Motherhood Is Murder

Once in my car, I dialed Jim from my cell phone.

“How are you holding up?” I asked.

“Me? Great! Are you on your way home?”

“No. I’m going to the cemetery. How is Laurie?”

“She’s asleep in her bouncy chair.”

Hmmm. Why was babysitting so easy for him?

“Have you fed her?”

“She’s been asleep the entire time.”

I recalled the lint I’d found between her fingers the other day. “When she wakes up, give her a bath and then feed her. I left some milk for her in the fridge.”

“A bath?”

“Yeah.”

“What do you mean, in our tub?”

“No, come on. In her little baby tub. You know how to set up it, right? You need to snap in that green meshy net thing to hold her.”

Silence. Followed by a low “hmmm.”

Visions of him bathing Laurie flashed through my mind. I saw him either scalding her or getting distracted and leaving her alone in the tub, or not putting the net thing in right so she slipped under the water, or getting soap in her eyes, or—

“Never mind. I’ll give her a bath when I get home.”

“Okay,” Jim said cheerfully.

No wonder babysitting was so easy for him.

I followed the procession to the cemetery, which was a short drive out of San Francisco. My stomach rumbled and I regretted not buying the panini at Mario’s.

I would probably dream about meatballs and focaccia tonight. Certainly, there would be food at the reception, but probably not like Mario’s.

What kind of coldhearted person was I?

Thinking of food instead of Helene?

I quickly felt remorse as the procession arrived at the cemetery. At the grave site, the wind was unrelenting, whipping us around as though we were rag dolls. As Helene was lowered into the ground, I glanced over those assembled. No sign of McNearny or Jones. The crowd from church had significantly dwindled and I felt even more conspicuous.

Celia stood next to me during the short ceremony, giving me some comfort as she looked like she felt out of place also.

The priest announced the reception at Bruce’s parents’ house in Hillsborough. The November wind pushed its way between my hair, and up my sleeves, still managing to make me feel cold despite my winter jacket. I pulled my scarf over my ears and tucked my face into the collar of my coat.

We all quietly trailed up the hillside. Despite my efforts to keep up with the crowd, I seemed to be at the tail end of the pack behind all the other mourners. It wasn’t such a big hill. How out of shape was I?

Beeps and lights filled the air as the drivers unlocked their cars from a distance.

“Kate!”

I turned to see Celia rushing toward me. I stopped to wait for her.

“Can I get a ride with you?” she asked. “I came with Margaret and Alan. But I think they already left.”

“Sure.” I was happy to have the company. She could direct me to Bruce’s parents’ place, and more important, I might be able to glean some information about Helene from her.

We climbed into my Chevy and buckled ourselves in. Celia held the directions in her lap.

I started the car and headed toward the freeway. There was an awkward silence between us. I reached for the radio dial but decided against it. “Were you close to Helene?” I asked.

Celia rocked back and forth. “We were getting close . . . Margaret and Helene were inseparable, so I saw her every time Margaret had a checkup.”

I shook my head. “This is all so terrible, so sudden.”

“Do you know what happened? You were on that dinner cruise, weren’t you?”

“Yes, but all they really told us was that she fell down some stairs and was unconscious. Then the police showed up and took statements. That’s all I know.”

“Those men at the funeral. They were cops, weren’t they?” Celia asked.

I nodded.

Celia lowered her eyes. “I thought Margaret said it was an accident. “

An accident?

Why would homicide attend the funeral if they thought it was an accident?

That had to be wrong.

Obviously, Celia was thinking the same thing because she said, “Why would the police come to her funeral?”

“I don’t know,” I admitted.

I felt her eyes on me.

I changed topics. “Were you Helene’s midwife?”

She looked at me curiously. “No. Helene didn’t have any children.”

No children?

“I thought she founded the mommy group with Margaret,” I said.

“Did she?” Celia shrugged. “I guess she was very anxious to be a part of the group. I think she really wanted to get pregnant, but well, we don’t always get what we want, huh?”

That made no sense. Why hang out with a mommy group if you weren’t one?

I had grieved for children who I thought lost their mother last night. Turned out I was wrong.

“What about her family? Parents? Siblings?”

“I think her parents passed away a while ago. I don’t know. I don’t think she had any siblings either. Maybe that’s why she wanted to have kids so bad. It’s hard not to have a family.” Celia indicated an exit from the freeway. “That’s our exit.”

We pulled up to Bruce’s parents’ estate in Hillsborough, a beautiful wooded community just south of San Francisco. As I parked, Margaret emerged from the house. She rushed down the pebbled path toward my car and appeared at my driver side window.

“Oh my goodness! I’m so glad you have Celia! I wasn’t thinking back there, Celia. I didn’t mean to leave you,” Margaret said.

Celia flashed a brilliant smile. “No worries. Kate was kind enough to give me a lift.”

“I’ll take you home. I promise,” Margaret said.

We climbed out of the car and walked in unison on the path toward the house, then single-filed into the grand entrance. Approximately thirty people mingled about the living room. It was a catered affair—no meatball sandwiches, but still a nice layout.

Celia made her way to a table that was doubling as a bar and spoke with the man serving wine.

Margaret joined her husband and Sara in a corner of the room. The three quietly balanced their plates and picked sparingly at their food.

Witnessing their grief made my appetite vanish.

I spotted Helene’s husband, Bruce, hovering near the back door looking like he wanted to escape. His head hung a bit and his shoulders slumped, emanating a deep sadness.

I joined him at the doorway. “Bruce, I am so sorry for your loss.”

He studied me a moment, his eyes penetrating and dark, then looked out the window of the back door at the garden. I followed his gaze and watched as the wind bent branches on the willow tree in the garden.