Bundle of Trouble - By Diana Orgain Page 0,19

whispered even though I knew she was.

Oddly, she had a peaceful expression. There was a small cut on her temple where blood had trickled. I imagined her collapsing and cutting her head against the coffee table.

I looked around the room and noticed two wineglasses on her coffee table. She’d had company. My God, what could have happened?

I dialed 9-1-1 from Michelle’s phone.

After I reported Michelle dead, the operator said, “I’m sending someone now. Did you try CPR?”

“Oh my God. I don’t think . . .”

The operator instructed me to feel for a pulse.

I knelt next to Michelle and took her hand in mine, placing two fingers over her wrist. I confirmed the lack of a pulse.

“Ma’am, the police will be there shortly. Please don’t touch anything in the house,” the operator instructed. “Stay on the line.”

I remained kneeling next to Michelle, helplessly holding her hand and feeling a heaviness in my gut.

Someone had killed Michelle. My high school friend. Someone had killed her, had murdered her husband. Someone had broken into my cars.

I squeezed my eyes shut, not wanting to think his name. It popped into my head anyway.

George? Charming, flaky, pain-in-the-ass George.

Please, no. Please, don’t be behind this.

•CHAPTER EIGHT•

The Second Week—Seeing is Believing

I waited in stunned silence until I heard sirens down the street. I told the 9-1-1 operator that the paramedics had arrived.

“All right, ma’am. Please wait for the police. They’ll be there shortly to take your statement.”

My statement?

I opened the door for the paramedics. They tried to resuscitate Michelle. They couldn’t. Soon the police arrived, headed by Inspector McNearny, the same cop who’d helped me with Jim’s car the day before. He came into the house and barely looked at Michelle. Instead, he looked straight at me, cocking his head to the side. “Well, well, well, who do we have here? Mrs. Connolly, is it?” He jutted his chin at me a bit, challenging me. “Kind of a surprise to find you here. How’s your car? File that insurance claim yet?”

What was he accusing me of? Insurance fraud? Something worse?

“No. I didn’t. Not yet.” I could feel his gaze. I supposed he was waiting for an explanation. “I came over to see my friend, Michelle.”

McNearny nodded at me, then at his partner. “Jones, this is Ms. Connolly.”

Jones was younger than McNearny, with kind eyes and short dark hair that was gelled back. He smiled sympathetically at me.

McNearny gestured toward the wineglasses. “Did you have wine with her?”

“No. No! I just got here. She didn’t answer the door. I tried her phone and left a message. I saw her through the window . . . on the floor. I . . . the door was open. I thought maybe she passed out.”

Inspector McNearny squinted at me, then pulled a small notebook from his breast pocket. “You looked through the window? What window?”

I pointed to the dining room stained glass window. McNearny walked into the dining room and peeked out. “It’s high.”

“I know. I had to move the planter box and climb up.”

McNearny scratched his chin, still looking out the window. “You moved it?”

I nodded. Jones looked around the living room. “How did you gain access to the house?”

“The front door was open,” I repeated.

“I don’t get it. Why look through the window?” Jones asked.

“Well, I rang the bell. She didn’t answer. I didn’t think to try the door. Who leaves their door unlocked in San Francisco? So, I wanted to peek through a window.”

“Why?” McNearny countered. “Why didn’t you leave? Maybe she wasn’t home.”

“But she was home. Sort of . . .”

“Do you normally climb planter boxes to look through people’s windows when they don’t answer the door?” McNearny asked.

“No. I just . . . her husband—”

“Was murdered. Yes.” McNearny nodded.

“I was worried about her.”

“Why?” Jones asked.

I shrugged uselessly. “The last time I saw her, she told me she was scared.”

“Scared of what?” McNearny scowled.

I stared at him. “Scared that whoever killed her husband would come after her.”

“Ah,” McNearny said, tapping his pencil on his notebook. “And did she tell you who that was?”

I took a deep breath. “No.”

A uniformed officer bent over Michelle, measuring something. I averted my eyes, pressing on them to keep from crying.

McNearny walked over to Michelle’s body and studied her for a moment. “You found her like this?”

“Yeah. No. I mean, she was facedown. I turned her over.”

“Can you tell us what you’ve touched?” Jones asked.

“The phone, the door, Michelle.” I spun around, taking inventory of the room. “I think that’s it.”

“What happened