Jim nodded. We peeked at Laurie, nestled in the bassinet by our bed. She was still sleeping.
I snuggled into Jim. “Let’s go back to sleep.”
“Yeah.” Jim said, putting his arm around me. “I’m depressed. It sucks to be fired.”
I hugged him tight. “Oh, honey! Don’t worry. Things always work out for the best.”
“How can this be for the best, Kate?”
I sighed. “I dunno. I have to say that to keep from getting depressed myself.”
Jim fluffed up a pillow and pulled the blanket around himself. “You’re right, we should go back to sleep. Maybe it’s all a dream.”
We dozed until what felt like a decadent hour—7 A.M.! Then our little Laurie alarm went off.
Wailing.
Jim seemed in better spirits after the additional hour of sleep. “Better start looking for another job.”
“Don’t worry, you’ll find something soon. You’re the best ad executive I know.”
“I’m the only ad executive you know.”
“That doesn’t matter. You’re still the best.” I winked at him. He nodded back at me. “If you don’t find another job soon,” I continued, “I’ll go back to work. We can swing it on my salary for a while, until you find something.”
I tried to keep the panic out of my voice and my eyes free from tears at the thought of going back to the office. Something must have shown because Jim’s lips tightened into a line.
He stared at me, then we both nodded solemnly together, trying to convince each other that we believed everything would work out.
I snuggled with Laurie while I listened to Jim tap on the computer keyboard in the other room.
At 8 A.M. the phone rang. A refined gentleman’s voice asked, “Is Mr. Connolly available?”
“May I ask who’s calling?”
“This is Dirk Jonson, with Jonson, Mayer, and Ritler.”
Could this be a recruiter already?
With Laurie in tow, I walked to Jim’s office and handed him the cordless phone. Before I could tell him who was calling, Laurie began to wail in my ear. I took our screaming daughter out of the room and closed the door behind me, ruining any chance of my eavesdropping, but giving Jim an opportunity to hear something other than Laurie’s caterwauling.
I put a pot of decaf on and scrambled around the kitchen looking for anything that vaguely resembled breakfast fixings. I made toast.
I added sugar to my cup and revised my to-do list:
To-Do List:
1. Help Jim find a job.
2. Find Brad and/or Michelle and Svetlana’s killer.
3. Get more sleep.
4. Figure out how to launch this PI business—How do I get more clients?
5. Research day care for Jelly Bean.
6. Get a manicure and pedicure.
7. Where is that parenting book?
8. Organize house.
9. Mail thank-you cards.
I grabbed the stack of thank-you cards and popped them into the diaper bag. I would mail them today no matter what.
I called Jim for breakfast.
“All we have is toast,” I muttered. “I’ll shop today.”
“I’ll go,” Jim said, gobbling every crumb on his plate.
“Who was that on the phone?”
“The client I landed for Fortena and Associates.”
“What was he calling about?”
“They told him I got fired yesterday. He wasn’t very happy about it and wants to meet with me today.” Jim raised his eyebrows.
The phone rang again. Mrs. Avery wanted to take me to brunch and get a status report.
The brunch part sounded fabulous, because, of course, I was still hungry, even after two slices of toast. The status part . . . ?
What would I report?
After breakfast, Jim put Laurie into her bassinet and tapped away at the computer. I showered, trying to pull energy and ideas from the water.
Jim’s appointment wasn’t until the afternoon, which left me plenty of time to meet with Mrs. Avery without having to worry Mom about babysitting.
I fumbled through my closet and found the best clothes I could that would fit. Dressier slacks that I could almost button and a pink silk blouse, which was designed to tie around the waist, camouflaging my sins.
I even had time to apply makeup. I looked at my reflection in the mirror. Wow! Makeup really did make a difference. Especially at age thirty.
I crept into Jim’s office. Laurie was sleeping peacefully in the baby carrier with her thumb in her mouth.
“She’s discovered her thumb,” I said.
“I noticed,” Jim replied.
“I hope she won’t develop nipple confusion.”
Jim laughed. “I doubt it.”
“Right,” I said, reassured. “The breastfeeding purists will tell you anything to keep you nursing.”
I edged Jim away from the computer in order to prepare my report for Mrs. Avery. What could I possibly put in it, when I didn’t have a clue who killed Brad? I fell back on my old corporate skills: “If you have nothing of substance to report, at least make it look good. And when all else fails, overwhelm the reader with information.”
“When will you be back?” Jim asked, looking over my shoulder as I typed.
“In time for the next feeding, don’t worry.”
“What do I do if she cries?”
I looked up into Jim’s face. His brow was creased in concern.
“You’ve been alone with her before.”
“Once, and you left me with a bottle. When she cried, I gave it to her and she stopped. What do I do this time?”
“There’s a bottle in the fridge. I’ll leave written instructions again, okay? I won’t be gone long.”
A look of relief flashed across his face. He leaned over to kiss me.
He asked, “Are you going to invoice Mrs. Avery today?”
“What?”
“Remember, I’m out of work. If you’re serious about making this a business, you should present her with an invoice for your time so far. I mean, you never even got a retainer from her, right?”
“What’s a retainer?”
“Request at least twenty-five percent of what you think the total cost to solve the crime will be.”
“I have no idea what that is.”
“Figure it out fast and err on the high side if you need to. It’s easier to return an overpayment than try to collect.” He leaned over again to kiss me and said, “And, honey, you look really pretty.”
I felt warm inside. I hadn’t felt really pretty in months, probably nine to be exact.
I drove to the Olympic Club on Country Club Drive. Judging by all the Mercedeses, BMWs, and Bentleys, I was more than out of place in my six-year-old Chevrolet Cavalier.
Oh well, Kate, just try not to sideswipe any of them.
The grounds of the country club were beautiful. There was a view of the manicured golf course from the top of the driveway. As I pulled up to the valet, I could see a few morning golfers grabbing their clubs. I’d never gotten into golfing, although it certainly seemed like the thing to do nowadays.
Could I land any clients by networking at a golf course? How do you get into golfing anyway? Does someone need to show you how? Like a coach or something? Or do you just get up and swing? How do you even get a reservation on the course?
Mrs. Avery waved to me from the entrance of the club, which was landscaped with blooming chrysanthemums. How did they keep them fresh so late in the season? Mrs. Avery looked completely in her element, dressed in striped golf pants with a coordinating polo shirt.
“Kate! Thank you for coming,” she said, wrapping a protective arm through mine.
She steered me toward the restaurant. The ceiling in the room was so high I got dizzy looking up. The red velvet high-back chairs stood at attention, like British guards, over the sparkling silver at each table.
Mrs. Avery squeezed my elbow. “Let’s get seated, then you can tell me what you’ve discovered.”
We were escorted by the host, a serious gentleman dressed in a three-piece suit, to a table in the corner. Mrs. Avery whispered to me that not long ago women had not been allowed into the Club.
The Club
. La di da.
The host pulled out our chairs and made sure we were seated comfortably before disappearing. Instantly, an unblemished seventeen-year-old boy appeared and handed us menus. His hair was slicked back in a pompadour style and he wore a white dress shirt and black slacks. He looked me up and down.
What was he thinking? Was he wondering what
I
was doing in a place like this?
His eyes lingered on me. He blushed.
Oh! He was checking me out!
It had been so long since someone, besides that creep Rich, had looked at me that way, I’d forgotten what it was like. He averted his eyes. I smiled, remembering that Jim had said I looked pretty.
I sucked in my postpartum belly and sat a little straighter. I’d have to do the makeup thing more often.
“The smoked salmon is divine here, Kate,” Mrs. Avery said. She turned to the boy. “Two freshly squeezed orange juices, dear.”
He nodded and hustled off without even a look back at me. I guess I wasn’t
that
impressive.
I studied the menu, deciding on the “French Country” breakfast, a traditional omelet filled with diced potatoes, served with a green seasonal salad and sherry wine vinaigrette. My mouth watered reading the description. Mrs. Avery settled on the smoked salmon, served with squash cake, dill sauce, and a green salad.
What is squash cake?
Judging by the platters wafting by me, no doubt it would look good.
While we waited for our food, I presented my report to Mrs. Avery. A color-printed PowerPoint presentation of all the suspects, wrapped in a bright blue folio.
Mrs. Avery pulled her reading glasses from her purse and reviewed my notes, the pie charts, and graphs. “Wow! This is a very pretty report!”
“Thank you.” I beamed.
“What does it mean?”
Indeed. What
did
it mean?
I squinted at her and tried not to lose my nerve. “Well . . . it means that each person has an equal chance of being the murderer.”
She studied me over her reading glasses, her brow wrinkling. “An equal chance?”
“Well, it also shows that everyone had equal opportunity, but not equal motive,” I floundered.
She pointed to a pie chart on the report. “So you think Jennifer has the strongest motive?”
“Well, she was the
other
woman. And apparently, Brad visited her on the night he was killed.”
Mrs. Avery’s eyes filled with tears. “Why kill him?”
I covered her hand with my own. “Mrs. Avery, I know this is difficult.”
“I need you to be straight with me, dear. Don’t worry about my feelings. I hire someone else for that.”
Ouch.
“I think Jennifer may have killed him because he was leaving Michelle.”
“Isn’t that what she would have wanted?”
“She was in love with someone else. She could have thought Brad’s leaving Michelle would interfere with her plans with her boyfriend.”
Mrs. Avery whipped the reading glasses off her face, flashing a look of annoyance toward me. “Bradley was so handsome, not to mention wealthy. How could she be in love with someone else?”
“She’s kind of a free spirit.”
“What? Like a
hippie
?” Mrs. Avery spat the word, her expression sour, as if the word had left a bad taste in her mouth.
Our waiter appeared at our table and placed a covered dish in front of each of us. A busboy assisted him in uncovering our plates simultaneously. Nice. Country club dining at its finest.
We dug into our meals. After a moment she said, “Do you think Jennifer’s boyfriend could have done it?” Her voice softened. “After all, my Bradley was thrown into the bay. It had to be someone with some strength.”
“I thought about that, too. It’s a possibility.” I paused. “Mrs. Avery, what can you tell me about Rich Hanlen? As I understand it, he took over the general management of El Paraiso after Brad’s disappearance. Went from assistant manager to—”
“No, no, no.” Mrs. Avery shook her head. “Rich would never hurt Brad. They were best friends. Best friends.” She waved her hand at me, implying I dismiss any bad thoughts about Rich.
I nodded and took a bite of my meal.
So much for trying to put the blame on Mr. Creepy.
Mrs. Avery replaced her glasses and studied my chart a little bit more, then said the inevitable. “This woman, Kiku, is high on your list, too.”
I cringed, remembering Kiku’s beautiful smile and pregnant belly. I didn’t want it to be Kiku.
“I have a witness who can place her at Michelle’s home on the day of her death. And I know she has access to the drug that killed Michelle. But when I spoke with Michelle’s sister, KelliAnn, she told me suicide was very probable.”
Mrs. Avery tapped her manicured nails on the table and frowned. “Is that what she said? I don’t believe it. I can’t believe it.” She pulled her purse onto her lap, returned her glasses, and extracted a lace hankie. “What about Kiku and Bradley’s murder?”
“I haven’t been able to find that strong a connection between Brad and Kiku.”
“What about Svetlana?” Mrs. Avery sniffed and dabbed at her nose with her hankie. “Do you think Bradley and Svetlana were killed by the same person?”
“It’s very probable. They were killed by the same gun.”
Mrs. Avery snapped to attention. “The same gun? If they were killed by the same person, how do you explain that my poor son was dumped in the bay and Svetlana wasn’t?”
“I can only guess that Brad’s murder was premeditated, planned, and that Svetlana may have been killed in desperation. Not enough time or opportunity to dispose of her body.”
“Do you think this woman, Kiku, is strong enough to discard my Bradley . . .” Her voice gave out, and she shook her head back and forth with her eyes closed.