Shotgun, Wedding, Bells

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “We don't know.”

  Sarita spoke breathlessly, “But they'll be all right?”

  “I hope so.”

  “Thank goodness.” She touched a tissue to her eyes. “Detective Detweiler warned us. We saw the letters to the editor. We realized there might be danger, but even so...”

  Feet shuffled behind me. The line was growing, and I was holding it up.

  “Please accept my condolences and their sympathies as well,” I said. “Anya is my daughter, and she was also saddened to hear about Diya.”

  I leaned in to give Sarita a quick hug and whispered in her ear, “I need to talk to you.” Her skin was fragrant with an exotic blend of patchouli and roses.

  “Afterward,” she whispered back. “Promise you will stay!”

  “Of course. If I can.”

  But the crowd didn't cooperate. I waited for fifteen minutes, checking my cell phone frequently. Finally, I told Jennifer that I couldn't wait any longer. I was nervous about how Detweiler was doing. Outside the sky had grown dark with clouds as pregnant as I was.

  “Oh, boy. Looks like more wet stuff on the way.” I pointed at the windows and elbowed Jennifer. “I really need to get back to the hospital.”

  “Look, I've got to get going, too. I'm parked on the other side of the building. Give me a hug and push your way to the front of the crowd.”

  I hated being rude, but I didn't have a choice. I murmured, “Excuse me,” over and over until I could reach out and grasp Sarita by the hand. Pressing my face next to her, I whispered, “Is my husband in any danger? I need to know.”

  “No. Not from anyone that we know of. And I would tell you if I knew differently. Your husband has been very kind to me.” Dropping her voice to a whisper she added, “Tomorrow, okay?”

  I gave her hand one last squeeze and said goodbye.

  As I turned to walk away, I felt Sanjay's eyes drilling holes in my back.

  CHAPTER 41

  Sure enough, the weather forecasters had it wrong. The precipitation scheduled for after midnight began at half past nine. Out in the CALA parking lot, sleet smacked me in the face, tiny stinging blows. The predicted rain had frozen into tiny spitballs of ice. I tried to heed Brawny's warning to look around and pay attention to my surroundings, but I couldn't because my eyes were watering so badly.

  When I got to the car, the door didn't want to open. I cursed my luck. I'd managed to park so that the driver's side was taking the brunt of the oncoming sleet. If I had parked facing the other way, I would have been fine.

  As it was, I tugged and tugged on the door. Bracing one foot against the frame, I grabbed the handle with both hands. The wind whipped around me, blowing Brawny's scarf into my open mouth. She would have had a cow, watching me, there in middle of the parking lot, totally exposed. It was an epic match: Kiki versus the car. I glanced up to see the security guard trotting toward me.

  “Frozen?” he asked.

  “I think so.” My teeth started chattering.

  He gave it a mighty yank and it popped open.

  The baby kicked me twice, as if to say he was fine.

  “Thanks,” I said, sliding past him to climb in. Now the door mechanism refused to lock, so there I sat, a perfect target—except that no one could see into the car because the windows were iced over. There was nothing to do but turn over the engine and hope the Highlander heated up quickly. I reminded myself that Toyotas are known for their great heaters. Sure enough, the vents dumped hot air on me in minutes. The tiny ice balls in my hair melted so fast, I was dripping cold water. The only remedy was to shake myself the way a dog does. Yes, I was wet, but I was also sitting in a sauna, thanks to the over-active heating system.

  An old Mercedes drove past. I tried to hide by slumping down, as far as my burgeoning belly would let me. After watching the clock on my cell phone tick off two minutes, I cautiously poked my head up and looked around. My heart was racing.

  All clear.

  Cracks had formed in the ice on the windshield. I opened my door and stepped out with an ice-scraper in my hands. My leather gloves gave my fingers scant protection as I chipped away at the glassy sheet. Slivers of ice slid down into my sleeves. My feet were freezing, but I managed to clean off small patches. There wasn't enough clarity to drive, but at least the thawing could now start in earnest.

  I got back behind the wheel and shivered. A vehicle pulled in at the far side of the lot. It was a big white SUV, and it was pointed right at me. Could this be an attempt to ram my car?

  “No, no, no,” I whimpered.

  To my great relief, the SUV swung wide, circled, and drove back out.

  A tear leaked down my face. “I can't live like this.” I spoke to no one in particular, and to the Universe in general. But hearing the words gave me a renewed sense of purpose. Somehow, some way, I would track down that second gunman. I had to.

  Otherwise I was going to be a nervous wreck.

  Thirty minutes later, I pulled out of the CALA lot. I couldn't tell if anyone was following me. Between the sleet and the dark, I could barely find the edges of the pavement. Things were a little better on the highway, but not much.

  As I entered the hospital parking lot, a salt truck passed by, spewing its gritty mix. With added traction under foot, I hustled my way into the building. But I quickly walked past the grit and back into icy slush. Sleet was blowing right into my face. The needle-like shards of ice made it impossible to keep my eyes open.

  Walking blindly, I tucked my head down and hurled myself at the hospital entrance. Diya's memorial service had drained me emotionally. Fighting the ice had tired me physically. I could barely put one foot in front of the other, but I had no choice in the matter. If I wanted to rest and be safe, I had to keep moving.

  Lifting my gaze, I measured the distance to the entrance and said out loud, “Buck up, babe. You can do this.” The pavement changed to concrete. The awning overhead offered a bit of shelter. When the sensor detected me, the sliding glass doors opened. A rush of warm air greeted me. I moved forward, blinking blurrily—and ramming right into Prescott Gallaway.

  CHAPTER 42

  “Well, if it isn't Kiki Lowenstein, ace detective.” Prescott's comb-over looked as if it had been laboriously glued to his scalp. His skinny upper lip was lifted in a sneer. Both eyes were crusted with eye-winkies. In short, there was nothing attractive about this man.

  “Actually, it isn't Kiki Lowenstein.”

  The soles of my shoes had picked up ice as I'd trudged through the parking lot. My feet were so slick that I could have been wearing roller skates. Rather than fall over, I grabbed at a nearby stanchion to recover my balance.

  “You okay?” An orderly noticed my struggle and raced over to help. He walked me to an indoor-outdoor floor mat. I thanked the helper and turned my attention back to Prescott, who hadn't moved an inch to offer me assistance.

  “For the record, my name is now Kiki Lowenstein-Detweiler,” I said. “Detective Chad Detweiler and I have gotten married.”

  Prescott covered his mouth and snickered. “Right. A real shotgun wedding, wasn't it? And not a moment too soon. At least this baby will have his father's name.”

  I hate Prescott. He's mean, nasty, and ugly. Not necessarily in that order. You have to see him to believe him. If Ichabod Crane came to life, you'd be staring at Prescott. The man's built like a bamboo skewer, except for a huge, hook-like nose that juts out of a chin-less face. Of course, I'm not being entirely fair to Ichabod. He was a teacher, a learned man, and Prescott is a dope, a real ignorant twit. Why Robbie ever helped him get promoted is beyond me, because Prescott doesn't deserve to be a member of the county law enforcement team.

  His snide comment that my child would have Detweiler's name is the sort of remark that Prescott makes all too often. Ironic, really, because I've seen photos of Nadine Gallaway, Robbie's first wife, and I find it hard to believe that Prescott and Nadine had the same set of parents. In fact, I once mentioned as much to Sheila, and she smir
ked. “Who says they did? I don't believe that for a minute, do you? Nadine looks like her father, but Prescott looks exactly like Presley Gallitano, who was the alderman for that district. I've seen the photos. And then there’s the matter of his name, Prescott-Presley, see?”

  Yes, I did see.

  But unlike Prescott, I don't stoop to innuendo, so I bit my lip rather than sink to his level.

  “Good thing I ran into you, Mrs. Detweiler. Now I can inform you personally that I'm calling off the guard outside your husband's room.”

  “You can't leave them without protection. Come on, Prescott.”

  “That's Lieutenant Captain Gallaway to you.” He pursed his lips in a prissy way.

  In my heart of hearts, I had hoped that Prescott would put department morale above his petty quarrels with Detweiler and Hadcho. Police look out after their own. They have to. Otherwise, how could their families handle the stress and heartache? How could they put their lives on the line, day after day? But Prescott had an agenda. Fairness wasn't in his playbook.

  “The shooting in Webster Groves was obviously a family matter,” he said, lifting his upper lip like a dog does to snarl. “It's not a department concern, and we don't have the budget for shenanigans like this.”

  “Family matter?” I heard myself screech. “You don't have any proof that this is a family matter. Shouldn't you at least wait until there's been an investigation?”

  “There won't be one,” he said, with a feigned yawn of boredom. “I talked to the Webster Groves police chief. As you know, we often assist the smaller municipalities with their crime lab reports. I personally looked at the bullet trajectories, and being the expert I am, I can tell you that there was only one shooter. That weird babysitter of yours brought him down with her knife. There will be an investigation, but it looks like self-defense.”

  Prescott? An expert? I stifled the urge to roll my eyes. “You might have looked at the trajectories, but you've got bad information. I was there, remember? A second man attacked me in the shed.”

  “That's your story, and we all know you're an attention-seeker.”

  “Talk to Detweiler! To Hadcho!”

  “Unfortunately, both of them are indisposed right now.”

  “Lorraine Lauber and Leighton Haversham saw the second gunman, too. He came into the shed and threatened me and the kids. He had a gun!”

  “I don't doubt that. There are all sorts of reasons for someone to want to shoot you, Mrs. Lowenstein-Detweiler. I personally can come up with at least a dozen. None of those are my concern. You're obviously a cop-wannabe with an inflated sense of self-importance.”

  His cool demeanor had me rattled. Prescott seemed incapable of taking into account any information that didn't mesh with his agenda. I tried another tactic. I appealed to his sense of importance by begging.

  “Please don't do this. It isn't about me. It's about your men. Detweiler almost didn't make it. Hadcho was wounded. What if the gunman who attacked me comes back? He might finish what he started.”

  “There's ample security here at the hospital. Besides, you love playing cops and robbers, don't you? As I recall, you shot a man in cold blood. So if your honey in there is in danger, then you better get your big backside in gear and protect him, right?”

  CHAPTER 43

  “I hate that man,” I said, as I threw my purse down next to Brawny. She was sitting outside of Hadcho and Detweiler's rooms, taking over for the guard who had been stationed there previously. I continued to kvetch, “Prescott Gallaway is worse than useless. He's a menace. How on earth Robbie could have helped him get promoted is beyond me! He sits behind a desk and sends other people to do dangerous work, but does he care about their safety? Not one bit!”

  “Don't worry. I have it covered.” Brawny's hands were tightened into fists.

  “What do you mean? Are you planning to stay here around the clock? I hope not because we need to figure out who's really behind all this. You said so yourself.”

  “Hadcho and I discussed the matter. He's given me a list of officers he thinks would be willing to come and guard Detective Detweiler.”

  “But who will pay them?” I felt like I was falling apart. All the emotion I'd suppressed during the service for Diya, all the disappointment that Sarita couldn't talk to me, all the frustration of dealing with the bad weather, and all the anger I felt at Prescott was taking me down.

  Brawny shrugged. “I'm betting they'll work for free, but if not, Lorraine will handle the bill.”

  I groaned. “She can't keep whipping out her checkbook every time I have a problem.”

  “Sure she can.” Brawny smiled at me. “Kiki, she's richer than you can imagine, and she doesn't have anything to spend her money on, so why not? It makes her happy to help. Lieutenant Captain Gallaway was up here, acting all humpy. I heard him telling the man on duty to go on home. Taking liberties, I asked what he was doing, and he explained that the department budget didn't include personal bodyguards.”

  “That man is an idiot.” I stomped my foot.

  “Aye, he is. Just as soon as he stepped into the lift, I phoned Lorraine. She didn't hesitate. Believe me, the money doesn't mean anything to her. She'd be more than happy to die with empty pockets. Remember, she was there, too. One of those bullets could have hit her. She certainly understands the gravity of the situation, even if Prescott Gallaway doesn't. Come on. Let's sit down. You look all knackered.”

  I like that word: knackered. It's British slang, not a Scot's term, but it sounds exactly like what it means to convey. I was, indeed, knackered. Tired beyond all reason.

  Sure, I could whine and carry on about Lorraine's open checkbook policy, but in my heart, I knew that Brawny was right. A few inches to the left, and Lorraine would have taken a bullet to the chest.

  If Leighton hadn't reacted quickly by grabbing her and tossing her off the gazebo, she might be the person in one of those hospital rooms.

  “You don't think the shooters were after Lorraine, do you?” The thought horrified me. I sank down next to Brawny on the tired family lounge sofa. The cushions sagged from the weight of so many people fearing the worst.

  “I am keeping an open mind. I don't have enough information to make a properly informed judgment.” Brawny sounded thoughtful. “In times like this, I've found it useful to keep putting one brogue in front of another. To deal with problems as they come up, all the while keeping an eye on the goal.”

  “I hate it that Lorraine is involved.”

  “Aye, but she was involved even before the shot rang out. She considers herself part of your family, or hadn't you noticed? Remember,” said Brawny, squeezing my arm. “There's Erik to think about, too.”

  Erik was as close to a son or grandson as Lorraine would ever get. She adored the boy. If he hadn't been hopping up and down, he could have been hit. And of course, if anything happened to Detweiler, the child would be devastated.

  “I guess it's her money to do with as she pleases,” I said. “I will need to thank her. At this rate, I owe her about a zillion thank-you notes. Or a million loaves of that banana nut bread she likes so much.”

  To that, Brawny smiled. “You’ve already done plenty for her. You’ve welcomed her into your lives.”

  CHAPTER 44

  After I looked in on Detweiler, I returned to the family lounge. Its poverty had begun to wear on me. All the seat cushions had been pressed flat by legions of buttocks. The coffee table's surface bubbled with memories of hot drinks. The magazines were old. Their dog-eared corners I could take, but the missing pages really irked me.

  I wanted to go home. I wanted to begin my life as Chad Detweiler's bride.

  “We're on our own here,” I said to Brawny. “Prescott isn't going to help us figure out who did this. The Webster Groves police may or may not give the case a high priority. Robbie isn't here to put this on the top of the department's must-solve list. But that doesn't mean we can let it go. There's too much at risk.”

  Brawny nodded, mak
ing her ponytail bob up and down. “I know. Hadcho and I spoke for a minute. His assessment agrees with yours. We can't let this slide. For all we know, the gunman might have infiltrated the staff here.”

  I hadn't thought of that—and I wished she hadn't mentioned it. Now I was scared. Really scared.

  “Could someone have been aiming at Lorraine?” All this talk about her wealth had gotten me thinking. “Are there people who would benefit from her death?”

  Brawny's jaw tightened. “I'm not at liberty to discuss her finances. However, I can tell you she's made a variety of provisions that will benefit certain organizations. Other than Detweiler's investigation into the death of that young girl, has he stirred up any other hornets' nests?”

  “Hadcho might know.”

  “He told me he couldn't think of anything. Of course, they've worked together to put away a number of miscreants, and any of those might be out for revenge. In the morning, he'll call around to see if any have been let out of jail recently.”

  I slipped off my boots and put my stocking feet up on the sofa. From down the hall came the smell of popcorn. That wasn't surprising. I'd spent enough time in hospitals to know that the nursing staff practically lived on popcorn. “Okay, let's think in broad terms. Here's an idea: There's always the possibility that this has to do with Erik's biological father. He was investigating his fellow officers in Illinois when he was killed. I don't know anything more than that about the situation, but I suppose it's possible.”

  She nodded. “Someone on the police force in Illinois might think that Gina left information about the investigation in her will.”

  “But that doesn't make sense. Why now? Erik has been living with us since August. Besides, why would Gina leave information like that in her will? If she really had concerns, she could have talked to the Illinois authorities before this.”

  “You're right,” said Brawny.