Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “My client and I will be in touch with you. We may wish to bring charges against the citizen who perjured herself and caused my client this outrageous hardship.” As she addressed the corrections officer, Bonnie’s lips settled into a firm line. Her eyes were shrewd and lively as a brown wren’s. Despite the fact her navy jacket strained to cover her breasts and one side of her skirt hung longer than the other, she looked remarkably professional. Dangling from one hand was a battered leather tote.

  Previously she’d used it as a diaper bag.

  I raised one quizzical eyebrow.

  Bonnie said, “A woman claimed she saw you driving away from the scene of Roxanne Baker’s murder in a gold Lexus SUV.”

  “But I don’t own a gold Lexus SUV.”

  “I know,” said Bonnie as she gestured to the officer, “and now they do, too.”

  “I mean, I did own one, but I sold it months ago.”

  “Right. Somebody with clout wanted you out of the way pretty badly.” Bonnie took me by the elbow. She added, “Whoever did this waited until late yesterday, hoping you’d be held overnight. Which you were. She maliciously manipulated the legal system.”

  “Ms. Gossage,” said the corrections officer who’d accompanied me. “We’re just as interested as you in finding out who called in that false report. Sorry for your trouble, Mrs. Lowenstein.” He looked at me kindly, if curiously. He seemed to be puzzling out why I’d warrant all this fuss. I’m sure I didn’t look worthy of the effort to rescue me. Frankly, my tail was tucked so far under my legs, I could scarcely walk.

  The officer stopped to sniff the air. “What’s that smell? Sour milk?”

  “It’s probably me. I could use a shower.” My sweat-drenched clothes clung to my body. My armpits were sticky. My mouth was dry, and I was sure my breath could stop a camel at fifty paces.

  But I wasn’t the one the officer was sniffing. A cottage-cheese trail of spit up ran down the backside of Bonnie’s left shoulder. Felix had baptized his mother on her way to rescue me.

  “We’ll be going now,” Bonnie said. “You’ve got my card.” Under her breath, she muttered, “Good thing I didn’t leave all of them at the office when I went on maternity leave.”

  “Still can’t decide whether to go back to work or not?” Dodie asked.

  We’d been dying to know Bonnie’s decision. Dodie took advantage of the opening to ask, although the timing seemed pretty odd to me.

  “I’m going part-time next month. I love being a mother, but my brain may turn to rice cereal if I hear “Wheels on the Bus” one more time.”

  I hot-footed it to the door, nearly leaving the other two women behind. Between Felix’s spit-up and my b.o., I couldn’t wait to get a breath of fresh air.

  “Bonnie, I can’t thank you enough. I don’t know how I’ll repay you but—”

  “I need help with my wedding album. You can work it off. And I’d like to get Felix’s baby album done before I get pregnant again.”

  “No problem. I’m in your debt.”

  “You’re planning on another baby?” Dodie smiled.

  “Don’t tell Jeremy, okay? The less my husband knows about birthing babies, the better. He’s still in shock over this one. Trust me, it wasn’t a miraculous birth, but to hear him tell it, I did this all on my own. Now, I’ve got to hustle. It’s time for Felix’s mid-morning meal.”

  “Ms. Gossage! Ms. Gossage!” The corrections officer was hailing us, running in our wake, flapping paperwork. “Forgot to give you these.”

  Bonnie’s eyes danced hula hoops in her head. “Oh, sugar,” she muttered. She pulled her jacket tight over her chest and half-walked, half-trotted back toward the man.

  Dodie stayed with me. I was eagerly eyeing the sunshine streaming though the glass. All I wanted was out! Every muscle in my body twitched in anticipation. Bonnie grabbed the papers and hustled her way back toward us.

  Never had a doorway to the outside world seemed as lovely as this one. I entered the door feeling lightheaded with ecstasy. I pushed hard, hit the open air with gusto, and nearly tumbled to the sidewalk.

  “I’m sprung!” I called back to Bonnie and Dodie. “I am free!”

  “Huh uh.” Dodie planted herself in front of me and grabbed my hand. “I want to scrapbook this. Stand here.” She positioned me in front of the brick wall.

  In keeping with the occasion, my expression was murderous. Okay, all right, I’ll say it: sometimes we scrapbookers go too far.

  “Hey, hey, hey, guys.” Bonnie sounded frantic, as she waved us on. We walked three abreast along the congested streets of downtown Clayton. People parted to let us through as if we were a military unit. Bonnie led the way, heels first, arms pumping. “Speed it up, kids. Sorry, but it’s time for Felix’s mid-morning feeding. Either I get moving or I’m likely to spring a leak.”

  At a crosswalk, a mother with a baby carriage paused to adjust the canopy. As she did, her baby let loose with a mewling cry.

  “Oh, sugar,” said Bonnie. Two wet circles blossomed on the front of her blouse. “My milk let down. Anybody got any tissues?”

  “I guess I flunked Mert’s Tough Tamales University trial by fire, huh? I couldn’t help myself. I whimpered most of the night.” We’d seen Bonnie to her car after stopping at a St. Louis Bread Co. and swiping handfuls of paper napkins. By the time she finished stuffing her bra, she’d added another cup size.

  Dodie looked at me in wonder and snorted. “Huh. Being locked up overnight should get you extra credit. Mert was beside herself that she couldn’t afford to hire a lawyer. I was about to do just that when we remembered Bonnie used to practice in downtown St. Louis. Only problem was we had to wait ’til Jeremy came home to take over with Felix. Mert said to tell you she’ll be by this evening to see with her own eyes that you’re right as rain. She had a full schedule of house cleaning.”

  “I’m fine. Really I am. I appreciate everything you all have done for me. When I get home, I’m taking every striped item of clothing I own and making a bonfire.”

  “I can’t blame you.” Dodie hopped easily into the driver’s seat of her Expedition. For me, it was a hike. I needed a step stool.

  Her big hands covered the steering wheel easily, but I sunk into the passenger’s seat like a kid in my mom’s car, barely able to see over the dash. Dodie had dressed for my jail break in a tailored black dress, pearls, and black pumps. It was too hot for hose, but she looked nice. As I realized she’d gussied up to put in a good appearance for me a lump formed in my throat.

  She treated me to breakfast at Hardee’s. I ordered my all-time favorite biscuits and gravy with an orange juice. Life was looking up. We ate in the car, and afterward she drove me home to shower and change.

  “No sense in you taking the day off. The store’s been busy and Gracie’s there waiting for you. You can catch up on your sleep tomorrow since it’s Sunday.”

  “How is Anya?”

  Dodie scratched a spot on her leg. “Fine, I think. I told Sheila what happened and asked her to keep her mouth shut. She said she would pick up Anya from soccer. Sounded good to me, because we weren’t sure how long all this would take. Sheila asked why they took you in. Gloating like. Told her they’d made a mistake. She can sure be a stinker. I suppose I should’ve called an attorney last night, but I didn’t want to run up a bill.”

  I waved her apology away. “I appreciate it. Again, all I can say is thank you. It was really kind of you to ask Bonnie to help and to take care of my dog and my child for me.”

  I silently marveled at the breadth of the sisterhood that is scrapbooking. Women who scrapbook are extraordinary. We come from all walks of life and all levels of education. What brings us together is the desire to create a visual record of our lives. Our scrapbooks pay homage to our priorities—family and friends. Kids grow up quickly. Our strong and dependable parents grow weak and needy before our eyes. Our beloved pets grow feeble and break our hearts as they die. Nothing lasts forever, but our work can immortalize those
we love for generations to come.

  Sure, not every group of scrappers includes an attorney, but it’s a real mistake to underestimate the skills and talents of women who scrapbook. Not to mention their generosity of spirit. How kind it was of Bonnie to come to my rescue! How nice it was of Dodie to help me meet my responsibilities! How wonderful it was of Mert to worry so about me! I was humbled by their willingness to help. I wasn’t sure how many of my old neighbors in Ladue would have come to my aid. Not many, I’d guess.

  “Boy, that Sheila. I don’t understand her. I asked her last night if she was going to find an attorney for you, and she laughed. Laughed! Said you were responsible for your own actions. I pointed out you’re family, and she said—”

  “That Anya and George are—were—her family. I’m not, right?”

  “You got it. That is just wrong.”

  “She’s never liked me. At least she’s been honest about it. And she’s still not over George’s death. Now she has Roxanne’s murder to add to her list of sorrows.”

  “Rabbi Sarah’s been after her to join the grief work group,” said Dodie, never taking her eyes from the road. “Need more air?”

  “I’m fine.” The cool air blowing from the vents was refreshing, especially after the open seating smell that seemed to cling to me. “Rabbi Sarah? You go to the same temple as Sheila?”

  Dodie shifted her bulky frame. “Yes. I have for years. We go to the Central City Temple. Rabbi Sarah’s an angel. When our son died, Horace and I started attending her grief group. That’s how come I know the rabbi’s asked your mother-in-law to join us.”

  “You lost a son?”

  Dodie swallowed, her eyes followed other cars on the road, but I could see the moisture gather along her lower lids. She wiped her face with the back of a rough hand. “Nathan, of blessed memory. Gone these five years. Swimming accident. He was twenty. That’s how I got started scrapbooking. I wanted to remember every little detail of Nathan … his life … every small thought … I couldn’t bear … to forget.”

  She stopped talking. She couldn’t go on.

  We pulled into my driveway.

  I put a hand on Dodie’s shoulder. “I didn’t know. I’m so sorry. I can’t imagine.”

  She nodded. Again, she reached up to wipe her face. In a gruff voice she said, “Want me to wait here?”

  Of course I invited her in. I settled her at the kitchen table.

  “This is real nice, Kiki. I can tell you’ve worked hard on the place.”

  I sighed, thinking about having to move. “Thanks. I’ll be right back after I clean up. Help yourself to whatever’s in the cabinets. There’s instant tea in the canister next to the sink.”

  I showered quickly, thinking how much I’d learned about Dodie in the last hour. That made me wonder what I didn’t know about the other people around me. I resolved to see more of my friends’ scrapbooks. Typically I saw whatever pages they were currently working on, but not their old albums. Today had been a revelation. I wasn’t sure that I’d treat Dodie differently from now on, but I knew I’d never see her quite the same.

  The clean scent of shampoo made me delirious with pleasure. I scrubbed myself with body wash again and again. After a heavy dose of deodorant, I threw on a fitted pink tee with khaki pants and slipped a pink gingham belt through the loops. A touch of mousse in my curls kept the frizzies under control. I added brown sandals and stopped to cover the circles under my eyes with concealer. A dab of mascara, a tiny bit of blush, and lip gloss, and I was good to go.

  Dodie handed me a glass of ice tea and sipped her own. I opened the manila envelope holding my things and tossed the wallet and camera back into my purse. I checked my phone and saw a message from my daughter.

  “Mom, Gran won’t tell me what’s up. She’s being really sneaky. She said you were in big trouble. I asked what that meant. I told her I had a right to know. Please call me when you get this message. I’m worried. I love you.”

  I called but got her answering system. I left a message that I was fine, and we’d talk when I picked her up after school. Wanting to end on a positive note, I suggested that she be thinking about what she’d like to do on Sunday since we had the whole day for whatever we wanted.

  “Bonnie didn’t find out who lied about me?” I asked Dodie as we climbed back into her car.

  “No. Just that a woman called the Chesterfield station. Must have been a hoity-toity with clout. The detectives didn’t even check her story. When Bonnie heard about the SUV, she hit the roof. Heck, we all know you drive that old Beemer. I figure the snitch must have been another parent or an old neighbor. Who else would know what you used to drive? Someone who doesn’t know you sold the Lexus. Or maybe a person who just doesn’t pay much attention. Thank goodness. If she’d have said you were driving the BMW, it would have been harder to prove her wrong. All they had to do was call the Missouri DMV, and presto—you’re sprung.” Dodie scratched a spot behind her knee. “You’ve got to wonder why, eh? First, someone breaks into your house. Then someone gets you thrown in jail. What’s going on? What’s so special about you?”

  “Not much.” That was all I was sure of. It had been a long time since I was the center of so much attention. Twelve years in fact.

  I was too tired to think. I hadn’t slept much the night before. My fellow prisoners proved a noisy lot. I’d jerk to consciousness to a loud snoring. Or I’d startle awake to someone talking loudly. The corrections officer would remind him or her to behave. I’d quake in my Keds. Finally, I’d drift off. But I kept one eye open and catnapped more than I slept.

  When I did sleep, I dreamed. Bad dreams. Sad and heavy. They pressed on my heart.

  Dodie scratched her elbow. “Maybe someone is trying to keep you from doing your job. Maybe you’re a threat.”

  I shrugged. “Detweiler told me to be careful. He didn’t like the coincidence of Roxanne’s shooting and my home invasion. But this doesn’t make sense. I still can’t see why my computer mattered to anybody. Anybody but me. I don’t know how I’ll replace it.”

  “But there has to be a reason,” muttered Dodie. “And a connection. He’s right. The timing is too neat. And you are at risk. I’m worried about you, sunshine.” She studied me carefully, then returned to picking at her eyebrows.

  Dodie was worried about me. Me the person? Or me the employee? I couldn’t tell. I decided to spill my guts. I told her what I’d learned from Anya.

  “That poor baby! I can’t believe George did that.” She let loose with a stream of Yiddish curses. She finished with, “And if he were alive, I’d wish him the best of Ten Plagues, plus a hernia.”

  When she ran out of steam, I said, “Roxanne wanted George to leave me. He told her he wouldn’t. She was angry. I wonder if she killed him.”

  “Killed him? I thought he died of a heart attack.”

  I outlined Detweiler’s theory that George might have been poisoned.

  “Murdered? Oy. Poor, poor Sheila. You think Roxanne acted alone?”

  “She and another woman had lunch with my husband right before he died. The other woman has managed to stay anonymous.”

  Dodie nodded and revised her question. “So you figure Roxanne was in cahoots with someone, both of them killed George, and now her partner in crime bumped her off? How does the burglary fit? Was the thief after the shower pictures? What was in those photos? I’ve viewed them. I didn’t see anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Beats me.” I turned my head to watch Manchester Road speed past. This section was home to a hodgepodge of businesses: the gumbo shop, an antique store, a florist, and a bookstore. A fishing equipment shop offered “Free Fly Casting Lessons.” I planned one day to take them up on the offer, just for fun. My mind skipped around in a desultory fashion.

  “But somebody lied to the police. That’s pretty big stuff. And they did it to put you in jail. If you went to the pokey to keep you from doing your job, what is it about your job that’s got someone worried? You’re only scrapbook
ing. I mean, it’s not like you’re digging into family secrets.”

  “It has to be the pictures,” I interrupted. “Everything leads back to them. First someone steals my computer, and what’s on it? Pictures. What do Roxanne and I have in common?”

  “George?” Dodie offered.

  I glowered. “Pictures. We both liked to scrapbook, and we both took a lot of pictures.”

  Dodie shifted in her seat. Her new position gave her unrestricted access to scratching her elbow. “I’m thinking we’ve got that Purloined Letter thing happening here. We’re looking at the clue, but just can’t see it. There’s something in those pictures. And we’ve got a lot of them. We downloaded, what?”

  I shook my head. “I counted a hundred and eighty-two. But not all of them are important. All that matters are the pictures taken by a dead woman. Has to be. See the connection?” I traced an imaginary triangle with my fingers: “George to Roxanne, Roxanne to photos, and photos to my computer.”

  I continued, “When my house was broken into, I made a list for Detweiler of all the shower guests. But now I realize: anybody could have heard what we did. It was no secret. We thought copying their cards was such a big deal. Such a cute idea. And see where it got us?”

  Dodie dug at a spot under her arm. “Back up there, sunshine. You’re overreacting. Think about it. Only Merrilee’s pals knew about the downloads immediately.” She continued to claw at her skin. “Although … I did leave messages on answering machines. Reminders. A hubby or roommate could have overheard.”

  “And the guests could have told their friends. That’s a pretty chatty group. News travels fast when you have lots of free time to spend yakking.”

  “So one of them broke into your house,” Dodie said. “Or paid somebody to break in, since none of those women would risk ruining a manicure.”

  My gut tightened with fear. Who had been in my house? It had been empty last night. Had anything else been taken? Or ruined? The thought sickened me.

  “What about Roxanne’s camera?” Dodie wondered.