The Detective's Dilemma

Dear Diary,

Sometimes it seems that crisis follows crisis for this family. I shouldn’t complain. I’m so proud of my children, and I’m delighted that at least some of them seem to be finding love. But the Maitland troubles don’t seem to be over yet….

I still can’t believe it. My little Beth is being accused of murder. How could anyone think that bright, carefree, loving Beth would commit such an act? My maternal instincts tell me to exert every ounce of Maitland influence to protect her, but Beth feels that this would make her look more guilty than the circumstances already do. She believes her innocence is the only protection she needs. And she seems to think that the two detectives assigned to her case are fair, competent and open-minded.

What a night it’s been. I’m sure the police will soon see they have the wrong suspect. Nobody can truly believe our Beth guilty of such a crime.

This, too, will pass. It must.

Dear Reader,

There’s never a dull moment at Maitland Maternity! This unique and now world-renowned clinic was founded twenty-five years ago by Megan Maitland, widow of William Maitland, of the prominent Austin, Texas, Maitlands. Megan is also matriarch of an impressive family of seven children, many of whom are active participants in the everyday miracles that bring children into the world.

When our series began, the family was stunned by the unexpected arrival of an unidentified baby at the clinic—unidentified, except for the claim that the child is a Maitland. Who are the parents of this child? Is the claim legitimate? Will the media’s tenacious grip on this news damage the clinic’s reputation? Suddenly rumors and counterclaims abound. Women claiming to be the child’s mother materialize out of the woodwork! How will Megan get at the truth? And how will the media circus affect the lives and loves of the Maitland children—Abby, the head of gynecology, Ellie, the hospital administrator, her twin sister, Beth, who runs the day-care center, Mitchell, the fertility specialist, R.J., the vice president of operations, even Anna, who has nothing to do with the clinic, and Jake, the black sheep of the family?

Please join us each month over the next year as the mystery of the Maitland baby unravels, bit by enticing bit, and book by captivating book!

Marsha Zinberg,

Senior Editor and Editorial Coordinator, Special Projects

The Detective’s Dilemma

Arlene James

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Arlene James has been writing for twenty-one years and considers herself truly blessed. Not only has she been able to pursue a career she loves, but she was also able to enjoy the luxury of being home with her children as they grew. Now that her kids are happily married, she’s approaching her writing with new ardor.

Arlene’s marriage, always a source of inspiration, also seems to be getting better as time goes by. She and her husband grew up, met and married in Oklahoma—years after attending the same school unaware of each other’s existence. She was a young widow, and he was smooth enough to convince her to marry him after their first date! Is it any wonder she writes romance?

I’m a most fortunate mother. I have two truly wonderful sons, and now I have two truly wonderful daughters-in-law. Both are bright and beautiful (inside and out), women who actually deserve such fine men. I thank God and my husband for such dear sons. I thank my sons and their in-laws for such dear daughters.

So this is for Ross and Monica, and Joseph and Heather. You have made me very proud. Again.

I love you all. Mom.

CONTENTS

CHAPTER ONE

CHAPTER TWO

CHAPTER THREE

CHAPTER FOUR

CHAPTER FIVE

CHAPTER SIX

CHAPTER SEVEN

CHAPTER EIGHT

CHAPTER NINE

CHAPTER TEN

CHAPTER ELEVEN

CHAPTER TWELVE

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

CHAPTER ONE

BETH’S HANDS curled into fists. Immediately she relaxed them and tamped down her impatience. She looked at the serious mien of the tall, dark detective lounging on the corner of the table at which she sat and felt the sudden urge to laugh. It was all so utterly preposterous. Murder. How could anyone suspect her, Beth Maitland, of murder—even if the unfortunate victim was her ex-fiancé’s wife? She’d much rather have flirted outrageously with the handsome detective than committed murder to assuage a broken heart, had she ever had one. What she would do, however, was answer these silly, repetitive questions.

“I went to the children’s garden in the courtyard of the day-care center to be certain that the bulbs planted that day were properly covered. No, we weren’t expecting a freeze,” she said flippantly, “but it is February, and as you well know, in Texas the weather is never certain. I didn’t go back to my office. I never saw Brianne. I certainly didn’t kill her.”

“Yet we know she was going to see you,” the detective persisted, looming close enough for Beth to catch a whiff of the sandalwood in his cologne.

Despite his stern, almost menacing demeanor, he was a devastatingly attractive man. Standing at least a couple inches over six feet and whipcord lean beneath a well-tailored suit of black sharkskin, Ty Redstone was definitely of Native American descent. Ink black hair, swept straight back and chopped bluntly at the nape, had been tucked behind his perfectly formed ears, calling attention to his squarely sculpted jaws and chin. His cheekbones were high and prominent, with slight hollows beneath, his lips wide and mobile. A long, thin nose and straight, slightly jutting brows lent a hawkish appearance to his almond-shaped brown-black eyes. A high, wide forehead bespoke intelligence, and his coppery skin was as smooth as a child’s, with the exception of a pair of tiny crow’s feet, one at the outer corner of each eye. Had he not been convinced that she had murdered Brianne Dumont by strangling the night before, Beth could have formed quite an amazing crush on the man. As it was, she could merely sigh and repeat what she’d been saying for the past two hours.

“I didn’t see her. I had no idea she was even in the building.”

“But her husband says—”

“I don’t care what Brandon says,” Beth snapped, momentarily losing her composure, “I didn’t see her!” She constantly wavered between humor at the ridiculousness of being accused of murder and anger at the seriousness of it.

Her attorney, a handsome, middle-aged man named Hugh Blake, intervened. “My client has answered this question repeatedly. Either move on, Detective, or we will.”

“It’s all right,” Beth answered him, drawing another deep breath. “I’ve said it before. I’ll say it again. I did not ask Brianne to meet me at the Maitland Maternity day-care center or anywhere else. If Brandon says I did, then he’s lying or mistaken.”

“You weren’t jealous of her for breaking up your romance with Brandon Dumont?”

“No.”

“And there was no feud between the two of you?”

“Not as far as I was concerned,” Beth insisted. Leaning forward, she placed a hand flat on the ugly gray table near the corner where Detective Redstone sat. “I know I told my friend Katie Carrington that it was Brandon who ended our engagement and I pretended to be upset,” she said, “but that was a lie. Brandon asked me to say that he was the one who wanted out, and I didn’t see then what harm it could do.” She sat back, waving a hand dismissively. “I just wanted it over with. Even before I found out Brandon was fooling around with Brianne, I knew the engagement was a mistake. Brianne was just the excuse I needed to end it. I didn’t kill her. I had no reason to. Heck, I was glad she wound up with Brandon. Better her than me.”

“Your story just doesn’t check out, Miss Maitland,” Redstone’s partner, Paul Jester, said bluntly. Sprawled casually in a stiff chair at the end of the rectangular table, he seemed the more easygoing of the two, with his pale blond flattop, pink apple cheeks, blunt nose and plump lips. He looked comfortably rumpled in khakis, sport shirt with open collar and tweed jacket with baggy elbows, a true contrast to Redstone’s dark good looks and tailored clothing.

Jester shifted forward, both elbows propped on the tabletop, and went on, repeating facts already established. “Mrs. Dumont checked into the Maitland Maternity Clinic at five forty-five, noting in the guard’s reception book that she had an appointment with you. At precisely six-fifteen, you check out, just at the moment the security guard on the desk is changing, so no notice is taken of the fact that Mrs. Dumont is still inside. At six-twenty the cleaning lady finds the body in your office and sounds the alarm.” He sat back, spreading his hands. “Now what are we supposed to believe?”

Beth shook her head. “Make what you must of it, Detective. I’m telling you that I had nothing to do with the murder. I always check out precisely at six-fifteen. The registry will verify that.”

Redstone leaned down, getting right in her face. She noticed that one of his small white teeth was chipped, the one left of center on the bottom, and shivered with sensual awareness—of a man who suspected her of murder, yet!

“Mr. Dumont swears that you set up the appointment with his wife via the telephone that very afternoon,” he said.

She shook her head. “I didn’t.”

“He says, in fact, that you’ve been harassing his wife since the day of their marriage.”

She looked Redstone straight in the eye. “I don’t know why he’s saying these things, but they aren’t true.”

“And,” the detective went on relentlessly, “you yourself told Ms. Carrington that he, not you, ended the relationship.”

“My client has explained that repeatedly,” Blake said. “This protracted interview is beginning to border on harassment, gentlemen.”

“Look, Ms. Maitland,” Paul Jester said soothingly, ignoring the attorney. “It happens. We know how it is. Your fiancé dumped you for another woman. You called her into your office after hours to tell her exactly what you thought of her. She got smart, hit a nerve. Before you realized what you were doing, you picked up something and wrapped it around her throat….”

Beth was shaking her head, her eyes blazing angrily. “No, no, no. It wasn’t like that. I never touched her. I never even laid eyes on her. I certainly didn’t kill her.”

“That’s enough,” the attorney asserted. “You have my client’s statement. Nothing has changed in the last two hours or more.”

Jester sighed and shot a look at his partner, who got up off the corner of the desk and paced toward the door. Halting, his back to Beth, Redstone brought his hands to his waist and bowed his head. After a moment, he looked over his shoulder, studying her unapologetically, one hand covering the lower part of his face.

“I didn’t kill her,” Beth said to him, sensing that he was the one she had to convince. “As God is my witness, I never even saw her. I wasn’t jealous. I don’t know why Brandon is lying. All I know is, I didn’t kill her.”

The door opened, and Megan Maitland, Beth’s mother, stuck her head inside the room. “How long is this going on?” she demanded. Her white hair had been swept into a neat French twist high on the back of her head, adding to the air of authority that always surrounded her. “Haven’t you badgered my daughter enough?”

Attorney Blake, a good friend of her mother’s, stood. “I think we’re finished here,” he announced firmly.

“I should hope so,” Megan said. “We have a press conference scheduled in less than an hour, and I want my daughter there with me.”

Beth frowned at the notion of the press conference awaiting them at Maitland Maternity. The press had been rabid wherever the Maitlands were concerned. First, a baby had been abandoned on the clinic’s doorstep with a note that claimed he was a Maitland. Then Connor O’Hara, a Maitland cousin no one had ever seen before, showed up, followed by his girlfriend, Janelle, who claimed to be the baby’s mother. And all while Maitland Maternity Clinic was planning its twenty-fifth-anniversary gala. Now a murder had been committed in Beth’s office at the clinic day care—and Beth was the prime suspect. She’d rather thumb her nose at the press pack than give them anything, but even a press conference was preferable to being booked for murder. She stared at Ty Redstone, trying to decide if he was going to arrest her. Finally, he nodded.

“You can go for now, Ms. Maitland, but don’t leave town, and be prepared to make yourself available to us on short notice.”

Blake clamped a hand around Beth’s upper arm, helping her to her feet. He held out her jacket for her. “Good day, gentlemen,” she said, looking at Ty Redstone. “Wish I could say it had been a pleasure.” With that she walked out the interrogation room door and straight into her mother’s waiting arms. The appalling events of the past several hours had drained her, so she allowed her mother to rock her gently from side to side while Hugh Blake quietly praised her for her aplomb and assured Megan that he would pressure the police to find the murderer quickly. Megan thanked him for his help. Beth lifted her head, and together the three of them walked out of the downtown Austin police station.

TY CLOSED THE DOOR on the sight of Beth Maitland standing huddled within her mother’s embrace. After years of this work, he was relatively unaffected by such displays, but something about these Maitland women got to a man. Every one he’d met so far was a real beauty, including the mother, who had to be sixty if she was a day. But then these rich types could afford whatever mysterious beauty treatments kept them looking so young and lovely. Not, he had to admit to himself, that beauty treatments of any sort could make a woman’s legs as long and slender as Beth Maitland’s, or nip her waist in so narrowly that he could span it with his two hands. He dismissed such thoughts, turning to his partner and the matter at hand.

“So what do you think?”

Paul leaned back, balancing his chair on two legs, locking his hands together behind his head and propping his crossed ankles on the table. “I don’t know. Seems like a pretty airtight case on the surface.”

“No kidding.” Ty ticked off the incriminating evidence. “She has the motive and the means. The timing is perfect. The body was found in her office. And the dead woman just happens to be the new wife of her recent and former fiancé. Add to that the statement of said former fiancé—now the widower—that she set up the appointment via telephone, and what you have—”

Ty looked at Paul, and Paul looked at Ty. Together they said, “Too easy.”

Bowing his head, Ty clapped a hand to the back of his neck. “I’m always spooked when they’re too easy.”

“The old hound is smelling a fix,” Paul said blithely. It was a break-room joke that Ty Redstone could smell a frame a mile away despite a steady wind—and for good reason.

“Suppose you break it down for me,” he said, ignoring Paul’s attempt at humor.

Paul rocked forward and pulled his legs down from the table. He extracted a small notebook from his coat pocket, unclipped a pen from it and flipped it open, preparing to demolish their airtight case. “Okay. First of all, strangling is a man’s MO. Even with a garrote, it takes strength over time to get the job done, and an unbound victim of the same approximate size can put up a pretty fierce struggle.”

Ty nodded. “Women usually conk their victims over the head, shoot ’em full of holes or slowly poison them to death. They don’t strangle them with a thin, flexible weapon. What do you think it was, by the way?”

Paul shrugged. “Some sort of cord would be my guess. Too thin for a belt or rope.”

“Right,” Ty said, “so a woman doesn’t usually strangle her victims.” He lifted a cautioning finger. “But we both know that means nothing. Under the right circumstances, anything goes.”

“Granted,” Paul said, “but if she really does check out at six-fifteen every night and we can prove it, then it’s an established pattern that anyone who knows her could use to frame her.”

“We need the logbooks for at least a year,” Ty said, beginning to pace the room as Paul took notes. “We’d better pull the phone records for Maitland Maternity Clinic and the residence.” He snapped his fingers. “Check to see if Beth Maitland has a cell phone, too. If she’s been harassing the happy couple, we’ll find some sign of it.”

Paul scribbled it all down. “Got it.”

Ty paced the narrow confines of the interrogation room. “What do you think happened to the murder weapon?”

Paul shrugged. “Nearest trash bin, probably.”

“We searched with a fine-tooth comb,” Ty reminded him.

“She must have taken it with her. I kept expecting you to ask about it.”

Ty shook his head. “If she hasn’t gotten rid of it, I don’t want her to rethink and do it now.”

“You figure she still has it?”

“Maybe. Anyway, we won’t have a decent idea what Brianne Dumont was strangled with until forensics has done their bit. No sense trying to look for it until we do. Make a note to ask forensics for an early determination,” Ty instructed. Paul dutifully made the note. “Okay, back to the breakdown.”

“One big consideration,” Paul said, “is that we only have Dumont’s word for it that the Maitland dame set up the appointment with the victim.”

“Or that she harassed her,” Ty said, picking up the thread of the argument. “And since Dumont was seeing Ms. Maitland until fairly recently, we can assume that he’s spent a good deal of time around the maternity clinic and the day-care center.”

“Which means he could probably get himself in and out without being seen,” Paul concluded. “There’s a working theory. He baits the trap by telling his wife that Beth’s asked to see her.”

Ty stopped pacing and brought both hands to his hips. “I have to wonder why she would go for that, meeting the other woman on her own turf, especially if the other woman was displaying threatening behavior.”

Paul shrugged. “Maybe she wanted to apologize—Maitland, I mean.”

“Or maybe there was no harassment,” Ty said, theorizing, “so the Dumont woman had no reason not to make the meeting.”

“Makes sense,” Paul concluded before returning to his theory. “On the other hand, he could’ve killed her, dumped the body in the office and fabricated the meeting to allay suspicion.”

Ty shook his head. “Too tricky, even without a blood trail.” He came to a halt and brought his hands to his waist. “We have to do some reconnoitering.”

“Until we discover a hole in the dike,” Paul agreed. “Then we pull the plug and let the truth flood away the lies.”

“You sound as if you’re convinced we’ll find that hole,” Ty said.

“Yeah, maybe. There’s something that’s been bothering me from the get go on this one.”

“Oh?”

Paul nodded. “It’s like this. The woman is rich and beautiful.”

And she has a freewheeling sexuality that fairly sings to a man, Ty thought but didn’t say. He knew that Paul, being happily married, wouldn’t say it, either, which was not to infer that he hadn’t noticed. Ty showed his agreement with Paul’s assessment by nodding.

“A woman like that’s got to be beating ’em off with a stick,” Paul went on prosaically. “What’s she want with a cold fish like Dumont? Any guy who would break up with Beth Maitland and marry another woman within forty-eight hours, well, he’s not the love of anybody’s life, if you ask me.”

“Definitely not the sort you’d kill over,” Ty agreed. “Now, all we’ve got to do is prove it.” And hope we don’t make the case against Beth Maitland in the process, he told himself, surprised at the sentiment.

Paul nodded thoughtfully and scratched his ear with the tip of his pen, leaving a bright blue mark. Ty smiled. Paul Jester was a good detective, a fine father and husband, an excellent friend, but he was always doing goofy stuff like marking himself up with those damned ballpoint pens he carried. Ty cleared his throat against a chuckle and added a query to the list.

“We’d better do some digging into Dumont’s background as well as Beth Maitland’s, just to cover our butts.”

“And don’t forget our victim,” Paul said, writing.

“Good point. Now I’ll tell you something about this case.”

“What’s that?” Paul asked, looking up. Ty knew that, given his ancestry, the guys around the office fancied him something of a shaman with his predictions and hunches, but he knew himself to be a purely logical man who made good deductions—not that he was averse to cloaking his expertise in a thin veneer of Crow mysticism. In this business, a man needed every edge he could get, and Ty was rightfully proud of his rich Native American heritage.

“I’ll tell you right now,” he pronounced sagely, “that this thing is going to come down to a face-off between Brandon Dumont and Beth Maitland. I, for one, think we’ll only hear the truth when we get the two of them in the same room together at the right time. Meanwhile…” He let the statement hang there, but Jester was quick to finish it.

“Meanwhile,” he said resignedly, getting to his feet, “we’ve got a lot of work to do.”

Ty waited as his partner shoved his chair under the table and walked around it. Then he turned to the door.

“You’ve got ink on your ear,” he said as they went out together, just loud enough for the other guys in the ward-room to hear. Paul was still scrubbing at the offending mark long after the laughter had died down.

“YOU DID WELL, BETH,” Hugh Blake told her. “I don’t want you to be discouraged. The police are a long way from concluding their investigation, so there’s a chance the real murderer will come to light. If they do charge you, I promise you we’ll fight them on every front. Just stick to the truth and try to relax. All right?”

She nodded and thanked him for his help, then allowed her mother to usher her into the limo. Beth sighed, letting her head fall back on the warm leather upholstery. It wasn’t particularly cold, but Beth pulled her fitted brown corduroy jacket closed.

“My poor darling,” Megan said, sliding onto the seat next to her and laying a comforting hand on her knee. “How could anyone suspect one of my children of something so heinous? Especially you! Everyone knows you wouldn’t hurt a flea. You’re much too fun-loving and playful.”

“I don’t think fun-loving and playful preclude murder in the eyes of the law, Mother,” Beth suggested with a wan smile.

Megan shuddered. “I still can’t believe they suspect you. It’s just ludicrous, and they’ll see that. They will.”

Beth tried for another smile and was saved the effort when the chauffeur slid the divider window open. “Back to the clinic, Mrs. Maitland—Ms. Maitland?”

“Oh…yes, thank you,” Beth replied for the two of them. “I’m a little distracted today. Sorry.”

“No problem,” the driver assured her, sliding the window closed. An instant later, the vehicle shifted into gear and swung easily across the parking lot. Beth lifted her head. Enough self-pity. Time to face this mess head-on.

“I’m worried how this is going to affect the clinic and day-care center,” she said bluntly, and Megan immediately rushed to defuse her concerns.

“Don’t be silly. Everyone knows this is nonsense. As Hugh says, it’ll all blow over soon and—”

“Mom,” Beth interrupted firmly, “the press has crucified us over the paternity of a babe left on our doorstep. You can’t believe they’ll ignore an accusation of murder.”

“No one has accused you of anything!” Megan cried. “You’ve been questioned. We all have. That’s all it is or will be.”