The Fatal Heir: The Gillian Jones Series, #1

CHAPTER 1

As a general rule, babies hate me. Everyone tells me it will be different with my own, but my own haven’t made an appearance, despite a myriad of medical procedures. Now, faced with advanced fertility treatment that we really can’t afford, my husband, Clint, and I have decided to take the road less technical.

I’m not sure if this is the right decision. My main concern is that if I’m still childless several years from now, I’ll look back and regret this choice.

My husband, Clint, has a more immediate concern: How are we going to tell my mother? he asked.

My mother-in-law considers children a requirement of marriage, especially the marriage of her only son. We’ll just tell her the truth, I said.

That we’re going to deny her the one and only grandchild who could carry on the family name? Clint ran a hand through his light brown hair.

Not that truth, I said. We’ll just tell her how hard it is on our marriage when we have to obsess over every dime and decision only to find we’re no closer to having a baby. She’ll understand that.

Clint hesitated, looked down, and then raised his brown eyes to mine. Remember, this is my mother we’re talking about.

The answer, we decided, was to have my mother-in-law accompany me to the fertility specialist in Omaha. Marlene is frugal—a farm wife who reuses tinfoil. I knew she would be appalled by the extreme expense, not just of the treatment, but of the facility itself.

Swank! Marlene said, breathing a layer of condensation on the passenger-side window when she saw the fertility doctor’s office. The two-story building is a sparkling jewel of reflective glass with double doors that automatically swing outward to reveal a tiled entrance with a hearth and fireplace. Above the fireplace are five portraits: one is our reproductive endocrinologist, and the other four are obstetrician/gynecologists.

Marlene put a hand to her ample chest, and stopped to study the pictures. Just one fertility doctor, and all the others are doctors for the babies, she said in awe.

I checked in at the desk, a circular counter of polished wood, while Marlene moved into the waiting room of leather couches and chairs. An abstract oil painting, which resembled either a flower or a fallopian tube, hung above the refreshment center. And they’re thoughtful doctors, too, Marlene nodded, holding up a packet of flavored creamer before pouring it into a blue stoneware cup.

A brass statue of a man, woman, and child graced the top of the coffee table. On past visits the mere sight of it had made me ache to have that perfect family. We sat on one of the couches, and I studied the sculpted father gazing with wonder at the sleeping baby in the crook of his arm. His other arm encircled the woman’s shoulders, and her hand was pressed against his chest. The mother lovingly observed the baby’s puckered lips and innocent face, and her expression conveyed contentment.

Marlene nudged me in the ribs. "Look at the real baby, she whispered. Isn’t he cute?" she said aloud, pointing to a carrier containing a wrinkled, red-faced infant.

The mother beamed. We think so, she said, taking the sleeping infant out of the car seat.

My mother-in-law straightened in her seat. I’m Marlene Jones, and this is my daughter-in-law, Gillian. Gillian is here to see Dr. Rupert.

Really? The new mother positioned her baby so we could see him better. I’m here for a post-partum checkup with Dr. Elstein, but Dr. Rupert did my egg retrieval and IVF.

Is that how you ... Marlene trailed off, and pointed to the baby.

Yes, said the woman. It only took us two tries.

Oh my, you had an egg retrieved twice?

Eggs. The first time they transferred four, but none implanted. The last time they transferred six. They told us not to get our hopes up, because my BSU levels were not rising. But then my BSU rocketed, and at first it looked like we might have twins until the other embryo stopped developing.

How exciting! Marlene said, looking hopefully at me. Gillian, couldn’t you and Clint do that?

Marlene, I said, that’s part of in vitro fertilization and it would be our next step but it costs over $10,000.

But worth it if it works, the woman held up her baby as evidence.

Ten thousand dollars, Marlene said, her blue eyes narrowing. Hmm.

Maybe you’d like to hold him, the woman offered.

I inwardly flinched. Okay, I held my arms out.

She placed the baby in my arms. Looking down at the tiny face, I settled back in the chair, which was the wrong thing to do. His back arched, and the red face wrinkled into the beginning of a cry. Oh, no. I stiffened at the impending wail. She took the child back, gently bouncing him and making soothing sounds.

It’ll be different with your own, Marlene patted my knee. Gillian, you should talk to Clint about having your eggs retrieved.

Marlene, I said, did you know we still owe over $1,000 on my shots?

We spent over $30,000 before we got pregnant, the new mother said conversationally, moving the baby to her shoulder.

We can’t afford it, I explained. I only have a part-time job.

Gillian is the only probation officer in Jackson County, Marlene said proudly. And she’s having trouble ovulating. She took a sip of her coffee.

Can’t you find another job? the woman asked me.

Not where I live, I answered. Bend Brook’s population is less than thirteen hundred people.

Is that one of the little towns around here? You could get a job in Omaha and commute—a lot of people do, the woman said.

Oh, no. It’s too far, Marlene replied. Bend Brook is in the southeast part of the state. Gillian comes to Omaha because Dr. Rupert was very highly recommended.

He does have a 75 percent success rate, the new mother said.

Impressive. Marlene nodded her head at me. Seventy-five percent, she repeated.

The wooden door opened, and a lab technician called my name. After I had my blood drawn, I went back to the waiting room. The new mother was gone, and had been replaced by a woman who was dabbing at her eyes with a tissue and sniffling. Marlene had an arm around her, and gently patted her shoulder. Marlene looked up at me. Gillian, this is Melissa. She’s thirty-three, the same age as you. Isn’t that a coincidence?

Melissa held up a hand with a wadded tissue and gave a feeble wave.

Melissa, my mother-in-law continued, has been trying to get pregnant for five years. Five years, can you imagine? I told her you and Clint had only been trying for two. Anyway, she just got a call from her best friend, Dawn. Marlene paused, and lowered her voice. Dawn got married last June and is already pregnant.

Melissa whimpered. Marlene leaned toward me and said in a loud whisper, Melissa couldn’t even talk. She just needed a minute before she calls Dawn back to tell her how happy she is for her. Melissa looked at me with red-rimmed eyes and nodded.

Gillian Jones, the nurse sang out, and I hurried to follow her back to the consultation room. It took nearly forty-five minutes before Dr. Rupert came in. I’m not sure if we want to continue with fertility treatment, I said.

Have you changed your mind about having a baby? he asked.

No, I still want a baby, I said. I just want it naturally, without all the technical decisions and expense.

Well, we always encourage people to do what’s best for them. Dr. Rupert then reviewed with me how to correctly use my ovulation predictor kit and saliva tester.

When I returned to the waiting room, Melissa had gone. Two women and a man were sitting by Marlene. What did the doctor say? Marlene asked, pulling herself forward on the couch. You looked relieved when you came out the door. You aren’t pregnant, are you?

No, Marlene, I’m not, I said. But there’s something I want to discuss with you.

Okay, but first, Gillian, I’d like you to meet Diane and Bethany and Greg, she said, pointing to the man and women, who all nodded and said hello. Diane and Greg are Italian, just like you. Have you noticed how you all have the same dark hair that tends to curl? And guess who they came to see? That’s right! Dr. Rupert. You see, Diane wants a baby but can’t have one. Bethany is willing to carry the baby, and if Diane’s brother Greg is the donor, then the baby will have Diane’s very own genetic pool! Marlene nodded excitedly, my signal to contribute to the conversation.

Good luck, I said.

Marlene stood up and took my elbow. Oh, and Gillian, have you thought of trying acupuncture? See that woman over there? Marlene tilted her head at a woman knitting in the corner. She’s seven months along, and she owes it all to acupuncture treatment. You should get to know her. The woman looked up from her knitting needles and smiled.

But, Marlene, what I was going to say ...

Is that you aren’t ovulating? Neither was she until she tried acupuncture!

But our insurance doesn’t cover acupuncture or most of the other treatments they offer here.

Marlene shook her head. Don’t rule out any options. After all, you and Clint don’t have time to dawdle. Marlene took a brochure out of the pocket of her jacket and read from it. Ovaries and eggs age. After the age of thirty-five, oocyte are not as viable.

Women have gotten pregnant past the age of thirty-five, I said firmly. In fact, it’s becoming more and more common.

According to this, Marlene waved the pamphlet, your chances will decrease dramatically.

I’ve read that, and I don’t think it says ‘dramatically.’

Maybe it says ‘substantially.’ Marlene stopped to look at the brochure. No, you’re right, it says ‘significantly.’ She put the brochure in her purse as we walked toward the entrance.

Significantly, I repeated.

Yes. You need to do everything you can to get pregnant now, or else, she said.

Or else what? I asked.

Or else you’ll never get pregnant! Gillian, you know that! Now, there was something you wanted to tell me?

I was just going to say, that, well, you know I really don’t have to be back at the courthouse for the rest of the day. Did you want to go shopping?

Westroads Mall, Marlene said. They’ve got that store I like for plus-size women, and then we’ll browse through the maternity shop. She winked at me. Just in case.

I looked back at the statue and wondered just how the sculptor would have the man and woman look at each other if the baby wasn’t there.

CHAPTER 2

Istopped in the courtroom the next morning to check the docket, hoping that a charge of DWI or criminal mischief would provide me with a new probation client. A proposal to make my position full-time and base it in the neighboring and more populous Gage County had been nixed, at least for the coming year, when I said I’d rather work in Bend Brook, even if it was only for twenty hours a week.

A young man in an ill-fitting, gray suit stood at the front of the courtroom. I’d like to offer these pictures as evidence, he said, holding up three photographs. I moved quietly to the back of the courtroom while court clerk Dot Derfenmeyer took the pictures and, after marking them as exhibits, gave them to the judge.

What am I looking at? the judge asked, glancing over his glasses at the defendant. The judge was a large man who bore resemblance to both Albert Einstein and Dirty Harry. His graying blond hair skewed away from his head in tight curls, and his eyebrows took on a life of their own as he talked.

The defendant cleared his throat. Those are pictures of where I was stopped and ticketed for crossing the center line, but no center line is clearly marked, so I really shouldn’t be charged with crossing something that wasn’t there.

You were also charged with speeding — forty miles in a twenty-five-mile zone, the judge said.

Well, yeah, that too, he answered.

The judge put down the pictures. If you intend to plead guilty to the speeding, I’ll dismiss the charge of crossing the center line.

Um, no, I can’t do that, the defendant said nervously.

Why not?

I can’t have three more points on my license. I have nine points now, and if I get a total of twelve my license will be revoked, so I can only have two. Otherwise I’ll lose my license for six months, and then I’ll be in contempt of court.

The judge moved his glasses down and looked at the defendant over the rims. Why would you be in contempt of this court?

Not this court, he said, pulling at the neck of his shirt. A court in Kansas. I have to pick my two kids up every other weekend from Marysville. They’re five and three. That’s why I was in the middle of the road, you know, because Troy, that’s the five-year-old, had to go to the bathroom. I was looking for a place to stop.

The judge took off his glasses completely, and laid them to the side. I sympathize with your situation, but you just admitted you crossed the non-existent center line, and you aren’t contesting the speeding.

But if I lose my license, I won’t be able to get my kids, and if I don’t get my kids, I’ll be in contempt of court, and if I’m in contempt of court, I’ll have to spend seven days in jail, and then I’ll lose my job. Please, isn’t there any way I could plead guilty to the speeding and not get the points?

My hand shot up from the back of the courtroom. The judge and Dot looked over at me. "Probation," I mouthed at the judge. The judge ignored me, and looked back at the defendant. Dot wrinkled her nose in a you-leave-a-bad-taste-in-my-mouth look.

Sir, the judge continued, I am not here to decide the extent of your need to possess a driver’s license. I am here to determine whether or not you broke the law.

My mouth dropped. The judge was an intelligent individual, and I knew he gave me probationers when warranted, but apparently he didn’t remember that under Nebraska law, probation on a speeding ticket would cancel out the points. Or maybe he hadn’t understood what I was trying to tell him. I waved my hand again.

The judge looked back at me, as did Dot. "Pro-ba-tion, I mouthed the three syllables at the judge. The defendant now turned around to see what everyone was looking at. Probation, I said aloud. He can plead guilty to the speeding and ask for probation. Then, if you dismiss the charge of crossing the center line, there won’t be any points assessed."

The defendant’s face lit up, and he turned to face the judge again. I’d like to do what she just said.

I’d like order in my courtroom, the judge said, giving me a look that was more Dirty Harry than Einstein. He addressed the defendant: I’m finding you guilty of speeding ten miles over the posted limit. That’s two points. The charge of crossing the center line is dismissed. You’re responsible for all fines and court costs. The judge’s seldom-used gavel hit the stand, and his finger pointed at me. Gillian Jones, see me in my chambers. Now.

CHAPTER 3

The judge’s chambers were an anteroom and his office. The anteroom had a small table with three chairs around it, and two walls covered with books. A credenza by the table held stacks of papers and a coffeemaker. I decided to wait there for my reprimand.

I knew the judge to be strict but compassionate, and decided there must have a reason for not wanting to give probation to someone from out of the county. There are certain small-town rules in Bend Brook that I’m not always aware of, even after living here for three years. My formative years were spent in Chicago, Des Moines, and Omaha, in that order, and it’s been a transition to adjust to small-town living. Bend Brook is the only town in Jackson County, at least the only recognized town. There is a smaller, unincorporated town called Jacksonville, and you’d think by the name that would be the county seat, but no, it’s Bend Brook. Just one more contradiction in a town that’s full of them. For example, Bend Brook, takes its name from a curving tributary between the Big Blue and the Little Blue Rivers, where the water flows between banks that come close to making the letter S. It’s hardly a bend, and it’s hardly a brook.

Sorry for the delay, the judge came through the doorway. I stopped to have a word with Dot. Have a seat. I sat down and waited, while the judge put his glasses away, poured a cup of coffee, picked up another coffee mug. He arched his eyebrows. Coffee?

I shook my head. I didn’t mean to interrupt you in court, I said. I just thought it was a way for him to keep his license and for me to have him on probation.

He might very well be on probation before long. Remember he’s driving from Lincoln to Marysville to pick up his children twice a month. The judge took a sip of coffee. What I really wanted to talk with you about concerns a different matter. You know there was a county board of commissioners meeting last night?

Yes, I said.

I’m sure you’re aware that the board met last night to discuss finances, since everyone’s in a pinch with the budget.

How much of a pinch? I asked, wondering what this had to do with me since my position was state funded.

Enough that they are going to give Ethel’s job duties to Dot, and Ethel is going to retire.

Oh. I said. Dot would probably welcome the additional duties. But Ethel likely would not take the news well, even though she was over seventy years old. Ethel shared an office with me, and this meant I would have an office to myself, even if it was only for twenty hours a week. Does Dot know about this?

Yes, the judge replied.

Does Ethel?

His eyebrows met over his nose. Not yet. She wasn’t available. I’m going to have a word with her when I’m finished speaking with you.

Speaking to me about what? The county commissioners shouldn’t have anything to say about my job.

The judge smiled. With a few minor changes, we thought you could have additional tasks.

As a probation officer? I asked. But I don’t want to be based out of Beatrice. I’d have to travel to three or four counties besides Jackson, and I’d rather have the lack of crime than the overload most probation officers have.

I’m not talking about a full-time job as a probation officer. I’m referring to investigative work. The judge tilted back in his chair and scrutinized me. "You used to work for an investigation