Bundle of Trouble

by Diana Orgain

CHAPTER ELEVEN•

  The Third Week—Grasping

  I had a fitful night, tossing and turning during the short time Laurie was asleep. When I awoke, Jim had already left for work.

  It was time to acquaint myself with the dreaded breast pump.

  After carefully reading the instructions twice and not understanding anything, I decided on the trial-and-error method.

  I plugged the pump in and hooked up all the tubes and components the best I could. It didn’t hurt as much as I thought it would, but it didn’t yield that much milk either. I looked at the pitiful three ounces that I’d pumped. An ounce and a half from each breast. How was that ever supposed to sustain Laurie?

  Maybe I had hooked it up wrong.

  I grabbed my notebook and stretched out across the bed.

  To Do:

  1. Lose weight, when can I start exercising?

  2. Call work—YUK!

  3. Plan alternate career! Can I work from home?

  4. Where is George? Does he live at the apartment on Haight?

  5. E-mail Paula about alibi for June fifteenth—just in case.

  6. Research postpartum paranoia online.

  7. Get a haircut.

  I logged on to the computer to e-mail Paula. I attached photos of Laurie, asked her how to use the breast pump, caught her up on all the drama around Michelle and George, and finally requested an alibi for June fifteenth. After that, I researched “postpartum paranoia.” Every single reference was accompanied by the words “delusion,” “hallucination,” and “psychosis.”

  Good grief! Psychosis?

  Was I psychotic? Delusional? Wait a minute, no one had broken into my house last night, that much was true, but I had found a dead body.

  The ringing phone interrupted me from further analysis. I hurried to reach it before Laurie awoke.

  “Is this Kate Connolly?” asked a soft female voice with a Russian accent.

  “Yes.”

  “You called me yesterday. I didn’t hire an investigator.”

  “Mrs. Avery?” I asked.

  “Svetlana.”

  “Oh. Sorry. I was trying to reach Gloria Avery,” I said.

  “Gloria?” her voice sounded alarmed.

  “Yes. Do you know her?”

  “My mother . . . well, er, mother-in-law,” Svetlana said.

  The first wife.

  “Gloria hired an investigator?” Svetlana asked.

  “I think so. That’s what this guy said.”

  Svetlana let out a breath. “Ohh . . .” Silence filled the line. Finally she asked, “Can we meet?”

   

   

  I clicked Laurie’s car seat into the base in the backseat and took off toward Chestnut Street, the metro hip part of San Francisco.

  Nothing like an outing to avoid further self-analysis.

  I was meeting Svetlana at a teahouse. I had never been to one before and was mildly curious about it, although not as curious as I was about Svetlana.

  What could she want to meet me about?

  I found parking in a much too small space in front of the teahouse. My bumper hit both cars front and back as I crammed my Cavalier in.

  Love taps. Hope the owners aren’t in sight.

  At least I’d be able to watch my car from inside the tea shop and make sure no one broke into it.

  I grabbed Laurie’s little bucket car seat and stared into her face. Still sleeping.

  Had she even moved?

  I gently shook her. She woke up and began to wail.

  Great, wake a sleeping baby!

  I glanced at my watch. I had been so nervous about being late that I was early. Time to kill, I might as well nurse Laurie in the comfort of my Cavalier.

  I settled my feet on her diaper bag, which was squashed in between the baby carrier and a first aid kit.

  Maybe the car wasn’t so comfortable.

  Where had all this gear come from? The infant car seat took up two-thirds of the backseat and the rest was occupied with rattles, blankets, and stuffed dolls.

  I had to clear out my car.

  Another item to add to my to-do list.

  I watched a tall, elegant woman make her way to the front door of the teahouse. She had straight black hair and was dressed in brown slacks with a russet-colored shawl wrapped around her shoulders. Could that be Svetlana? I finished nursing Laurie and swaddled her tight. She needed a diaper change. There was no room to do it in the car, so the ladies’ restroom in the teahouse would have to do.

  I nestled her back into the removable car seat and picked up the entire bucket. This bucket was starting to be a real pain. It had seemed so light when we purchased it, testing it against all the other models. But now it seemed to weigh a ton.

  Thank God I had parked close.

  I stepped inside the teahouse and into another century. Beautiful lace curtains covered the windows, and the pink walls were decorated with fine china from around the world.

  I wondered if my postpartum butt would fit on any of the delicate chairs.

  The lone customer was the lady I had seen walk in. She eyed me curiously.

  “Svetlana?” I asked.

  She stood. “Kate? I didn’t know you had a baby!”

  “Yes.” I hobbled over to her, trying to tread lightly. My pelvic bones hadn’t stopped hurting since the outing from the other day, and the bruise on the back of my leg didn’t help matters.

  She pulled out a tiny chair for me. I dropped my bag onto the floor and settled Laurie’s bucket beside my chair.

  “How old is she?”

  “Three weeks.”

  Svetlana gasped. “In Russia, we never take such small baby out.”

  More reprimands? What, indeed, was I doing out of the house? Laurie ogled up at Svetlana.

  “This is why I love America,” she continued. “Baby girl will learn fast.”

  My guilt was assuaged for the moment. What would I be doing at home anyway? Sleeping? Laurie kicked off her blanket. Ha! Not likely. I yawned as I pulled the blanket up over her again.

  “Where’s the restroom?”

  Svetlana pointed to the back. I removed Laurie from her car seat and picked up her diaper bag. Everything now, even using the restroom, was an ordeal.

  As I entered the restroom, I realized that I wouldn’t be able to change Laurie. There was no diaper stand, only a small Victorian sink and a retro toilet. I wouldn’t even be able to use the toilet myself, since I couldn’t very well put Laurie on the floor.

  I returned to the table and grabbed the Godforsaken car seat bucket. I packed Laurie into it and made my way back to the restroom.

  I changed Laurie’s diaper in the bucket seat. Then Laurie watched from her little bucket cocoon as I relieved myself in the Victorian toilet.

  Would life be any easier if I returned to the corporate world?

  Laurie, as if reading my thoughts, let out a little cry in protest.

  I held my finger out to her, which she grasped tightly. “Easier maybe, but not nearly as much fun, peanut.”

   

   

  Svetlana ordered us green tea, cucumber sandwiches, and raspberry cookies. The cucumber sandwiches arrived looking a little lackluster. Svetlana gobbled one up. I joined her.

  How could I lose any weight if I ate even the unappetizing stuff?

  The teacups were tiny, like having a shot of tea. I had to refill my cup after one sip.

  “You were married to Brad?” I asked.

  Svetlana nodded, washing down another sandwich with tea. “Three years. We had a lot of trouble. He met Michelle and . . .” She made a gesture with her hands, placing her index fingers together then pulling them apart to demonstrate a split.

  Brad had left Svetlana for Michelle? How’s that for motive?

  “How did you two meet?”

  “In school. I study baking. Brad cooking.”

  The restaurant, of course.

  “We drink tea after class.” She gestured around. “Thi
s was our favorite place. Our old school is around the corner.”

  “Do you know what happened to Brad?” I asked.

  Her eyes searched mine, giving me the feeling she was trying to gauge what I knew. “Police find him in the bay, right?”

  I nodded.

  “How do you know Brad?” she asked.

  “I didn’t know him. Michelle was an old friend from high school.”

  Svetlana looked deflated. “Oh. Michelle,” she said, then crammed a cookie into her mouth.

  Oops, wrong subject to bring up.

  “Why did you want to meet with me?” I asked, trying to get her mind off the woman who had stolen her husband.

  Svetlana snapped to attention. “Did Gloria’s investigator ask about me?”

  “No. Why would he? We don’t even know each other.”

  “Gloria doesn’t like me. I wonder if she hire inspector to deport me back to Russia.”

  “I imagine she hired him to help the police find out what happened to Brad.”

  Svetlana’s lips twitched. “Gloria doesn’t like me,” she repeated. “I open new business six months ago. I can’t go back to Russia now. I have new beginning here.”

  I nodded. “When was the last time you saw Brad?”

  “My birthday. June ninth. Why?”

  “You kept in touch?”

  She studied Laurie. “We had a baby, Brad and me. We stay in touch.”

  A child had lost her father. With the hormones in my system, I couldn’t control the emotions that flooded me. I grabbed at a napkin and dabbed my eyes, trying to fan myself at the same time.

  “Was he going through anything unusual the last time you saw him?”

  She frowned. “Unusual?”

  “Anything strange. You know, anything out of the ordinary going on in his life?”

  She shrugged, keeping her eyes on the floor. “He told me he wanted to leave Michelle. He was in love with someone else.”

  Nice pattern. Jerk.

  “Yes. Michelle told me he was having an affair, that he left her on June fifteenth. The night the police think he was murdered.”

  Svetlana nodded. Her composure had shifted; her shoulders drooped a little and she seemed withdrawn.

  Could Brad and Svetlana have rekindled their love affair?

  “Do you know who Brad was in love with?” I asked.

  She covered her eyes for moment. “No. Someone from restaurant, I think. Brad always there. Had to be someone from there.”

  I took a stab in the dark. “Do you know George Connolly?”

  Svetlana’s face was blank. “Your husband?”

  “No. My husband’s brother. I think he works at El Paraiso.”

  She shook her head. “No. I don’t know anyone from there. Except the manager, Rich. He was the best man at our wedding.”

  Ah. Mr. Creepy.

  Remembering him caused my hair to stand on end.

  “So, you know Rich pretty well?”

  Svetlana adjusted her shawl. “He was a friend of Brad’s. They were friends for long time, but he’s not reliable. When you need a friend, you cannot depend on Rich.” She looked down at her hands. “The police call my house to know where I was June fifteenth. I was home. Alone. I don’t go out much anymore. Not since . . .” She studied her nails.

  I drank another shot of tea and waited in silence. After a moment she said, “My baby drowned. Three years ago.”

  Every mother’s nightmare. My heart tightened and I suddenly felt panicky. Tears flooded my eyes. “Oh my God! I’m so sorry to hear that!”

  I grabbed another napkin to wipe my eyes. Svetlana was crying freely, not making any noise, just letting the tears, blackened by mascara, fall down her face.

  I pulled Laurie’s car seat closer to me and glanced down at her sleeping angel face.

  “Brad always blamed me . . . now the police come to ask questions, and Gloria has an investigator. Baby dead, Brad dead. Gloria think only person can be responsible is Svetlana. But I never hurt my baby, or Brad.”

  “Why would Brad blame you?”

  “I took Penny to the park. There is a big lake . . . they had little boats to rent. I thought she’d have fun . . .” Her eyes glazed over. “I was buying popcorn. Penny by my side. She was two. They don’t listen. I told her to stay by my side. Then a stranger talking to me, someone spilled a soda, someone yelling . . . When I turn around, Penny gone. She fall in the lake. I can’t swim, but I jump in. People help us, but it was too late. I was in hospital for long time.” She pointed to her temple. “Depression. Brad blamed me. Gloria blamed me. I blamed me, too. But doctors say it wasn’t my fault.”

  I put my hand on hers. She held my hand a moment, then said, “I tell you, Kate. I didn’t hurt Brad, but I’m not sorry he’s dead.”

  We sat in awkward silence. The waitress swung our way. “Anything else, ladies?”

  Svetlana looked at me and asked, “Kate?”

  Before I could I answer, the waitress said, “I’ll leave the dessert menu. Give it a look and let me know.”

  Svetlana squinted at the menu, then held it farther away. She pulled her handbag off the back of the chair and rummaged through it. She sighed.

  “What’s wrong?” I asked.

  “I don’t have my glasses.”

  I read the dessert menu out loud. Each cake, pie, and pastry was paired with a recommended wine.

  “Oooh, who can resist the ‘chocolate trio’?” I raised my eyebrows at Svetlana. “A sampling of three chocolate desserts: the chocolate mousse, an orange chocolate pâté in a filo coconut crust, and warm chocolate bread pudding.”

  Svetlana listened and smiled. “Sounds good. But no. I will have wine. And you?”

  No fun eating chocolate by yourself.

  “Nothing for me.”

  Svetlana waved down the waitress and ordered a chardonnay.

  My heart quickened.

  Relax, Kate. Everybody drinks wine. It doesn’t mean a thing.

  I poured myself another shot of tea. “Svetlana, can you tell me where you were yesterday morning?”

  Her face registered surprise. “Yesterday? I stay home. Sometimes I still . . . it’s not good. I know. But sometimes I still feel depression.”

  “Did you talk to anyone? Can anyone verify you were home?” Now I was starting to sound like Galigani.

  Hmmm.

  Svetlana shook her head. “When I get depression, I get a migraine, too. So I don’t talk to anyone, just try to sleep. Why?”

  “I found Michelle Avery dead yesterday.”

  Svetlana inhaled a deep sharp breath, then closed her eyes and pressed her hands to her temples. “Oh, no!” she gasped, leaning forward in her chair as the waitress placed the chardonnay in front of her.

  Svetlana pushed the wine aside. “Migraine coming on.”

  “Is there something I can do for you?” I asked.

  “No. No. Thank you. Must go. Very sorry, Kate.” She dug into her purse and pulled money out. When she placed it on the table, her face contorted in pain.

  “Don’t worry about that,” I said.

  She waved off my concern about the bill. She kissed her fingers and wiggled them at Laurie, then disappeared through the side door.

  I sat in silence, starting at Svetlana’s wine. She hadn’t known about Michelle? I leaned forward and peeked at Laurie. Still snoozing. The wine beckoned me. Oh well, a small sip wouldn’t hurt. I sipped the wine and scribbled “Missing glasses, drinks chardonnay, but was surprised about Michelle . . . ?” onto a napkin.

  Hmmm.

  I’d need to remember to pack my notebook if I was going to launch a new career as a PI.

   

   

  I settled Laurie into the car and drove home to meet Mom. She was going to watch Laurie this afternoon while I went to the Haight.

  To do what? Ring doorbells, looking for George?

  What was I thinking? Just because Galigani got paid two hundred an hour didn’t mean I was going to
. After all, Jim was right. Galigani had a paying client. I was just being nosy.

  Still the idea of being in business for myself was incredible. It would mean I wouldn’t have to return to my office in three weeks.

  After settling Laurie in with Mom, I searched out my notepad and took off. I easily located the apartment house from the day before, but parking was a challenge. I finally found a spot about half an hour later and ended up walking six long blocks to the apartment house.

  The smell of incense wafted from the little stores that populated Haight Street. I was asked for money at least four times by homeless people. Each time I passed a transient, I studied his face. None even remotely looked like George. Could he really be on the street?

  I stopped to stretch my legs. I had forgotten to take Motrin before I left the house and was hoping that stretching would alleviate some of the now familiar achiness in my hips and legs.

  Why hadn’t anyone warned me about this soreness? I’d heard, “Your life will never be the same after the baby,” but no one said, “You’ll never be able to walk again.”

  I finally made it to the apartment doorstep and examined the call box.

  Third floor, third apartment: 303 seemed to make sense. The label next to 303 read JENNIFER MILLER.

  My shoulder slumped.

  What had I hoped for? George’s name to be firmly affixed? Hey, I could still get lucky. Maybe this was George’s girlfriend.

  Or Brad’s mystery lady?

  Galigani had wanted something from Jennifer.

  What now? Ring the bell and ask her what exactly?

  What the hell. God hates a coward.

  I pressed my thumb into the buzzer. The door beeped and opened. I had been let in without any questions.

  Why would I be buzzed in and not Galigani?

  I made my way to the third floor and was surprised to find the door to 303 propped open.

  A woman wearing a flowing printed dress stood beside the door. She had long blond hair twisted into a braid. Two mangy cats, one gray the other black, caressed her bare feet and legs.

  She didn’t seem George’s type.

  Or Brad’s either, for that matter.

  George always seemed to go for small ethnic women. And Brad? This woman was nothing like Michelle or Svetlana, both of whom were tall and thin, with dark hair and classical beauty. This lady was a stereotypical hippie, a free spirit.

  My heart sank.

  “Hi, what can I do you for ya?” she asked.

  “Sorry to disturb you. I’m Kate Connolly. I’m looking for George Connolly.”

  She looked past me, down the hallway. “Maybe you better come in.”

  She prepared tea while I made myself comfortable in the living room. Well, as comfortable as I could since there was no furniture to sit on, only a few cushions. I sat cross-legged on one, then pulled my freshly packed notebook from my bag. The cats perched themselves on the other cushions. The gray cat studied me, while the black one groomed itself.

  A bicycle was propped up in a corner. I supposed she biked everywhere. Good for the environment. Good for Jennifer.

  I thought back to how the six-block walk had wiped me out. Before getting pregnant, I ran three miles daily. Now I wouldn’t be able to run to save my life. I’d have to start up an exercise routine again soon, try and work off the baby weight.

  Jennifer returned holding two chipped mugs. She passed me one that said NO WAR on it. Then with her free hand, she picked up the gray cat and sat on the cushion, placing the cat in her lap. The black cat got up and climbed onto Jennifer’s lap on its own.

  “You know George?” I asked.

  She sipped tea from her mug, which had a butterfly on it. “Yeah. We used to work together at a restaurant downtown.”

  “El Paraiso?”

  She nodded. “You know it?”

  So that’s why Galigani had wanted to talk to her. She had worked at El Paraiso.

  Her boss had been murdered. He probably needed to talk to all the employees.

  Did that include George?

  I brought the mug to my lips.

  Hold on a second. Brad and Michelle were both dead. This lady could be a murderer. Certainly it couldn’t be a good idea to ingest something she had prepared for me. I scribbled a note in my notebook: Next time interviewing suspect bring own water.

  “I was at El Paraiso the other day. Looking for George,” I said, placing the mug on the floor beside me.

  “He owe you money or something?”

  “No, no. Nothing like that. It’s just . . . well, my husband and I haven’t seen him in a long time. Do you know where I can find him?” I asked.

  “I only see him now and then. Not regular anymore, since I stopped working at El Paraiso.”

  “When did you stop working there?”

  A strand of blond hair had worked its way free from her braid. She tucked it behind an ear. “End of May.”

  “Do you know what George does there?”

  She looked at me for a second, slowly placing her teacup down. “Are you with the police?”

  This was the second time someone had asked me about being in law enforcement. What could George be doing?

  I plucked stray cat fur off my pants. “I heard George did delivery but I called to order something the other night and was told they don’t deliver.”

  Jennifer smirked.

  “Do you know if he still works there?” I asked.

  She nodded. “I heard he’s still there.”

  “From who?”

  She crossed her arms in front of her. “I’m pretty good friends with the manager, Rich.”

  Him again?

  “Did you know the owner, Brad Avery?”

  Her eyes clouded over. “Sure. Course.”

  “You know he was killed?”

  “Yeah, Rich told me. Awful, huh. Somebody shot him!” She closed her eyes and shook her head. “What kind of world are we living in?” She tsked.

  “I know.” I tsked along with her.

  “Rich told me Brad was killed in June. His body must have been weighed down somehow all this time in the bay.” Jennifer shuddered. “It’s terrible.”

  “It’s a shame,” I agreed.

  I leaned in close, trying a girlfriend to girlfriend, very confidential, tactic. I used my best stage whisper. “I think Brad was having a tough time with his marriage.” Jennifer eyes grew wide. I waved off her shock. “You probably already knew that.”

  She circled the top of her mug with her finger. “What do you mean?”

  “I was friends with his wife. He was leaving her for another woman.”

  She looked around uncomfortably.

  “He left her on June fifteenth, the same day he was murdered,” I continued.

  Jennifer sipped her tea. “I was with my boyfriend, Winter, on June fifteenth.”

  “How do you remember that?” I asked.

  “Easy. I was with him every night in June, July, and August. Our first night apart was Labor Day.”

  “Can you think of anyone who would want to kill Brad?” I pressed.

  She tapped her teacup, shrugging. “I don’t know. What about his wife? You said he left her. Or the ex? He’d been married before and I don’t think it ended well.”

  She seemed to know a lot about him.

  “What do you know about the ex?” I asked.

  “Svetlana?” Her eyes darted around the room. “Not much. She’s cool.”

  “Were you close to Brad?”

  She retreated slightly. “He was my boss. People gossip about the boss is all.”

  “Anyone gossip about who he was seeing?”

  She flushed. “People gossip about everything. You’re friends with the wife. I’m sure you know.”

  Know what?

  I shook my head. “Michelle didn’t know who he was seeing.”

  She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Well, let’s keep it that way,” she spat.

  “That won’t be hard. She’s d
ead.”

  Jennifer gasped. “Oh my God!” She covered her mouth with a ring-ladened hand, shaking her head back and forth in denial. “What happened?”

  “I don’t know. I found her dead in her house yesterday.”

  She rose and crossed to a bureau, opened a drawer, and pulled out a bong. “Want a hit?”

  “No. No. I’ll pass.”

  She frowned. “It’s just a little weed, no big deal.”

  “I just had a baby. I’m nursing,” I explained, mentally kicking myself. Why did I have to defend myself and my choices to this woman I barely knew?

  “Suit yourself,” she said.

  “Were you with Winter yesterday morning?”

  “Winter? No. I was working. I work down the street at Heavenly Haight. I open the store every morning at eight A.M.”

  “Where was your boyfriend yesterday?”

  “What?”

  I was fishing now, but I pressed on. “Out of curiosity, where was Winter?”

  Jennifer looked down a moment. She took her time preparing the bong. “Winter and I broke up. I thought he was pretty cool at first, but it wasn’t working out. I don’t know where he was yesterday.”

  “Do you have his phone number?”

  “You want to talk to him?” she asked, shocked.

  “My friend is dead. I’d like to talk to anyone who could help.”

  Begrudgingly she gave me Winter’s full name and phone number.

   

   

  Something didn’t ring true. I wanted to check her story with Winter, but first I had to go home. It was time to feed Laurie. My breasts were starting to hurt. I worried about mastitis, although I wasn’t entirely sure what it was. Could it be related to plugged milk ducts? I didn’t know what that was either. Whatever they were, neither sounded good, and I knew I didn’t want them.

  •