Who's That Baby?. Diana Whitney

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      Chapter One

      The moment he turned on the light, he saw the limp orange lump floating in the fishbowl. It had been that kind of a day.

      The loss pained him. He’d told Spence he didn’t have time for a pet, even one that required no more than a bowl of water and a daily dose of food flakes. His gregarious law partner had insisted that everyone needed something to care for, even a stoic isolationist like Johnny Winterhawk.

      Johnny had capitulated, accepted the finned creature despite misgivings. Living things didn’t do well in his company. The last such offering had been a vigorous pothos plant presented by Rose McBride, administrator of the Buttonwood Baby Clinic, in appreciation for having discovered and stricken a particularly onerous clause from the clinic’s lease agreement.

      Johnny had been pleased by the handsome little plant. He’d placed it on a sunlit windowsill and watered it religiously every morning. Within weeks, the shiny green leaves faded to mushy yellow. Now yet another life force had shriveled in Johnny’s clearly inept hands.

      Sighing, he removed the deceased fish and carried it into the bathroom for disposal. “Rest in peace, little fellow.” He pulled the handle. With a whoosh and a swirl, the tiny creature disappeared.

      A prick of real remorse startled him. It was only a fish, after all, although he’d been oddly fond of it, and had rather enjoyed watching the creature snap up the food flakes poured into its bowl each day. Not that he’d been emotionally attached to it, of course. Johnny knew better than that. Nothing in this world was permanent. Not plants, not fish, not people.

      Especially not people.

      Still, he’d put forth serious effort to provide what the little fish had needed, just as he’d made a serious effort to care for the plant. He always made a serious effort. It was never enough.

      Perhaps the Creator was displeased. Johnny’s grandfather would have commanded a four-day fast, along with communion into the dreamworld, a place where spirits of earth, sun and sky might bestow spiritual awakening to those who’d broken their spiritual harmony with the earth.

      To Grandfather, all living things were one, and all knowledge was bestowed by ancestral whispers to those who had the courage to listen.

      Johnny respected that philosophy. He simply had a different approach—easy come, easy go. Not particularly profound, but it worked. And it kept him sane.

      Returning to his nightly routine, Johnny poured his usual nightcap—two fingers of amber whiskey served in an etched-crystal brandy snifter—then he methodically turned on both the stereo and the television, cranking the volume until every square foot of the expansive house vibrated with sound. A glance at a gold-and-diamond watch worth more than his grandfather had earned in a year confirmed that it was barely 10:00 p.m. The night was young.

      He settled at the table, opened a fat, triangular valise stuffed with documents and went to work.

      An hour later, he’d finished his first drink and poured himself another when the doorbell jangled above the din from the stereo and television. He pushed away from the table, swearing under his breath. No visitors announcing themselves an hour before midnight brought good news. The last time it had been this late, he’d found a sheepish neighbor on the doorstep, reeling drunk and slurring apologies for having flattened Johnny’s mailbox.

      Johnny hadn’t cared about the mailbox. He had, however, been furious that the intoxicated fool had gotten behind the wheel of a car, and Johnny had said so. Explicitly.

      There had also been a late-night prank that resulted in half the neighborhood being draped with toilet paper, and an unpleasant visit by the doddering widow from down the street, who’d been served with a small-claims-court summons and had actually scolded him for working late, thus forcing her to stay up past her bedtime for the free legal advice to which she felt utterly entitled.

      Steeling himself, Johnny strode to the door, prepared for a drunken neighbor, a mountain of toilet paper or a wild-eyed widow clutching a summons. He was, in fact, prepared for just about anything. Anything, that is, except a wailing infant with a note pinned to its blanket.

      It really had been that kind of day.

      Stifling a yawn, Claire Davis stuffed her stethoscope in the pocket of her lab coat and had nearly made her escape when she heard the desk phone ring.

      Nurse Jansen intercepted the call. “Buttonwood Baby Clinic. How may I help you?”

      Claire dodged the nurses’ station and slipped into the doctors’ lounge. She was СКАЧАТЬ