by Diana Orgain
I fantasized becoming so successful that I could be Mrs. Avery’s neighbor.
Then reality/insecurity hit me. Would I really be able to get her to pay me for being nosy? If I could get answers that perhaps the police couldn’t, that would be worth something to her, wouldn’t it? And how exactly was I going to do that?
I pulled up to the huge house. It was gorgeous, with spiraling towers, Spanish steps, and a manicured front lawn. I rang the bell, enjoying the view of the Golden Gate Bridge as I waited for Mrs. Avery to open the door. Instead, a small Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform appeared.
“Hello, I’m Kate Connolly. Mr. Galigani sent me. Is Mrs. Avery in?”
“Ay, la Señora Avery, sí, sí.” She motioned me inside. “Que bonita,” she said, gesturing to Laurie.
“Gracias.” It was pretty much the only Spanish I remembered from my high school classes.
The maid ushered me from the entrance hall to the sitting room, made bright by three tall front windows from which I could see across the bay to the Marin Headlands.
She disappeared through French doors down the main entry hall, muttering “Un momento.”
I took the time to look around—high ceilings and a marble fireplace complemented by delicate ornamental plasterwork. The room was finished with Stickley furniture. Jim and I had stumbled into a high-end furniture shop a few months ago when decorating the nursery and had drooled over the Stickley pieces, only to gag at the price tags in the ten-thousand-dollar range.
Thank God I had dress pants on, even if they didn’t button all the way.
Laurie fussed in her car seat. I contemplated taking her out but then I imagined her spitting up on the furniture. I swayed back and forth with the bucket instead.
Prominently displayed on the wall was a photograph of an elegant older couple.
Brad’s parents?
On a side table was a wedding photo of Brad and Michelle. Beside that, a photo of Brad holding a little girl who looked to be about two years old.
Could that be Penny, the little girl who had drowned?
“Ms. Connolly?” Mrs. Avery asked from the doorway.
I turned quickly. Mrs. Avery was tall, at least six feet. She was thin and wore a canary yellow suit that paled her complexion. Her gray hair was fixed in a tight bun, her cheeks drawn. She crossed the room in two strides and extended a slender hand.
I gripped her cold fingers. “How do you do?”
“Not well, dear, as you can imagine. My only son is dead. Murdered!” Her eyes shifted off my face and caught sight of the car seat and a tiny Laurie blinking up at us. Mrs. Avery’s face softened. “Oh, my dear. Congratulations! A new mommy . . .” Her voice cracked and her face contorted as she pulled out a handkerchief.
My heart felt heavy as I imagined myself in Mrs. Avery’s canary-colored shoes. If anything bad happened to Laurie . . . my breath caught. I fought tears, but with the hormones racing through my body, I wasn’t able to hold them back.
“Not you, too.” Mrs. Avery dabbed at her eyes. “All we need now is for the little one to start.” She guided me to the couch.
The maid appeared in the doorway with a tray full of tea and small butter cookies. She set the tray on the coffee table and left.
“Help yourself, dear.” Mrs. Avery circled the car seat. “May I hold her? I haven’t held a tiny baby, since . . .”
I waited for her to continue, but she paused and looked at me pleadingly.
“Of course you can hold her.” I pulled a pink and green striped burp cloth out of the diaper bag at my feet and handed it to Mrs. Avery, then unbuckled Laurie from the car seat.
Laurie extended her arms over her head in a cat stretch. I scooped her up and made sure she was dry before passing her to Mrs. Avery. The last thing I needed was for Laurie to leak all over Mrs. Avery’s expensive suit.
“She smells so sweet.” Mrs. Avery breathed Laurie in. “I haven’t held a baby since Penny.” She sighed, then walked over to the mantel and pointed at the family portrait I had been looking at. “Here she is. Penny drowned five years ago.”
My throat constricted. I fought back more tears. “I know.”
Mrs. Avery looked surprised. “You do?”
“Svetlana told me.”
Mrs. Avery looked solemn. “Marta said you were here on behalf of Mr. Galigani.”
“Yes. I’m afraid he’s had a heart attack. He’s in the hospital. He’s scheduled for open heart surgery tomorrow.”
Mrs. Avery’s forehead creased. “Poor man. What hospital?”
“California Pacific.”
She rose, walked to the edge of the room, and called for Marta. When Marta appeared, Mrs. Avery requested flowers be sent to Galigani.
I felt a flash of guilt as I remembered the thank-you cards I had forgotten to write.
Well, in all fairness, I didn’t have a “Marta” to delegate to, but still. Our friends and coworkers had found time to send me and Laurie stuff. I had to make the time to thank them.
I pulled out my notebook and jotted down: “Stop being rude.”
Mrs. Avery seated herself across from me in a green and gold upholstered occasional chair. Her face had relaxed a bit. She seemed to enjoy holding Laurie. She motioned to the notebook in my lap. “Are you Mr. Galigani’s assistant?”
Why would she think I was his assistant and not his replacement? Did I look that unqualified?
I wavered a second, then astonished myself by saying, “I’m an investigator myself, ma’am.”
Mrs. Avery nodded vaguely, tickling Laurie under the chin, causing her to warble and drool.
Emboldened by Mrs. Avery’s nonreaction, I pressed, “Mr. Galigani won’t be able to finish the investigation.”
“I need to find out what happened to Bradley. And now, of course, Michelle. The police are absolutely worthless. They pointed the finger at Michelle almost immediately. Now they tried to tell me that perhaps she killed Brad and then herself.” She shook her head sadly. “That scenario doesn’t make any sense to me.”
“What do you think happened to Brad?”
“Hasn’t Mr. Galigani filled you in?”
Oh, shit.
“I’ve been on another case.”
Not exactly a lie. I had been looking for George.
She pressed her lips together in thought and seemed to accept my response. “I believed, well, I should say, I still believe Michelle’s story. She visited me on June sixteenth, the day after Bradley left her. She told me he’d left her for another woman. She was very upset. Michelle and I were close. Her own mother had passed. She relied on me. And Bradley, I must say, he always had a problem with women. Like his father. One woman wasn’t enough for him. Always needed to find . . .” Her eyes flickered about the room. “Never mind. The point of the matter is, I thought Bradley was off with another woman. In Costa Rica or Bora Bora or another of his preferred locations. After all, he left Svetlana like that, told her he was in love with someone else—Michelle. Bradley and Michelle were in Bali for three months.” She let out a cynical laugh that jarred Laurie, sleeping in her arms. “But the other woman never thinks that there will be another woman. She believes him when he says that she’s the one. The special one.”
Laurie opened her eyes slightly. Mrs. Avery rocked and shushed her back to sleep.
“Do you know who she was?”
“The other woman? I have no idea. Bradley never spoke to me about his affairs.”
“Do you know who would want to hurt him?”
A tear welled in her eye. “My dear, I don’t know what to think. I just want to know what happened to him. I want whoever killed Bradley and Michelle brought to justice.”
“Can you tell me anything about El Paraiso?” I asked.
Mrs. Avery’s eyes narrowed. “I told my son not to get involved. Imagine opening up a restaurant in one of the most competitive cities in the nation. Do you know the failure rate of restaurants here in San Francisco?”
I shook my head but
Mrs. Avery proceeded with her rant, ignoring me entirely. “He always gave in too easily to Rich. He was Bradley’s best friend. Have you spoken with him yet? El Paraiso was his dream, you know, but Rich never had two pennies to rub together. So Bradley, with my help, of course, funded the restaurant and we made Rich the assistant manager.”
Laurie began to squirm in Mrs. Avery’s arms.
“Well, dear, why don’t we get the paperwork out?” Mrs. Avery said.
“Paperwork?”
“I assume you have a contract for me to sign.”
I hated appearing unprepared, but I shook my head as the words “I’ll prepare one for you” tumbled out of my mouth.
Mrs. Avery raised an eyebrow. “Very well. Leave me your card.”
Oh God! I was going to lose my first client before I even landed her.
“My card. Yes . . . uh . . . I came straight from the hospital . . .”
Mrs. Avery stood and handed Laurie to me. “I understand. Marta will provide you with my card. In the meantime, I’ll presume the same terms as with Galigani.”
<><><>
I headed home for lunch, my head spinning. Mrs. Avery wanted to hire me. I’d done it. My first client. Now I had to zip home, draw up a contract, feed and change Laurie, and make dinner.
When would I sleep?
I had been hoping for a nap with Laurie this afternoon, but now, on the verge of my new career, that seemed indulgent, if not impossible.
I glanced at my to-do list. “Find George” stood out like a beacon. Galigani had found him. Why couldn’t I?
Pier 23, where his bags had been found, was not exactly on my way home, but one glance in the rearview mirror told me Laurie was sacked out. I’d drive by the pier and take a peek. The rest of the to-do list could wait until tomorrow.
<><><>
I stopped at a red light in front of the pier. The water that had been so blue outside Mrs. Avery’s doorstep now appeared gray. Of course, Mrs. Avery had a clear view of the ocean; this water was in the bay. The bay always looked gray to me.
The pier seemed quiet. A few barrels against a restaurant wall and a homeless woman camped out with a blanket. Two joggers ran by. Then a hooded figure carrying a black bag made his way up the hill. I watched as he walked toward the pier. Something about his gait was familiar.
The car behind me blasted its horn. The light had changed.
I pulled my car forward, trying to keep one eye on the road and the other on the man, who’d stopped in front of a lamppost. His back was to me.
Could it be George?
I strained to see him, but was forced to pick up speed through the intersection.
Damn.
Probably nothing, but I wanted to make a U-turn and get a closer look. I changed lanes. A huge NO U-TURN sign stared down at me.
I’d need to change lanes again and go around the block. It took me nearly ten minutes in traffic to do that. I thought for sure by the time I circled around, the man would be gone.
I was finally in the right lane and able to drive directly past the lamppost. The man was still there. He had pulled off his hood and was straightening his hair.
Hair that looked distinctly familiar.
Hair that was just like Laurie’s.
A heavy pit formed in my stomach. I watched as he fumbled inside the bag for a cigarette. He lit it, then looked around impatiently while tapping his foot against the lamppost.
I slowed, rolled down my window, and called to him. “George!”
At the same time, a gold hard-top Mercedes cut into my lane, maneuvering around my car. The driver, a whirl of red hair, shouted something.
I guess I was going too slow for some city people.
George never even looked in my direction. He dropped the black bag and took off running. Why was he running from me?
I watched him in my rearview mirror as he ran in the opposite direction my car was headed. He turned into an alley.
The only way in there was by foot. Laurie was sleeping in the back. There was no way I’d leave her in the car or take her into the alley.
Nice, Kate, you make a great PI. You lose your suspect as soon as you find him.
•CHAPTER FOURTEEN•
The Fourth Week—Recognition
Safe at home, I typed up a contract based on a template I found online and laid it out for Jim to review. Then I did a bit of research on PI licensing. Turned out I was highly unqualified for the job.
I needed to have three years or 6,000 hours of compensated experience in investigative work, or a law or police science degree plus 4,000 hours of experience.
Of course I had zero hours of experience and a bachelor’s in theater arts.
The requirements went on to state that the experience needed to be certified by the employer, who could be a sworn law enforcement officer, a military police officer, or a licensed PI.
Great! So launching a business as a PI was going to be more complicated than I’d thought. It wasn’t just landing the client, you had to be licensed! Although, I rationalized, Mrs. Avery hadn’t actually asked me for a license. Could I do this without one?
Why can’t things ever be easy?
Laurie began to fuss. Was it her mealtime already?
The month had flown by in three-hour increments. From one feeding to the next.
I brought Laurie over to our favorite section on the couch and began to nurse her. By now, I had the area all set up: telephone, remote control, an extra pillow, and a big glass of water, all accessible on the side table.
I drank my water and reflected on Galigani. How did he normally get his cases? How regular was the work? Could I land enough clients to justify quitting my job? I visualized calling my office and saying I’d launched a successful private investigation firm during my leave.
The idea seemed so far-fetched, I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.
After burping Laurie, I placed her face down on her play mat, affectionately termed the “baby gym.” She let out an enormous wail. I picked her up, soothed her, and tried again. She cried even harder than the first time. I picked her up.
Tummy time was for the birds. No wonder the manufacturers called it a gym. For a baby, holding your head up is a workout.
Now I knew why we hadn’t done much of it in the last month. I immediately felt guilty.
Just because it’s hard doesn’t mean it’s not worth the effort.
I placed her on her tummy again, leaning over her to sing and try to soothe her. She was crying so loudly, I didn’t hear Jim come in. I jumped when I saw wingtips under my nose.
“Hi, honey, why are you torturing the baby?”
“It’s good for her.”
He smiled as he knelt down next to us. “Crying is good for her?”
“Tummy time.”
He rescued Laurie. She curled into his shoulder like a little bug, legs protectively drawn up.
“I saw George today,” I said.
Jim’s eyebrows rose. “Where?”
“At the pier where they found his bags.” I crossed my legs under me and leaned back on my hands.
Jim sat back on his heels and squinted at me. “So he’s alive, not decomposing at the bottom of the bay?”
I reached out and gently pushed on his knee. “Why do you talk like that? We knew it wasn’t him.”
“I have a hard time keeping up with the drama that’s George.” Jim sighed. “What did he have to say for himself?”
“I didn’t get a chance to talk to him. When I called his name, he dropped his bag and ran.”
Jim scowled. “Why would he do that?”
I shrugged. “I have no idea. What do you think he’s doing down there? And why leave his bag?”
“Well, he’s always been scattered. Did he just run off and leave it or what?”
“No! I called his name and he dropped the bag like it was on fire.”
Jim and I studied each other in silence. Finally he said, “I don’t know, Kate, if I stopped and tried to a
nswer every George question I had . . . what can I say, the guy’s a piece of work.” He absently stroked Laurie’s back. “What you were doing at the pier?”
“Looking for him.” I wiggled my eyebrows up and down. “I’m replacing Galigani as the private investigator for Mrs. Avery.”
Jim stopped rubbing Laurie’s back and stared at me. “What?”
“I have the contract ready for your review.”
Jim shook his head. “You don’t have any experience or training! I don’t want you running around and getting yourself into any danger.”
“You don’t think I can take care of myself?”
“That’s not what I mean. Investigators like Galigani have training on how to handle different situations, you know, defuse anger and—”
“Look, I’m not gonna get myself in any potentially volatile situations. I promise. I’m not an idiot.”
Jim looked dubious.
“Are you going to support me?”
He reached out and wrapped his free arm around me. “Honey, I always support you.”
<><><>
The following morning Jim and I agreed to stake out the pier together. I knew he was getting increasingly concerned about my safety, not to mention the fact that we were both alarmed at George’s potential involvement in the crimes.
Jim called in sick and we arranged for Mom to watch Laurie. I left her with instructions on how to prepare a bottle for Laurie with the measly three ounces I had managed to pump so far.
So much for building a supply of milk up before my return to work.
When Jim and I arrived at the pier, we parked a little ways down the street, which gave us an unencumbered view of all the activity. There were joggers every couple minutes, a few bike riders, and the occasional skate-boarder. The homeless woman from the day before was absent.
I sat on the passenger side of the Chevy, and Jim drummed on the steering wheel. After about an hour, I unwrapped one of the ham and cheese sandwiches I had packed.
“Want one?”
Jim shook his head. “We just had breakfast.”
“That was at least an hour ago.” I bit into the sandwich.
He nudged me with his elbow and pointed to a hooded figure carrying a black duffel bag. “I think that’s him.”