Bundle of Trouble - By Diana Orgain Page 0,22

connection to Mr. Avery. He was last seen on June fifteenth and the medical examiner places his death in June. George Connolly’s bags were found on September nineteenth on the same pier where Mr. Avery was recovered. Months apart. Is there a connection?” McNearny opened his hands toward me in question. “Mrs. Avery tells me she doesn’t know a George Connolly. So technically, I can’t prove a thing. But this”—he patted his broad stomach—“isn’t technical. My gut says there is a connection between the Connollys and the Averys.”

“I already told you I went to high school with Michelle.”

He breathed more air in through his teeth and grimaced. “Something more recent. Something that involves your brother-in-law.”

“I haven’t seen George in a long time. When I see him, I’ll ask him for you.”

“One more thing, Mrs. Connolly. When your car was broken into yesterday, the location was curiously close to El Paraiso, the restaurant owned by the Averys.”

“Yep.”

“What were you doing there exactly?”

“What everyone does at restaurants, eat.”

“Kind of strange, isn’t it? You don’t see your friend for a long time, then all of sudden you’re frequenting her restaurant?” McNearny asked.

“Is there a law against that?”

“I’m just trying to understand why you were there. Were you meeting her there?”

“Nope. Just eating. Alone. Well, with my daughter actually, whom I’ve got to get home to.”

McNearny and Jones exchanged glances. Jones said, “Thank you, Mrs. Connolly. We appreciate your time. If we need anything else, we’ll contact you.”

I stood. Jones stood with me. McNearny remained seated, his arms folded across his chest. I made my way toward the door. I glanced over my shoulder; McNearny was still watching me.

Let him watch.

Where was the condolence? I’d found a friend dead and he’d shown no sympathy. All he wanted to do was try and pin the murder on George. Close the case, narrow his workload.

And yet, the dread turned to nausea. Maybe McNearny was right. George had to be connected somehow.

When I arrived home, Laurie was screaming in Mom’s arms.

“She won’t take the formula.”

I wrinkled my nose at the yellowish bottle Mom was putting in Laurie’s face. “I don’t blame her.”

“You used to love the stuff.”

Obviously, my daughter had a more discriminating palate.

I collapsed onto the couch and nursed Laurie. I don’t know who was more relieved, me as the burning sensation dissipated from my breasts, Laurie at being fed, or Mom at the peace and quiet.

We sat in silence. I finished nursing Laurie, then rubbed her back, expecting a little burp. Instead, she threw up all over my silk blouse.

I broke down crying, my bravado from facing Inspector McNearny evaporated.

Mom took Laurie from me and placed her in the bassinet, then put her arms around me. “Oh, honey, don’t cry,” she said, stroking my hair. “It’s just the hormones.”

I recounted my afternoon for Mom. She listened, her mouth agape.

She rubbed my back. “That’s horrible. Just awful, honey. What a shock!” I let her cluck over me, taking comfort in her support.

My head was throbbing, my legs ached, and I had baby spit-up all over my blouse. Not to mention finding Michelle dead and being interrogated by the police.

Not a good day.

I rose from the couch. I needed to change and take some pain medication, at the very least. “Will you come over tomorrow?” I asked Mom.

She hesitated. “There’s something I haven’t told you as well.”

I sat back down on the couch and held my head. Had Mom’s car been broken into, too? Or worse, had someone tried to break into the house while I was gone?

“I’m seeing someone,” Mom said.

Mom dating?

My parents had been divorced for nearly fifteen years. Mother had said over and over again that she was through with men, that she lived only to have grandchildren.

“What? Who?” I stuttered.

“A very nice man. His name is Hank.”

My body surged with a strange combination of happiness and . . . what? Fear? Jealousy? Was I going to have to share my babysitting mother? How selfish of me. I pushed the thought from my mind and hugged her. “And why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

Mom shrugged sheepishly. “I wasn’t sure there was anything to tell.”

I smiled. “How did you meet?”

“Well,” Mom said hesitantly, “I put myself on Match-dot-Com.”

Mom using the Internet?

“What?” I sputtered.

“Match-dot-Com, darling. It’s a dating service. Online.”

“I know what it is. I just . . . I didn’t know . . . that you were . . . That’s great, Mom. Really great.”

“My profile was up for about a week.” Mom made