Motherhood is Murder(50)

I rubbed Laurie’s cheek and secretly thought the swaddle looked like a straitjacket. “I’ll break you out of it as soon as we leave, Sugarplum,” I whispered in her ear. “I’m an expert in breaking out of Velcro.”

Paula was working furiously on a scrapbook of Danny’s first year, and Danny was running back and forth between the dining room and his bedroom bringing us Lego pieces, one at a time.

Each time Danny returned from his room, he’d hand me a piece saying, “ ’Go piece.”

I’d say, “Yes! Lego piece,” then oohed and aahed as he attached the piece to the tower he was building.

Paula gave me a dismissive wave. “Come on, Kate. You know I’m the last person you should be discussing ethics with. Take the money! Of course you should work for him.”

“But that would be double billing or something like that.”

Paula laughed. “Well, duh. That’s the beauty of it.”

I sighed and helped Danny connect a piece to the tower. He yelped with happiness and then charged back to his room.

Paula scrunched her face. “I promised myself I would finish this darn book before the baby came. I can’t have Danny’s first year looming over me when I have the other one’s first year to capture. But I swear I hate this scrapbooking.”

“You do? But you’re so good at it.”

“Why would you think I’m good at it? I never do it.”

I looked around the table. She had neatly arranged the photos in one stack, stickers in another stack, and colored paper in a third stack. “Well, look at all the organization and care you’ve put into it.”

“It’s all a façade,” Paula said.

I laughed. Danny zoomed back into the room and handed me a Lego piece. “Danny’s good at building—why don’t you let him put it all together?”

Paula sighed. “The end result would probably be the same.”





At home, I fussed with dinner. On the drive from Paula’s I thought I’d had a wonderful time-saving idea. Crock pot cooking! Just throw all the ingredients into a pot and voilŕ—dinner!

When I got home, I realized that would mean I actually had to have the ingredients on hand, not to mention the six- or seven-hour lead time for cooking.

While inventorying the fridge, I grabbed a piece of cheese and popped it into my mouth. Then, I looked in the cupboard for some crackers.

Hmmm, did we have any wine?

I found a bottle and opened it, pouring myself a glass.

I had recently read an article online that allowed breastfeeding moms one to two glasses of alcohol a day. What a hoot! I thought I wasn’t supposed to have any alcohol. Well, everything in moderation. Certainly the occasional glass of wine wasn’t going to hurt Laurie. And definitely the last few days had been trying. I needed something to take the edge off.

I continued my search for crackers.

Maybe I could make a little appetizer plate for Jim and me—cheese, crackers, nuts, and fruit . . .

My daydream was cut short with the discovery that we didn’t have any crackers, nuts, or fruit.

Man! I had to get to the store.

I took a sip of wine, sliced another piece of cheese, and ate it anyway. Didn’t wine count for fruit?

I cracked open the file from Gary. It was a transcript of Inspectors Jones and McNearny questioning Bruce. Only they hadn’t been able to ask him much. Gary had coached Bruce and he’d only made a small statement about being grieved over his wife and shocked about the incident at his house. He repeated the same statement to most of the questions until Gary put a sudden stop to the questioning by quoting a statute and ending the interview.

Short and simple, they needed to officially charge him if they were going to get any answers. And without evidence, they couldn’t charge him.

I grabbed the phone and dialed Margaret. I got no answer but left her a second message. Where was she? She was supposed to be at her mother’s but there was no answer there either.

What kind of investigator can’t get in touch with her client?

I heard the front door creak open and knew my time for dinner prep had run out.

I’m a failure as a housewife.

Jim clunked down the hallway and peered into the kitchen. He inhaled deeply. “Hi, honey.”

“What’s wrong?”

He let out his breath and dropped his briefcase on the floor. “My client put a hold on the project.”

“What does that mean?”

“Did you watch the news today?”

I shook my head.

“The market’s crashed. People are kind of freaking out. So, Dirk wasn’t able to secure funding for the project.”

My mind flashed on Bruce Chambers. His clients would be scared, too.

“What does it mean for us?” I asked.

Jim shrugged. “Well, we don’t have much in the market, so in that regard we’re fine. But if they don’t get funding for my project, that means I’m out of work again.”

During my maternity leave from my corporate job, Jim had been let go from his. He’d been able to land a freelance client and the income had been large enough, or so we thought, to last us awhile so I had left my corporate gig.