Bundle of Trouble Page 5

CHAPTER FIVE•

  The Second Week—Bonding

  I sped home. I missed Laurie so much, it hurt. I parked my car and transferred George’s bags from the trunk to a shelf in the garage. They seemed too heavy to lug upstairs. Or was I too weak? Either way, I’d ask Jim to bring them up when he got home.

  I hobbled up the stairs, clinging to the banister. The ligaments in my pelvis felt sore and tight. This was normal for me when I started up my running routine after having a long break, but a three-block walk was hardly the equivalent of a three-mile run, right? Maybe an outing so soon after having a baby hadn’t been such a good idea.

  Once upstairs, I barely looked at Mom. I scooped Laurie from the bassinet. “Did she miss me?”

  Mom laughed. “No. She didn’t even wake up.”

  Mom made her way toward the kitchen. I limped after her and saw pots boiling on the stove.

  “I made us lunch.” She handed me a plate with a ham and provolone cheese sandwich, my favorite. The table was set with a pitcher of homemade iced tea.

  “Thanks, Mom. What’s on the stove?”

  “Your dinner.”

  I smiled. Mom winked and put two tablets of Motrin in my hand, then poured me a glass of tea. Nothing like a mommy. I gazed down at Laurie, in her new bright green booties, and eagerly swallowed the pills.

  After Mom left, I nursed Laurie and tried to rest. I thought about bringing George’s bags up from the garage, but that would mean, of course, getting up and going downstairs. I shifted my position on the couch; Laurie snuggled close to me.

  I’d get them in a minute . . .

  I looked at Laurie dozing in my arms. I stared and stared at her, her perfect little round face, rosy cheeks, and tiny chin. When I glanced at the clock, I was shocked to see that an hour had gone by. I nestled her closer and closed my eyes.

  I woke to a ringing phone.

  Oh my God! I had fallen asleep next to Laurie on the couch! I could have rolled over and squished her. And I hadn’t actually checked to see if she was breathing in—how long?

  What time was it?

  I put my hand to her tummy; it rose up and down.

  I grabbed the cordless and Jim’s voice filled the line. “Definitely not George Connolly! What a relief!”

  “You obviously got my message.”

  “Yes. Thank God! Listen, honey, a client called last minute, wants to do dinner and drinks, is that okay with you? This is a big account for me. I should go.”

  I yawned. “No problem. I’ll just be hanging out here enjoying my new favorite pastime.”

  “What’s that?”

  “Staring at my beautiful daughter.”

  The next morning I fed Laurie and got dressed, two activities that are mind-numbingly simple but took over an hour.

  How could one little infant be so much work? It took almost forty minutes to feed her. Oh, well, I could take comfort in the fact that we were getting better. We were twenty minutes faster than last week.

  Before heading to Michelle’s, I reviewed my to-do list.

   

  To Do:

  1. Get better at breastfeeding.

  2. Lose weight.

  3. Take a gazillion photos of Laurie.

  4. Call work and let them know about Laurie and plan a return date—yuk!

  5. George? Where is he? What’s happened to him? Check out his bags today, see what I can find.

  6. Visit Michelle.

  7. Return well-wishers’ phone calls (Paula, Andrew, etc.).

  8. Make dinner.

  I parked outside the Averys’ refurbished Victorian house on Noe Street. It was dark green with white trim and there were delicate potted yellow flowers on each step. I couldn’t wait to get a peek inside.

  I hopped out of the car with a little too much gusto. My body immediately complained. I fished for the Motrin in my purse.

  I pulled a screaming Laurie out of the car. Well, not entirely screaming. Newborns are funny that way. They try to scream, but only a pitiful little cry comes out.

  Poor thing. Can’t even cry properly yet.

  I hiked up the front walk toward the Avery home, rang the bell, and rocked Laurie back and forth, hoping she would quiet down before Michelle answered.

  The door swung open, revealing Michelle clad in a silk dress and stocking feet. Laurie wailed at the top of her little lungs.

  Michelle ushered me into her living room. “Come in, come in.” She peered over the blanket at Laurie. “Oh! She’s too cute! What can I get you? I have a wonderful chardonnay.”

  I settled onto the sofa. “I’d love to, but I can’t. I’m breastfeeding. I’ll have some water.”

  Michelle was eagerly cooing at Laurie, ignoring me. “She’s beautiful, absolutely beautiful. She looks nothing like you.”

  I laughed. “Thanks.”

  “Oh my God, I didn’t mean that. You’re beautiful, you know that, Katie. I just meant . . . well, she’s so fair, so blond, so delicate.”

  “Don’t worry, I know what you meant,” I said, self-consciously running my hand through my dark curls. Had I even brushed my hair today?

  Michelle extracted herself from Laurie and disappeared down the hall. I glanced at myself in the mirror above her fireplace. I relaxed. My locks were in place. Somehow, I’d managed to whip a comb through my hair. And Jim’s red flannel shirt, the only thing I could find that I fit into, actually added some color to my face. I may not have been dressed as stylishly as Michelle, but at least I was keeping up with general hygiene and good grooming.

  On her mantel I noticed photos of Michelle and a man I assumed was Brad. There was a picture of them swimming with a dolphin, one of them on their wedding day, and another standing next to Michelle’s mother, who was in a wheelchair.

  Michelle reappeared, carrying a tray with mineral water and a newly opened bottle of wine.

  “I thought you moved to L.A. Trying to make a go of the acting thing after making off with my award,” I joked.

  “Are you still sore about that?” Michelle laughed, then became serious. “I came back to San Francisco when I found out my mom was sick. She died of cancer last year.”

  “I’m sorry.”

  Michelle nodded. “How’s your mom?”

  “Great. Crazy about Laurie.”

  “I’ll bet.” Michelle took a sip of wine.

  “What’s up with your sister?” I asked.

  Michelle grimaced. Either the wine was bitter or I’d asked the wrong question.

  “Oh, we’re on-again, off-again. She was no help with my mother, as you can imagine, and even though I’ve called her a bunch of times since . . . since Brad . . .” Michelle studied her nails a moment, then shrugged. “I called her last night to tell her you were coming over for lunch. I thought she might want to join us . . . Well, she’s probably busy, is all.”

  Michelle’s half sister, KelliAnn, had gone to school with us for only a short time. Despite Michelle’s parents’ long-term marriage, her father had had an affair and the by-product was KelliAnn.

  Michelle and I looked at each other in awkward silence. “Do you want to see the house?” she asked.

  “Sure.”

  Her home was beautifully restored. Wooden, built-in buffets in the dining room and built-in bookshelves gave the house a classic feel, while wainscoting and hardwood floors warmed it up.

  The bedrooms were smaller than the other rooms, in keeping with the tradition of the era in which it was built. Entertaining was important, large sitting rooms and family rooms dominated the houses, leaving only a small area for sleeping quarters with no closet space. The master bath had vintage purple tile and lilac paint.

  “I couldn’t bring myself to knock out that tile, it’s so wild,” Michelle said.

  I laughed. “It suits you.”

  Michelle face warmed with a smile. “Thank you.” She sighed. “Brad hated it.”

  Silence fell between us. Finally I said, “Did you restore the house yourself?”

  “I
t’s my hobby. When we bought it two years ago, it was in shambles.”

  We ended our tour back in the living room, where Laurie had finally settled down and was now content in her car seat. Michelle gazed at Laurie. “Brad wanted kids, but . . .” She picked up her wine and swirled it in the glass. “Not with me.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “The last time I saw Brad, he told me he was leaving me . . . that he was in love with someone else. This might be a terrible thing to say, Kate, but I didn’t mind all that much. He was unhappy. I knew that. Unhappy with me, with our marriage, with our life in general, I suppose. So, when he said he was leaving, I accepted it.”

  She wrapped a strand of her long hair around two fingers. “I thought he’d left me. Then this police officer comes over last week, tells me they’d matched the dental records and that Brad was . . .” She covered her face with her hands.

  What do you say in situations like this?

  I patted her back. “I’m so sorry, Michelle.”

  “I told the officer that Brad left me on June fifteenth and I hadn’t seen him since. I told him . . . about Brad’s affair. The officer kind of insinuated that . . . well, he made me feel like he was accusing me or something. Can you imagine? Like, I was so upset about Brad leaving me and the affair and all, that I could have shot him and dumped him in the bay. Isn’t that ridiculous?” She refilled her wineglass. “I told them to go look into the other woman.” She rubbed at her eyes. “They said, you won’t believe this, that maybe there was no other woman.”

  “Do you know who she is?” I asked.

  “How would I know!”

  Oops. Wrong question again.

  I shrugged. “I thought maybe he told you. On the night he was leaving, he could have told you.”

  “He didn’t. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m not myself. I’m edgy . . . I’m—”

  “You don’t have to explain.”

  Michelle put down her glass and cradled her forehead. “I have to find out what happened to Brad. They think it’s likely he died the same day he left me, because of the condition of his body.”

  “Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

  She shook her head, looking overwhelmed. “No. I don’t. I was with George Connolly that night.”

  My heart stopped. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

  Michelle polished off her wine, then sighed. “He works at our restaurant. Well, I guess it’s my restaurant now, now that Brad’s . . . George was here that night. The night Brad left me.” She closed her eyes. “The night Brad was killed.”

  “What was George doing here?”

  “He drops off the deposits from the restaurant.” She paused to refill her glass. “Only don’t tell anybody I told you so.”

  “Why not?”

  “Well, it’s just that . . . see, if George’s bags were found on the pier where Brad was recovered . . . well, it’s really too coincidental to be a coincidence, isn’t it?”

  “You think George killed Brad?”

  “No. I was with George, so I know he didn’t. He couldn’t have. But, well, what would the police think if I told them that? They’d think that George and I killed Brad together. I mean, if George is my alibi and he looks guilty, then it doesn’t look good for me, does it? So, I lied.”

  She took another sip of wine, which turned into a kind of a guzzle, then refilled her glass with the last of the wine. Where was the food? Hadn’t she promised me lunch? Was a bottle of wine lunch for her?

  “What did you tell them?” I asked, wondering if I had any crackers in Laurie’s diaper bag.

  “That I was home alone after Brad left. That I didn’t know George Connolly.”

  “Michelle, how can you expect the police to think you don’t know him if he works for you?”

  “He works under the table, you know, for cash, so he’s not on any employee list or payroll or anything.” She finished off the wine, then wiped her mouth with the back of her hand, smearing her pink lipstick.

  “Where can I find George?”

  “He should be at the restaurant, El Paraiso, on Market Street. Kate, why did they call you about the bags? I mean, what was in them?”

  “They couldn’t find George.”

  Michelle nodded. “He likes keeping a low profile, which is good. Was there anything, you know, special in his bags?”

  Like what?

  “I haven’t opened them.”

  Michelle looked disappointed.

  What was she looking for?

  We stared awkwardly at each other. Finally Michelle said, “I’m scared, Kate. What if . . . whoever killed Brad . . . what if I’m next?”

  •