She exited the car and stared at the low-slung house where Anne had lived with her son. The small building didn’t look any more familiar than her own home. She didn’t recognize the stucco or the iron-railed front stoop or the worn-out shingles on the patched roof. And yet uneasiness stomped down her throat until she gasped for breath.
“What is it?” Jeff carried the sleeping baby over his shoulder. “What’s wrong?”
“I don’t know. It’s like a memory on the tip of my tongue but just out of reach. I feel as if someone is looking at me, but when I turn around, no one’s there.”
Drawn forward like a marionette, she walked through air suddenly as thick as pea soup. Her hand shook as she pointed to the bottom of the steps. “That’s where the neighbors found me.”
The front door crashed open. Chelsea jumped back and let out a gasp.
A couple bulldozed out the front door as if pushed from behind. The woman, about forty-five, advanced with quick, no-nonsense steps. Her birdlike eyes focused on Alex with laser intensity. “There he is!”
Head bowed, her husband shuffled three paces behind, the jowls on his face quivering beneath a graying mustache. He patted her shoulder. “Honey, please don’t cause—”
“Don’t you honey me.” She shrugged off his touch.. “I’m not leaving until I get what I came for.” The lady’s nose twitched as she marched down on them. “I’m Mary Carpenter, and this is my husband, Tom.”
“I’m Dr. Jeffrey Kendall and this is Chelsea Connors,” Jeff introduced himself with a step forward, placing himself between the couple and Chelsea.
Chelsea couldn’t remember ever meeting these people, but their names from her conversation with her attorney were familiar. As she recalled this couple wanted to take Alex from her, she chewed her bottom lip. From the moment Mary Carpenter had barged out the front door, she seemed on the attack. But would this ordinary-looking middle-aged couple go so far as to attempt to murder her to claim Alex?
Mary, her face drawn into sharp features by the tight bun knotted at the back of her head, peered around Jeff. “The woman from foster care told us you might bring Alex here when you came to get his things. A healthy child has no business returning to the scene of his mother’s murder. It could upset his constitution and make him sick.”
“Now, honey—”
”Hush, Tom.” Mary peered through thick glasses at the doctor. “He is healthy, isn’t he?”
“And how could that possibly be your concern?” Jeff asked while Chelsea threw him a grateful glance and fought down swirling anxiety.
Mary clucked her tongue against the roof of her mouth and shook her head. “We are the only family this orphan has. So I’ll thank you to hand him over.”
“No!” Chelsea shouted, surprising herself by the violent feelings raging through her.
Mary Carpenter looked down her long nose as if Chelsea were lower than a worm. “Ah, so you can talk?”
It seemed impossible that in just a day, Chelsea had formed a bond with the baby, and yet her arms ached to hold him again. The fact that she didn’t know how to raise a child didn’t matter. No one was born knowing these things, and she would learn whatever was necessary.
Besides, Alex was alone and vulnerable, a situation with which Chelsea could empathize. If she hadn’t been determined to keep the baby before she met this dried-up prune, she was more than determined now.
“No,” she repeated. “You can’t have him.”
At her shrill protest, three pairs of questioning eyes stared at Chelsea. The baby let out a soft cry, and Jeff handed Alex to her and draped his arm over her shoulder. The little body snuggled against her trustingly, and she vowed not to let him down.
Drawing a deep breath to calm her overwrought nerves, Chelsea gathered her courage and went on the offensive. Every protective instinct bucked to the surface, giving her tone a bitter-harsh kick. “And how are you related to my son?”
As if about to do battle, Mary drew herself to her full five-foot height. “I am Anne’s stepsister, the child’s aunt.”
“Stepaunt,” Chelsea interjected, unwilling to give an inch.
“And her only family.”
“Honey—”
“And I told you to hush.” Mary didn’t spare a glance at Tom, but her low opinion of her husband was obvious by the sneer in her tone.
Chelsea shook her head to clear it of the eerie thought that someone or something lurked behind her, ready to attack. “Anne specified in her will that she wanted me to raise Alex.”
“Anne didn’t have enough sense to know what was good for her child. Be that as it may,” Mary said stiffly.
The words echoed in Chelsea’s head. Be that as it may. Who talked like that? Mary Carpenter might be in her forties but she spoke and acted as if she’d come from the previous century. No way could Chelsea imagine a child growing happily to adulthood in the Carpenters’ home.
Mary spoke slowly, as if choosing her words with care. “Anne was not in her right mind those last few months. We came here to search for another will.”
Chelsea’s heart leapt and lodged in her throat. Only Jeff’s gentle squeeze of warning kept her from shouting. “Did you find one?”
“No,” Tom admitted.
Mary’s chin jutted. “A judge will invalidate the existing will.”
If the Carpenters intended to go to court and contest custody, she should try to find out more. Digging for information, she asked, “What do you mean, Anne wasn’t in her right mind?”
“After she became…with child, she changed jobs, lost touch with her old friends. She became secretive. Perhaps the shame of her pregnancy was too much for her to bear.”
Jeff raised his brow. “Shame?”
“Anne wasn’t married. I always knew she’d come to a bad end.” Mary spoke callously, as if her stepsister had deserved to be murdered. “I told her she should give the baby to Tom and me to raise. At least the child would have a father. But Anne wouldn’t listen.”
Interesting that Mary Carpenter had wanted Alex before Anne’s death. Chelsea would be willing to bet the Carpenters never expected Anne to leave Alex to Chelsea. And if they’d murdered Anne, surely they wouldn’t hesitate to come after her.
Chelsea intended to do everything possible to prevent this woman from taking Alex from her. With a shudder, she wondered how strong a case the Carpenters would have. If only she could remember. Could Anne’s peculiar behavior before she’d died invalidate her will? Fear that the Carpenters’ family ties could influence a judge made the rich food she’d eaten congeal in her stomach.
Jeff must have picked up on her concern. “You aren’t a blood relative?”
“No, but—”
Sensing Mary Carpenter’s uncertainty, Chelsea pressed her advantage. “Do you have children of your own, Mrs. Carpenter?”
Tom lifted his head, eyes wincing in pain. “We were never so blessed.”
“He has a low sperm count.” Mary spit the accusation, as if it made him less a man. He lowered his head, apparently willing to take the blame for their childless state, but not before Chelsea spied rip-roaring, rage in his eyes.
If Mary Carpenter continually humiliated her husband like this, it seemed possible the abuse could cause him to explode. Perhaps Tom’s rage at his own inability to sire children had erupted in violence. His meek demeanor might be no more than a disguise for something more sinister.
A tiny shudder trembled through Chelsea. She stepped closer to Jeff, who spoke quietly in the tension-filled yard. “Why didn’t you adopt?”
“We tried, but none of the children offered fit our standards. Can you imagine—they asked us to take a deaf child? What would our friends have thought?”
In just a few minutes, Chelsea had come to dislike the Carpenters. After that last statement, she knew Mary Carpenter was one contemptible woman.
Swallowing a rude comeback, she tried to keep her tone even, but the acid crept through. “And what will happen if Alex develops a
hearing deficiency? Tell us, what would the neighbors think?”
Ignoring Chelsea’s sarcasm, Mary sniffed. “Alex is perfect, isn’t he?”
The baby’s perfection was the first thing they’d agreed on since Mary Carpenter had barged out the door, but Chelsea wasn’t about to admit it. Blithely she lied. “Oh, didn’t you hear his sniffles? I believe my son might be coming down with a cold.”
At her bold lie, Jeff emitted a choked grunt, and his unusually blue eyes danced with amusement.
Mary ignored Chelsea’s words. Perhaps she hadn’t heard them, too concerned with issuing her threat. “We’ve hired an attorney, but it would be easier if you’d just consent to our adopting the child.”
Easier for whom? Not for Chelsea. Certainly not for Alex. Giving her sweet baby to this peculiar couple would turn her stomach.
Suspecting she’d drawn all the information from the Carpenters she could without revealing her amnesia, Chelsea leaned into Jeff’s arm, appreciating his support, and ended the discussion. “I’m keeping Alex.”
Even if Alex weren’t the only person in the world who belonged to her, the only person besides Jeff who helped to keep the loneliness away, Chelsea would have refused to give him up. Anne must have had good reason for leaving her son with Chelsea; it wasn’t a decision a mother made lightly.
Although Chelsea couldn’t remember her friend, she intended to carry out her wishes. She’d keep the baby and raise him the best way she knew.
She’d already learned how pleasant holding Alex could be. Something about the baby’s innocent blue eyes and rosy cheeks made him infinitely appealing. Chelsea wanted the chance to watch him crawl and say his first word. She wanted to straighten his tie the night of his senior prom, congratulate him on his first job, fuss over his children.
The Carpenters couldn’t have him. It wouldn’t happen. Alex deserved better. The baby deserved a caring mother, and that excluded the dried-up old biddy. While Alex should have a father, Tom, Mary’s shifty-eyed husband, wasn’t good enough for him.
“Whether you keep Alex or not will be decided by the courts,” Mary Carpenter huffed. She grabbed her husband by the arm and towed him away without a backward glance.
With the woman’s disappearance through the gate, Chelsea turned to Jeff and squeezed his hand in relief. A popping sound drew her gaze to the stoop. She hadn’t realized they had an audience until she glanced to the front porch of the rental house.
A gray-haired woman, chewing and popping gum, frowned. “Can I help—?” Her eyes widened in recognition. “Oh, hi. It’s Chelsea, isn’t it? About time you returned to pick up the rest of the baby’s things.”
Could this be Anne’s mother, Alex’s grandmother? No, that couldn’t be right. If Anne had close relatives, it was unlikely she would have left Alex to Chelsea.
Confusion caused Chelsea to stammer.
Apparently realizing her bewilderment and saving her from awkward explanations, Jeff held out his hand to the older woman. “I don’t believe we’ve met. I’m Dr. Jeffrey Kendall, a friend of Chelsea’s.”
The woman wiped her palm on the back of her jeans and then shook his proffered hand. “Marilyn Charles, Anne’s landlady. Unlike her nasty relatives—” she glanced toward the fence where the Carpenters had disappeared “—Anne was a polite young woman, and her checks came like clockwork on the first of the month.”
“Glad you remember her so fondly,” Chelsea mumbled under her breath.
Jeff reached over and squeezed her hand. “Easy.”
“The Carpenters came to search the house for a new will, but I see they left empty-handed. Anne had more sense than to leave those two anything as valuable as a baby. A crying shame what happened here. This is a nice neighborhood.” Marilyn turned to Chelsea. “When you were injured and the ambulance came back again, the neighbors started to say the house was cursed. Bad for business.”
Chelsea lifted her brows. “How kind of you to inquire about my injury.”
Marilyn paid Chelsea’s sarcasm no mind. And Chelsea got hold of herself. The Carpenters’ appearance and threats may have thrown her, but she couldn’t miss this opportunity to find out more about Anne.
The landlady opened the front door and led them inside the sparkling-clean ranch house. Boxes, labeled with a black marker like the ones in Chelsea’s front hallway, sat neatly packed in the den.
Jeff glanced from the boxes back to the two cars, gauging the volume. “Do you think they’ll fit in both vehicles?”
“I hope so.” Chelsea assessed the lot, surprised a baby needed so much paraphernalia. “Only I don’t want you to have to drive all the way back to my place.”
Marilyn jerked her thumb at Jeff. “Ain’t that what ya brought him for?”
Before Chelsea could answer, the landlady resumed talking. “I need that stuff gone. I’ve got out-of-towners coming in to look the place over tomorrow. Hopefully they won’t find out Anne was murdered in the kitchen until after I get a deposit. I tell you, once the police got done, this place was a mess.”
The landlady must have finally realized how cold she sounded. At Chelsea’s glare, she offered a weak apology. “Sorry about Anne. Didn’t know her personal-like. But she was too good to die the way she did.”
Ghoulishly Chelsea couldn’t keep her gaze from fixing on the spotless gray linoleum. “How did she die?”
“Stabbed once in the ca-rot-id artery was what the police said. But she must have hurt her attacker. Can’t tell by the look of things now, but I cleaned up a trail of blood out the back door that the police said was different from hers. Was only fair I kept the security deposit for all the extra work.”
Chelsea stiffened at the woman’s callousness. She was talking about murder as though Anne had left dirty dishes in the kitchen sink. She swayed on her feet and reached for Jeff, then steadied herself with a firm grip on his arm. “Let’s get out of here.”
After Jeff packed the boxes in both vehicles, Chelsea followed him to her house. Confronting the Carpenters and visiting the scene of her friend’s death had left her hands shaking, her stomach in knots.
Perhaps she hadn’t slipped on those front steps. Maybe she’d fainted. For some reason, the image of a shadowy figure lunging out at her wouldn’t go away, and she wondered if her memory could be returning. Jeff had told her in the hospital that a frightful event may have caused her to forget. She recalled the awful creepy feeling as she’d stood in the yard and faced the Carpenters. Had she seen them before—right before she’d been attacked?
Was it too far a stretch of the imagination for her to believe that the person who’d killed her friend could now be coming after her, too? She’d lost her memories at Anne’s house, been attacked at the hospital, received a threatening phone call and had perhaps been followed. What did all that mean? And had these incidents begun with her fall or months before?
She was letting her imagination get the best of her. All she knew for sure was that she’d hit her head, lost her memory and received a sinister call. The attack with the hypodermic in the hospital could have been a dream—though she didn’t believe it. And she still wasn’t positive anyone had followed her from work.
Her thoughts seemed to go around and around without reaching any meaningful conclusions, and her head was pounding when she finally pulled into her garage. Glad Jeff accompanied her and she didn’t have to enter the house alone, she lifted Alex out of her car.
She’d intended to leave the boxes until morning, but Jeff returned for the cartons while she fed Alex and put him to bed in his room for the night. Sweet baby. She smoothed down his hair and covered him with a blanket before turning out his light.
Jeff was just piling the last box, label out, in the hallway. She squinted at the hurriedly scrawled lettering. “Do you suppose any of Anne’s personal things are in those boxes?”
He dusted off his hands and turned to her. “Why?”
“I thought she might have a photo album that I could save for Alex. He’s bou
nd to be curious about his mother.”
“And father.”
“I wonder why Anne never married him?”
“Some men aren’t the marrying type.”
By his tone, Chelsea suspected he was no longer talking about Alex’s father. The pleasant fantasies she’d entertained over dinner of ever making love with this man scudded away like a wispy cloud of promise on a windy day. Jeff’s words couldn’t have been any clearer. But still she swiveled her head with a little jolt of apprehension, needing to hear his explanation. “What are you saying?”
He raked his long fingers through dark hair. “Perhaps Anne never told the father she was pregnant. Or maybe she made up a name on the birth certificate because she didn’t know who the real father was.”
Chelsea sensed Jeff was backpedaling and faced him square on. “Some men don’t want the responsibility of children. They don’t want to be tied down.”
He neither admitted nor denied her words but rubbed his brow with an index finger, turned toward the boxes and studied the labels. “I think one of them was marked with Anne’s name.” He kneeled. “Here it is.”
He carried the box into the den and set it in front of the couch. Chelsea walked into the kitchen in search of scissors to cut the packaging tape, anxious for a moment alone. Had Jeff been trying to tell her he didn’t want marriage or children? She wasn’t sure.
But the thought that he might be warning her off before they’d gotten to know each other seemed sad. He’d told her almost nothing about himself. She’d like to find out more.
Grabbing the scissors with renewed determination, she headed straight to the carton. Her eagerness making her clumsy, she fumbled for a minute before he held out his hand. “Why don’t you let me do that?”
“Thanks. I guess I’m nervous.”
“Why? You look as composed as a high-fashion model.”
The ring of the phone interrupted her reply. Rushing to the den, she worried if the anonymous caller would issue another threat. “Hello.”
“Chelsea Connors?”
“Speaking.”
“This is Detective Burdett.” She didn’t recognize the name. “I have a few more questions I’d like to ask concerning Anne’s murder. Would you mind if I stopped by?”
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