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 to your pants?” McNearny asked.
I felt the back of my pants. They were torn around my hamstring. “I tore them when I fell off the planter,” I said, rubbing at the bruise I was sure was forming on the backside of my leg.
McNearny grunted, making no effort to conceal his skepticism. He scribbled something into his notebook, then indicated a pair of prescription glasses on the coffee table. “What about those glasses over there? Are they yours?”
“No.”
“Are they Michelle’s?” Jones asked.
My stomach churned. “I don’t know.”
McNearny made a note, then looked up at me. “I thought she was your friend.”
“She was my friend. I just hadn’t seen her for a long time. I don’t know if she wore glasses.”
The front door squeaked open and Nick Dowling, the medical examiner, poked his head through. “Got a call.” His eyes landed on Michelle. “I see I’m in the right place,” he said, nodding at McNearny and Jones.
McNearny and Jones nodded back. I tried my best to look inconspicuous.
Dowling spotted me. “Mrs. Connolly! Didn’t think I’d see you so soon.”
McNearny’s and Jones’s heads spun toward me so fast I was afraid they’d break their necks. I smiled despite gritted teeth and raised my eyebrows in acknowledgment to Dowling.
McNearny, Jones, and Dowling all exchanged glances, then McNearny barked, “Downtown!”
Jones crossed to me, while McNearny and Dowling huddled over Michelle.
“Mrs. Connolly, I know how upsetting all this can be,” Jones said. “Finding your friend and all. Maybe it’s best if you come downtown with me to the station. We’ll be more comfortable and I’ll be able to take your official statement.”
I froze.
Downtown?
“I . . . I have a newborn,” I stuttered. “I have to get home and feed her.”
Suddenly I felt nauseated. What had I gotten myself into?
Jones was expertly maneuvering me toward the front door. “A newborn? Really? I got a nine-month-old. Aren’t they great?”
McNearny instructed another officer to start dusting for fingerprints.
Jones pulled open the front door. The fresh air relieved my nausea, a bit. We walked in silence down the front steps.
Once on the curb, Jones gestured to a car parked nearby. “This your car?”
I shook my head and pointed to my Chevy Cavalier parked down the street.
“You want to follow me downtown?” he asked. “Or you want to ride with me?”
“I can drive myself?”
“Sure, no problem. You’re going voluntarily, right?”
Was I?
From the relative safety of my car, which I was happy to see had not been broken into again, I dialed home and instructed Mom to give Laurie a formula bottle.
The only good thing about my initially being rated “poor” at breastfeeding in the hospital was that, upon hearing this, Mom had immediately run out and bought formula. When I caught her smuggling it into my pantry, she had mumbled, “Just in case.”
Which I took to mean: “Just in case you’re too lame to get the hang of what every mother has been doing naturally since the beginning of time.”
Outwardly I was a little offended; inwardly I was relieved. Just in case I was too lame, there was no reason for Laurie to starve. Besides, you never know when you’re going to stumble across a dead friend and need your mom to feed the baby.
At the station, I was escorted by Jones to a small room with a mirror, a table, and a few chairs. On the table was a box of tissues, a couple of notepads, and a small recorder. Jones sat across from me and hooked a microphone into the recorder.
“Do I need a lawyer?” I asked nervously.
Jones smiled. “For what?”
I shrugged.
“Mrs. Connolly, you are not under arrest. I just want to get a statement from you. You want coffee or something?”
“No.”
“Water? Soda?”
“Water would be nice.”
Jones continued fussing with the recorder. A female officer appeared in the doorway with my water. I glanced from her to the mirror. Two-way mirror? Who else was watching me?
&n
bsp; “I need a few things from my desk, okay?” Jones said, “Drink the water. Relax. I’ll be back in a minute.” He left me alone in the room.
I drank my water and waited and waited. My breasts were starting to burn. I glanced at my watch. It was feeding time. I doubled-checked myself in the two-way mirror. Thankfully my breasts hadn’t leaked through my blouse; otherwise, I’d have given whoever it was on the other end quite a show.
At least half an hour passed before Jones returned empty-handed. Empty-handed but with McNearny by his side. He’d been buying time for McNearny to return.
Both officers seated themselves across from me, Jones smiling, McNearny scowling.
Jones leaned forward and said the date and time into the microphone. He mentioned all our names then looked up at me. “Mrs. Connolly, can you tell us the last time you saw Michelle Avery?”
“The day before yesterday.”
“Where was that?” Jones asked.
“At her house. She’d invited me for lunch.”
“Tell us about it,” Jones said.
I shrugged. “She was very upset. She was drinking. She drank a bottle of wine while I was there.”
“Was that unusual for her?” Jones asked.
“I don’t know. I thought so. A whole bottle? But, you know, you’re right, I hadn’t seen her in a long time. I have no idea what her drinking habits were.”
McNearny cleared his throat. “So, she was a drunk.”
“I’m not saying that. I don’t really know. I just know she was upset . . .”
Jones leaned in close to me. “So upset, you think maybe she could have killed herself?”
Before I could answer, McNearny said, “You got her suicide note in your purse or anything?”
“What?” I practically yelled. The anger that bubbled up inside me turned to tears. I plucked a tissue from the box on the table and wiped at my eyes. Jones bowed his head, giving me a moment to compose myself. McNearny simply watched me.
I blew my nose and crumbled the tissue in my hand. The adrenaline from finding Michelle dead had left my system and now all I felt was sadness, disbelief, and bone-deep weariness.
I sighed. “I really don’t think she killed herself.”
“Earlier, you said Mrs. Avery thought whoever killed her husband might come after her,” Jones said. “Did she give you any indication, any at all, about who she thought that was? Take your time.”
I shook my head.
“You said you hadn’t seen her in long time?” McNearny asked. “When was the previous time?”
“I hadn’t seen her until . . .”
How much should I say? Surely the medical examiner had told McNearny I’d retrieved George’s things.
They waited for me to answer, exchanging looks. Finally Jones prompted gently, “Until when?”
“Monday,” I said.
“I see.” Jones made a note.
There was a deafening silence in the room as they both consulted their respective notebooks. I licked my lips. I was parched again. Couldn’t they get me more water?
“Where did you see her?” McNearny asked.
Didn’t he already know the answer?
“I saw her at the medical examiner’s office.”
“Ah, yes. Mrs. Avery would have had to sign release papers,” McNearny said. “What were you doing there?”
If he didn’t already know, he could find out. Why mess with me like this? I sat back in my chair, crossed my feet, then uncrossed them.
Honesty would be best.
I fidgeted with my empty water cup, finally depositing the crumpled tissue inside it. “I was picking up my brother-in-law’s bags.”
Inspector McNearny flipped through his notebook. “Ah, brother-in-law. Would that be George Connolly?”
Jim had been right. Nothing good would come from meddling in George’s business. “Yes,” I mumbled.
“Interesting. Very interesting. Mrs. Avery said she didn’t know George Connolly.” He tapped his fingers on his notebook. “Do you know why she would say that?”
I felt a protective surge for George, Jim’s brother, Laurie’s uncle. Not to mention I was getting tired of McNearny’s attitude. “What makes you think they knew each other?” I challenged.
“Well, if he was your brother-in-law and you and she were friends . . .”
“I went to high school with Michelle. Before Monday, we hadn’t seen each other since . . .” When had been the last time I’d seen Michelle? “I don’t even remember when. Probably our reunion a few years back. It was a coincidence seeing her at the medical examiner’s office.”
McNearny frowned. “Was it?”
I nodded emphatically. “Um-hum.”
McNearny sucked some air between his teeth, sort of tsking at my response. “Now see? That’s where I have a problem.”
The weariness in my bones was slowly turning to dread.
Why not tell them everything I know?
But then, what did I know, really? Michelle had said George was with her the night Brad died. Therefore, George couldn’t have killed Brad. He couldn’t have, right?
Unless, Michelle and George were in on it together. Or he killed Brad after leaving Michelle. Who killed Michelle? Dread was overcoming me.
No! George is not a killer!
“I don’t believe in coincidences, Mrs. Connolly,” McNearny said.
Of course, neither did I. Normally anyway, but in this case I really really needed to believe. I blurted, “Sometimes things happen for no reason at all. An accident, a fluke, chance.”
“I had to release those bags to your family, because I couldn’t prove there was any 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 p
utting 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 herself comfortable on the couch. “I saw his profile. I already knew he worked at the pharmacy down the street, but that’s all I knew about him. I didn’t know if he was married or anything. When I saw him online, I thought, ‘Well, I’ll be. He’s single!’ So I winked at him. They have a little thing on the computer where you can ‘wink’ at someone. It sends them e-mail from you.”
I sat there, stunned. Jim and I had bought Mom a laptop for Christmas last year. Jim had shown her how to get online. I thought she used it only to read the newspaper.
“So, I winked at Hank,” Mom continued, “and he winked at me. We e-mailed for a while. Then we thought, ‘Well, this is plain silly, we’re both in the same neighborhood. ’ So he invited me out for a cocktail.”
I stared at her. “Mom, you don’t drink.”
“Well, once in a while . . . there’s nothing wrong with that,” she said defensively.
I laughed, realizing Mom was at it again, telling me a crazy story to take my mind off my problems. “I’m not judging you, Mom. Tell me more.”
“I would but you look terrible, Kate. Exhausted.”
“Not to mention I have spit-up on my blouse. Let me go change. I’ll be right back.”
Mom insisted on leaving so I could get some rest, but promised to fill me in on more Hank details later.
Laurie and I were sprawled on the floor, looking at a farm animals picture book. Mostly, I was looking at the book; Laurie was drooling.
“The cow says moo, moo,” I ad-libbed.
I heard the key in the front door and scrambled to my feet. I pulled the door open and grabbed Jim around the neck, squeezed him, and inhaled his scent. “Oh, honey, I’m so glad you’re home safe.”
“What’s wrong?”
“I found Michelle dead this morning.”
“Oh my God! Why didn’t you call me!”
“I knew you had that big presentation today and I didn’t want you to worry.”
I recounted the experience for him. When I told him I went into Michelle’s house, his eyes popped out of his skull as if he were on the verge of a heart attack.
“What if the killer was still in there?”
“I didn’t think of that. She was lying on the floor. What if she wasn’t dead?”
“You should have waited for the police or the paramedics or whatever. In your car. With the motor running.” He pulled me closer. “I’m glad you’re all right, honey. Promise me you won’t go around breaking into people’s houses, especially if there could be a murderer hiding out.”
“I didn’t break in. The door was open.”
He clutched me tighter. “And you can always call me, no matter what meeting I’m in.” His voice cracked.
I realized he was crying.
“Nothing’s going to happen to me,” I soothed, running my fingers through his hair.
“We need you, honey. Laurie and I need you.”
“Except I might collapse from exhaustion and/or starvation.”
Jim smiled, his face brightening a bit.
“Want to call El Paraiso, get delivery?” I asked.
Jim squinted at me. “Yeah. Call. I’ll open you some wine.”
“I’m not supposed to drink.”
He rose. “Exceptional circumstances call for exceptional measures. One glass won’t hurt you, or Laurie.”
Jim headed to the kitchen. My mouth began to water as I thought of a nice dinner and wine.
Wine?
Someone had drunk wine with Michelle. Her killer had to be someone she knew, since there was no sign of forced entry. She let someone in, had wine with whoever it was, and then that person had let themself out, leaving the door open for me.
I pictured George going over to Michelle’s and sipping chardonnay with her.
Wait a minute.
George preferred beer, like Jim. He’d probably consider white wine a “girlie” drink.
Could a woman have killed Michelle?
Brad’s affair! The other woman?
Why would Brad’s lover kill Michelle? If Brad wasn’t dead, then her motive would make sense. But with Brad gone, why kill Michelle?
I called after Jim, “Hey, Jim? Does George drink wine?”
Jim returned, a beer in one hand and a glass of merlot in the other. “I guess he does.”
“White wine?”
“Probably. I mean, I’m sure it’s not his favorite, but I imagine he’d drink it.”
There went that theory.
I dialed El Paraiso. “I’d like to order some food for delivery.”
The hostess promptly informed me that they didn’t deliver.
I looked up at Jim’s expectant face. “They don’t deliver.”
“I thought George was supposed to be the delivery guy?” He sighed. “What, did he quit already? Get fired?”
“She said they’ve never delivered.”
Jim’s face clouded, his mouth twisting with concern. “Why would Michelle tell you he worked there if he didn’t?”
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