Shotgun, Wedding, Bells

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Really? You've had that sort of training?” Lucerne looked at my nanny with a whole new respect.

  “Aye.” The tone of her voice quelled any doubt.

  “Back to the problem at hand, you're telling us that if Kiki could point out this creep,” said Peevey, “then Brawny here could remove him with a minimum of muss and fuss, is that right? We don't like disturbances.”

  Giving him what I hoped was my most winning smile, I said, “I totally appreciate that. I'm not up for a hassle either.”

  “Worries me.” Lucerne shook his head. “Peevey, are you down with this?”

  But before Peevey could answer, Brawny stepped forward. “I assure you that I shall do my best to bring the man down with a minimum of disturbance. In any event, you don't want him in here, do you? He's a hired assassin. Surely that would be horrible for business. Wouldn't you prefer that we handle him? Of course, we could always call the authorities and let them come and arrest this man.”

  She was in top form.

  Peevey and Lucerne exchanged thoughtful looks. Peevey nodded. “Good point. The big boss, Little Chuckie's uncle, he's given us strict orders that we need to keep the riffraff out. Cop cars in the parking lot are bad for business. Really bad.”

  Our conversation was interrupted by two new customers. Peevey and Lucerne greeted the husband and wife (or so they explained their relationship) politely, took their cover charges, and reminded them of the rule: No touching the girls unless it was to give them money. Once the newcomers headed for the show floor, Peevey fisted his hands on his hips. With a curt nod to Brawny, he said, “I get your point. Yeah. If your attacker is here, I'd rather have you bring him down and drag him out. So here's the scoop. Little Chuckie has all these weird rules. He comes up with them on the spot. If someone disobeys, he fires them. The owner hasn't caught on to Little Chuckie's problem. Not yet. We've tried to tell Mr. Esterhaus that his little nephew is a turkey, but he believes that Little Chuckie is the future.” He put air quotes around that last word.

  “Right, and global warming is a socialist plot,” muttered Lucerne, picking up the thread. “The long and short of it is that there's a problem getting Kiki into the dressing room, although that would be the best spot for viewing the crowd. When Little Chuckie is here, no one can go into the back who's not a dancer. Seems reasonable, right? You'd think so, wouldn't you? After all, we don't want customers wandering around and harassing the dancers. But one night, the babysitter for one of the dancers had to drop off her two year old all of a sudden like. Under normal circumstances, that would be no problem. The girls would pass the baby around and entertain him while his mom danced. Everybody enjoys a little cuddle with the bambino, right? But Little Chuckie didn't see it that way. He fired the mother because the baby wasn't a dancer.”

  “That's outrageous,” I said.

  “Isn't it?” A feminine voice agreed with me as a woman pushed aside the flapping plastic curtain. She was wearing a ton of makeup, false eyelashes, a knee-length silk kimono, and a pair of six-inch tall high heels, but I would have known her anywhere.

  “Susan!” I threw my arms around her and breathed in the Chanel No. 5 she always wore. “I didn't realize you worked here!”

  CHAPTER 64

  Susan Tuttle is one of the many moms who show up regularly for my daytime classes. Tall, willowy, with dark blonde hair, she has a ready smile but troubled eyes. Soon after she started coming, I learned the reason why.

  It's traditional for scrapbookers to pass their work around, reveling in the “oohs” and “ahhs” that accompany seeing each other's pages. Susan's work was always much appreciated by the others. From the start, it was obvious that she was particularly talented, with a knack for combining unexpected colors and textures that made her layouts particularly appealing.

  Our first class together was one called, “Nature and the Art of Scrapbooking.” Students were invited to bring in photos of the natural world, while I supplied objects from nature that could be added to a page. As an example, each fall I spent hours ironing colorful leaves between sheets of wax paper, so we could put the leaves onto pages. I also look for interesting bits of bark, especially the papery thin outer covering from birch trees. Twigs are a favorite of mine. They make terrific borders. Woven together with twine, they can be used as photo mats. My list of fun objects goes on and on.

  During the class, I explained how we can take our cues from nature. For instance, most people balk at combining more than two types of green on one page, but look closely at a plant, and you'll see how many variations of green there are in each leaf!

  Little ideas like that go a long way to blasting people out of their creative ruts.

  Susan fit right in from the start. She seized upon the ideas I presented, and typically she took them to the next level. Her photos—a box turtle, a family of skunks, and a sunrise over a field in Illinois—totally wowed the rest of our group. But her close-up shots, like a zoomed-in picture of that box turtle’s shell, inspired color and texture combinations that exceeded my wildest expectations for the class.

  Next she signed up for a class called, “Families in Focus.” Like most scrapbookers, she brought along photos of her child. I'd pre-kitted several pages for us to work on. When the time came to pass around our finished layouts, we did so. Susan had passed hers around reluctantly. My guests are normally very chatty after a session, but this time, each fell silent as she handled Susan's pages.

  Curious as to why, I took one of Susan's pages out of the hands of a customer. Smack dab in the center was a darling boy propped up by a pair of crutches.

  “That's Dallas,” said Susan, quietly. “He's my one and only. He has Cerebral Palsy.”

  I can always find an honest compliment to pay my clients, and this time was no exception. Dallas was such a cute little guy. He had a heart-winning smile. But all my praise stuck in my throat.

  Like the other guests, I was caught short by powerful emotions.

  It had seemed like Susan had everything in the world going for her—good looks, money, a nice car, and a fabulous wardrobe. Because I'd heard their whisperings, I knew the other mothers were pea green with jealousy. But now we had a different perspective. I could only guess at how hard it would be to parent a child with a severe disability.

  The silence that followed felt like it lasted forever. Many of my customers blushed with shame.

  All of us learned a powerful lesson that day. Envy is a one-dimensional, shallow emotion. It roots in superficial soil and withers in the bright light of intimacy. Before we learned about Dallas, we might all have wished we were Susan. After meeting the child on paper, we were all humbled by our own good fortune.

  I remember standing there, holding Susan's page and staring down at the picture of the little boy while I tried to decide what to say or do next. My goal is always to make my customers feel better after their visits to Time in a Bottle. I consciously look for ways to pump up their self-esteem, to show an interest, and to give them a sense that I care. Because I do. I really do.

  But this time, I was flummoxed. I felt totally inadequate.

  Susan rescued me by saying, “Look, I know all of you are feeling sorry for me. You're nice people and you're thinking how tough it is that I've got this kid who's messed up. Aren't you?”

  A dozen pairs of eyes cautiously turned to her. Their expressions reflected their conflicted emotions.

  “Don't waste your energy,” she said, lifting her chin high. “Dallas is smart as a whip. He's doing real good in school. He's a sweetheart, and I'm lucky to have him. Every mother has her challenges. My son's CP is mine, but I'm glad to have him.”

  I think every woman in that class looked on Susan with new admiration.

  I know I sure did.

  CHAPTER 65

  All this rocketed through my brain as Susan threw her arms around me. “Kiki! You're the last person I expected to see here. I heard you got married.”

  “Yup.” I held up my ring finger to show
off the band. “You might even call it a shotgun wedding. I started having Braxton-Hicks contractions, and Anya freaked out, so we threw a ceremony together at the last minute. I'll have some sort of celebration for everyone when the weather gets better.”

  “This is a strange place to come for a honeymoon. Where's that good-looking cop of yours?” She planted a big kiss on my forehead. With those high heels, she towered over me by nearly a foot.

  Johnny interrupted by holding out a hand to our friend. “Hey, girl. You don't have one of those for me?”

  Susan leaned in and hugged him too. “Johnny, you are such a rascal. You know just where to come for loving, don't you?”

  “Yeah,” he said with a grin. “By the way, this is Kiki's friend, Brawny.”

  “We’ve met. Brawny helped me knit a scarf for Dallas. It's so cool. Has a skull on it. He's so into pirates. I got it done in time for Christmas!” Susan extended her hand for a friendly shake. How odd the comparison looked. Brawny keeps her nails buffed and cut short. Susan's nails were two inches long and covered with sparkling faux gems.

  “Susan, I'm here because I need help,” I said. “It's about Detweiler.”

  Lucerne gave us a little shove toward the tables. “Kiki's got one whale of a story to tell. Why don't you find our guests a place to sit, Sassy? It's almost eleven and this place will be filling up. The two-for-one drink special is over. All our hardcore fans will be piling in.”

  I thanked Lucerne and Peevey for their help. They were appreciative of the coupons and vouchers for a free scrapbooking class.

  “What do I owe you for the cover charge?” I asked, as the DJ did a sound-check with his microphone.

  “Nothing. This visit is on the house,” said Peevey.

  Susan winked at the two bouncers and took us to a table. A beautiful Asian girl in a purple satin evening gown came over and asked if we'd like anything from the bar. I ordered a Seven-Up, while Brawny, Johnny, and Susan all had Cokes. While we waited for our beverages to arrive, I explained to Susan what had happened with the shooting.

  “So you see, we think this man might be a customer here.” As I'd been talking, more and more people joined us in the big open room. The lights had been adjusted to a dim glow. A bevy of women in colorful evening gowns crowded around the bar, waiting for their drink orders to be filled so they could deliver them to the tables.

  “He might,” agreed Susan, adjusting her robe modestly. “I vaguely remember Tunisia talking about a customer with a really hick accent. She pegged him as being from the Deep South. I can't recall if he had a problem with his arm or not.”

  She nodded her head pensively. “There's only one way you'll be able to spot him, Kiki, and that's from the stage. You could probably hang out in the wings. But you won't be able to stick around for long because Little Chuckie's scheduled to work tonight.”

  Johnny nodded. “The guys told Kiki about his silly rule.”

  “He usually shows up late,” said Susan. “Really late. So we should be okay.”

  The drinks came. Johnny paid our bill and tipped our waitress. As we sipped our colas, I used the time to look around. More and more patrons were arriving. Susan had been right. Finding my shooter would be impossible unless I was up on that stage. I'm too short to see over most people's heads. Even if we changed tables, I'd still have trouble getting a panoramic view.

  “What do you think?” I asked my friends.

  “It's entirely up to you. I'll support whatever decision you make,” said Johnny. “Brawny? How do you want to handle this?”

  “Kiki, if you could get up there,” and she nodded toward the stage, “or even if you can just hide behind the curtains on the side, you should be able to spot him—”

  “And if I do?”

  “Use the clock as your guide. Just yell out four o'clock or six o'clock. That will point us the right general direction.”

  “Once the creep sees her, he's likely to run,” agreed Johnny.

  But Susan added, “Or pull a gun.”

  CHAPTER 66

  The lights overhead flicked on and off.

  “Thirty minutes until show time.” Susan smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes.

  Since I might need to get in and get out fast, Johnny offered to take my coat and purse out to the truck. I started to hand over my things, but thought better of it. Instead, I reached into my wallet and tucked a twenty into my back pocket.

  “You need fifty,” said Susan.

  “Fifty?”

  Brawny handed me more cash.

  Susan laughed. “You've got your own personal ATM? I like that. See, that’s in case they treat you like us dancers. You can’t even set foot in the back room without them charging you what we call 'rental fees.'“

  “Rental fees?” I didn't understand. “For what?”

  “They say it's to insure a clean dressing room and keep us supplied with cosmetics.” Susan waved that idea away. “Really, it's a way of charging us to work here. See, the house makes money off the drinks, the food, the luxury boxes, and all of us.”

  “There's also the cover charge,” added Johnny.

  “Right.” Susan nodded. “The rental fee protects the house because if a dancer isn't pulling good tips, she won't stick around. So you could say it acts as an incentive. See, sometimes dancers get fat or lazy. But if you have to pay to play, well, you tend to keep yourself sharp. Learning new moves. Updating your wardrobe.”

  “But you get a salary, right? Because you're house dancers.”

  “Nope. We only make tips.”

  “What if you don't make enough in tips to cover the cost of dancing?” I asked.

  “Tough luck.” Susan shrugged. “Featured talent, that's different. Those girls tend to travel around, from place to place. Just so you know, in other cities, girls have taken club owners to court over the rental fees. They've even won. But the club owners keep coming up with new and creative ways to bill us for the privilege of performing. Ironic, isn't it? We don't get any benefits, and we have to pay to do our work.”

  Brawny frowned and handed me more cash. “You might need this to get past the house mother. As a bribe.”

  “House mother?” I echoed.

  “She's the only non-dancer among us,” said Susan. “Sort of a gatekeeper, although she's really a glorified stool pigeon for Little Chuckie. She makes sure all the girls are dressed properly, that we stay on time, and that we each take our turn in the spotlight.”

  I couldn't believe how complicated all this was.

  Susan seemed to read my mind. “It's a business. What can I say?”

  “Aye,” said Brawny, “and now we need to figure out where we should be stationed. Susan, do ye have any suggestions?”

  “Probably over there.” Susan pointed to a set of stairs. “Those lead to the mezzanine and corporate luxury boxes. I don't know how they write them off, since I can't even write off child care, but they do.”

  “Lucerne and Peevey have the front entrance covered,” said Johnny. “I need to watch the exit that's to the right of the stage. But there's a back door, too. It's off of the dressing room.”

  “Right,” said Susan, “but you can't get into the dressing room without the security code. It's locked up tight, remember?”

  “What about fire codes?” I asked. I was very familiar with these because I was buying the Time in a Bottle building.

  Susan shrugged. “Let's just say our management is very friendly with the local inspector.”

  That really bummed me out.

  “Okay, kids, its show time,” said Johnny.

  “Good luck,” I said to my friends, and we went our separate ways.

  I tagged along behind Susan as she wove her way through the tables. Our trip was interrupted numerous times by customers who beckoned her over. She was gracious to all of them, planting kisses on bald heads and freshly shaved faces. I hung back, feeling totally out of place.

  Without Susan's help, I would have never found the door to the dressing
room. It had been designed so that it blended in perfectly with its surroundings. The black fabric on the walls around it had been cleverly pleated to allow for the opening.

  “This door used to be easy to spot, which was probably a lot safer, in case of a fire. But we had a big problem with customers who would try to sneak into the dressing room. As the night goes on and our patrons get drunker and drunker, a few of them start to believe they are invincible. They can do the dumbest things. After too many incidents, Mr. Esterhaus had the fabric panels made. He also put in the security lock. It's not high tech, but at least it's a deterrent.”

  After punching in a series of numbers, she pulled the heavy door open for me. We moved from the dimly lit show floor to a brightly lighted area that reminded me of my high school locker room. Except that the lighting was much, much better, and the boobs were much, much bigger. Since I'm so short, I hit most of the women at their bust line. I could feel my face turning red as I tried to find a safe place to look.

  About a dozen women, all between the ages of eighteen and twenty-five, stood around in various stages of undress. Only a few were what I'd call beautiful, and the rest were merely pretty. Nothing spectacular. In fact, two of them were actually rather plain.

  “Listen up, everybody,” said Susan. Their faces turned toward her. “Remember that scrapbook I made? Those classes I've been taking? This is the woman who taught me everything I know! This is Kiki Lowenstein. Remember? I've been talking about her!”

  That led to a flurry of questions and comments. Seems the dancers all loved Susan's scrapbooks. Most of them were eager to do something similar for themselves. I decided to take advantage of their enthusiasm.

  “Hi, everyone. My name is actually Kiki Lowenstein-Detweiler. I know it's a mouthful. I just got married, but my wedding was interrupted when two men shot at us.”

  “Whoa,” said one of the older looking women. “I watch Say Yes to the Dress all the time on TV, and that never happens.”