Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

“Far as I know, it’s missing. I plan to ask Detweiler about it when he gets back to town. Maybe it turned up over the weekend.”

  “That might give us a clue to why she was murdered.”

  Us? I smiled to myself. Dodie was on the case. Good. I needed help. Not from Detweiler, either.

  Maybe he was making a fool of me. Maybe he had given the Chesterfield detectives the “go ahead” to haul me in. Sitting in that fishbowl of a jail, watching all those misfits mill around me, I pledged to make some changes in my life. I couldn’t trust anyone. Especially not any man. I’d nearly fallen for Detweiler after he made nice over my dog and my kid. What was it he’d said to Anya about having a cop as a friend?

  Huh.

  Some friend. Where was he when I huddled on that cold bench? How far did his protection extend?

  Not far enough.

  No way was I going to let my emotions run away with me again. Lord knew, I was the world’s worst judge of character. Especially when it came to men.

  I needed to toughen up and strike back.

  Like the mug said, “No More Mrs. Nice Guy.” I planned to earn my degree from the School of Hard Knocks.

  Time to prepare for my final exam.

  Gracie sure was happy to see me. She stood on her hind legs, planted her paws on my chest and licked my face greedily. I lingered in the storeroom long enough to bask in doggy affection.

  “Did you miss me, girl?”

  Dodie beamed. “She was a model citizen. Horace even said so. Miss Gracie is welcome to spend the night at our house any time.”

  After my brief incarceration, I was delighted to get back to the Witherow bridal shower albums. Being engrossed in my work would take my mind off my disastrous evening. Dodie thought my jail time worth immortalizing on a scrapbook page, but I wanted nothing better than to forget it.

  All the shower guests except Roxanne—Markie, Sally, Linda, Merrilee, Tisha, and Mrs. Witherow—had indicated which photos they wanted. I merged their requests into a master list. I opened the photos in Snapfish one at a time and loaded them into PhotoShop Elements. PS Elements had all the tools necessary to crop the pictures, adjust brightness levels, and take out red eye.

  Prettifying photos was time-consuming work that required every bit of my attention. Enhancing always included a myriad of small chores like using the clone tool to remove plants sprouting out of people’s heads. Once I even gave a woman a boob job. Poor dear. The photo had made the ravages of time painfully obvious, so I lifted and separated, taking ten years off her age.

  I’m not a PhotoShop expert, but I am learning. My ability to adjust contrast, to fix brightness, and to erase unwanted images turns formerly unusable photos into family keepsakes. Let’s face it: life isn’t a series of posed shots. We can’t always shoot in perfect lighting conditions or great settings. PhotoShop can make a big difference in the quality of the finished picture. What people are paying me for is a memory. Why not make it a good one?

  “See anything hinky?” Dodie plopped beside me to watch. She hadn’t had the chance to look over what we downloaded.

  “Hinky?”

  “I read it in one of my crime novels. Means suspicious.”

  “All I see are women chatting, eating tiny bites of cake, working on scrapbook pages, opening gifts, and giving each other air-smooches.”

  “How many photos have you worked on?”

  “Twenty. The guests chose sixty all total.”

  Dodie stared at the screen with me. “And you’ve checked them?”

  “I examined them as I transferred them from the website to PhotoShop. I mean, I haven’t fixed all of them, but I did see them enlarged.”

  “And nothing was there?”

  “Nothing I could see. But I don’t want to spend more time looking right now. You aren’t paying me to solve a murder.”

  “In case you haven’t noticed, I’m also not real keen on bailing you out of jail either. Although it will make for a great scrapbook page.”

  She handed over the photo of me in front of the St. Louis Criminal Justice Building. She’d printed it off while I was working on the shower pictures. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry.

  “Can’t decide on a page title,” Dodie said. “My choices are ‘Kiki, the Jailbird’ or ‘When Good Scrappers Go Bad.’ ”

  I groaned.

  Dodie tucked the picture away and turned her attention to the screen. “While I enjoy the scenery when Officer Friendly is here, I have a business to run. For right now, I think you better concentrate on finishing the bridal shower albums.” She rubbed her chin. Being a hairy woman, she had a bit of razor stubble. “Want a diet cola? Caffeine helps you think.”

  “Works for me. Any Diet Dr Pepper?”

  She brought me a can. “On the house. You probably need a break. I want to rethink these candid photos.” She pointed to the small images on the screen. “Let’s go over the images from Roxanne’s memory card.”

  Merrilee and Jeff kissing. Tropical scenery. Roxanne and a mystery guy in sunglasses and a ball cap. Beaches. Sand. Palm trees. Vacation photos, I guessed. I put my can in the recycling bin, stood up and stretched. “One of these must be important to the killer, but I can’t see how. Unless … unless it’s not because they show something … but they prove something? But what? How could vacation photos trigger a murder?”

  “You haven’t seen the pictures Horace took of my backside in my thong.”

  Nor did I want to.

  “Maybe we’re wasting our time. Who knows what went on in Roxanne’s head. She wasn’t the sharpest craft knife in the Cropper Hopper.” Dodie went through the photos again quickly. She turned to me in surprise. “And Roxanne didn’t take a single photo at the shower?”

  “I think she brought the camera along to show off a picture. She never intended to take photos. She left the picture taking to the others.”

  “That’s weird, but …” Dodie sighed. “It’s possible. If that’s the case, we need to find out who Roxanne showed her pictures to.”

  I hadn’t thought of that. Dodie was right.

  “I could ask the guests. They’ll be coming in to pick up their albums. Either someone will spill the beans or her reaction will tell us what we need to know. I better pull up all of Roxanne’s and adjust the contrast.”

  “That’s Merrilee and her fiancé,” Dodie said, pointing to the two shots of people kissing. “She’s coming at one. How about you print these for her? That’ll be a nice ‘thank you’ for signing that big contract.”

  “Good idea.” The caffeine had perked me up, but I was still too tired to think clearly.

  Dodie studied the monitor a little longer. She tilted her head thoughtfully. “I have a couple of vacation scrapbook magazines in the back. I wonder if we can match up that photo of the lighthouse. Might tell us where it was taken.”

  ___

  After my night on the concrete bench and sitting in front of the computer for hours, my lower back started to hurt. I stretched and called Dimont Development. My visit to the county jail delivered a cruel reminder that money is power. My penury had forced me to the bottom of the food chain. I’d been lucky Bonnie was willing to come to my aid. But I couldn’t always count on finding a scrapbooker who’d trade her professional services for my work. If Tisha was right about the buy-sell agreement, I should get money from George’s share of Dimont.

  According to a perky recorded voice, the office was closed until Monday. That figured. I’d forgotten it was Saturday. I decided not to leave a message. I was curious as to why Bill hadn’t returned my previous call. I also wondered why he never mentioned the buy-sell. I decided to swing by Dimont on Monday on my way to pick up Anya from school.

  Dodie was waiting on a customer while two more were wandering around the store. Glad for the reason to walk the kinks out, I approached one of the women. She wanted to use foam rubber stamps on her pages, but the acrylic paint she used as ink was too goopy.

  “All my letters wind up blotches. My pa
ges could double for Rorschach tests. Why are the letters on all my other friends’ pages neat and tidy?”

  “Ever visit Kaldi’s?” I asked. I loved that local chain. In 1994, their first coffeehouse opened in a neighborhood not too far from our store. They hand-pulled every one of their drinks—and you could taste the difference.

  “Uh, yes. Why?”

  I demonstrated how a wooden coffee stirrer from Kaldi’s could be dipped into acrylic paint and wiped over the raised foam image. “Use the thinnest smear of liquid. Most likely your letters are blobs because you have too much paint on the stamps. The other possibility is wobble.”

  “Wobble?” She grabbed her backside.

  “Not that kind of wobble. I’m talking about rocking or moving the stamp when you press it against the surface. Pretend your stamp is kissing the paper. Touch it down once lightly. By the way, if you need to leave your project midway through, you can pop the paint-covered stamps into your freezer. When you return, thaw them, and you’ll be good to go.”

  The customer’s eyes flew open like cheap window blinds. “Wow. That’s a great tip. Do you teach here? I bet I could learn a lot from you.”

  “We all learn from each other. We do have a class schedule though, and I am the instructor.”

  A little after noon, my cell phone vibrated. As I flipped it open, my stomach growled. I never seemed to grab lunch until I was hungry enough to eat white paste. I said hello and heard my sister Amanda’s voice.

  “Kiki, how could you?”

  “How could I what?” Had word of my visit to the jail traveled across the nation?

  “Forget Mom’s birthday. Yesterday.”

  “What’s today’s date?” I had truly lost track of the month.

  Amanda countered with, “You know darn good and well what today’s date is. Even Catherine called! Now listen here. You still owe it to Mom to remember her birthday.”

  “Mandy, I’m sorry. I forgot! I didn’t mean to. I was busy and—”

  “Of course you were. We all are busy.” That last word was a hiss. “You aren’t more important than the rest of us, Kiki. All mother’s friends remembered her birthday.”

  Yes, I thought, but that’s because their only other sources of excitement are laxatives and bingo.

  “I’m sorry, Mandy. I had a prob—”

  “That’s right, you had a problem. Don’t even try that. What a crock. I don’t want to hear it. There’s no excuse. The world doesn’t revolve around you. Mom spent all yesterday moping around. Last night she was so upset she didn’t want to go to her genealogical society meeting. She was that distraught. You better call her and apologize right this instant.”

  I winced. A part of me wanted to protest, “Hello? Self-centered? I was in jail, Mandy.” But the majority ruled, and my common sense said, “Don’t go there.”

  Mandy and Mom had this fantasy about my married life. Neither had ever visited, but they’d seen pictures. As a result, they took turns making mean cracks about how rich I was. George’s death didn’t change their minds. They figured he was worth more dead than alive. None of my family showed up for the funeral. Mandy couldn’t get off work. I didn’t know how to contact my other sister, Catherine. Mom said traveling was too hard for her.

  I never told them about the missing half a million dollars. They knew I sold the house, but as far as they knew my new place was a step up from Ladue. Whenever their lives got tough, they fortified themselves with the belief I’d gotten the luck of the draw. They were firm believers that life was intrinsically unfair, that I’d gotten the big piece of the wishbone, leaving them to squabble over the short end.

  I did like I always do. I gave in. I took the beating and asked for more. “Amanda, you are right. How could I have been so selfish? I’m sorry. I appreciate you calling. I’ll hang up and phone Mom. If you talk to her before I do, please tell her how bad I feel.”

  I closed the phone. I needed to get lunch. Being hungry didn’t help my spirits.

  If I called my mother now, while I was in a bad mood, I’d only add to my problems. I added “make a groveling call” to my procrastination list, along with telling Mert I needed the security lights removed.

  Time in a Bottle sat at a right angle to busy Brentwood Avenue. At one end of the street was the Galleria with all its fancy shops. The retail district immediately to the south gobbled up whatever leftover customers the Galleria couldn’t satisfy. Each block away from the mall, the pickings became more scarce. Our block was a mix of retailers and service businesses. A couple of blocks away was a convenience store/gas station. I ran in and grabbed the last of their turkey sandwiches and a Diet Dr Pepper. Then I drove back to the store. Dodie had purchased an older home zoned business, gutted it, and added a parking lot in the rear. She and Horace put in a border of flowers around the asphalt. But it was too early for the petunias to take off, and the nicotania had a while to go before they bloomed.

  Still, I liked looking at the greenery. I savored every bite of my food.

  Reluctantly, I tossed my trash and went back to work. When five o’clock rolled round, I was nearly weak-kneed with relief. I bid Dodie goodbye and drove to Antonio’s to try to find someone who’d seen my husband the day he died.

  Antonio’s sat on a corner in The Hill. Large gold letters spelled out the restaurant name on each of the two large windows that met at right angles on the intersecting streets. Parking was on the street and at the rear of the brick building. From the sidewalk, the place looked unassuming.

  Behind the front door was an elegant world. The bar and hostess station served as a staging area for hungry patrons. A serene young woman wearing a tasteful black cocktail dress escorted me past the floor-to-ceiling wine racks serving as dividers. She gestured and I slid into a booth. Before she left, she offered me a menu. I scanned it for food I could afford.

  My budget could handle a Diet Coke.

  “Welcome to Antonio’s, madame.” A dough-faced man in black slacks, crisp white button-down shirt, and a tapestry vest bowed to me. He gave me a sincere smile. “It is my honor to serve you this evening. May I interest you in an appetizer? Could I tell you about our specials? The chef has a lovely lobster bisque that’s not on the menu.”

  “Just a Diet Coke, please. And is Olivia working tonight?”

  His face fell. “Yes, of course. I’ll get her for you.”

  I felt like a heel. Fortunately, the dinner crowd hadn’t shown up, so I wasn’t taking up a table that might mean a big tip.

  A tall woman with sleek auburn hair held back by a black velvet headband hustled to the table. Although she was neatly dressed and held herself regally, she looked as though she’d been rode hard and put away wet. “May I help you? The chef has a wonderful selection of specials.”

  Oh, gosh, but this was embarrassing. “I … I didn’t come to eat.”

  She tilted her head and studied me. “No?”

  “I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, and I don’t want to take a lot of your time, but George Lowenstein was my husband,” I blurted. I was so tired. My energy was flagging, and I gave in to desperation.

  Her eyes registered concern. The hostess glided behind my waitress, while leading two couples on their long tour to a table.

  “I apologize, but I have to know what happened the day he died. I know he ate here with two women. Now Roxanne Baker is dead and—” I caught sight of her necklace. Hanging from a thin gold chain were four little figures formed from faux gemstones, a popular Mother’s Day gift. Suddenly, I knew how to approach Olivia. Her jewelry told the world she was a mother of four.

  “I have a young daughter and I’m scared. Please, could you please help me? I need to know who George was with the day he died.” I paused and shared my most worrisome thought, the thought that made my blood run cold, “I’m afraid whoever killed George and Roxanne will come after me next!”

  Her eyes darted around the dining area. “Meet me at the delivery door. In the back. I’ll be there soon as I can.”
>
  Kicking myself for splurging on lunch, I put a five-dollar bill on the table. It was all I had.

  At the back of the building, two doors faced the gravel lot. One was clearly marked “Employees only.” The other had an aluminum screen frame, a stoop, and a faded but neatly lettered sign that read “Deliveries.” I parked my bottom on the concrete step and waited.

  Thirty minutes passed. Had Olivia fobbed me off? I sighed. My stomach rumbled. Gracie waited in the car. Time here meant time away from Anya, my child who deserved an explanation about my disappearance the night before.

  A screech of rubbing metal announced the door was opening. Olivia handed over a plastic bag with “Antonio’s” on the outside and two large Styrofoam containers nestled inside. The smell of tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil bathed my senses in glory.

  “I can’t afford—”

  She waved me silent. “Mr. Lowenstein was plenty generous to me over the years. He was a real gentleman, and I miss him. Mind if I smoke?”

  Perching on the edge of the step next to me, Olivia touched the flame of a Bic lighter to her Virginia Slims. “Sorry it took so long. Had to give the boss a reason for sneaking out.”

  “I was told you were Roxanne Baker’s favorite waitress.”

  “Favorite? Huh. I put up with her. Mr. Lowenstein gave me extra to keep an eye out. I loaded her into taxis when she was drunk, and he wasn’t around.” Olivia inhaled deeply. She shook her head and crushed the butt under her sturdy shoe. A lone waft of smoke curled around her face. “What he saw in her, I’ll never know, but she had him on a short leash, for sure.”

  “Who paid you to keep quiet about the women George ate lunch with the day he died?”

  “Ha!” Her eyes went wide. “Paid me? Paid Al is more like it. He’s my boss. Al told me to shut up or hit the road. I’ve got four kids to support. I’m already working two jobs to get by, and this one pays pretty good.” She reached into a pocket and handed me a folded slip of paper. “Now take this and leave before I change my mind.”

  Sheila answered the doorbell by cracking the door an inch and saying, “Oh, it’s you. I’m surprised to see you. I figured they’d keep you longer. At least a year or two. I told Anya you couldn’t make it. Usually there’s a trial when you commit murder.”