The Baby Track

by Barbara Boswell

  “So you grew up knowing about him, but never knowing him,” Connor said thoughtfully. It strangely paralleled his own situation, except, of course, her real father had been a war hero, while his...

  Connor’s jaw tightened. His real father had been married to another woman when he’d irresponsibly knocked-up some little bimbo on the make and then bought his way out of the mess.

  “I wish I’d known my father,” Courtney said wistfully. “I’ve always been curious about him, wanting to know every little thing that anybody could remember. I did grow up with a dad, though,” she added, her voice brightening. “My mother remarried when I was four, and my stepfather, John Carey, treated me like his own daughter. My older brother and sister, Mark and Ashlinn, and I have always used his last name and called him daddy. He had four kids by his first marriage, and they visited regularly with us. I was always closest to Michelle. Dad’s an army major and retired five years ago to Florida with Mom. I grew up living on army posts all over the United States, West Germany and the Canal Zone, too. We moved every couple of years.” “You really are a gypsy. A lucky one. I spent my entire boring childhood and adolescence in the same crummy little Maryland town. As soon as I graduated from high school, I took off to hitchhike around the country to see what I’d been missing. A lot, it seemed.”

  “I think you were the lucky one,” Courtney said softly. “I hated moving. I was heartbroken every time we left a place. I never felt like I had a hometown, and I wanted one. I wanted to really belong somewhere. I still do,” she admitted.

  “Ah, so that’s the appeal Emery Harcourt holds for you? We all know it sure isn’t sex appeal! Good old Emery is from a family with roots. The Harcourts have been living on the same plot of Virginia land since the eighteenth century, a land grant from the king, a fact that Sir Emery was quick to inform me last night. Those are mega-roots, to be sure, but to base a relationship on that is downright—”

  “I don’t want or need advice on relationships from someone who snoops and spies for a living and who views commitment as something akin to disease,” Courtney interrupted indignantly.

  “You don’t approve of me at all, do you, Gypsy? It must really bug you that you heat up like a torch when I touch you, while the refined, well-rooted Emery leaves you cold. And don’t try to deny that he doesn’t. Not sleeping with a man you’ve dated for years is undeniable proof. If, God forbid, you and I were ever to date, we’d be in bed on the first one.”

  Courtney jerked forward, mortified by his bald pronouncement. It was so unexpected. One moment, they’d actually been carrying on a civil conversation, and the next, he’d hit her with that red-hot memory of last night’s interlude. She felt warm all over, remembering what she’d been determined to forget.

  The man didn’t play fair! She glared at him. “I won’t even dignify that outrageous remark with a response.” “Well done, Courtney. You sound as upper class as a bom Harcourt or Tremaine.” The sound of his family name on his lips unleashed a bolt of pain. And of all the feelings he disliked and avoided the most, pain topped the list. Anger was preferable. So Connor got angry.

  As did Courtney. “I’ve never pretended to be upper class,” she grated. “I’m an army brat who grew up in a family of seven kids and stepkids, where there was never enough money or enough room for everybody. I’m proud of my background, but I’m not ashamed of wanting something more, either.”

  “And you think you’ll find it with Emery Harcourt?” argued Connor. “Good old rich, cultured, rooted-to-the-family-land Emery. Trust me on this one, Gypsy. Harcourt isn’t what you’re looking for.”

  “Well, it most certainly isn’t you!” she burst out.

  “Who said I was volunteering? I’m not interested in the position of Mr. Right, not for you or anyone else,” he retorted scornfully, as if the idea of him wanting anything to do with her was positively ludicrous.

  And she knew better. Last night she hadn’t been the only one panting and throbbing in the passion of their embrace. Courtney was suddenly furious. She was sick and tired of him baiting her, setting her up for his sarcasm and then smirking loftily when she fell into his verbal traps.

  “Aren’t you?” she said, deliberately baiting him. “Don’t bother to pretend that you don’t want me, Connor. And it— it must really bug you that I prefer a sweet, gentle man like Emery to your tiresome macho posturing.” She offered a silent apology to innocent, unsuspecting Emery for using him this way. Luckily he wouldn’t find out.

  “Oh, that’s funny.” But Connor wasn’t laughing. “You prefer sweet, gentle Emery? Ha! I happened to see the two of you sitting at that table when Kaufman and I first arrived at the party. You were bored out of your skull, Gypsy. I’ve seen people waiting in a dentist’s office for a root canal look like they were having a better time than you were having with the man of your dreams.”

  Where had he come up with that “man of her dreams” stuff? Courtney fumed. Furthermore, his constant carping on her relationship with Emery Harcourt was definitely getting old. It was terribly irritating to have to keep up the pretense of herself and Emery as a couple, but the more Connor dwelt on the subject, the more she found it impossible to tell him the truth.

  “I refuse to discuss the subject with you,” she snapped. “In fact, I refuse to discuss any subject at all with you. I’d rather listen to that idiot talk show host and those atavistic imbeciles who call in and fight with him than to waste my time talking to you. ”

  She switched on the radio. Connor immediately turned it off.

  “Fine.” Courtney folded her arms and glared straight ahead. “It’s your radio. If you don’t want to listen, we won’t.”

  They sat smoldering in silence as Connor followed the roadside signs into Shadyside Falls. On the outskirts of town were a big discount mart, a convenience store, a few gas stations and a rather seedy-looking motel, each about a half mile from the other.

  A set of railroad tracks literally divided the town in half. Irregular rows of dilapidated wooden houses—which were actually more like shacks—reminded Courtney of the expression “wrong side of the tracks.” The town square, built incongruously around a circle, had a surprisingly bustling air. The bank, beauty parlor, barber shop, a small hospital and several other stores were all open with people moving purposefully in and out conducting their business. The wide, clear window of Tell’s Inn restaurant showed a capacity crowd. The boarded-up movie theater seemed to be the only building in town without customers.

  “This isn’t as bad as I was expecting,” Courtney broke the silence to remark. “I mean, the people look normal, the town looks just like a small town anywhere.”

  “But of course. What were you expecting, a creepy, brooding place like one out of a Gothic novel or something?”

  “Considering that children are bought and sold here, yes, I was expecting something sinister,” Courtney retorted. “There’s Ferrell’s Market,” she announced. “According to Nollier’s directions, we’re supposed to make a left at that corner and turn onto Maple Street. Mrs. Mason’s house is number 26.”

  “Mrs. Mason on Maple Street. It sounds so homey and wholesome and all-American,” observed Connor.

  Courtney couldn’t resist. “What were you expecting? The Log Lady on Murder Lane?”

  Connor shot her a reluctant appreciative grin. “Could we call a cease-fire, beginning now, Gypsy? I don’t think we should arrive at Mrs. Mason’s place looking like archenemies.”

  “I agree. Although it probably wouldn’t matter much if we did.” Courtney grimaced. “All Wilson Nollier is interested in is the check for the baby. When he told us about the social worker who’ll falsify the home study report for us, I almost choked. What he’s saying is that he’ll turn a baby over to anybody who has the cash regardless of their background or mental status or—or even morals.”

  It was a terrible realization and it made her doubly determined to end Nollier’s racket.

  Connor nodded grimly. He pulled the car i
n front of 26 Maple Street. The white frame house was two stories high with a big front porch and porticoes reminiscent of the Old South. The two of them stared at it for a moment. Then Connor extended his hand to Courtney.

  “Let’s put aside our own personal animosities to nail Nollier. Deal?”

  “Deal.” She put her hand in his for a firm shake.

  * * *

  “I do hope you’ll be comfortable here,” said the portly Mrs. Mason as she led Connor and Courtney up a narrow staircase and unlocked the door to one of the rooms lining a long, darkened hallway. “This is one of the very best rooms, just newly redecorated.”

  Courtney and Connor stepped inside and looked around. Though the entrance foyer and hallway were old and darkly shabby, this particular room had the ambience of a modern hotel room, right down to the color TV set on the dresser. The wallpaper, bold blue, white and green stripes, looked new, and there was a plush green carpet on the floor. An adjacent bathroom contained a double sink along with a shining tile shower stall.

  No bathtub, Courtney noted, recalling her pledge to make Connor sleep in it. Her eyes returned to the queen-sized bed, the only bed in the room, with its spread that matched the wallpaper. She didn’t dare look at Connor.

  “Welcome to your temporary home away from home,” Mrs. Mason continued cheerily. “Just let me know what I can do to make your stay here as comfortable as possible. I like to keep my young parents relaxed and happy, and that means helping out with the little one, if need be. I’ve raised five of my own, so I don’t panic easily. Mr. Nollier said the baby will be here within the hour. Oh, you must be over the moon with excitement.”

  Courtney’s jaw dropped. The bed problem was instantly relegated to back-burner status. “The baby?” she managed to say.

  “What baby?” asked Connor.

  “Why, your new baby, of course!” exclaimed Mrs. Mason. She opened a door to what Courtney had assumed was a closet. It wasn’t. “Here’s the baby’s room, connecting to yours.” The room was small, with a crib and changing table almost filling it.

  For a full minute, Courtney and Connor stood stock-still, stunned into speechlessness. Finally Courtney rallied herself to repeat incredulously, “The baby is coming today? In an hour?”

  Mrs. Mason nodded. “I expect you and your husband will want to head on out to the drugstore and pick up diapers and baby formula and clothes, of course. Not that a newborn baby needs to be a fashion-plate, mind you,” she added, rather sternly. “I don’t see spending a fortune on baby clothes that an infant will outgrow in a matter of weeks. Why, the prices these days—”

  “Wilson Nollier told us to stay here to wait for a baby,” Connor cut into what promised to be a splendidly economic diatribe. “He didn’t say it would be today!”

  He still couldn’t believe it. From the facts he’d gathered on adoption, babies were elusive; couples waited years for an infant to come their way. Yet he and Courtney had just placed their order, so to speak, a few hours earlier, and now delivery was imminent? From the dumbfounded expression on Courtney’s face, it was obvious that she was feeling equally confused.

  “Babies have a way of coming when it suits them,” Mrs. Mason chuckled knowingly. “Now, you two run along and buy those supplies. I’ll have sheets on the bed and the crib by the time you get back.”

  Courtney stood rooted to the spot. “Is—is there a phone? I think we ought to call Mr. Nollier and talk to him about this.”

  “He’ll be here soon. He’s the one bringing the baby— who’ll need formula and diapers,” Mrs. Mason added with a note of exasperated impatience.

  Courtney ran her hand through her dark hair, tousling it. She felt as if she’d wandered into a play well into the third act and was somehow supposed to instantly pick up the threads of the plot. Her eyes met Connor’s. He looked exactly the way she felt.

  “What are you going to name her?” Mrs. Mason asked chattily. She linked one arm through Courtney’s and the other through Connor’s and briskly walked the stunned couple out of the room and back down the stairs.

  “Her?” Connor echoed. He sounded shockingly stupid, even to his own ears.

  “Your new little daughter. Oh, gracious, didn’t I mention that your baby was a girl?” Mrs. Mason chortled with self-mocking humor. “Well, she is. A darling little girl. Three days old and perfect in every way, according to Mr. Nollier. What a nice little family you’ll be.”

  Six

  "A nice little family!” Connor repeated for the third time as he and Courtney drove back through town toward the drugstore. “You, me and the baby.” He looked as dazed as he sounded.

  “What are we going to do?” cried Courtney. She was trying hard not to panic, but wasn’t having much success. “Connor, we didn’t get one incriminating bit of evidence on Nollier from the interview in his office this afternoon, except that statement about the social worker ‘fixing’ the home study, and he could easily claim it was an innocent remark, slang for simply getting the study done.”

  “I know, I know.” Connor strove to stay calm. It wasn’t easy. “We were supposed to be here awhile, keep our eyes and ears open, ask questions and tiy to gather some evidence. Instead, we’re here all of ten minutes and suddenly we’re on our way to buy diapers.”

  “The plan was to get Nollier on tape demanding a huge sum of money from us and then turning us down when we couldn’t come up with it. Instead we’re getting a baby!” Courtney’s voice rose. “Connor, we aren’t even married!” “Try not to get upset. If we lose our cool, we’re finished,” Connor said with more conviction than he felt. The truth was, his own cool had evaporated the moment jolly Mrs. Mason informed him that he and Courtney were about to become parents. “Let’s take a few minutes and try to think this through.”

  “All I can think is that I don’t know what kind of baby formula to buy,” moaned Courtney. “I know how to take care of a baby, but I don’t know a thing about formula and bottles. My older stepsister, Cathy, has three kids, and my two stepbrothers have two each, but all three mothers breast-fed their babies, so I never dealt with bottles and formula. Connor, what are we going to do?”

  “We’re going to do what we planned—only a lot sooner,” Connor said with sudden conviction. “When Nollier arrives with the baby, he’ll have to ask for the money, won’t he? When he tells us the sum, we’ll say we can’t afford it. We’ll keep him talking, get him to admit that he won’t give us the baby because we can’t meet his price. That’s definite baby-selling, Gypsy. Incriminating as hell.”

  He swung the car into the large parking lot of the drugstore.

  “If we don’t give Nollier the cash, he’ll take the baby away,” Courtney said gloomily. “We don’t actually have to buy anything here.”

  “But we can’t come back to the house empty-handed. Mrs. Mason will get suspicious. After all, we’re not supposed to know that we can’t finance this child. We’ll save the receipts and return all the stuff we buy here tomorrow.” They went to the baby department and, with the aid of a helpful clerk, bought several cans of a quality-brand formula, a selection of bottles, diapers, little white undershirts and several soft pastel stretch suits. On impulse, Courtney put a tiny smocked pink dress and pink knit booties into the cart.

  “I want her to keep the dress,” she said, staring at the delicate little garment with troubled dark eyes. “Nollier can give it to the person he sells her to.”

  The very thought made her blood run cold. It was one I thing to talk about selling babies in the abstract, but when it came to being given the opportunity to buy a child herself, the situation was almost beyond comprehension. Tears filled her eyes, and she frantically blinked them back as they stood in the checkout line.

  “Connor, suppose Wilson Nollier sells the baby to terrible people who’ll mistreat her and hurt her?” she whispered hoarsely. “It’ll be all our fault because we gave her back to Nollier instead of—”

  “Buying her ourselves?” Connor hissed in a whisper.
“Adopting her? Courtney, that’s not an option, for God sake! As you pointed out in the car, we’re not married. We can’t keep the baby! ”

  “Then let’s pay his price and give her to Mark and Marianne,” cried Courtney. “Oh, please, Connor! We—” “Get a grip, Courtney. If we bought the baby, we’d be perpetrating the very crime we’re supposed to be investigating.” He pulled a handkerchief from the pocket of his slacks and wiped his perspiring brow. “What a partner you turned j out to be! You fall apart in the first moments of our first case!”

  She bit her lip. “I’m sorry,” she murmured. “You’re right.”

  She sounded so woebegone that Connor’s usually hardened heart went out to her. He placed his hand over hers as she pushed the cart forward. “Keeping Nollier from placing babies in the hands of the highest cash bidders is why i we’re doing this, Courtney. And don’t worry, we’ll see to it that the baby girl isn’t placed with terrible people.”

  “Don’t try to placate me,” she snapped in a low voice, jerking her hand out from under his. “You know as well as I I do that we’ll never know what happens to that child once

  Nollier takes her away. There is no way we can possibly prevent him from selling the baby to whomever he wants.” “You don’t have to bite my head off!” Connor was miffed. The one time he’d impulsively tried to be soothing instead of sarcastic and she’d flung the words back at him. “I was only trying to—”

  “Trivialize the fate of that baby! Detach yourself from it and her and trying to get me to do the same. Well, I won’t, Connor McKay. Unlike you, I’m not afraid to make commitments and keep them. And we—”

  “We’re next,” he interrupted coldly, feeling undeservedly misunderstood. “Start unloading the cart.”

  They weren’t speaking as they cleared the checkout line and carried their purchases back to the car. Nor did they exchange a single word until they were back in their room at Mrs. Mason’s house, surrounded by their luggage and packages.