"You mean to tell me you are unaware of these pregnancies?" Deborah asked.
"I know nothing about them," Spencer assured her. "What those ladies do on their time off is their business."
"Why I'm asking," Deborah continued, "is because we were told becoming pregnant for them was a way to earn extra money."
"Really?" Spencer said. "Who told you this?"
"Ms. Masterson," Deborah said. "We asked her about them at lunch."
"I shall have to ask her myself," Spencer said. A short, faltering smile appeared on his face. "I've not been as actively involved with the clinic as I should have been over the last couple of years, so there are certain details I'm not aware of. Of course I knew about the Nicaraguan ladies being with us. It's an arrangement Dr. Saunders has made with a doctor friend in Nicaragua to solve our chronic manpower problem."
"What kind of research is Dr. Saunders involved in?" Deborah asked.
"A little of this and a little of that," Spencer said vaguely. "He's a very creative researcher. Infertility is a rapidly advancing specialty whose advances will soon be making a big impact on medicine in general. But this discussion is getting way too serious." He laughed, and for the first time swayed a bit before steadying himself. "Let's lighten it up. What I propose is that we go back to my house and raid my wine cellar. What do you ladies say?"
"I say the sooner the better," Deborah responded as she covertly poked Joanna, whom she felt was being far too quiet and demure. "I think having more wine is a terrific idea," Joanna said.
When the bill came, the women were interested to see where Spencer kept his wallet. They were both hoping it would be in his jacket pocket. But it wasn't. To their chagrin it was in his rear pants pocket where it returned once the credit card had been replaced.
As they reached the front of the restaurant and were about to leave, Spencer excused himself to use the rest room.
"You're going to have to be creative to get his pants off," Joanna whispered. They were standing near the hostess podium. Although there had been no patrons when they'd arrived, the restaurant was now almost full.
"It's surely not going to take creativity to get him out of his pants," Deborah whispered back. "The creativity is going to come in dealing with his expectations. I'm amazed at how much he drank and how little it's seemed to affect him. He's had two martinis and two bottles of wine minus the minuscule amount you and I drank."
"He did slur his words a little during dessert," Joanna said.
"And sway a little, too," Deborah added. "But that's not much effect for that much alcohol. To be that tolerant he must be more of a lush than he appears. If it had been me with that amount of alcohol, I'd be comatose for three days."
Spencer appeared at the men's room door, smiled when he saw the women, and then proceeded to stagger on a skewed course to collide with the hostess stand. He grabbed onto it for support. The dismayed hostess came from behind the stand to help.
"All right!" Deborah exclaimed in a triumphant whisper to Joanna. "That's encouraging. It must have been some kind of a delayed reaction."
"Is he all right?" the hostess asked as the women came up on both sides of Spencer and lent a hand.
"He's going to be just fine,' Deborah said. "He's just unwinding a bit."
"Do you beautiful ladies know where my house is?" Spencer asked, slurring his words again.
"We certainly do," Deborah said. "Ms. Masterson pointed it out to us today."
"Then we'll have a race," Spencer announced.
Before Deborah could nix the idea, Spencer shook free and ran out of the restaurant.
Deborah and Joanna exchanged a startled glance before giving chase. When they emerged into the fading evening light, Spencer was already climbing into his Bentley. They could hear him laughing.
"Wait!" Deborah cried. They ran toward the car, but by the time they got to it, Spencer had the huge engine roaring. Deborah got her hand on the driver's side door handle, but the door was locked. She rapped on the glass. She started to suggest that she drive, but Spencer merely laughed harder, pointed to his ear to indicate he couldn't hear, and then accelerated out of the parking lot.
"Oh crap!" Deborah said as she and Joanna watched the red tail lights disappear into the gathering gloom.
"He shouldn't be driving," Joanna said.
"Yeah, well, he didn't give us a lot of choice," Deborah responded. "I hope he makes it. If he doesn't, let's be the first on the scene – not that that's how I planned on getting that blasted card!"
The women ran back to the Chevy Malibu. Joanna got it out on the road as fast as she could. After every curve they half expected so come across the Bentley off in one of the stubbled corn fields. When they got to the traffic light at the corner of Pierce and Main, they began to relax, realizing that in all probability if Spencer had gotten that far, he was going to make it.
“What did you think of Spencer's response about the Nicaraguan ladies?" Deborah asked as they turned onto Pierce and headed east.
"He seemed truly surprised about them being pregnant," Joanna said.
"That was my take as well," Deborah said. "I'm getting the impression that things are happening at the Wingate Clinic that the founder doesn't know much about."
"I'd have to agree," Joanna said. "Of course he admitted he'd not been as involved with the clinic as he should have been over the last couple of years."
They turned off the main road onto gravel and approached the Wingate Clinic gatehouse. It was dark except for a barely discernible glow of light behind one of the small, shuttered windows. As they entered the tunnel beneath the structure, the car's headlights illuminated the heavy gate and the card-swipe pylon.
"Do you think the guard will come out?" Joanna asked as she slowed the car almost to a stop.
Deborah shrugged. "My guess would be no, since it's after hours. So let's just pull up to the card swipe and try one of our new cards." Deborah got the card out of her shoulder bag and handed it to Joanna. Joanna lowered the window, leaned out, and swiped the card. The gate responded immediately and began to swing open.
"Voila," Deborah said. She took the card back and put it away. Joanna followed the drive as it curved around the clump of evergreens. The main building came into view. There were only a few lights visible in the first two stories of the southern wing. The rest of the building was a black, crenelated hulk rearing up against the deepening purple sky.
"The place looks even more sinister at night," Joanna commented.
"I couldn't agree more," Deborah said. "It looks like a place Count Dracula could find inviting."
Joanna passed the parking area and entered the woods beyond. A few moments later in the deepening darkness they began to see lights among the trees, emanating from the homes of the Wingate Clinic's hierarchy. They were able to pick out a house they believed to be Spencer's and drove up its driveway. The Bentley's rear end jutting askew out of the garage told them they were right. Joanna turned off the Malibu's engine.
"Any ideas of how we should proceed from this point?" Joanna asked.
"Not really,' Deborah admitted. "Except to push the alcohol. Maybe we'd better try to find his car keys while we're at it and hide them."
"Good thought!." Joanna said as she alighted from the car. As the women made their way up the darkened front walk, they could hear rock music playing. The closer they got, the louder it became, yet despite the noise of the music Spencer heard the bell and threw the door wide open. His cheeks were flushed and his eves red. He'd changed out of his blazer and was wearing an elaborately trimmed, dark green velvet smoking jacket. With an elaborated flourish requiring him to grab onto the doorjamb to maintain his balance, he invited them in.
"Could we turn the music down a tad?" Deborah yelled. With an unsteady gait, Spencer went to the entertainment console. The women used the opportunity to survey the interior. It was Decorated like a English manor house, with oversized, dark brown leather furniture, red oriental carpets, and dark green paint. Oil paintings of horses and fox hunts lined the walls, each one individually illuminated. The knickknacks were mostly riding paraphernalia.