Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery)

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Oh, my gosh. That must have broken Peter’s and Gergen’s hearts.”

  She sighed. “Actually, Peter was incredibly angry. He turned violent. Punched his locker door in so badly it had to be replaced. Broke a bone in his right hand. Told his guidance counselor he wanted to change his last name. After that, he acted out in class. Spent a lot of time in detention. Poor Peter.”

  I agreed. “Poor, poor Peter.”

  Forty-four

  Mom woke up when I opened the driver’s side door.

  “I need to tinkle.” I took her back inside the school. After a long wait, she came out of the ladies’ room and said, “I couldn’t go.”

  I drove to my mother-in-law’s home, helped my mom out of the car, and walked her upstairs. She sat on the toilet.

  “I still can’t go,” said Mom, staring down at herself.

  It was hard to reconcile the woman who was once so private with this sagging, elderly person sitting on a porcelain throne and showing no signs of embarrassment because the bathroom door was open.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I have to go, but I can’t.”

  “I’ll run some warm water in the sink. Why don’t you reach over and put your hand in it?” I’d used this trick when I was potty-training Anya.

  It worked, but I could tell by the abbreviated splashing that she hadn’t released much urine. Mom accepted my help to get up from her seated position. I braced myself for her weight, but she was light as a kite on a windy spring day. Beneath my fingers, her bones were sharp and her musculature was meager.

  Who was this woman masquerading as my mother?

  Was her need to visit the bathroom frequently an affectation? A bid for attention? Or a sign of a physical problem?

  The import hit me: I didn’t know much about her health. I’d text-messaged Amanda for Mom’s records because I worried about Alzheimer’s, but now I considered how important it might be to have a complete set of her records.

  “I hate these hose,” said my mother, plucking at the nylon.

  “Why don’t you do like all the fashion magazines suggest and go without?”

  “They do? All right. I’ll try it.” Mom struggled to step out of her panty hose.

  I moved to the laundry basket; it was totally empty. “Mom? Don’t you have any dirty clothes?”

  She waved an airy hand of dismissal at me. “I wear things twice.”

  That accounted for the smell of dirty hair and old perspiration that followed her around. I rummaged through her suitcase and her closet and collected an armful of garments.

  “I’ll take care of these for you.”

  She shrugged. “I’m tired. I think I’ll take a nap.”

  As I was sorting Mom’s things in the laundry room, the front door opened. Sheila and Anya walked through, chatting merrily. The two of them giggled over a joke. Sheila had picked Anya up from school and then they’d gone to Bread Co. for a healthy snack. I could smell the roast turkey and the whole wheat bread.

  “Homework, first,” I heard Sheila remind Anya. “You know the rules.”

  Indeed, she did know the rules. They were the same in Sheila’s house as in ours. Sheila had become my co-parent, caring for Anya in a responsible, thoughtful way. Our disagreements about child raising had been few and far between. Sheila always backed me up when I put my foot down or told Anya, “No.”

  I turned to Sheila for help, relied on her for insight, and generally took her advice. In return, the void in Sheila’s life (the one caused by George’s premature death) was partially filled by her time with Anya and with me. An unlikely trinity, the three of us pulled together to be a functional family unit.

  “Kiki?” Sheila popped her head in the laundry room. “Have you eaten? I bought extra at Bread Co. If you start that load, I’ll dry and fold it for you.”

  “That would be great.”

  Blue liquid laundry detergent spilled over the clothes in a design like cracked marbles. As I watched it, I marveled at the complicated strands of connection that turn strangers into families. No one would have blamed Sheila if she had ignored me or if I had turned my back on her after George died. But instead of turning away from each other, we had slowly turned toward each other.

  In a strange sad way, the death of the man Sheila and I both loved forced us to really see each other. To take a long, hard look. By unspoken mutual consent, and in his absence, each of us set about to discover for ourselves the qualities George had seen—and loved—in us.

  Odd. If he had lived, he would have always stood between us, the filter for our relationship. He would have always been the peacemaker and the conduit. His love/approval would have been a prize we both coveted. Without him to win or lose, we were on our own. We were forced to deal honestly with each other.

  O, Lord, I am grateful that my daughter has at least one grandparent who can encourage and love her, I thought as I hit the ON button and heard the water flood into the washer. Is it too late for us to have a good relationship with my mother as well? I’m not asking for love. I’d settle for mutual respect. Is that too much to ask?

  Forty-five

  Robbie Holmes came home early. Sheila had phoned him and picked up his favorite roast beef panini from Bread Co. He dug in with the sort of gusto that announced he hadn’t eaten all day. Anya elected to take her food into the great room where she and Seymour could watch the latest installment of American Idol.

  “I dropped by the alumni office at CALA today to return the information I borrowed about the Fitzgerald family,” I said. I hoped my tone sounded desultory, not like I had a mission in mind. Which I did. “You know, everybody calls that guy the same thing. Poor Peter. I mean, it’s practically his nickname, isn’t it?”

  Sheila shrugged and swallowed a spoonful of minestrone soup. “I guess.”

  “Did you know him, Sheila? I mean, do you know him? Or did you know Edwina?”

  Robbie kept his eyes on his plate as he chewed slowly and thoughtfully.

  “Well enough, I guess.” Sheila blew on her soup.

  “What does that mean?” It wasn’t like Sheila to be coy.

  “We both belong to Bellerive Country Club. We served on CALA committees together. Harry served on the Lichbaden board of directors.”

  “Really? That’s interesting.”

  “Why?” Sheila frowned at me. “Harry worked with a lot of boards. He had a talent for that sort of thing.”

  My turn to shrug. “I’ve heard that the board wasn’t all that happy with Peter’s performance. Just scuttlebutt. Nothing solid.”

  “What difference would that make? Look, are you suggesting he shot his mother and then shot himself in the leg? Really, Kiki. That’s far-fetched even for someone with a vivid imagination,” said Sheila. Her voice turned huffy, as she added, “Leave the police work to Robbie. That’s his bailiwick, not yours.”

  Robbie put down his sandwich. “We’ve heard the rumors about his impending demotion, Kiki. But as Sheila says, he certainly couldn’t have shot himself in the leg. I mean, you were there. It was physically impossible for him to be the shooter.”

  I agreed. “I guess I’ve been thinking about his relationship with his mother. I don’t think anyone could call Edwina warm and fuzzy. Or nurturing.”

  “Huh,” Sheila snorted. “Especially after she broke her son’s hand.”

  “What?” Robbie and I echoed in chorus.

  “Of course, she didn’t break his hand personally … she paid a creep to do it,” Sheila said.

  “Honey, that’s gossip. We heard about it down at the station. But that’s just hearsay, and I’m surprised you’d repeat it.” Robbie took a swig of his root beer.

  Sheila sat back and crossed her arms over her chest. “I do not repeat gossip. Robbie, you know better.”

  “But that can’t possibly be true, can it? I mean, what mother breaks her own son’s hand?”

  “A desperate woman whose son has won a full-ride scholarship to art school in Chicago,”
replied Sheila. “A frustrated woman who has planned her whole life around her son succeeding her in the family business. A woman pushed over the edge. And I know it’s true because I was in the ladies’ room when she admitted as much to Ditsy Keenor.”

  I knew Ditsy. She lived up to (or down to, depending on your logic) her nickname. Her given name was actually Dorothy, but Ditsy was a complete nut-case, probably because she drank like a fish. (Do fish actually drink? If so, do they pee? Inquiring minds want to know.)

  Two times in the past year, we’d called cabs for Ditsy when she showed up pie-eyed at our crops. Scissors and craft knives in the hands of a drunk do not inspire confidence.

  Ditsy was a notorious blabbermouth who kept up a running commentary on everything she knew, thought she knew, and didn’t know but thought she knew.

  As if reading my mind, Sheila added, “Ditsy followed Edwina into the ladies’. I was already there in a stall. I heard Ditsy ask Edwina point-blank if she’d hired those two thugs who mugged Peter and smashed his hand in a car door.”

  “What did she say?” asked Robbie, picking apart a piece of lettuce on his plate.

  “Edwina said to Ditsy—and I quote—‘I would do anything to secure my son’s future. That goes double for making sure our business stays in the family.’ Then Edwina got this really nasty tone in her voice and she said, ‘Ditsy, no one would ever believe I hurt my own child. But here’s the honest truth: It’s better that he cry now than I cry later. We all do what we have to so our children lead successful lives. I haven’t done anything you wouldn’t have done if you were in the same situation’.”

  “You watch,” Sheila said. “There will be times ahead when you are forced to make decisions. Horrible, painful decisions. You’ll do what you need to do. You’ll do things that Anya won’t like and won’t understand. You’ll do whatever is necessary and be willing to take the blame, because you know what’s best for your child.”

  “Or think you do,” Robbie said, pushing his plate away and leaving the table.

  Forty-six

  I wanted to take the rest of the day off, but I couldn’t. I had to load up supplies and take them to Faust Park, because I had my faux fight with Johnny to look forward to. Because Margit was so incredibly inflexible, and Dodie had a doctor’s appointment, Clancy was working the late afternoon/evening shift alone, except for Gracie, my dog.

  The Great Dane started a high-pitched whine the minute I walked through the back door. Instead of going docilely from her playpen to the back door for a potty break, she bee-lined around me and into the sales area.

  “Gracie, no!” I yelled, racing after her. She knew the sales floor was off-limits. I’d never seen my dog make a dash into that forbidden territory.

  Clancy sat at the work table, her head in her hands. Even before she glanced up, I could tell she’d been crying. Gracie whined and stuck her nose against Clancy’s face. Clancy reached up and petted her. The Great Dane looked from her to me and whimpered. “Good old Gracie,” she said, dabbing at her eyes, “you are such a sweetheart.”

  “What’s wrong? Are you sick? Hurt?”

  “I’m okay. I have to leave. I’ve been calling you.”

  “Oh my gosh. I am so sorry, Clancy. I forgot to turn my ringer back on after I visited the funeral home.”

  “It’s not your fault. You didn’t know I’d need you.” Clancy dug in her purse for her keys. “It’s Mom. She fell. A neighbor found her on the floor. We think she broke her hip. Maybe her arm, too. No telling how long she was lying there. I’ve got to go—”

  “You sure you’re okay to drive? We can close the store if necessary and I’ll take you there.”

  “No. Please do not close the store. The one thing I don’t need is more guilt. My brother has already called me twice and he’s furious. He’s telling me that this wouldn’t have happened if I wasn’t so selfish.”

  I didn’t want to get into what I thought about that, so I gave her a hug, which she accepted stiffly, and sent her on her way.

  Mert dropped in a short time later to help me load up supplies for our Art Fair booth. She had changed out of her work uniform of black slacks and white blouse, and into a skinny pair of jeans and a bright orange low-cut top. Her eyes sparkled as she told me about her recent date with Hank. I admit that I only half-listened. I loved Mert. She’d been my best friend for nearly ten years. We’ve always found plenty to talk about. We didn’t have any secrets from each other until now.

  “You’re awful quiet,” she said before she launched into another volley of “Hank says” and “Hank thinks.”

  Keeping my mouth shut entirely seemed the safest course of action. I desperately wanted to tell her about the plot to snare Bill. I wanted to hear what she thought of it. I wanted to see her righteous anger at the man who killed my husband.

  But I also knew that Mert would be furious if she learned how Bill put out a contract on my life. She might even take justice—in the form of a frying pan—into her own hands.

  So I sat silent as a sack of dirty laundry in her candy-apple-red Chevy S10 truck.

  We found a good spot in the parking lot at Faust Park. Mert and I worked steadily to load boxes onto a cart. Johnny arrived late on his new motorcycle. Once we had all the boxes of merchandise out of the truck, he said, “Sis, why don’t you move your Chevy to the far end of the lot? That way other folks can use these closer spaces for loading, too.”

  That left us alone. Just Johnny and me.

  “I’m scared,” I admitted.

  “Ain’t nothing going to happen to you, babe.”

  “No, I mean scared about my relationship with your sister. If you and I fight, she’ll feel miserable. She’s the best friend I’ve ever had.”

  “She’ll be safer if we pull this off.”

  “Excuse me? What do you mean?”

  “Bill hasn’t just threatened you, Kiki. He’s going after other people in your life, too.”

  “What? He’s done something to Mert? She hasn’t told me anything!”

  “She gets nasty postcards. Hang-up calls. Kid stuff. But last week, her truck windshield got broken.”

  “She told me that was a rock.”

  “Yeah, a rock someone tossed,” he snickered.

  “How about Sheila?”

  “Since Robbie moved in, it’s all good.”

  “But before?”

  Johnny shrugged. “Someone poured gasoline on her lawn and lit it. Postcards with threats. Hang-ups. Her garage door got jimmied open. A dead rat was nailed to the back wall of her house. That’s how come Robbie moved in.”

  I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. I knew none of this. None.

  “Bill’s been bragging about taking a lot of folks down a peg. That’s why he shot up the May Day shindig,” Johnny said.

  “He said that? I mean, he bragged about shooting Edwina Fitz-gerald at the May Day ceremony?”

  Johnny shook his head. “Not exactly. See, he’s been telling guys that he means to make you pay, and he wants to settle a few scores with other people here in town. He says he’s got help, so I figure he hired someone. Who else could it be behind that attack? He’s a graduate of CALA, right? His kids go there.”

  “Went there. Past tense. After he car-napped me, his wife took the kids and moved to Los Angeles.”

  “These were his stomping grounds. He knows his way around. Any offender will tell you that it’s easier to pull off a job when you know your surroundings. Besides, it’s not like you’re a world traveler. You’re here. He’s here. He’s going to take his best shot at you.”

  I shivered. I hoped Johnny was speaking metaphorically. Somehow I doubted it.

  Forty-seven

  Other vendors arrived at the retail area. Johnny set up our tables, fitted the pieces of our display that he’d built. A colorful sign with a glass jar full of watch faces welcomed visitors to our booth. Peg board walls facilitated displaying merchandise. A foldout shelving unit showed off more goodies.

 
Mert racked hanging goods while I organized table displays. There was a lot to do, more than I remembered, and hauling boxes made for sweaty work. A part of me started to get ticked off, thinking about how Dodie didn’t trust me to share big decisions, like taking on a new partner, but she sure didn’t mind tasking me with a huge responsibility like setting up our entire booth for this event.

  Maybe I was overtired, but the harder and longer Mert and I worked, the more irritated I got. Why was I busting my butt for Dodie? She sure didn’t think much of me. Why was I out here sweating and grunting and overseeing Mert’s efforts, while Dodie rested at home? She had a funny way of ignoring the responsibilities she’d shifted my way while still treating me like I knew nothing about the business.

  I was hungry, angry, lonely, and tired. A volatile combination to be sure.

  So when Johnny came up from behind me and gave me a big open-mouth kiss, the wrong kind of fireworks went off inside my head.

  I pushed him away. “Stop it.”

  “But I’ve been working so hard, and you look so cute all hot and bothered like this.” He put a hand behind my neck and kissed me. I tried to squirm free, but I couldn’t. His grip was too powerful.

  Before I could think, before I could apply reason, I panicked. Suddenly, I was a helpless child again, a child forced to endure her father’s “affection.” Johnny’s mouth covered mine and I gagged.

  My mind shut down. I forgot who I was, what I’d been through, and the progress I made in becoming an adult. Johnny’s whiskers, rough at the end of the day, sandpapered my face the way Daddy’s had. Johnny’s hands, insistent behind my head, pressured me into submission. Mert looked away in embarrassment, and that served to trigger a memory of Mom turning the other way.

  The child inside me cried for help. All this happened in the nanoseconds that it takes for neurons and synapses to fire in the brain. Johnny’s forced kiss took me to a place I’d escaped from, and I fought being dragged back there the way a swimmer resists having her head held under water.