Desperate for Death (A Kelly O'Connell Mystery Book 6) Page 2

  “Okay. I call electrician, floor people, painters today. Structure looks sound to me. You have to figure cost of furniture. Go out there tonight and see what you can save.”

  That sounded depressing to me, and I sighed again.

  He left, slamming the door in his lasting anger at whoever set the fire, and I sat there a bit puzzling over who that could be and why they did it. No answers popped into my mind, and a little before three, I left to go get the girls.

  ****

  Mike was solicitous that night. Was I sure I felt all right? I assured him I did, and I was hungry. He baked potatoes, giving them a jump-start in the microwave, and fixed all kinds of toppings, including some chili from the freezer, which he seriously advised me not to eat. Of course, chili was the one thing I immediately wanted on my potato.

  The girls asked about the guesthouse, and I told them Anthony was getting estimates. “He says it’s major, and it will take a long time. Told me to go out there tonight and see what furniture I thought was salvageable.”

  “Ugh,” Maggie said. “I don’t want to go out there. It stinks for one thing.”

  “Me, neither,” Em echoed.

  I wished she wouldn’t follow Maggie’s lead in everything.

  “We’ll do it together, while the girls do the dishes and clean the kitchen,” Mike said. “Want a jacket from the closet?”

  “Yes, please.”

  The girls moaned and exchanged looks.

  Mike brought a jacket, one for himself, and a super-duty flashlight. I noticed on the way to the guesthouse, he held my arm carefully, as though I was fragile. Immediately my mind flashed to the question: Does he know?

  The damage was worse than I’d expected. Anthony was so right—not much if anything was salvageable. The dishes that Mrs. Hunt, the former owner, had so carefully chosen could be washed, but her lovely yellow curtains couldn’t be saved. Nor as far as I could tell was any of the furniture worth restoring, though Mike claimed he or Anthony could refinish the wood desk and bookcase, both old pieces left by the Hunts. My job for the next day was to price what we’d need for replacements—a bed, chairs, appliances. The linens in the small closet were ruined and would have to be replaced. We went inside and made a list. I didn’t tell Mike I had an important appointment in the morning and couldn’t work on this, but I did say, “I don’t think I can whip this together quickly.”

  He covered my hand with his and said, “It’s okay, sweetheart. It doesn’t have to be done right away. Just call Dave Summers and let him know it’s coming, you’re collecting the fire report, Anthony’s estimate, and your own.”

  I managed a small smile. “We haven’t called Dave in so long, he probably has forgotten us. I hope he doesn’t think this will start another string of claims like we had when gangers vandalized my renovation project and my old house.”

  “He won’t. But it’s a good thing there’s been a lapse of time.”

  I thought he had forgotten his inquisition about the fire and possible suspects, but when the girls were asleep and we went upstairs to our new hideaway master bedroom, he began again, though I gave him credit for trying to be subtle.

  “Sweetheart, have you thought any more about who might have set the fire?”

  I was ready. “No, have you thought about any of your cases? People you might have convicted, someone who is out on parole…or just plain out?”

  Mike looked startled. “I’m sure it doesn’t have anything to do with me. The people I come in conflict with don’t know where we live, and we have an unlisted phone.

  I gave him a long look. “And how hard would it be for someone on the wrong side of the law to find out where you live?”

  He threw his hands up. “Okay, not hard at all. But I’m sure it’s someone you tangled with in your so-called adventures. Call it instinct.” He actually smirked at me.

  Mike and I had an ongoing disagreement about facts versus instinct, and of course I was on the instinct side. Most of the time I’d been proven right, and he sometimes pouted. Lately he’d used instinct to twit at me.

  I changed the subject. “I’ve had a lot on my mind, lately. I’ll put Keisha on it in the morning. I have a nine o’clock appointment, so I should be in the office by ten.”

  “Keisha and her sixth sense?” he asked, his eyes laughing.

  Mike never believed in her sixth sense, but it had saved me a couple of times, and he was slowly coming around.

  As usual, Mike was sound asleep the minute he hit the bed, but my mind was on my appointment with Sherrie Goodwin the next morning. I wasn’t sure why I hadn’t told Mike about the looming change possible in our lives, but what if it was a false alarm? I’d see how I felt in the morning. One hand, almost of its own volition, reached for the crackers to be sure they were there. The other hand began to stroke Mike’s back.

  ****

  About three in the morning, Mike jumped out of bed, asking, “Did you hear that?”

  “No,” I said sleepily. “And neither did Gus. He’s still asleep.” The dog lay on the foot of the bed, snoring comfortingly. When Mike began to move around noisily, Gus raised his head in disapproval as if to ask, “Why are you making such a ruckus?”

  I couldn’t talk him into sense so Mike got dressed and went downstairs. I heard him turn off the alarm and gently open the front door. What was my wifely duty? To get the gun he insisted I have and go down as backup? Since I really hadn’t heard anything—and I’m a light sleeper—I decided my duty was to stay safely in bed.

  He was probably gone ten minutes when he came back upstairs and muttered sheepishly, “I didn’t see anything. Nothing appears disturbed.”

  “Tires still have air in them?” I asked.

  “Yes. And don’t be sarcastic. I think that fire has me on edge.”

  I wanted to tell him then that he should find out who did it and stop shoving that responsibility off on me. After all, wasn’t he the one who kept telling me to stay out of police business?

  Chapter Two

  Next morning after dropping the girls off, I stopped at the Grill for a cup of coffee and drank it slowly, staring out the window. Peter came by to refill my cup and said, “You’re looking thoughtful this morning, Kelly.”

  “Just puzzling some things out in my mind, Peter. No more coffee, thanks.”

  By five minutes to nine, I was at the doctor’s office. I didn’t have to wait long before I was ushered into an examining room. The nurse practitioner, who introduced herself as Sally Buxton, did all those preliminaries and asked what brought me in. Mrs. Buxton wore large scrubs—she was a large woman—and had her hair pulled back in a plain style and no makeup. Clearly, she wasn’t out to impress anyone. Her attitude was businesslike but also sympathetic. Yet, I thought for a moment she flashed a grin when I said I’d been feeling sick. I wasn’t sure, but she was maybe fifteen years older than me, solid of build, the kind who hovers over you, taking an interest in every detail of your life, and I found myself telling her about Mike and the girls and the office and Keisha.

  Dr. Goodwin, who had by now become almost a friend, was businesslike and impersonal. “Time for your annual pap, so let’s see what’s going on.” She examined me thoroughly, then stripped off her gloves and said, “Kelly O’Connell, I’d say you’re about eight weeks pregnant.”

  There it was. The words I knew deep down I’d hear. I couldn’t tell if I should smile or sob, didn’t know which I wanted to do. “Really?”

  “Really. Is this a surprise?”

  “Yes,” I whispered. “I guess it’s good news, but it…well, I hadn’t planned my life around this possibility.”

  “How old are the girls now?” she asked.

  “Fourteen and eleven.”

  “I can see this will be a huge change in your lives. And you’re, let’s see”—she flipped through the chart—“thirty-eight. Not quite an at-risk patient, but we’ll watch you closely. I’ve got a list of instructions, but you’ve done this before. You know what to do. No
alcohol, lots of exercise, watch the weight gain but don’t starve yourself.”

  The familiar advice seemed to smother me.

  “Gather yourself together, get dressed, and we’ll talk,” Sherrie Goodwin said, leaving the room.

  Slowly I put my clothes back on, stopping to rub my belly in that age-old gesture of comforting the little one inside. I took extra care with my hair and repairing my make-up, such as it was, and then I sat for a long time in that straight, uncomfortable chair that is found in all examining rooms. My mind rolled around the to-do list I now faced—mostly telling people. Eight weeks was early—I’d always held my breath until twelve weeks, knowing that miscarriage was a possibility. I supposed even more so at my age.

  But I couldn’t, wouldn’t, didn’t want to hide this from Mike…or the girls. And once they knew, the cat was out of the bag. Keisha would know, probably already knew from the way she’d been talking. And my mom—I was sure Cynthia O’Connell would be embarrassed by her daughter’s wanton behavior. Anthony would say, “Children are God’s gift. God is good.” I could hear them all in my head. Claire, who’d had a life of trial with husbands and children and was now my best friend, after a rocky start, would understand my joy mixed with qualms.

  Dr. Goodwin didn’t come back in herself but sent Mrs. Buxton, who apologized that Dr. Goodwin had gotten caught up with a semi-emergency with a patient. I wondered what a semi-emergency was but didn’t really mind. “Ms. O’Connell, I can imagine this is a big surprise. But we’ll support you every way we can. And you don’t need that lecture about the blessings of a second family. You’ll find that out for yourself. Here’s a list of vitamins we recommend, plus an over-the-counter medication that should help with morning sickness.”

  She watched me for a minute, as I glanced at the paperwork, and then she asked, “Any questions?”

  I shook my head, and she said, “Good. I’ll probably be the one to see you most of the time, so here’s my card. Call if you have questions or get worried. I’m looking forward to going through this pregnancy with you.”

  Actually I felt reassured by her attitude and what I perceived as her capability. I left, making my next appointment for a month later as instructed.

  As soon as I was in the car, I called Mike. “Meet me for lunch at Lili’s?”

  He chuckled. “Sure, what’s the occasion? We usually have lunch at the Grill or Mona’s Bun Appetit.”

  “This is a special occasion,” I said. “See you there about 11:15, before it gets crowded?”

  “You got it,” and he hung up.

  I went to the office, where Keisha eyed me sidewise and asked, “You sell a house this morning?”

  “Not quite,” I said. Then, in a rush, “I’ve got a couple good prospects.” I’d been thinking about both enlarging the scope of my agency and transferring more responsibility to Keisha. Somehow, in those wakeful nights, I’d concluded we ought to manage rental properties and that Keisha could manage that end of the business. To forestall other questions about my morning, I decided to discuss that right now.

  When I presented my idea, she said, “Good thinking, Kelly. It would work for us.”

  “You want to scout the neighborhood for likely properties?” I asked. “Some will need Anthony’s fine touch before we can rent them, and he’s tied up for now on the guest house. But keep an eye out for ones that we can rent right now and ones that will need work.” I told her I’d pay a commission out of the rental income, after we figured expenses against income and projected recovery. That took her back a bit, but she said, “Sure. Thanks.”

  I thought I was off the hook for any questions her sixth sense might suggest.

  Not much later, I left for Lili’s. It was just four blocks from my office, both the office and the restaurant on Magnolia Avenue, and I figured I best get used to walking for exercise. I coached myself to put on a cheerful face, reminding myself that I was delivering good news. Mike was waiting in the crowded entryway when I got there. He kissed me gently and led me to the table that he’d requested, in the annex where it was more quiet.

  When we were seated, he ignored the menu and asked directly, “So what’s up?”

  No sugarcoating. I told him, “You’re going to be a father…again. We’re expecting.”

  Mike doesn’t swear often but now he said, loudly, “Holy shit! Are you serious?”

  I looked around to make sure no one had heard his outburst, and then I took his hand and said, “Yeah, I’m sure. So is Dr. Goodwin.”

  “Want a glass of wine to celebrate?”

  I shook my head. “I can’t. Not for another seven months or so.”

  He almost said “Holy shit!” again. But then he reached for my hand, grasping it in both of his. “I know this will be hard on you…harder than I can even imagine. But I have to say I’m excited.” He paused and then stammered on, “I love the girls with all my heart. You know that. But the idea of my own baby….”

  I pulled my hand loose and put a finger to his mouth. “Our baby,” I said. “Something we created together.”

  Mike Shandy actually got up from the table, walked around it, and pulled me up into a huge bear hug and a passionate kiss. People at the next table clapped, and I heard one say, “I want what she’s having.” That old line from When Harry Met Sally.

  Vance, the owner, came by and asked, “Champagne in order? I know you guys are married, but there’s obviously something to celebrate.”

  ‘Water for her,” Mike said, “and a Samuel Adams for me.”

  It wasn’t exactly a festive celebration, but we did have grilled tilapia. And as we ate, we got down to nuts and bolts—with telling the girls at the top of the list. Mike well knew my increasing worries about my relationship with the girls, and the idea of breaking this news to them scared the daylights out of me.

  “Mike, they know what it takes to make a baby. They’ll look at us like, ‘You two did that?’”

  “No they won’t. They know we love each other, and if we have to we’ll explain that’s what married couples in love do.”

  I sighed. With high school nearly upon us and frightening statistics out there about sexually active high school students, I didn’t think we were setting a good example.

  Mike exploded at that. “Are we supposed to have a platonic marriage? You’re comparing apples and oranges! They’re nothing the same.”

  We finally decided we would take the girls to dinner—not the Grill, not Bun Appetit, not even Lili’s. We’d go to the new pizza place they’d been clamoring to try. I crossed my fingers it wouldn’t be too noisy.

  “And after that,” Mike said, “we’ll have a family dinner this Sunday, invite everyone, and get it all over with at once.”

  I couldn’t at that point tell him about my twelve-week rule. I just said a silent prayer for the child in my belly.

  ****

  Em was delighted by the idea of real pizza in a restaurant and not the stuff that came to your door in a greasy cardboard box. “I want hamburger and pepperoni and cheese and olives and, oh, I don’t know what else,” she said, dancing around the room.

  Maggie was a bit more suspicious. “It’s a school night. Why are we going?”

  Mike shrugged. “I know you girls want to try it, and your mom’s kind of tired tonight. No need to make her stand in the kitchen. You rather go to the Grill?”

  Maggie shook her head. “No, I want pizza. Just wondered.”

  When we were seated in the rustic restaurant, all of Maggie’s suspicions apparently vanished. We were all carried away with Italian terms for which we had no translation and had to have serious conversations with our waiter. Mike and I could explain caprese and focaccia and antipasti (Em thought it was spelled wrong) but even we were puzzled by soppressata or the difference between prosciutto crudo and prosciutto cotto. Em was dismayed that the menu had sausage but no pepperoni pizza—the waiter found her a near substitute. Mike had the meatball sandwich, and Maggie followed his lead. Much aware of my ne
w physical state, I had a large salad with all the things whose names I didn’t know. We all stuck with familiar tiramisu for dessert.

  Maggie was eyeing us again. “Dessert? Fancy dessert? What’s up with you guys tonight?”

  We smiled and made a big production of holding hands at the table, which made her say, laughingly, “Oh, cut that out.”

  “I tell you what. Let’s take our tiramisu to go and have it at home. We’ll have a party.” Mike beamed with pleasure at his idea. “It’s pretty noisy in here.”

  Maggie still looked doubtful, but that’s just what we did. While the girls changed into pajamas, Mike crafted a party with sparkling white grape juice for the girls and me and white wine for him, which made me a tad jealous. I was tired and wine would have tasted so good. Mike was right—I was exhausted, maybe just thinking about what lay ahead.

  The girls returned together, and while Em squealed at the sparkling juice—she still called it “kid wine”—Maggie said, “Okay, what gives?”

  Mike got a bit pompous. “We’re going to have an addition to the family.”

  “A cat,” Em yelled. “You’re getting me a cat!”

  Maggie gave her a disgusted look and then turned toward us. “Are you telling me you’re going to have a baby?”

  Mike nodded.

  And Maggie said the last thing I wanted to hear. “How embarrassing. Everyone will know what you’ve been doing.”

  We were both speechless, until Mike finally said, “We’re married, Maggie. That’s what married couples do.”

  Em jumped in with, “Can you make it a girl? I want another sister.” Then she was quick to hug Maggie and say, “Because I like the one I have so much. I don’t know if a boy would fit in around here.”

  “Will I have to babysit?” Maggie asked.

  And then they were both off with a thousand questions, and we talked plans—where the baby would sleep, things like that.

  When we finally sent them off to bed, Maggie said, “I guess if you’re happy about it, I am too. It will probably be fun to have a baby. I…I just didn’t know people had them at your age.”