Bundle of Trouble (12 page)

Thank God for Mom. I was pressed for time and the lasagna was a Godsend. I placed it into the oven and put the gift for Laurie in front of her. She eyed the paper and drooled.

“Grandma got you this. Want to open it?”

Laurie reached out and batted the present.

“I’ll help you.” I ripped open the paper. It was a colorful jack-in-the-box. It popped up with no warning. Laurie howled.

I grabbed the cordless phone and dialed Mom. “Hi, it’s me.”

“Darling! Where have you been?”

“Here and there. Thanks for the lasagna.”

Mom chuckled. “I thought you might like that. Did Laurie like her little surprise?”

“It scared the bejeezes out of her.”

“Oh, no! Well, maybe she’s still too little. You used to love yours.”

I had had a jack-in-the-box? What happens to your memory? Is it the pregnancy? Postpregnancy? Or just plain hitting thirty?

“How are you feeling?” Mom asked.

“All right. Tired. Can you come over tomorrow and watch Laurie?”

“Sure. Where are you going?”

I hesitated. Better not to share my real plans with her, she’d only worry. “Oh, nowhere in particular, maybe do a little shopping. Can you be here around noon?”

 

 

Jim called to say he would be home late. I took advantage of the extra time to bathe Laurie.

I set the little green tub into our kitchen sink and ran lukewarm water into it, then laid out all the essentials: a pink hooded terry towel, a yellow ducky washcloth, and special baby body and hair wash.

Undressing Laurie, I gently placed her in the tub. She curled her lips in protest, but as the warm water poured over her she cooed happily.

I put a small drop of the baby wash on the ducky washcloth and rubbed her tiny toes.

“You have tic-tac toes,” I said, squeezing each of them between my fingers.

Laurie gave me what looked like a smile.

The doctor said I wouldn’t get any real smiles until about six weeks, that any resemblance to a smile was simply Laurie practicing the use of her facial muscles.

Hmmm!

What did that doctor know anyway? This was really a smile. My little jelly bean was a genius.

I tickled her toes again. “This little piggy went to market.”

Laurie blinked up at me. Suddenly, I noticed she had grown beautiful black eyelashes. She was so fair that her eyebrows were barely visible. The same had been true about her eyelashes, until today.

“When did you get those gorgeous long black lashes?”

Laurie flapped a response, then turned her head and examined the side of the tub. I finished bathing her, then laid out her towel and gingerly picked her up. I patted her dry as I made my way into the nursery.

The nursery window was open. I rushed to close it. I didn’t want Laurie to catch a cold.

Wait.

When had I opened the window? Had I opened it?

Oh, how I wish I had a memory. Any memory at all would be good. My mind was a sieve.

Maybe Jim had opened it before leaving for work. Had it been open all day? My stomach lurched as I glanced around the room. Nothing looked displaced.

A loud beeping sounded throughout the house. The smoke detector. I had forgotten the lasagna in the oven. I ran toward the kitchen with a howling Laurie in my arms.

“Shh, it’s okay, pinochle,” I soothed, staring at the oven.

How do you get a burning lasagna out of the oven with an infant in your arms?

I returned to the nursery to put Laurie down, then remembered the window. What if a stranger was in the house? After all, our cars had been broken into. My address was out there in someone’s hands. The logical part of my brain was telling me to calm down, but I looked around for a weapon anyway.

Then I heard the footsteps.

Someone was in the house!

Suppressing the scream rising in my throat, I grabbed the cordless and raced with Laurie into the only hiding place I could think of. The closet.

I concealed us as best I could behind some clothes. My heart was racing. I said a prayer as I dialed 9-1-1. The smoke alarm was still ringing.

The operator said, “What is the nature of your emergency?”

“Someone’s broken into my house. Please send the police. Hurry, I have a baby!”

Suddenly, the smoke detector stopped. I hung up. I didn’t want to give away our hiding place.

Could 9-1-1 trace my call? Could they get my address?

I pressed Laurie to me, trying to keep her quiet. Thankfully, she seemed lulled by the darkness of the closet and her proximity to my wildly beating heart.

I heard the door to nursery creak open.

Dear God. What could I do?

I nestled Laurie onto a fallen jacket on the floor. She seemed content enough to stay quiet. I straightened. If the intruder opened the door, I wanted to be ready.

Ready for what?

The fight of my life.

I clenched my fists and prepared myself. I heard footsteps circle the nursery, then exit.

Air rushed back into lungs. Could it be that the intruder would simply leave?

I heard the footsteps retreat down the hall, then return. This time Laurie betrayed me, letting out an enormous wail.

The door to the closet swung open.

I yelled out my best self-defense karate scream—“Hi yaah!”—while kicking and punching with blind fury. The heel of my foot caught the intruder square in the groin, doubling him over.

Uh-oh!

The intruder was Jim.

He fell to his knees, glaring at me in disbelief. “Kate? What’s going on?”

Relief rushed over me. “Darling! Jim! Oh, I’m so sorry! I thought you were . . . I thought . . . the window . . .” I embraced him, tears burning my eyes.

“Where’s Laurie?”

I rushed back into the closet and picked her up.

Jim got to his feet. “What are you doing in the closet with the baby?” He scooped her out of my arms. “And why are you screaming at me and kicking me in the—”

“The window was open. I burned the lasagna. The alarm went off. I heard footsteps. You said you were going to be late.”

Tears spilled down my cheeks, exhaustion overcoming me. I collapsed into the rocker by Laurie’s crib and sobbed.

Jim put Laurie into her baby swing and knelt down beside me. He took me into his arms.

We heard sirens screaming down the block.

“Oh. And I called 9-1-1,” I whimpered.

“Let me get this straight. Did you say you
burned
the lasagna?” he said through a smile.

 

 

After reporting the false alarm to the police officers on our doorstep, we ate the burned lasagna in silence.

I filled Jim in on Galigani’s visit, finally asking, “You remember June fifteenth?”

“No. Should I? It’s not our anniversary or anything, right?”

“We were at Paula’s party.”

Jim took a swig of beer, shrugging his shoulders. “So?”

“You left early,” I prodded. “You said you weren’t feeling well. Sinus headache. Remember?”

“Not really. So what does it matter now? It’s October.”

“June fifteenth was the night Brad Avery was murdered.”

Jim stared at me. He put his beer down. “What are you trying to say, Kate?”

“Galigani asked me what we were doing that night. You left the party early. You
said
you weren’t feeling well. I’m wondering where you went.”

I tried to ignore the queasiness in my stomach.

“I came home.” He said it slowly, enunciating every syllable as though I were a two-year-old.

“That’s just the thing, Jim. I remember calling home that night. You didn’t pick up.”

He took a slow sip of his beer. He smiled widely, then laughed. Was it a nervous laugh?

“Come on, honey. Cut me some slack. I was probably asleep.” He reached out to touch my shoulder.

I sighed. He wrapped his arms around me. I inhaled his familiar scent, a mixture of wind and trees. The nervousness in my stomach dissipated a bit.

He squeezed my shoulders. “You’re getting too wrapped up in this Brad Avery stuff. You’re letting it make you a little goofy, honey.”

I stiffened and pulled away from him. “What do you mean?”

“Christ, Kate, you’re starting to hallucinate. Intruders in the house? Asking me where I was on the night some guy I don’t even know was killed.”

“George knew him.”

Jim frowned. “What are you saying? I haven’t seen George for months. What? You think I secretly met up with him and helped him murder someone?”

“No. I don’t think that.” I shook my head and let out a sigh. “Do you think George . . . Do you think he
could
kill someone?”

Jim raised his shoulders. “I don’t know.” He voice softened and his shoulders dropped. “He’s impulsive, irresponsible, and has a temper. Do I think George is a cold-blooded murderer? No. Do I think he could have killed someone under certain circumstances?”

He let his question hang in the air. Both of us nodded to each other, knowing the answer was a definite yes.

After a moment I asked, “Why would that investigator ask where we were that night?”

“Kate, they ask questions. That’s what they do. He probably asks everyone the same questions. Why did you even talk to the guy?”

Images of Michelle’s body on the floor flooded my mind. I willed myself not to cry. “I found Michelle dead. I wanted to help.”

Jim stroked my hand. “Honey, I know having a baby is stressful. It’s stressful for me. I can’t fathom how it is for you, much less with all this other stuff going on. But you can’t let your imagination run away with you. Focus on recuperating. You’ll have to be back at work in a couple of weeks.”

I sat dumbfounded as he cleared the plates from the table. “What if I don’t want to go back to work?”

Jim’s eyes clouded. “We all have to do things we don’t want to do. I wish we could afford for you to stay home. What do you want me to say, Kate? You know the cost of living in San Francisco. You want to live anyplace else besides California? Montana or Nebraska?”

I shook my head and took a deep breath, fighting the overwhelming urge to cry again.

“We talked about this before? Remember?” Jim asked.

“I didn’t know I’d feel this way.”

“What way?”

“She needs me, Jim. She’s so tiny. She needs me. I knew that. I knew she would, of course. I just didn’t know I’d need her.” I sighed again. “Do you know how much Galigani gets paid?”

“No, and I don’t care. Whatever it is, I’m sure he’s worth it. I’m sure he has plenty of
experience
doing whatever he’s doing.”

“He talks to people all day. I have plenty of experience talking, too.”

Jim scrunched up his face. “The point is, Kate, he has a client.”

•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.

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.