Bundle of Trouble(49)

I loved the picture of Laurie. She looks exactly like Jim, doesn’t she? I hope we’ll be coming home soon. David is getting all sorts of flak from his firm, and I really want to be home to start my own business. Be an entrepreneurial mommy! Oh that and the baby is due soon! Ha! Not that soon—four months—but who’s counting?

Love, love, love you guys! Write soon.





She had attached instructions on how to use the breast pump. Well, instructions was a relative term; it was a hand-sketched cartoon which she had scanned. The drawing showed me with boobs the size of basketballs attached to a monster machine. I responded to her e-mail and updated her on the additional hysteria in my life, including Jim’s incarceration, George’s visit, and my very first client.

The phone rang.

I leapt for it.

“Mrs. Connolly?” I heard a little puff in the background.

His pipe. Crane.

“I’ve been in touch with the police. I’m afraid they’re not going to release your husband tonight.”

“Why?”

“There’s an unresolved homicide they’re looking into.”

“I know. Brad, and there’s also Michelle Avery, but what does that have to do with Jim?”

“Well, yes, there’s those. But I meant another one. Svetlana Avery.”

My postpartum belly fell to the floor.





•CHAPTER FIFTEEN•




The Fifth Week—Head Held High

I tossed and turned the entire night. I kept reaching out across the bed for Jim, only to be jarred awake by the coldness of the empty sheets. Of course, since I was awake, Laurie was asleep. I checked her breathing a few times and found the rhythm of the rise and fall of her chest soothing.

Svetlana murdered? Mr. Crane had told me she had been shot, killed by a 9mm luger bullet. Ballistics had determined that the bullet had been fired from the same gun that had killed Brad.

Same gun.

George’s gun. Or one like it. But what were the odds of that? It had to be George’s gun.

Had to be the gun registered to Jim’s father. How could we prove that Jim had never had possession of the gun?

I didn’t want to think of Jim’s lack of an alibi for June fifteenth. I didn’t want to think about the police possibly moving forward with a trial against Jim. I didn’t want to think about my bed being empty, trying to raise Laurie on my own.

I thought, instead, of fighting like hell to get the love of my life out of jail. Fighting like hell to find the real murderer. Keep your mind on what you want, Kate, and off what you don’t want, I reminded myself.

I needed to find the murderer. I needed to get Jim off the hook and to launch my new career. I had no option.

At 4 A.M. I fed Laurie. She immediately went back to sleep. I got up and made coffee. I reviewed my to-do list from the day before and modified it.





To-Do List:

1. Free Jim.

2. Interview Kiku (bring own water!).

3. Call Winter Henderson re: hippie chick alibi.

4. Find Brad and/or Michelle’s and/or Svetlana’s killer.

5. Tummy time!!! (in progress).

6. Make OB appointment.

7. Stop being rude.

It took me a while to understand my Stop being rude entry. Then I finally remembered the thank-you cards.

What the hell. It was four-thirty in the morning; may as well start somewhere. I completed the thank-you cards and fell into an exhausted sleep. Laurie woke me at 7 A.M. with hungry cries and I figured then was as good a time as any to begin my day.





Laurie and I waited in a stark white room to see Jim. There was a rectangular table in the center with four chairs around it and an all-too-familiar two-way mirror hanging from the wall. Jim appeared, escorted by a deputy sheriff. Jim was dressed in an orange jumpsuit, which immediately brought me to tears.

His face broke into a sad smile. “You don’t think it’s my color?” He embraced Laurie and me. “It’s so good to see you guys. I had an awful night.”

“Me, too. Couldn’t sleep.”

The deputy sheriff retreated out of the room, presumably to watch us through the mirror, giving us a false sense of privacy.

Jim absently brushed my hair off my face. “You look exhausted. Did you talk to my attorney?”

“He called me last night. He’s meeting us here at nine.”

Jim pulled a chair out for me. “So you heard about Svetlana Avery?”

I nodded, sitting. “What do you think happened?”

Jim sat next to me and rested his hand on my thigh. “All I could gather is that she was shot.”

“She must have known something. When I told her about Michelle’s death, she nearly passed out. She told me she had a migraine coming on. It seemed odd to me at the time, but maybe she was afraid.”

Jim looked surprised. “When did you even meet with her?”