Bundle of Trouble mim-1 Read online

  She didn’t seem George’s type.

  Or Brad’s either, for that matter.

  George always seemed to go for small ethnic women. And Brad? This woman was nothing like Michelle or Svetlana, both of whom were tall and thin, with dark hair and classical beauty. This lady was a stereotypical hippie, a free spirit.

  My heart sank.

  “Hi, what can I do you for ya?” she asked.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Kate Connolly. I’m looking for George Connolly.”

  She looked past me, down the hallway. “Maybe you better come in.”

  She prepared tea while I made myself comfortable in the living room. Well, as comfortable as I could since there was no furniture to sit on, only a few cushions. I sat cross-legged on one, then pulled my freshly packed notebook from my bag. The cats perched themselves on the other cushions. The gray cat studied me, while the black one groomed itself.

  A bicycle was propped up in a corner. I supposed she biked everywhere. Good for the environment. Good for Jennifer.

  I thought back to how the six-block walk had wiped me out. Before getting pregnant, I ran three miles daily. Now I wouldn’t be able to run to save my life. I’d have to start up an exercise routine again soon, try and work off the baby weight.

  Jennifer returned holding two chipped mugs. She passed me one that said NO WAR on it. Then with her free hand, she picked up the gray cat and sat on the cushion, placing the cat in her lap. The black cat got up and climbed onto Jennifer’s lap on its own.

  “You know George?” I asked.

  She sipped tea from her mug, which had a butterfly on it. “Yeah. We used to work together at a restaurant downtown.”

  “El Paraiso?”

  She nodded. “You know it?”

  So that’s why Galigani had wanted to talk to her. She had worked at El Paraiso.

  Her boss had been murdered. He probably needed to talk to all the employees.

  Did that include George?

  I brought the mug to my lips.

  Hold on a second. Brad and Michelle were both dead. This lady could be a murderer. Certainly it couldn’t be a good idea to ingest something she had prepared for me. I scribbled a note in my notebook: Next time interviewing suspect bring own water.

  “I was at El Paraiso the other day. Looking for George,” I said, placing the mug on the floor beside me.

  “He owe you money or something?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just. . well, my husband and I haven’t seen him in a long time. Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.

  “I only see him now and then. Not regular anymore, since I stopped working at El Paraiso.”

  “When did you stop working there?”

  A strand of blond hair had worked its way free from her braid. She tucked it behind an ear. “End of May.”

  “Do you know what George does there?”

  She looked at me for a second, slowly placing her teacup down. “Are you with the police?”

  This was the second time someone had asked me about being in law enforcement. What could George be doing?

  I plucked stray cat fur off my pants. “I heard George did delivery but I called to order something the other night and was told they don’t deliver.”

  Jennifer smirked.

  “Do you know if he still works there?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I heard he’s still there.”

  “From who?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m pretty good friends with the manager, Rich.”

  Him again?

  “Did you know the owner, Brad Avery?”

  Her eyes clouded over. “Sure. Course.”

  “You know he was killed?”

  “Yeah, Rich told me. Awful, huh. Somebody shot him!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “What kind of world are we living in?” She tsked.

  “I know.” I tsked along with her.

  “Rich told me Brad was killed in June. His body must have been weighed down somehow all this time in the bay.” Jennifer shuddered. “It’s terrible.”

  “It’s a shame,” I agreed.

  I leaned in close, trying a girlfriend to girlfriend, very confidential, tactic. I used my best stage whisper. “I think Brad was having a tough time with his marriage.” Jennifer eyes grew wide. I waved off her shock. “You probably already knew that.”

  She circled the top of her mug with her finger. “What do you mean?”

  “I was friends with his wife. He was leaving her for another woman.”

  She looked around uncomfortably.

  “He left her on June fifteenth, the same day he was murdered,” I continued.

  Jennifer sipped her tea. “I was with my boyfriend, Winter, on June fifteenth.”

  “How do you remember that?” I asked.

  “Easy. I was with him every night in June, July, and August. Our first night apart was Labor Day.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Brad?” I pressed.

  She tapped her teacup, shrugging. “I don’t know. What about his wife? You said he left her. Or the ex? He’d been married before and I don’t think it ended well.”

  She seemed to know a lot about him.

  “What do you know about the ex?” I asked.

  “Svetlana?” Her eyes darted around the room. “Not much. She’s cool.”

  “Were you close to Brad?”

  She retreated slightly. “He was my boss. People gossip about the boss is all.”

  “Anyone gossip about who he was seeing?”

  She flushed. “People gossip about everything. You’re friends with the wife. I’m sure you know.”

  Know what?

  I shook my head. “Michelle didn’t know who he was seeing.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Well, let’s keep it that way,” she spat.

  “That won’t be hard. She’s dead.”

  Jennifer gasped. “Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with a ring-ladened hand, shaking her head back and forth in denial. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I found her dead in her house yesterday.”

  She rose and crossed to a bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bong. “Want a hit?”

  “No. No. I’ll pass.”

  She frowned. “It’s just a little weed, no big deal.”

  “I just had a baby. I’m nursing,” I explained, mentally kicking myself. Why did I have to defend myself and my choices to this woman I barely knew?

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “Were you with Winter yesterday morning?”

  “Winter? No. I was working. I work down the street at Heavenly Haight. I open the store every morning at eight A.M.”

  “Where was your boyfriend yesterday?”

  “What?”

  I was fishing now, but I pressed on. “Out of curiosity, where was Winter?”

  Jennifer looked down a moment. She took her time preparing the bong. “Winter and I broke up. I thought he was pretty cool at first, but it wasn’t working out. I don’t know where he was yesterday.”

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “You want to talk to him?” she asked, shocked.

  “My friend is dead. I’d like to talk to anyone who could help.”

  Begrudgingly she gave me Winter’s full name and phone number.

  Something didn’t ring true. I wanted to check her story with Winter, but first I had to go home. It was time to feed Laurie. My breasts were starting to hurt. I worried about mastitis, although I wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Could it be related to plugged milk ducts? I didn’t know what that was either. Whatever they were, neither sounded good, and I knew I didn’t want them.

  •CHAPTER TWELVE•

  The Third Week-Ah

  I steered the Chevy home, and nearly had a heart attack when I saw Galigani’s Honda parked across the street.

  Was he staking out my house?

  Don’t get paranoid, Kate.
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  I pulled into the garage and ran upstairs. Mother was watching the Spanish language station. Laurie was asleep in the bassinet.

  “What are you doing?” I asked Mom.

  “I’m trying to learn Spanish.”

  “Why?” I glanced at the screen. El Gordo y La Flaca was on.

  “Because Hank asked me to go with him on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera.”

  I strained to look out the window at Galigani’s car.

  “Did anyone call or ring the bell or anything?”

  “No. So, is it okay with you, dear?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll only be gone a week. But I wanted to make sure I clear any vacation plans with you first. Because of Laurie.

  Who’ll watch her when you need to go shopping? What did you get anyway?” She searched the floor for shopping bags.

  “Oh. Nothing. Nothing fit.”

  Mother mistook my distraction as disappointment. “Don’t worry, dear, it’s only been a few weeks. You’ll get your figure back in no time.”

  “Mom, I need to go downstairs a minute, okay?”

  She stared after me as I closed the front door behind me and ran down the steps.

  Was Galigani having trouble with his car again?

  As I approached, I noticed he was slumped over the steering wheel. I felt faint.

  Oh, sweet Jesus. Not again.

  I knocked on his window. He didn’t move. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. He looked pretty lifeless.

  Had someone killed Galigani in front of my house?

  I ran back inside the house, ignoring the excruciating pain that shot through my hips and pelvic bones. I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1.

  Mom noticed the alarm on my face. “What it is, dear?”

  “I don’t know.” Please don’t be dead, I prayed. “There’s a man parked outside and he’s slumped over the steering wheel.”

  Mother rushed to the window. “Do you know him?”

  I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally, not wanting to lie again, but not wanting to tell the truth either. How many white lies can a person tell before it catches up to her? Before she becomes a liar?

  “Is he a neighbor?” Mom persisted, squinting through the front window, trying to get a good look into the Honda.

  I ignored Mom and told the 9-1-1 operator what I knew.

  The operated asked, “Does it appear that a crime has been committed? Does the victim have a gunshot wound or anything?”

  “Not that I can tell. He’s doubled over the steering wheel.”

  “Does he respond when you knock on the window?”

  “No.”

  “Do you know CPR?”

  “Yes.”

  “All right, ma’am, I’m calling the EMTs. They’ll be there shortly. In the meantime, you can try to gain access to the car and attempt CPR.”

  Maybe I could break a window?

  Well, at least I knew there was no one lurking in the car.

  I searched my front room for a heavy object.

  Nothing.

  I ran to the closet and fumbled around inside. The best I could do was grab a broom. I sprinted down the steps.

  Please don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, I chanted as I made my way toward Galigani’s car.

  Mom watched from the window as I swung the broom over my head.

  Wait. I hadn’t even tried the doors. I let the broom drop to the ground and tried the driver’s door.

  The door opened. I could hear sirens approaching. I pulled Galigani away from the steering wheel. His body was wet and hot. Blood?

  I shook him and called his name, trying to get a better look at him and any injuries he might have. As I pulled him toward the open door and light, he tumbled onto the cement, taking me with him. The sirens grew louder. Suddenly, I was looking straight into the grill of a rapidly approaching fire truck.

  Please God, don’t let me die this way.

  I tried to push Galigani’s huge mass off me. He weighed a ton, but I had a tiny infant to live for. I heaved against him with all my might. My forgotten ab muscles were screaming out, as if to say: “Sure! You don’t work us for nine months and now you want action?”

  Tires screeched and ground into the cement.

  My heart was in my throat. The truck had stopped inches from me.

  I took as deep a breath as I could, with Galigani on top of me.

  I tried again to push him off me. I could see boots approaching. Two pairs.

  The men in the boots rolled Galigani off me. I gasped for air. One gave Galigani CPR. The other bent over me. I tried to get up. He restrained my shoulders with his hands.

  “Lie still, ma’am,” he said, hovering over me. His breath smelled like mint. His brown eyes searched my face.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Even so, just give me a minute.” He wrapped his fingers under my head and gave me a gentle head massage. “Just looking for any abnormalities.”

  “I’ve often thought my head should be examined for abnormalities.”

  He smiled. “From the fall. You don’t seem to have any.”

  I refrained from telling him where I’d landed, lest he want to check my ass for any abnormalities. He helped me to my feet. I glanced over at Galigani. No blood. His shirt was soaked through with sweat. What could have happened?

  Another car approached.

  A police cruiser.

  Inspector McNearny lurched out of the car and approached the firefighter who’d been helping me. They discussed something in hushed tones. The other firefighter continued to give Galigani CPR.

  I stepped forward to see how Galigani was progressing and hell, I’ll admit it, to try and eavesdrop on McNearny. My foot kicked something on the ground.

  Galigani’s notebook!

  Without taking my eyes off McNearny, I quickly scooped it up and slipped it into my back pocket.

  After a moment, McNearny broke away and approached me.

  “What a coincidence,” I said in my best sarcastic tone.

  “No coincidence, Mrs. Connolly. I already told you I don’t believe in those. I requested the dispatch office alert me regarding any calls from your residence, especially after your 9-1-1 fiasco the other night. You remember, your husband broke into his own house.”

  Jerk.

  “How nice. I feel much safer now.” I smiled my best smart-ass smile.

  He indicated the abandoned broom, which now lay near the front tires of Galigani’s Honda. “What happened? Did you sweep him to death?”

  “I found his car parked here. He was slumped over the steering wheel. The broom was to assist me with the rescue attempt.”

  McNearny glared at me. “How?”

  “I thought I might have to break a window to get him out of the car.”

  “Do you know him? Is he your friend, too?”

  I bit my lip. I felt a lie bubbling up. What good would it do? When had I become a liar anyway?

  “He’s a PI. His name’s Galigani.”

  “He’s my friend,” McNearny said, his eyes settling onto mine. The animosity between us seemed to dissipate.

  An ambulance arrived. The firefighters put Galigani onto a stretcher.

  “Is he alive?” I asked.

  “Barely,” one paramedic responded.

  We watched the ambulance screech off, sirens screaming.

  “Former cop,” McNearny said. “He was my first partner when I joined the force fourteen years ago. I need to follow them to the hospital. Try and stay out of trouble.”

  As soon as Mom left, I lay down on the couch and snuggled Laurie, her little breaths warming my arm. I rubbed her tummy and she made a soft “ah” sound.

  My thoughts drifted to Galigani. Was this an attempt at murder? Would he survive? I felt chilled and scared. I double-checked the locks on the doors and windows and returned to my position on the couch, bringing along a throw blanket.

  Then I picked up his notebook and devoured it.

&n
bsp; • Brad Avery, recovered pier 23 on Sept 19. Body decomposed, coroner puts date of death on or around June 15. Cause of death, bullet wound to the head. 9mm Luger. Survived by G. Avery (mother), S. Avery (ex-wife), and M. Avery (wife).

  • Last seen by M. Avery June 15. On the record, reported fight with B. Avery, due to extramarital affair. Unable to locate party who’d been having an affair with B. Avery.

  • G. Connolly bags recovered on Sept 19 at pier 23. Last known address-1482 Rivera (March 9), evicted by Sheriff for wielding chainsaw at property owner Roger Connolly. Unable to locate G. Connolly. Connection to B. Avery?

  • M. Avery found dead on October 3, by K. Connolly (high school friend). Appears to have alibi for June 15. No apparent motive.

  • M. Avery survived by KelliAnn Dupree (half sister) last known address-1878 Haight Street, Apt 304. Cause of death, overdose of diazepam in combination with alcohol. Suicide?

  • Interview scheduled October 8: Kiku Ajari 1:00 pm.

  Tucked in the back of his notebook was a list of possible gun manufacturers that matched the rifling on the 9mm luger bullet recovered. I examined the list. The only manufacturers I had heard of were Berretta and Smith and Wesson. I’d need to ask Jim about it. Growing up with a father from Montana who’d introduced Jim to hunting, he understood more about guns than I did.

  I reread Galigani’s notes. George had threatened Uncle Roger. With a chainsaw no less! That’s why Roger had finally kicked him out. It was also probably the reason he hadn’t come to Jim and me. If George had become violent with Roger, then certainly killing Brad would be in the realm of possibility.

  What about Michelle? Suicide? Not likely. She confided to me she had been scared, worried that whoever killed Brad might come after her. Why would she tell me that if it wasn’t true? Unless she killed Brad and said it to cover her guilt. Then ended up killing herself because the guilt was too great? Could she have accidentally overdosed? Maybe KelliAnn could shed light on this.

  I reflected on KelliAnn’s address. She lived in the building on Haight Street I’d first followed Galigani to. I thought he’d gone to see Jennifer in Apartment 303, but I was wrong. He had been going there to see KelliAnn. Was it a coincidence that hippie chick Jennifer had worked at El Paraiso?

  Laurie stirred next to me, stretching her arms over her head like a kitten. I nuzzled her and she settled back to sleep.