Diana Orgain - Motherhood Is Murder

I knew I was slacking on that tummy time!

I sipped my latte. It was ice cold. “I don’t know. I don’t think so.”

Margaret’s eyes grew wide. “Oh,” she said, rounding her mouth and eyes in an exaggerated way.

Was Laurie supposed to be able to hold her head up ninety degrees?

“I mean, she lifts her head. She certainly lifts her head when we do tummy time.”

Margaret nodded sympathetically.

I tried to calm the defensiveness that was swelling inside me. Was my face red? I sipped the cold latte, ignoring the acid flavor. I needed the caffeine anyway.

“When are they supposed to be able to do that?” I asked.

Margaret glanced at her baby and fidgeted slightly. “I don’t really remember, but I thought it was around two months.”

“Well, Laurie’s not quite two months yet. She’s only seven weeks.”

Margaret smiled. “Of course, she’ll be holding her head up in no time. So anyway, I was in this class at the hospital and was becoming very friendly with Evelyn. Helene had the nice idea of forming a group. We would meet at each other’s houses and organize events and stuff. It worked really well for a while.”

“For a while? What happened?”

“I got pregnant again and my neighbor Sara did, too. We asked her to join our group. This may have been one of the things that set Evelyn off, I don’t know. But she seemed different. And we ended up having to ask her to leave the group.”

“Is that why there was so much tension with Evelyn on the cruise?”

Margaret looked at me and shrugged.

“What about the fight Evelyn said she overheard between Helene and Sara?”

“I don’t know anything about that. I asked Sara about it at the funeral, but she said Evelyn was exaggerating. Which, knowing Evelyn, is not at all surprising. I have to find out what happened to Helene. I need your help, Kate.” At this, her eyes filled with tears.

I handed her a napkin off the table. She dabbed at her eyes.

Here was my moment to tell her I didn’t have a license.

It’s nothing to be ashamed of—after all, it’s true. Say it, say it, say it.

“There’s something . . . uh . . . I want—”

“Kate, I have a semiconfession.”

I stopped stuttering and focused on Margaret.

“When I met you and you said you were a PI, I knew I needed to hire you.”

“Hire me for what?”

She sighed. “I’ve suspected for a long time that Alan’s been having an affair. He’s been coming home late and acting distant . . . and . . . well, really the list can go on and on. Point being, I thought I could hire you to follow him. And then maybe, finally, I’d have the truth . . . And . . . Oh God. I feel so guilty.” She broke down and sobbed.

Kenny looked over at us from his table. He made a little sad face showing sympathy then ducked his head again to fiddle with his iPod.

“What do you feel guilty about?” I asked.

“Kate.” She pressed a hand over her heart. “It’s all my fault. I’m scared that it’s my fault.”

“The affair?”

She shook her head vehemently. “Helene!”

“I’m not following you.”

Margaret glanced around the café to see if anyone was listening. At the moment, the only other patron was Kenny, who was vigorously tapping his foot to the beat from his iPod. The barista was refilling the pastry case with chocolate-covered croissants and miniature pumpkin pies. She looked about as interested in our conversation as going to the dentist.

Despite this, Margaret leaned over and whispered, “I think Alan was trying to kill me and instead killed Helene by accident.”

I fought to control my shock. “What? Why?” I asked. I was stunned by Margaret’s words. “You think your husband is trying to kill you?”

Margaret squeezed her eyes shut and nodded. She was still holding Laurie and subconsciously pulled her closer.

“Why do you think that?”

She uncrossed her legs, leaned forward in the chair, and recounted the evening for me. “While we were getting ready for the cruise, Alan and I kept bickering. Everything was going wrong. Remember we were late? I had confronted him about the affair—well, my suspicions about it, and of course, he denied it. But he got very angry, and even though he denied it . . . I know there’s something going on. He didn’t want to go on the cruise at all. But we never get any time alone together anymore so I forced the issue.”

She shrugged. “I guess I thought if I cooled my heels and just showed him we could have fun together that he would fall in love with me again.”

I listened to Margaret in silence. Kenny got up from his table and wiggled his fingers at me and then at the barista on his way out. The barista waved back at Kenny, then looked at our table to see if we needed her. When she noticed we seemed rooted to our chairs, she took off to the back room.

Margaret wiped her eyes. “We left the house, then Alan doubled back saying he forgot something. When I asked him what—he got very upset and started acting so strange—that I dropped it.”

“Just because he was mad at you doesn’t mean he was trying to kill you,” I said.

She put her hand to forehead and rubbed her temple. “There’s more. On the cruise we were at the bar—Helene, Bruce, Alan, and I.” She glanced around the café. “Alan bought the drinks, he grabbed mine from the bar, and I can’t remember exactly—but he seemed to hold on to it for a while, then he sort of made a big deal about which one was mine. Said mine was a double and made a stupid joke about me needing it to loosen up.”

I nodded and waited for her to continue.

“Then Sara and her husband came over and the men all started talking about investments or whatever. And Helene and I were chatting and, I don’t recall exactly, but we were messing around and I think we got our drinks mixed up. Remember she was so tipsy. I think she drank mine and I think Alan slipped something into it.”

“Do you think he went back to the house to get something to put into your drink?”

“He has a lot of prescription stuff at home. He’s a podiatrist M.D. and he has . . . well, never mind, let’s just say he has access to whatever he wants.”

“Margaret, have you spoken to the police?”

Her eyes widened. “Kate, please don’t tell anyone about the drug thing or, really, any of this!”

Why doesn’t she want me to say anything? That doesn’t make sense.

“If you think you’re in danger, you have to tell the police.”

“I called the ME’s office after I spoke with you yesterday. Well, after Alan left. He came home for lunch. Can you believe that? He never comes home for lunch. I think he’s trying to keep tabs on me or something—find out what I know. Anyway, after he left, I called the ME’s office and asked the things you asked me, you know, about broken bones or head trauma and stuff. I pried as much information as I could out of the assistant but she didn’t disclose much, just said they were waiting for the toxicology report and that she couldn’t release any more information. I asked her if it looked like murder and she said the office wasn’t calling it a homicide yet.”

“Then why were homicide cops at the funeral?”