by Diana Orgain
I blew my nose and crumbled the tissue in my hand. The adrenaline from finding Michelle dead had left my system and now all I felt was sadness, disbelief, and bone-deep weariness.
I sighed. “I really don’t think she killed herself.”
“Earlier, you said Mrs. Avery thought whoever killed her husband might come after her,” Jones said. “Did she give you any indication, any at all, about who she thought that was? Take your time.”
I shook my head.
“You said you hadn’t seen her in long time?” McNearny asked. “When was the previous time?”
“I hadn’t seen her until . . .”
How much should I say? Surely the medical examiner had told McNearny I’d retrieved George’s things.
They waited for me to answer, exchanging looks. Finally Jones prompted gently, “Until when?”
“Monday,” I said.
“I see.” Jones made a note.
There was a deafening silence in the room as they both consulted their respective notebooks. I licked my lips. I was parched again. Couldn’t they get me more water?
“Where did you see her?” McNearny asked.
Didn’t he already know the answer?
“I saw her at the medical examiner’s office.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Avery would have had to sign release papers,” McNearny said. “What were you doing there?”
If he didn’t already know, he could find out. Why mess with me like this? I sat back in my chair, crossed my feet, then uncrossed them.
Honesty would be best.
I fidgeted with my empty water cup, finally depositing the crumpled tissue inside it. “I was picking up my brother-in-law’s bags.”
Inspector McNearny flipped through his notebook. “Ah, brother-in-law. Would that be George Connolly?”
Jim had been right. Nothing good would come from meddling in George’s business. “Yes,” I mumbled.
“Interesting. Very interesting. Mrs. Avery said she didn’t know George Connolly.” He tapped his fingers on his notebook. “Do you know why she would say that?”
I felt a protective surge for George, Jim’s brother, Laurie’s uncle. Not to mention I was getting tired of McNearny’s attitude. “What makes you think they knew each other?” I challenged.
“Well, if he was your brother-in-law and you and she were friends . . .”
“I went to high school with Michelle. Before Monday, we hadn’t seen each other since . . .” When had been the last time I’d seen Michelle? “I don’t even remember when. Probably our reunion a few years back. It was a coincidence seeing her at the medical examiner’s office.”
McNearny frowned. “Was it?”
I nodded emphatically. “Um-hum.”
McNearny sucked some air between his teeth, sort of tsking at my response. “Now see? That’s where I have a problem.”
The weariness in my bones was slowly turning to dread.
Why not tell them everything I know?
But then, what did I know, really? Michelle had said George was with her the night Brad died. Therefore, George couldn’t have killed Brad. He couldn’t have, right?
Unless, Michelle and George were in on it together. Or he killed Brad after leaving Michelle. Who killed Michelle? Dread was overcoming me.
No! George is not a killer!
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Mrs. Connolly,” McNearny said.
Of course, neither did I. Normally anyway, but in this case I really really needed to believe. I blurted, “Sometimes things happen for no reason at all. An accident, a fluke, chance.”
“I had to release those bags to your family, because I couldn’t prove there was any connection to Mr. Avery. He was last seen on June fifteenth and the medical examiner places his death in June. George Connolly’s bags were found on September nineteenth on the same pier where Mr. Avery was recovered. Months apart. Is there a connection?” McNearny opened his hands toward me in question. “Mrs. Avery tells me she doesn’t know a George Connolly. So technically, I can’t prove a thing. But this”—he patted his broad stomach—“isn’t technical. My gut says there is a connection between the Connollys and the Averys.”
“I already told you I went to high school with Michelle.”
He breathed more air in through his teeth and grimaced. “Something more recent. Something that involves your brother-in-law.”
“I haven’t seen George in a long time. When I see him, I’ll ask him for you.”
“One more thing, Mrs. Connolly. When your car was broken into yesterday, the location was curiously close to El Paraiso, the restaurant owned by the Averys.”
“Yep.”
“What were you doing there exactly?”
“What everyone does at restaurants, eat.”
“Kind of strange, isn’t it? You don’t see your friend for a long time, then all of sudden you’re frequenting her restaurant?” McNearny asked.
“Is there a law against that?”
“I’m just trying to understand why you were there. Were you meeting her there?”
“Nope. Just eating. Alone. Well, with my daughter actually, whom I’ve got to get home to.”
McNearny and Jones exchanged glances. Jones said, “Thank you, Mrs. Connolly. We appreciate your time. If we need anything else, we’ll contact you.”
I stood. Jones stood with me. McNearny remained seated, his arms folded across his chest. I made my way toward the door. I glanced over my shoulder; McNearny was still watching me.
Let him watch.
Where was the condolence? I’d found a friend dead and he’d shown no sympathy. All he wanted to do was try and pin the murder on George. Close the case, narrow his workload.
And yet, the dread turned to nausea. Maybe McNearny was right. George had to be connected somehow.
<><><>
When I arrived home, Laurie was screaming in Mom’s arms.
“She won’t take the formula.”
I wrinkled my nose at the yellowish bottle Mom was putting in Laurie’s face. “I don’t blame her.”
“You used to love the stuff.”
Obviously, my daughter had a more discriminating palate.
I collapsed onto the couch and nursed Laurie. I don’t know who was more relieved, me as the burning sensation dissipated from my breasts, Laurie at being fed, or Mom at the peace and quiet.
We sat in silence. I finished nursing Laurie, then rubbed her back, expecting a little burp. Instead, she threw up all over my silk blouse.
I broke down crying, my bravado from facing Inspector McNearny evaporated.
Mom took Laurie from me and placed her in the bassinet, then put her arms around me. “Oh, honey, don’t cry,” she said, stroking my hair. “It’s just the hormones.”
I recounted my afternoon for Mom. She listened, her mouth agape.
She rubbed my back. “That’s horrible. Just awful, honey. What a shock!” I let her cluck over me, taking comfort in her support.
My head was throbbing, my legs ached, and I had baby spit-up all over my blouse. Not to mention finding Michelle dead and being interrogated by the police.
Not a good day.
I rose from the couch. I needed to change and take some pain medication, at the very least. “Will you come over tomorrow?” I asked Mom.
She hesitated. “There’s something I haven’t told you as well.”
I sat back down on the couch and held my head. Had Mom’s car been broken into, too? Or worse, had someone tried to break into the house while I was gone?
“I’m seeing someone,” Mom said.
Mom dating?
My parents had been divorced for nearly fifteen years. Mother had said over and over again that she was through with men, that she lived only to have grandchildren.
“What? Who?” I stuttered.
“A very nice man. His name is Hank.”
My body surged with a strange combination of happiness and . . . what? Fear? Jealousy? Was I going to have to share my babysitti
ng mother? How selfish of me. I pushed the thought from my mind and hugged her. “And why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”
Mom shrugged sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell.”
I smiled. “How did you meet?”
“Well,” Mom said hesitantly, “I put myself on Match-dot-Com.”
Mom using the Internet?
“What?” I sputtered.
“Match-dot-Com, darling. It’s a dating service. Online.”
“I know what it is. I just . . . I didn’t know . . . that you were . . . That’s great, Mom. Really great.”
“My profile was up for about a week.” Mom made herself comfortable on the couch. “I saw his profile. I already knew he worked at the pharmacy down the street, but that’s all I knew about him. I didn’t know if he was married or anything. When I saw him online, I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be. He’s single!’ So I winked at him. They have a little thing on the computer where you can ‘wink’ at someone. It sends them e-mail from you.”
I sat there, stunned. Jim and I had bought Mom a laptop for Christmas last year. Jim had shown her how to get online. I thought she used it only to read the newspaper.
“So, I winked at Hank,” Mom continued, “and he winked at me. We e-mailed for a while. Then we thought, ‘Well, this is plain silly, we’re both in the same neighborhood. ’ So he invited me out for a cocktail.”
I stared at her. “Mom, you don’t drink.”
“Well, once in a while . . . there’s nothing wrong with that,” she said defensively.
I laughed, realizing Mom was at it again, telling me a crazy story to take my mind off my problems. “I’m not judging you, Mom. Tell me more.”
“I would but you look terrible, Kate. Exhausted.”
“Not to mention I have spit-up on my blouse. Let me go change. I’ll be right back.”
Mom insisted on leaving so I could get some rest, but promised to fill me in on more Hank details later.
<><><>
Laurie and I were sprawled on the floor, looking at a farm animals picture book. Mostly, I was looking at the book; Laurie was drooling.
“The cow says moo, moo,” I ad-libbed.
I heard the key in the front door and scrambled to my feet. I pulled the door open and grabbed Jim around the neck, squeezed him, and inhaled his scent. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re home safe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I found Michelle dead this morning.”
“Oh my God! Why didn’t you call me!”
“I knew you had that big presentation today and I didn’t want you to worry.”
I recounted the experience for him. When I told him I went into Michelle’s house, his eyes popped out of his skull as if he were on the verge of a heart attack.
“What if the killer was still in there?”
“I didn’t think of that. She was lying on the floor. What if she wasn’t dead?”
“You should have waited for the police or the paramedics or whatever. In your car. With the motor running.” He pulled me closer. “I’m glad you’re all right, honey. Promise me you won’t go around breaking into people’s houses, especially if there could be a murderer hiding out.”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
He clutched me tighter. “And you can always call me, no matter what meeting I’m in.” His voice cracked.
I realized he was crying.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I soothed, running my fingers through his hair.
“We need you, honey. Laurie and I need you.”
“Except I might collapse from exhaustion and/or starvation.”
Jim smiled, his face brightening a bit.
“Want to call El Paraiso, get delivery?” I asked.
Jim squinted at me. “Yeah. Call. I’ll open you some wine.”
“I’m not supposed to drink.”
He rose. “Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures. One glass won’t hurt you, or Laurie.”
Jim headed to the kitchen. My mouth began to water as I thought of a nice dinner and wine.
Wine?
Someone had drunk wine with Michelle. Her killer had to be someone she knew, since there was no sign of forced entry. She let someone in, had wine with whoever it was, and then that person had let themself out, leaving the door open for me.
I pictured George going over to Michelle’s and sipping chardonnay with her.
Wait a minute.
George preferred beer, like Jim. He’d probably consider white wine a “girlie” drink.
Could a woman have killed Michelle?
Brad’s affair! The other woman?
Why would Brad’s lover kill Michelle? If Brad wasn’t dead, then her motive would make sense. But with Brad gone, why kill Michelle?
I called after Jim, “Hey, Jim? Does George drink wine?”
Jim returned, a beer in one hand and a glass of merlot in the other. “I guess he does.”
“White wine?”
“Probably. I mean, I’m sure it’s not his favorite, but I imagine he’d drink it.”
There went that theory.
I dialed El Paraiso. “I’d like to order some food for delivery.”
The hostess promptly informed me that they didn’t deliver.
I looked up at Jim’s expectant face. “They don’t deliver.”
“I thought George was supposed to be the delivery guy?” He sighed. “What, did he quit already? Get fired?”
“She said they’ve never delivered.”
Jim’s face clouded, his mouth twisting with concern. “Why would Michelle tell you he worked there if he didn’t?”
•CHAPTER NINE•
The Third Week—Digging In
I awoke in a state of panic, drenched in sweat. I’d read that the body rids itself of extra fluids from pregnancy by sweating. What I didn’t know was if the sweating was from a postpartum symptom or from the frantic dream I’d just had about Michelle.
In the dream I’d been able to revive her. I’d asked her over and over again who had killed her. She’d clung to me, mute.
I glanced at the clock. Five A.M. Laurie and I had both finally drifted to sleep around midnight. Had she really slept five hours?
Was she alive? Panicked, I leaned over the bassinet and frantically put my hand on her tummy.
Her stomach rose slowly and evenly.
I studied her for a moment, her arms raised above her head, a gesture of pure abandonment.
Wait. Five A.M.? She was still asleep? I couldn’t believe it.
At the hospital they had instructed me to wake her for her night feeding if she slept through it.
Give me a break. Hadn’t they ever heard the adage “Never wake a sleeping baby”? No way was I going to do it. Forget it. If she slept through her feeding, she must not be hungry.
I lay back on my pillow. The sheets crunched as if made of potato chips. I held my breath. Laurie was still out.
I shook Jim. “Laurie’s been asleep for five hours!”
“Great,” he mumbled.
“Honey, she’s been asleep for five hours,” I repeated.
“You go to sleep, too.”
I suppose new moms need to learn how to sleep through the night also.
Closing my eyes, I tried to clear my mind. Visions of Michelle popped into my head again, crowding out all other thoughts. I tried to think about something else. Laurie. Yes. I’d think of Laurie. Sweet Laurie. Innocence. Pure life.
Suddenly my breasts started to leak, soaking my night-gown. Great. Way to go, Kate.
Hold out on the baby and you leak anyway. I may as well feed her, right? Either that or lie here wet and have nightmares.
The breast pump was in the corner of the bedroom. I could get up and learn to use that. I’d need to start stocking up on milk to cover Laurie during the hours I’d be at the office.
The office? Ugh. How much longer on my maternity leave? Three weeks.
Thr
ee weeks. Twenty-one days. Five hundred and four hours. Wait. It was already 5 A.M. So that meant four hundred ninety-nine hours.
I closed my eyes. How depressing.
Wasn’t there a way to stay home with Laurie? I mulled over the question, drifting off to sleep, forgetting to feed Laurie, use the pump, or stress over Michelle and George.
<><><>
It was 9 A.M. Jim had left for the office hours ago. Laurie and I lay in bed, nursing. It seemed like we’d been nursing all morning. Making up for lost nutrition throughout the night.
I felt even more drained now than I had at 5 A.M. We were about to doze off when the doorbell rang. Laurie nodded off. I groaned. I put her into the bassinet and grabbed a robe. Who could it be at this time of day?
I stumbled to the front door and peered out the peephole. All I could see was a broad chest in a blue button shirt. Definitely not UPS.
“Who is it?”
“Investigator Galigani. Is Kate Connolly in?”
The police? What now? Shouldn’t he flash his badge at me or something? Was I getting overly paranoid?
“Where’s your badge?”
“I’m not with the police. I’m a private investigator.”
“Who hired you?”
He bent down to look through the peephole. I saw one green eye peering at me. I involuntarily pulled away.
“Mrs. Avery,” he said into the peephole.
“Mrs. Avery is dead,” I said.
The eye shifted. “Gloria Avery is dead?”
Who was Gloria?
I placed the chain lock on the door and opened it two inches.
Investigator Galigani was tall, dark, and not handsome. He had a huge black mustache on a very round face. He frowned at the chain, which only succeeded in making him look mean and angry.
“I don’t know who Gloria is,” I said. “I meant Michelle Avery is dead.”
“Ah.” His face softened a bit. “Are you Kate?”
I nodded.
“May I come in, ma’am?”
There was the “ma’am” again. I glanced down at my pale green terrycloth robe. No! Why did I have to get interrogated again? Especially looking like this.
“I’ve got a newborn. I’m really tired—”
“It’ll only take a minute.”
“How do I know that you are who you say you are?”