Her growing puzzlement was obvious. Why are these three women here? They may be saintlike in their ability to ease my pain, but why in the heck are they in my bathroom?
I gave her what I hoped was a reassuring smile. “My name is Beth Kennedy. I own the Children’s Bookshelf.”
“Oh. Sure. You hired Yvonne.” She gave a very small nod. When in the throes of morning sickness, quick movements were not a good idea. “Nice to meet you.”
A giggle tried to escape, but I caught it and sent it away. “I want to thank you,” I said, “for helping Yvonne transition back into . . . into civilian life.”
“You’re welcome.” She smiled faintly. “I’ve been involved with Innocent Behind Bars for years. It was wonderful to help someone personally.”
“How wonderful?” I asked.
“Um . . .” She shifted the cloths. “Well, very, I guess. How do you mean?”
“What if Yvonne’s job was in jeopardy? What if she wasn’t sure she’d be able to make it in Rynwood? Able to make it anywhere?” I was laying it on a little thick, but sometimes exaggeration is the best way to get a point across. It was a technique I’d learned from my best friend.
Frowning, Violet looked from me to Yvonne to Marina and back around again. “What’s wrong?”
“A very vocal group is boycotting the bookstore,” I said. “Picketing. Their signs say the town won’t be safe until Sam’s killer is brought to justice. Worse, they imply that a killer works at the store. We haven’t had a customer in days.”
“Oh, no.” Violet looked stricken. “It’s been a week since I’ve left the house. I had no idea.” She turned to look at Yvonne, wincing at the motion. “Is there anything I can do?”
“Help us put Sam Helmstetter’s killer in jail,” I said. “Once he’s put away, the boycott will disappear.” The memories would linger, but I wasn’t going to think about that.
“But I don’t know anything about Sam’s death.” She was clearly bewildered.
I leaned closer and lowered my voice. “You might know more than you think. I spent some time at Stull Systems. The temp, Devon, was very helpful.” I lifted my eyebrows. “It’s interesting that none of the phone calls are logged into a computer. Did you work out that system, or did Eric Stull set it up that way?”
“Ooohh, nooo.” Violet’s face went a shade paler. I helped her up to a kneeling position. She grabbed the porcelain rim and hauled herself close. “I hate this I hate this I will never have another child why did I ever want a baby why”—she paused to take a heaving, gasping breath—“why does this happen why does anything happen? Ooooo . . .”
The three of us averted our eyes and tried not to hear the next event.
Wordlessly, Marina scooped the lukewarm dishcloths off the floor and rinsed them with cool water. I took them from her, went down on my knees next to Violet, and held them against her forehead. “What’s going on at Stull?” I asked. “There’s something wrong there, and I want to know what it is.”
She shook her head, then went even paler. “I’m going to be sick again.” She leaned over the toilet bowl and retched.
No morning sickness should be this bad. Holding her hair back, I looked up at my co-Musketeers, who were edging away. “I don’t suppose either one of you knows the name of her doctor?” Marina and Yvonne shook their heads. “Go find it,” I ordered. “Look for appointment cards. Kitchen calendar. The refrigerator. A desk. Look in her purse if you have to.”
They shot out the door, leaving me to wipe Violet’s forehead and murmur words of kind sympathy. “It’ll be all right,” I said. “We’ll take care of you.”
“No,” she moaned. “It’s a secret. Can’t tell, promised I’d never tell. Ten years and I haven’t told. It’s Eric’s secret, I can’t tell, I can’t—”
She moaned again. “So sorry. Sorry, sorry, sorry.”
“I know.” I put my arms around her quivering shoulders, and the two of us rocked back and forth. “I know you’re sorry. It’s okay.”
“Got it!” Yvonne appeared in the doorway, waving a business card. “Marina’s on the phone right now.”
Ten minutes later we were buckling Violet into the backseat of Marina’s van and I was calling Violet’s husband, reassuring him that his wife was fine, telling him that he should meet us at the doctor’s office. I clicked off my cell phone and clambered into the front passenger seat.
“You did it again,” Marina said.
“Did what?”
But she only chuckled and drove us away.
Chapter 17
“Mom? Earth to Mom. Hello?”
It was bad enough when Jenna said that, but now Oliver was picking it up. I’d long ago decided that forbidding them from using the phrase wasn’t a battle worth fighting, so I wrenched myself away from the theory that Violet became an Innocent Behind Bars volunteer to compensate for the secret she was keeping and smiled at my son. “Yes, dear?”
He looked at the waiter, who was poised, pen in hand. “He asked what you want.”
“Twice,” Jenna said.
I glanced at Evan, who was trying not to smile. “Sorry,” I said to the waiter.
“No problem, ma’am. Would you like me to repeat tonight’s specials?”
Evan chuckled and I repressed an urge to kick him under the table. The linen tablecloth would hide most of the movement, but Jenna’s legs were getting long enough to be anywhere at any given moment, and I didn’t want to hit the wrong person. “No, thank you,” I told the waiter. “The trout will be fine. Rice instead of potato, please, and low-fat Italian dressing on the salad. Thank you.”
I watched as Jenna ordered a steak, baked potato with sour cream, salad with ranch dressing, and nodded approvingly when she ended her order with a please and thank you. Oliver stumbled over the almandine part of his trout request, but sailed easily into a switch from potato to French fries and got a smile from the waiter when he requested “bluey cheese crumbles” on his salad. After Evan ordered his meal and we handed over the menus, the kids leaned toward me.
“Did I do it right?” Oliver whispered.
“You did fine.”
“Maybe I shouldn’t have asked for sour cream,” Jenna said in a low voice. “I don’t want to get fat.”
Evan opened his mouth, but I jumped in first. “Honey, do you trust me?”
She gave me a look. “Most of the time.”
“No, way down in your stomach”—I pointed at my own—“do you trust me? Do you believe that I want you to grow up strong and smart and fast? Do you believe that I’ll do whatever I can to make sure you’re the best goalie ever?”
“I guess so.”
“Then believe me when I say you can have all the sour cream you want.”
Her smile wiped all anxiety from her face. “Okay. Thanks, Mom.”
I wanted to pull her close and give her a hard mothering hug, but the restaurant’s ambiance didn’t encourage such behavior. Instead I gave her a warm mom smile. “You’re very welcome.”
The waiter came by with crayons and heavy pieces of blank white paper for the kids. Jenna curled her lip briefly at such childish things, but when Oliver called for the blue crayon, she called for the red, and they were off.
“So I hear you took Violet Demps to the doctor the other day,” Evan said.
“Um . . . that’s right. We did.” There were two reasons I hadn’t told Evan about the incident. Number one, he’d have asked why I was there in the first place. Number two, he’d ask why I was there in the first place. “Beth,”
