This Little Baby

by Joyce Sullivan

  Gil’s face darkened with anger as he swung his legs off the bed and stood, looking like a warrior rising for battle. “Well, let’s go after the bastard.” He plucked his watch off her bedside table. “You think we can reach Robbins at this hour?”

  Paulina’s mouth went dry. She did her best not to stare at his naked backside. Buns of steel was apropos. “I d-don’t think it would be wise to say anything to Robbins yet.”

  Gil swiveled to look at her, his astonishment clearly evident. “Why not?”

  “I think we should get some evidence first. If Newcombe suspects they’re on to him, he could destroy his files and they’d never find Mikey. Besides, when the police find Elva Madre, they may learn Cindy arranged the adoption through another third party and only went to Newcombe when she became concerned you’d take her baby away from her before the adoption was complete.”

  “But didn’t the waitress in the diner refer Cindy to Newcombe? Maybe the waitress is in on it, too?”

  Paulina bit her lip. “I hadn’t thought of that. You’re right.” Something niggled on the fringes of her thoughts, but she couldn’t call it forward.

  The phone rang. Gil reached to answer it, but Paulina leaped off the bed. “No, I’ll get it.” She stepped beside him, conscious of the bare heat of him. Her voice sounded far too weak as she said hello into the receiver.

  “Ms. Stewart, this is Detective Zuker. Detective Robbins asked me to give you an update of the situation. We searched the counselor’s house. Nothing incriminating. No baby paraphernalia. Maybe forensics will come up with something. We’ve got an APB out on Elva Madre a.k.a. Karen Jamieson. We’re heading over to the counseling clinic now. Sorry, that’s all I’ve got for now.”

  “Thank you, Detective. Mr. Boyer will appreciate the information.”

  “Then I trust you’ll give it to him, seeing as how his car was parked outside your apartment for the night.”

  Paulina froze. Zuker was shrewder than she’d given him credit for. Detective Robbins was probably listening to the call on the other line, hoping she’d trip herself up. “I’m glad we’re not the only ones working round the clock on this case, Detective,” she said with quiet dignity. She hung up the phone, amazed to see her hand was shaking. So, the police were keeping an eye on Gil’s whereabouts. Forewarned was forearmed.

  Gil’s hands settled on her shoulders, his breath stirring her hair. Paulina started.

  “Who was that? Robbins?” he asked.

  “In a way.” She told him what Zuker said, fighting the impulse to lean back into the alluring heat of Gil’s body. “It’s obvious they still consider you a suspect. Either that or Robbins thinks we could be holding out on more information and they’re keeping a close eye on us.”

  “They sure got an eyeful last night.” Gil pulled her against him and pressed a kiss into the base of her neck. The sensation whisked like a velvet ribbon down her spine. Try as she might, she couldn’t summon up the will to resist him. His maleness nudged her buttocks, hard and inviting. “So, what do you suggest we do?” he asked.

  Paulina swallowed hard. Darn, he made it difficult to think. She took one of his hands and smiled up at him over her shoulder, feeling like she was fighting a losing battle. “We take a shower and try to figure out a way to set up Newcombe.” Her stomach flip-flopped at the answering smile creasing his face and the undisguised desire flaring in his eyes. She tugged on his hand, urging him to follow her. Anticipation made her footsteps light. “I don’t suppose you know any expectant mothers who’d be willing to help us?”

  RENEE PILON PUSHED through the door of Joe’s Diner and glanced around uneasily, trying to remember Gil’s description of the waitress. Red hair, that was it. Unconsciously, she rubbed her enormous belly and sighed. Two more months and she could have her waist back. A ginger-haired woman, arms laden with breakfast specials, headed toward a corner of the diner. That must be her.

  Renee waddled after her and took an empty booth in the same section. Pathetic, she reminded herself. She was supposed to act pathetic and discouraged.

  The waitress flashed by her, giving her a beaming smile. “I’ll be right back, sugar, with a menu and some ice water. Would you like coffee, too? We’ve got decaf—”

  “Decaf will be fine, thanks.” Renee’s stomach rumbled at the smell of bacon and eggs drifting over from the next table. She’d eaten before Gil called her—now she was hungry again. It wasn’t even nine o’clock. She’d never get her waist back if she kept eating like this.

  The waitress came back wielding a coffeepot and a glass of water. A menu was tucked under her arm. She told Renee her name was Francine, pronounced the French way, but that was the extent of her accent. It was always hard to tell who was bilingual in Ottawa. Accents weren’t evident if the person learned both languages at an early age.

  Ren#233;e got a good look at the woman. Working on her feet had kept her fit, and her disposition was open and friendly. She reminded Renée of her Aunt Jeannine. Gil thought this gal was involved in Mikey’s disappearance? Renée would do anything to help her boss find his nephew—as long as it wasn’t dangerous. Gil treated his consultants well. Besides, her husband, Lonny, was standing across the street, his eyes peeled on the entrance to the diner. He wouldn’t let anything happen to her and the baby.

  “You all right, sugar? You look a bit under the weather,” Francine said. “Is this your first baby?”

  “Yes, my first.” She rubbed her stomach. She barely fit in the booth. “I’m fine, just tired. It’s hard to find a comfortable position with this big belly. Not that I could sleep anyway. I haven’t figured out what to do once the baby comes. My boyfriend took off as soon as he heard I was pregnant.”

  “It’s like that, is it?” Francine made a sympathetic sound. “You’re not the first single mother, you know.”

  “I know. I just—it’s so much responsibility. I turned twenty-three two months ago. I didn’t even want to think about having a baby until I was in my thirties.”

  “Don’t you have some family who could help you?”

  Renée shook her head.

  Francine patted her hand. “Well, let’s take care of fixin’ your appetite. Maybe your troubles won’t look so bad on a full stomach.”

  Ren#233;e ordered eggs, brown toast and bacon. She nearly swooned when Francine set her order in front of her. It smelled so good, she nearly forgot the reason she was here.

  “Eat hearty, sugar. I’ll be back in a few minutes to see if you need anything else.”

  By the time Francine returned, Renee had cleared her plate and was wondering if she should order more toast.

  “There, feel better?” Francine asked, nodding at Renée’s empty plate.

  “Yes, much. I’m sorry I went on like that about… everything.”

  “There’s nothin’ to be sorry about” Francine’s tone lowered confidentially. “You know, sugar, I believe things happen for a reason. Now, you might think I’m interferin’, but here’s the phone number of a lawyer I know.” She handed Renee a business card. “He specializes in matchin’ up babies with good homes. Couples who can’t have children and can’t afford those high-priced fertility clinics. Now, I’m not suggesting anything, and I hope you don’t take offense, but just take the number. Maybe it would help to talk to him, explore your options. There’s no charge for an initial consultation.”

  Ren#233;e stared at the card and tried to gather her scattered thoughts. Dear God, maybe there was some truth to Gil’s crazy theory. Her voice shook. “Thank you. Do you think he could see me today?”

  “There’s a phone by the cashier. Help yourself and find out.”

  Ren#233;e hoisted herself out of the booth, nervousness slowing her progress to the phone. It was simple enough to make an appointment. The receptionist informed her Mr. Newcombe would be pleased to see her this afternoon at two.

  Ren#233;e paid her bill and left Francine a generous tip. As she stepped outside, she felt enormously relieved that Lonny was just
where he was supposed to be.

  “I’M PLEASED TO MEET YOU, Ms. Pilon,” Vern Newcombe said, offering Renee his hand as she waddled into his office. “Please sit down. Could I offer you a glass of water or some juice? My wife was forever thirsty during her pregnancies.”

  “No, thank you,” Renée stammered, feeling flustered. His desk faced the window. She angled a glance at the computer on his desk as she moved toward the proffered chair. He was composing a letter.

  “Tell me how I can help you. I understand you were referred to our firm?”

  “Yes. A waitress at a diner in the Market referred me—” Ren#233;e broke off. It sounded so tawdry. Which was all the more reason for her to act and sound convincing.

  “Ah, that must be Francine Loiselle.”

  She waited for him to elaborate on Francine, but he didn’t. An uneasy tremor rocked her spine.

  “Please, go on,” he encouraged her. Renée didn’t know how to interpret the concerned intensity of his expression. She didn’t trust lawyers—especially ones who wore expensive suits. “I—I came to ask some questions about giving my baby up for adoption,” she said hesitantly.

  He rested his elbows on his desk and folded his hands together, steepling his index fingers. “Okay. There are two ways to give a child up for adoption in this province: through the Children’s Aid Society and through private adoption. Since you’ve come to see me, I assume you’re considering private adoption?”

  She nodded.

  His steepled fingers touched his chin. “Well, I’ve arranged many private adoptions over the years. I have a number of clients on a waiting list for private adoptions— people who can afford to give a child a loving home. Should you decide adoption is the best plan for your baby, you would be able to choose the adoptive family for your child and keep in contact with them if you so desire. There are many more open adoptions these days. Or, if you prefer the arrangement to be anonymous, you’d only be given nonidentifying information about the adopting parents.” He went on to explain that she could sign consent to the adoption any time after her baby was seven days old, and once she’d signed she’d have twenty-one days to withdraw her consent.

  “Have you discussed adoption with the baby’s father?” Mr. Newcombe asked.

  “No, I haven’t spoken to him in six months—since I told him I was pregnant.”

  “I see. Well, how about I start up a file for you, take some background information and we’ll talk again next week? This is an important decision you’re facing. There’s no need to rush. And you need not concern yourself with paying consultation fees. The fees incurred are paid by the adopting parents.”

  “All right.” Renée swallowed hard, watching his every move as he closed the file he’d been working on and opened a new one. She made up information in response to his questions—she had no intention of keeping the second appointment. Lonny would laugh at the info she’d improvised about the baby’s father.

  “That should do it,” Newcombe said finally. He picked up his phone and asked the receptionist to send someone named Lydia in. Renée glanced in dismay at the pretty blonde who entered the office. Why did most of the women she’d encountered today have waists like fence posts? “This is Lydia Kosak. She’s a paralegal and my metaphorical right hand.”

  Lydia smiled and offered her hand. Her amber eyes lit up with amusement. “It’s more like I dot his i’s and cross all his t’s.”

  Renée murmured hello and tried to look friendly.

  “Lydia will be phoning you early next week,” Newcombe added, “to explain the steps involved in a private adoption such as the need for a private social worker to visit you and take a medical and social history.”

  Renée nodded vaguely. The interview was nearing its conclusion and she hadn’t posed the key question. “Um, there’s one thing I didn’t ask,” she said awkwardly. “Will I…I mean, private adoption means the birth mother receives some money from the adopting parents to cover her expenses, right? The doctor says I’m retaining water and I might have to take my maternity leave a month before my due date. I haven’t been at my job long enough to qualify for maternity benefits.”

  “Hmm.” Newcombe glanced at her sharply, causing her to flush deeply with embarrassment. Then his expression softened. “I understand that an unexpected pregnancy can create financial stresses, but it’s illegal for a birth parent to receive any payment in regard to an adoption. The removal of financial gain from the equation keeps the system focused on what’s best for the children involved.”

  Ren#233;e’s disappointment was genuine. It was not the response she knew Gil hoped to hear.

  GIL STUCK THE POSTER of Mikey onto the telephone pole with two red thumbtacks and jogged down the sidewalk to the next pole lining Bronson Street. He wanted the neighborhood surrounding Elva Madre’s home plastered with posters, in case someone had seen her with Mikey the previous week.

  Despite the APB, the police still hadn’t tracked down Elva. The counseling clinic had produced Cindy’s file, but there was no mention of any counseling sessions after Mikey’s birth. The clinic’s appointment log confirmed Cindy hadn’t booked a session recently.

  A co-worker had told the police Elva had gone on holidays to the cottage country. The police had located and searched her cottage, but there was no sign of Elva.

  Gil figured it couldn’t hurt to cover all the bases—especially in light of what Renée had reported after her visit to Newcombe’s office.

  Was Newcombe playing it cool? Not taking any chances because of the publicity Cindy’s murder had garnered? Gil would find out for certain Tuesday morning. He’d had his best sales rep sell Newcombe’s partner, Richard Bullhauser, on a website package. Gil could hardly wait to get his fingers on the law firm’s computer system.

  The fresh chill of the morning air felt good in his lungs as his strides lengthened. The thumbtacks rattled in rhythm with his pace. At nine-thirty on a Saturday morning, the traffic on the main arterial route was light. Gil stopped, put up another poster and resumed his pace.

  The waiting for news was killing him, eating him up from the inside out. God, his parents were staying in his house and he couldn’t stand to see the pain in their eyes and hear them voice the questions that Gil wished he had the answers to. Last night, they’d decided to wait another week before setting the date of Cindy’s memorial service. Then his parents had asked him where he’d gone so late Thursday night and why hadn’t he come home? Gil had lied to them. He’d told them he couldn’t sleep, so he’d gone to the office to work because he didn’t want to disturb them. How could he tell them he’d slept with the private investigator he’d hired?

  They’d think his selfishness was bungling their chances of finding Mikey—just as he’d bungled Ted’s last phone call.

  Gil sprinted across an intersection. Hell, he couldn’t stand to look at himself in the mirror. There was no escaping the fact that none of this would have happened if he’d given Ted seven hundred dollars for those damned truck repairs.

  Pulling up short, he dug in his nylon waist pouch for more tacks. His chest heaved as he inhaled and exhaled deeply. He didn’t regret sleeping with Paulina for an instant. And he’d remember that interlude in the shower yesterday morning for the rest of his life. He’d never known soap and conversation could be so mentally and physically stimulating…. They’d even come up with one hell of an idea to set up Newcombe. Paulina put a whole new slant on brainstorming, in Gil’s mind.

  Gil grinned and broke into a jog again. For a few blessed hours he and Paulina had been as close as a man and a woman were meant to be. For the first time in his life he understood how sacred that intimacy could be. Maybe it was because he’d witnessed death lately, or maybe it was his growing awareness of how unhappy Cindy must have been in her relationship with Ted. Had she turned to JeanLuc for the intimacy she hadn’t gotten from Ted?

  Of course, once he and Paulina regrouped in her office, where he’d called Renée, Paulina had been all business. B
y five o’clock, when she’d ordered him to go home and see his parents, she was back to the handshake nonsense again. Did she really think she was the only one who felt the sparks when their palms met?

  He shook his head. What did it matter anyway? Paulina was married to a cause—and Gil had every intention of raising Mikey along with two or three other kids in his house in Kanata. He and Paulina were going to part company. Gil just didn’t know when.

  “ARE YOU NERVOUS?” Gil asked Paulina, taking her hand as he helped her out of his car and they gazed up at the sandstone facade of St. Anne’s Church in Hull. Paulina’s face was whiter than the austere collar trimming her black print dress. Her fingers were cold.

  “A little,” she admitted. “Going to a funeral seems a terribly underhanded way of gathering information. At least the fact we found the body gives us a legitimate reason for attending.” Her fingers tightened around his, seeking reassurance.

  Gil squeezed her fingers back, the prospect of walking into the church seeming less formidable with her beside him. It occurred to him that exactly two months ago he’d attended Ted’s funeral. Cindy’s funeral would be next week. Gil’s body turned to ice.

  Paulina’s voice tugged him back from the brink of his thoughts. “Keep your eyes open. Robbins is probably here, too. I’m sure he’ll get a big kick out of our presence. You can bet he’s got someone filming the crowd. Killers like to attend funerals.”

  “Gee, you are a fun date.” Gil had no idea why he’d said that. It was a Freudian slip—or he was cracking up. “Sorry. Poor choice of words.”

  She gave him a probing look he couldn’t interpret. Perhaps didn’t want to interpret. They’d made love and he couldn’t imagine asking her out on a real date. Dinner and a movie. And yet part of him wondered what it would be like to spend a lifetime with her.

  “Let’s go inside,” she suggested.

  They filed through the reporters hounding the church steps.