Motherhood Is Murder mim-2

by Diana Orgain

  “Kate! Oh! I didn’t realize it was you. I thought maybe it was Alan and I didn’t want to get the door. Then I heard the car alarm . . . is everything all right?”

  I was standing with both hands clasped over my wildly beating heart, fearing it might pop out of my chest as in a silly cartoon. “Margaret! Thank God you’re okay! Why haven’t you returned my calls?”

  “Come in.” She stepped aside and let me enter the enormous family room.

  The room was dark with a cathedral-style ceiling, exposed beams, and glossy hardwood floors. Margaret turned on a small side table lamp. The décor was casual with a wide-screen television that hung from the main wall and some bean bag chairs thrown across the floor.

  She motioned for me to take a seat in a brown leather wing-back chair that faced the bean bags.

  “Have you been calling me?” she asked. “I thought I left you a voice mail on . . . oh, the other day . . . when was it?” She scratched her head. “I don’t know. Sorry, I’ve been kind of out of it. Have you learned anything?” she asked.

  I semicollapsed into the chair, hoping my heart would slow down. “Margaret, what happened to the window? I was worried sick about you!”

  She glanced at the front door. “Oh. My two-year-old threw his baseball into it.”

  Well, at least that was one mystery solved.

  I leaned forward in my chair. “Can you tell me where you were on the fifteenth?”

  She sank into one of the bean bags. “What?”

  “Last Tuesday the fifteenth. Do you remember? That was the day Celia and I ended up in the hospital. Can you tell me where you were?’ ”

  “I’m sorry I didn’t visit you.” She folded her skinny spider legs under her. “So much is going on here. My mom took the boys to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese tonight, just to give me a little breathing room. Since leaving Alan, I’ve been . . .” She waved her hand around and appeared distracted.

  I must have woken her. She seemed out of it. That or . . .

  Was she using again?

  “Did you go to Bruce’s house that day?”

  “No.” She looked thoughtful as she ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth over the tangles. “I don’t think so. The fifteenth was the day I left Alan. It’s the day I came here.”

  “Can you retrace your steps for me?”

  “I think so, why?”

  “It’s important. Please.”

  She scratched at the nape of her neck, then smoothed down her hair. “Let’s see. I went grocery shopping. The nanny came to watch the boys and help me pack. Then I came here.”

  “Did you see Celia that day?”

  Margaret’s expression changed.

  My heart dropped.

  She sat a little straighter. “I did see Celia, as a matter of fact. I saw her at the little sandwich shop near my house.”

  Darn!

  I had been hoping that Margaret would have been nowhere near Celia. Now she’d had access to both Celia and Helene. Although since she had so readily admitted seeing Celia, she could hardly be guilty, could she?

  “Celia was with Howard,” Margaret continued. “You know Sara’s husband, right? I thought it was strange—them being together, but I remembered she hired him to do the midwife center. So they were probably having a follow-up meeting.”

  I covered my mouth with my hand.

  Could Howard be the married man?

  Did Miss No-Nonsense know about or suspect his infidelity? I recalled her outrage about Alan cheating on Margaret and her outspoken opinion that Margaret should leave the “two-timer.” I wondered how she would feel now that the shoe might be on the other foot.

  “Margaret, that day outside your house I told you I was going to speak with Sara, and well, it might have just been me, but it seemed like you didn’t want me to talk to her.”

  She sighed. “I figured you were going to ask her if she knew about Alan’s infidelity and . . .” She shrugged. “I guess I was embarrassed. You know airing dirty laundry in front of the neighbors.”

  I glanced at my watch. “When are you expecting your mom?”

  I dreaded telling her about Alan’s affair with Helene and wanted to be sure that I didn’t leave her alone and vulnerable to taking anything. I wanted to be sure someone would be with her before I left.

  Margaret glanced at a handsome cuckoo clock standing in the corner. “Maybe in about fifteen minutes, why?”

  “You were right. Alan was having an affair.”

  Margaret nodded, her eyes welling with tears. “I knew it. I knew it.” She bit her fist and her eyes glazed over.

  I waited for her to look at me. When she seemed to have collected herself, I continued, “Margaret, this is going to be difficult to hear but I found out he was seeing Helene.”

  Her mouth opened and closed. One leg shot straight out as if she wanted to get up then she seemed to rethink it and fell back deeper into the bean bag. “What? No, no! That can’t be right! Why would you say such a thing?”

  “I heard it straight from Alan. He told me he and Helene were going to move away together. She was canceling plans for her home extension.”

  “He was going to leave me? They were going to move away together?”

  I couldn’t bring myself to tell her about their plans to get custody of her children. What did it matter now anyway? She’d been through enough.

  Instead, I said softly, “That’s what he said.”

  Margaret wept silently.

  I listened to the ticking of the cuckoo clock.

  After a moment she wiped her eyes and said, “Helene never . . . why? How could she do that to me, Kate? How could he do that?”

  The weight of the betrayal was stifling the room.

  “I also was able to confirm that Helene was indeed poisoned,” I said.

  Margaret sat straight up. “Alan did poison her? But why?”

  “I don’t think Alan did it. No. I don’t think it was Alan,” I said.

  Margaret searched my eyes. “Who else then? Was it Bruce? Did he know about the affair? I feel so stupid. Was I the only one buffaloed?”

  I was silent. A car drove by, filling the room momentarily with light. As the car passed, the room was covered in dark shadows again, lit only by the table lamp beside me.

  “Do you think Bruce killed Helene?” she pressed.

  I opened my palms to her, inviting her theory.

  “Why would he kill her?” Margaret asked. “He was barely home—practically never even noticed her. Was it pride?” She rose off the bean bag and started pacing. “Let me guess: Killing her was a cheaper solution than divorce. She would get half of everything and my husband, too.”

  She stopped pacing and stood before me. “Why did she do it, Kate? She could have had anyone. She was pretty and desirable and unattached—well, I mean, relatively. I know she was married but they didn’t have any kids. She could have just started over with someone else. Someone who wanted kids. Why did she have to take my husband?”

  “You think Bruce didn’t want kids?” I asked.

  Margaret nodded. “Well, I don’t know but Helene wanted them so much and he just didn’t seem to be interested.”

  “What about the adoption then?”

  Margaret frowned. “What adoption?”

  “Celia was helping Helene and Bruce coordinate an adoption from Costa Rica.”

  Margaret’s face went blank. “She was? Helene wanted to adopt? I never knew—she never said anything to me. I guess she was full of surprises . . .” Margaret’s lips puckered with bitterness. “She never said a word.”

  I watched Margaret carefully, not even certain what I was looking for.

  She seemed very emotional and was continually wiping her eyes and nose with the back of her hand.

  Could she have known about the affair all along?

  How could she not know her best friend was sleeping with her husband? What if she had killed Helene out of retaliation and all this pacing around was just an act?

  She was standing directly in front of me—practically on top of me. I realized my shoulders were hiked up to my ears.

&n
bsp; Was I expecting her to pounce on me?

  I forced my shoulders down and stood, reclaiming my personal space. Margaret took a step back.

  She lumbered over to the other wing-back chair and rearranged it to face mine.

  I seated myself again and crossed my hands in my lap, trying to look professional and unimposing. She was my client, after all.

  After a moment, I said, “These are the facts as I understand them. Helene was poisoned with fentanyl and died on the dinner cruise. Celia was given the same drug. It’s used for extreme chronic pain. It’s a class II narcotic. Do you know anything about this medicine?”

  She shook her head.

  I watched her eyes. She didn’t fidget or glance around the room. She just stared at me straight on. She didn’t look nervous in the least, only sad.

  Finally, I said, “It’s mostly prescribed to terminally ill cancer patients.”

  She nodded her understanding.

  “Do you know anyone who could have been on fentanyl recently?”

  She turned her lips down and shook her head.

  “We were all on the cruise, so everyone—you, me, Sara, Evelyn, and our husbands—had access to Helene, including her own husband, Bruce. But only a few people saw Celia on the day she was poisoned—you, me, Bruce, and Evelyn.”

  Margaret’s eyes shifted almost imperceptibly. “What about Alan?”

  “No. Not that I know of. He says he was at the office all day. So he didn’t have any contact with Celia and also he requested the toxicology screen for Helene from the medical examiner. If he had poisoned her, he wouldn’t have pushed for that.”

  Margaret crossed her legs, leaned back into the chair, and contemplated what I’d said. “I was so sure he had done something with those drinks.”

  We sat in silence.

  “So you say that leaves us with who? Evelyn and Bruce?”

  And you!

  I watched her nervously swing her foot forward and back, but said nothing.

  “Evelyn or Bruce, huh?” she repeated. “It’s got to be Bruce. Evelyn had no reason to kill Helene. I mean, I know she was a little bitter about being kicked out of the group, but that’s no reason . . . she can’t be that petty, right?”

  “No. That kind of motive doesn’t make sense,” I said. “And what about Celia? Why would Evelyn try to poison her own midwife?”

  Margaret nodded.

  “I understand Bruce may have had access to the fentanyl. His grandmother passed away recently from cancer.”

  Margaret dipped her head.

  “Margaret, did you used to be addicted to pain meds?” I asked.

  Her head shot up. “Who told you that?”

  “Alan,” I admitted.

  She jumped out of the chair. “That no good . . . what else did he tell you?”

  I shrugged.

  She began to pace again. “So that’s it, huh? You think I killed her because I’m a recovered addict. I’m recovered, Kate. Recovered.”

  She stormed out of the room, leaving me sitting in the chair waiting for her. She returned a few minutes later holding a frame that she clutched to her chest.

  “I’m sorry for flipping out on you,” she said.

  I nodded.

  “Five years ago, before the kids, I broke my foot skiing. I got addicted to pain meds then. It didn’t last very long. About six months, but Alan never let me forget. I’ve been reflecting on our marriage these last few days here at my mom’s. I think back to that time and I think he purposely wanted to get me addicted. It gave him control over me and our life.”

  She handed me the frame. It was a picture of Margaret, Alan, and a small boy. They were on the beach and Margaret was just starting to show with her second baby.

  “This photo was taken less than a year ago. It was our first family vacation. Miami, the same day I met Celia. Look at how ridiculously happy I was. I’ve been crying myself to sleep hugging that photo every single night since Helene passed away. But no matter how hard I cry, I can’t get back to that happy place.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  A car pulled up into the driveway. Presumably, it was Margaret’s mom back with the kids. I hadn’t wanted to leave Margaret alone feeling sad and vulnerable so I was glad to see the car park.

  “I should thank you, Kate. A job well done. You got the information I requested. It wasn’t what I hoped for but . . .” She rose. “Let me write you a check. We’ll call the case closed.”

  “Don’t you want to know who killed Helene?”

  Margaret shrugged, her body listless. “What does it matter now? I guess we’ll let the cops handle that.”

  When I got home, all the lights were out. Jim was asleep on the couch with Laurie in his arms. Laurie had her little hands folded on her chest. She looked like a miniature version of a praying monk. I gently picked her up out of Jim’s arms. They sighed in unison.

  I clutched Laurie to me and kissed her soft cheeks a dozen times. She remained asleep so I set her down in her bassinet and squeezed onto the coach next to Jim.

  Still sleeping, he rolled onto his side to make room for me. I kissed his lips. “I love you.”

  “Glad you’re home safe, honey,” he murmured. “Laurie and I were waiting up for you . . .”

  I smiled. “I see that.”

  I hugged him. I was sad after leaving Margaret. Her marriage was over and I suspected Sara’s was in distress, not to mention that obviously Bruce and Helene’s life together had been less than perfect and now she was dead. I felt so fortunate to have my family intact. Tears filled my eyes and I pressed myself against Jim. “Love you forever,” I whispered.

  His soft sleepy breath filled my ear and the last thing I heard before falling asleep was “Love you, too, honey.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  Rooting

  To Do:

  1. Thanksgiving Prep!!!

  2. Order turkey.

  3. Get pie recipe from Paula.

  4. Stuffing? Check online.

  5. Potatoes—same old boring mash?

  6. Cranberries—canned or fresh?

  I woke up with a stiff neck from sleeping too long on the couch with Jim. I hadn’t remembered moving to the bedroom, but somehow Jim, Laurie, and I were all safely tucked in.

  I stretched my neck and contemplated coffee. Laurie started moving her head from side to side. Rooting. I picked her up and played my favorite game. Kissing her cheek so when she automatically turned toward me, I turned my head and her mouth landed on my cheek. I did this over and over, pretending she was showering me with kisses.

  Laurie didn’t like the game this morning and let out a howl, telling me she meant serious business.

  I squeezed her. “Love my little bunny girl!”

  Laurie’s cry escalated into a high-pitched wail.

  “Okay, I know you want service.”

  I took her into the nursery, and after changing and feeding her, I put her up on my shoulder and rubbed her back, waiting for the inevitable burp. She was asleep again before I could even place her back into the bassinet.

  I slipped on jeans and a sweatshirt, then scribbled a note to Jim. I headed to the café and tried to sort out my feelings.

  Last night Margaret had effectively terminated me, but technically I was still working the case for “The Grizzly.” I thought about my report to him. Now more than ever he would think Margaret was guilty or at least try and build a case against her—anything to steer attention away from Bruce.

  With the toxicology results available now, I thought it was just a matter of time before McNearny arrested Bruce.

  I pushed open the door to the café. Kenny was seated at a table near the counter, earphones securely in place and feet drumming out a rhythm.

  “Kate! Got time for chess?” He pulled the earphones out and reached for the chess set that was on a nearby bookshelf.

  I ordered a decaf latte and perused the pastry case.

  How many calories did a biscotti have?

  Ooh! They had chocolate-dipped ones today.

  I ordered two and put one in a bag to take home
to Jim.

  I took a seat across from Kenny. “I don’t have time for games, Kenny. I’m working on serious business.”

  “Cool,” he said, ignoring me and setting up the board.