by Diana Orgain
Rockabye Murder
A Maternal Instincts Mystery
Diana Orgain
Other Titles by Diana Orgain
Maternal Instincts Mystery Series
Bundle of Trouble - FREE The only thing tougher than solving a murder…giving birth!
Motherhood is Murder Kate joins a new mom group where mischief and murder run rampant.
Formula for Murder A hit and run crash catapults Kate into a mystery at the French Consulate.
Nursing a Grudge Kate’s budding PI business is threatened when a new PI poaches her client.
Pampered to Death Spa day has never been so deadly!
Killer Cravings Can Kate juggle being a PI, pregnant and those cravings all at the same time?
A Deathly Rattle Who shot rival PI, Vicente Domingo?
Rockabye Murder Dancing can be murder—literally.
Prams & Poison Are there too many skeletons in the Victorian closet Paula’s is renovating?
Love or Money Mystery Series
A First Date with Death Reality TV meets murder!
A Second Chance at Murder Georgia’s new boyfriend disappears in the Pyrenees Mountains.
Third Time’s a Crime If only love were as simple as murder…
Roundup Crew Mystery Series
Yappy Hour Things take a ruff turn at the Wine & Bark when Maggie Patterson takes charge
Trigger Yappy Salmonella poisoning strikes at the Wine & Bark.
iWitch Mystery Series
A Witch Called Wanda Can a witch solve a murder mystery?
I Wanda put a spell on you When Wanda is kidnapped, Maeve might need a little magic.
Brewing up Murder A witch, a murder, a dog...no, wait...a man..no...two men, three witches and a cat?
Cooking Up Murder Mystery Series
Murder as Sticky as Jam Mona and Vicki are ready for the grand opening of Jammin' Honey until…their store goes up in smoke…
Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
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Other Titles by Diana Orgain
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About the Author
Chapter 1
To Do:
Land new client.
Research the best baby-proofing system.
Sign up for prenatal exercise class?
Meet contractor who is doing garage reno.
* * *
I frowned at the batter in the KitchenAid mixer. Wasn’t brownie batter supposed to be smooth and thin? Or was that just for brownies out of a box?
“Maybe I put in too much flour,” I murmured, shifting my eight-month-old daughter Laurie on my hip. I glanced at the clock. The contractor we’d hired to do the garage renovation was swinging by in ten minutes to take a look at the space.
“Ma-ma,” Laurie babbled, and my chest filled with happiness.
“That’s the nicest thing anybody’s ever called me, peanuty pie,” I said, tapping her on the nose. Too late, I realized my finger was covered in flour, and now Laurie’s nose had a dusty white streak. “Whoops! Sorry, honey.” I leaned toward the counter and reached for a napkin to dab her clean.
With a gurgle of glee, Laurie lurched forward, and I swiftly maneuvered to keep her from sailing out of my arms. “Now, listen—”
Laurie’s tiny fingers curled around the edge of the half-empty flour jar, and time seemed to slow down as the plastic tub teetered on the edge of the countertop and tumbled into the air . . . and I couldn’t do anything about it without losing my grip on Laurie. I watched in horror as it flipped upside-down, dumping a veritable mountain of flour. The jar hit the kitchen floor with a thud, belching a cloud of white powder into the air. Laurie giggled hysterically.
“What did you do, little miss? Now I have to clean that up before the contractor gets here.” I glanced from the mess on the ground to Laurie and back again, running my free hand through my hair. Then I sighed and hurried to the storage closet for the broom, bouncing Laurie as we went. Despite the angst pinching my chest, I kept my voice calm. “Guess I need to move baby-proofing to the top of the list.”
Humming, I grabbed the broom and stalked back to the flour-covered floor. Could I sweep one-handed?
Well, putting Laurie down was not an option. She’d beeline right into the mess.
I bent down to pick up the bin, and Laurie wiggled in my arms again, reaching toward the counter. Before I could see what she was grabbing, the open carton of eggs landed on the ground, the remaining three eggs oozing their yolks into the pile of white powder.
Laurie erupted into riotous giggles again, and I sucked in a deep breath to calm myself.
“Oh right. Real funny,” I said to the little troublemaker in my arms. “How about you play with toys in the living room for a few minutes so I can get this cleaned up without any more mess?”
I glanced at the clock. Eight minutes. Gulping, I leaned the broom against the counter and speed-walked Laurie into the living room, setting her down next to a little yellow bus that sang the alphabet in a voice that sounded like a howling chipmunk. Super annoying, but it kept her engaged. Gritting my teeth, I pressed the button.
“A is for apple,” yodeled the howling-chipmunk bus.
Laurie clapped her hands in delight. I hated that bus—Mom, of course, had bought it for Laurie over my protestations, saying it would help her learn to read—but Laurie loved it, and right now, I needed something to distract her.
“I love being a mom,” I muttered as I stalked back to the kitchen to clean up the mess.
Seven minutes.
I turned the corner. Whiskers, our orange tabby kitten, was crouched in the middle of the floury mess, licking up the raw egg. Only she didn’t look like an orange tabby anymore—everything except her face was white with flour, and eggs were smeared across her back. Had she . . . rolled in it?
I couldn’t help it—I let out a shriek of frustration and despair. Whiskers froze, her eyes widening as she looked up at me. Then she darted past me, toward the carpeted living room. I reached out to grab her, but only managed to brush her fur before she wiggled under the living room couch. I balled my hands into fists. Even if I moved the couch, I wouldn’t get her out of there until she was good and ready. There was a hole in the fabric underneath, and Whiskers had figured out how to climb inside the couch when she wanted a moment of peace from Laurie’s grabby hands—or apparently when she knew she was in big trouble. I took in the trail of eggy sticky flour between the kitchen and couch, let a noise of desperation rise in my throat, and then returned to sweep up the mess.
I heard a car pull up outside, and panic lodged in my throat. Was the contractor here a couple of minutes early? I was still covered in flour! But maybe I could at least get the floor clean-ish before he came to the door?
As I dumped the last of the dry flour in the trash can and reached for a rag to mop up the last of the egg-and-flour concoction, I muttered, “Nice to meet you. Kate Connolly, private investigator, stay-at-home mom, and professional flour janitor.”
And cat bather, I thought wryly, imagining Whiskers curled up in the belly of the couch. Could you get dried egg-flour out of the
interior of a couch? Would it start to smell? The thought made me nauseated.
“This is what I get for trying to bake while holding an eight-month-old,” I grumbled. But I couldn’t very well deny the twins brownies. The worst of my food cravings were past me—I hoped—but being four and half months pregnant with twins certainly hadn’t made me less hungry . . . or less interested in sugar.
I peered at the brownie batter. It really did look too thick. Had I put in too much flour?
What’s the fix for that? Add milk?
The front door opened and closed, and Laurie squealed in delight.
“Hey hon!” called my husband, Jim.
Relief flooded me. Reinforcements were here. Now, I’d have help cleaning up and eating the brownies but not before meeting the contractor.
The contractor, Jo-Jo, still wasn’t here.
I glanced at my phone and saw a text from him.
An emergency came up at the project I’m finishing. Can I come by tomorrow instead?
I slumped over the counter. I’d worked myself into a tizzy for nothing. At least I wouldn’t have to meet the contractor looking like I’d fallen in a vat of flour.
“Jim!” I called. A moment later, Jim came into the kitchen, swinging Laurie in a circle.
He ground to a halt as soon as he saw me, his mouth twitching like he was trying to suppress a smirk. “Hey!” he said in a strangled voice.
“What is it?” I snapped, crossing my arms.
His composure broke, and he burst out laughing. “Honey, you’re beautiful.” He crossed the kitchen and planted a kiss on my lips. “But if I know you at all, you’re going to want to wash your hair.”
My hair? Horror filled me. I’d gotten flour on Laurie’s nose . . . and then run my hand through my hair. I raced to the bathroom and looked in the mirror. Sure enough, a huge white streak ran straight down the middle, parting my hair like some sort of frizzy brown skunk.
“Watch Laurie!” I yelled as I slammed the door and turned on the shower.
Fifteen minutes later, I emerged from the bathroom with damp hair and a fresh change of clothes, feeling a bit more like myself. I found Jim and Laurie sitting on the living room couch, reading a book, and I gave Jim a real kiss.
“I’m sorry about that,” I said, letting out a giggle as I thought back over the absurdity of the situation. “I was trying to bake and . . .”
“Decided to pioneer a hot new hair trend?” he asked with a devious grin.
“Definitely,” I said, putting my hand on my hip and affecting the mannerisms of my always-fashionable best friend, Paula. “It’s all the rage in Paris, you know.”
“Seemed pretty sexy to me,” he said, shooting me a wink. “But you’re sexy no matter how you do your hair.”
I rolled my eyes, but sank onto the couch and cuddled into his side. “You’re silly.”
He held up his free hand in mock affront. “I speak nothing but the truth.”
“I need to start a prenatal exercise class.” I glanced down at my baby bump. “I never got back into shape after Laurie, and I don’t know how I’m going to reclaim my figure after having twins. And if you make one crack about cutting out baking and brownies, I’ll knock you out flat.”
Jim snorted. “Are you kidding? I value my life.”
I chuckled.
“Anyway, you don’t need to worry about that unless you want to. I love you the way you are. You’re the momma!” he said firmly, putting down Laurie and pulling me into him for a bear hug. Laurie suddenly pressed the button on the infernal chipmunk bus
“A is for apple,” screeched the bus.
“May I have this dance?” Jim asked, extending his hand to me.
Now it was my turn to burst out laughing. “What are you talking about?” I asked as I let him pull me to my feet and spin me around the room.
“I just got off the phone with Dave. You know he and his brothers bought that dance studio three or four years back?”
I nodded as Jim twirled me. “Yeah, I remember. What about it?” Dave had been Jim’s best man at our wedding, and I’d always liked him and his brothers, Jack and Eddie. We hadn’t seen them since much since Laurie was born—they’d been focused on running their business, and we’d been more than a little busy with Laurie and a string of homicide investigations I’d solved in my first months as a private investigator.
“Well”—we collapsed on the couch just as the chipmunk bus finished its song—“the studio’s having some financial difficulty, and Dave called to invite us to attend a fundraiser. A public dance, you know, that they’re hoping will bring in some money.”
“Hold up! I’m four months pregnant and haven’t danced in years.”
“Come on,” he said.
There was a knock, and before we could react, a key slipped into the latch and the door opened. My mom poked her head in. “Knock, knock!” she called.
“Hey!” said Jim.
Mom bounced into the room, holding up a shopping bag in triumph. No doubt something for Laurie that I’d absolutely hate. As long as it wasn’t a clown, I’d tolerate it—I hoped Mom was past her clown phase.
“You have a theater degree,” continued Jim. “It won’t be hard to pick dancing back up. It’s like riding a bike. Besides, I think we should take a set of dance lessons first. I’m sure they could use another couple of students. Help keep them afloat, you know?”
“Dance lessons?” cried Mom. She looked from Jim to me and back again with a huge smile on her face.
I groaned. I knew that look. It meant she was excited—and was about to make sure she got her way.
“Mom, don’t—”
She scooped Laurie into her arms and spun her around the room. “We should all take dance lessons! You and Jim, and Galigani and me.”
“But—”
“It will be so much fun!” she cried. “Besides, you need to get your exercise in, and it’s not like you’re about to pick jogging back up while you’re pregnant with twins.”
I bit my lip. She was right. Dancing was fun—certainly a lot more fun than squats, or whatever else they had pregnant moms do in prenatal fitness classes. And I wasn’t as tired anymore now that I was in my second trimester. But I’d had such a complicated pregnancy, between being poisoned and in accidents and landing in the hospital. I wanted to keep the twins extra safe. “I don’t know if I should be swung around that much,” I said.
Mom waved away my objection. “Well, talk to Dr. Greene, of course. If she says you shouldn’t do it, that’s one thing. But you can’t dismiss the idea without even asking her.”
“Besides,” said Jim “there’s one other thing I haven’t told you yet.”
“What?” I asked, crossing my arms.
“Dave said there have been some weird things happening at the studio. Someone cut a hole in the roof in the middle of the night, and it sounded like a few things have gone missing. Plus, a dead bird showed up on the dance floor right before a group class was about to start. Weird, right?”
Now that was interesting. I leaned forward. “What sorts of things are missing?”
Jim grinned. He knew me too well—at the mention of something mysterious, I was hooked. “He didn’t say, exactly. And maybe it’s all a coincidence, but I know I’m married to San Francisco’s most attractive and most talented private investigator, and I thought you might want to poke around a little. See if there’s anyone who might be trying to sabotage my best friend’s business. What do you say? Can I hire you? Where do I sign?”
I slouched back against the couch cushions and held up my hands in surrender. “Fine, we can take dance lessons. I don’t have a client right now, and I could use a little mystery. It’ll keep me from trying to bake again, at least.”
Mom squealed in delight, dancing Laurie around the room again.
“I’ll call and get the lesson set up,” Jim said, jumping up. “We’ll take the lessons slow, I promise. And maybe we can help them throw the fundraiser too?”
“Sure,” I answered. “Let me call Dr. Greene to ask if the lessons are safe, but let’s definitely help Dave throw the fundraiser. That’ll give me a good excuse to spend time at the studio looking for anything suspicious. Maybe Paula will help too. I’ll text her. Oh, and the contractor said something came up. He’s coming tomorrow to look at the garage.”
With the price of real estate in San Francisco, we’d decided to convert our garage into a bedroom for the twins, rather than look for a house that would accommodate our growing family. And I couldn’t wait to get started.
I reached for my phone to dial Dr. Greene just as a streak of white and orange barreled out from under the couch, leaving a trail of flour in its wake.
“Whiskers!” I bolted to my feet and chased after the kitten. “Get your tail back here!”
Chapter 2
To Do:
Research best baby-proofing system.
Land new client? (Maybe Dave’s studio?)
Dance lesson—tonight.
Meet contractor who is doing garage reno.
