A Witch Called Wanda (iWitch Mystery Book 1)

by Diana Orgain

  I recalled the mundane items in the bags. Why would anyone want them? Had I missed something?

  I collapsed into the rocker with Laurie, trying to soothe her into quiet mode.

  Michelle hadn’t returned my call. Maybe I should go over there tomorrow. After all, what else did I have to do all day?

  Sleep?

  Ha.

  <><><>

  I filled the time the best way I could and dialed the only person I could think of that would be up at this ungodly hour, my girlfriend, Paula, in France. Paula and her husband, David, had relocated several months ago. David worked for a top consulting firm. In order to move up in his career, he’d been “asked” to take an assignment in France and relocate his family.

  I jiggled Laurie in my arms and listened to the phone ring. With no sleep, I felt incapable of doing the math on the time difference. I figured it must be sometime in the afternoon. Her voice mail kicked on and I left a sluggish, incoherent message.

  I logged on to the computer and e-mailed her.

  Tried to call you. Lots to tell, but its 4am here and even though I can’t sleep because Laurie is awake I can’t really type with her in my arms either. Thinking of you. Call or email when you get the chance.

  XOXOXOX.

  I finally successfully placed Laurie in her bassinet and crawled back into bed as the alarm went off at 6 A.M. Every earlier attempt had been fouled by Laurie’s startle reflex; as soon as I set her down, her little arms would shoot straight up as though she were falling.

  Jim jarred awake. “Were you up all night?”

  “Practically.”

  He rubbed my back. “Oh, honey, why didn’t you wake me?”

  “I tried.”

  “You did?”

  My eyelids felt like sandpaper, and my arms and back were sore from rocking Laurie. “Yeah.”

  He stroked my hair. “If she wakes up again tonight, get me up.”

  If she wakes up again?

  “Nite-nite,” I whispered, falling into a fitful sleep.

  <><><>

  The phone woke Laurie and me. I glanced around, surprised to see that Jim had already left for the office. The clock glowed 9 A.M. No wonder. Had I really slept three hours straight? I felt much better. What a difference a little sleep made.

  I grabbed the ringing phone.

  “Where have you been? I called and called yesterday.”

  “Hi, Mom.”

  “What have you done with my granddaughter? I need to see her before she doesn’t recognize me. And I finished her knit cap.”

  Uh-oh.

  “Green?”

  “No. I ran out of that yarn. Orange.”

  I laughed. “Come over. I need to run a couple errands.” After yesterday’s ordeal with Mr. Creepy and the cars being broken into, I didn’t want Laurie in tow. Just in case.

  <><><>

  I made my daily list while waiting for Mom.

  To Do:

  1. Find George.

  2. Ask Michelle if she told George I have his bags.

  3. Learn how to use hideous breast pump.

  4. Catch up on z’s.

  5. Restart diet.

  6. x E-mail Paula.

  7. Send out birth announcements.

  8. Make birth announcements.

  I dug in my closet, searching for something to wear. Fortunately, my bones weren’t as achy as the day before and some of my pregnancy bloat was starting to disappear. I tried on a pair of nonmaternity slacks. They actually fit.

  Except for the waist.

  I found a flowing silk blouse that I could leave un-tucked to hide the fact that the button was held in place with a rubber band. Hey, progress was progress, and I’d do anything not to have to wear maternity pants.

  What did they say about pregnancy weight: nine months up, nine months down? I sighed at my reflection in the mirror and hurriedly put on lipstick.

  I left Laurie with Mom cooing over her and made my way to Michelle’s.

  <><><>

  I parked in front of the house and found myself checking the street for anyone hanging around. No shady characters or car thieves, but since I hadn’t seen anyone before, I didn’t exactly feel secure.

  I rang Michelle’s doorbell.

  No answer.

  I rang the bell again, puttering around a bit, waiting. There was no chipping paint to pick at, so I traced the outlines of the numbers of her address. About fifteen times.

  I dug out my cell phone and dialed her. It rang and rang; finally her voice mail clicked on.

  Hmm. Maybe she went somewhere? To get groceries?

  Buy herself more wine?

  When I turned to leave, I saw the day’s newspaper was still on the stairs. I peered through the tiny window, made of brick glass, on her front door. It was meant to let light in but keep Peeping Toms out. I couldn’t see a thing inside.

  An uneasy feeling was building inside me. I decided to check around the house and see if I could find any accessible windows. I fought the paranoia flaring up.

  It’s probably nothing, Kate.

  I peeked into the mail slot at the garage. A gold hard-top Mercedes was visible. I went around to the side of the house and tried to reach the dining room’s stained glass windows, but they were too high.

  A heavy planter box was nearby. I dragged it about a foot so I could climb onto it and look through the window. Even on my tiptoes I wasn’t tall enough.

  I retreated to the front of the house and spotted several thick phone books on the curb. When was the phone company going to stop printing those? With everyone searching the yellow pages online, I couldn’t imagine a need for them much longer. But thankfully they hadn’t stopped yet as they might just give me the boost I needed.

  I grabbed the books and placed them on top of the planter box then climbed up holding on to the old window trim, praying it wouldn’t give. I was able to pull myself high enough to peer through the window into the dining room.

  Michelle was sprawled across the floor.

  I rapped sharply on the window. She didn’t move. I swallowed the fear in my throat and rapped again.

  Nothing.

  Maybe she’s fainted. Maybe she’s passed out drunk.

  I started to climb off the phone books and lost my footing. I fell off the planter box, tearing my slacks on a protruding nail.

  I sat dumbfounded on the cement, the back of my right thigh throbbing from the fall.

  Michelle!

  I picked myself up and hobbled to the front of the house and up the steps again. Leaning on the doorbell, I willed Michelle to get up and answer the door.

  In a last-ditch effort, I tried the knob. It turned in my hand. Pushing it open, I called, “Michelle! Michelle!”

  I ran to her and turned her over.

  Her body was limp. She was pale as a ghost, her black hair strewn across her face. I brushed it away with my hand. “Michelle? Oh Michelle, please don’t be dead,” I whispered even though I knew she was.

  Oddly, she had a peaceful expression. There was a small cut on her temple where blood had trickled. I imagined her collapsing and cutting her head against the coffee table.

  I looked around the room and noticed two wineglasses on her coffee table. She’d had company. My God, what could have happened?

  I dialed 9-1-1 from Michelle’s phone.

  After I reported Michelle dead, the operator said, “I’m sending someone now. Did you try CPR?”

  “Oh my God. I don’t think . . .”

  The operator instructed me to feel for a pulse.

  I knelt next to Michelle and took her hand in mine, placing two fingers over her wrist. I confirmed the lack of a pulse.

  “Ma’am, the police will be there shortly. Please don’t touch anything in the house,” the operator instructed. “Stay on the line.”

  I remained kneeling next to Michelle, helplessly holding her hand and feeling a heaviness in my gut.

  Someone had killed Michelle. My high school friend. Someone
had killed her, had murdered her husband. Someone had broken into my cars.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to think his name. It popped into my head anyway.

  George? Charming, flaky, pain-in-the-ass George.

  Please, no. Please, don’t be behind this.

  •CHAPTER EIGHT•

  The Second Week—Seeing is Believing

  I waited in stunned silence until I heard sirens down the street. I told the 9-1-1 operator that the paramedics had arrived.

  “All right, ma’am. Please wait for the police. They’ll be there shortly to take your statement.”

  My statement?

  I opened the door for the paramedics. They tried to resuscitate Michelle. They couldn’t. Soon the police arrived, headed by Inspector McNearny, the same cop who’d helped me with Jim’s car the day before. He came into the house and barely looked at Michelle. Instead, he looked straight at me, cocking his head to the side. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Mrs. Connolly, is it?” He jutted his chin at me a bit, challenging me. “Kind of a surprise to find you here. How’s your car? File that insurance claim yet?”

  What was he accusing me of? Insurance fraud? Something worse?

  “No. I didn’t. Not yet.” I could feel his gaze. I supposed he was waiting for an explanation. “I came over to see my friend, Michelle.”

  McNearny nodded at me, then at his partner. “Jones, this is Ms. Connolly.”

  Jones was younger than McNearny, with kind eyes and short dark hair that was gelled back. He smiled sympathetically at me.

  McNearny gestured toward the wineglasses. “Did you have wine with her?”

  “No. No! I just got here. She didn’t answer the door. I tried her phone and left a message. I saw her through the window . . . on the floor. I . . . the door was open. I thought maybe she passed out.”

  Inspector McNearny squinted at me, then pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. “You looked through the window? What window?”

  I pointed to the dining room stained glass window. McNearny walked into the dining room and peeked out. “It’s high.”

  “I know. I had to move the planter box and climb up.”

  McNearny scratched his chin, still looking out the window. “You moved it?”

  I nodded. Jones looked around the living room. “How did you gain access to the house?”

  “The front door was open,” I repeated.

  “I don’t get it. Why look through the window?” Jones asked.

  “Well, I rang the bell. She didn’t answer. I didn’t think to try the door. Who leaves their door unlocked in San Francisco? So, I wanted to peek through a window.”

  “Why?” McNearny countered. “Why didn’t you leave? Maybe she wasn’t home.”

  “But she was home. Sort of . . .”

  “Do you normally climb planter boxes to look through people’s windows when they don’t answer the door?” McNearny asked.

  “No. I just . . . her husband—”

  “Was murdered. Yes.” McNearny nodded.

  “I was worried about her.”

  “Why?” Jones asked.

  I shrugged uselessly. “The last time I saw her, she told me she was scared.”

  “Scared of what?” McNearny scowled.

  I stared at him. “Scared that whoever killed her husband would come after her.”

  “Ah,” McNearny said, tapping his pencil on his notebook. “And did she tell you who that was?”

  I took a deep breath. “No.”

  A uniformed officer bent over Michelle, measuring something. I averted my eyes, pressing on them to keep from crying.

  McNearny walked over to Michelle’s body and studied her for a moment. “You found her like this?”

  “Yeah. No. I mean, she was facedown. I turned her over.”

  “Can you tell us what you’ve touched?” Jones asked.

  “The phone, the door, Michelle.” I spun around, taking inventory of the room. “I think that’s it.”

  “What happened to your pants?” McNearny asked.

  I felt the back of my pants. They were torn around my hamstring. “I tore them when I fell off the planter,” I said, rubbing at the bruise I was sure was forming on the backside of my leg.

  McNearny grunted, making no effort to conceal his skepticism. He scribbled something into his notebook, then indicated a pair of prescription glasses on the coffee table. “What about those glasses over there? Are they yours?”

  “No.”

  “Are they Michelle’s?” Jones asked.

  My stomach churned. “I don’t know.”

  McNearny made a note, then looked up at me. “I thought she was your friend.”

  “She was my friend. I just hadn’t seen her for a long time. I don’t know if she wore glasses.”

  The front door squeaked open and Nick Dowling, the medical examiner, poked his head through. “Got a call.” His eyes landed on Michelle. “I see I’m in the right place,” he said, nodding at McNearny and Jones.

  McNearny and Jones nodded back. I tried my best to look inconspicuous.

  Dowling spotted me. “Mrs. Connolly! Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”

  McNearny’s and Jones’s heads spun toward me so fast I was afraid they’d break their necks. I smiled despite gritted teeth and raised my eyebrows in acknowledgment to Dowling.

  McNearny, Jones, and Dowling all exchanged glances, then McNearny barked, “Downtown!”

  Jones crossed to me, while McNearny and Dowling huddled over Michelle.

  “Mrs. Connolly, I know how upsetting all this can be,” Jones said. “Finding your friend and all. Maybe it’s best if you come downtown with me to the station. We’ll be more comfortable and I’ll be able to take your official statement.”

  I froze.

  Downtown?

  “I . . . I have a newborn,” I stuttered. “I have to get home and feed her.”

  Suddenly I felt nauseated. What had I gotten myself into?

  Jones was expertly maneuvering me toward the front door. “A newborn? Really? I got a nine-month-old. Aren’t they great?”

  McNearny instructed another officer to start dusting for fingerprints.

  Jones pulled open the front door. The fresh air relieved my nausea, a bit. We walked in silence down the front steps.

  Once on the curb, Jones gestured to a car parked nearby. “This your car?”

  I shook my head and pointed to my Chevy Cavalier parked down the street.

  “You want to follow me downtown?” he asked. “Or you want to ride with me?”

  “I can drive myself?”

  “Sure, no problem. You’re going voluntarily, right?”

  Was I?

  From the relative safety of my car, which I was happy to see had not been broken into again, I dialed home and instructed Mom to give Laurie a formula bottle.

  The only good thing about my initially being rated “poor” at breastfeeding in the hospital was that, upon hearing this, Mom had immediately run out and bought formula. When I caught her smuggling it into my pantry, she had mumbled, “Just in case.”

  Which I took to mean: “Just in case you’re too lame to get the hang of what every mother has been doing naturally since the beginning of time.”

  Outwardly I was a little offended; inwardly I was relieved. Just in case I was too lame, there was no reason for Laurie to starve. Besides, you never know when you’re going to stumble across a dead friend and need your mom to feed the baby.

  <><><>

  At the station, I was escorted by Jones to a small room with a mirror, a table, and a few chairs. On the table was a box of tissues, a couple of notepads, and a small recorder. Jones sat across from me and hooked a microphone into the recorder.

  “Do I need a lawyer?” I asked nervously.

  Jones smiled. “For what?”

  I shrugged.

  “Mrs. Connolly, you are not under arrest. I just want to get a statement from you. You want coffee or something?”

/>   “No.”

  “Water? Soda?”

  “Water would be nice.”

  Jones continued fussing with the recorder. A female officer appeared in the doorway with my water. I glanced from her to the mirror. Two-way mirror? Who else was watching me?

  “I need a few things from my desk, okay?” Jones said, “Drink the water. Relax. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left me alone in the room.

  I drank my water and waited and waited. My breasts were starting to burn. I glanced at my watch. It was feeding time. I doubled-checked myself in the two-way mirror. Thankfully my breasts hadn’t leaked through my blouse; otherwise, I’d have given whoever it was on the other end quite a show.

  At least half an hour passed before Jones returned empty-handed. Empty-handed but with McNearny by his side. He’d been buying time for McNearny to return.

  Both officers seated themselves across from me, Jones smiling, McNearny scowling.

  Jones leaned forward and said the date and time into the microphone. He mentioned all our names then looked up at me. “Mrs. Connolly, can you tell us the last time you saw Michelle Avery?”

  “The day before yesterday.”

  “Where was that?” Jones asked.

  “At her house. She’d invited me for lunch.”

  “Tell us about it,” Jones said.

  I shrugged. “She was very upset. She was drinking. She drank a bottle of wine while I was there.”

  “Was that unusual for her?” Jones asked.

  “I don’t know. I thought so. A whole bottle? But, you know, you’re right, I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I have no idea what her drinking habits were.”

  McNearny cleared his throat. “So, she was a drunk.”

  “I’m not saying that. I don’t really know. I just know she was upset . . .”

  Jones leaned in close to me. “So upset, you think maybe she could have killed herself?”

  Before I could answer, McNearny said, “You got her suicide note in your purse or anything?”

  “What?” I practically yelled. The anger that bubbled up inside me turned to tears. I plucked a tissue from the box on the table and wiped at my eyes. Jones bowed his head, giving me a moment to compose myself. McNearny simply watched me.