Mother Gets a Lift

A Diehl Lesley

Description

Angela Baker should be thrilled at having given birth to her third baby, but her mother always finds a way of spoiling the moment. This time Mom takes a cruise specializing in plastic surgery and ends up overboard, murdered and leaving Angela to identify the body. But is it Mom? Angela isn't certain but, then again...who would be? The woman has become unrecognizable as a result of too many little "procedures."Pushed by a detective determined to close the book on the murder, Angela does her own investigating and turns up more than one mother as well as the knife-wielding doctor from hell.A new short story from our Fingerprints line and the author of MURDER WITH ALL THE TRIMMINGS.

Sujets

• Short story

Informations

• Publié par: Untreed Reads
• Date de parution: 08 mai 2011
• Nombre de lectures: 0
• EAN13: 9781611871067
• Langue: English

Extrait

Mother Gets a Lift
By Lesley A. Diehl

Copyright 2011 by Lesley A. Diehl
Cover Copyright 2011 by Dara England and Untreed Reads Publishing
The author is hereby established as the sole holder of the copyright. Either the publisher (Untreed Reads) or author may enforce copyrights to the fullest extent.

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be resold, reproduced or transmitted by any means in any form or given away to other people without specific permission from the author and/or publisher. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each person you share it with. If you’re reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your ebook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to the living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Also by Lesley A. Diehl and Untreed Reads Publishing
Murder with All the Trimmings


http://www.untreedreads.com
Mother Gets a Lift
By Lesley A. Diehl
I was panting my way through a contraction when my cell phone sang out, “Cheeseburger in Paradise.” The contraction ended, but the cell played on.
I turned to my husband. “Answer that, Dudley. I’m a little busy here.”
“My name’s not Dudley. It’s Fred.”
“Fine. Answer it anyway. Must be the scopolamine making me forget who you are.”
The doctor shook his head and made circling motions with his finger.
“Hey!” I sat up and pointed at him. “You were the one who gave me the drug.”
Fred or Dudley or whatever was the name of the man responsible for putting me in this position, turned his back on me and whispered into the phone.
“Give me that.” I reached for the cell.
“Later.” What’s-his-name, the man I loved right up until the last contraction, ignored me and continued to talk.
I grabbed his arm. “You’re supposed to be working with me, panting along, and cheering me on, not chatting on the phone. Where are my ice chips?” I knew my tone was accusatory, but I was not cheerful about how slowly this delivery was going. The other two each only took a matter of minutes. What was it with this kid?
“You told me to answer it.” He still held the phone to his ear, his usually tanned face drained of color.
I could feel another contraction coming on. I grabbed the phone out of his hand.
“What do you want?” That was what I meant to say, but instead all I produced were noises reminiscent of our dog’s gasping for air after an hour playing catch in the back yard.
The doctor signaled by shoving his palm forward in the air. “Push.”
Fred nodded, an encouraging smile plastered on his now greenish face.
I pushed.
“Is this Mrs. Baker?” I heard the voice on the phone say.
I blew out a strangled, “yes.”
“We need you to identify your mother’s body,” the caller said.
My husband dropped to the hospital floor.
I leaned over the side of the bed. “You promised me you wouldn’t faint this time. You lied.”
I pushed some more.
The caller still held the line despite the grunting from my end. “Could you come to the morgue this afternoon?”
“Not really. I’ve got a full schedule.” I tossed the phone to the midwife.
“Again.” The doctor positioned himself at the foot of the bed.
“Okay, but I hope you’ve got your catcher’s mitt on. I’m gonna give it my all.” I did.
A baby howled. Mine.
I couldn’t blame her. Such an antiseptically cold room after that warm comforting place. I’d yell too.
“Wake up, Fred. It’s over.”
“What is it?”
“It’s a baby, you dope. What were you expecting, a teddy bear?”
*
I was my mother’s daughter in many ways, most of them ways I didn’t like. I believe the term Fred used was “acerbic.”
“But only when I’m in labor.” The delivery complete, I held the baby in my arms, peering closely at her. I had wanted her to look like Fred’s side of the family, tall, olive-skinned, with dark hair and eyes, like her two older brothers. No such luck. She was the spitting image of my mother, now deceased if I could believe the coroner’s office in Miami.
Fred leaned over me. “Your mother would have been so happy having a granddaughter with her blue eyes and blonde hair and...”
“…Fat butt and stubby legs. She might like it, but I wanted more for this kid. Besides, now that Mom’s gone, she’ll never see what those recessive genes produced.”
“Angela, you have blonde hair, a round little tush, and you’re petite.” Fred made it sound attractive.
I patted his cheek. “And I forgive you for fainting on me.”
“I think it was the shock of your mother’s death this time.”
“Right.” Whatever he wanted to believe. Fred was the sweetest man. Obviously the scopolamine had worn off and with it, my irritation at him as more than competent impregnator but inadequate labor coach.