by Diana Orgain
But I wasn’t glad. I had a terrible feeling in the pit of my stomach that not even a nap was curing.
Jim puttered around doing laundry. I awoke to a pile of clean clothes in a basket by the bed. I dumped them out on the bed to fold and was completely disheartened to find that my favorite sweater and pajamas had shrunk.
“Did you dry these on hot?” I yelled down the hall.
From the office Jim said, “What?”
“Hot. Hot! You shrunk my favorite stuff.”
Jim peeked out of the office. “I didn’t dry them on hot.”
I glared at him, then his head disappeared back into the office.
“We’ve gone through this before. You can’t dry my stuff on hot,” I said to the space where his face had just been.
At that moment, Laurie began to wail from the bassinet; I pulled her out and found that her diaper had leaked. I grabbed a pair of clean pajamas out of the basket and headed to the office/nursery to change her.
I tried to squeeze her into the pajamas, but they were too small.
“You shrunk Laurie’s pjs, too,” I said.
“No, I didn’t,” Jim protested from behind the computer. “She’s growing.”
I pulled a pair of pajamas from the top drawer of the changing table. They didn’t fit her either. I went through about four pairs all with the same results.
My breath caught. None of her zero-to-three-months clothes fit. I grabbed a jumper that read 3-6 MONTHS and tried it on. It fit perfectly.
I hugged her to me. “My baby’s growing!” I said.
Jim laughed. “That’s what I just said.”
What did it mean about my clothes? I hadn’t tried them on, but they looked smaller. Was I getting larger, too?
I handed Laurie to Jim. “Hold on to her a minute, I’m going to get the sling.”
Laurie’s eyes remained on me. As I left the room, she craned to see me then cried out. I peeked back into the room and she stopped crying.
“Did you hear that? She cried when I left the room.”
Jim looked at me as if I was insane. “She always does that.”
“No. No, she doesn’t. She’s never done that.”
“She always stops crying when you pick her up.”
“This is different.”
I tested her again by leaving the room. Her eyes were trained on me and as soon as I disappeared she cried out. I reappeared and she stopped crying.
“She knows I’m her mommy!”
“Of course, she does,” Jim said.
“I mean, by sight. She recognizes me!”
Jim shook his head back and forth, unable to grasp my excitement.
I pulled her out of his arms. “You try it.”
Jim returned to working on the computer. “No.”
“Killjoy,” I said to him. To Laurie I said, “Daddy doesn’t want to play. Bad mood Daddy, grumpy Daddy.”
“Our insurance called while you were out,” Jim said.
“Uh oh.”
“No, it’s good. They’re going to invoke our uninsured motorist clause. So you can officially start shopping for a car. Merry Christmas.”
In the evening I poked around online for a while. When I decided to upload Laurie’s Santa photo onto my Facebook page, I saw that I had a message from Kevin Gibson.
Forgive me for my tardy reply. I did contact Ms. Pickett, but it was a false alarm. I am saddened by the news of her death. The Bahamas are great.
What a strange message. He’d contacted her but it was a false alarm? What kind of false alarm? He’d been wrong about the leak at the office? Is that what he was trying to say?
I clicked through his updates on his profile page. He’d posted once a day since being in the Bahamas, mostly updates about the weather or the kind of drink he’d just ordered. Maybe he was drunk when he sent me the note.
There were no posts prior to his vacation so I couldn’t get an idea about his being maybe a bit looser in the Bahamas than usual. There were no photos either.
Who goes on vacation and then opens a Facebook account? Why wasn’t he posting pictures of himself on the beach or in a bar? His account photo was a picture of an iced rum drink with a little umbrella sticking out, but it was a stock image.
I thought about the Facebook pages I’d visited: Paula’s; my brother, Andrew’s; even mine. We all had activated the privacy settings. Yet, Kevin Gibson’s page was public . . .
As I clicked the info button on his page, my phone rang. It was Mom. I filled her in on the SFPD’s findings.
“Hmmm,” Mom said. “You’re not satisfied.”
“No, but—”
“Let’s go talk to the consul tomorrow,” she said.
“Ummm, no. I can’t. What would I say? Besides, Galigani told me—”
“Oh don’t worry about him dear. You have to listen to yourself.”
“Well, I wouldn’t even know where to find the consul. Every time I’ve been to the consulate he doesn’t seem to be around.”
“Let’s stake out his house.”
I laughed. “What? I don’t know where he lives.”
“I’ll find out. You take everyone on a stakeout. I want to go.”
“But, Mom, I—”
“We’ll start early in the morning. I’ll be over at seven o’clock. I’ll bake some chicken tonight for us to take as lunch. It’ll be fun.”
“Oh, no, Mom. I . . .” I heard a click. “Hello?”
She’d hung up.
The following morning, Mom appeared on my doorstep at exactly 7 A.M. She had a picnic basket and cooler with her. In the basket, she’d packed homemade breaded and baked chicken, fresh rolls, macaroni salad, a thermos of minestrone soup, and chocolate chip cookies, along with plates, napkins, and flatware. In the cooler was iced tea, sodas, and bottled water.
Why hadn’t Mom ever gone with me before on a stakeout?
What a mistake! From now on she’d be my right-hand gal.
“We have to take Laurie with us,” I said. “I don’t want to be away from her all day again.”
“That’s no problem,” Mom said happily. “I’d love to have her with us.”
We packed up Jim’s car and headed out. To my surprise,
Mom had actually found out where Eloi Leppard lived. She’d found his address by calling the consulate and pretending she worked for FedEx. Apparently, the receptionist at the consulate was all too happy to give her the shipping address to where the fine art he’d ordered was to be sent.
He lived, not surprisingly, in Presidio Heights—a neighborhood that was home to several congressman and senators. The consul’s residence was a limestone mansion surrounded by large hedges. From where we were parked, we couldn’t see much, except the garage door was visible and we figured we’d see him leaving.
I spied on Laurie through the Elmo mirror pinned to my backseat. Her pacifier was dangling out of her mouth and she was snoring. Was her tiny nose stuffed up?
Mom pulled a knitting project out of her tote. It was a fuchsia and green-striped Dr. Seuss-style scarf.
“What are you working on?” I asked.
She pulled on some yarn. “It’s a scarf for your brother for Christmas.”
“It’s fuchsia.”
“No. It’s red and green.”
“Mom, that’s not red, that’s fuchsia.”
Mom squinted at it. “Really? It looks red to me.”
I laughed. “I’m sure he’ll love it.”
I cringed, thinking about what Mom might have made for me, Laurie, or Jim.
“Of course, he’ll love it. It’s cold in Pennsylvania. This’ll keep Andrew warm.” She eyed me. “If he doesn’t like it then Tracy will. What are you going to send them for Christmas?” she asked.
“Well, I was going to make some fudge and send them a basket, but I don’t think I’m going to have time, so I’ll probably just order something from Baskets.com—”
Mom frowned. “That’s totally impersonal!”
“Well
. . .”
“Why don’t we send a basket of goodies together? We can include the scarf and maybe a gift card, so they can get whatever they want.”
“I’m not sending him that scarf.”
Mom pursed her lips. “He’s going to love it.”
After a moment, Mom asked. “Do you want a piece of chicken?”
“It’s eight-thirty in the morning.”
Mom shrugged.
We killed some time by playing I Spy. Mom finished the scarf and pulled out the chicken. I nursed Laurie and ended up giving her a diaper change on the backseat.
Finally after a few hours, we saw a Lincoln Town Car meander down the street. We watched as it pulled up to the consul’s house. Within minutes the consul was coming down the front steps and getting into the backseat of the car.
“We’re in business,” I said to Mom.
She clapped. “Oh goodie!”
• CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX •
We followed the Town Car to the Ritz-Carlton. The Ritz happened to be around the corner from the French consulate. Which I had assumed was where we were heading.
“What do we do now?” I asked Mom.
“Let me out. I’ll follow him. He’s never seen me before. I’ll call you.”
Before I could even pull over properly, she opened the car door and popped out.
I decided to park in Saint Mary’s Square parking garage, because even though it was pricey, I couldn’t bear the thought of another meter or worse, another ticket.
My phone rang.
“Park the car,” Mom whispered into the line.
“I did.”
“Come in then. He’s meeting someone for lunch. Second floor. I got the table next to him.”
I pulled Laurie and her car seat bucket out of the backseat and snapped the bucket into the stroller. I pushed her up the huge hill to the Ritz. The view of the Bay, Alcatraz, and downtown San Francisco was absolutely worth the calf strain of the hike.
The hill was almost a seventy-degree angle. Now this was the type of hill you’d need to curb tires on. Anything less, forget it!
I smiled at the doorman outside the Ritz. He pulled open the door for me and I immediately felt pampered. Jim and I had spent our wedding night at the Ritz and entering the ornate lobby now brought back warm memories. I crossed the oriental rug to the elevator bank and pressed the button.
Because the hotel was on a hill, when I pressed the button for the second floor the elevator went down instead of up. I smiled when the doors opened and I spotted Mom in the restaurant. She had her menu up to block her face, but the top of her head was visible.
Seated at the neighboring table was the consul and a man in a business suit. They were deep in conversation, but the conversation was in French so a fat lot of good it was going to do us to overhear them.
Mom ordered the lobster knuckle risotto with local asparagus and baby carrots. I ordered the Dungeness crab with hearts of palm, avocado, and orange-infused olive oil. I kept glancing at the consul’s table hoping they wouldn’t finish before us, because if I had to leave even one bite of the delicious dish behind, I’d be mad.
I did, however, refrain from licking my plate. Barely.
The consul was enjoying a pasta dish and the businessman picked at a salad. Finally the consul stood, buttoned his Brooks Brothers suit jacket, then shook hands with the businessman. He moved toward the exit of the restaurant. I popped up to follow him, leaving Mom and Laurie at the table to deal with the bill.
He was a few feet in front of me, heading for the elevator bank.
Should I talk to him here? Or ride the elevator with him to the lobby?
No time like the present.
“Excuse me, Consul, may I have a word?”
He looked at me, trying to recall where he might have seen me before. “Ah, the girl from the balcony! Mademoiselle , I am so sorry you had that terrible experience at the party. I told my staff to take care of it. Sometimes, with the outdoor part of the building and the gardens, it’s hard to control rodents.”
He gave me a patronizing pat on the shoulder and pressed the elevator button.
“No, Consul, I have to speak with you about another matter. Armand Remy.”
His brow creased. “Armand?” He held his hands open, palms up in a “what can you do” gesture. “It’s unfortunate that the poor boy killed himself. And this business about the American reporter . . .” He tsked. “But how does this matter concern you?”
“His parents are in town. I met with them. They don’t believe that Armand killed himself and I can’t imagine they’re buying the idea that he killed Nancy Pickett.”
Anger flashed across his face, but ever the diplomat, he put it in check and said politely, “If they are dissatisfied with the way the police have handled the investigation, they must come to see me or my staff. However, if they simply disagree with the verdict, then that is a different matter.”
The elevator beeped its arrival and the doors opened invitingly.
The consul moved forward to step into it.
“Consul,” I called, in an effort to detain him. “Are you placing French scientists at Reparation Research?”
The consul froze and looked as if I’d hit him in the solar plexus. “What concern is this of yours?”
The elevator buzzed and its doors closed.
I handed him my card. “I’ve been hired to investigate the murder of Nancy Pickett.”
He held his hand up, palm out to halt me. “But we know who killed—”
“Nancy was covering the story of your Légion d’honneur award.”
He looked confused and dropped his hand. “What does the award have to do with anything?”
“Your promotion to ambassador—congratulations by the way—do you think receiving the award clinched the decision?”
He squinted at me, his jaw set. We stared at each other for a moment; he was evaluating me. Trying to size up how formidable of an opponent I might be.
I must have not registered on the formidable meter, because his expression relaxed and he glanced at his watch. “Mademoiselle, I’m afraid I have no time for this discussion.” He pressed the button for the elevator.
“Off to meet the mistress?”
His head jerked toward me. “What?”
I smiled. “On the balcony, Kimberly Newman. I saw you together.”
He shrugged and waved a dismissive hand at me. “So, what of it? Women desire men of power and influence all the time.”
Right. No big deal. His wife was probably used to his indiscretions. As long as her status as wife to the ambassador was safe, maybe she didn’t care.
He gave a cynical laugh. “You didn’t think you were going to blackmail me with that, did you?”
“I’m not trying to blackmail you. I don’t care if you have an affair or not. That’s between you and your wife. The beatings bother me a bit, but certainly that’s not murder.”
He repelled from me. “What beatings?”
I smiled at him. “Oh come on, Ambassador, as long as we’re talking to each other, why not get it all out in the open? Kimberly’s walking around with a pretty nasty black eye. Was that her warning to keep quiet?”
His eyes flicked to the right and left. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.” He pressed the call button repeatedly. “You are wasting my time.”
“I’ll be brief then. This is how I see it. Nancy figured out that you’ve been placing scientists over at Reparation Research—”
“There is nothing wrong with that!” he snapped. “That is my duty as consul. I am to facilitate meetings with learned men.”
He sneered at me, clearly indicated I was as far away from being a learned man as humanly possible.
“Does that facilitating include having the scientist take back corporate secrets to France?”
He sneered at me. “If a cure for cancer is found faster because scientists are sharing information then the world benefits, mademoiselle. You should be happy and
thank me.”
I laughed. “It’s not sharing, it’s stealing. Corporate espionage or at best several intellectual property laws are being violated.” I leaned in close to him and almost whispered, “And Reparation Research isn’t working on a cure for cancer. They’re a cosmetics company. They’re patenting formulas to make lipstick last longer without drying your lips.”
The elevator opened and beeped at us.
He looked toward it, glad for an escape.
“Nancy knew you were to receive the Legion of Honor because of your aid to science, is that right? Certain influential French cosmetic companies stand to make a lot of money, don’t they, Ambassador? The cosmetics industry is a fifty-billion-dollar industry. But hey, everyone wins, we get great skin, they make a fortune, and you get an award. The award leads to an ambassadorship. Who could possibly be mad?”
He stepped into the elevator.
My arm shot out to stop the elevator from closing “You had Nancy Pickett killed because you wanted the story to die.”
“No! I didn’t even know the reporter. You’re wrong!”
“Not wrong about much.” I waved a finger at him. “I may not be a learned man, and I don’t have the cure for cancer, but you can bet I’m going to get justice for Nancy Pickett, Ambassador.”
I released the elevator door and watched it close on his shocked expression.
I returned to the restaurant fuming. The businessman was still picking at his salad and chatting with Mom.
Mom immediately saw my expression and jumped out of her chair. She nodded to the gentleman. “So nice meeting you.”
He looked at me curiously, but waved to Mom.
I grabbed Laurie’s stroller. “Let’s go.”
We waited for the elevator, Mom pestering me for details.
“He says he didn’t know Nancy.”
Mom shrugged. “Well, what did you expect him to say? Yeah, I had her killed, but hey, I have diplomatic immunity so go pound salt?”
I thought of Christophe running off at the San Francisco Centre and being at the supervisor party when he’d told me he didn’t know Kimberly. He’d already lied to me. What else was he hiding?
