Bundle of Trouble (28 page)

“No. I don’t.”

A tear slipped down Mrs. Avery’s face. I bit my tongue, suppressing my newly acquired maternal instinct to comfort her. Mrs. Avery delicately wiped her cheeks with the lace hankie. I swallowed the last of my omelet and sighed.

 

 

After leaving the Olympic Club, I made my way directly home. I glanced at my watch. I was a little late, but not by much. Still plenty of time for Jim to get to his meeting with his former client.

He greeted me at the door carrying Laurie and looking frantic. Laurie’s red face was howling up at him, her little fists waving about.

“Thank God you’re here. She won’t stop crying!”

I pulled her into my arms. She immediately stopped.

“Must be nice to be the favorite,” Jim said.

“Not the favorite. Just the mommy. You said she only slept when I was gone!”

Jim threw his arms up in despair. “That was last time.”

“Did you change her diaper?”

“Yeah.”

“Did you feed her?”

“I tried. No go.”

“What about the pacifier?”

“She threw it at me!” He collapsed onto his favorite easy chair. “I’ve tried everything!”

“Did you try the baby carrier?” I pointed to the contraption that was slung on the couch in the exact location I had left it yesterday.

“I don’t even know how to put that thing on.”

“I showed you how to put it on.”

“I don’t remember.”

“You don’t remember or you weren’t listening?”

Jim shrugged. “It’s hard to think fast under all the pressure.”

“Pressure?”

“The crying.”

I laughed. “She’s a baby.”

“I know. A crybaby. Except when Mommy’s around.”

I showed him for the umpteenth time how to put the baby carrier on. I must admit with the millions of snaps, straps, and hooks, it’s not the easiest process in the world to remember, but after you’ve done it a few times, it becomes second nature.

Jim put the carrier on, picked up Laurie, and snuggled her into it. She instantly laid her head against his heart. Within moments of Jim pacing back and forth, Laurie was asleep.

“Aw,” Jim said, “feels nice.”

“To hold her?”

“Yeah. When she’s quiet.”

I filled him in on my brunch at the country club. “And guess what?” Jim watched me expectantly. “I gave her my bill. The retainer, plus all my time so far at two hundred bones an hour. She didn’t balk at all.”

Jim leaned in and kissed me. “I’m very proud of you, honey.” He headed toward our bedroom.

I followed. “I’ll be proud when I figure out who did it.”

“Oh. Your mom called. Said her new boyfriend, Hank, told her that if someone’s been drinking, then as little as five pills of diaze . . . something or other—”

“Diazepam?”

“Yeah. That’s it. Five pills could bump someone off.” He placed Laurie in her bassinet and began to select a suit. “Do you know what that means?”

I felt a dull pain at the base of my neck. “Unfortunately, yes. It means Kiku had enough pills to kill Michelle.”

Jim pulled on tan slacks and a white dress shirt. “Honey, if you discover who the murderer is and it turns out it’s not the person you wanted it to be, you still have an obligation to tell Mrs. Avery.”

“But Kiku’s going to have a baby, and if she’s in jail . . .” I stopped myself short, suddenly emotional.

Jim hugged me. “You can’t stress yourself out about that. You have to be realistic. If she’s a murderer, then, obviously, she wouldn’t be a fit mother.”

He released me and studied my face.

“But I really like Kiku. She’s so nice. And it may turn out that Michelle committed suicide. Besides, Mrs. Avery only hired me—”

“Kate! You’re not that naïve. You have to be honest. With yourself
and
the authorities.”

“I know. I know. You’re right. I think the murders are linked, but I don’t think Kiku had a motive to kill Brad.”

“If Michelle
was
murdered, what would have been Kiku’s motive?” From the closet, Jim pulled out a gorgeous green tie with burgundy flecks. “This one okay?”

I nodded. “At one point, when I heard George was going over to Michelle’s at night and all, I thought they might be having an affair. Maybe Kiku thought the same thing. If she killed Brad, too, then she would have needed—”

Jim tightened his tie. “An accomplice?”

I nodded my agreement.

Jim pulled on a sports coat. “You can’t expect a pregnant woman to get rid of a body, can you?”

“I don’t want George to be responsible.”

Jim gave a sour laugh. “I’ve been wanting him to be responsible his whole life.”

“I meant . . .”

Jim’s face softened. “Whoever is responsible for these crimes needs to be held accountable.” He checked his hair in the mirror. “Regardless of his or her relationship to us. You need to do what’s right, Kate.”

I pressed my cheek against his. “You look incredibly sexy,” I whispered.

Jim wrapped his hands around my shoulders and pulled me close, kissing me deeply. I kissed him back as I undid his tie.

•CHAPTER TWENTY•

The Sixth Week—Muscle Control

The next morning at 5 A.M., I could hear Laurie shifting in her bassinet. I knew she’d be hungry soon.

I poked Jim. “Can you feed Laurie?”

He unglued one eye and looked at me. “How can I do that? I don’t have any boobs.”

“Mom bought us some formula bottles. They’re in the pantry. Can you give her one?”

“I thought you didn’t want to give her any formula.”

“Please just give her one,” I said.

“Yeah, yeah . . . sure,” he mumbled. He got up and returned with the formula. “What am I supposed to do with this?”

Laurie had begun to fuss.

“Jim, I’m exhausted. Can you please figure it out?”

Somehow, he managed to grasp that the only thing necessary was to uncap the premade formula and screw the nipple onto the bottle.

He picked Laurie up and placed her between us. She immediately started rooting at me and wailing even louder. As soon as Jim put the bottle in her mouth, she quieted down.

Hmmm? She was drinking the formula! That seemed kind of easy.

Why was I going through the pain and exhaustion of breastfeeding?

Then I remembered all the benefits. The uterus shrinking, immunization for Laurie, vitamins, blah-blah, all the things they had told me at the hospital.

Not to mention the extra five hundred calories a day I was supposedly burning.

I pulled the blankets up, feeling literally drained. I still needed to build up a supply of breast milk for Laurie, for my return to work. If she was drinking formula, this was the perfect opportunity to get up and use the pump.

I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself.

Was I returning to work?

Could I make this PI thing succeed?

I watched Jim feed Laurie. She snuggled into his arms. It was nice to have a little break, even though I was leaking everywhere.

I probably should have nursed her.

Instead, I selfishly pulled the covers over my head and tried to doze off.

Laurie began to cry. I pried an eye open and peeked over. Jim was asleep and had let the bottle fall out of her mouth. He continued to sleep through her cries.

I poked at him. “Jim.”

“Hmmm?”

“The baby. Feeding. Remember? Wife sleeping. Taking a break.”

“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, sticking the bottle back into Laurie’s mouth. She stopped crying long enough for me to get comfortable. Then the wailing began again.

Jim was back asleep. Laurie was rooting around for the bottle.

“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I grabbed the bottle and held it for her. Jim snored next to me.

There really is no substitute for maternal instinct.

My breasts were swollen and painful. That’s what I got for feeding her formula.

 

 

At 9 A.M., Jim was snoring and Laurie was still asleep from the formula. If it was helping her sleep, why was I opposed to it? I crawled out of bed and reviewed my to-do list.

 

1. Help Jim find a job.

2. Find Brad and/or Michelle and Svetlana’s killer.

3. Check in on Galigani.

4. Day care for Jelly Bean??

5. Take more pictures of my little lollypop.

6. Get a photo book for Lemon Drop!

7. Stop missing Laurie so much when I’m away from her.

I got dressed and noticed that my belt was in a notch. I couldn’t believe it! “Hey, honey,” I called excitedly to Jim, “look at this! I’ve lost an inch!”

Jim looked at me while rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “You’re the incredible shrinking woman.”

I had a long way to go before that was true, but at least this was progress.

“All right,” I said, prepping Jim. “Laurie should be hungry soon. There’s a milk bottle in the fridge for her.”

“Where are you going?”

“Over to Michelle’s. I need to do a little more investigating.”

 

 

I hopped into my Chevy and dialed Mrs. Avery. Marta told me Mrs. Avery was “in de Club.”

“Do you have a key to Brad’s house?”

“Keee?”

No, that was French.

Somewhere in the recess of my mind the word bubbled up.

“Llave?”
Marta clarified.

“Sí,”
I replied.

“You water plants today?”

What the hell.
“Sí.”

“Hokaay, you come pick up.”

 

 

I let myself into Michelle’s and wandered around the house aimlessly. No crime scene tape? Did that mean the police had ruled Michelle’s death a suicide?

I moved from room to room and tried to push from my mind the images of her body sprawled out in the dining room. In the kitchen I poured myself a glass of water and sat at the table, feeling an emptiness I hadn’t experienced before.

Although we had been out of touch for many years, Michelle had been a good friend in high school. It would have been nice to have the opportunity to reconnect with her.

I ended up in her bedroom, looking through her jewelry box, a simple wooden box with a mother-of-pearl lid.

Could the bracelet I found in George’s bag be Michelle’s? I recalled her handing it to me in front of the medical examiner’s office. Something nagged me. Had she recognized the bracelet? If it was hers, why not keep it? Why give it to me? Unless she
was
having an affair with George and didn’t want me to know her things were in his bag?

I ran my fingers across the expensive pieces in the box. Nothing resembled the silver bracelet. I wished I’d thought to show it to KelliAnn, Michelle’s half sister. She would have been able to tell me if it had been Michelle’s.

So if it wasn’t Kiku’s and probably not Michelle’s, who could that bracelet belong to, and what was George doing with it?

I recalled Jennifer’s silver rings. She’d worked at El Paraiso, and she was having an affair with Brad. Could it be her bracelet?

What if it was Jennifer’s bracelet and George, not Winter, her boyfriend, who had helped her kill Brad? How or why else would George have her bracelet?

I opened the closet door. It was deep, full of designer clothes, evening gowns, and a zillion of my favorite thing—shoes.

A black satin gown with silver trim caught my eye.

Ooh la la.

What function had Michelle worn this to? I imagined her at the country club with Brad and Mrs. Avery. Maybe a black-tie event, an auction, or a benefit.

I eyed a box from Via Spiga at my feet.

What size did she wear? Would there be any way a cute pair of shoes would ever fit my fat swollen feet?

I kicked the box open. Beautiful size eights stared me in the face. Pre-Laurie they would have been too big. I slipped them on. Perfect fit. I put them back in the box and picked up the next box. I amused myself with a mini-fashion show.

After trying on a few pairs, I noticed a cubbyhole full of handbags. I pulled out a few Coach purses and saw a shoe box concealed behind them. I extracted the box from its hiding place. It was full of paperwork.

I carefully replaced the purses, then took the box over to the bed and sat down to examine the contents. It looked like business ledgers from El Paraiso. I couldn’t read anything on the charts. Well, I could
read
it. I just didn’t know what it meant. One report looked like a profit and loss summary. But what did I know? I was a theater major in college. And the closest I got to accounting in my corporate job was ordering pencils and staples.