“You’d only been here a few weeks when you typed it. You were just getting used to the filing system,” Milly reminded her. “Anyhow, what difference does it make? The police have the original and that’s what counts.”
“Maybe it makes a lot of difference,” Jackie said. “The truth is, I don’t remember typing that letter, but then it was seven years ago and I don’t remember half the letters that go out of here. And my initials are on it.”
“So?”
Jackie pulled out her desk drawer, removed her purse and plucked from it a folded newspaper clipping. “Ever since I saw the letter to the Manning Clinic about Petrovic reprinted in the paper, something’s been bothering me. Look at this.”
She handed the clipping to Milly. “See the way the first line of each paragraph is indented? That’s the way I type letters for Mr. Carter and Mr. Orsini. Mr. Collins always had his letters typed in block form, no indentation at all.”
“That’s right,” Milly agreed, “but that certainly looks like Mr. Collins’ signature.”
“The experts say it’s his signature, but I say it’s awfully funny a letter he signed went out typed like that.”
At three o’clock, Tom Weicker phoned. “Meg, I just wanted you to know that we’re going to run the story you did on the Franklin Clinic in Philadelphia, the one we were going to use with the identical twin special. We’ll schedule it on both news broadcasts tonight. It’s a good, succinct piece on in vitro fertilization and ties in with what’s happened at the Manning Clinic.”
“I’m glad you’re running it, Tom.”
“I wanted to be sure you saw it,” he said, his voice surprisingly kind.
“Thanks for letting me know,” Meg replied.
* * *
Mac phoned at five-thirty. “How about you and Catherine coming over here for dinner for a change? I’m sure you won’t want to go to the inn tonight.”
“No, we don’t,” Meg agreed. “And we could use the company. Is six-thirty all right? I want to watch the Channel 3 news. A feature I did is being run.”
“Come over now and watch it here. Kyle can show off that he’s learned to tape.”
“All right.”
It was a good story. A nice moment was the segment taped in Dr. Williams’ office, when he pointed to the walls filled with pictures of young children. “Can you imagine how much happiness these kids are bringing into people’s lives?”
Meg had instructed the cameraman to pan slowly over the photographs as Dr. Williams continued to speak. “These children were born only because of the methods of assisted reproduction available here.”
“Plug for the center,” Meg commented. “But it wasn’t too heavy.”
“It was a good feature, Meg,” Mac said.
“Yes, I think so. Suppose we skip the rest of the news. We all know what it’s going to be.”
Bernie stayed in the room all day. He told the maid that he wasn’t feeling well. He told her that he guessed all the nights he’d spent at the hospital when his mother was so sick were catching up with him.
Virginia Murphy called a few minutes later. “We usually only have continental breakfast room service, but we’ll be glad to send up a tray whenever you’re ready.”
They sent up lunch, then later Bernie ordered dinner. He had the pillows propped up so it looked like he’d been in bed resting. The minute the waiter left, Bernie was back at the window, sitting at an angle so nobody who happened to look up would notice him.
He watched as Meghan and her mother left the house a little before six. It was dark, but the porch light was on. He debated following them, then decided that as long as the mother was along, he would be wasting his time. He was glad he hadn’t bothered when the car went right instead of left. He figured they must be going to the house where that kid lived. That was the only one in the cul-de-sac.
The squad cars came regularly through the day, but not every twenty minutes anymore. During the evening, he noticed flashlights in the woods only once. The cops were easing up. That was good.
Meghan and her mother got back home around ten. An hour later, Meghan undressed and got into bed. She sat up for about twenty minutes, writing something in a notebook.
Long after she turned off the light, Bernie stayed at the window thinking about her, imagining being in the room with her.
53
Donald Anderson had taken two weeks off from work to help with the new baby. Neither he nor Dina wanted outside assistance. “You relax,” he told his wife. “Jonathan and I are in charge.”
The doctor had signed the release the night before. He wholeheartedly agreed that it was better if they could avoid the media. “Ten to one some of the photographers will be in the lobby between nine and eleven,” he’d predicted. That was the time new mothers and babies usually were discharged.
The phone had been ringing all week with requests for interviews. Don screened them with the answering machine and did not return any of them. On Thursday their lawyer phoned. There was definite proof of malfeasance at the Manning Clinic. He warned them that they’d be urged to join the class action suit that was being proposed.
“Absolutely not,” Anderson said. “You can tell that to anyone who calls you.”
Dina was propped up on the couch, reading to Jonathan. Stories about Big Bird were his new favorites. She glanced up at her husband. “Why not just turn off that phone?” she suggested. “Bad enough I wouldn’t even look at Nicky for hours after he was born. All he’d need to know when he grows up is that I sued someone because he’s here instead of another baby.”
They’d named him Nicholas after Dina’s grandfather, the one her mother swore he resembled. From the nearby bassinet, they heard a stirring, a faint cry, then a wholehearted wail as their infant woke up.
“He heard us talking about him,” Jonathan said.
“Maybe he did, love,” Dina agreed as she kissed the top of Jonathan’s silky blond head.
“He’s just plain hungry again,” Don announced. He bent down, picked up the squirming bundle and handed it to Dina.
“Are you sure he’s not my twin?” Jonathan asked.
“Yes, I’m sure,” Dina said. “But he’s your brother, and that’s every bit as good.”
She put the baby to her breast. “You have my olive skin,” she said as she gently stroked his cheek to start him nursing. My little paisano.”
She smiled at her husband. “You know something, Don. It’s really only fair that one of our kids looks like me.”
Meghan’s early start on Friday morning meant that she was able to be in the rectory of St. Dominic’s church on the outskirts of Trenton at ten-thirty.
She had called the young pastor immediately after dinner the night before and set up the appointment.
The rectory was a narrow, three-story frame house typical of the Victorian era, with a wraparound porch and gingerbread trim. The sitting room was shabby but comfortable with heavy, overstuffed chairs, a carved library table, old-fashioned standing lamps and a faded Oriental carpet. The fireplace glowed with burning logs and breaking embers, dispelling the chill of the minuscule foyer.
Fr. Radzin had opened the door for her, apologized that he was on the phone, ushered her into this room and vanished up the stairs. As Meghan waited, she mused that this was the kind of room where troubled people could unburden themselves without fear of condemnation or reproach.
She wasn’t sure exactly what she would ask the priest. She did know from the brief eulogy he’d delivered at the memorial mass that he’d known and liked Helene Petrovic.
She heard his footsteps on the stairs. Then he was in the room, apologizing again for keeping her waiting. He chose a chair opposite hers and asked, “How can I help you, Meghan?”
Not “What can I do for you?” but “How can I help you?” A subtle difference that was oddly consoling. “I have to find out who Helene Petrovic really was. You’re aware of the situation at the Manning Clinic?”
“Yes, of course
. I’ve been following the story. I also saw in this morning’s paper a picture of you and that poor girl who was stabbed. The resemblance is quite remarkable.”
“I haven’t seen the paper, but I know what you mean. Actually, that’s what started all this.” Meghan leaned forward, locking her fingers, pressing her palms together. “The assistant state attorney investigating Helene Petrovic’s murder believes that my father is responsible for Helene being hired at Manning and for her death too. I don’t. Too many things don’t make sense. Why would he want to see the clinic hire someone who wasn’t qualified for the job? What did he have to gain by placing Helene in the lab in the first place?”
“There’s always a reason, Meghan, sometimes several, for every action any human being makes.”
“That’s what I mean. I can’t find one, never mind several. It just makes no sense. Why would my father have even become involved with Helene if he knew she was a fraud? I know he was conscientious about his job. He took pride in matching the right people to his clients. We used to talk about it often.
“It’s reprehensible to put an unqualified person in a sensitive medical situation. The more they investigate the lab at the Manning Clinic, the more errors they’re finding. I can’t understand why my father would deliberately cause all that. And what about Helene? Didn’t she have any conscience in the matter? Didn’t she worry about preembryos being damaged or destroyed because of her sloppiness, carelessness or ignorance? At least some stored embryos were intended to be transferred in the hope that they’d be born.”
“Transferred and born,” Fr. Radzin repeated. “An interesting ethical question. Helene was not a regular churchgoer, but when she did come to mass, it was always the last one on Sunday and she would stay for coffee hour. I had the feeling there was something on her mind that she couldn’t bring herself to talk about. But I must tell you that if I were applying adjectives to her, the last three that would come to mind are ‘sloppy, careless and ignorant.’ ”
“What about her friends? Who was she close to?”
“No one I know of. Some of her acquaintances have been in touch with me this week. They’ve commented on how little they really knew Helene.”
“I’m afraid something may have happened to her niece, Stephanie. Did you ever meet the young man who is her baby’s father?”
“No. And neither did anyone else from what I understand.”
“What did you think of Stephanie?”
“She’s nothing like Helene. Of course she’s very young and in this country less than a year. Now she’s alone. It may just be that the baby’s father showed up again and she decided to take a chance on him.”
He wrinkled his forehead. Mac does that, Meghan thought. Fr. Radzin looked to be in his late thirties, a little older than Mac. Why was she comparing them? It was because there was something so wholesome and good about them, she decided.
She stood up. “I’ve taken enough of your time, Fr. Radzin.”
“Stay another minute or two, Meghan. Sit down, please. You’ve raised the question of your father’s motivation in placing Helene at the clinic. If you can’t get information about Helene, my advice is to keep searching until you find the reason for his participation in the situation. Do you think he was romantically involved with her?”
“I very much doubt it.” She shrugged. “He seems to have been sufficiently troubled trying to balance his time between my mother and Annie’s mother.”
“Money?”
“That doesn’t make sense either. The Manning Clinic paid the usual fee to Collins and Carter for the placement of Helene and Dr. Williams. My experience in studying law and human nature has taught me that love or money are the reasons most crimes are committed. Yet I can’t make either fit here.” She stood up. “Now I really must go. I’m meeting Helene’s lawyer at her Lawrenceville house.”
Charles Potters was waiting when Meghan arrived. She had met him briefly at Helene’s memorial service. Now as she had a chance to focus on him, she realized that he looked like the kind of family lawyer portrayed in old movies.
His dark blue suit was ultraconservative, his shirt crisp white, his narrow blue tie subdued, his skin tone pink, his sparse gray hair neatly combed. Rimless glasses enhanced surprisingly vivid hazel eyes.
Whatever items from the house Stephanie had taken with her, the appearance of this room, the first they entered, was unchanged. It looked exactly as Meghan had seen it less than a week ago. Powers of observation, she thought. Concentrate. Then she noticed that the lovely Dresden figures she’d admired were missing from the mantel.
“Your friend Dr. MacIntyre dissuaded me from immediately reporting Stephanie’s theft of Helene’s property, Miss Collins, but I’m afraid I cannot wait any longer. As trustee I’m responsible for all of Helene’s possessions.”
“I understand that. I simply wish that some effort could be made to find Stephanie and persuade her to return them. If a warrant is sworn out for her arrest, she might be deported.
“Mr. Potters,” she continued, “my concern is much more serious than worrying about the things Stephanie took with her. Do you have the note she left?”
“Yes. Here it is.”
Meghan read it through.
“Did you ever meet this Jan?”
“No.”
“What did Helene think about her niece’s pregnancy?”
“Helene was a kind woman, reserved but kind. Her only comments to me about the pregnancy were quite sympathetic.”
“How long have you handled her affairs?”
“For about three years.”
“You believed she was a medical doctor?”
“I had no reason not to believe her.”
“Didn’t she build up a rather considerable estate? She had a very good salary at Manning of course. She was paid there as an embryologist. But she certainly couldn’t have made very much money as a medical secretary for the three years before that.”
“I understood she’d been a cosmetologist. Cosmetology can be lucrative, and Helene was a shrewd investor. Miss Collins, I don’t have much time. I believe you said you would like to walk through the house with me? I want to be sure it’s properly secured before I leave.”
“Yes, I would.”
Meghan went upstairs with him. Here too nothing seemed to be out of order. Stephanie’s packing had clearly not been rushed.
The master bedroom was luxurious. Helene Petrovic had not denied herself creature comforts. The coordinated wall hanging, spread and draperies looked very expensive.
French doors opened into a small sitting room. One wall was covered with pictures of children. “These are duplicates of the ones at the Manning Clinic,” she said.
“Helene showed them to me,” Potters told her. “She was very proud of the successful births achieved through the clinic.”
Meg studied the pictures. “I saw some of these kids at the reunion less than two weeks ago.” She picked out Jonathan. “This is the Anderson child whose family you’ve been reading about. That’s the case that started the state investigation of the lab at Manning.” She paused, studying the photograph on the top corner. It was of two children, a boy and girl, in matching sweaters with their arms around each other. What was it about them that she should be noticing?
“I really have to lock up now, Miss Collins.”
There was an edge in the attorney’s voice. She couldn’t delay him any longer. Meg took another long look at the picture of the children in matching sweaters, committing it to memory.
Bernie’s mother was not feeling well. It was her allergies. She’d been sneezing a lot, and her eyes were itchy. She thought she felt a draft in the house too. She wondered if Bernard had forgotten and left a window open downstairs.
She knew she shouldn’t have let Bernard drive that car to Chicago, even for two hundred dollars a day. Sometimes when he was off by himself too long, he got fanciful. He started to daydream and to want things that could get him in trouble.
&nb
sp; Then his temper started. That’s when she needed to be there; she could control an outburst when she saw it coming. She kept him on the straight and narrow. Kept him nice and clean, well fed, saw that he got to his job and then stayed in with her watching television at night.
He’d been doing well for such a long time now. But he’d been acting kind of funny lately.
He was supposed to call. Why didn’t he? When he got to Chicago he wouldn’t start following a girl and try to touch her, would he? Not that he’d mean to harm her, but there’d been too many times when Bernard got nervous if a girl screamed. A couple of girls he’d hurt real bad.
They said that if it happened again, they wouldn’t let him come home. They’d keep him locked up. He knew it too.
The only thing I have really established in all these hours is the number of times my husband was cheating on me, Catherine thought as she pushed the files away late Friday afternoon. She no longer had any desire to go through them. What good would knowing all this serve her now? It hurts so much, she thought.
She stood up. Outside it was a blustery November afternoon. In three weeks it would be Thanksgiving. That was always a busy time at the inn.
Virginia had phoned. The real estate company was being persistent. Was the inn for sale? They must be serious, she reported. They’d even named the price at which they’d start negotiating. They had another place in mind if Drumdoe wasn’t available, or so they said. But it might be true.
Catherine wondered how long she and Meg could twist in the wind like this.
Meg. Would she close in on herself because of her father’s betrayal as she had when Mac married Ginger? Catherine had never let on that she knew how heartbroken Meg had been over Mac. Edwin was always the one their daughter had turned to for comfort. Natural enough. Daddy’s girl. It ran in the family. I was Daddy’s girl too, Catherine thought.