Bundle of Trouble

Mom prattled on about her childbirth experience as I prepared for my first solo outing since Laurie’s birth.

I trudged up the steps to the medical examiner’s office and asked the receptionist, a girl with bleached blond hair pulled taut into a ponytail making her look no older than seventeen, if I could speak with Nick Dowling. I braced myself against the reception counter, out of breath and feeling a little light-headed from my walk. I had finally parked about three city blocks away at a thirty-minute meter. The receptionist gave me a sympathetic smile, dazzling me with teeth that must have been as bleached as her hair and indicated the waiting area. I sat, exhausted, as she went to get Dowling,

My jeans were straining at the seams. I had gambled on wearing a pair of nonmaternity jeans. No elastic waistband! I reasoned that the pair I had selected were stretch jeans and should fit fine. However, they were too binding, making me feel more bloated than ever. When was I supposed to get my figure back?

I glanced down at my protruding tummy, then worried that milk might leak through my blouse. I realized I hadn’t thought of Laurie in a few minutes, and my mind flashed on her little face. I felt ridiculous in the waiting room.

What was I doing here?

I should be home with Laurie.

I remembered when Jim and I first met and fell in love, five years ago. I would think about him night and day, and when I caught myself thinking of anything other than him, I was surprised by the feeling of guilt that flickered through me. Now, I felt the same way about Laurie.

Before I could turn around and leave, the door opened and in walked a tall, bearded man.

“Mrs. Connolly, I’m Nick Dowling,” he said, extending his hand.

His face was kind, with bright blue eyes that peered at me through dark lashes. I shook his hand.

“Follow me,” he said.

For an instant I hesitated, thinking he was going to bring me back into the morgue. I didn’t have the stomach to see any cadavers. Instead, he led me to his office.

A huge desk covered with scattered papers dominated the room. A phone, hidden under a stack of papers, rang. He ignored it as he crossed the office toward a box in the corner.

“Can you tell me who the body was?” I asked.

He scratched his head. “It was in the papers. Didn’t you read about it?”

“I just had a baby. I haven’t been doing a lot of reading lately.”

“Congratulations! This business must have come at an inopportune time. I’m glad it wasn’t your brother-in- law,” he said, his kind eyes shining. “Fellow by the name of Brad Avery. We were able to positively identify the body using dental records.” He opened the box and pulled out two duffel bags and a sleeping bag.

Was it true, then? Was he homeless? Where was he sleeping now?

Dowling helped me load the duffel bags one on each shoulder and then handed me the smelly sleeping bag.

I returned to the lobby, looking for the receptionist, hoping she might be able to help me carry George’s things. No receptionist in sight, just an elegantly dressed woman waiting at the desk. She glanced up at me lugging George’s bags.

I froze. It was Michelle Dupree, an old friend from high school, who had also been my rival in theater. I hadn’t seen her in ages.

She was dressed in gray gabardine pants with a button-down, pinstriped blouse. For as long as I had known her, she had always been fashionable, even in high school. We went to an all-girls private high school where we had to wear uniforms. Somehow, Michelle always looked better than the rest of us in them. She would wear the navy sweater around her neck, like Jackie O, or she would wear red shoes, which would have looked just plain silly on anyone else, but on her managed to be striking.

I glanced down at her feet. Some things don’t change. She wore bright purple suede boots. They looked fabulous. Me? Squeezed into jeans and tennis shoes, lugging George’s stinky stuff. Figures, I’d run into the fashion queen.

“Michelle Dupree?” I asked.

“Katie Donovan?” She matched my astonished tone. Then she grabbed me by the back of the neck and pulled me to her. George’s bags shuffled to the floor. She squeezed me a little too tightly, almost knocking the wind out of me.

“It’s Connolly now.” I hugged her back for a second, then tried to extract myself from her viselike grip.

“Right. Of course. You would be married, of course.” Michelle smiled somewhat sadly and released me. “With a ton of kids, I’m sure.”

“Actually, only one. She’s all of eight days old.”

Before Michelle could react, we were interrupted by the receptionist. “Thank you for waiting, Mrs. Avery. I need your signature here.” She handed Michelle paperwork to sign.

My breath caught. Mrs. Avery? Michelle signed, then handed the forms back to the receptionist who said, “I’ll be right back with your copies.”

Michelle put her hand to her temple and stared out the windows for a long moment. She took a deep breath. “I found out that. . my husband. .” Her mouth twitched. “They recovered his body in the bay.” She covered her eyes with her hands and sobbed.

“Oh, Michelle!” I put my arms around her. “How awful, awful, awful.”

“I came here so that they can release his remains to me. Can you imagine, Kate? He was only thirty-five.” Michelle wiped at her eyes with her fingertips.

I tsked. “So young.”

It could have been George.

It could have been any number of people I knew. I felt a sadness pull at me.

She gripped me, whispering, “Brad was murdered, Kate. He was shot and his body was discarded into the bay.” Her eyes darted back and forth across the lobby. “The police aren’t telling me much. I suppose they always suspect the wife but. .”

The receptionist returned. Michelle became silent, composed herself, then took the forms from the girl.

“Let me help you with your things,” Michelle said, grabbing one of George’s bags and heading toward the door.

From her tone, I understood she wanted to speak to me in private, and hey, I needed help with the bags, so how could I refuse?

We walked in silence toward my car. The wind had picked up, and despite the fact we were enjoying Indian summer, the best time of year in San Francisco, it was starting to get chilly.

I tried to process what Michelle had said. Her husband had been murdered? What were George’s things doing on that pier? Was he connected to the Averys?

At my car, Michelle dumped George’s bag into the trunk. One bag caught on the trunk latch, toppling over. A few T-shirts spilled out onto the street. Michelle and I bent to pick them up.

I had to lean on the car in order to get up. Maybe leaving the house hadn’t been such a good idea. I felt like I’d been hit by a bus.

“What were you doing at the medical examiner’s office?” she asked.

I stuffed the T-shirts into the bag.

What could I say? If Michelle was a suspect in her husband’s murder, wouldn’t George be a suspect also?

I slammed my trunk shut. “My brother-in-law’s bags were found on the pier where-”

“Brad was found. Yes, the police mentioned something about that,” she said, trying to keep her hair from flying into her face. “They think it’s totally unrelated and I’d like to keep it that way.”

“What?”

“The cops think it’s unrelated because George’s bags were found last week and Brad’s been missing since June.” She handed me a silver bracelet. “Here, this fell, too.”

Too tired to open the trunk again, I stuffed it into my pocket. “Do you know George? Did Brad?”

Michelle hesitated and looked around. The receptionist from the medical examiner’s office walked toward us,