When I tired of that, I opened my computer and Skyped Erik and Anya. The conversation was short, as the kids were too busy to waste time on Dear Old Mom. Erik was over-the-moon thrilled because Joe had shown him how to make paper boats that they sailed in the bathtub. Anya had practiced putting on makeup with Laurel. In fact, they'd been in the midst of working on their up-dos when I'd called, so I got a glimpse of my daughter with her hair in a stylish chignon.
“They're fine. We're fine,” said Laurel. “Don't worry about us. Joe and I are having a blast with the kids. How's Detweiler?”
I told her the latest, which wasn't much. “He's weak and tired. Not making much sense. However, his color is good and the surgeon is pleased.”
“We're happy to stick around as long as you want,” said Laurel. “Leighton and Lorraine are making dinner for us. I guess she can cook a mean standing rib roast.”
“If you need to take off, let me know. I'll send Brawny home. Right now, there's a uniformed officer guarding Hadcho and Detweiler's rooms, but I'm not sure that Prescott will let the guard stay on duty. He's sort of a jerk. I can't guess what he'll do when he realizes the department is paying the guard's hourly wages.”
The tiny Laurel on my computer screen bobbed her head in agreement. “I hear what you're saying, but that's what friends are for, Kiki. To help out. Anyway, try not to worry about keeping someone there on duty. It'll work out. That reminds me, I talked to Margit. She opened the store for a couple of hours. A few customers wandered in. Not enough to make the cash register ring. I guess Mona Goodman came in and wanted to return everything her husband bought for her.”
“What?” That was nearly two-hundred-dollars-worth of scrapbook supplies. Darvin Goodman had asked me to fix them up in a nice basket. The process had taken a chunk out of a day when I could ill afford to step away from the sales floor.
“I have no idea what's going on, but Margit said Mona was adamant about returning all that stuff. Get this, she hadn't even opened the cellophane to see what was in the basket.”
“Then she doesn't even know what she's bringing back!” I reminded myself to take a long deep breath and release it slowly. Like all merchants, I despise taking returns. They represent a lost sale and a lost opportunity. But this turn of events had me puzzled. Darvin Goodman had spared no expense in choosing a bountiful amount of materials for his wife. This was her favorite hobby. So why was she so determined to bring it all back?
“Since it's a return totaling more than fifty bucks, Margit explained she'd need your approval. That'll buy you time. Maybe you can figure out what the deal is, and why Mona doesn't want all that stuff. It is really odd. She goes through scrapbooking supplies like I go through hairspray. Oh, and Margit's planning to send out an e-blast telling all our customers that we're closing early because of the incoming bad weather. I doubt that there's any point to us opening up tomorrow. Not with the ice and snow they're predicting. I guess they're now saying it will start early tomorrow morning. They keep going back and forth, changing their prediction on the timing. All the meteorologists know for sure is that it's going to happen, and it will be nasty.”
It was good that the Detweilers had already left.
“Closing the store is the smart thing to do. Have you heard anything from Clancy?”
“I had told her what happened. She pointed out that most people have a reception after their ceremony rather than a confab with a crime squad. I've been keeping her updated, because she doesn't want to bother you. I explained that Margit has the store covered, and she said, thank goodness, because the snow plow left a mountain ten feet tall in front of her driveway. Raoul is with her, so she's snug and happy. I hope you don't mind, but I took the liberty of telling her to stay put.”
“I agree. It's better for all of you to stay safe. Our customers can wait. The Detweilers left a few minutes ago. Thelma messaged me from the highway to say it is snowing over in Illinois already. The real mess will start with icy rain. That'll hit us after midnight, if the forecasts are correct.”
Secure in the knowledge that all my responsibilities were covered, I fell back to sleep in the recliner. The past few weeks, in the run-up to Christmas, I hadn't gotten much rest. Between working at the store, moving into Leighton's big house, and buying gifts, I'd been run ragged. Now I had every reason to sleep, knowing that Detweiler was on his way to recovery. But before I closed my eyes, I set the alarm on my phone for seven p.m. That would give me an hour to get to CALA for the candle-lighting service.
Unfortunately, my little passenger refused to cooperate. The baby poked me under the ribs. I couldn't get comfortable in the recliner. When I finally drifted off, I dreamed of Anya waking up in a strange bed and crying out, “Mama! Mama!” It didn't take a psychology degree to decipher the meaning of that nightmare. Diya Patel had been only two years older than Anya.
Why had she crawled into a stranger's bed and died?
What had Sarita Patel told Detweiler?
Why wasn't Detweiler in more of a hurry to share his findings?
Who was really responsible for Diya's death?
I couldn't get back to sleep. Detweiler's color had improved. His breathing was deep and even. The big black and white institutional clock on the wall suggested that I should get up and get dressed.
Taking my fabric tote bag into the bathroom, I tidied myself up and changed. A glance out the windows confirmed I'd have to scrape ice off the Highlander, my least favorite job of all. In preparation, I dressed as warmly as I could. After one last look at Detweiler, I headed for the hallway, knowing I'd soon be out in the cold at the mercy of the elements.
CHAPTER 35
I was leaving Detweiler's room, when Brawny waved me over so we could talk quietly. The only other people lingering in the halls were hospital staff, but given the circumstances, being secretive still seemed prudent. “Hadcho's awake. I told him what you're planning, and he wants to talk with you.”
“If he's going to try and stop me, he has another think coming.”
“No.” She waved away my concern. “That's not the impression I got. He's all for you talking to Sarita Patel, but he figures the more you know about the circumstances, the better shot you'll have at getting a straight answer.”
I'd been geared up to brave the weather and clean my car, a task I hated with a passion, and this diversion would only delay the inevitable. On the other hand, if Hadcho had important information, it was worth my while to stick around and chat.
Giving a nod to the uniformed officer on duty, I tapped on the door to Room 224. After Hadcho grunted a greeting, I went inside and pulled up a chair by his bed.
I wasn't prepared for how frail he looked. His normally ruddy skin tone had taken on a grayish undertone. Somehow I'd convinced myself that Hadcho was okay, having only been lightly grazed by a bullet. One look told me that I'd underestimated how badly hurt he was. He seemed so helpless there in the bed. With a pang, I remembered that Hadcho was alone, whereas Detweiler had his family to bolster his spirits.
I gave our friend a quick peck on the forehead. “Hey, buddy. Glad to see you awake. How are you feeling?”
“Fine.” His response came as a grumble. “You going to see Sarita Patel?”
“Uh-huh. In fact, I've got to head out soon, or I won't make it to the candle-lighting ceremony on time.” I dragged over a plastic chair.
“Don't worry. I'll get you up to speed quickly. It's not like I know a lot about the case, but at least you won't be totally clueless.” According to Hadcho, Diya was supposed to be spending the night at the home of another CALA student, her best friend, Isabella Franklin. Around eleven, the two friends snuck out of the Franklins' house. They walked a distance of approximately six blocks to the home of one Mark Jackson, a senior, whose parents were out of town. One of Mark's classmates brought over a case of beer, and Diya downed a couple. Isabella admitted that was “unusual” for her friend. Thanks to the miracle of social media, word got around quickly that Mark Jackson wa
s “having a party.”
Hadcho snickered. “I guess to this generation, it's acceptable to open your home to perfect strangers. As you might imagine, in no time at all, things were totally out of control. Not surprisingly, Isabella lost track of her friend.”
A sudden pain caught him up short, and Hadcho gasped for air.
I jumped up from my chair, ready to ring for the nurse. “Can I get you anything?”
“Water, please?”
I filled a cup for him, and he continued the story. “Keith Oberlin's house is nearly a mile away from the Jacksons'. That night, Oberlin had gone to bed early. Shortly after one a.m., Oberlin was awakened by his dogs raising a ruckus. Someone was banging on the front door. Oberlin discovered a shivering Diya Patel on his doorstep.”
“According to Oberlin, she had booze on her breath. Diya was disoriented and shivering, so he let her in… and this was where the story gets fuzzy.”
“Fuzzy?”
“Doesn't make much sense, does it?” Hadcho frowned at me. “Why would a sixteen-year-old girl who's never been in any trouble go to a drinking party? And why wander off in the cold?”
“Hormones. Don't forget I live with a thirteen-year-old girl. Anya's emotions are riding a perpetual roller coaster. At that age, kids don't think through the consequences of their decisions. I bet the party sounded like fun at first. And then it got scary when things got out of hand. So Diya probably decided to head back to the Franklins' house. Only she wasn't sober enough to find her way in the dark. She got lost and wound up on Keith Oberlin's doorstep.”
“Kiki, it was freezing cold that night. Who wanders around in the dark and the cold?”
“A teenager. Trust me on this, Hadcho. They are incapable of fearing for their lives. They think they are invincible. Look, Anya shares stories with me about stunts her classmates have pulled. It's horrifying! We can give our kids everything, but experience is something they have to accumulate for themselves. And usually, there's a cost involved.”
He shook his head. “I hear you, but it just doesn't make sense. If the party was out of control, why didn't Diya call her parents and ask them to pick her up? Wouldn't you gladly go and get Anya if she needed a ride?”
“Of course I would, but that's not the point. Think it through, Hadcho. Diya couldn't call her parents because if she did, she'd get Isabella in trouble. Diya probably figured she could get herself back to the Franklins' house, and no one would be the wiser. Instead, she got turned around. It was a twist of fate that landed her on Keith Oberlin's doorstep.”
“I don't believe in coincidences.” Hadcho's mouth pressed into a sour line. “Or fate. Even when it's twisted like a pretzel.”
“Okay, I get what you're saying, but you and I are approaching all this information logically. Kids that age aren't good at predicting the consequences of their actions. Add booze to the mix, and there's even less rational thought going on.” I said my piece, and then shut up. My argument had reminded me of Sheila and her self-destructive behavior. Alcohol was a thief that robbed sentient people of their ability to foresee consequences. On the other hand, maybe that was part of the appeal.
“Maybe.” He sounded mollified but not convinced.
“What's Oberlin's address?”
Hadcho rattled it off.
“It's a big house, isn't it? Tudor? I've seen it. He doesn't live far from Sheila and Robbie live. Can anyone corroborate Oberlin's story?”
“One of Oberlin's neighbors remembers hearing dogs barking around midnight.”
“Look, I need to get going. Can you tell me what happened next? And make it fast?” My cell phone told me I needed to get a move on if I wanted to make it to the memorial service.
“Oberlin let her in. Diya was obviously drunk, and her clothes were soaking wet. She complained of a headache. He gave her a couple of Tylenol and agreed to let her spend the night in one of his guest bedrooms.”
“He didn't call her parents?”
Hadcho shrugged. “I guess not.”
That made me raise my eyebrows. “Really? You're kidding! What kind of idiot lets an underage girl he's never met stay overnight in his house?”
“Keith Oberlin isn't exactly known for being a paragon of good judgment.” Hadcho's voice had an ironic edge to it.
“What did Diya have on when she was found dead? I mean, if you suspect foul play, isn't that significant?”
“When her body was found, she was wearing a pair of Keith's flannel drawstring pants and a Rams sweatshirt. Plus a pair of his socks. According to Oberlin, Diya's clothes were soaked. The techs found them in the dryer. They hadn't been washed, only dried. See, that doesn't make sense either. Who dries the clothes of a girl he plans to molest?” Hadcho scratched his head and continued with his story.
“The next morning around ten, Keith figures his guest has slept long enough. He knocks on the bedroom door, but she doesn't answer. Because he has a cup of coffee in one hand, he walks away and comes right back. He knocks again. Still no response. Now he starts to get worried. He calls out to her, but Diya doesn't respond. In a total panic, Oberlin breaks down the bedroom door.”
I thought that through. “The door must have been locked from the inside.”
“Right, and Kiki? We're not talking about those el-cheapo, flimsy hollow-core doors. We're talking six-panel solid wood. Oberlin's so shook up that he actually kicks the door until it pops off the hinges. Once inside, he finds her cold and unresponsive. Calls 911 immediately. When they arrive, the coffee was still warm on the kitchen table, but she isn't. Her body is cold as ice. She's dead. Long gone. And he's inconsolable.”
“Horrible. Just awful,” I said, shaking my head.
“You're telling me. Remember the splash it made in the papers? Sure, they didn't release her name, but the rest of the details were front and center. When you've got a rich playboy like Oberlin and a dead underage girl, you've got industrial strength fireworks. People have been phoning the police station, practically howling for this Oberlin guy's skin. That's why Robbie instructed Detweiler to work the case and keep everything quiet until he had all the facts. Sure, I've done some of the footwork, checking out details and such, but you know Detweiler. He's calm, cool, and collected.”
“But he had come to a conclusion?”
“Yes. Right before Christmas, he said he had everything we needed. He wanted to walk us through the case, and let us—Robbie and me—poke holes in his reasoning. That way we'd be sure to have everything air-tight and buttoned-down.”
“But he didn't get to talk to you two because Robbie had a personal crisis.”
Hadcho's laugh was mirthless. “A personal crisis named Sheila. Detweiler hated that our meeting was postponed. He told me that he couldn't wait to put this case behind us. I can't blame him. The fact that Diya Patel was close to Anya's age, well, it really got to him.”
CHAPTER 36
Hadcho's description of the case weighed on me. So did the time. I had just twenty minutes until the memorial service, but I couldn't leave without checking on Detweiler one more time. The light slatted through the vinyl blinds, blinking across his bedclothes. He seemed to be fine. But how many secrets did he keep from me for my own protection? What pains ailed him that I'd never know? How did his job weigh on him, press on his heart?
Tearing myself away from him seemed almost impossible. Brawny appeared in Detweiler's doorway. Some sixth sense had told her I was reluctant to leave.
“You better get going.” She handed over the keys. “I cleaned the car off.”
“Right. Thank you. You know how I hate that job.” I started to wrap a red scarf around my throat.
Tugging the red scarf out of my hands, she replaced it with hers, a navy knit. When I looked askance, she said, “Mine is less conspicuous. Let me remind you to be careful. Look around before you get out of your car. Park as close to the entrance as you can. Stay with groups of people as much as possible. Don't be a straggler.”
“Really?”
“We can't be sure who it was that the shooters were targeting. Look around you. Stay aware of the exits. If you hear anything suspicious, duck. You can always pretend to be tying a shoelace or some other nonsense,” and she paused, “I am rightly worried.”
The lights indicated the elevator car was one floor away. I was eager to be out of here, on my way, and being productive. “I'll be careful.”
“Do you still have that pepper spray I gave you? It will drift down, so aim high. Do not extend your arm fully, because a straight arm makes it easier for an assailant to grab your hand and pull you toward him. Carry the spray with you, but make sure you have it pointed in the right direction. Don't squirt yourself accidentally. Remember what I've taught you.”
At the start of the school year, Brawny had held a quickie self-defense class at our house. Originally the session was for Anya and her best friend Nicci Moore, but the girls had been so impressed that they insisted Brawny repeat it for us moms, Jennifer Moore and me. Our nanny drilled it into our heads that vigilance is paramount if you want to stay safe.
“That's not the same as being fearful,” she'd said. “I'm not advocating that you run around like scared fluffy bunnies. Be aware of your surroundings at all times. That's the key.”
As the elevator door dinged and creaked open, I said, “Don't forget, I'm headed for CALA. There will be security guards all over the campus. That's the way the school operates.”
“But what if our gunman is disguised as a security guard?”
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells Page 10
