Bundle of Trouble - By Diana Orgain Page 0,40

ran a background check. Anyway, you and your husband didn’t say anything to the police because deep down he still loves his brother, and you, of course, love your husband and everyone is in denial that he could be a murderer.”

The small room seemed to close in on me, and what I’d intended as a question came out as a statement. “You think George killed Brad.”

“Not really. I don’t have a motive. Do you?”

I shook my head helplessly. “No.”

“My money’s on the girl. The supposed affair.”

“You think Michelle lied about that?”

“No. I’ve had several people tell me it’s true, but no one’s coughing up any names.”

“What about Kiku, who’s she?”

Galigani’s eyes flashed surprised, then amusement. “Why, Mrs. Connolly, don’t you know?”

I shrugged. “The supposed other woman?”

Galigani blinked up at me. “Maybe you should go talk to her.”

“Why would I—”

Galigani interrupted me by clearing his throat. I stared at him, silent. He tugged at his blanket. “I haven’t got around to telling Gloria Avery that I’m dropping the case.”

I continued to watch him, not daring to speak. He pressed the palms of his hands together and studied me.

After a moment I squeaked, “I can tell her.”

Galigani nodded his head slowly and smiled.

As Laurie and I drove to the Sea Cliff, one of the wealthi est neighborhoods in San Francisco, I daydreamed of Mrs. Avery hiring me as Galigani’s replacement. It could be my first official case. I could launch my own business, not have to return to my corporate nightmare, work from home, and be with Laurie.

I fantasized becoming so successful that I could be Mrs. Avery’s neighbor.

Then reality/insecurity hit me. Would I really be able to get her to pay me for being nosy? If I could get answers that perhaps the police couldn’t, that would be worth something to her, wouldn’t it? And how exactly was I going to do that?

I pulled up to the huge house. It was gorgeous, with spiraling towers, Spanish steps, and a manicured front lawn. I rang the bell, enjoying the view of the Golden Gate Bridge as I waited for Mrs. Avery to open the door. Instead, a small Hispanic woman in a maid’s uniform appeared.

“Hello, I’m Kate Connolly. Mr. Galigani sent me. Is Mrs. Avery in?”

“Ay, la Señora Avery, sí, sí.” She motioned me inside. “Que bonita,” she said, gesturing to Laurie.

“Gracias.” It was pretty much the only Spanish I remembered from my high school classes.

The maid ushered me from the entrance hall to the sitting room, made bright by three tall front windows from which I could see across the bay to the Marin Headlands.

She disappeared through French doors down the main entry hall, muttering “Un momento.”

I took the time to look around—high ceilings and a marble fireplace complemented by delicate ornamental plasterwork. The room was finished with Stickley furniture. Jim and I had stumbled into a high-end furniture shop a few months ago when decorating the nursery and had drooled over the Stickley pieces, only to gag at the price tags in the ten-thousand-dollar range.

Thank God I had dress pants on, even if they didn’t button all the way.

Laurie fussed in her car seat. I contemplated taking her out but then I imagined her spitting up on the furniture. I swayed back and forth with the bucket instead.

Prominently displayed on the wall was a photograph of an elegant older couple.

Brad’s parents?

On a side table was a wedding photo of Brad and Michelle. Beside that, a photo of Brad holding a little girl who looked to be about two years old.

Could that be Penny, the little girl who had drowned?

“Ms. Connolly?” Mrs. Avery asked from the doorway.

I turned quickly. Mrs. Avery was tall, at least six feet. She was thin and wore a canary yellow suit that paled her complexion. Her gray hair was fixed in a tight bun, her cheeks drawn. She crossed the room in two strides and extended a slender hand.

I gripped her cold fingers. “How do you do?”

“Not well, dear, as you can imagine. My only son is dead. Murdered!” Her eyes shifted off my face and caught sight of the car seat and a tiny Laurie blinking up at us. Mrs. Avery’s face softened. “Oh, my dear. Congratulations! A new mommy . . .” Her voice cracked and her face contorted as she pulled out a handkerchief.

My heart felt heavy as I imagined myself in Mrs. Avery’s canary-colored shoes. If anything bad happened to Laurie . . . my breath caught. I fought tears, but with