views, I handed Danielle a card with the name of the hospital’s in vitro coordinator. “This lady can get you started choosing a surrogate and a donor whenever you’re ready.”

  “It may be a while,” Fred told me dourly.

  “Mom might change her mind,” Danielle said as she rose. “She called and insisted Doreen and I stop by after dinner. She said it’s important.”

  “I hope nothing’s wrong,” That was as close as I dared venture to asking if Malerie had mentioned any delusions.

  Danielle shrugged. “She wants to come clean, but I have no idea about what.”

  “I wish she’d included me.” Fred held the door for his wife. “A married couple should function as a team.”

  “How did she sound?” I asked.

  “Angry,” Danielle conceded. “I can’t imagine why.”

  Did Malerie mean to tell them about her alleged quadruplet sighting? If so, she might provide her hostile son-in-law with an excuse to try to declare her mentally incompetent. No wonder she’d excluded him.

  Despite the irrational claim, she struck me as more competent than half the people in Safe Harbor. That included a certain doctor of my acquaintance, I thought as I went to review the next patient’s information.

  Chapter Three

  Driving home through the fading daylight, I crested a rise in the boulevard. Far below spread the harbor with its flock of winged sailboats and, beyond, the vast blue of the Pacific. Only an hour’s drive south of Los Angeles, Safe Harbor provided anything a person might crave. Including privacy.

  My mental noise faded. I lowered my window to admit the salty air and, with a sense of anticipation, turned left onto Harbor Bluff Drive, left again on Sunset Circle. Like an eagle drifting above the world, I homed in on my aerie.

  My heart slammed into my ribs.

  In the driveway rested a green sedan. Lydia’s home. Except that my wife was never coming home again.

  She’d willed the car to her sister, who’d declined my offer to pay the difference on a trade-in. Despite the pain of seeing it, I couldn’t fault Tory for dropping by to straighten out the mess in the studio. With a tick of hope, it occurred to me she might have tracked the necklace.

  Pressing the garage opener, I spotted the suitcases left beside the car. Big ones, shabby and mismatched.

  Just as I reached the dismaying conclusion that Tory intended to move in, a red sports car zoomed to the curb. My best friend Keith Sparks once told me that cops ticket red sports cars because they appear to be speeding even when they aren’t. I suspect it’s more a matter of the color’s visibility. Regardless, since police don’t generally penalize fellow officers, he gets away with it.

  He’d wired open the trunk to accommodate an ugly chipped desk, while the tiny rear seat sprouted chair legs. He’d been half-heartedly complaining about the junk Tory left in their apartment after their fiery break-up a few months earlier. Now it was about to become my junk.

  I pulled into the garage and strode out to meet Keith. In junior high, he’d been the blond jock who ran interference for the geek. I’d been the scrawny kid, not yet shot up to my full height, who explained algebra until he got it. No matter what paths we’d followed since then, we’d kept reconnecting.

  His involvement with Tory had been unexpected. They’d attended the same high school, three years apart, without dating. They’d also both graduated from Cal State Long Beach but, again, with no discernible vibes. Nor at Lydia’s and my wedding, where he’d served as best man and she’d been maid of honor.

  In the detective bureau, an attraction had flared between them. I’d never trusted it, and here I was, about to suffer radiation sickness from the fallout.

  I gestured at the furniture. “Why are you aiding and abetting her?”

  “It’s not my choice, believe me, but I can’t refuse to hand over her stuff.” Keith favored me with a half-smile that, I’d observed, inspired women to send him drinks in bars. As a detective, he wore a long-sleeved shirt, slacks, a perpetually loosened tie, and a jacket that didn’t quite cover the gun. Even without a uniform, he projected masculine cockiness. “She claimed she’s providing you with security after your burglary.”

  “How’s she expect to do that when she’s gone during the day?” I grumbled.

  “You’ll have to ask her.” He regarded the suitcases. “Damn. I figured once she got fed up with that lousy motel, she’d forgive me.”

  “You cheated on her. That’s hard to forgive.”

  “She gets me, more than any other woman I ever met,” Keith said. “It was a one-night stand. Tory knew it didn’t mean squat.”

  I rolled my eyes.

  “Should have known,” Keith amended. “Hey, I didn’t plan it. I was waiting to interview a witness at the emergency room over at Heights.” He meant Heights View Medical Center, a hospital just north of Safe Harbor.

  “Spare me the details.” Tory had been close-mouthed, and I wasn’t the type to pry.

  He ignored my request. “There was this hot nurse and this on-call room. I had no idea she’d text me where Tory would see it.”

  “It’s a bad idea to give out your phone number if you’re sneaking around.” Before he offered an excuse, I added, “And a worse idea to cheat.”

  “I apologized. And I’ve done penance these past few months. No women, no nada.” Keith took a deep breath. “I’m not used to this touchy-feely stuff. It’s like I always manage to say the wrong thing.”

  No kidding. In the ensuing detonation, my sister-in-law had not only stormed out of their apartment but also left the police department, claiming too many of the good ol’ boys sided with Keith. I pictured Tory blazing her way out with a pistol in each hand, Annie-get-your-gun style.

  She claimed to have found her true calling by joining a local agency, Fact Hunter Investigations, where she had more autonomy. I’m not convinced she was really suited to police work, although she’d risen to the rank of detective. She’d started out eager to serve the public but grown increasingly irked when people blamed her for not solving crimes instantly, like on a TV show that wraps up cases in an hour. And she’d complained about judges who slapped bad guys on the wrist.

  Her break-up with Keith had been the last straw, thrusting her into a whole new life. Unfortunately, it appeared, that life was mine.

  “Better send her back to me before she settles in,” Keith advised. “You hate loud music and shouting down the stairs. I’ll bet she’ll hang her bras on the railing, too.”

  “Would it be that bad?”

  “Worse,” he said. “Tell her she ought to be big enough to overlook a minor transgression. Especially since I’m really, really sorry.”

  I decided not to dwell on the “minor transgression” angle. If the guy hadn’t figured out by his mid-thirties how to treat a woman, a lecture from me would be a wasted effort. Yet in this matter, our interests were aligned.

  “I’d hate to create ill will by kicking her out,” I muttered, seeking advice. “She is my sister-in-law.”

  Keith eyed the front door, which was swinging open. “Lay down rules that’ll drive her nuts. She can’t tolerate being fenced in. Seriously, she’s more like me than she’s willing to admit.”

  “It’s worth a try.” Being sneaky goes against the grain. On the other hand, so does living in turmoil.

  Tory swung down the steps with the wide-hipped stride cops adopt to accommodate their tool-and-gun belts. While she hadn’t yet obtained a concealed carry permit, old habits died hard.

  She stopped, bushy hair blazing around her face. At five-ten, she’d loomed over Lydia’s five-three. Still, no one meeting them had doubted which was the big sister.

  For an instant, when she spotted Keith, her mouth quivered. Pain, I thought. But she squelched d it fast. “You boys having fun?”

  “Lots to talk about,” said Keith.

  “F
ind the jewelry?” I asked.

  A shadow crossed Tory’s face—literally, from a cloud. “Not yet.” Down the short walkway she strode. “Keith, it’s the rear upstairs bedroom. Turn right at the top. And don’t bang the desk.”

  “Yeah, it’s real delicate.”

  “I don’t care about the desk. The house is a little higher class than you’re used to.”

  Keith shot me an over-to-you expression. Now or never. “Tory, I appreciate your concern about security,” I began, “but since you’re gone during the day…”

  “My hours aren’t as a predictable as yours.” Ruefully, she added, “And the motel’s expensive.”

  “Don’t you get paid?” Keith demanded. “Come on, babe. You ditched a steady income loaded with benefits. The least they can do is compensate you fairly.”

  “I put in ten years, so I’m vested in the retirement plan,” she retorted. “Right now I only make a modest salary plus commissions, but I’ll start bringing in new clients soon.” Most of her assignments, according to Morris, involved rooting out insurance fraud, spying on unfaithful spouses—that ought to appeal to her—and digging up evidence for attorneys in court cases.

  Seizing her suitcases, she marched toward the porch. “Another minute and it’ll be too late,” Keith remarked in my direction.

  “Tory!” My voice stopped her on the steps. The luggage clunked down.

  “Yes?”

  “The desk.” I pointed to the offending item jutting from Keith’s trunk. “There’s nowhere to put it.”

  She drew a breath, preparing to argue.

  “The décor stays the way it is,” I said. “That’s one of my rules.”

  Tory grimaced. To her ex-boyfriend, she said, “You can keep the desk.”

  “Gee, thanks.”

  “Also, no loud music, videogames or TV,” I improvised.

  “I’ll use earphones.” She’d always disliked earphones.

  Think hard. “No food outside the kitchen.”

  “You’re kidding.” From the doorway, Tory regarded me dubiously.

  “We have an ant problem,” I said. Well, it had happened.

  “I can live with that.” She sighed. “What else?”

  I drew a blank. I refused to cite hanging underwear on the railing. “Guess not.”

  Keith groaned.

  I strode up and took hold of a bag. No sense acting churlish. Or should I say, more churlish.

  Inside, the scents of tomatoes, cheese, garlic, cinnamon, oregano and cloves swept over me. Even when Morris didn’t cook on the premises, he brought hot boxes full of the delicacies he’d prepared for his clients.

  The glass had been swept from beneath the taped-up window, I noticed as we crossed the entry hall, which, past the stairs, opens into a great room. After ordering Keith to stay behind, Tory ascended the curving staircase ahead of me.

  High above, the skylight bathed the house with end-of-day shimmer. It picked out hues of pearl, blue-green and pink in wall hangings and a small stained-glass window on the landing, as if we were inside an opal.

  When Lydia and I accepted Dad’s invitation to move in, the place hadn’t been updated in twenty years. Provided with free rein and a reasonable budget, my artist wife had spent months designing a color scheme, replacing floors and fashioning custom window coverings. In the process, she’d transformed a house of dark memories into a fairy-tale palace.

  I didn’t begrudge her sister a chance to stay here. I just loathed the prospect of being startled every night by Lydia’s car and wrenched by hearing a voice that, at unexpected moments, eerily resembled hers.

  Head low, I trudged into the corner room and found the floor already piled with boxes. My wife used to sleep here if she felt ill or restless, and when I set the case on the bedspread, a hint of her perfume drifted up like a whiff of roses from the garden below.

  It wasn’t a single blow. It was a flood of memories drowning me in endless pain.

  From the window, Tory swung around, tears glimmering. “Being here makes me feel close to her,” she said. “I miss her so much.”

  My self-pity converted into guilt. “I forget that she left other people behind, too.”

  My sister-in-law squared her shoulders as if embarrassed by her display of emotion. “I hit half a dozen pawnshops and checked online today. No luck but I’ll keep at it.”

  “I appreciate that.” Standing aside, I let her go down to dinner. The prospect of Morris’s cuisine escorted me the rest of the way to normality.

  Although Keith tended to bare his teeth at the prospect of a meatless meal, he joined us for a menu starring Morris’s tofu moussaka. I used to give vegetarian food only grudging respect, but my father-in-law had won me over. For the most part.

  On the side, there was a green salad, a wild-rice dish and, because it was Friday, the traditional Jewish braided bread called challah. Untraditionally, it was gluten-free, baked with rice flour.

  Since Morris had set out candles, Tory lit them and recited a prayer in Hebrew. I’m not sure it was the right one—shouldn’t there have been wine to go with it?—but apparently it satisfied her father.

  In the kitchen, which is separated from the great room by a free-standing counter, the four of us pulled chairs to the butcher-block table. Ignoring cabinets full of china, we served ourselves on paper plates.

  “How’s your new delivery girl?” Tory asked her father after we’d finished complimenting him on the meal. “Her name’s Billie, right?”

  He nodded. “I was a little worried how the clients would react.”

  “Why?” I looked for a bread knife to slice the challah. Oh, right, we were supposed to tear off chunks. Also, Lydia used to say a separate prayer over the bread, but who was I to complain?

  “Purple hair, multiple piercings,” Tory answered.

  Keith quit shoveling in food long enough to ask, “Why’d you hire her?”

  “Her brother’s a client,” Morris said. “He recommended her. And she’s doing well. Last night she made the deliveries by herself with no problems.”

  “Dad’s good with employees.” Tory aimed a tongful of salad at her plate. She snatched up the bits that landed on the table.

  “Why’s that?” Keith mumbled through a mouthful.

  “I’m fond of people,” Morris said. “You and my daughter see the worst in people, but I see the best.”

  “Tell Eric about the housekeeper,” Tory put in.

  “You hired someone?” That had been fast.

  “A nice lady named Sandy Faye Miller,” Morris said. “She was working for a lady in the next block and dropped in on her lunch break.”

  “References?” I asked. My father-in-law hadn’t exaggerated about seeing the best in people. I was more cautious.

  “Yes. I checked them,” he said. “In addition to Mrs. Jarvis around the corner, she cleans for Mr. Tran. He works at that flower shop near the hospital. We coordinate with them on special events.”

  “I see.” As he detailed the housekeeper’s background, my thoughts wandered. I pictured Danielle Jeffers, who’d soon be meeting with her sister and mother. Perhaps she was already listening to the tale of the mythical quadruplet. What did she make of it?

  Abruptly, I snapped to attention. “I beg your pardon?”

  Three faces regarded me. “About what?” Keith asked.

  “I missed what Morris was saying. Who else does the housekeeper work for?”

  “Mrs. Abernathy,” he said.

  Today, all roads led to Malerie. I got a bad feeling, as if this were an omen. What was wrong with me? I’d never been superstitious.

  “Sandy insisted on tidying up the front room,” my father-in-law continued. “She hated to leave us with a mess over the weekend. I hired her to start Monday. She’s on probation pending your approval, of course.”

  “I hope she’s discreet.” I’d hate for my household business to become common gossip.

  “She didn’t strike me as a chatterbox,” Morris said. �
�And she charges the same as Vivien.”

  “Good. Thanks for handling this.”

  The conversation progressed to another topic. Morris had polled his clients about whether to serve turkey for Thanksgiving this year, and been surprised how many of the vegetarians said yes. “I’ll offer a tofurkey option, of course,” he said. “But to many people, traditional foods mean a lot.”

  “Even if it involves the cruel slaughter of defenseless animals?” Keith mocked.

  “You’re all heart,” Tory muttered.

  “Nothing spells `family’ like a holiday meal with all the trimmings,” Morris said.

  I ignored his wistful glance in my direction. Last year, after Lydia’s death, I’d been in no mood to give thanks, and I’d already put my foot down about this year. They could eat whatever and wherever else they chose, but I refused to pretend I still had a family.

  When Morris’s phone played the opening bars of “That’s Amore,” he tilted his head apologetically and glanced at the screen. “Gotta take this.” He answered, “Hi, Billie. How’s it going?”

  His thick, salt-and-pepper eyebrows drew together. “Slow down. What?” Then, “Did you call the police?”

  My stomach tightened. Keith pushed back his chair. Tory drummed her fingers on the table.

  “Sure, I can finish the deliveries,” Morris said. “Just describe what you saw. Don’t worry. You’ve done nothing wrong.” He ended the call.

  “What?” we all demanded.

  My father-in-law shook his head in disbelief. “She found one of our clients face-down in her swimming pool. Billie thinks she drowned.”

  No, no, no.

  “Who is it?” Tory asked.

  In defiance of common sense, I already knew.

  “Malerie Abernathy,” Morris said.

  Chapter Four

  The flashing lights of a patrol car and a paramedic unit flickered across Malerie’s house, which appeared almost colorless in the early gloom. Located in the northern part of town, the single-story structure would only have passed muster as a millionaire’s home to those familiar with Southern California’s sky-scraping real estate prices.