To Do:

1. Why would anyone poison Celia?
2. Where is Margaret?
3. Must get house in order for Thanksgiving!
4. Shop, cook, clean.
5. Drink water.
6. Exercise—or will have nothing to wear for Thanksgiving!
On my way home, I’d stopped in at the library to pick up my reserved copy of The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigation. While there I checked out a few picture books for Laurie and a cookbook for Jim.
By the time I arrived home, I was famished and exhausted. Laurie needed attention, but fortunately Jim had taken a stab at dinner. Spaghetti and meatballs—nothing fancy, just frozen ones—with some canned sauce. But beggars can’t be choosers.
I ate three bowls before I felt satisfied and then shortly afterward felt overstuffed and regretted the extra helpings.
Hopefully the cookbook would help us be a little more creative with our meals. There was even a section on homemade baby food!
Over dinner, Jim told me I’d missed a call from my mom.
“She’s back?” I asked.
“Yeah. She’s coming over in the morning. I suggest you don’t tell her about your foray in the hospital. Not unless you have a death wish.”


I had been anxious to get to bed to catch up on lost sleep, but once my head hit the pillow, I tossed and turned. The night of the cruise was still fresh in my mind, not to mention my venture to the emergency room. I felt like talking to Jim, but he was emitting soft snoring sounds. I peeked at Laurie, snoozing peacefully in the bassinet next to our bed.
I turned on the bedside table lamp and cracked open The Complete Idiot’s Guide to Private Investigation. I read the section on research then climbed out of bed and padded down the hallway. In the office, I logged on to the computer and fumbled my way through a bit of background information on Bruce. I was able to review his personal website as a financial advisor and pull a credit report for him.
He had great credit, but that didn’t tell me much. I e-mailed Galigani and requested he help me with subscribing to one of the databases licensed PIs had access to.
For lack of anything better to do, I googled “Celia Martin midwife”—a gazillion things came up but nothing of value. I clicked through several articles on midwives and the benefits of home births. I read a disturbing account of a pregnant woman in Miami who had disappeared on her way to a natural child birthing center. Her husband was deployed in the military. The woman was on her own to have the baby and had selected a midwife to assist. Only she’d never made it to the center. One of her neighbors had reported seeing her leave the house in labor and had offered to drive her. She’d declined, telling him it was the early stages of labor and she was not having regular contractions.
The authorities suspected she’d gone into active labor while driving and had an accident. Although when the car was finally recovered, months later, there was no evidence of the mother or baby.
The midwife wasn’t named, but Celia had told me she was from L.A., so while it had nothing to do with the case I was working on, the story nevertheless upset me.
Must be the hormones!
Tears ran down my face as I thought of the demise of this military wife and soon to be mother, not to mention the loss of the innocent life inside her.
I refined the search to “Celia Martin midwife Los Angeles,” but no direct links came up.
I went to bed dejected.