Bundle of Trouble(12)

“Oh, we’re on-again, off-again. She was no help with my mother, as you can imagine, and even though I’ve called her a bunch of times since . . . since Brad . . .” Michelle studied her nails a moment, then shrugged. “I called her last night to tell her you were coming over for lunch. I thought she might want to join us . . . Well, she’s probably busy, is all.”

Michelle’s half sister, KelliAnn, had gone to school with us for only a short time. Despite Michelle’s parents’ long-term marriage, her father had had an affair and the by-product was KelliAnn.

Michelle and I looked at each other in awkward silence. “Do you want to see the house?” she asked.

“Sure.”

Her home was beautifully restored. Wooden, built-in buffets in the dining room and built-in bookshelves gave the house a classic feel, while wainscoting and hardwood floors warmed it up.

The bedrooms were smaller than the other rooms, in keeping with the tradition of the era in which it was built. Entertaining was important, large sitting rooms and family rooms dominated the houses, leaving only a small area for sleeping quarters with no closet space. The master bath had vintage purple tile and lilac paint.

“I couldn’t bring myself to knock out that tile, it’s so wild,” Michelle said.

I laughed. “It suits you.”

Michelle face warmed with a smile. “Thank you.” She sighed. “Brad hated it.”

Silence fell between us. Finally I said, “Did you restore the house yourself?”

“It’s my hobby. When we bought it two years ago, it was in shambles.”

We ended our tour back in the living room, where Laurie had finally settled down and was now content in her car seat. Michelle gazed at Laurie. “Brad wanted kids, but . . .” She picked up her wine and swirled it in the glass. “Not with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“The last time I saw Brad, he told me he was leaving me . . . that he was in love with someone else. This might be a terrible thing to say, Kate, but I didn’t mind all that much. He was unhappy. I knew that. Unhappy with me, with our marriage, with our life in general, I suppose. So, when he said he was leaving, I accepted it.”

She wrapped a strand of her long hair around two fingers. “I thought he’d left me. Then this police officer comes over last week, tells me they’d matched the dental records and that Brad was . . .” She covered her face with her hands.

What do you say in situations like this?

I patted her back. “I’m so sorry, Michelle.”

“I told the officer that Brad left me on June fifteenth and I hadn’t seen him since. I told him . . . about Brad’s affair. The officer kind of insinuated that . . . well, he made me feel like he was accusing me or something. Can you imagine? Like, I was so upset about Brad leaving me and the affair and all, that I could have shot him and dumped him in the bay. Isn’t that ridiculous?” She refilled her wineglass. “I told them to go look into the other woman.” She rubbed at her eyes. “They said, you won’t believe this, that maybe there was no other woman.”

“Do you know who she is?” I asked.

“How would I know!”

Oops. Wrong question again.

I shrugged. “I thought maybe he told you. On the night he was leaving, he could have told you.”

“He didn’t. Sorry. I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m not myself. I’m edgy . . . I’m—”

“You don’t have to explain.”

Michelle put down her glass and cradled her forehead. “I have to find out what happened to Brad. They think it’s likely he died the same day he left me, because of the condition of his body.”

“Do you have any idea what could have happened?”

She shook her head, looking overwhelmed. “No. I don’t. I was with George Connolly that night.”

My heart stopped. “Do you know how I can reach him?”

Michelle polished off her wine, then sighed. “He works at our restaurant. Well, I guess it’s my restaurant now, now that Brad’s . . . George was here that night. The night Brad left me.” She closed her eyes. “The night Brad was killed.”

“What was George doing here?”

“He drops off the deposits from the restaurant.” She paused to refill her glass. “Only don’t tell anybody I told you so.”

“Why not?”

“Well, it’s just that . . . see, if George’s bags were found on the pier where Brad was recovered . . . well, it’s really too coincidental to be a coincidence, isn’t it?”

“You think George killed Brad?”