Motherhood Is Murder

Kate,

Tail Celia, see if she leads you to Howard. Maybe he’s our guy.

G

I sat outside Celia’s center in Kenny’s van. Jim had agreed to watch Laurie for the afternoon and I was determined to find out one way or another if Celia was seeing Howard.

To kill time, I dialed Paula and recounted for her the swimming story. She was much more sympathetic to Laurie’s being blacklisted than Jim had been.

“Where are you now?” she asked.

“Outside the midwife center waiting for her to lead me to her lover, Howard.”

Paula laughed.

“What?”

“Is that guy, Howard, attractive?”

“Sort of. Irish guy, light-colored eyes, good bod, you know, construction and all. Why?”

“I guess I imagine her with a sexy Latin guy, like a

‘José,’ not a ‘Howard,’ but that’s probably because she’s Latin and from Miami.”

“She’s not from Miami, she’s from L.A.”

“Really? She told me she was from Miami,” Paula said.

Suddenly I recalled Margaret telling me that she met Celia in Miami, the same day the photo was taken of her family on the beach.

Why would Celia tell me she was from L.A.? Why lie? Or had it been inadvertent? Lots of people in the Bay Area were transplants, and when asked from where, they didn’t give a laundry list of all the places they’d ever lived.

That was probably it. She’d lived in L.A. before or after Miami, no matter.

Miami?

Why did that stick out in my mind?

I recalled the news item I’d read on Google, the missing expectant mom on her way to a midwife . . . in Miami.

“Paula, I need you to look something up for me.”

I gave her as much search criteria as I could to find the news story, then hung up, but before I released my phone, it rang.

“Kate! It’s Kenny, guess what?”

He sounded as though he’d won the lottery.

“The Opera called. The principal trombonist is sick. I get my chance to perform tonight!”

“That’s fantastic!” I said.

“I need my van. I’m sorry. I would take the streetcar, but all my gear is in the van.”

That would blow my stakeout.

“Oh. Hey, I have an idea,” I said. “Why don’t you go over to my place and get my keys from Jim. You can drive out here in my car and we’ll swap.”

“That works!” Kenny said cheerfully, ringing off.

The San Francisco Opera.

I was proud of him. He deserved it. What a good kid!

I imagined Laurie all grown up and playing in the San Francisco Opera.

What instrument would she play? Maybe the violin?

She did have long fingers. Perhaps the piano.

I put my cell phone away in my diaper purse and rummaged past Laurie’s puppy for a piece of gum. For fun I pressed the puppy’s ear and listened to Laurie’s recorded coos. I listened to the playback about a dozen times.

What in the world was I doing here?

This was ridiculous. I should be home with munchkin and Daddy.

A blue car turned the corner and rolled down the street past me. I strained to get a look at the driver. I watched in the rearview mirror as the car pulled up to the center doors. I was parked down the street, hoping I was far enough to be tucked out of view.

The center doors opened and Celia rushed out to the car.

Could it be Howard?

Come on, come on. I need a break here!

Celia helped the driver out. It was Evelyn! She was hunched over. Celia held her as she rocked back and forth.

Oh my gosh! Evelyn was in labor. She was going to have her baby!

After a few moments Evelyn stood straight up. Celia helped her to the center and looked down the block.

Had she seen the van?

Oh, well. Not like she’d be running off to see Howard now. May as well head home and knock some items off my to-do list.

Wait, Kenny was on his way here. I grabbed my phone to see if I could reach him. If I could catch him before he left, then I wouldn’t be stuck here waiting for him.

I dug around my bag for my phone. I dialed Kenny but got his voice mail. I started to text him when I heard a car start.

I looked in my rearview mirror and saw Evelyn’s car zooming toward me. Celia was driving.

Wait.

Where was she going in Evelyn’s car? What about Evelyn in labor? Maybe Celia was simply reparking the car.

I studied the spot where the car had been. It looked like a legal spot.

My phone rang in my hand. I glanced at the caller ID. Paula.

“Did you find anything?”

“I did!” She was breathless. “I found the story, and then I called the paper and spoke to the writer. She was able to look up the midwife’s name for me. Get this. Cecelia Martinez.”

CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO

Labor

Cecelia Martinez?

What did this mean? I knew her as Celia Martin—certainly that was an alias . . . or was it all a coincidence?

Wait! When I had been at the hospital, the nurse had called her Martinez. Yes! She’d said that.

“Kate. What do you know about that adoption she was arranging?” Paula asked.

My throat felt thick. It was difficult to breathe. “No. They can’t be related. The story in Miami is more than a couple years old, right? Bruce and Helene were going to adopt a newborn, Celia’s cousin’s baby. I saw Helene’s plane ticket from SFO to Costa Rica. There were notes about traveling with an infant.”

I recalled the moms at La Petite Grenouille this afternoon discussing plane travel. Children over two years old needed their own ticket.