Motherhood Is Murder mim-2

by Diana Orgain

  “Do you know who he’s seeing?”

  She leveled her gaze at me. “Does it matter? The guy’s a two-timer.”

  I nodded in agreement. “It matters. An affair is hard to prove without knowing who the other party is.”

  “Why does she need to prove anything? Just dump him.”

  It didn’t feel right to outline Margaret’s suspicions to Sara, so I simply said, “Sometimes it’s not that easy.”

  “Well, I know they have kids and all.”

  Sara put a spoonful of mush to Amanda’s mouth. Amanda promptly turned from it.

  Maybe she would like Gerber’s instead?

  “Any idea how long the affair has been going on for?”

  “Let’s see, Amanda is six months now. I’d say she was probably four months or so when I first noticed him coming home late.”

  Sara succeeded in stuffing a spoonful of slop into Amanda’s mouth, only to have Amanda’s little tongue push it back out again. Sara sighed and wiped Amanda’s chin.

  She stirred the food and made another attempt. Amanda turned her head.

  “Guess she’s not hungry,” she said, pulling the baby from the highchair.

  Amanda wailed in protest. Sara sighed. “I don’t think she likes my squash pottage.” She placed the baby back in the highchair. Amanda kicked her feet in delight. Sara pulled some Cheerios off a shelf and sprinkled a handful in front on the tray. Amanda dug in with relish, wrapping her chubby fingers around each Cheerio and shoving them into her mouth with a giggle.

  “What did you and Helene fight about that night?”

  Her eyes darted around the room. “We didn’t fight.”

  “I thought there had been a disagreement between you two . . . ?”

  “Oh right. Someone with a very big mouth said that at our table, right?”

  She poured more cereal onto Amanda’s highchair tray. Her hand was slightly shaking and the cereal tumbled in droves over the side. She swore under her breath.

  I took the moment to unlatch Laurie and burp her, hoping Sara would fill in some gaps. When she didn’t, I said, “Evelyn said Helene was canceling a construction project your husband was working on and you were very upset by that.”

  The box of Cheerios slipped from Sara’s hand and spilled out on the floor. “No. No, she didn’t cancel. We’re still on. Set to start next week for Bruce.”

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  Sitting Duck

  To Do:

  1. ?

  2. Get manicure.

  3. Order turkey.

  4. Exercise.

  5. Figure out how to make homemade baby food.

  The next morning I could barely drag myself out of bed. I had been up at 11:00 P.M., at 1:00 A.M., at 3:00 A.M., and at 6:00 A.M. Jim had hardly seemed to notice.

  Thankfully he was brewing coffee.

  He sauntered into the bedroom. “Honey, do you have plans today? I have a meeting with Dirk Jonson.”

  Dirk was Jim’s big client. He was the reason I was able to be at home and not back in the corporate world. Had Jim not landed this freelance client, I would be stuck in the nine to five grind, pumping milk every three hours and missing Laurie like crazy.

  “I was hoping you could watch Laurie. I have an appointment, too.”

  After leaving Sara’s place the day before, I had phoned Bruce and requested a meeting. He’d invited me over around noon.

  Jim grabbed a sport coat out of the closet. “Can you ask your mom? I have to leave in a few minutes.”

  I didn’t have to be at Bruce’s until noon so I climbed back into bed. Jim kissed my cheek and disappeared down the hallway. I propped myself on a pillow and dialed Mom.

  “What are you up to?” I asked her.

  “Oh, darling, I’m almost out the door. Why?”

  “I wanted to see if you could babysit. Jim just left for a meeting and I have one this afternoon with Helene’s husband. But don’t worry about it. I’ll take Laurie along.”

  “Is that safe? Isn’t he a suspect?”

  “No. You’re thinking of Alan, that’s Margaret’s husband.”

  “No, I’m not. I mean the widower. Isn’t the widower always a suspect?”

  “Hmmm. Well, I suppose . . . no. Come on, Mom, don’t fuel my paranoia. Even if he was guilty of something, he’s not going to try anything at his own house. That would point the finger directly at him, don’t you think?”

  “I guess you’re right,” Mom said.

  “Where are you off to?” I asked.

  “Napa. Wine tasting with Albert.” Mom giggled.

  “Sounds like fun, but is wine healthy for Galigani?”

  “Well, it’s not like we’ll be chugalugging!”

  “You don’t even drink, Mom.”

  “Just a taste, darling. Nothing drastic. We’re taking my car.”

  “Be careful,” I said.

  At 11 A.M. I bathed Laurie. I’d scrubbed the lint out between her fingers with a Q-tip.

  Where did all the lint come from?

  It seemed that no sooner had I removed it than it was back. The only thing I could guess was that she constantly had her hands in her mouth. Maybe the fact that her hands were wet made any blanket or piece of cloth fuzz stick between the little webs in her hands.

  I stuck a little rubber ducky in the bath with Laurie. She watched it float around. I let her enjoy the soak and sang “Row, Row, Row Your Boat” to her.

  I toweled her and dressed her, then I basically force-fed her. I knew it was a bit early—our routine was to nurse around noon—but if I wanted to be on time, I had to feed her now. Plus, it would eliminate any awkwardness in front of Bruce.

  She seemed to take well enough to the early feeding, but when I burped her, she spit up all over her clean polka-dot top and my blouse, too, somehow missing the burp cloth entirely.

  I laid her in the bassinet and hurried to my bedroom to change my top.

  When I returned to the nursery, she was gazing at the teddy bear mobile in her bassinet.

  Why did she seem to find something to amuse herself only when I needed to run out the door? Why couldn’t she amuse herself with the mobile when I was, say, napping?

  “Come on, Peanuty Pie,” I said, scooping her up and placing her on the changing table.

  She cooed and grinned at me.

  “Yes! You’d be really cute if you didn’t smell like spit-up.” I leaned into her and rubbed my nose against her. She cooed again.

  I selected a clean top for her with tiny sunflowers on it. As soon as I slid it over her head, she turned and spit up again.

  Darn it!

  Maybe feeding Laurie early hadn’t been such a good idea. I was now officially late. I mopped her up and started again, this time with a top that buttoned down the front, hoping it would jiggle her less and cause less pressure on her belly.

  She seemed content. I packed her into the car seat and took off toward Nob Hill, a good thirty minutes from my house.

  Bruce lived in an upscale condo on the third floor. I was winded by the first floor. When I reached his place, I had to lean against the doorframe for support. I was huffing and puffing and refused to ring the bell until I could regain at least a scrap of composure.

  When I finally rang the bell, Bruce opened the door wearing blue plaid shorts and a red Hawaiian top. Despite his wardrobe choices, he was still handsome. He was tall and lean, but his shoulders were slumped with grief. I could imagine that Helene and he had made a stunning couple.

  “Kate, come on in.”

  The condo faced north and the view of the bay was breathtaking.

  He glanced at Laurie peacefully sleeping in her portable car seat bucket. “She’s beautiful.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Let me help you,” he said, reaching out to take Laurie’s bucket from my hand.

  A mama bear instinct overtook me and I clutched the handle of the car seat so hard my knuckles turned white. “Oh no, no, it’s okay. I got her.”

  Bruce looked taken aback. “Don’t be silly. Those car seats get heavy.” He reached out again and this time wrapped his hand around the ha
ndle.

  What was wrong with me? What did I expect him to do with Laurie?

  I tried to release my grasp. But something inside me wouldn’t, so when Bruce pulled on the car seat, he took me along with it.

  He looked confused and froze. He released the bucket as if it had stung him.

  I wanted the ground to open and swallow me up.

  I let out a nervous laugh. “Sorry, I wasn’t sure you had her.”

  What an idiot I am! It was Mom’s fault for planting the “guilty widower” seed in my head!

  Bruce ran his hand up and down his thigh in a self-soothing gesture. He cleared his throat. “Um. I have some salmon on the grill. Downside to these condos is there’s no yard. Upside is the roof access.”

  We made our way awkwardly through the living room. Bruce led and I carted the bucket. The condo was impeccably clean. White Berber carpets, cream leather couches, glass coffee and side tables.

  He steered me toward the kitchen. A small interior staircase loomed ahead of me. I hesitated.

  “Shall we head to the roof?” he asked.

  Even though I hadn’t actually seen Helene dead, images of her lying at the bottom of the stairs flooded my head, followed by an image of Bruce pushing her down the stairs. Immediately followed by an image of Bruce pushing me off the roof.

  Bruce glanced curiously at me. “It’s a nice day out. The weather is outstanding for November.”

  I looked into his sad eyes and suddenly felt ridiculous. He wouldn’t harm anyone.

  “Earthquake weather,” I said, climbing the narrow winding staircase.

  When I emerged into the bright sunlight, I was startled to see Celia there manning the grill.

  She flashed me a bright smile. “Kate! Oh, and you brought your baby!” She dropped the tongs on a small side table and rushed over to coo at Laurie.

  What was she doing here?

  I recalled the touch and hushed conversation they’d shared at the funeral. Could they be having an affair?

  I watched Bruce watch Celia. His eyes flashed bright for a moment, then the sadness returned. He picked up the discarded tongs and poked at the salmon.

  “My friend caught this fish in Canada. Shipped it back just a few days ago. This is the freshest salmon we can hope to have in California for a while, what with the season closure and all.”

  Celia picked up a beer, took a sip, then put her hand to her stomach. “Gosh, I’ve been feeling sick all day.” She hesitantly glanced at Bruce.

  Morning sickness?

  Bruce looked up from the grill. “Oh. Uh . . . if you’re not feeling well . . . Do you want to go home? Oh . . . I’m your ride.” He glanced at Laurie and me, then back to Celia. Celia had a sour look on her face.

  “Do you want me to call you a cab?”

  Celia hesitated. She clutched her stomach. “I hate to miss out on the salmon . . . but maybe I’ll feel better if I lie down for a while.”

  “Sure. You can lie down in the guest room,” Bruce said.

  Celia moved toward the stairs. She turned to me. “Will you promise to come check on me in twenty minutes? I don’t want to miss the party.”

  Party? How strange.

  A widower and a PI meeting was hardly a party. Something was definitely going on.

  She descended the stairs. Bruce pulled the salmon off the grill and placed a few pieces alongside some vegetable shish kebabs on a pumpkin-colored platter.

  He garnished the fish with some lemon slices and placed the platter in the middle of a picnic table that looked like it should have been center stage in a photo shoot for Pottery Barn.

  He indicated for me to help myself.

  I served myself a piece of fish and shish kebab. The smell of salmon was unbelievably delicious.

  Bruce stared longing at the platter. “Haven’t had much of an appetite lately.”

  I wanted to dig in, but now it looked like I would be dining alone. Was that wise? How did I know the fish was safe?

  I chided myself. I couldn’t stand the paranoia any longer. Or the hunger for that matter. Anyway, hadn’t I already decided Bruce wouldn’t harm me in his own house?

  I broke the fish apart with my fork and sampled it. It was moist, hot, and delicious.

  Bruce looked at Laurie in her car seat bucket and sighed. “Before this is over, I hope I have a couple of those.”

  “Before what is over?” I asked.

  “This life.”

  “You and Helene didn’t have any children, is that right?”

  Bruce nodded. “Helene couldn’t have kids.”

  I made no attempt to hide my surprise. “Really? I thought Margaret said you didn’t want kids. She said Helene was fighting the biological clock.”

  Now it was Bruce’s turn to be surprised. His face showed first dismay then something between defeat and sadness. “I suppose it shouldn’t surprise me. Helene was always one surprise after another. I could probably tell you this. I don’t see what difference it makes now that she’s gone.”

  Bruce leaned in toward me and lowered his voice. “About a year after we were married, Helene was brutally raped. It was bad, really bad.” He shook his head back and forth. “We didn’t realize at first that it would prevent us from having kids . . . but . . . sometimes things are just out of your control. I understand why Helene never said anything to Margaret. But me not wanting kids? No. No way. I’d always joked with my parents that I’d have enough to man a basketball team . . .”

  He looked up and squinted at the sun. We sat in silence for a moment.

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  He closed his eyes. “Thank you.” He opened his eyes and looked at Laurie again. “In fact, we were hoping to adopt. That’s why Celia’s here. She was helping Helene and I coordinate an adoption with a priest in Costa Rica.”

  “Oh?”

  “She knows a priest, Father Pedro at San Rafael Catholic Church, who wanted to help this teenage girl who got . . . well anyway, the baby is due next month. Helene was traveling pretty regularly out there and everything was progressing smoothly, but now . . .” He grimaced. “Now it’s hard to imagine being a daddy with no mommy.”

  Sadness overcame me and my eyes began to well with tears. Before I could speak, my cell phone rang. We both glanced at my ultrafashionable diaper purse—an old Jansport travel backpack that was doubling as a diaper bag, purse, and catchall.

  Bruce rose. “Go ahead and get that if you need to. You want a margarita or a beer or something? I think I need a drink.”

  I dug into the backpack for the offending noise and shook my head. Bruce disappeared down the steps as I examined the incoming call. I didn’t recognize the number but pressed the accept button anyway.

  “Hello?”

  “Kate? This is Hank . . . um . . . your mom’s friend?”

  Hank? This was Mom’s other boyfriend. What was he doing calling me?

  “Yeah. Hi, Hank.”

  “Sorry to bother you, Kate. It’s just that I was concerned about your mom. I haven’t heard from her in a couple days and, well, we’re leaving tonight on our Mexican cruise. I wanted to be sure she had all the information . . . and . . . well, at our age you can’t be too careful, right? Just wanted to know that she was okay.”

  What could I say? She’s wine tasting with another fellow?

  “Oh, Hank, that is so sweet. Yes, Mom is fine. Just busy. But she’s totally fine. I’m sure she’ll be there tonight. She’s really looking forward to the trip. Shall I have her call you?”

  “I don’t want to be a bother . . .”

  “I’m sure it’s not a bother . . . let me take down your number.”

  What did I know? Maybe Mom was giving him the brush-off. Still, I didn’t have to be the one to break the bad news, right?

  I rummaged frantically through my diaper purse, but couldn’t come up with a pen in time. I double-checked the number he gave me against the one my phone had picked up. We said good-bye and hung up. I contemplated dialing Mom right then, but decided against it. Bruce would be back any minute.

  I studied Laurie, still snoozing in her bucke
t. I reached over and felt her tummy extend and deflate. Good.

  I finished the salmon and grilled corn on my plate and waited.