Bundle of Trouble - By Diana Orgain Page 0,16

the restaurant?”

He scratched at his newly forming beard. “ ’Bout three months.”

“Around June?” I asked, for clarification.

“That’s right.”

“June fifteenth or sixteenth, would you say?”

“What are you getting at?”

“You started managing the restaurant after Brad’s . . . disappearance? I take it you knew Brad Avery.”

He shrugged his shoulders. “Sure. Yeah. ’Course I knew Brad. He and I were good buddies.”

“Didn’t you think it was odd, his vanishing like that?”

He moved toward the desk and sat on the edge, forcing me to step back. I bumped into the wall behind me and jarred Laurie’s stroller. She wailed and kicked, protesting being awakened.

I jiggled the stroller to soothe her and pressed backward as far away from Mr. Sleazy as I could. I felt the coolness of the wall through Jim’s shirt. I resisted the urge to shiver.

He licked his lips and smiled a crooked little smile. “You a cop?”

“No.”

He squinted. “What’s with all the questions, then?”

“I just think that you’d have wondered when suddenly your boss, your good buddy, didn’t show up.”

He crossed his arms over his chest. “Michelle told me they’d had a fight, that he was leaving her. When he didn’t come to work, it was obvious that he’d left her. So she and Mrs. A asked me to run things for her.”

“Mrs. A?”

“Brad’s mother. She’s part owner,” he clarified.

“Michelle told me Brad was having an affair.”

“Don’t know nothing ’bout that.”

Didn’t he? Mr. Rico Suave here, with the jet black hair and colored contacts. Mr. Leery. Mr. Good Buddy of the deceased.

“Do you know who might?” I pressed.

He unfolded his arms and stood up, leaning in a little too close to me. “Might what?”

“Never mind,” I mumbled. It was none of my business anyway.

I closed my notebook and bent over to shove it into the diaper bag. The notebook caught on a little rag doll I’d packed for Laurie. I had to do a quick rearrange and cram everything in. When I straightened, my heart jumped into my throat.

He had Laurie in his arms.

He gazed down at her. “She’s really beautiful. Fragile, huh?”

“Yes,” I whispered, swallowing the lump in my throat.

“I love babies,” he said.

Why hadn’t I strapped her in!

I forced myself to breathe.

And think.

I reached past him and pulled the office door open. Light flooded into the room, causing Laurie to stir and wail again.

“Here,” he said, handing Laurie back to me.

Such relief washed over me that my knees felt weak. I snatched Laurie from him, barely able to contain myself. I pushed her stroller into the hallway muttering, “Jerk.”

The office door clicked closed behind me. But not soon enough that I didn’t hear his snicker.

Laurie wailed again and I stopped short of the swinging kitchen doors to soothe her. She kicked her feet up at me. One foot with Mom’s booty on, the other bare.

I did a quick check underneath her, then down the hallway. No booty.

Probably left behind in the office.

Forget it. No way was I going back in there for a stupid booty.

Mom will kill me.

Maybe I could knock and not go inside. I pulled Laurie’s stroller backward down the hallway toward his office. I heard his voice through the door. “. . . asking a bunch of questions ’bout Brad.”

There was silence. I froze.

Then he said, “No way. Why would I tell her ’bout the fight?”

He paused again. I held my breath.

Then I heard him say, “Haven’t seen George since last week, but he’ll be here tomorrow for the delivery.”

I abandoned the booty and wheeled the stroller out of the restaurant. I hustled toward Jim’s car hoping to dodge a parking ticket. Shattered glass littered the street. The driver’s side window was broken.

Not again.

I swallowed the panic building in my chest. I glanced up and down the street. Empty.

Thank God. What would I have done anyway? Beat the burglar with my diaper bag?

I dialed Jim. Voice mail. I dialed Michelle. Voice mail. Why was no one around when you needed them?

A vehicle pulled in front of Jim’s car. A stocky balding man stepped out. He noted the glass on the street, then moved toward me. He reached into his pocket and produced a badge reading INSPECTOR PATRICK MCNEARNY. “Miss, I’m with SFPD. This your car?”

Ah. Miss again!

“Yeah.”

“Anything taken?”

“No. I . . . uh . . . I haven’t checked.”

I glanced over my shoulder into Jim’s car. Everything seemed to be in order. I leaned over the driver’s seat and pulled open the glove box. Papers were crumpled, as if someone had rummaged through it.

“It looks