by Diana Orgain
Every mother’s nightmare. My heart tightened and I suddenly felt panicky. Tears flooded my eyes. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry to hear that!”
I grabbed another napkin to wipe my eyes. Svetlana was crying freely, not making any noise, just letting the tears, blackened by mascara, fall down her face.
I pulled Laurie’s car seat closer to me and glanced down at her sleeping angel face.
“Brad always blamed me . . . now the police come to ask questions, and Gloria has an investigator. Baby dead, Brad dead. Gloria think only person can be responsible is Svetlana. But I never hurt my baby, or Brad.”
“Why would Brad blame you?”
“I took Penny to the park. There is a big lake . . . they had little boats to rent. I thought she’d have fun . . .” Her eyes glazed over. “I was buying popcorn. Penny by my side. She was two. They don’t listen. I told her to stay by my side. Then a stranger talking to me, someone spilled a soda, someone yelling . . . When I turn around, Penny gone. She fall in the lake. I can’t swim, but I jump in. People help us, but it was too late. I was in hospital for long time.” She pointed to her temple. “Depression. Brad blamed me. Gloria blamed me. I blamed me, too. But doctors say it wasn’t my fault.”
I put my hand on hers. She held my hand a moment, then said, “I tell you, Kate. I didn’t hurt Brad, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.”
We sat in awkward silence. The waitress swung our way. “Anything else, ladies?”
Svetlana looked at me and asked, “Kate?”
Before I could I answer, the waitress said, “I’ll leave the dessert menu. Give it a look and let me know.”
Svetlana squinted at the menu, then held it farther away. She pulled her handbag off the back of the chair and rummaged through it. She sighed.
“What’s wrong?” I asked.
“I don’t have my glasses.”
I read the dessert menu out loud. Each cake, pie, and pastry was paired with a recommended wine.
“Oooh, who can resist the ‘chocolate trio’?” I raised my eyebrows at Svetlana. “A sampling of three chocolate desserts: the chocolate mousse, an orange chocolate pâté in a filo coconut crust, and warm chocolate bread pudding.”
Svetlana listened and smiled. “Sounds good. But no. I will have wine. And you?”
No fun eating chocolate by yourself.
“Nothing for me.”
Svetlana waved down the waitress and ordered a chardonnay.
My heart quickened.
Relax, Kate. Everybody drinks wine. It doesn’t mean a thing.
I poured myself another shot of tea. “Svetlana, can you tell me where you were yesterday morning?”
Her face registered surprise. “Yesterday? I stay home. Sometimes I still . . . it’s not good. I know. But sometimes I still feel depression.”
“Did you talk to anyone? Can anyone verify you were home?” Now I was starting to sound like Galigani.
Hmmm.
Svetlana shook her head. “When I get depression, I get a migraine, too. So I don’t talk to anyone, just try to sleep. Why?”
“I found Michelle Avery dead yesterday.”
Svetlana inhaled a deep sharp breath, then closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples. “Oh, no!” she gasped, leaning forward in her chair as the waitress placed the chardonnay in front of her.
Svetlana pushed the wine aside. “Migraine coming on.”
“Is there something I can do for you?” I asked.
“No. No. Thank you. Must go. Very sorry, Kate.” She dug into her purse and pulled money out. When she placed it on the table, her face contorted in pain.
“Don’t worry about that,” I said.
She waved off my concern about the bill. She kissed her fingers and wiggled them at Laurie, then disappeared through the side door.
I sat in silence, starting at Svetlana’s wine. She hadn’t known about Michelle? I leaned forward and peeked at Laurie. Still snoozing. The wine beckoned me. Oh well, a small sip wouldn’t hurt. I sipped the wine and scribbled “Missing glasses, drinks chardonnay, but was surprised about Michelle . . . ?” onto a napkin.
Hmmm.
I’d need to remember to pack my notebook if I was going to launch a new career as a PI.
<><><>
I settled Laurie into the car and drove home to meet Mom. She was going to watch Laurie this afternoon while I went to the Haight.
To do what? Ring doorbells, looking for George?
What was I thinking? Just because Galigani got paid two hundred an hour didn’t mean I was going to. After all, Jim was right. Galigani had a paying client. I was just being nosy.
Still the idea of being in business for myself was incredible. It would mean I wouldn’t have to return to my office in three weeks.
After settling Laurie in with Mom, I searched out my notepad and took off. I easily located the apartment house from the day before, but parking was a challenge. I finally found a spot about half an hour later and ended up walking six long blocks to the apartment house.
The smell of incense wafted from the little stores that populated Haight Street. I was asked for money at least four times by homeless people. Each time I passed a transient, I studied his face. None even remotely looked like George. Could he really be on the street?
I stopped to stretch my legs. I had forgotten to take Motrin before I left the house and was hoping that stretching would alleviate some of the now familiar achiness in my hips and legs.
Why hadn’t anyone warned me about this soreness? I’d heard, “Your life will never be the same after the baby,” but no one said, “You’ll never be able to walk again.”
I finally made it to the apartment doorstep and examined the call box.
Third floor, third apartment: 303 seemed to make sense. The label next to 303 read JENNIFER MILLER.
My shoulder slumped.
What had I hoped for? George’s name to be firmly affixed? Hey, I could still get lucky. Maybe this was George’s girlfriend.
Or Brad’s mystery lady?
Galigani had wanted something from Jennifer.
What now? Ring the bell and ask her what exactly?
What the hell. God hates a coward.
I pressed my thumb into the buzzer. The door beeped and opened. I had been let in without any questions.
Why would I be buzzed in and not Galigani?
I made my way to the third floor and was surprised to find the door to 303 propped open.
A woman wearing a flowing printed dress stood beside the door. She had long blond hair twisted into a braid. Two mangy cats, one gray the other black, caressed her bare feet and legs.
She didn’t seem George’s type.
Or Brad’s either, for that matter.
George always seemed to go for small ethnic women. And Brad? This woman was nothing like Michelle or Svetlana, both of whom were tall and thin, with dark hair and classical beauty. This lady was a stereotypical hippie, a free spirit.
My heart sank.
“Hi, what can I do you for ya?” she asked.
“Sorry to disturb you. I’m Kate Connolly. I’m looking for George Connolly.”
She looked past me, down the hallway. “Maybe you better come in.”
She prepared tea while I made myself comfortable in the living room. Well, as comfortable as I could since there was no furniture to sit on, only a few cushions. I sat cross-legged on one, then pulled my freshly packed notebook from my bag. The cats perched themselves on the other cushions. The gray cat studied me, while the black one groomed itself.
A bicycle was propped up in a corner. I supposed she biked everywhere. Good for the environment. Good for Jennifer.
I thought back to how the six-block walk had wiped me out. Before getting pregnant, I ran three miles daily. Now I wouldn’t be able to run to save my life. I’d have to start up an exercise routine again soon, try and work off the baby weight.
Jennifer returned holding two chipped mugs. She passed me one that said NO WAR o
n it. Then with her free hand, she picked up the gray cat and sat on the cushion, placing the cat in her lap. The black cat got up and climbed onto Jennifer’s lap on its own.
“You know George?” I asked.
She sipped tea from her mug, which had a butterfly on it. “Yeah. We used to work together at a restaurant downtown.”
“El Paraiso?”
She nodded. “You know it?”
So that’s why Galigani had wanted to talk to her. She had worked at El Paraiso.
Her boss had been murdered. He probably needed to talk to all the employees.
Did that include George?
I brought the mug to my lips.
Hold on a second. Brad and Michelle were both dead. This lady could be a murderer. Certainly it couldn’t be a good idea to ingest something she had prepared for me. I scribbled a note in my notebook: Next time interviewing suspect bring own water.
“I was at El Paraiso the other day. Looking for George,” I said, placing the mug on the floor beside me.
“He owe you money or something?”
“No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just . . . well, my husband and I haven’t seen him in a long time. Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.
“I only see him now and then. Not regular anymore, since I stopped working at El Paraiso.”
“When did you stop working there?”
A strand of blond hair had worked its way free from her braid. She tucked it behind an ear. “End of May.”
“Do you know what George does there?”
She looked at me for a second, slowly placing her teacup down. “Are you with the police?”
This was the second time someone had asked me about being in law enforcement. What could George be doing?
I plucked stray cat fur off my pants. “I heard George did delivery but I called to order something the other night and was told they don’t deliver.”
Jennifer smirked.
“Do you know if he still works there?” I asked.
She nodded. “I heard he’s still there.”
“From who?”
She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m pretty good friends with the manager, Rich.”
Him again?
“Did you know the owner, Brad Avery?”
Her eyes clouded over. “Sure. Course.”
“You know he was killed?”
“Yeah, Rich told me. Awful, huh. Somebody shot him!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “What kind of world are we living in?” She tsked.
“I know.” I tsked along with her.
“Rich told me Brad was killed in June. His body must have been weighed down somehow all this time in the bay.” Jennifer shuddered. “It’s terrible.”
“It’s a shame,” I agreed.
I leaned in close, trying a girlfriend to girlfriend, very confidential, tactic. I used my best stage whisper. “I think Brad was having a tough time with his marriage.” Jennifer eyes grew wide. I waved off her shock. “You probably already knew that.”
She circled the top of her mug with her finger. “What do you mean?”
“I was friends with his wife. He was leaving her for another woman.”
She looked around uncomfortably.
“He left her on June fifteenth, the same day he was murdered,” I continued.
Jennifer sipped her tea. “I was with my boyfriend, Winter, on June fifteenth.”
“How do you remember that?” I asked.
“Easy. I was with him every night in June, July, and August. Our first night apart was Labor Day.”
“Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Brad?” I pressed.
She tapped her teacup, shrugging. “I don’t know. What about his wife? You said he left her. Or the ex? He’d been married before and I don’t think it ended well.”
She seemed to know a lot about him.
“What do you know about the ex?” I asked.
“Svetlana?” Her eyes darted around the room. “Not much. She’s cool.”
“Were you close to Brad?”
She retreated slightly. “He was my boss. People gossip about the boss is all.”
“Anyone gossip about who he was seeing?”
She flushed. “People gossip about everything. You’re friends with the wife. I’m sure you know.”
Know what?
I shook my head. “Michelle didn’t know who he was seeing.”
She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Well, let’s keep it that way,” she spat.
“That won’t be hard. She’s dead.”
Jennifer gasped. “Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with a ring-ladened hand, shaking her head back and forth in denial. “What happened?”
“I don’t know. I found her dead in her house yesterday.”
She rose and crossed to a bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bong. “Want a hit?”
“No. No. I’ll pass.”
She frowned. “It’s just a little weed, no big deal.”
“I just had a baby. I’m nursing,” I explained, mentally kicking myself. Why did I have to defend myself and my choices to this woman I barely knew?
“Suit yourself,” she said.
“Were you with Winter yesterday morning?”
“Winter? No. I was working. I work down the street at Heavenly Haight. I open the store every morning at eight A.M.”
“Where was your boyfriend yesterday?”
“What?”
I was fishing now, but I pressed on. “Out of curiosity, where was Winter?”
Jennifer looked down a moment. She took her time preparing the bong. “Winter and I broke up. I thought he was pretty cool at first, but it wasn’t working out. I don’t know where he was yesterday.”
“Do you have his phone number?”
“You want to talk to him?” she asked, shocked.
“My friend is dead. I’d like to talk to anyone who could help.”
Begrudgingly she gave me Winter’s full name and phone number.
<><><>
Something didn’t ring true. I wanted to check her story with Winter, but first I had to go home. It was time to feed Laurie. My breasts were starting to hurt. I worried about mastitis, although I wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Could it be related to plugged milk ducts? I didn’t know what that was either. Whatever they were, neither sounded good, and I knew I didn’t want them.
•CHAPTER TWELVE•
The Third Week—Ah
I steered the Chevy home, and nearly had a heart attack when I saw Galigani’s Honda parked across the street.
Was he staking out my house?
Don’t get paranoid, Kate.
I pulled into the garage and ran upstairs. Mother was watching the Spanish language station. Laurie was asleep in the bassinet.
“What are you doing?” I asked Mom.
“I’m trying to learn Spanish.”
“Why?” I glanced at the screen. El Gordo y La Flaca was on.
“Because Hank asked me to go with him on a cruise to the Mexican Riviera.”
I strained to look out the window at Galigani’s car.
“Did anyone call or ring the bell or anything?”
“No. So, is it okay with you, dear?”
“What?”
“I’ll only be gone a week. But I wanted to make sure I clear any vacation plans with you first. Because of Laurie.
Who’ll watch her when you need to go shopping? What did you get anyway?” She searched the floor for shopping bags.
“Oh. Nothing. Nothing fit.”
Mother mistook my distraction as disappointment. “Don’t worry, dear, it’s only been a few weeks. You’ll get your figure back in no time.”
“Mom, I need to go downstairs a minute, okay?”
She stared after me as I closed the front door behind me and ran down the steps.
Was Galigani having trouble with his car again?
As I approached, I noticed he was slumped over the steering wheel. I fel
t faint.
Oh, sweet Jesus. Not again.
I knocked on his window. He didn’t move. I couldn’t tell if he was breathing or not. He looked pretty lifeless.
Had someone killed Galigani in front of my house?
I ran back inside the house, ignoring the excruciating pain that shot through my hips and pelvic bones. I grabbed the phone and dialed 9-1-1.
Mom noticed the alarm on my face. “What it is, dear?”
“I don’t know.” Please don’t be dead, I prayed. “There’s a man parked outside and he’s slumped over the steering wheel.”
Mother rushed to the window. “Do you know him?”
I shrugged my shoulders noncommittally, not wanting to lie again, but not wanting to tell the truth either. How many white lies can a person tell before it catches up to her? Before she becomes a liar?
“Is he a neighbor?” Mom persisted, squinting through the front window, trying to get a good look into the Honda.
I ignored Mom and told the 9-1-1 operator what I knew.
The operated asked, “Does it appear that a crime has been committed? Does the victim have a gunshot wound or anything?”
“Not that I can tell. He’s doubled over the steering wheel.”
“Does he respond when you knock on the window?”
“No.”
“Do you know CPR?”
“Yes.”
“All right, ma’am, I’m calling the EMTs. They’ll be there shortly. In the meantime, you can try to gain access to the car and attempt CPR.”
Maybe I could break a window?
Well, at least I knew there was no one lurking in the car.
I searched my front room for a heavy object.
Nothing.
I ran to the closet and fumbled around inside. The best I could do was grab a broom. I sprinted down the steps.
Please don’t be dead, don’t be dead, don’t be dead, I chanted as I made my way toward Galigani’s car.
Mom watched from the window as I swung the broom over my head.
Wait. I hadn’t even tried the doors. I let the broom drop to the ground and tried the driver’s door.
The door opened. I could hear sirens approaching. I pulled Galigani away from the steering wheel. His body was wet and hot. Blood?
I shook him and called his name, trying to get a better look at him and any injuries he might have. As I pulled him toward the open door and light, he tumbled onto the cement, taking me with him. The sirens grew louder. Suddenly, I was looking straight into the grill of a rapidly approaching fire truck.