Millionaire M.D. (10 page)

“I agree,” Ben said. “I doubt any of us would want to withhold information. That is not the issue. But if we get embassies involved here, we have a new nightmare. And unless we guard some information on our past Texas Cattleman's Club history, we jeopardize all our goals and all we've tried to do. I think we need a cop to know the whole story. But it has to be someone we can trust. Any too-fast decisions could make the situation even worse.”

Immediately Winona's face sprang into Justin's mind. “Well…the first thing we have to do is take care of Riley. But on the subject of someone we could trust in the police department, I have a suggestion—”

Just then, though, his hospital beeper went off. Justin mentally swore. He couldn't be in three places at once, yet it was one of those nights when he
had
to be.

 

Winona had the telephone plugged to her ear when Wayne's beefy face showed up in her office doorway. Her boss cocked a leg forward while she finished the call. With one hand, he scratched his chin as he surveyed the wreckage.

Back when, Royal had had no juvenile department—which had meant there'd been no office for Winona when she'd been hired, until she converted a supply closet. At the best of times, there was turnaround room for a small man. Right now, apart from files stacked chin-high and a desk whose surface hadn't seen light since the millennium, the room was draped ceiling-to-floor with baby paraphernalia—and Angel herself took up no small space between blankets and rattles and bottles. She blew an excited bubble just for Wayne, though.

Wayne sighed, heavily, from the doorway. “First time I've been able to catch up with you all morning. You heard? About Riley Monroe being murdered?”

“I sure did.”

“I don't like trouble in my town, and this whole week, there's been nothing but.” Wayne scratched his jowly chin. Again. “How long you keeping that baby in the office, Raye?”

Wayne was one of those dogs where his bark was bad, but his bite was far worse. “The baby hasn't stopped me from pulling a full load,” she said defensively.

“I didn't say it had. But it will. I got two of those at home. I know how full-time they are. Now, where you think you're going with this, Winona?”

“You know where I'm going with this. I'm searching for the mother.”

“That's not what I'm asking and you know it. You're already so attached to that kid it shows in your face. She's not yours. And you're skating a line—you know you are—on not releasing the baby to Social Services.”

“They haven't pressed.”

Occasionally, Wayne could be annoyingly logical. “Because this is Royal. And because it's you and everyone knows and loves you.” Wayne grunted. “That doesn't mean that this is by the book, though, and you know how I feel on that. If a cop doesn't behave by the straight and narrow, how can we enforce a law for anyone else?”

“I'm not breaking any law.”

“I know that. I didn't say you were. Quit ducking the issue.”

She nodded. “I'm sorry.” She
was
sorry. As difficult as her boss could be sometimes, Wayne had always been on her side, and she could see he wasn't enjoying this discussion any more than she was. “Okay. As far as where I'm going with this—I'm expecting to find the parents. And I'm not even close to being done with the parent search. But if that turns up bad news, I'd like to adopt Angel. Or if not adopt, foster.”

“All right. At least that's a straight answer.” Wayne washed a hand over his tired face. “You need something
filled out about what kind of character you got, what kind of foster parent you'd make, that kind of thing, you come to me, Raye,” he said gruffly.

She couldn't kiss the boss. It would be completely inappropriate, and he'd hate it besides. “Thank you,” she said sincerely.

“Yeah, well. That's not the only reason I stopped by. Did you happen to know Riley Monroe?”

“I knew he was the night watchman at the Texas Cattleman's Club. And he bartended for them at a lot of parties. He always seemed like a nice man. I can't imagine him involved with any trouble. But I didn't know him personally.”

Wayne nodded. “Well, your impression's like everyone's. He's the last person anyone'd think would get murdered. The thing is, there's no keeping the death out of the papers. Folks'll want to show up to show respect and all, especially because Riley had no family. But I want all details kept out of the media until the investigation's over. I want a lid kept on this. Tight. And I know nothing in homicide's directly your problem, but I still want everyone in the station on the same page. If the press hound you, don't say anything.”

“No problem.” Someone screeched that there was a phone call for Wayne, and he hiked back to his office, four-letter words spilling from his mouth like drool. It was one of those mornings when no one could catch their breath. She was just reaching for the phone herself when it rang, and she grabbed it.

“Winona?”

“Yes?” She was positive that she recognized the feminine voice—only not exactly.

“I'm at your house, dear—”

“I beg your pardon?”

“And I just wanted to know if there was anything that you're allergic to.”

“Well, no, but—”

“Fine. I just didn't want to risk cooking something that
didn't suit you. And Justin didn't feel that you'd want me baby-sitting until the two of us had a chance to sit down and talk, but it's not like we're total strangers. So I did want to say right up front, I'm available. And I adore children. And I'll be here, helping in your house, anyway, so there's no problem if the baby were here, too. And that's all, dear. I realize that you're at work and probably aren't supposed to be getting personal calls. No problem.”

The woman abruptly hung up. Winona stared at the buzzing phone for several moments, feeling completely befuddled. Yes, the woman's voice was familiar, but she couldn't place it. And the whole conversation, covering cooking and allergies and baby-sitting—made no sense to Winona whatsoever. She might have been alarmed, particularly at the idea of a stranger being in her house—if someone's telltale name hadn't come up.

Justin.

A series of bubbles were cooing from the baby carrier on her desktop. “Angel,” Winona said, “I think we'd better go home for lunch today. Is that okay by you?”

Angel kicked her feet, clearly thrilled at the thought.

 

At ten minutes after twelve, Winona took one last bite from a fast-food hamburger as she pulled into her driveway. An unfamiliar car was already parked there—an Olds. Gray. And the model was older, but the car was still kept up to within an inch of its life, with paint gleaming and white-walled tires cleaner than brand-new.

Feeling even more bewildered, Winona grabbed Angel from her car seat and whisked the diaper bag to her shoulder. The baby wasn't fussing, but she was going to any second. Angel was such an ultrasmart baby that she could already tell time. At 12:12 p.m. she was going to want a bottle. Not 12:14 p.m. Not 12:13 p.m. But at precisely 12:12 p.m., and as long as she got exactly what she wanted, Angel was possibly the most miraculous, perfect, congenial baby ever to
have been born. And Winona would have loved her no matter what, but right then it seemed a good idea to run for the door.

As swiftly as she juggled the baby and her purse and the diaper bag and the back-door key, however, she abruptly discovered that the door was already unlatched. Her door. Unlocked.

One peek inside almost gave her a new reason for a heart attack.

There were no dirty dishes piled in the sink. The kitchen tile was scrubbed within an inch of its life. A sponge cake was cooling on the counter, and something savory was brewing on the stove. Winona didn't bake. And she sure as hell didn't make—or know how to make—French stews.

She tiptoed in a few more steps. Both the washing machine and dryer were churning in the utility room. More shocking yet, there were folded clothes on top of the dryer. Folded. Not heaped or hurled willy-nilly.

This was all pretty terrifying. Still, she unwrapped Angel from her jacket, then pushed off her own, and carried the baby through the rest of the house. Clearly there was an intruder. Clearly no good mother would risk her child when there was obviously a stranger in the house, but there was building evidence to Winona that this particular intruder was mentally ill. Not in a dangerous way. Just in a distinctive way.

There wasn't a single towel on the floor in the bathroom. Not one. There were no stockings, no slips, no jeans piled on the floor in her bedroom. The bed was made.
Made.
With clean sheets. Like real people lived.

Holding the baby protectively close, she tiptoed toward the living room—where she already knew the intruder was, from the violent roaring sound. Sure enough, there was a woman's rump, bent over her couch, pushing the vacuum cleaner beneath it.

As if finally sensing there was someone else in the house,
the woman suddenly jumped, whirled, slapped a hand on her chest and turned off the roaring vacuum at the same time.

“Don't be frightened,” Winona said warmly. “I can help you with this. I know there has to be a recovery program for cleaners. There is for every other problem. If nothing else, I can be your support group. Trust me, I can teach you to live with dirt. I know. I do it every day—”

The woman dropped the hand from her chest and let out a guffaw…followed by a second guffaw and then a full belly laugh. “Justin always said you were full of the devil. You do remember me, don't you? Myrt?”

“Of course I do.” Even if all the clues hadn't come together, Winona would have recognized Justin's housekeeper when she finally got a good look.

It wasn't as if they really knew each other, but Myrt wasn't the kind of person anyone forgot. The jeans and T-shirt fit the figure of a thirty-year-old, but the worn, leathered face looked more like sixty, creased with both life and laugh lines. Huge silver earrings dangled from her ears when she leaned forward to catch a glimpse of Angel.

“So that's our baby, huh? Just for the record—I had four of my own. And seven grandkids now. But I hardly get to see the children. Everybody moved so far away with their jobs and all. I get so hungry to hold a baby.”

Winona was slowly picking up the picture of what was going on here—but she wasn't completely sure. “Our baby,” she echoed.

“Uh-huh.” Warm brown eyes met hers. Winona was smart, but she had a bad feeling that Myrt was smarter. “Justin said you had your hands way too full, trying to work full-time and take care of the baby, too. Said you were getting worn out. His house is big, but it's nothing to clean, pretty much because he's never there. Truthfully, he has so much room that it would be much easier to set up you and the baby at his place—”

“Whoa.” Winona could feel her knees giving way.

“—but it doesn't matter to me. He's paying me a ton—which, of course, is only half of what I deserve—because I'm the best grandma you'll ever hire. I bake like a dream. Never lose patience with a child. And I love to clean—”

“You're frightening me,” Winona said baldly.

“Now, now. Pretty darn silly for you to look a gift horse in the mouth, isn't it? You need the help. I'm here. And Justin's paying my salary, so it's not like you have to worry about it. I can sleep over any time you want—”

“Whoa. Double whoa.”

“Truthfully, I wish my nights weren't so free, but since Ted died…well, there's still heat in this old furnace, but I just can't seem to look at another man. I've tried. The point being, though, that I can stay all night with our Angel if you need me to. It's no problem at all. Truthfully, it's better for the baby to be in her own environment than taken out to a baby-sitter's. Now, let's get down to the important stuff. How often does she want a bottle? When's her bath time? Her fussy time?” Myrt waggled her fingers, signaling that she wanted Winona to fork over the baby.

Winona carefully handed her Angel, then stood as rigid as a school principal, watching every movement the other woman made. She didn't hold Angel the way Winona did. Didn't pat her exactly the same way, either. Nothing was remotely perfect. But the woman was clearly enamored big-time the instant she touched the baby, and Angel was cooing right back.

“Myrt?”

“Hmm?” The woman had dropped the vacuum cleaner and sat down with the little one. Clearly work and cleaning were forgotten. Winona's respect for her upped ninety notches.

“She gets cranky around dinner. Actually, it's no set time. Just whenever I'm trying to eat. And other than that, she almost never cries unless she's got a good reason. On food,
though, she wants a bottle every four and a half hours, and I do mean pronto—and she's a minute overdue right now.”

“Well, then, I'll get it. We're going to have a great time together, aren't we, precious?” Myrt seemed to have lost all interest in paying attention to Winona.

“Well, I don't want to leave you, but as soon as she gets this bottle, she's likely to drop off for almost a two-hour nap. And I really need to have a talk with Justin. Would you mind if I took off for just a bit?”

“Well, of course not, dear. That's what I've been telling you. I'm here for you. And the baby.”

Winona grabbed her jacket and car keys and hightailed it outside. As soon as she climbed in her car, she cell-phoned her boss so Wayne would know she wouldn't be at her desk for a while.

Possibly “a while” was an understatement, she mused, as she shot out of the driveway. When she caught up with Justin…well, when she caught up with Justin, she wasn't quite sure
what
she was going to do to him.

But she was going to do it
good.