SHOTGUN, WEDDING, BELLS
BOOK #11 IN
THE KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
Joanna Campbell Slan
~Spot On Publishing~
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells: Book #11 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series-- Copyright © 01/11/2015 by Joanna Campbell Slan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Joanna Campbell Slan
Spot On Publishing, a division of Luminary LLC
9307 SE Olympus Street
Hobe Sound /FL 33455 USA
http://www.SpotOnPublishing.org
Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any re-semblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Book Layout © 2016
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Covers by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs
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Editing by Wendy Green.
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells: Book #11 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series -- Joanna Campbell Slan. – 2nd ed.
ISBN-13: 978-1547199464
ISBN-10: 1547199466
Revised 10/30/2017
SHOTGUN, WEDDING, BELLS
BOOK #11 IN THE
KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
Includes Bonus Excerpt
from
GLUE, BABY, GONE
BOOK #12 IN THE
KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
CHAPTER 1
Our wedding day dawned like a scene from a fairy tale. Frozen rain coated the freshly fallen snow. The glassy surface glistened like a million tiny diamonds. Icicles hanging from the eaves of our house formed natural prisms, casting rainbows across the blanket of white. Sunlight transformed the long dead banks of mums into mounds, like glittering pillows under a white duvet. The scene before us was beautiful, but treacherously slick. This overnight winter storm had paralyzed travel throughout the St. Louis area. All the salt and sand we’d tossed down on the walkways hadn’t done much good.
Our friend Detective Stan Hadcho guided me along the flagstones, by means of a good grip on my elbow. He escorted me from the back door of our house to the gazebo. As we walked, Leighton Haversham, our former landlord and dear friend, snapped photos so I could make a memory album. That’s what I do. I'm a scrapbooker and owner of a store called Time in a Bottle.
At the stairs to the gazebo, I stared up into the smiling faces of the people so dear to me: my newly adopted son, Erik; my daughter, Anya; Erik’s aunt, Lorraine Lauber; our nanny, Bronwyn Macavity; my fiancé, Detective Chandler Louis Detweiler; and of course, our animal friends, my dog Gracie and Lorraine’s dog Paolo. They’d all stood there patiently in the cold, waiting for me to arrive. Detweiler reached down to take my gloved hand so I could step up and join him. His eyes were warm with emotion, and his gaze was steady. Moist clouds of exhalations floated around all our faces, forming gossamer veils of moisture. As we turned to face Lorraine, who would be conducting the ceremony, Detweiler wrapped an arm around my waist.
Correction: A small portion of my waist.
At eight-and-a-half months pregnant, I’m the size of the Goodyear Blimp. Or at least that’s how it feels. But Detweiler loves me. I’m carrying our baby, and our other two children are happy and healthy. Even though the overnight storm was keeping much of our extended family from joining us today, our wedding would be a joyous event.
Detweiler’s shoulder brushing up against mine, so strong and solid, augured a good start to the rest of our lives. We stood side-by-side, exactly the way we intended to go through life, as friends and lovers.
“Not too bad for a wedding thrown together in forty-eight hours,” he whispered in my ear as Lorraine (aka “Aunt Lori”) opened her prayer book. There was a chuckle in his voice.
I tried not to giggle. Although I have been dreaming about marrying Detweiler ever since I met him nearly three years ago, this day was a long time coming. Even though I kept telling myself that a ceremony was only a formality, deep down I really wanted to wear a wedding band again—as long as it was his! The legalities of our relationship might not matter much to Detweiler and me, but they could matter terribly to our two kids and to the baby who was kicking imaginary field goals inside me. I’d learned the hard way that the legal system can be your best friend and your worst enemy.
Initially I'd planned for us to get married in the gap between Thanksgiving and Christmas. Detweiler and I had even talked about flying our whole family to Las Vegas and visiting the wedding chapel inside a Denny’s. The kids would have loved that combination, wedding bells and pancakes. But my friend Clancy Whitehead reminded me, “You're eight months along. They don't allow women that pregnant on a plane.”
Oops. Who knew?
I'd tabled that project, and made a notation on my calendar to revisit our wedding plans after December 25th. I would have hurried through the holiday season and put the idea out of my head, except for something unsettling that happened to my son.
My sisters, Amanda and Catherine, had asked if they could spend a Saturday baking cookies with my kids. Of course, I said yes. Anya and Erik were delighted. From the big smiles on their faces, they’d had a wonderful time.
“Look, Mama Kiki,” said Erik, as he offered up a small shopping bag. Inside were two shoeboxes and two Pringles cans filled with yummy treats.
“I’ve got one too.” Anya grinned at me. “We’ll have plenty to share with Aunt Lori and Leighton.” After thanking my sisters profusely, I hustled my children out to the car.
My mouth began to water as we were pulling away from the curb of the rental house my sisters share with my mother. The car’s interior smelled wonderfully of butter, sugar, and vanilla. Now and then, I caught a whiff of cinnamon.
Sometimes playing chauffeur is a drag, but there’s an undeniable magic that happens when you’re looking out the front window and your children are in the back seat. Remember Art Linkletter? How he said that kids say the darned-est things? Something about car rides encourages that. Especially longish car rides.
We were merging onto the heavy traffic on Highway 40 when Erik explained to me that because Detweiler and I weren't married, our new baby would be a “littermate.”
“A littermate?” I adjusted my rearview mirror so I could look at him. My son’s solemn face stared back at me. His chocolate brown eyes, his mocha-colored skin, and his red hair testified to his biracial heritage. He might not be the child of my womb, but he's certainly the child of my heart. From the moment I set eyes on him, I fell in love with that little boy.
“A littermate? I don't understand what you mean, sweetie.”
Anya rolled her eyes and explained, “He means i-l-l-e-g-i-t-i-m-a-t-e.”
It took me a while to put those letters into a word. When I did, I nearly drove off the road. “Uh, Erik, honey? Who was talking to you about the baby being a ...littermate?”
“Grandma Co-wins,” he said, mangling my mother’s last name, Collins.
My mother. That paragon of parenthood.
I gritted my teeth. “That figures.” Although she didn’t know it, my Mom had just moved one step closer to an apartment in assisted living. Mom wasn’t aware yet, but the rental house was going up for sale. My sisters and I had several meetings, trying to decide how to cope with our aging parent. In the end, we decided to wait until after the holidays were over.
Calling my child “illegitimate” marke
d a new low, even for her.
I told myself to shrug it off. To consider the source. But Anya turned her denim blue eyes on me and said, “She's right, Mom.”
“Don't worry,” I said. “Detweiler and I still have plenty of time to tie the knot.”
Two hours later, the contractions started.
CHAPTER 2
Brawny, which is the nickname of our Scot nanny, handles everything with aplomb. “Braxton-Hicks,” she said, after she timed my contractions by watching the second hand on her watch make its rounds.
“Who is Braxton-Hicks and how do I phone him?” Detweiler waved his cell phone in one hand. At the first sign of my distress, he had jumped up from the dinner table and run to my side.
“Braxton-Hicks means false labor,” said Brawny in a soothing voice. “Of course, you'll want to take Kiki to the hospital to be sure, but I'm fairly certain that our wee lad isn't coming yet.”
“Of course I'll take her to the hospital.” Detweiler looked at Brawny as if she'd suggested we sacrifice a lamb on our dining room table. “Help me get her to the car.”
Brawny grabbed my woolen cape and draped it over my shoulders. “Anya? Stay with your brother, please. I notice you haven't touched those peas. Eat them or there's no dessert.”
The nanny wrapped an arm around my waist and pointed me toward the door. Detweiler proceeded to run around in circles trying to find his car keys (in his pants), his utility belt (locked in the gun safe upstairs as always), his cell phone (also in his pants), and his wallet (in his hand). Brawny and I hobbled through the kitchen and down the hallway toward the garage. As we did, our harlequin Great Dane, Gracie, started whining. But not because she was worried about me. She loves Detweiler best, even though I’m the person who adopted her. Her canine sixth sense informed her that if I was leaving, he was taking off too.
“I'm sure you're right about it being a false alarm. I've got almost a month to go.”
“Twenty-five days!” Detweiler yelled from inside the house.
“It's not so bad for him to do a trial run to the hospital,” Brawny whispered. “Let him get the kinks out. Prepare him for the real thing.”
“See you in a couple of hours.” I slid into the cold passenger’s seat of the police cruiser.
“I'll have Erik in bed and Anya hard at her studies. Don't worry about a thing.”
Detweiler raced into the garage and around his car clockwise, then counterclockwise to check on me, then clockwise to open his door, and then counterclockwise to make sure my seat belt wasn't too tight across my belly. With lights and siren blazing, we sped off into the night, alarming all of our Webster Groves neighbors in the process.
He tried talking to me, but the result was gibberish. I covered my mouth to keep from laughing. Considering that he's a homicide detective who copes with tragedy and high drama on a daily basis, you'd think he would have handled my impending delivery in a calm, cool, collected manner. But here’s his secret: The one thing that Chad Detweiler has wanted, his whole life, has been to have a family. Even as a little kid, he'd tell his mother, “When I get married and have my own children...”
Thelma Detweiler thought it an adorable trait. I agree.
We broke speed limits right and left. I smiled to myself. Chad Detweiler was going to make a wonderful father to our son. He'd already proven that by how he acted toward Anya, and Erik. As long as he didn't crash the car on the ride to the hospital, we were well on our way to fulfilling his dream.
With one little hitch: We weren't officially married.
CHAPTER 3
Standing there in the gazebo, a wonderful sense of peace descended on me. Leighton kept snapping photos, which would make a beautiful wedding album. I was wearing a heavy white gown, thick with handmade lace. Leighton had donated his mother's damask and lace tablecloths so that Brawny, that marvel of domesticity, could whip up a special gown for my wedding day. The long sleeves came to a point at my wrists. The high waist reminded me of the gown of a medieval princess I'd once seen in a painting. Brawny even managed to concoct a sort of cape with a hood to keep me warm. It was a kind gesture. Even though pregnancy had cranked up my natural thermostat to a near feverish pitch, my ears still got cold.
To my left stood Erik and Anya, bundled up in their winter coats, scarves, gloves, and hats, and with solemn expressions on their faces. To my right was Detweiler in his navy blue dress uniform. Hadcho had taken his place at Detweiler’s side. Brawny stood stoically at the far left, helping me bookend the children. She was wearing her “uniform,” a tartan skirt, knee socks, brogues, and a woolen cape. Next to Brawny stood Gracie, shivering in the cold.
I turned my attention to our minister, Lorraine, a stooped figure in a full-length black mink coat. Because of a recent flare up of her MS, she was leaning hard on her walker. Leighton was at her elbow to steady her. Her guard dog, Paola, a Giant Schnauzer, scooted to one side to give the man access.
As Lorraine found the correct page in her prayer book, I drank in my surroundings. The world was achingly beautiful. Yet another layer of snow had been falling all morning. The large oak tree never wore such a splendid white mantle. A serene silence reigned, broken only by the occasional tinkle of the wind chimes that Leighton had hung at various locales. It was music so dear to me, as I'd heard the bell tones daily for years now. But this morning, they seemed particularly celestial as they chimed from every corner of Leighton’s Webster Groves estate.
Except that this wasn't Leighton's Webster Groves estate. It was ours. Detweiler’s and mine. When Erik first came to live with us, we were living in the tiny cottage on the edge of the grounds. The place had been a large garage until Leighton converted it into an oversized writing studio. But the building didn’t work for him, so he’d rented it to me, back when it was just me and my daughter, Anya. As Detweiler joined us, and then Erik and Brawny, the tiny space became far too crowded for three adults and two children. Not to mention a big dog, and two cats. Meanwhile, a change in his finances forced Leighton to put his big family house up for sale. Like a fairy godmother, Lorraine waved a magic wand and—presto, change-o! In a move worthy of reality television, we had effected a house swap.
It all worked out perfectly, especially because in the meantime, Leighton and Lorraine had fallen in love. She agreed to move in with him. The big old Haversham mansion, with its multiple floors and stairs, was too cumbersome for a woman with MS, but the cottage suited her down to the ground. So we gained the space our growing family needed, and they doted on their cozy nest. Best of all, the close proximity encouraged Lorraine to take on the role of “Aunt Lori,” while Leighton was already an ersatz uncle to the children. I couldn’t have been more pleased. Hillary Clinton was entirely right: It does take a village to raise a child.
As Lori read our vows from her Unity Book of Prayer, Erik hopped up and down, catching flakes on his tongue. Because he'd lived his whole life in California, Erik had never seen snow. Each snowflake offered new temptation. At first, Anya tried to stop him. They were holding hands, so she simply gave his a tug, but Erik proved more determined. She's an indulgent big sister, so she let him have his fun. Meanwhile, I listened to the words that would officially make me Mrs. Chad Detweiler, and I agreed to take him as my husband.
“I now pronounce you man and wife,” said Lori.
Erik jumped up to catch a snowflake. I reached for him, worried that he’d topple off of the gazebo.
Then came a loud crack—and a bullet tore a hole in the hood of my cape.
“Get down!” Throwing myself at the children, I pushed them off the gazebo and into a snow bank.
“Shooter! Two o'clock!” screamed Detweiler.
“I'm on it,” responded Hadcho.
I glanced up to see Brawny cock her arm and let something silver fly.
Simultaneously, Gracie streaked past as she went running toward the shed with her leash trailing behind.
Detweiler and Hadcho jumped awkwardly off the gazebo and ran after Gracie.
Leighton must have knocked Lorraine off the side of the structure, as I had done with the kids, because I heard her metal walker clank against the wooden frame. Hot on Gracie’s heels, Paolo flew past, barking up a storm.
“Anya? Erik? You okay?” I stared into the wide eyes of the kids.
“Uh-huh,” said my daughter. Erik’s lower lip quivered, but he nodded in agreement.
“Stay here.” I crawled on my elbows around the back of the gazebo. Lorraine was blinking up at the sky. Leighton was on all fours, talking to her.
I glanced into Leighton’s wide eyes. “You two okay?”
“I think so. Lorraine?” He brushed snow from her hair.
“Y-yes. I’m fine.” She began babbling. “Kiki? Anya? Erik? The baby?”
“Right as rain. The snow cushioned my belly. I’m going to check on the kids—”
Two more loud cracks followed.
Brawny appeared out of nowhere. She flew through the air and landed next to me in a crouch reminiscent of Superman arriving to save the day. “Anyone hurt?”
“I don't think so.”
“Split up! Leighton, grab Lorraine and come with me. Kiki, take the kids and run to the shed! Stay there!”
Why the shed? I wondered as I pulled up Anya by the hand, and she helped me with Erik. We hustled awkwardly toward the wooden structure. Glancing over my shoulder, I saw Brawny working with Leighton to carry Lorraine toward the big house.
Of course.
Brawny had thought this through. If we’d all headed the same way, we would have jammed up at the door. That would have left me and the kids exposed while we jostled to get inside. Cunningly, Brawny had split us up to keep us safe.
Erik was too confused to cooperate, so Anya and I each took a hand and lifted him so that his feet skimmed the surface of the snow. When we were close enough, I used my foot to give the side door to the shed a mighty kick. It clattered open. Our eyes adjusted to the dark. Monroe, the donkey, nickered a greeting. He loves my kids, but has little patience for most people.
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells Page 1
