Diana Orgain - Motherhood Is Murder

Was it a scowl?

At the very least a frown. Maybe she was just wondering what I was doing there.

Others entered the church and were seated by the pallbearers. I watched for Evelyn, but she didn’t attend. Losing a member of her mothers’ club at this late stage of her pregnancy couldn’t be easy on her.

Wait.

What had Sara said? Something about Evelyn not being a part of Roo amp; You anymore. Why would she be on the cruise if she wasn’t a member of the group?

My thoughts were interrupted by the altar boys entering the church; the service was about to begin.

I spotted Helene’s husband, Bruce, in the first row next to an older couple. By his resemblance to the older man, I guessed the couple were his parents.

Where was Helene’s family? And their children? I didn’t see any small children at all. Could they be with her parents?

Bruce gave a moving eulogy about his and Helene’s dreams for the future. He described their first meeting and shared a story about their honeymoon. He seemed grieved and shocked by her death.

He didn’t mention any children.

Why?

After the service, the casket was carried to the hearse. A woman, with flawless olive-colored skin, handed me a card with directions to the cemetery and the reception at Bruce’s parents’ house. As I took the card from her, Margaret appeared next to me.

“Kate,” Margaret said, clutching at my elbow. “I’m so glad you made it.” Mascara filled the lines around her eyes. She dabbed at them furiously with a crumpled handkerchief, making them red and swollen.

The woman with the beautiful olive skin handed Margaret a card. “Do you need directions to the cemetery, Margaret?”

Margaret released her clutch from my elbow and fumbled for the card. “I don’t know.” She gestured to her husband, who was standing next to the circle of attendees surrounding Bruce. “I’m sure Alan knows the way, but I’ll take one just in case. Celia, have you met Kate Connolly?”

Celia appraised me with her dark eyes. “No.” She smiled a wide smile and stretched out her hand. “Celia Martin.”

I shook her hand. “Nice to meet you.”

Margaret resumed her clutch on my arm. “Kate is a private investigator.”

I felt myself flush inwardly. Could I really pass myself off as a PI?

Why did I ever give that PI card to Margaret?

Okay, I had somehow fumbled through a case a few weeks ago, but I didn’t even have a license.

And yet, the prideful side of me or the incredibly stupid side, if they are even different, found myself nodding and saying, “Yup”—like that was really going to convince anyone of my qualifications! “Yup”! Like an idiot! I didn’t say the proper word, “yes,” only “yup,” which rhymes with “pup,” which sounds like “schmuck”—how fitting.

Celia, nevertheless, seemed impressed. “Oh!” She gasped.

Margaret turned to me. “Celia’s a midwife. She delivered my second, Marcus.” Margaret’s eyes teared over again. Celia reached out and squeezed her hand.

Sara approached us. She squinted at me. Not quite a frown, but definitely something.

Maybe the chignon was too tight. It made her look so severe, so no-nonsense!

She embraced Margaret and the two wept.

Celia glanced at me, flashing a sad smile. She indicated the cards in her hand and excused herself. I glanced at my watch. I’d been out of the house almost two hours. I had fed Laurie before leaving but was now starting to feel the familiar burn in my breasts indicating feeding time was approaching.

I needed to leave now.

Margaret and Sara disentangled from each other. Sara gave me a curt nod. “Kate, I didn’t think you would be here. Thank you for coming.”

“You’re coming to the reception, aren’t you?” Margaret asked.

I glanced at my watch again.

“She probably needs to get back to her baby. Don’t you, Kate?” Sara asked.

Why so much disdain?

I felt a surge of rebellion. The answer of course, was “Yes, yup !” I needed to get back to Laurie—that is what any responsible mother would say. It is what any good mother would have said. Instead I found myself smiling and saying, “Well, she is with her dad and I think there’s even some milk reserve . . . I suppose it’s okay for me to be out just a little while longer.”

Margaret’s face visibly relaxed. “Oh, good. Good.”

Sara and I exchanged tight smiles.

Margaret’s husband, Alan, approached. He offered his arm to Margaret. “Shall we?”

Margaret nodded. Alan’s eyes raked me over. They had a glimmer of recognition, but it seemed he couldn’t quite place me.

“Kate Connolly,” I offered. “We met the other night on the dinner cruise.”

His eyes darkened and he looked at me as though I were some kind of stalker. “Of course.”

Right.

So now there were two people who didn’t want me around.

On my way out of the church, I noticed Inspector McNearny and Inspector Jones hovering around the back.

Homicide cops.

I had met both of them while working on my first case a few weeks ago. In fact, McNearny was a good friend of Galigani’s and through that friendship our tenuous meeting had turned a bit more friendly.

McNearny raised a hand to me and gave me a “ not now ” look .

Okay, maybe we weren’t that friendly.

He and Jones seemed to be trying to blend in with the crowd. They had positioned themselves near the exit and were pretending to be absorbed with the items posted on the church bulletin board.

Good Lord, didn’t they know that even plainclothes cops still looked like cops?

McNearny’s brown sport coat and no-nonsense shoes looked worn and at odds with this more affluent crowd. Jones’s blue suit was more compatible with the crowd, but his austere crew cut gave him that military look many San Francisco cops sport. Not to mention that both of them were as stiff and stilted as wooden chess pieces.

At least Jones smiled at me when I passed him.

What are they doing here? And why try to look undercover?

I noticed Celia, the midwife, watching me watching the cops. When we made eye contact, hers flicked over to McNearny. McNearny couldn’t even muster a rigid smile; instead he coughed into his hand, which caught Jones’s attention. They exited the church.

I glanced back at Celia. She shrugged then handed a card with directions to a pallbearer.

I left the church and crossed the Washington Square Park toward Columbus Street, where I had parked. It was blustery in the park and the trees swayed. I wrapped my scarf over my mouth and nose so as not to breathe in the cold air. As I approached Union Street, I saw McNearny and Jones go into Mario’s Bohemian Cigar Store Café.

Oh! Mario’s meatball sandwich and eggplant focaccia panini!

My mouth watered. I glanced at my watch.

Did I have time to stop in and grab a bite?

But then I’d have to talk to McNearny. Eating something grilled was completely different from being grilled.