Motherhood Is Murder

She is not in the Dumpster!

A crackling sound emanated from some nearby bushes.

A mouse?

A squirrel?

A murderer hiding out?

I swallowed past the fear that was building inside me. Why had I come here alone? I should call McNearny, just dial him now. Who cared if I looked like a fool?

Instead, I pressed my car keychain?s automatic horn alarm. The car lights went on and the horn blasted alternately. With all the noise, I couldn?t tell if the scurrying crackling sounds from the bushes had ceased. I pressed the alarm button again to stop it.

The bushes were silent.

But what did that prove? If someone was hiding out, wouldn?t they be quiet now that I?d just blasted my horn?

Suddenly a light went on in the house.

Someone was inside.

I rushed up the walkway away from the bushes.

Wait.

What if it was an intruder?

I froze.

Maybe I should get into my car and call the police.

Nervous and not sure what to do, I spun around on my heel as the front door swung open and the porch light flooded the stoop. Margaret stood before me, her hair a tangled mess. She wore an oversized white button-down oxford shirt and black and white pants in what can only be described as a cow pattern. Nevertheless, probably because she was tall and thin, the ridiculous pants seemed to work on her.

?Kate! Oh! I didn?t realize it was you. I thought maybe it was Alan and I didn?t want to get the door. Then I heard the car alarm . . . is everything all right??

I was standing with both hands clasped over my wildly beating heart, fearing it might pop out of my chest as in a silly cartoon. ?Margaret! Thank God you?re okay! Why haven?t you returned my calls??

?Come in.? She stepped aside and let me enter the enormous family room.

The room was dark with a cathedral-style ceiling, exposed beams, and glossy hardwood floors. Margaret turned on a small side table lamp. The decor was casual with a wide-screen television that hung from the main wall and some bean bag chairs thrown across the floor.

She motioned for me to take a seat in a brown leather wing-back chair that faced the bean bags.

?Have you been calling me?? she asked. ?I thought I left you a voice mail on . . . oh, the other day . . . when was it?? She scratched her head. ?I don?t know. Sorry, I?ve been kind of out of it. Have you learned anything?? she asked.

I semicollapsed into the chair, hoping my heart would slow down. ?Margaret, what happened to the window? I was worried sick about you!?

She glanced at the front door. ?Oh. My two-year-old threw his baseball into it.?

Well, at least that was one mystery solved.

I leaned forward in my chair. ?Can you tell me where you were on the fifteenth??

She sank into one of the bean bags. ?What??

?Last Tuesday the fifteenth. Do you remember? That was the day Celia and I ended up in the hospital. Can you tell me where you were?? ?

?I?m sorry I didn?t visit you.? She folded her skinny spider legs under her. ?So much is going on here. My mom took the boys to dinner at Chuck E. Cheese tonight, just to give me a little breathing room. Since leaving Alan, I?ve been . . .? She waved her hand around and appeared distracted.

I must have woken her. She seemed out of it. That or . . .

Was she using again?

?Did you go to Bruce?s house that day??

?No.? She looked thoughtful as she ran her hands through her hair, trying to smooth over the tangles. ?I don?t think so. The fifteenth was the day I left Alan. It?s the day I came here.?

?Can you retrace your steps for me??

?I think so, why??

?It?s important. Please.?

She scratched at the nape of her neck, then smoothed down her hair. ?Let?s see. I went grocery shopping. The nanny came to watch the boys and help me pack. Then I came here.?

?Did you see Celia that day??

Margaret?s expression changed.