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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Are we safe?” I asked her. My dog’s big tail whopped me as she dug her moist nose into my hand. Translation: “It’s okay. Whoever they were, I scared them off. I’m a good pup, huh?”

  I slipped my arms around her neck and hugged her.

  “You are a very, very good pup. What would I do without you?” I leaned into my car and rested one hand on the fabric convertible roof.

  Sticky.

  I pulled back and held my hand toward the streetlight. A glob of yellow egg yolk ran down my fingers.

  Drat, drat, and double drat.

  After I ran the BMW through a car wash, I drove to Ted Drewes. I bought myself a Terra Mizzou, a frozen custard mix-up so thick it was like setting concrete. Gracie lapped up frozen vanilla custard served in their signature yellow and green plaid paper cup.

  As I chewed on a pistachio nut, I wondered. Who had been waiting for me in the lot? What would have happened without Gracie acting as my protector? Why had he or she egged my car?

  Was this just a prank?

  Or a warning, a threat I needed to take more seriously?

  When would this be over?

  Until then, I vowed to carry my gun close to my body. Especially when I was in and out of the parking lot. After all, why own a weapon if I wasn’t going to use it?

  Sixty-six

  I made a call to Detweiler to say good night as I was on my way back to Sheila’s, but he couldn’t talk. After I got Gracie situated, I went upstairs. Anya’s bedroom light was on. I rapped at her door.

  “Go away,” she said.

  I was not about to take that for an answer. I opened the door a crack. My darling daughter lay on her bed, curled up in a fetal position, playing with Seymour and a gray felt stuffed mouse that looked worse for the experience.

  “Honey, what’s wrong?”

  “Mom? Oh, it’s you. You’re late.”

  “That I am. Who did you think it would be knocking at your door?”

  “Grandmére. Or that creepy Claudia.”

  I bit my lip. As her mother, I was expected to encourage her to be nice. But at what expense? When we were growing up, my mother had insisted on having my sisters and me kiss—and kiss up to—people I didn’t like. Systematically, I was taught to ignore my gut reaction. While I can understand our need to teach our kids civility, where’s the line between civility and victimization? If Anya can’t trust her gut, if I try to lie to her and get her to lie to herself, I’ve stripped her of a powerful protective instinct.

  “Claudia creeps me out, too.”

  “How come you’re letting her stick around?”

  What could I say? Because we’re setting a trap for Bill Ballard and I’m scared your grandmother will mess up our plans?

  “I have a reason, and it’s a good one. Actually I have two reasons, but I can’t discuss them with you right now. Will you trust me to tell you later?”

  Those denim blue eyes, so like her father’s, blinked slowly as she debated. Finally, she said, “Okay. But I don’t like her, Mom. I caught her in the kitchen opening drawers in Gran’s china cabinet.” Then she turned her back to me again.

  “What did she say? I mean, when you walked in?”

  “She giggled. She said she was looking for a pair of scissors. Ha. She planned to steal something. I know because she took a piece of Gran’s silver out and stared at the mark on the back. I heard her talking to someone on the phone. She said, ‘You should see all the loot in this place.’ I mean, if that doesn’t prove that she’s a sneak and a thief, I don’t know what would.”

  I snuggled next to my girl, spooning up to her. I reached over her and stroked Seymour, savoring his rumbling purr.

  “Tell Robbie what you saw—and anything you see in the future. He can help keep an eye on her. In fact, I’ll mention her behavior to him tomorrow. Claudia can’t steal anything if she can’t get it out of the house, right?”

  Anya half-rolled over to stare at me. “How come Grandmére likes her so much? Claudia’s not only a sneak, she’s mean and nasty.”

  “She pays attention to Grandmére, and Grandmére likes that.”

  “But, duh, doesn’t she realize that Claudia wants something? I mean, she’s such a big brown-noser.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. “You see that. I see that. But Grandmére doesn’t. I guess she needs more attention than we can give her.”

  We rested there, quietly. Anya’s breathing became regular and slow. When I thought she’d fallen asleep, I started to disentangle myself.

  “I still think about it,” Anya said in a near whisper. “About all that screaming. How fast we had to run. I hear the shots in my head. We were lucky.”

  “Shh. Hush now, sweetheart. You’re safe.” I tightened my hold on her. All night we stayed like that, my arms wrapped around my daughter. I rested on top of the covers, but I didn’t sleep much. Not at all. Were we really safe?

  Not while Bill Ballard was in town. Not while he was alive.

  Again, my thoughts returned to the little Kel-Tec that Detweiler had given me. What could it hurt if I started carrying it?

  Sixty-seven

  Saturday, May 8

  A strand of drool dangled from my mouth, as I slowly came around to consciousness. Anya grunted, rolled over, and stayed asleep as I got up and tippy-toed around her room. I hesitated in her doorway, enjoying a moment of watching my sleeping baby. I would do anything, anything at all to keep her safe.

  Mert once told me, “When you feel like a victim, you act like one, too. That’s how you decide to sign up for Round Two of abuse.”

  I decided to break the cycle.

  I text-messaged Detweiler first thing and suggested we go to a local gun range. Target practice would go a long way to make me feel better about owning the Kel-Tec. I mean, lipstick I can manage, but a gun? Moving parts? Sheesh.

  Using Sheila’s computer, I pulled up info about gun safety and how to shoot. Admittedly, reading the directions wasn’t the same as real practice, but at least it gave me a better grasp of the fundamentals. I thought back to the Lee Child books and how Jack Reacher always slowed his breathing before taking a shot. I extended my arm and pretended that Sheila’s Swingline Stapler was my gun.

  “Take your time and aim,” Detweiler said softly in my mind. “Most shooters splatter bullets. Even if someone has you in his sights, he’s likely to miss because of adrenaline.”

  I thought back to the past winter and an Olympic sport called the Biathlon where contestants ran a course, then stopped and fired at a target, and then jumped up and ran again. The commentator remarked on how their accelerated heart rates made regulating their breathing—and controlling their muscles—difficult. Detweiler’s suggestion made perfect sense.

  He had continued with, “And if someone has a gun pointed at you, and you are aiming back at him, never, ever allow yourself to get distracted. That leaves you as a sitting duck. No matter what happens around you, keep your eye and your gun on your target.”

  Every inhalation and exhalation moved the “muzzle” of the stapler up and down.

  Interesting stuff. Who knew?

  While the printer spit out paper, I combed Sheila’s shelves for her copies of the CALA yearbook, looking for a candid photo of Peyton. I’d just found one when Robbie stuck his head around the door frame.

  “Got a minute?”

  He motioned me outside to Sheila’s back deck.

  Robbie and I could talk in private here. Twice I’d caught Claudia listening in while I chatted on the phone with Detweiler. One time she’d actually been pressed against my bedroom door. When I opened it, she toppled over.

  Robbie pulled an official-looking piece of stationery from his back pocket. “I took the liberty of running a background check on your mother’s friend.”

  According to this report, “Claudia Turrow” did not exist. She certainly wasn’t registered with any nursing agency or care-giving facility in the Tucson area. She didn’t have an Arizona driver’s license. Or a phon
e number registered in her name. Or a permanent address.

  “A colleague of mine in the Tucson P.D. promised to poke around, but anything more you can supply about her would be helpful. We’re drawing a blank here, and I have a bad feeling about this woman.”

  “Join the club,” I said as we went back inside.

  I text-messaged Amanda and asked her to see what she could learn. I decided that the next time Claudia left her purse unattended, I’d look at her driver’s license and her checkbook. If she could snoop around, so could I.

  There and then I decided to rummage through the trash. After all, Scotty didn’t beam her down from the SS Enterprise. If she’d flown here from Arizona, there’d be an airline ticket stub. If she’d taken a cab or a bus, maybe there was a ticket or a receipt.

  “Anything else?” I asked Robbie.

  His weary eyes held mine, as he said, “Johnny met up with Bill last night. Bill offered him five grand to kidnap you.”

  My stomach cramped and I doubled over.

  “You okay?”

  I managed a weak, “Yeah. Just nerves. Haven’t had breakfast either.”

  “You won’t be in any danger, Kiki. Not ever. The decoy is ready to take your place. As long as everything happens on this side of the Mississippi, we’re fine. Try not to worry. It’ll all be over soon. How about if I make you scrambled eggs?”

  I thought his offer very sweet and told him so before adding, “I’m meeting Detweiler for breakfast.”

  Robbie broke into a smile so sunny it brought to mind sunbeams parting clouds after a storm. “I’m glad. You two are good for each other. By the way, Dodie Goldfader filed a complaint about the mess Brenda caused at Faust Park. Your name isn’t mentioned. That Mrs. Goldfader is a smart woman. Keeping you out of it.”

  Sometimes she is, I thought to myself. I debated whether to mention what happened the night before. I had no proof that Brenda had egged my car. Any evidence was washed away when I ran the Beemer through the car wash.

  “You’re my daughter now. Or you will be once Sheila and I say our vows. I won’t let anything happen to you,” said Robbie as he gave me a quick hug. “I promise.”

  I turned away so he couldn’t see the tears in my eyes.

  Finally, I was getting a dad who cared about me.

  Sixty-eight

  I tucked the CALA yearbook under my arm and raced off to meet Detweiler. He got to his feet as I approached the booth in the diner. The look of him—long, lean, and exuberantly masculine—sent a thrill through me. When he pulled me close for a kiss, sparkles of electricity ran up and down my body. He smelled of Safeguard soap and the spray starch he favored for ironing his shirts. I sank into him, loving the muscularity of his chest, the sinews of his arms, and the loud lub-lub-lub of his heart. Wrapping his arms around my shoulders, he held me like I was the most precious thing on earth.

  This was home. Wherever my physical address might be, this spot, the sheltering embrace of the man I loved, was the place where I found sanctuary and contentment.

  All too quickly, a waitress walked up to take our order. We stepped apart and sank into the cushy seats of the booth. I ordered scrambled eggs well-done, whole wheat toast, and a cup of tea. He had the meat lovers’ omelet, a side of bacon, and coffee. As we ate, he talked about the investigation into the sniper attack. So far they’d found nothing to link it with Bill.

  “Doesn’t make sense. He’s talking with our informant. He’s bragging up a storm, but he hasn’t said a word about the shooting at CALA.”

  “Maybe you could find out whether he had a beef with the Fitzgerald family.”

  Detweiler shook his head. “We’ve pursued that angle. In fact, from every conversation we’ve had, we’ve heard that Bill actually liked Peter. They were golfing buddies. If that’s the case, why shoot him? As for Mrs. Fitzgerald, why shoot at her in a crowd?”

  “To make a statement?” I wondered out loud. “Like the terrorists were doing with the World Trade Center? It wasn’t just an attack, it was an attack on two iconic buildings, and on the city that’s the most ambitious in the world.”

  He nodded. “Which leads us to motive. If the goal was to get you, why risk missing you? With all those dancers milling around, you weren’t an easy target.”

  “I still don’t understand why a sniper would have delivered a kill shot and then missed so many other shots,” I said. “I mean, you wouldn’t try something like that unless you were very good and very confident, right? Let’s say that Mrs. Fitzgerald was the initial target. How did the shooter then miss Peter? The crowd was still seated. No one had figured out what was happening. The sniper could have just as easily taken Peter out as he or she did Mrs. Fitzgerald.”

  Detweiler stirred his coffee and studied the clouds of cream. “There’s a reason behind all this. Once we find the logic, we’ll find the shooter.”

  I opened the CALA yearbook. “Jennifer Moore suggested that I study the photos of Peyton, the Fitzgerald daughter. You know, she started a rebellion against the May Day ceremony.” I told Detweiler what I knew of that.

  He studied her picture. We flipped to the index, found more photos, and I moved to his side of the booth so we could examine them together.

  “Anything jump out at you?” Detweiler asked me.

  I hated myself for what I was thinking. “Well, er, yes. Yes, I do. Peyton could easily be mistaken for a boy.”

  Detweiler sat back in the booth and whistled a low tone through his front teeth. “You’ve got that right. You say she didn’t want to participate in the May Day ceremony? What would her part have been? I know there’s dancing.”

  I thought a second. “Senior girls wear long white gowns. Bridal gowns.”

  “I thought women dreamed of their wedding day. My sisters always made a big hairy deal out of their dresses and their attendants. Why wouldn’t a girl want to pretend to be a bride? What else is expected of them? A little dancing around. Wearing a long formal dress.”

  “They are presented to Elliott McMahan. Sort of like a cross between a wedding and a vestal virgin ceremony. He nods to acknowledge them,” I said as I studied the candid shots of the girl. She seemed to have lots of friends. According to the information under her formal photo, Peyton was involved in honor society, the science club, choir, and debate.

  “So, it’s like Mr. McMahan is a stand-in for the groom at a wedding,” mused Detweiler.

  I jerked my head up as a thought came to me. I glanced back through the photos. In every photo where Peyton appeared, another girl appeared as well … Neenah Sterling. Neenah always stood very, very close to Peyton. I looked up Neenah’s activities. She was in honor society, the science club, choir, and debate. Except for photos where she appeared with Peyton, Neenah wasn’t pictured in the album.

  I phoned Jennifer. It was early, but I knew her habits. She was up with the birds. “Quick question. Does Peyton Fitzgerald have a boyfriend?”

  Jennifer cleared her throat. “No.”

  “Is she gay?”

  There was a silence on the other end. Jennifer’s son, Stevie, was gay and she was a very protective mother.

  “I’m not trying to out her,” I said. “I’m only wondering because, well, if I were a young woman who was gay, the idea of trotting around in a wedding gown and curtseying to an older man would be, um, repellent. I mean, I’m not gay and I have to admit the whole presentation thingie is a little bit … creepy.”

  Jennifer laughed. “Creepy? Sort of like offering yourself up as a sacrifice, right?”

  “Yeah, exactly,” I said before I told her goodbye. It wasn’t until after I hung up that I realized Jennifer never answered my question about Peyton.

  Sixty-nine

  We drove to the shooting range in two separate cars. I hadn’t told Detweiler about my run-ins with Brenda, but we both understood that being in a car together was risky business. I ached from holding back. Of all the rough spots in our relationship, this push-me, pull-you, seesawing back and forth, where w
e were intimate one minute and strangers the next, was the toughest to take.

  Detweiler helped me load my gun. “Pretend that’s Bill,” he suggested as he pointed at the target. “Aim for center mass. Remember, a gun doesn’t do you any good if you won’t use it.”

  I took a black marker and wrote “BB” over the red bullseye on the paper target. Before I squeezed the trigger, I measured my breathing. In, pause, out, pause. Easing the trigger back, I fired my first shot with my new weapon. The gun pulled up, but I’d expected as much.

  “Son of a gun, you hit that perfectly,” Detweiler said with a tone of wonder in his voice. “Let’s see if you can do it again.”

  I did. When the magazine was empty, we reeled the target back in and unclipped it.

  “That’s fine shooting. I have to say I’m impressed and surprised.”

  “Why?”

  “This is your first time with that gun, and you’re doing great. You sighted the gun correctly, you slowed your breathing, and you squeezed the trigger. How’d it feel to you?”

  I admitted the process seemed more natural than I would have expected. The sound was louder than I would have guessed. The smell—thick and peppery—coated my nose. “Is that cordite?” I wondered.

  “Nope. Only very old ammunition uses cordite. You’re getting a whiff of nitroglycerin and sawdust.”

  “But people always talk about the smell of cordite.”

  He grinned at me. I loved how his top incisor was slightly crooked. “One of those phrases that we adopt and use without thinking. I think you should take this target home to Anya. She’ll be impressed. That reminds me. Mom and Dad want to have you both over for dinner. The middle of next month, I’ll have been separated from Brenda for six months. That’s long enough for them to feel it’s official. They know it’s over. Although she doesn’t seem to be getting the hint that I’ve moved on.”

  “What do you mean?” I chewed my bottom lip to keep from blurting out all my grievances.