Motherhood Is Murder

I turned on the bedside table lamp and cracked open The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigation. I read the section on research then climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway. In the office, I logged on to the computer and fumbled my way through a bit of background information on Bruce. I was able to review his personal website as a financial advisor and pull a credit report for him.

He had great credit, but that didn’t tell me much. I e-mailed Galigani and requested he help me with subscribing to one of the databases licensed PIs had access to.

For lack of anything better to do, I googled “Celia Martin midwife”—a gazillion things came up but nothing of value. I clicked through several articles on midwives and the benefits of home births. I read a disturbing account of a pregnant woman in Miami who had disappeared on her way to a natural child birthing center. Her husband was deployed in the military. The woman was on her own to have the baby and had selected a midwife to assist. Only she’d never made it to the center. One of her neighbors had reported seeing her leave the house in labor and had offered to drive her. She’d declined, telling him it was the early stages of labor and she was not having regular contractions.

The authorities suspected she’d gone into active labor while driving and had an accident. Although when the car was finally recovered, months later, there was no evidence of the mother or baby.

The midwife wasn’t named, but Celia had told me she was from L.A., so while it had nothing to do with the case I was working on, the story nevertheless upset me.

Must be the hormones!

Tears ran down my face as I thought of the demise of this military wife and soon to be mother, not to mention the loss of the innocent life inside her.

I refined the search to “Celia Martin midwife Los Angeles,” but no direct links came up.

I went to bed dejected.

The following morning I was sitting on the couch reading the PI book when Mom rang my doorbell. I opened the door to find her dressed in a poncho and mariachi hat. On her feet were bright red Converse high-tops and in one hand she held a plastic bag.

“I thought you got in last night.” I motioned for her to come into the house.

She looked confused. “I did.”

“Then why are you still dressed like that?”

Mom laughed. “The poncho and hat are for Jim and this is for you and Laurie.” She handed me the plastic bag.

I peeked inside. A matching pair of red Converse and a set of maracas.

“The shoes are for you and the maracas for Laurie. Where is she?”

“Why did you get me Converse?”

“Because they’re comfortable. Look at this!” She ran in place. “My bunions were killing me on the cruise. I could barely walk, but then I found these in a two-for sale.”

“Two-for?”

“Two for one! I thought of you!”

I kissed her. “Thanks, Mom.”

Mom looked offended. “Why do you say it like that?” “Like what? All I said was thanks!”

“You’re not going to wear them, are you?”

“Well, I don’t normally wear Converse. They’re for teenagers. Boy teenagers.”

Maybe I’d give them to Kenny.

“That’s not true,” Mom said.

“I’ll try them on.” I sat on the couch and kicked off my house slippers. “Thank you for getting Galigani to sponsor me,” I said, lacing up the left shoe.

Mom nodded and took off the hat and poncho, then proceeded to place the items on my dining room table. “Coffee?” she asked.

“In the kitchen.” I laced up the shoe.

Hmmm. It was comfortable.

“Where are Jim and Laurie?” Mom called as she disappeared to the kitchen.

“Jim went for a run. Laurie’s in the nursery.”

Mom reappeared in the living room and placed her cup on the coffee table. She grabbed the maracas and headed to the nursery singing a goofy made-up song and shaking the maracas like crazy.

“Mom, you’re going to wake her.”

I heard Laurie let out a loud scream that escalated to a pitch that could break crystal. I ran into the nursery with my Converse on my feet.

Hey, I ran fast in these shoes.

Mom had Laurie in her arms. “I don’t know why she doesn’t like the maracas. She’s going to be just like her mommy—difficult to shop for.”

We decided to bathe Laurie as I filled Mom in on the last few days. I told her about Celia being hospitalized but left out the part about me and Laurie.

As I put warm water in the baby tub, Mom undressed Laurie. She placed her in the tub and poured a few cupfuls of water over her. Laurie cooed from pure enjoyment. I pulled out the Magic Moments cradle cap cream.

Mom frowned. “What’s that?”

“It’s special cream so she doesn’t get cradle cap.”

Mom examined Laurie’s head. “She doesn’t have cradle cap.”

“I know. I’ve been using this stuff. Smell.” I stuck the bottle under Mom’s nose.

Mom crinkled her nose. “You don’t need special cream, just use soap and water. That’s what I did with you and your brother.”

“That’s because they didn’t have Magic Moments when I was a baby,” I taunted her.

“How much did you pay for that?”

“Too much probably, and it wasn’t a two-for sale,” I said.

Mom laughed at me. “You were had!”

The phone rang, interrupting us. I left Mom to bathe Laurie and answered the call.

“Kate? This is Mandy from Gary Barramendi’s office.”

I snapped to attention. “Yes! Hi. Um, uh . . . I mean, hello!”

“Gary would like the daily report. I’ll transfer you now.”

Daily report?

Oh no! I had forgotten. What was I supposed to tell him?

I cleared my throat, hoping to sound professional and not like I’d just been bathing my infant and arguing with my mother.

“Good morning, Mrs. Connolly. Any news?” Gary asked.

“Good morning.” Good, my voice sounded fine—intelligent even! “Yes. I interviewed Celia yesterday.”

There! I did have something to report!

“Interview? I thought you were going to stake her out.”

Shoot!

“Uh . . .”

“Anything relevant?” he probed.

What could I tell him about? The stakeout and interview had been a complete dud?

Before I could think of an answer, Gary said, “That’s my other line, I have to take it. I’ll look forward to reading the transcript.”

“Transcript?” I squawked.