Motherhood Is Murder mim-2

by Diana Orgain

  Celia scratched her chin. “Really, next time do you think you’ll go natural?”

  I laughed. “Margaret practically has me convinced,” I lied.

  She unlocked the door and pushed it open. “Why don’t you come in and check it out?”

  I followed her inside.

  “I thought maybe you were here because you had some news . . . ?”

  “News?”

  She shrugged. “I guess I was hoping you were going to tell me that the results from the hospital were ready.”

  “The hospital wouldn’t release your results to me.”

  She eyed me. “Really, I thought because you’re an investigator, you might get the results from the medical examiner.” She sat down on a waiting room chair and looked crushed. “I was hoping that the results would be in and they would show conclusively that Bruce poisoned me with the same thing he used to poison Helene. I keep waiting for someone to tell me he’s in jail.”

  Her shoulders slumped and she looked ready to cry.

  What was I thinking? This woman had been poisoned. Surely if she was dating Bruce and suspected him, she would have made the affair known.

  It had to be Alan.

  I crouched down next to her. “Celia, about that day, what can you tell about the morning? Did you see anybody else, maybe earlier in the day? Before going to Bruce’s house?”

  She sniffled and snapped to attention. “Just my normal client list.” She stood and crossed to the reception area. She looked at the appointment book on the counter, running her finger down a daily column. “The fifteenth? Hmmm, pretty dead really. Just Evelyn came in for her appointment. She’s getting close now and coming in weekly.”

  Right. Evelyn had told me about the appointment.

  “Did you go anywhere before Bruce’s?” I asked.

  “Let’s see.” She paced around and looked thoughtful as though she was trying to re-create events in her mind. “I had the appointment with Evelyn in the morning at ten A.M. then left here and went to Bruce’s. He’d called me the night before and asked me to meet with him. He said he wanted to talk about the adoption.”

  I leaned against the arm of the waiting chair. “Did you stop anywhere along the way? To get coffee? Or pick up dry cleaning?”

  Or see your boyfriend, Alan?

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t typically buy coffee—it’s so expensive! Four-fifty for a cup? No way.” She glanced down at her track suit. “And dry cleaning? I don’t know if anything in my closet is dry clean only.”

  Maybe she could afford the rent because she wasn’t spending money on coffee or dry cleaning bills.

  “This is a nice place you have here. How long have you been here?”

  “The center is brand-new. Sara’s husband, you know Sara, right?”

  I nodded.

  “He remodeled it for me. He’s a contractor—gave me a great price. The place used to be a record store. I got a deal on the rent because the area is low foot traffic, which is fine with me, because people don’t usually select a midwife by spontaneously walking in. Let me show you around.”

  I followed her to a back room. There was a beautiful birthing pool in the center of the room. Around the sides of the room were large exercise balls, a shelf with towels, and several laundry baskets. Celia dimmed the lights and pressed Play on the stereo. There were small lights around the baseboards and the room seemed to glow.

  “This room is where most of my moms deliver. There’s an exam room next door. Did you want to see that?”

  I shook my head. “No. This is wonderful.”

  And it was. It was truly beautiful and relaxing. I still couldn’t see myself giving birth outside of a hospital, but now I understood the draw.

  “Did Margaret give birth here?”

  “No, she was my first client in the Bay Area after I moved up from L.A. She had Marcus at her home.”

  I imagined Celia assisting Margaret giving birth. Margaret—swollen belly, sweating, tired, probably swearing at Alan, juxtaposed next to Celia—olive skin, calm, beautiful.

  How could a father witnessing the birth of his baby choose to be with the midwife instead of the mother of his own child?

  At that moment in my mind, Alan was worse than pond scum.

  “I’ve always wanted my own center,” Celia continued.

  “So, I got this lease and fixed up the place. I need to find some staff now. Do you know anyone?”

  I shook my head.

  Celia led me back up to the front.

  I pointed to the roses on the reception console. “Boyfriend?”

  She smiled. “No. The roses are from me. The one thing I allowed myself to splurge on when I got out of the hospital.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

  Research

  To Do:

  1. Why would anyone poison Celia?

  2. Where is Margaret?

  3. Must get house in order for Thanksgiving!

  4. Shop, cook, clean.

  5. Drink water.

  6. Exercise—or will have nothing to wear for Thanksgiving!

  On my way home, I’d stopped in at the library to pick up my reserved copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigation. While there I checked out a few picture books for Laurie and a cookbook for Jim.

  By the time I arrived home, I was famished and exhausted. Laurie needed attention, but fortunately Jim had taken a stab at dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs—nothing fancy, just frozen ones—with some canned sauce. But beggars can’t be choosers.

  I ate three bowls before I felt satisfied and then shortly afterward felt overstuffed and regretted the extra helpings.

  Hopefully the cookbook would help us be a little more creative with our meals. There was even a section on homemade baby food!

  Over dinner, Jim told me I’d missed a call from my mom.

  “She’s back?” I asked.

  “Yeah. She’s coming over in the morning. I suggest you don’t tell her about your foray in the hospital. Not unless you have a death wish.”

  I had been anxious to get to bed to catch up on lost sleep, but once my head hit the pillow, I tossed and turned. The night of the cruise was still fresh in my mind, not to mention my venture to the emergency room. I felt like talking to Jim, but he was emitting soft snoring sounds. I peeked at Laurie, snoozing peacefully in the bassinet next to our bed.

  I turned on the bedside table lamp and cracked open The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigation. I read the section on research then climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway. In the office, I logged on to the computer and fumbled my way through a bit of background information on Bruce. I was able to review his personal website as a financial advisor and pull a credit report for him.

  He had great credit, but that didn’t tell me much. I e-mailed Galigani and requested he help me with subscribing to one of the databases licensed PIs had access to.

  For lack of anything better to do, I googled “Celia Martin midwife”—a gazillion things came up but nothing of value. I clicked through several articles on midwives and the benefits of home births. I read a disturbing account of a pregnant woman in Miami who had disappeared on her way to a natural child birthing center. Her husband was deployed in the military. The woman was on her own to have the baby and had selected a midwife to assist. Only she’d never made it to the center. One of her neighbors had reported seeing her leave the house in labor and had offered to drive her. She’d declined, telling him it was the early stages of labor and she was not having regular contractions.

  The authorities suspected she’d gone into active labor while driving and had an accident. Although when the car was finally recovered, months later, there was no evidence of the mother or baby.

  The midwife wasn’t named, but Celia had told me she was from L.A., so while it had nothing to do with the case I was working on, the story nevertheless upset me.

  Must be the hormones!

  Tears ran down my face as I thought of the demise of this military wife and soon to be mother, not to mention the loss of the innocent life inside her.
r />   I refined the search to “Celia Martin midwife Los Angeles,” but no direct links came up.

  I went to bed dejected.

  The following morning I was sitting on the couch reading the PI book when Mom rang my doorbell. I opened the door to find her dressed in a poncho and mariachi hat. On her feet were bright red Converse high-tops and in one hand she held a plastic bag.

  “I thought you got in last night.” I motioned for her to come into the house.

  She looked confused. “I did.”

  “Then why are you still dressed like that?”

  Mom laughed. “The poncho and hat are for Jim and this is for you and Laurie.” She handed me the plastic bag.

  I peeked inside. A matching pair of red Converse and a set of maracas.

  “The shoes are for you and the maracas for Laurie. Where is she?”

  “Why did you get me Converse?”

  “Because they’re comfortable. Look at this!” She ran in place. “My bunions were killing me on the cruise. I could barely walk, but then I found these in a two-for sale.”

  “Two-for?”

  “Two for one! I thought of you!”

  I kissed her. “Thanks, Mom.”

  Mom looked offended. “Why do you say it like that?” “Like what? All I said was thanks!”

  “You’re not going to wear them, are you?”

  “Well, I don’t normally wear Converse. They’re for teenagers. Boy teenagers.”

  Maybe I’d give them to Kenny.

  “That’s not true,” Mom said.

  “I’ll try them on.” I sat on the couch and kicked off my house slippers. “Thank you for getting Galigani to sponsor me,” I said, lacing up the left shoe.

  Mom nodded and took off the hat and poncho, then proceeded to place the items on my dining room table. “Coffee?” she asked.

  “In the kitchen.” I laced up the shoe.

  Hmmm. It was comfortable.

  “Where are Jim and Laurie?” Mom called as she disappeared to the kitchen.

  “Jim went for a run. Laurie’s in the nursery.”

  Mom reappeared in the living room and placed her cup on the coffee table. She grabbed the maracas and headed to the nursery singing a goofy made-up song and shaking the maracas like crazy.

  “Mom, you’re going to wake her.”

  I heard Laurie let out a loud scream that escalated to a pitch that could break crystal. I ran into the nursery with my Converse on my feet.

  Hey, I ran fast in these shoes.

  Mom had Laurie in her arms. “I don’t know why she doesn’t like the maracas. She’s going to be just like her mommy—difficult to shop for.”

  We decided to bathe Laurie as I filled Mom in on the last few days. I told her about Celia being hospitalized but left out the part about me and Laurie.

  As I put warm water in the baby tub, Mom undressed Laurie. She placed her in the tub and poured a few cupfuls of water over her. Laurie cooed from pure enjoyment. I pulled out the Magic Moments cradle cap cream.

  Mom frowned. “What’s that?”

  “It’s special cream so she doesn’t get cradle cap.”

  Mom examined Laurie’s head. “She doesn’t have cradle cap.”

  “I know. I’ve been using this stuff. Smell.” I stuck the bottle under Mom’s nose.

  Mom crinkled her nose. “You don’t need special cream, just use soap and water. That’s what I did with you and your brother.”

  “That’s because they didn’t have Magic Moments when I was a baby,” I taunted her.

  “How much did you pay for that?”

  “Too much probably, and it wasn’t a two-for sale,” I said.

  Mom laughed at me. “You were had!”

  The phone rang, interrupting us. I left Mom to bathe Laurie and answered the call.

  “Kate? This is Mandy from Gary Barramendi’s office.”

  I snapped to attention. “Yes! Hi. Um, uh . . . I mean, hello!”

  “Gary would like the daily report. I’ll transfer you now.”

  Daily report?

  Oh no! I had forgotten. What was I supposed to tell him?

  I cleared my throat, hoping to sound professional and not like I’d just been bathing my infant and arguing with my mother.

  “Good morning, Mrs. Connolly. Any news?” Gary asked.

  “Good morning.” Good, my voice sounded fine—intelligent even! “Yes. I interviewed Celia yesterday.”

  There! I did have something to report!

  “Interview? I thought you were going to stake her out.”

  Shoot!

  “Uh . . .”

  “Anything relevant?” he probed.

  What could I tell him about? The stakeout and interview had been a complete dud?

  Before I could think of an answer, Gary said, “That’s my other line, I have to take it. I’ll look forward to reading the transcript.”

  “Transcript?” I squawked.

  “You do tape your interviews, don’t you?”

  I was supposed to tape them?

  “Uh . . . no . . . I mean . . . yes. Of course. Just not this one. I had a problem with my . . . device.”

  “It happens. Okay, type up a summary and fax it to Mandy.”

  I hung up as the front door squeaked open.

  Jim appeared, dripping from his run. “Look at what the cat dragged in,” he said.

  Paula trailed him. “Looks more like you’ve been dragged. What happened to you?” she teased.

  Jim laughed, greeted Mom, then kissed me. “I’m jumping in the shower.”

  Mom stopped him. “Wait! Look at what I brought back for you!”

  She handed a towel-wrapped Laurie to me and proceeded to put on the poncho. She threw the mariachi hat onto the floor and sang the tune to the “Mexican Hat Dance.”

  Paula laughed hysterically watching Mom dance around in the red Converse and poncho.

  Jim looked concerned. “Is that safe?”

  Mom frowned. “What’s unsafe about it?”

  Paula pointed to my feet, still clad in the Converse, and giggled. Jim simply shook his head.

  “I love the ‘Mexican Hat Dance,’ ” Paula said.

  “The ‘Jarabe Tapatío’!” Mom exclaimed with the worst Spanish accent imaginable. “How was Paris?”

  As they caught up with each other, Jim showered and I got Laurie dressed. When I’d finished, I joined them in the living room and brought Paula up to speed on my interview with Celia.

  “Was Celia on that cruise?” Paula asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “If she’s not a suspect for killing Helene, why didn’t you just ask her if she’s seeing Alan?” Paula asked. “If I was dating a married man who was suspected of murder, I’d want to know.”

  Mom rubbed her chin thoughtfully. “People don’t generally tell the truth about affairs, though. Do they? Especially to someone she knows is friendly with the wife. No. If she’s in love with him, then she’ll protect him.”

  “Not if he poisoned her,” Paula said.

  “We don’t know that, and even still,” Mom said, “maybe they’re working together. Maybe she allowed the podiatrist to give her a little something to knock her out but not kill her. If he’s a doctor, he would know about dosages and the like.”

  I sat to attention.

  Paula shook her head. “That’s crazy.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  I hadn’t considered that option. Could Celia and Alan be working together? Or Celia and Bruce, for that matter?

  “You should just ask her about Alan,” Paula insisted.

  I shook my head. “She knows I’m working for Margaret. She knows I would report it to her.”

  We sat in silence for a moment.

  Suddenly Paula said, “I could ask her. I’ll go to her midwife center and pretend I’m looking for a midwife. She won’t suspect me of being connected to you.”

  Mom jumped up. “And I can see the podiatrist! He can look at my bunions!”

  Paula leapt up. She and Mom sprang into a spontaneous rendition of the “Jarabe Tapatío.” I turned Laurie on my lap so she was sitting up and facing them. She let out a little giggle and pedale
d her feet as though she wanted to dance, too.

  I watched them dance with more verve than a sixty-year-old woman with bunions and seven-months-pregnant woman should have.