Murder by Design Trilogy

by Mary Jane Forbes

  Seeing him she smiled but her eyes avoided his. He wondered if she was ever going to look at him again the way she had before she left for Paris. He knew she cared for him but how much? That was the question. He sure as heck loved her but stupidly hadn’t said so. And now look. She was pregnant with another man’s child. He didn’t buy her story but … maybe in time. This morning he had to be content that she had called him for his help, whatever that may be. At least his bad behavior when he last saw her—accused her, for God’s sake, of being pregnant hadn’t stopped her from calling him. She needed him. Maybe he could build on that little crumb.

  Clouds had rolled in and rain was beginning to puddle on the sidewalks. “Do you want me to get the car … or run to the café down the street? Where do you want to talk?” Skip asked.

  “How about that bench over there? Most of the foot passengers are heading to the pier for the return ferry.”

  He followed her to the bench. She set her large tote beside her and turned to him. Looking square into his eyes, she said, “I’m in trouble.”

  “The baby? Is something wrong with the baby?” Without realizing it he had reached for her hand.

  “The baby’s fine.”

  “You?”

  “Fine.” Hesitating, she inhaled and plunged on. “I didn’t tell you the truth about the baby’s father. He’s not dead. He’s very much alive. Running for the Senate in France and he’s also married.” She looked down at Skip’s hand. So strong. She didn’t realize she was gripping his hand in return—her lifeline to … to what? She wondered if he would pull away but he hadn’t so far.

  “I met him shortly after I arrived in Paris. We started dating immediately. One thing led to another. I guess it was the classic tale of a stupid girl swept off her feet by a wealthy man. Skip, I thought he loved me. I thought I loved him. But I know now what I felt had nothing to do with love. I didn’t really know him … oh, I thought I did. But I was so naive. I never checked him out, never questioned his advances.”

  “How old is he?”

  “Mid-thirties, at least that’s what he said.”

  “He took advantage of you, Gilly. My God, you didn’t have a chance.” Skip looked down, her hand was so small in his. He strengthened his grip. “What did he say about the baby.”

  “He doesn’t know. I was going to tell him at our Friday-night dinner—

  “Friday night dinner?”

  Gilly couldn’t look into his eyes. She turned away. “Yes. Every Friday night. His wife … must have had a standing engagement so he had no problem seeing me.”

  Skip touched her chin, turned her face back to him. “The baby?”

  “Before I could say anything he told me he had reconciled with his wife. She was going to stand by him because he was going to run for office in the French government. He was sorry. Hoped I would understand. I knew instantly how naive I’d been … too late. I got up, said goodbye, and left him standing in the restaurant.”

  Skip shook his head. Closed his eyes lifting her hand to his lips. Setting her hand back in her lap, he looked up. “That’s when you concocted the story about the father being dead?”

  “Yes. When I got back to my apartment my roommates were waiting. They helped me put together the story. Three weeks later I returned to Seattle.”

  “Did you see him again … after … after that night?”

  “No.”

  “Gilly, thank you for telling me the truth. I take it you’re not going to have an abortion. It’s going to be hard … a single— The word caught in his throat.

  “Oh, Skip, my baby … the trouble I’m in isn’t—

  Pulling her hand from his she opened her tote retrieving the plastic bag with the box, the wrapping paper, and the letter. “Two days ago I came home from a day in Seattle to find this on the kitchen table. Gramps said he found it in the mailbox a few hours earlier.” Gilly’s hand shook so hard she dropped the bag in Skip’s lap.

  He took the box out of the bag and opened it, recognizing the heart pierced with the spike, the identical heart and spike that the waiter had given Gilly from an unknown man that night when the family was having dinner at the Space Needle. A celebratory dinner for her winning the state-wide design competition.

  Wincing, he shot her a glance, noticed the wrapping had a Paris postmark, and opened the letter. He looked at her for permission to read it. She nodded.

  His face changed as he read. It had been soft and warm at seeing her. Now his expression was much like her father’s when he read the letter—brow furrowed, cheeks and lips drawn tight. He refolded the paper and returned everything to the plastic bag. Reaching for his cell, he fingered through its directory and punched an entry.

  “DuBois, please.” Waiting for the call to go through he again picked up Gilly’s hand. “Hi, Mirage. Skip here. You remember Gillianne Wilder? Clay Wilder’s granddaughter? Yes sir, that’s right, the two who found the key to the gold, so to speak. Ms. Wilder is here with me and she needs to see you. She’s received a blackmail letter and I think you’d better take a look at it. She could be in danger.”

  Chapter 33

  ───

  Paris

  COUNT BEAUMONT PACED OVER the sumptuous Persian carpet in his library—right fist pounding his left palm. How could Maxime have done such a thing? And with an American tart. The Count had groomed his son for government office, the ruling class. And now this potential scandal could blast all his efforts to smithereens. Maxime was supposedly sterile. He and Bernadette never conceived a child. This harlot from the States must be lying. It couldn’t have been Maxime—impossible he was the father of this woman’s baby.

  Maxime sat watching his father pace the room. He was understandably upset. He only hoped his father wouldn’t banish him from the family. He rather liked his lifestyle. He had done everything his father asked of him, his mother had asked of him. They owed him.

  “Maxime, I don’t know how this Edward Churchill came to the conclusion that you fathered this child. For God’s sake, you and Bernadette, ten years, nothing. This couldn’t have come at a worse time. Even a hint of scandal with the election only a few months away could cause you to lose. Bernadette will certainly back out of the reconciliation.”

  Count Beaumont whirled, his eyes shooting daggers at his son. “Maxime, is this bastard child that Churchill is threatening to expose, is it possible you are the father?”

  Maxime could tell lies without batting an eye but not to his father. Never. The man always saw through him, even when he was a little boy and snatched a cookie. He’d never been able to deceive the elder Beaumont. For the most part, once Maxime had become a man, his father had looked the other way never questioning his dalliances. After all his parents had practically arranged his marriage and once Bernadette got what she wanted—access to the Beaumont fortune, she had turned cold, shrill, banishing her husband from their bedroom. It was no wonder he found relief in the arms of others. It had always been thought it was Maxime who couldn’t father a child. None of his other conquests had become pregnant.

  “Maybe this woman set you up. Maybe Edward Churchill is the father and the two of them are conspiring to bring you down if you don’t pay them.”

  Maxime said nothing. It was always better to let his father rant. He was coming up with some interesting conclusions, but deep down Maxime knew it was very possible Gillianne Wilder’s baby was his.

  His father stopped in his tracks, turned and strode to his son. “We have to verify this information. First, you go see the doctor. Go to two doctors—compare their conclusions. If there is one drop of semen with adequate sperm to father a child if the woman is capable, I want to know about it. And, what are the odds? You tell this Churchill that his blackmail will not work—you are not the father. A loose woman could have dozens of men, anyone could be the father. Maybe he made the whole thing up. Thought the Beaumont’s were an easy mark. Maybe he’s bluffing. String him along.”

  The Count stomped to the sideboard, pou
red himself a crystal balloon of Brandy. Tossed it down, poured another and whirled again on Maxime. “Did you by any chance use a different name when you had your little fling? At a hotel, or wherever you stayed?”

  “No—I didn’t think it necessary. She trusted me—it was only a few short days in Milan. I didn’t think she’d agree to stay with me if she thought there was a chance she’d—

  “Maxime, you didn’t think. Period!” he shouted. “Bernadette will be so upset, she might well sell the story to the tabloid herself if she learns of it—blackmail the two of us to keep it quiet. No wonder she never agreed to fertility tests—maybe she was the one incapable of having children.”

  He helped himself to another brandy. Turning his back to his son, he stared at his law books, came up with a plan. He’d hire a detective, a very discrete detective, to go to Seattle. Nose around. Find out if the woman is indeed pregnant. If true, he’d arrange for an accident. He would stop at nothing to eliminate a threat, anyone who might get in the way of his son’s election.

  Bernadette had escaped the dull conversation with her mother-in-law and had marched down the hall to find her husband. Hearing Count Beaumont shouting at Maxime, she pulled her hand back from the doorknob, listened. What had stirred up the old buzzard? Maxime fathered a baby? She had wanted a baby to secure her right to his money for as long as she lived. Her frozen heart turned to stone. Her disdain for her husband turned to hatred.

  The shouting stopped.

  Bernadette held her head up high. She would play the role of the reconciled, loving wife, until she found out if the words she had just heard were to be believed. If her husband had fathered a child, the possibilities of what she could do with the information were infinite.

  Bernadette called to her husband as she opened the door to Count Beaumont’s library. “Maxime. Maxime darling, your press secretary called. Something about a dinner tonight. A fundraiser. We must go home and change,” she said with a smile. “She said the October air is a bit chilly. I believe it calls for my long mink. Don’t you?”

  Chapter 34

  ───

  Seattle

  AN EMOTIONAL ROLLER COASTER!

  That’s what Gilly climbed aboard every morning. Was she going to ride up, down, or slide sideways around a corner?

  The meeting with Detective DuBois had been unsettling. He took the bag of evidence but so many fingers had handled the box, the brown wrapper, and the note that he doubted it would yield any clues as to the location of Edward Churchill, or as Gilly called him, Spiky. Given the postmark, he sent Churchill’s picture and background to his counterpart in Paris—Detective Boisot. DuBois promised Gilly he’d alert detectives at the NYPD as well as issue an APB to his officers in case the guy returned to Seattle.

  DuBois told her to keep her eyes peeled when she was out and to let him know if Churchill contacted her again. Other than that, it was a wait-and-see game. A game she did not want to play.

  Skip had dropped her off at the realtor for her appointment to check out the apartment. Seeing Skip, confessing she had lied, and then telling him the true story, going with her to see DuBois, being protective—well, that sent her emotions up and down. When he asked if they could meet for dinner before she took the ferry back to Hansville she had declined.

  He looked hurt. She was afraid of her emotions and pulled away from him again. The last thing she wanted to deal with was a relationship. Much better to keep her mind on her business and the responsibility she was carrying.

  The apartment was perfect.

  The coaster roared up.

  She signed a short-term lease, put down the deposit, and made arrangements for Maria to pick up the key on November first.

  The coaster soared to new heights when she called Nicole about some fabric. The conversation ended an hour later with a joyous, excited Nicole saying she’d be her second employee and to expect her within two weeks after Gilly and Maria moved into the apartment, a.k.a. her design studio.

  ───

  TO SAY THE PREVIOUS two weeks were hectic was an understatement. Suddenly it was November second.

  Hallelujah, moving day!

  Gilly, her mom and dad and Gramps, along with Maria and Hawk, had packed up the guesthouse studio the day before, plus all of Gilly’s clothes that fit, and the maternity outfits her mom insisted on buying for her, as well as the items crammed into the bathroom cupboards and medicine cabinet.

  They pulled out of Gramps driveway at sunrise, forming a convoy from Hansville to the Bainbridge ferry. After relaxing an hour on the ferry they once again formed the convoy snaking through the side streets of Seattle to Gilly’s apartment.

  The good news: it was only two miles from The Working Girl shop in the heart of Seattle’s retail district. The bad news: the apartment was on the second floor.

  Gilly stood her post in the apartment at her mother’s insistence directing where everything was to go like a drill sergeant. Decorating didn’t make the to-do list: all white walls, all beige carpeting except for the kitchen and bathroom covered in beige linoleum. Beige draw drapes came with the unit.

  Learning how to cope with the cramped quarters in the Paris apartment she had shared with Nicole and Sheridan, she assigned one of the two very small bedrooms: one for sleeping, the other for clothes and the essential paraphernalia each girl couldn’t live without.

  The dining room and living room, designated as the studio, were quickly filled with bolts of fabric, a cutting table, and an additional folding table on which Maria’s, Gilly’s and her mom’s sewing machines were set side-by-side. Her mom’s for Nicole to use in case of an emergency sewing marathon.

  Coco was the last to take up residence. Springing from her carrier she darted under a futon that Maria’s mom and stepfather dropped off. They also contributed a slightly scratched small square table with three straight chairs, green, and a second dresser. Maria whispered to Gilly that she thought her stepfather was happy to have her out of the house, and permanently after she married Hawk.

  Anne had packed a set of dishes, and Gramps surprised her with a microwave and a few pans. A set of utensils was put on a list along with kitchen gadgets. A can opener was essential.

  The bunk beds were resurrected from Gramp’s garage and he and Will reassembled them in the sleeping bedroom—Gilly now on the bottom bunk and Maria on top. Anne made up the beds with the sheets, blankets, and pillows the girls had used on the bunks in Hansville.

  While Maria and, Hawk, Will and Gramps completed the unpacking, Anne and her daughter walked the two blocks to Gilly’s new doctor. They expected to learn the sex of the baby she was carrying. Gilly checked in with the office attendant standing behind a sliding glass window. She handed Gilly a clipboard with several forms to be filled out before going in for her examination. Without hesitating, she answered the first question.

  Father: deceased.

  Removing her health insurance card from her wallet, she filled in the policy number. Thank goodness her mom and dad had insisted on taking out a policy when she began commuting to Seattle, the Design Academy, over a year ago. Checking off the remaining boxes making up her health history, Gilly handed the form back to the woman behind the glass and was soon called in to see the doctor—Dr. Sylvia Kirkpatrick.

  The appointment proved to be routine, the doctor going over what Gilly could expect as the pregnancy moved into the final trimester.

  “I’ll see you next month, Gilly. Betsy, our technician, will be right in for your ultrasound.”

  “Thank you, Doctor.”

  The door to the examining room opened and the ultrasound technician came in. She was dressed in a brilliant white topcoat, a contrast to the short black curls swirling around her head. She carried a chart and her mouth was bowed into a pleasant smile.

  “Hi, Mrs. Wilder. My name is Betsy. How are you feeling today?” she asked, as she pulled the equipment with the monitor a little closer to the examining table.

  “Fine, thank you. This is
my mom, Anne Wilder.”

  “Hello, Anne. How nice you’re here to share this moment with your daughter. There is a chance we won’t be able to tell for certain if it’s a boy or a girl. A lot depends on the position of the baby. A little guy may not be ready to show himself,” Betsy said with a chuckle.

  She draped a sheet up under Gilly’s chin then opened the gown leaving only her stomach exposed. “I’m going to spread a conducting gel on your belly. It will feel a little cold at first, but then warms to your body temperature quickly. When the gel is in place I’ll move a wand-like instrument across it. The wand emits high frequency sound waves which penetrate through the gel and your skin. As the sound waves penetrate various body parts, they are relayed to the ultrasound machine which constructs the images you will see.”

  “How long will this take, Betsy,” Gilly asked turning her head to the monitor, but at the moment the screen appeared snowy.

  “Oh, I imagine you will be up and dressed in less than an hour. Here we go.”

  The static-filled screen slowly began to show fuzzy areas in different shades of gray. Betsy very slowly moved the wand over Gilly’s belly from side to side, circling around.

  “Gilly, there’s your baby.”

  Gilly’s eyes were trained on the monitor, Betsy’s hand continued to slowly move the wand as the image developed.

  “Unless I’m mistaken, you are going to have a baby girl. What do you think of that?”

  Gilly turned her head from the monitor and looked up at her mom. Tears welled up and spilled over their lashes—tears trickling freely from the eyes of both smiling women.

  “Well, I guess from your reaction that you‘re happy. Your doctor has to confirm my findings, but I think she will agree. Would you like me to print a picture for you?”