by Diana Orgain
CHAPTER TWENTY•
The Sixth Week—Muscle Control
The next morning at 5 A.M., I could hear Laurie shifting in her bassinet. I knew she’d be hungry soon.
I poked Jim. “Can you feed Laurie?”
He unglued one eye and looked at me. “How can I do that? I don’t have any boobs.”
“Mom bought us some formula bottles. They’re in the pantry. Can you give her one?”
“I thought you didn’t want to give her any formula.”
“Please just give her one,” I said.
“Yeah, yeah . . . sure,” he mumbled. He got up and returned with the formula. “What am I supposed to do with this?”
Laurie had begun to fuss.
“Jim, I’m exhausted. Can you please figure it out?”
Somehow, he managed to grasp that the only thing necessary was to uncap the premade formula and screw the nipple onto the bottle.
He picked Laurie up and placed her between us. She immediately started rooting at me and wailing even louder. As soon as Jim put the bottle in her mouth, she quieted down.
Hmmm? She was drinking the formula! That seemed kind of easy.
Why was I going through the pain and exhaustion of breastfeeding?
Then I remembered all the benefits. The uterus shrinking, immunization for Laurie, vitamins, blah-blah, all the things they had told me at the hospital.
Not to mention the extra five hundred calories a day I was supposedly burning.
I pulled the blankets up, feeling literally drained. I still needed to build up a supply of breast milk for Laurie, for my return to work. If she was drinking formula, this was the perfect opportunity to get up and use the pump.
I wrapped the blanket tighter around myself.
Was I returning to work?
Could I make this PI thing succeed?
I watched Jim feed Laurie. She snuggled into his arms. It was nice to have a little break, even though I was leaking everywhere.
I probably should have nursed her.
Instead, I selfishly pulled the covers over my head and tried to doze off.
Laurie began to cry. I pried an eye open and peeked over. Jim was asleep and had let the bottle fall out of her mouth. He continued to sleep through her cries.
I poked at him. “Jim.”
“Hmmm?”
“The baby. Feeding. Remember? Wife sleeping. Taking a break.”
“Yeah, sure,” he mumbled, sticking the bottle back into Laurie’s mouth. She stopped crying long enough for me to get comfortable. Then the wailing began again.
Jim was back asleep. Laurie was rooting around for the bottle.
“Oh, for Christ’s sake.” I grabbed the bottle and held it for her. Jim snored next to me.
Unbelievable.
There really is no substitute for maternal instinct.
My breasts were swollen and painful. That’s what I got for feeding her formula.
At 9 A.M., Jim was snoring and Laurie was still asleep from the formula. If it was helping her sleep, why was I opposed to it? I crawled out of bed and reviewed my to-do list.
To Do:
1. Help Jim find a job.
2. Find Brad and/or Michelle and Svetlana’s killer.
3. Check in on Galigani.
4. Day care for Jelly Bean??
5. Take more pictures of my little lollypop.
6. Get a photo book for Lemon Drop!
7. Stop missing Laurie so much when I’m away from her.
I got dressed and noticed that my belt was in a notch. I couldn’t believe it! “Hey, honey,” I called excitedly to Jim, “look at this! I’ve lost an inch!”
Jim looked at me while rubbing sleep out of his eyes. “You’re the incredible shrinking woman.”
I had a long way to go before that was true, but at least this was progress.
“All right,” I said, prepping Jim. “Laurie should be hungry soon. There’s a milk bottle in the fridge for her.”
“Where are you going?”
“Over to Michelle’s. I need to do a little more investigating.”
I hopped into my Chevy and dialed Mrs. Avery. Marta told me Mrs. Avery was “in de Club.”
“Do you have a key to Brad’s house?”
“Keee?”
What was the word in Spanish? Clef?
No, that was French.
Somewhere in the recess of my mind the word bubbled up.
“Jave?”
“Llave?” Marta clarified.
“Sí,” I replied.
“You water plants today?”
What the hell. “Sí.”
“Hokaay, you come pick up.”
I let myself into Michelle’s and wandered around the house aimlessly. No crime scene tape? Did that mean the police had ruled Michelle’s death a suicide?
I moved from room to room and tried to push from my mind the images of her body sprawled out in the dining room. In the kitchen I poured myself a glass of water and sat at the table, feeling an emptiness I hadn’t experienced before.
Although we had been out of touch for many years, Michelle had been a good friend in high school. It would have been nice to have the opportunity to reconnect with her.
I ended up in her bedroom, looking through her jewelry box, a simple wooden box with a mother-of-pearl lid.
Could the bracelet I found in George’s bag be Michelle’s? I recalled her handing it to me in front of the medical examiner’s office. Something nagged me. Had she recognized the bracelet? If it was hers, why not keep it? Why give it to me? Unless she was having an affair with George and didn’t want me to know her things were in his bag?
I ran my fingers across the expensive pieces in the box. Nothing resembled the silver bracelet. I wished I’d thought to show it to KelliAnn, Michelle’s half sister. She would have been able to tell me if it had been Michelle’s.
So if it wasn’t Kiku’s and probably not Michelle’s, who could that bracelet belong to, and what was George doing with it?
I recalled Jennifer’s silver rings. She’d worked at El Paraiso, and she was having an affair with Brad. Could it be her bracelet?
What if it was Jennifer’s bracelet and George, not Winter, her boyfriend, who had helped her kill Brad? How or why else would George have her bracelet?
I opened the closet door. It was deep, full of designer clothes, evening gowns, and a zillion of my favorite thing—shoes.
A black satin gown with silver trim caught my eye.
Ooh la la.
What function had Michelle worn this to? I imagined her at the country club with Brad and Mrs. Avery. Maybe a black-tie event, an auction, or a benefit.
I eyed a box from Via Spiga at my feet.
What size did she wear? Would there be any way a cute pair of shoes would ever fit my fat swollen feet?
I kicked the box open. Beautiful size eights stared me in the face. Pre-Laurie they would have been too big. I slipped them on. Perfect fit. I put them back in the box and picked up the next box. I amused myself with a mini-fashion show.
After trying on a few pairs, I noticed a cubbyhole full of handbags. I pulled out a few Coach purses and saw a shoe box concealed behind them. I extracted the box from its hiding place. It was full of paperwork.
I carefully replaced the purses, then took the box over to the bed and sat down to examine the contents. It looked like business ledgers from El Paraiso. I couldn’t read anything on the charts. Well, I could read it. I just didn’t know what it meant. One report looked like a profit and loss summary. But what did I know? I was a theater major in college. And the closest I got to accounting in my corporate job was ordering pencils and staples.
Jim would know. At least he had a business degree.
Flipping through the reports, I saw one for Heavenly Haight.
My breath caught. Svetlana’s store? Even after her mar
riage to Brad had ended, she’d stayed connected to him and by more than the memory of their daughter. Had they started the store while they were married? Did he still own shares in it? Maybe those shares had gone to Michelle.
I stuffed the reports into what I now lovingly referred to as my “diaper purse,” a very far cry from a Coach handbag, and stood. I placed the empty shoe box back into the closet and closed the door.
Without a clue about what to look for next, I decided I’d check out the makeshift office area in the guest bedroom. If memory served, what little I had left, I thought I’d seen at least a desk with a computer and printer. But first a stop in the master bath.
I rummaged through Michelle’s medicine chest, looking for Valium. It was practically empty. Maybe the cops had gone through and confiscated everything they could find.
Wait.
If Michelle had an office setup, why would she store paperwork in a shoe box at the bottom of her closet?
She must have been hiding those reports, but why?
Just then I heard a click and a creak.
The front door?
Someone was entering the house.
I froze. Footsteps approached from the hallway. Two voices, a man and a woman. The man’s voice was clearly recognizable to me. Rich, the manager of El Paraiso, aka Mr. Creepy.
He had a key to Michelle’s house?
“That fucking bitch! She can’t screw me like this!” Rich fumed.
“Calm down,” the female voice said.
Who was he with? I couldn’t place her voice.
“I won’t let her screw me over!” Rich said.
Something crashed to the ground. The woman yelped.
“Jennifer is going to sing like a canary. I gotta be sure there’s nothing here. Go check her stupid office, will ya?”
Footsteps sounded down the hallway. “I already told you: I checked before and didn’t find anything.”
“Yeah, well, check again!”
More footsteps in the hallway. Heavier ones. Rich’s. Coming right toward me in the master bath.
A drop of sweat stung my eye. I needed to get out of the house. But how?
Footsteps sounded dangerously close. I heard the closet door swing open.
“Look at all these shoes!” Rich said.
He slammed the door shut.
I listened as his footsteps retreated toward the kitchen. I breathed a sigh of relief.
Now’s my chance.
I cracked open the bathroom door and peeked out into the bedroom.
Empty.
I leaped toward the window. It wouldn’t budge. I pried harder.
Nothing. Painted shut!
Old houses were exasperating. Michelle had done a lot of renovation work, but obviously she hadn’t gotten around to replacing the windows in the bedroom.
Could I break the window and get out?
I heard arguing from the living room and a crashing sound. Glass breaking. I thought of Michelle’s gorgeous crystal lamps and hoped they weren’t the victims.
If Rich and his gal pal were going to start throwing things, maybe they wouldn’t notice if I broke a window.
I heard footsteps outside the bedroom and took a nose-dive under Michelle’s king-sized bed.
Dust balls were everywhere. I repressed a sneeze by rubbing the tip of my tongue across the roof of my mouth.
Aha! A theater degree was good for something!
How long could I hide underneath the bed? Certainly if they were looking for something, under the bed might be a good place to search.
I heard drawers being pulled open.
Rich mumbled to himself, “Okay, if I were that stupid bitch, where would I put it?”
What a pig.
“Look at this!” the woman called from a different part of the house.
I heard Rich tread out. I peeked out from under the dust ruffle. The room was empty.
I could hear them arguing in the kitchen, but couldn’t make out any of the words. I had to find a better hiding place.
I scooted over to the far-right-hand side of the bed and wondered if I could make it back into the master bath before they returned to the bedroom.
What then? Was there a window in the bathroom? I didn’t recall seeing one. Could I hide out in the bathtub until they left? I figured the bathroom was my only hope.
I crawled out from underneath the bed and dashed back to the bathroom, diving into the tub. I pulled the shower curtain closed, trying to keep as quiet as possible.
There was a small window, also painted shut. Even if I could pry it open, it was way too small to squeeze out of.
There were two of them and one of me. I hoped they were unarmed. Were they the killers? Was my life in danger? I immediately thought of Laurie. I couldn’t bear the thought of anything happening to me. The thought of leaving her so tiny and vulnerable, without a mommy, almost brought me to tears.
I pulled my diaper purse close and rummaged past the reports to find my cell phone. I grabbed it from the bottom. Thank God I’d remembered to pack it.
I punched in 9-1-1.
Nothing happened.
I’d remember to pack it, but not to charge it.
I heard footsteps again. Tears sprang to my eyes. I was going to die in this half-renovated Victorian. Just like Michelle.
Who only renovates half a house anyway? Why couldn’t she have put new windows in the bedroom? It wasn’t like she didn’t have the money.
I crouched down farther into the bathtub.
The front door squeaked open, then slammed shut.
Were they gone?
Thank God. I crawled out of the bathtub and pulled open the bathroom door.
I had to get out of here fast.
What kind of stupid idea was it to come here anyway? I left the bedroom and entered the hall. I flew past the kitchen toward the entryway and smack into Rich.
I gasped.
He stared at me, his face beet red. “What the hell are you doing here?”
I had to think fast!
“Oh, my God!” I covered my heart with my hand. “You startled me. I was in the garden, watering.” I smiled my most innocent, sincere smile. All those years of improv couldn’t go to waste. “What are you doing here?”
The redness in his face was dissipating. He smiled now, too. His flirt smile, honed by years of skirt chasing. “Well, I came over to water, too!”
Right.
Still in character, I squeezed his arm. “Aw! If I had known, I could have saved you the trip.”
I delicately sidestepped him, heading toward the front door.
Move, move, now! a voice inside my head ordered.
Rich pushed his shoulder out a bit, just slightly but enough to block my way. “How long you been here?”
I blinked up at him. “Not long. It only took a few minutes to water.”
Why didn’t I have a gun, dammit? Or mace or something, anything, to protect myself! I hated to have to suck up to this creep.
If I was going to be legit, I’d need the PI license and a gun permit.
Rich pushed his hand against the door. He looked me up and down. “You want to get a drink?”
Oh, for God’s sake!
I feigned disappointment. “I’d love to, but I have to get back home. To my baby.” I enunciated “baby” for good measure.
He nodded. “Right! Hey, listen! I’d appreciate it if you didn’t mention my being here to Mrs. A.”
It took every ounce of self-control not to break the flirt/airhead character I was in. I smiled, and tilted my head to the side. “No prob.”
He let go of the door. “Thanks. I . . . she . . . just gets weird about stuff.”
I seized the moment to pull open the door. “Got to run,” I called over my shoulder, wiggling my fingers as I bounced down the steps without looking back.
My heart was racing. Laurie, Jim, and safety were the only things on my mind.
As soon as I was out of sight, I ran toward my Chevy. I g
lanced over my shoulder. Rich hadn’t followed me. I got into the car and started the engine as quickly as I could.
I locked the doors, just in case. An image of Rich running after me, trying to get in through the passenger side window, flashed through my mind. Something like you’d see in the movies. A quick check of my rearview mirror told me he’d already forgotten about me and was probably busy searching the house again.
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