Bundle of Trouble (5 page)

Michelle put her hand to her temple and stared out the windows for a long moment. She took a deep breath. “I found out that . . . my husband . . .” Her mouth twitched. “They recovered his body in the bay.” She covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed.

“Oh, Michelle!” I put my arms around her. “How awful, awful, awful.”

“I came here so that they can release his remains to me. Can you imagine, Kate? He was only thirty-five.” Michelle wiped at her eyes with her fingertips.

I tsked. “So young.”

It could have been any number of people I knew. I felt a sadness pull at me.

She gripped me, whispering, “Brad was murdered, Kate. He was shot and his body was discarded into the bay.” Her eyes darted back and forth across the lobby. “The police aren’t telling me much. I suppose they always suspect the wife but . . .”

The receptionist returned. Michelle became silent, composed herself, then took the forms from the girl.

“Let me help you with your things,” Michelle said, grabbing one of George’s bags and heading toward the door.

From her tone, I understood she wanted to speak to me in private, and hey, I needed help with the bags, so how could I refuse?

We walked in silence toward my car. The wind had picked up, and despite the fact we were enjoying Indian summer, the best time of year in San Francisco, it was starting to get chilly.

I tried to process what Michelle had said. Her husband had been murdered? What were George’s things doing on that pier? Was he connected to the Averys?

At my car, Michelle dumped George’s bag into the trunk. One bag caught on the trunk latch, toppling over. A few T-shirts spilled out onto the street. Michelle and I bent to pick them up.

I had to lean on the car in order to get up. Maybe leaving the house hadn’t been such a good idea. I felt like I’d been hit by a bus.

“What were you doing at the medical examiner’s office?” she asked.

I stuffed the T-shirts into the bag.

What could I say? If Michelle was a suspect in her husband’s murder, wouldn’t George be a suspect also?

I slammed my trunk shut. “My brother-in-law’s bags were found on the pier where—”

“Brad was found. Yes, the police mentioned something about that,” she said, trying to keep her hair from flying into her face. “They think it’s totally unrelated and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“What?”

“The cops think it’s unrelated because George’s bags were found last week and Brad’s been missing since June.” She handed me a silver bracelet. “Here, this fell, too.”

Too tired to open the trunk again, I stuffed it into my pocket. “Do you know George? Did Brad?”

Michelle hesitated and looked around. The receptionist from the medical examiner’s office walked toward us, then past us, presumably on her way to lunch since it was almost noon. I needed to get back and feed Laurie, not to mention myself.

My stomach growled. I placed a hand over it, trying to suppress it. “Do you know where George is? Is he all right?”

Michelle’s eyes lingered on the receptionist as she clicked away from us in her fake Jimmy Choos.

She put a hand on my forearm and pulled me close to her. “Listen, Kate, will you come to my place tomorrow?” Her face looked drawn and she seemed tired. What did my face look like with all of the two hours’ sleep I’d gotten since Laurie was born?

“I’d love to talk to you . . . catch up and stuff . . . well, and I’d like to talk to you”—Michelle looked up and down the block again—“about Brad.”

I nodded. “I’ll bring Laurie over so you can meet her.”

Michelle’s face brightened. “Would you? Oh, Kate.” She grabbed me again in another bear hug. “Oh! That would mean so much. Come over, what? Around noon? I’ll have lunch ready for us.”

We exchanged addresses and phone numbers and I climbed into my car, trying to make a getaway before she squeezed me again. I didn’t make it. She leaned in through the car window and placed her skinny arms around my neck. “See you tomorrow!”

•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.

 

1. Get better at breastfeeding.

2. Lose weight.

3. ✓

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 stockinged 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?”

“It’s my hobby. When we bought it two years ago, it was in shambles.”