Murder Plays House by Ayelet Waldman Page B

unlike Zachary, my kids have never had to play a game of soccer with the nanny cheering from the sidelines, and no one else there to notice. In my more content moments I was confident that I didn’t want to exchange that for Stacy’s glittering career, no matter how bored and frustrated I found myself.
    “Really? I mean, I can’t imagine there’s any money in the investigation business.”
    “Of course there is!” I said, refraining from mentioning that Al and I weren’t earning any of it. “We bill out at more or less what an attorney charges. It’s a great part-time job.”
    “But do you have any clients? I mean,
paying
clients?”
    “Well, I might have one if you would just call Felix for me!”
    “Is that
it?
You mean you have no other clients at all?”
    I gritted my teeth. “We’re doing fine, Stacy. I told you. We’re in a bit of dry spell now, but it will pass.”
    She clucked her tongue sympathetically and I gripped the phone receiver to keep from smashing it down in its cradle.
    “I’ll call Felix for you. But, Juliet?”
    “What?”
    “I’m worried about you.”
    “Don’t be. We’re doing great, Al and I.” I was plenty worried about us, myself. I didn’t need her help.

Eight
    S TACY ’ S intervention inspired in me a sartorial crisis the likes of which I’d never experienced before. I must have tried on every piece of maternity clothing in my closet before flinging the last stretched-out smock to the ground in a fit of pique.
    “Damn it!” I snarled.
    “Mama!” Ruby said, pretending to be horrified at my language. I rolled my eyes at her. Unless her teacher was lying, she knew worse words than that one, and felt free to use them on the playground.
    “What’s wrong, honey?” Peter said from under the covers, where he and Isaac were building a fort out of blankets.
    The only time Felix could see me was on a Sunday morning. While the rest of my family was playing amidst the pillows and sprinkling bagel crumbs in the sheets, I was forced to confront the terrifying paucity of my wardrobe.
    “I have nothing to wear!” I wailed.
    “What are you talking about? You’ve got piles of clothes in there.”
    I’d been wearing the same maternity and nursing clothes for the past six years, with ever-increasing dissatisfaction; and now that I’d been sucked into a more stylish orbit, it seemed I had an emergency on my hands. I threw a rolled-up sock at my husband’s head. “Felix is a fashion designer! I can’t wear your old Fantastic Four T-shirt to a meeting with a fashion designer!”
    “So go buy something new,” he said, entirely unsympathetically. The few times in recent years that I’d had to buy clothes had been exercises more in humiliation than anything else. It was no fun to shop for my rapidly expanding and slowly deflating body, and I had decided just to wait until I was back to something approximating a normal size before I hit the boutiques again. I was obviously going to have to reevaluate that decision.
    I was on my way out the door when the telephone rang.
    “Please hold one minute for Mr. Brodsky.”
    A few moments later a deep voice purred into the phone: “Ms. Applebaum. I received your name and number from a mutual friend, Stacy Holland. I’m with the firm of Brodsky, Brodsky & Shapiro. I imagine you’ve heard of us?”
    I had. They were a fairly well-known entertainment law firm in the city, and were not infrequently cited in the trades. “Of course. What can I do for you?” I crossed every finger and toe, praying that he had a case for us.
    “My firm has lately been exploring the possibility of engaging in a relationship with an investigative office that specializes in criminal defense. The idea would be to have someone on call when our clients find themselves inunexpected difficulties. Difficulties that require a different kind of expertise to resolve than we possess.”
    I didn’t scream and shout in a combination of joy and relief, but that’s only