My heart did a flutter-step.
She was right.
I could be walking right into a trap.
CHAPTER 37
The cold hit me like a slap to the face, but the Highlander is good in bad weather. We hummed along, the car and I. All roads leading to the hospital had been cleared. I zipped right onto 40, which is what the locals call Interstate 64/Highway 40, the main east-west corridor.
There weren't any other cars around, so I took the opportunity to call my kids and see how they were doing.
Laurel answered the phone with a giggle. “We were making snow candy. Erik has sugar all over. Here, I'll put him on.”
“Mama Kiki!” he shouted into the phone. “I made candy! It melted the snow. It's so good. Bye, got to go, love you!”
The phone clattered to the floor, but Anya snatched it up quickly, “Hey Mom, how's Detweiler? And Hadcho?”
I filled her in on the men's progress.
“But they're okay, now? Good. Meemaw and Pop-pop were there?” she asked, calling the Detweilers by the nicknames their granddaughter Emily had chosen for them.
“Yes, sweetie, but it was a short visit. They would have stopped by to see you, but they had to get back to Illinois to pick up Emily. Her parents are out of town, remember?”
“Yeah, I understand, it's just that I miss them, you know? And I miss Gran and Robbie, too. Where are they? I've been calling Gran all day.”
“Anya, you'll have to be strong. I have bad news for you.”
“Did someone shoot them?”
“Oh, no, honey!” Her response told me exactly what was on her mind. She'd come to believe her whole family was in danger. “Nothing like that.”
“Well, what is it?” she sounded peevish.
“You know that Gran has been drinking too much. Well, she had a couple of black-outs. That's what happens when you consume too much alcohol in too short of a period. Robbie has decided that she needs professional help. He's taking her to a rehab clinic.”
“About time.”
“Anya!” I was shocked to hear her blasé response.
“It's true, Mom. I didn't want to worry you, but twice when I've been with her, she's gotten really, really drunk. So embarrassing. Once she couldn't even stand up. I had to get the doorman at the country club to help me with her. He called a cab for us. I guess Robbie went back and got her car later.”
“Why didn't you tell me about this?”
“There was nothing you could do but worry. Robbie knew. I could tell he was upset. He's the one who had to figure out what to do next. We even talked about it.”
“You did?” This irritated me. So Robbie was discussing Sheila's alcoholism with my thirteen-year-old daughter. What right did he have to involve Anya in such a discussion? Given all the changes in our lives, she didn't need the additional pressure of helping him decide how to treat Sheila's addiction.
“Mom, calm down,” said Anya, reading my thoughts. “It wasn't like that. I told him that I was worried. We learned about alcoholism in my health class. Gran fits all the descriptors. I told Robbie I was worried about her. He sort of laughed it off, and then the next day, she and I went together to that mother-daughter tea at the club, remember? You were working at the store? So she and I went?”
“Yeah, but they didn't serve alcohol at the tea!”
“No, they didn't,” said Anya, “but Gran brought her own booze. She has this silver flask, and she poured the booze right into her iced tea. I saw her. By the time they served dessert, she was slurring her words.”
“Honey, I am so sorry that you had to see that.”
“Why?” she asked. “It was Gran’s problem. Not yours.”
CHAPTER 38
Thanks to the clear streets and the empty highway, I actually arrived at CALA early. Only ten cars were in the parking lot. Finding a spot near the doors of the auditorium was easy, but the scattered mounds of snow and ice blocked a three-sixty view of my surroundings. Despite my brave assertion that the place would be crawling with security guards, only one uniformed man stood at the mouth of the building. His was a familiar face; I'd seen him at school events before.
The entry to the auditorium had been decorated with black bunting. Visitors walked past a table covered with a black damask cloth. Photos of Diya Patel were on display. She'd been a lovely young woman, dark-haired with luminous eyes that seemed wise beyond her years.
“Kiki?” I turned to see my friend, Jennifer Moore, Nicci's mother.
“Jennifer!” I gave her a hug. “I thought you were still in Aspen!”
“We got back late last night.”
When we first met, I had been dismissive of Jennifer. I saw her as one of the Ladue Ladies of Leisure, women who live for their next nail appointment or their daily visits to the gym. Since then, I've come to reconsider my prejudices. As the CEO of her family business, Jennifer juggles a lot of responsibilities, and yet she's always willing to help me when I come to her with questions about my own small retail concern. Not only that, she's a terrific mother to Nicci and Stevie, and she's proven herself to be a wonderful friend.
“Guess what?” I told her excitedly. “We got married! I'm officially Mrs. Detweiler!”
“Woo-hoo!” she cheered, and then glanced around to see if anyone heard. “Oops, I guess that whoop was inappropriate given the occasion.”
Looking around, I agreed. “Yeah, I guess. But wait until you hear what happened at my wedding.”
I told her about the gunfire.
“You have to be kidding? Is Detweiler okay? And his friend?” She took both my hands into hers.
“They will be. It was touch and go for a while for Detweiler. They had to remove his spleen. I'm a nervous wreck. Someone's trying to kill him, Jennifer. I'm here to find out who it is.”
She shook her head. “Wait a minute. Why would you come here to find someone who took a shot at Detweiler? What does poor Diya Patel have to do with all this?”
In a hushed voice, I explained that my husband had been looking into her death. “So you see, I need to know what he learned.”
“Isn't that Robbie's job?”
I told her about Sheila going to rehab.
“Whoa. Your family sure knows how to cram a lot into a holiday season. Marriage, shooting, rehab. Gee. But I'm not surprised to hear about Sheila. I didn't want to worry you, not with the holidays coming and the baby on its way, but Anya called me one night when she was spending the night at her grandmother's house. She asked me to come over and help her put Sheila to bed because she'd been drinking.”
“I can't believe that my daughter has been covering this up!”
“She hasn't been. We discussed it, and she planned to talk to you after the baby came. Come on, Kiki, can you blame Anya? This is like that old saying, 'How do you boil a frog? You put it in cold water and turn up the heat gradually.' See, Sheila's gotten slowly worse. Thank goodness Robbie has the guts to do something about it. You can't. Anya can't. But he can.”
I shook my head in disgust—and agreement. Anya had been protecting me. I got that. But had she also been trying to take on too much responsibility? As a kid growing up in an alcoholic home, I'd often thought I could make my father quit drinking. On TV, parents would see how their addiction hurt their children and vow to never imbibe again. But in real life, that wasn't how it happened. Or if it did happen, it was a rarity.
Jennifer threw an arm around my shoulders. “Look, you've got enough to worry about without taking on Sheila. How was your holiday season at the store?”
We walked together into the auditorium. More parents were arriving. Fortunately, they left us to our private conversation.
“I only have the preliminary figures, but it sure looks like we went over our target number. Considering that I don't have my usual energy, I think we did well. That assumes, of course, that all the sales stick.”
“Why wouldn't they?”
As we took two chairs in the back row, I told her about Mona Goodma
n's big return. “Restocking all those supplies will be a mess. I'll have to take a loss on some of them. Handling paper ruins it. The edges get tattered. I took a few of the tools out of their packaging so they'd look cute inside the basket. So they can't be sold either. Next year, I'll institute a non-return policy on custom gift baskets.”
“You know why she's doing this, don't you?” Jennifer asked in a whisper.
“Not a clue.”
“Because Darvin cheated on her. He's been trying to make it up to her by buying her all sorts of gifts.”
“You're kidding!”
Jennifer was über-connected to the school grapevine. Because she lived in Ladue, the same town where CALA was located, she regularly bumped into other parents at the grocery store or post office.
“Would I kid you about something like that?” she asked. “Darvin has been shagging everything with two legs—and maybe a couple of creatures with four legs as well.”
I frowned as she continued, “He's always been that way. Why Mona thought she could change him, I'll never know. She's turned a blind eye for years. Maybe it's gotten to the point that she can't ignore his cheating heart anymore.”
“Welcome to the club,” I muttered. Jennifer nodded. Her husband was a philanderer, and my late husband had been, too, so we both understood the intricate mechanism of denial. You admit to yourself only as much as you can tolerate. When the pain becomes unbearable, the seams unravel and the marriage comes apart.
“Wow,” I said.
One of the school administrators walked over to the microphone, tapped it, and announced, “We're going to start in five minutes. Everyone? Please take your seats.”
CHAPTER 39
Because CALA's headmaster was on family vacation in Switzerland, Karen Myers, Dean of the Upper School, took his place. Karen is a no-nonsense sort of woman, and her approach to the ceremony was completely in keeping with her reputation. Promptly at the appointed hour, she approached the podium. After welcoming us, she quickly stepped aside to let others take over.
Thank goodness Jennifer had two packages of tissues in her purse, because we were both quickly reduced to tears. Mrs. Amore, Diya's advisor, spoke of a compassionate young scholar who would be sorely missed.
Mr. Punicello, a world religions teacher, explained that Diya had a keen interest in all religions, as well as a desire to teach her fellow students about her own Hindu beliefs. Toward that end, she had brought in statues of the various gods and goddesses, as well as samples of food. “She opened a new world to her friends.”
Mrs. Atwell, an English teacher, spoke of Diya's love for literature. “That child read more than any student I've ever had, and she was eager to discuss each new book with me. I learned to gobble down my lunch on Wednesdays, because Diya would arrive early for class with a book in hand that she just had to talk about.”
All the speakers described a young woman who left an indelible impression on those whose lives she'd touched. Their comments moved all of us to tears. But what use was it to cry? We couldn't bring the girl back. And yet, I tried to imagine that we were watering the flowers around Diya's grave.
With trembling hands, Isabella Franklin unfolded a sheet of lined notebook paper. She tried to read her thoughts about Diya, but the poor child broke down and had to be rescued by her father. Mr. Franklin finished his daughter's thoughts, explaining, “Diya was like a second daughter to us. We will miss her terribly.”
Finally, Sanjay Patel took the podium. He gripped the lectern with both hands to steady himself. “Diya means 'light,' and we have lost the light of our lives. Now it is up to each of you to bring that light back into the world.”
Ushers first passed out unlit candles, and then returned to share their flames. The overhead lights were dimmed. The air in the auditorium thickened with the pungent smell of wax.
“We would like to close by sharing our daughter's favorite music,” said Sanjay. “The constant tone you hear in Indian music is called a drone. Some say it is the home to which all wanderers return. I prefer to think of it as the pulse of creation, the force that holds the material world together—which seems only fitting since our world has fallen apart.”
When the sitar note faded away, we snuffed out our candles, one by one.
A fitting reminder of a life cut short.
As we got to our feet, Jennifer turned to me. “Wow. I haven't cried that hard in a long time. Look at you. You're all red-eyed, too. I bet your hormones are on high alert.”
“You've got that right.”
“Let me introduce you to Sarita. She and I have served together on a couple of school committees.” Jennifer and I joined a line of people waiting to offer their condolences. As other parents mumbled words of sympathy, I had the chance to study Diya's parents. I knew that Sanjay was a researcher at Washington University. As I recalled, he was heavily involved in studies about the human genome. The man looked like a scientist. Several times during the ceremony, he had adjusted his wire-rimmed glasses, as he fought to control his grief. Everything about him seemed precise and measured. Sarita was similarly restrained in her movements. Her long dark hair was twisted back so tightly, the knot at her neck looked painful.
A memory book had been set up on a second table near the one with the large photo of Diya. Parents and students paused there to write notes of comfort to the family. An easel propped up an enlarged version of an essay Diya had written. Photocopies were available, so I grabbed one to read while Jennifer and I waited our turn.
<< >>
A Life Well Lived
By Diya Patel
My grandfather died last week at the age of eighty-two. He had seven children, including my father, who was the youngest. Because he lived in Goa, India, I didn't get the chance to spend a lot of time with him, but when I did, Grandfather tried to want to pack my head full of wisdom. Here are some of the things he taught me:
* When you ride the back of the crocodile, you can expect to get bitten. Grandfather said that if you indulge in dangerous activities, you'll get hurt. Even if you think you're safe, you probably aren't. He warned me to be especially careful when everyone is telling me that there's no problem. There probably is!
*Divinity lives in all creatures, not only in humanity. These are the words of a famous Indian dancer, but Grandfather repeated them all the time. To hurt any living creature is an affront to all creatures. This is why I don't eat meat.
* A nation's art and monuments reflect the soul of its culture. When I visited Washington, DC, it made me sad to see how many monuments were built to honor soldiers. This is not to say that I don't believe they made the ultimate sacrifice. However, I think we, as a nation, put too much emphasis on war and not enough on those who have striven for peace, such as Martin Luther King.
* Self-criticism is a virtue. By examining ourselves and our actions on a daily basis, we can improve. Although it is difficult to look at our mistakes, they can teach us lessons so we can correct ourselves and grow.
There are many more lessons that I have learned from my Grandfather. I think that all young people should spend time with their elders, as they will benefit from the wisdom of older family members.
<< >>
“What a smart young lady.” I sighed, thinking about the potential that had been lost.
“Yes, but notice when that was written. See the date? Diya would have been thirteen at the time. When she turned fourteen, she changed. Sarita was beside herself with worry. Or maybe it was just a mother's intuition.”
“Hormones?”
“Hmmm.” Jennifer tapped her lips with the tip of an index finger. “Possibly. I think it was more than that. The change came shortly after Diya had her appendix out. She went from sunny to sullen. Sarita and Sanjay were at their wits' end. Sarita joked that their daughter needed an appendix transplant. To hear her tell it, that missing organ was the key. She knew better, of course, but Diya was giving her fits.”
I had to choose my words carefully so I didn't give aw
ay what I'd learned from Hadcho. “Hmmm. Anya always talked about how straight-laced Diya was. What you're telling me is so confusing. Especially since I heard that she died after going to a party. And she'd been drinking.”
“Uh-huh. That was evidently her first and last experience as a party animal. No, she changed before that. At home. Diya started giving her parents a big dose of attitude. For example, she refused to accompany them to family events, like her brothers' piano recitals. She became angry. Withdrawn. Sarita was very worried.”
It sounded to me like Hadcho and Detweiler had only gotten a partial picture of Diya Patel. Her parents had wanted to protect their daughter's memory. I couldn't blame them; that was all they had left of her.
CHAPTER 40
Sarita and Sanjay stood ramrod straight, their nearness suggesting that they were drawing strength from each other. He was a handsome man, with hair as black as the wings of a crow. Behind his spectacles, his eyes glowed with intensity and intelligence.
Sarita's oval face framed limpid brown eyes, perfectly shaped brows and a noble nose. She attempted a smile of gratitude as guests offered condolences.
When our turn came, Jennifer introduced me as, “Kiki Lowenstein,” and then caught herself. “But now she's Kiki Lowenstein-Detweiler. She and Detective Chad Detweiler got married just this weekend.”
The Patels' expressions changed from politely interested to surprised.
“You are married to Detective Detweiler? Of the St. Louis County Police?” Sanjay asked.
“Yes. Look, I know that my husband and his partner Detective Stan Hadcho would have wanted to be here today. But unfortunately, they are both in the hospital.”
“Oh, no,” Sarita moaned. “Was it a car accident? The roads are still slick.”
“A shooting.” I kept my voice as even as I could, because I wanted to see their reactions.
“Are you kidding?” Sanjay stepped closer to me. Anger flared in his brown eyes. “A vigilante?”
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells Page 11
