“Uh huh. Like usual.”
“Why don’t you leave that switchboard and become an officer, huh?”
“Because you need a mastermind sitting here in this office more than you need another uniform out there, driving around with nothing to do.”
“Something to do now,” he said, waggling the papers in the air.
“Delivering orders to get a blood test. There’s a thrilling day’s work. No thanks, I’ll stick with the phones.” She grimaced. “Besides, I look terrible-bad in brown.”
From the address, Clare had expected the Burnses’ office to be in one of the late-nineteenth century brick commercial buildings that gave upper Main Street the genteel air of another century. Instead, she found herself in a brand new post-and-beam construction that looked as if it had been lifted straight from the pages of
The reception area was an uneven pentagon, with narrow I-beams crisscrossing the ceiling and large, dramatically colored abstracts on the walls. No wonder Karen and Geoff had goggled at her office. It looked like a curiosity shop next to this place.
“Hello,” she said to the receptionist. “I’m the Reverend Clare Fergusson. The Burnses are expecting me.”
“Please take a seat, Reverend,” the young woman said. “Ms. Burns will be with you in a moment.” Clare sat in one of the plump chairs covered in what looked like hand-loomed upholstery and wondered when she’d stop getting the urge to whirl around looking for the real priest whenever she was called “Reverend.” When she was a kid, of course, it had always been “Father” Such-and-so, and that title still sounded more . . . authentic to her ear.
“Reverend Clare!” Karen strode across the reception floor, her hands outstretched. Clare rose. “I’m so glad you could come on such short notice. Come on into my office, please. Geoff is still stuck in court, I’m afraid.”
Karen Burns’s office was clean and spare, with more abstract artwork that blended perfectly with the Shaker- style furnishings. Clare sat in a severely cut chair across from the desk, surprised at how comfortable it was. The lawyer went to the window, then toward the door, then back to her desk.
“Can I get you some coffee? Tea? Water?” Karen was too elegant a woman to actually bustle, but she was close to it now.
“Karen,” Clare said. “Sit down. Tell me what’s happened.”
“Oh, God,” Karen exhaled, collapsing in her chair. “We got a call this morning from a man named Darrell McWhorter. He claims to be Cody’s grandfather, and said that he had already talked to DHS and was pressing for custody of the baby.”
Clare shook her head. “I’m sorry, I should have called you yesterday. Yes, he is Cody’s biological grandfather.” Should she say anything about Kristen’s accusations?
“Presuming that the murdered girl was Cody’s mother. That won’t be conclusive until the DNA results come in.” Karen’s shoulders sagged. “That’s the law, anyway. Cold comfort. We all know Katie McWhorter gave birth to Cody.”
“Why was Mr. McWhorter calling you, Karen?”
The lawyer sat bolt upright. “He wanted us to buy Cody, that’s why.”
“What!”
“Oh, he didn’t come right out and say it. He’s smart enough to know that baby selling is against the law. He could land himself in jail for the offense, and lose his chance at custody.”
“You didn’t . . . you didn’t agree, did you?”
“God, no. If it ever got out, it would render any adoption null and void. We’d face jail, the loss of our licenses . . . no.” She paused, took a deep breath. “But we did ask him to meet with us on neutral territory, as it were, and see if we could try to work out some sort of . . . accommodation.”
Clare frowned. “What sort of accommodation, Karen?”
Karen leaned forward, forearms against her desk. “We need your help. He’s agreed to accept you as a mediator if we can get you.”
“Get me? Mediating what?”
“We can’t pay the man off, not directly. But we can reimburse him for expenses, offer to pay for, say, improvements to his house in order to make it a better place for Cody to visit, things of that nature. And I thought, what if Geoff and I make a large donation to the church, dedicated to helping lower-income residents of Millers Kill? And what if one of the recipients of this aid is McWhorter?”
“What? You’re asking me to make the church your money launderer?” Clare stood up, pushing the chair away. “In a scheme that boils down to you paying for another human being. No. I won’t do it. It’s immoral, even if it is legal.” Karen looked up at her, stricken. Clare sat back down. “Karen,” she said, more gently, “you can’t buy motherhood. I know how much you want that baby. But this . . . this wouldn’t work. What’s badly begun has a way of turning out badly. Imagine Cody as an older child, finding out that his grandfather had essentially sold him to his parents. Imagine how he would feel about himself.”
Karen folded her arms tightly around herself. “Do you think he’d be better off being raised by the man who’s willing to sell him?”
Clare shook her head, laid her hands palm up on the desk. “No. I’ll do everything I can to help you. Let’s go ahead and set up a meeting with McWhorter, see what we can accomplish.”
“With what? Earnest entreaties and prayer? Somehow, I don’t think he’ll respond very well to that.”
“Nope. We offer him what assistance you can legally and ethically,” Clare emphasized the word, “provide. That’s the carrot. Then, we show him the stick.”
When Russ turned his cruiser onto Main Street at the end of a long day, his lights picked out Clare’s MG half in and half out of the police station’s driveway.
