Shotgun, Wedding, Bells

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “All’s calm now. They’re in the living room, reading their Kindles. Leighton took Lorraine home, so she could get a spot of rest.”

  She hadn’t heard from Robbie or Sheila. I told her about my brief conversation with the chief of police. I also learned that she’d called my sisters and my mother. “Catherine and Amanda send their love and prayers.”

  Expecting some sort of concern from my mother would be like asking the moon to change its orbit. The universe would collapse before Lucia Collins changed her ways. After all, the world revolved around her, didn’t it?

  After another restless half hour, my fingers shook as I hit the “favorites” button to talk to Thelma Detweiler. Surely they’d have gotten their phones charged. As a holiday gift, Detweiler and I had given his parents portable chargers. My husband had sternly lectured both of them on keeping their phones charged at all times.

  At least it didn’t go right to voice mail, I thought as I listened to the endless ringing. I chose to call Thelma rather than call her husband, because she's the least emotional of Detweiler's parents. Louis is much more of a softie. He tears up at old movies. Thelma seems as soft and homespun as an old flannel nightie, but under that warm and fuzzy exterior is a backbone made of steel. I've never seen her upset or flustered. She keeps her husband on an even keel.

  “It's Kiki,” I said, relieved when she answered.

  “We tried to call you earlier! But then the landline went out. Took us a while to figure out how to use these new chargers. How'd it go? Are you my daughter-in-law in the eyes of the law? How was it? How are the kids? Did Chad cry? I want to know everything!” Thelma gushed. She barely took a breath.

  I decided to give her the good news first. It might make the bad news easier to swallow.

  “Yes, Chad and I are married,”

  “Hurrah!” she shouted. “Louis! They did it! They tied the knot! Welcome to the family, Kiki!”

  I heard him whooping in the distance.

  “Thelma? I have something to tell you—”

  “Let me guess,” she said with a laugh. “You're pregnant.”

  “Thelma, I'm serious. I'm trying to tell you that there was an incident. A problem. Are you sitting down?” I hated breaking this to her over the phone.

  “A problem? Let me guess! One of the kids did something silly. That happened at my sister Theresa's wedding. Or Detweiler forgot the ring. His father did the same thing. Every wedding has its story. Just remember that we'll laugh about it in years to come.”

  I had my doubts.

  “Thelma? This is serious. Listen carefully. Your son's been shot. I'm here in the Emergency Room.”

  “What?” Her voice went up an octave.

  “Your son. He's been shot. I'm in the hospital with him now.”

  I heard a loud clatter as she dropped the phone. I called out, “Thelma? Thelma, are you there?”

  Whimpering and sobs drifted back to me.

  Louis snatched up the phone, as he did, I heard him grumble, “What in the blue blazes is going on?”

  “Louis, I have bad news for you.”

  “Kiki? What on earth? Where's Chad?”

  “He's been shot. You need to get here. I'm at South Central Hospital.”

  Louis hung up on me.

  CHAPTER 17

  I've never felt so alone in my life. Not even when my first husband George Lowenstein died. Back then, if something had happened to me, Sheila could step in and raise Anya. That wasn't what I wanted. Not at all. But in my heart of hearts, I knew that Sheila was capable of taking care of my daughter. That knowledge had been strangely comforting.

  A lot has changed since then.

  Sheila has begun a new life as the wife of St. Louis Police Chief Robbie Holmes.

  I became pregnant unexpectedly, as the result of what Detweiler laughingly called, “Equipment failure.”

  And to top it all off, we added five-year-old Erik and his nanny Bronwyn “Brawny” Macavity to our household.

  They came to live with us after Detweiler's first wife, Gina, and her second husband, Van Lauber, died in an automobile accident. Initially, we were told that Erik was Gina and Detweiler's biological child.

  However, one look at the boy quickly corrected that notion, because Erik is biracial. Gina had been having an affair with one of Detweiler's fellow police officers, an African-American, when she got pregnant. In fact, she was expecting Erik when she walked out on Detweiler without leaving a forwarding address. Detweiler never even knew of Erik's existence! Strangely enough, in the eyes of the law, Erik is actually Detweiler's son because he and Gina were still lawfully wedded when the boy was born.

  Lorraine Lauber, Van's sister, could not raise Erik because she suffers from a debilitating form of MS. So when drafting her will, Gina left behind a letter begging Detweiler to raise the child who shares his last name.

  It is a testimony to Detweiler's character that he can love a child who is proof of Gina's infidelity. As for me, well, I've been delighted to welcome Erik into our lives.

  To help Erik adjust, Lorraine offered to pay Brawny's wages, so the nanny could stay with him, since she's been with Erik from birth.

  And thus, our little family has grown exponentially. Whereas once I only had to worry about Anya, I now have Anya, Erik, and a baby on the way.

  If Detweiler didn't make it, how would I make ends meet? Lorraine and Detweiler promised we'd sit down after the holidays and talk about finances. I suspected she would offer to pay for Erik's college. But how would I handle the day-to-day needs of three kids if my husband died? How would I meet the physical and emotional demands of three children? Especially given my obligations to the business I'm buying, Time in a Bottle, the scrapbook and crafts store once owned by the late Dodie Goldfader? Thus far I’ve been able to make regular payments to Dodie's widower, Horace. But would the business continue to thrive if I was distracted by raising three kids by myself?

  The specter of failure loomed over my head like a big black cloud, threatening to rain down on me. My willful ignorance had brought on this stormy weather, and I cursed myself for being so stupid.

  This was the same trap I'd fallen for when my first husband died. I’d thought of us as financially secure. But after his death, I learned we were maxed out on all our credit cards, and we owed other money as well. As time went on, I also realized I had no idea what the status was of his partnership, or what provisions he’d made for Anya and me.

  How could I have been so stupid the second time around? Why hadn't I insisted on more information? Why had I been willing to trust Detweiler when he told me that there was nothing to worry about? Why had I agreed we could talk about all this after the baby came?

  Like a swimmer pulled under by a strong current, I suddenly hungered for air. The edges of my vision darkened, and stars danced before my eyes. A powerful pressure built up in my head.

  And then…the baby kicked.

  Snap out of it, he seemed to be saying. Get a grip! You have to be strong! Call for help if you need to!

  But who would I call?

  Clancy would hop in the car and drive here from Illinois, no matter how risky the trip was. I didn't want that on my conscience. My old friend Mert Chambers and I were estranged. She blamed me for nearly getting her brother killed. Margit Eichen, who owned a minority portion of the store, was a wonderful, nurturing woman, but she is also a terrible driver even in the best of weather. I had already called Sheila and Robbie, only to be given the brush off. Jennifer Moore was out west, skiing with her children. There was only one other number on my favorites list. One other local friend who might offer me a shoulder to cry on.

  Laurel Wilkins answered on the first ring. I managed to choke out what had happened, and she said, “They’ve finally gotten our street cleared. I'll be right there. Joe will come, too. He's pretty good at saying prayers.”

  That's Joe, as in “Father Joe,” an Episcopal priest.

  When the tough stuff happens, it helps to have God on
your side.

  CHAPTER 18

  All things considered, I wasn't feeling very charitable when Robbie called back. I thought about ignoring his ring, but hey, life's short. That seemed to be a timely aphorism, given the events of the morning.

  “Kiki Lowenstein-Detweiler,” I said, determined to practice that mouthful before I went public with my new name.

  “Look, I'm sorry that I cut you off earlier,” said Robbie, “but I've got my hands full.”

  “You and me both.”

  He interrupted before I could tell him what had happened. “Sheila drank herself into a coma. Found her face down on the kitchen table this morning when I got up. So I lied to you about the tree blocking the drive. When you called, the EMTs were working on her. They took her to the hospital to get her stomach pumped or whatever it is that they do when your blood alcohol is point-three-zero.”

  “What?”

  “You heard me.”

  “I think I did. Could you repeat that?” I was having trouble processing this.

  “Your mother-in-law drank herself into oblivion. It's happened twice now that I know of. Once on Christmas Eve. That’s why she was in such a bad mood on Christmas Day. Fortunately, when I found her that night, she was groggy but not unconscious. She did it again this morning. I guess she can't even wait until noon to get drunk these days. When I couldn’t rouse her, I called the ambulance. I'm still here at the hospital—”

  His voice sounded suspiciously near. Loud, too. I uncurled myself from the chair, stood up, and looked straight into Robbie's florid face. He's a big man, but Sheila seems to be breaking him down, inch by inch. Every time I see him, he wears his age like a wet raincoat that’s dragging on the ground.

  “Fancy meeting you here.” I punched the button to end my call.

  “You okay? False labor again? The baby all right?” He fired off these questions one right after another.

  “Yes, but—”

  “What a wonderful world, huh? This place was jammed packed less than an hour ago. You planning to stay like that? With your chair facing the wall?”

  “Can you help me turn it around?” I figured it would be better to tell him the bad news face to face. “Is Sheila going to be all right?”

  “I hope so.” With a deft move, he managed to rearrange the same wingback that had taken me fifteen minutes of huffing and puffing to point in the opposite direction. As I faced the waiting room, I realized most of the crowd had cleared out.

  Wearily, Robbie pulled over a chair for himself. When we faced each other, I saw how puffy his eyes were and how red his nose was. He'd been crying. Although he usually dresses neatly, his shirt was rumpled with a coffee stain on the placket. In short, he was a hot mess.

  “Detweiler and Hadcho were shot. At our wedding.” I paused. “I mean, my wedding to Detweiler of course. Not that I was marrying Hadcho. But you knew that. Right? Or did you?”

  “You're kidding me!” It had taken him a while to process my babble. The color drained from his face. “Back up, you got married? Decided not to wait, and they’re hurt? How are they? What do you know? Are the local police on top of this?”

  What most people call St. Louis is actually a metro area composed of 91 different municipalities. Robbie is the Chief of Police for St. Louis County, but all the rest of these towns and villages have their own police forces. Given the varying degrees of autonomy, it wasn't entirely surprising that he hadn't heard that two of his officers had suffered gunshot wounds.

  “I take it you didn’t hear anything I said when I called you.” I knew I shouldn’t goad him, but I was still angry at how quickly he’d dismissed me on the phone earlier.

  He raised an eyebrow at me. “Suffice it to say, I’ve had my hands full. This was supposed to be my day off. Now, what’s the prognosis?”

  “Hadcho's in recovery. He made it through the surgery okay, except for a loss of blood. Detweiler,” and I struggled to talk over the hitch in my throat, “took a bullet to the gut.”

  With that, I broke down and started crying. I just couldn’t hold back any longer.

  Robbie gathered me into his arms and patted my back. His strength was transferred to me as he crooned, “It'll be all right. He's a tough guy with everything to live for. You'll see. Detweiler will be up and at 'em in no time.”

  “W-w-what if he isn't? What will I do?”

  Robbie held me at arms’ length and stared into my eyes. “You'll do what you always do, Kiki. You'll find a way.”

  CHAPTER 19

  After I wet his shoulder with my tears, Robbie settled me back in the chair and went to get me more hot tea. Decaf this time. I directed him to the cafeteria, while I used the ladies' room.

  We timed it right and arrived back at my special chair in tandem.

  “I've got to hand it to you, Kiki, you know how to make a wedding special. Think of the stunning scrapbook page you’ll be able to make. You can even use bullets as a what-do-you-call-it? Belly mint?”

  “Embellishment. Sarcasm does not become you, Robbie. So you lied to me when you told me that you couldn't get out of your driveway.”

  He gave a tiny shrug. “I didn't see any reason to worry you. Not today, at least. I figured you might go ahead with the ceremony. You and Chad needed to make things legal for the baby’s sake. If Sheila didn't have enough respect for you two to stay sober on this day above all others that was her choice. The least I could do was to try and contain the carnage.”

  “Didn't work that way, but I appreciate the thought.” I blew on the surface of the hot beverage.

  “Let me call Roscoe Gumfries and see if he has any leads. He’s the Chief of the Webster Groves P. D.” Robbie started pulling his cell phone out of his pocket.

  “Before you do, you need to know that Brawny took out one of the gunmen. There were two of them. She threw a knife and got one. The other gunman hunted me and the kids down. I managed to fight him off with a pitchfork, but he’s still out there.”

  “Unbelievable. He came after you and the kids? Every year, the creeps sink lower and lower on the evolution chart. What can you tell me about the guy you wounded?”

  I explained about the man coming after us in the shed. “I nicked him with the pitchfork. I'm only sorry that I didn't stab him hard enough to keep him from running away. Brawny regrets that she killed the other guy because she thinks she could have gotten good information from him. Maybe he would have ratted out his partner.”

  “Maybe. Maybe not. You never know about these things, and it's more important that Brawny took him out. Especially since he was shooting at you.” Robbie hesitated. “Any idea who was the target?”

  “Me, of course.”

  But as soon as the words were out of my mouth, I changed my mind. “Although it could have been Detweiler. Or Hadcho. After all, they both took bullets, so the shooters must have been aiming at them.”

  I grabbed the back of an old magazine and took a pen from my purse. Drawing Xs and a crude oval to represent the floor of the gazebo, I said, “Here's how we were standing.” Then I labelled each of the Xs.

  “One bullet narrowly missed you?”

  “Went through the hood of the cape I was wearing.”

  “What were you doing at the time? I mean, what exactly was going on? What did you hear or see? What was your initial impression?”

  I must have looked confused.

  “Close your eyes,” said Robbie. “Think about the ceremony. You were all on the gazebo. Lorraine was pronouncing the vows.”

  “Erik kept bouncing up and down, trying to catch snowflakes. He was mid-air, when I grabbed at him, because I was scared he'd take a tumble off the gazebo.” With that, my eyes flew open and I started laughing, hysterically. “That ought to win me the 'Mother of the Year' Award. I tackled both my kids and knocked them face first down into the snow. Almost landed on my baby bump.”

  With that, I started crying again. This time the tears were soft and regretful.

  “You saved your kids’
lives. Not once but twice. Your quick thinking got them out of harm's way. Your courage kept them safe when that creep came after all of you.”

  I heard him with my ears, but my heart wasn't listening. “Thanks, I guess. But what if they're in danger because the shooter was mad at me? Or at Detweiler? Over the past few years, if there was a mess on the sidewalk of life, we stepped in it.”

  “That's for sure. But I doubt that anyone was looking to hurt you personally. Detweiler, well, maybe. Did he tell you about the case he's working on? Keith Oberlin?”

  “Keith Oberlin? You have to be kidding me.”

  CHAPTER 20

  Once upon a time, there was a city named St. Louis, aka the Gateway to the West. And that fair city was so busy and prosperous that it became a Mecca for all sorts of entrepreneurs, including French fur trappers. They spent the winter up in Canada and around the Great Lakes area, setting their traps and collecting furs. In the spring, they followed the busy streams and rivers until the waters flowed into the mighty Mississippi, the super-highway of those times.

  The actual site of St. Louis was chosen by Pierre Laclede. He wisely selected a bluff near the confluence of the Missouri and Mississippi Rivers, a place long occupied by indigenous peoples.

  Laclede predicted that his fellow Frenchmen would flock to this newly formed trading post. Given its ideal location, he envisioned it becoming a thriving community, nourished by money from the trade in animal skins.

  As a commodity, furs had the advantage of being lightweight and easy to transport. They were in high demand. Beaver felt hats were all the rage in Europe. Marten, otter, lynx and mink were also highly prized. To many young men, the lifestyle of a trapper seemed glamorous. In that role, a man could travel, live without ties or obligations, and enjoy the company of other free-spirited souls.

  One such example was Francois Oberlione. He found work as a voyageur, which is French for “traveler.” Oberlione made his living by transporting trappers from Canada to the trading outposts. His life was one of great physical hardship. He spent every day either paddling a canoe or carrying bundles of fur weighing as much as 90 lbs. each. But he relished the freedom and the camaraderie of his fellow voyageurs. This was a lifestyle for the brave, the curious, and the hearty. Francois would have happily remained a voyageur, but fate intervened when his best friend was trapped in a whirlpool and drowned. The man's cries for help echoed in Oberlione's brain, a ceaseless wail that suggested he might die next.