Motherhood Is Murder mim-2 Page 3

  I leveled my stare at him. “Only my own spouse.” “Did your husband know anyone?”

  I shook my head again.

  Lee’s expression looked sour. “I don’t get it.”

  “Get what?”

  “Why you would go on a dinner cruise with a group of people you don’t know.”

  “Like I said, I met Helene and Margaret, they were funny and smart and invited me to join this mommy support club.”

  He wrote in his pad and said slowly, “Mom-my support.” He finished writing and looked up. “What’s that mean?”

  Another Pac-Man bit the dust and the music played as the token crumpled into thin air. I was beginning to feel aligned with the little game piece, running and dodging. And from Lee’s tone I feared that my end could be the same.

  “I wanted to talk to other moms. You know, have a peer group. Be able to check in with someone and make sure you’re not nuts.”

  He made another note. “So you feel like you’re going crazy?”

  Was this guy for real?

  I reflexively glanced around the room for the woman officer. Surely, she would understand.

  I shut my eyes and shook my head. “That’s not what I meant.”

  “I understand that you were away from your table when the accident occurred. Can you tell me your whereabouts around ten thirty P.M.?”

  “Well, I didn’t look at my watch, but I was in the ladies’ room when Sara told me the captain wanted us back at our tables.”

  Lee nodded. “And prior to that?”

  Another Pac-Man warbled to his demise.

  “I was on the upper deck, admiring the view of the Golden Gate.”

  “With whom?” Lee asked.

  “By myself.”

  Lee squinted at me. “Where was your husband?”

  “Dancing. Are you with homicide?”

  Lee looked surprised. “No. Why would you think the homicide division would be here?”

  Oh no! Way to put your foot in it, Kate!

  “Sorry. I . . . never mind.”

  Lee scowled and made another note. “So you were on the upper deck and your husband was on the main. Dancing? Alone?”

  “No. We’d been dancing together, but I got tired and wanted to get some air. Margaret had been sitting alone at our table for a while because her husband . . . well, actually, I don’t know where her husband was . . . maybe he just doesn’t dance. I asked Jim to dance with her because she looked lonely. And I went to the upper deck to get some air and enjoy the view.”

  “So you left your husband with Margaret?”

  I nodded.

  Lee narrowed his eyes at me. “Margaret was the one who found Helene at the bottom of the stairs.”

  “Uh-huh,” I answered, not following his train of thought.

  Lee pinched his lips together, then said in a condescending tone, “So, how can Margaret be dancing with your husband on the main deck and find her friend on the upper deck at the same time?”

  I shrugged. “Oh. Well, maybe she didn’t want to dance with Jim . . . I really don’t know, I haven’t asked him . . .”

  Lee shook his head at me. He looked as though he wanted to roll his eyes, but some ounce of professionalism remained because he controlled himself.

  “Did you see anyone on the upper deck?” he asked.

  “Yeah. There were people around.”

  “Who?”

  I stirred my coffee and thought.

  “Take your time,” Lee said, tapping his pen against the video glass top.

  “I don’t know, I wasn’t cataloging people. I mean, I don’t remember being entirely alone, people were hovering around oohing and aahing at the bridge. But I can’t exactly say who I saw.”

  Lee stopped tapping his pen. “I see. Were you upset with anyone here tonight?”

  “No, of course not.”

  “Did you argue or fight with anyone tonight?”

  “No.”

  “Did you see anyone arguing or overhear anything?”

  Evelyn accused Sara of fighting with Helene. Should I tell the officer that? But what did I really know?

  I shook my head. “I didn’t overhear any fights.”

  “When was the last time you saw Helene?”

  “After dinner. We were served dessert, but she didn’t eat hers. She said she needed a cigarette. So, she and Margaret went upstairs.”

  “Margaret?” Lee looked at his notebook and read back to me my own words. “ ‘Margaret had been sitting alone at our table for a while.’ ” He gestured with his hand for me to elaborate.

  “Yeah, that’s right, but it was later in the evening. Margaret did go upstairs with Helene, but then came back alone. At that point, dinner was over, so people were milling about. I didn’t keep track of everyone’s movements.”

  Maybe I should have.

  How would I ever make a good PI if I wasn’t more observant?

  “So, Helene said she wasn’t feeling well. Was she drunk?”

  I shrugged, recalling the empty glasses at her place. “She seemed a little tipsy.”

  Lee pulled his card from a breast pocket and handed it to me. “Okay, Mrs. Connolly, if you remember anything, call me. Otherwise, if I can see your driver’s license for a moment, I think we’re done here.”

  As I pulled my wallet from my purse, several slips of paper rained onto the floor. I grabbed the two by my feet, one a shopping list, the other my to-do list. Officer Lee retrieved the piece of paper near him. One of my homemade PI business cards.

  Oh no!

  Officer Lee read the card and frowned. “You’re an investigator?”

  “I . . . um . . . I’m trying to be.”

  Lee leaned in closer as the Pac-Man machine again killed off a character, the tune underscoring my feeling of consternation. He scratched his chin. “Anything else you can think of that you want to share with me right now?”

  “Like what?” I stuttered.

  Lee pressed his palms against the video game and closed in on me. “Mrs. Connolly, were you on this cruise for business?”

  “What? No. What do you mean?”

  Lee evaluated me for a long moment. I sat perfectly still, not even sure what expression I should put on my face.

  Finally Lee rested back into the lounge chair. “Okay. We’ll be in touch if we need anything else.”

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Nurture

  To Do: 1. Buy diapers.

  2. Make Laurie’s two-month check.

  3. Find good “how to” book for PI business.

  4. Exercise.

  5. What happened to Helene? Can I help the police?

  6. Is there any way to land this case as a PI?

  7. Buy Ricky Martin CD—seems to help Laurie sleep.

  Five A.M. and I cradled and nursed Laurie in our favorite spot in the living room. Not able to sleep but still being confined to the bedroom made no sense to me, so I’d gotten used to packing Laurie up in her bassinet and wheeling everything to the living room at first light.

  Who was I kidding?

  There was no light at 5 A.M.—not in November in San Francisco. The first light usually hit after the entire nursing routine was over and Laurie had a fresh diaper and a full tummy and was down to sleep again—around 6 A.M.

  Jim and I had arrived home past two in the morning and found Mom asleep on the couch, apparently tuckered out from sambaing with Hank, Ricky Martin, and Laurie.

  By all accounts, I should have been in bed fast asleep, but I’d missed Laurie terribly and was trying to make up for lost time.

  I was stunned by last night’s events. How could Helene be dead? She had been so alive, so full of energy, only hours ago. How tragic for her life to be cut short.

  What about her kids? How many? How old were they? Now they would have to grow up without a mommy.

  My heart felt heavy. I clutched Laurie and wept.

  Mortality.

  I squeezed and nuzzled Laurie into my neck and tried to pull whatever comfort I could from the living. Here I held a brand-new baby in my arms, so much ahead of her. All of life, with challenges, with blessings, ups and d
owns. And I wanted to be there. I wanted to be next to her to support and love her.

  I stroked her soft down-like hair and she closed her eyes appreciatively.

  “Mommy loves you,” I said. “I’m always going to be here for you.”

  Her eyes opened and she stared straight up at me. A smile crossed her face, and miraculously, she looked as though she had understood me perfectly. She cooed at me.

  “Yes, peanut, Mommy loves you.”

  She grinned.

  “And you love Mommy!” I tickled her tummy.

  She giggled.

  My heart skipped a beat.

  My little peanuty pie was growing up so fast! Only seven weeks old and already we were practically having a conversation!

  Laurie lost interest in my face and cried out, rooting for milk.

  Okay, so maybe we had a ways to go before we could actually have a conversation.

  I held her tiny hand and rubbed it. Between the fingers I found lint.

  Lint?

  I had bathed her last night; where had the lint come from?

  I absently picked at it, my mind drifted back to Helene.

  What could have happened to her? I recounted the events of the evening; maybe I could come up with something for Officer Lee.

  We’d had dinner, then the server had brought dessert.

  Was I the only one who ate it?

  Ate? Inhaled was more like it.

  I recalled the sweet ice cream perfectly complementing the tart apple turnover . . .

  Did we have anything sugary in the fridge? Or in the cupboards? Cookies, cake, anything—5 A.M. wasn’t such a bad time for a midnight snack, was it?

  In fact, if I stayed up, I could call it breakfast.

  Laurie fidgeted in my arms, bringing me back to attention. I burped her, then brought my focus back to Helene.

  She hadn’t touched her dessert. No wonder she was lean and mean. Not an ounce of fat on that woman. She’d fidgeted with the dessert fork, then pulled some Nicorette patches off her arm and declared them utterly failed. She’d stood and said she was going upstairs to smoke. I recalled her husband’s look of despair—or was it disgust?—when she said that. Margaret went with her to smoke, and her husband had taken off in the opposite direction toward the bar.

  That was it.

  That was the last time I’d seen Helene.

  At 9:00 A.M. Laurie went down for a nap and Jim made us homemade waffles and strong coffee for breakfast. As I cut into the first bite of my waffle, the phone rang.

  Jim and I eyed each other, hoping the other would answer the phone. He looked as if he had no intention of making a move. I shoved the bite of waffle into my mouth and jutted my chin toward the phone indicating for him to pick it up.

  “You know it’s for you,” he said.

  Jim had long ago stopped answering our home phone, since about 90 percent of the calls were for me. Any of Jim’s personal friends called him directly on his cell phone. We had an ongoing joke that he deliberately directed traffic there so I wouldn’t know who he was talking to.

  I swallowed the waffle, washing it down with coffee, then reached across the table and picked up the cordless phone on the fourth ring. “Hello?”

  “Kate? This is Margaret. I was calling to let you know. Uh—” Her voice caught and I heard her sob. “Helene died last night.”

  My stomach tightened, the coffee I had enjoyed just moments ago turned bitter. Margaret was confirming information I already suspected, and yet the news, the reality of it, struck me. I had hardly known Helene, but she was this woman’s best friend and her pain was palpable even through the phone line.

  I pushed my breakfast plate aside. “I’m so sorry, Margaret. What happened?”

  “We don’t know, Kate. She’s still at the . . . medical examiner’s . . . Alan told me that by the time he got to her, she was unconscious. It didn’t seem to him that she had any broken bones, but her breathing was shallow and . . . well, he gave her CPR but . . .” Margaret sobbed. “By the time the Coast Guard got there, she was already gone.”

  Jim watched me, then reached for my hand and gave it a sympathetic squeeze.

  “I don’t know about the services yet. They still have her . . .” Another sob caught up with Margaret. “Sorry. I . . .”

  “No problem,” I said.

  “We’re waiting on the ME before we make the arrangements, but I . . . I’ll let you know about the services.” Panic filled her voice. “You’ll come, won’t you?”

  The church was cold and dark. I sat in the back, waiting for the mourners to file in. I had barely known Helene, so I felt somewhat like a voyeur. What was I doing at the poor woman’s funeral? And yet, I felt it essential to be there.

  I was inexplicably tied to these women now, this mommy group. I was present the night Helene died and it linked me somehow to them.

  I watched as Margaret and her husband, Alan, entered Saints Peter and Paul Church, the light from the stained glass windows casting curious shadows on her face and dress. Margaret had on a black dress that was short in the front while long and flowing in the back. I wouldn’t have thought it appropriate for a funeral service, but her graceful movements made the dress soft instead of flashy.

  A few moments passed as Margaret and her husband walked down the aisle of the church and seated themselves near the front. Shortly after, Sara entered the church escorted by one of the pallbearers. She was dressed in a J.Crew cashmere sweater and black slacks, her hair pulled back in tight chignon. As her gaze fell on me, she scowled.

  Was it a scowl?

  At the very least a frown. Maybe she was just wondering what I was doing there.

  Others entered the church and were seated by the pallbearers. I watched for Evelyn, but she didn’t attend. Losing a member of her mothers’ club at this late stage of her pregnancy couldn’t be easy on her.

  Wait.

  What had Sara said? Something about Evelyn not being a part of Roo amp; You anymore. Why would she be on the cruise if she wasn’t a member of the group?

  My thoughts were interrupted by the altar boys entering the church; the service was about to begin.

  I spotted Helene’s husband, Bruce, in the first row next to an older couple. By his resemblance to the older man, I guessed the couple were his parents.

  Where was Helene’s family? And their children? I didn’t see any small children at all. Could they be with her parents?

  Bruce gave a moving eulogy about his and Helene’s dreams for the future. He described their first meeting and shared a story about their honeymoon. He seemed grieved and shocked by her death.

  He didn’t mention any children.

  Why?

  After the service, the casket was carried to the hearse. A woman, with flawless olive-colored skin, handed me a card with directions to the cemetery and the reception at Bruce’s parents’ house. As I took the card from her, Margaret appeared next to me.

  “Kate,” Margaret said, clutching at my elbow. “I’m so glad you made it.” Mascara filled the lines around her eyes. She dabbed at them furiously with a crumpled handkerchief, making them red and swollen.

  The woman with the beautiful olive skin handed Margaret a card. “Do you need directions to the cemetery, Margaret?”

  Margaret released her clutch from my elbow and fumbled for the card. “I don’t know.” She gestured to her husband, who was standing next to the circle of attendees surrounding Bruce. “I’m sure Alan knows the way, but I’ll take one just in case. Celia, have you met Kate Connolly?”

  Celia appraised me with her dark eyes. “No.” She smiled a wide smile and stretched out her hand. “Celia Martin.”

  I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

  Margaret resumed her clutch on my arm. “Kate is a private investigator.”

  I felt myself flush inwardly. Could I really pass myself off as a PI?

  Why did I ever give that PI card to Margaret?

  Okay, I had somehow fumbled through a case a few weeks ago, but I didn’t even have a license.

  And yet, the prideful s
ide of me or the incredibly stupid side, if they are even different, found myself nodding and saying, “Yup”—like that was really going to convince anyone of my qualifications! “Yup”! Like an idiot! I didn’t say the proper word, “yes,” only “yup,” which rhymes with “pup,” which sounds like “schmuck”—how fitting.