“So what exactly are her options?”
“She could move into an assisted living facility, she could move back to her old house, or in with me. Frankly, I don’t want her with me, but I’ll do that rather than have her in a care facility. All this is dependent on her taking physical therapy to regain her mobility.”
“Is fixing up her house a realistic option?”
“No. There are six concrete stairs out front, the bathroom is on the second floor, the wood flooring is slick, the lighting is dim. Honestly, it’s the worst possible choice for someone who is elderly.” Clancy gave a bitter laugh. “You can’t imagine all the money I’ve spent to fix Mom’s air-conditioning, to re-roof that old monstrosity, and to cover her checks when she’s bounced them. Plus, the amount I pay to have her car serviced regularly and to put on new tires, even though the Buick sits in her garage because she’s too blind to drive it. Yet Mom keeps saying that I want her money. That I’m trying to take the house and sell it so I can pocket the dough.”
“You didn’t get receipts for all that work? Don’t you keep a ledger?”
“She’s my mother. Do you run a spreadsheet on your family? No, I didn’t think so. None of us do. But maybe we should.”
Time to change the subject. I knew Clancy was good at puzzles and word games. I showed her the torn slips of paper. “See if you can make heads or tails of this.”
When she finished, she called me over.
“Boy, you are good,” I said with a low whistle. “Really good.”
Seventy-five
Sunday, May 9
Sundays were always a special day for Anya and me. Because Robbie had done such a great job with breakfasts all week, I made German pancakes for everyone. Claudia polished hers off and had both seconds and thirds. I also poured coffee for her and for mom.
“That hot chocolate you made for us last night was really good.
Is it a secret recipe?” asked Claudia.
“I put mocha flavoring in it,” I explained. Mocha flavoring in the form of Ex-Lax maximum strength. By my calculations, any minute and we’d have blast off. I know I should have felt guilty, but I didn’t. Not one bit. Ever since she’d arrived, old Claudia had stuck to my mother like a pilot fish latches onto a shark. She had no respect for the concept of family time or privacy or boundaries. Several times I’d asked Claudia to excuse us so Mom and I could talk, but Claudia just laughed and said, “Why? Luci and I don’t keep secrets from each other.”
The Ex-Lax trick was harsh, I’ll admit, but finally I’d had enough. That’s when I decided to teach old Claudia a thing or two.
I hoped Sheila had a good supply of toilet paper.
“Mom, how about coming with Anya and me to Laumeier Park? It’s a cool outdoor sculpture park that I think you’d really enjoy. You always love art.” No sooner than I’d gotten the words out of my mouth when Claudia interrupted.
“Of course, Lucia and I would like to go. We’ve been cooped up in this house for days. Honestly, I am so bored.”
“I figured we’d leave in an hour or so. I have laundry to do first.” I needed to give my “hot chocolate secret recipe” a little more time to work.
As I washed and ironed clothes, I heard the toilet flushing repeatedly in Mom’s room.
After ten minutes went by—and the flushing didn’t stop, Mom toddled down the stairs. “I’m ready, but Claudia won’t be joining us. She has an upset tummy. Do you have any Imodium?”
I shook my head. “Sorry, no, I don’t. Maybe we could pick up tablets while we’re out.”
“I hate to leave her here when she’s not feeling well.”
“We won’t be gone long. I have to work this afternoon. We’re having a Mother’s Day card crop at the store.”
Anya stared out the window. She was a bit too old for outings like this, but she was taking a photography class and needed outdoor shots. I reminded her of all the cool stuff at Laumeier, including the huge eye, the walking roots, the Leelinau, and the poets. On any given Sunday in the spring, Laumeier’s winding walkways would be filled with visitors. I’d even come here on frigid winter days and found I was one of many who admired the austere beauty, the dramatic juxtaposition of bare branches against sculptured steel, concrete, sod, and other materials I couldn’t identify. Today proved no exception; we were joined by many who wandered happily among the sculptures.
Mom found the grounds enchanting. “I love the fact you can walk around all these pieces.”
Anya ran on ahead while my mother and I walked. We hadn’t gone far when Mom complained that she needed to tinkle.
“Mom, you seem to be having to go a lot,” I said. “Maybe we need to have you checked out by a doctor.”
She admitted that might be a good idea. “Claudia says I’m fine, but it is getting annoying.” I promised to make her an appointment or at least start making calls on Monday. We found a restroom, she tried to relieve herself, and we started back along the pathway.
Pulling papers from my pocket, I asked, “Do you know anyone by the name of Beverly Glenn?”
Seventy-six
“No. Why?”
I didn’t tell her that one of the receipts we’d pieced together had this name as a signature. The handwriting matched Claudia’s.
“Hmm. How did you meet Claudia? She seems to care a lot about you.” I nearly choked on the words, but I managed to spit them out.
“I thought you knew. She worked for Rena McMurray. Rena is in my bridge club. She about drove Claudia nuts,” said my mother with a chuckle. “Rena is nothing but an old hillbilly with shoes on. She doesn’t know much. Hasn’t been anywhere exciting. But I’ve always been kind to Rena, so I continued to stop by even after Rena got sick again.”
“Got sick again” was my mother’s euphemism for getting cancer. My mother had been a smoker most of her life, and she refused to believe that cigarettes could cause tumors. She would still be a smoker if she hadn’t had pneumonia ten years ago. The combination of fluid in her lungs and wheezing made smoking impossible, so Mom quit.
“Gosh, Claudia must have a background in nursing. I mean, she cared for Rena, didn’t she?”
“Claudia doesn’t have a medical background. She doesn’t need one. She was there to help Rena because Rena couldn’t do for herself. But that’s not why Claudia hurried here to be with me. I called her from your phone, you know. You see, she puts my needs first,” said Mom with a sly grin. I caught the zinger but ignored it. “She’s not here because I need her. She’s here because she loves me.”
“Loves you,” I repeated. I couldn’t believe we were having this conversation. My mother had gone bats-in-the-belfry, totally whack-o, cuckoo for coconuts. I wished I’d brought along a tape-recorder because no one would ever believe this bizarre turn of events. “Claudia loves you.” I said it again to make it more real.
“Yes, she thinks I’m fascinating. I’m the first celebrity she’s ever met. Why she could listen for hours to my stories about being on stage!”
I cleared my throat and spoke carefully, “Um, so if you couldn’t pay Claudia, she would still want to spend time with you.”
“Of course. However, she and I have discussed my finances. I’ve come to realize you’re not capable of helping me. So, I’m perfectly happy to sign my part of the house I share with Amanda over to Claudia. That way dear Claudia will always have a place to live.”
Seventy-seven
I managed to catch Amanda on the first ring. When I told her what Mom and Claudia planned, she whispered, “You HAVE to be kidding? Where would that leave me? I’ve kept a roof over Mom’s head for ten years! The promise was that when she died, I’d recoup my expenses by inheriting her share of the house!”
To my amazement, Amanda burst into tears. “That’s all the thanks I get? For making sure Mom has a place to live? Kiki, I’ve paid all the utilities and taxes on this house for years. And now our mother is more worried about where Claudia Turrow, or whoever she is, will live than she is abou
t the quality of my life? It’s … it’s …
unbelievable.” For the next five minutes, Amanda fumed and sputtered. I didn’t know my baby sister could curse like that.
“Amanda, she’s a sick old woman. It’s not about you. It’s about Mom and this person kissing up to her.”
“I know,” said Amanda. “But she’s not so sick that I can use my power of attorney. Mom’s in her right mind. Even if what she’s doing is wrong. I’ll go over and talk with Rena McMurray’s daughter today. I hate barging in on them at a time like this, but we can’t wait.”
“What if they ask Claudia for her social security number? Maybe they could say they have to send her a tax form? That might help us track down her real identity.”
“She’s been paid in cash, Kiki. I know it because Rena told me so, and Claudia did, too.”
“There’s always the I.R.S. Maybe we turn Claudia in to them. I thought of another angle. Claudia seems to be very religious. Maybe if you find out what church she attends, they might have a directory.”
“Tried that. She’s listed as Claudia Turrow. That’s it, that’s all.”
A few minutes later, I walked through the back door of the store. We weren’t officially open for another half hour. I took the CALA yearbooks out of my satchel and flipped to the pages where Peyton Fitzgerald was pictured.
Peyton wore her hair in a boyish crop, tucked behind her ears with multiple piercings. She hid in baggy shirts that hung off her slender frame. Every photo showed the girl in cargo pants. On her wrist was a Swatch watch.
I tried to put myself in her shoes. She obviously felt uncomfortable with girly togs and the affectations associated with femininity.
I decided to call Jennifer. She answered cheerfully and told me she was actually en route to the store.
“I give. What were you trying to tell me about Peyton?”
“As you can see, Peyton isn’t the typical CALA student. She absolutely refused to attend the May Day ceremony. Said it was barbaric, which it is, in a way.”
“Right, so I heard.”
“Edwina threatened to cut her off. Told her she’d have to pay her own way through college. Said she wouldn’t inherit so much as the dust bunnies rolling under the beds.”
“There seems to be a lot of that going around. Fortunately I don’t have any money, so I guess Anya won’t ever have to worry about me threatening her like that.”
“I think you’re both lucky. I hope that Sheila never tries what Edwina did. What a huge riff ! Deanna and Peter found themselves stuck in the middle. They tried to get Peyton to change her mind, but she wouldn’t. After one particularly nasty battle, Edwina marched into the alumni office and said she would cut off funding to CALA if they didn’t force all the girls to participate.”
“But they couldn’t do that, could they? Remember, Bonnie Gossage said there was an attorney who took the case and supported the students’ civil liberties.”
“That’s right. Guess who it was who found that lawyer?”
“Peyton?”
“You’ve got it.”
“That’s quite a story, and then Edwina gets shot at the very ceremony she insisted the school have. How’s that for irony?”
Jennifer laughed. “Edwina and her granddaughter were evenly matched, huh? Two tough cookies. The apple didn’t fall far from the tree, and all those other clichés. That reminds me. I’m hungry.”
I groaned. “Me, too.”
“I can run by Bread Co. and pick you up a sandwich.”
“I’ll pay you back.”
“My treat,” said Jennifer.
“One more question. Since Peyton didn’t participate in the May Day ceremony is it remotely possible she could have been the shooter?”
“Whoa,” said Jennifer. “No way. You’re barking up the wrong tree, Kiki. The kid’s a vegan. She doesn’t believe in killing anything, not even to eat. Besides, she has the perfect alibi.”
“What?”
“She was at my house with Stevie and a group of CALA students. They’re hoping to start a Gay/Straight Alliance Group at the school. They asked me if I would start a PFLAG chapter for parents and friends of lesbians and gays. You know how I feel about families forcing kids into molds that just don’t fit.”
I did, indeed. She’d lost a brother because her father forced him to be someone he wasn’t.
“Hey, I’m almost at Bread Co. Let’s talk more when I get to the store. Since I’m spilling the beans, I might as well tell you about Peter’s job. Or lack thereof.”
Seventy-eight
As eager as I was to see Jennifer, I admit I had another reason for wanting to chat with her before the crop this evening. I suffered from nerves. My anxiety was at an all-time high.
As the clock wound down, and my fake kidnapping grew closer, I became increasingly edgy. Worse yet, I couldn’t talk to anyone about it. Mert and I weren’t on speaking terms. Johnny and I were keeping our distance. Detweiler was busy with case work and dodging Brenda.
The more I thought about it, the more comfortable I felt with the idea of carrying my Kel-Tec. In the backroom, we had an old gun holster, the kind that slid on your belt. Dodie’s husband, Horace, had brought it in for me to use with my glue gun. Sounds corny, I know, but the tip of the glue gun gets really, really hot. Slipping it into the holster kept me from burning myself several times over.
I found the holster and threaded my belt through it. Lately I’ve been wearing loose blouses because I’ve gained weight, and this proved to be advantageous because the extra fabric totally concealed my holster.
Robbie said I would never be in any real danger. Even so, someone had been sneaking around in our parking lot. Who had it been? Why hadn’t the police kept a better watch on me then, huh?
How I missed calling Mert! She would have consoled me or set me straight. The loss of her friendship made a huge hole in my heart.
A litany of “what ifs” crowded my mind. What if Bill hurt Johnny? What if Bill got wind that Johnny was a spy? What if a scrapbooker or another worker was here at the store and that person got hurt? What if my decoy didn’t look enough like me?
I locked myself in the bathroom and took my gun out of my purse. I turned it over and over in my hands. I never thought of myself as a person who owned a gun. I never joined the NRA. I never shot anything in my life. Heck, I once released a field mouse who had gotten his tail caught in a mousetrap at our house in Ladue.
What was I doing with a gun?
What sort of man gives his girlfriend a gun?
Would I ever use it? I mean, if push came to shove, could I fire this thing?
Seventy-nine
I splashed cold water on my face, put the gun in my holster, and gave my reflection a stern lecture: “Stop it. Grow up. You’re perfectly able to defend yourself. Carry the stupid gun. When this is over, you can stash it away. But for now, do like a Girl Scout and be prepared!”
Thus fortified, I started sorting die cuts for tomorrow night’s crop. We planned to make Mother’s Day cards, so I’d cut flowers of all shapes, sizes, and colors.
Edwina Fitzgerald wouldn’t be getting a bouquet this year. I remembered the blood blooming on her chest and shivered. Had I really been the target? I doubted it.
The door minder interrupted my depressive musings. Jennifer breezed in, bringing the fresh scent of a floral perfume, the rich aroma of a turkey sandwich, and an air of happiness that filled the store with light.
She started exactly where we’d left off. “Succession is a common problem with family-held businesses. Often the entrepreneur won’t turn over control, but the kids expect to maintain their positions or to be promoted to run the company. When there’s a board involved, those people can be expected to rubber stamp succession.”
I swallowed my iced tea impatiently. “What does this have to do with Poor Peter Fitzgerald?”
“He’s been singularly ineffective and he certainly doesn’t have the skills necessary to run the family business.�
�
“So, he’ll inherit money and keep his old job, right?”
“No, he’ll inherit stock, he’ll become the majority stockholder, and he’s probably convinced he’s in line for a promotion. If he takes the helm, I think the company will go under. It’s a tough economic environment, and an inexperienced CEO is a recipe for failure.”
“But he never wanted to be a businessman. From what I’ve heard, he always wanted to be an artist! Why doesn’t someone go talk with him? Offer to buy him out?”
Jennifer smiled, “That’s good thinking. I mean, it’s pretty obvious, but I guess I’ve been listening to board members gripe for so long that the straightforward approach eluded me.”
“Hey, if he’s not good at business or bookkeeping or whatever it takes, he won’t want the job. If you are honest with him, you can point out that he’s been neglecting his real talents all these years. If he doesn’t fight you, if you can put an experienced CEO at the helm, Peter will have plenty of money without all that stress.”
Jennifer flipped open her phone. “Peter? How you doing? Back from church? How’s the leg? Hey, could I stop by? I thought maybe we could talk about, well, stuff. Would it be possible for us to speak in private? Great. I don’t want to hurt Deanna’s feelings, but I need to know I can talk candidly with you. Right. I’ll be over in five minutes.”
Jennifer picked up her purse. “You don’t owe me anything for this lunch. If I play my cards right, I might owe you lunches for the rest of your life.”
Kiki’s floral fantasy
Flowers are hot, hot, hot in the craft world. They add so much color and texture to your paper projects. Fortunately, they are also simple to make. They look great placed solo on a card or bunched together in bouquets. It’s easiest to make a lot of them at one sitting and keep them in reserve for other projects.
Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 19
