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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Drat. If they didn’t go in today, we’d miss out on the free shipping.

  I couldn’t send it in. That would step on Margit’s toes.

  But I also couldn’t walk away. I still cared about Time in a Bottle. Sure, I was leaving, but I wanted to leave with my head held high. With any luck, Dodie and Margit would realize they’d lost a valuable partner.

  How could I both ensure the order was processed and be respectful of Margit’s role?

  I could run the form by Oak Haven. I could drop it off at the front desk or even sit there and wait for Margit, if need be. Laurel had the store under control. The croppers wouldn’t arrive until 5:30. I decided that it was the right thing to do, an action that would prove me to be a bigger person than Dodie and Margit.

  Ten minutes later, I entered the spacious lobby of Oak Haven. It had, as do all such places, the strong smell of pine-scented cleanser with a pungent undertone of urine. But the brightly appointed foyer and cheerfully attentive receptionist also told me the place was tiptop. I paused at the front desk and explained my mission.

  “Mrs. Eichen and her mother Gretel are here in the garden,” said the receptionist. “Sign in, take this visitor’s pass, then follow the signs.”

  Eighty-five

  I set off through the huge power-assisted door that led outside. Once there, I could smell the perfume of petunias. Tall purple spikes of salvia, roses in tight buds, and pink flowers I couldn’t name added to the visual profusion of color. White wrought iron tables and chairs sat in clusters along the brick walk. Several families moseyed around, enjoying the lovely sunshine and mild weather.

  Margit’s back was to me. She sat across from an older, more wrinkled version of herself. Between the two women was another chair. On it sat a large, gold and black stuffed tiger. The toy leaned to one side and threatened to fall to the ground so I grabbed it as I approached the twosome.

  “Kiki!” Margit’s voice was breathless with surprise. “There must be a problem at the store!”

  “Sort of.” I handed over the documents. “You needed to get these orders in by five, and you walked off without them—”

  Before I could finish, Margit’s mother half rose out of her seat and grabbed the stuffed animal out of my hands. In a thick German accent, Gretel Westheimer said, “It is verboten to touch Adolphus! He’s mine! He does not like strangers.”

  “Um. Sorry.” I looked around. “Gee, this is a great place for you two to spend time together.”

  “Tell her to go away! Adolphus does not like her!” With that Gretel made a shooing motion toward me. “I want Mutti!”

  My co-worker turned her face to me, her eyes begging for understanding. “Kiki … I … she …”

  “Mein Mutter und mein Vater! Where are they?” Gretel’s voice grew louder and louder.

  At first, I was confused. Never once had Margit mentioned her mother’s mental health. That was the key, wasn’t it? Your body wasn’t much good to you if your mind wasn’t functioning right—and Gretel definitely wasn’t “all there.”

  But Margit had pretended, visiting her mother regularly, acting as if nothing was wrong. Was that just for her mother’s benefit or for her own?

  Hard to tell, and not really any of my business.

  “I’m sure your mother and father will be coming along soon, Fraulein. In the meantime, isn’t it nice that Margit is here?” I put on my ultra-cheery voice, and my most sincere face.

  Gretel carefully placed Adolph back on his chair, as she grumbled a bit. “She can not have my kuchen.”

  “I won’t eat a bite of it. I promise.” Margit sighed. “I baked it for you. Just for you. It was my own mother’s recipe. My own darling Mutti used to make it for me.”

  Eighty-six

  Mission accomplished.

  Sort of.

  Margit walked with me to my car. “I keep this routine because it is good for her. That’s what they tell me. It is marked on a calendar with a big red letter ‘M,’ and the nurse crosses off the other days and reminds Mutti that I am coming.”

  “Is she ever, you know, more lucid?”

  “More and more she forgets who I am. But I know who she is and I know what she did for me. She worked two jobs so I could go to school. She helped me raise my children. She taught me to cook and to knit.”

  Margit wiped her eyes. “This is the time of our lives when children become parents and parents become children. This is how we honor them, by forgiving and giving and putting the past behind us. I ask myself, how could I live with myself if I ignored her now? What would I feel when I bury her? That ache is one I could not bear. So I visit three times a week.”

  “Why did you pretend? You could have told us. We would have understood.”

  Margit adjusted her cats-eye glasses. “I do not pretend for your sake, but for mine. Each of us must find a way to live through these things. Dodie pretends she is not sick. She tries to be strong, maybe too strong. You pretend that you are not afraid, but when you think we don’t notice, your face shows your terror. You are also pretending not to be pregnant. Ja? Why is that?”

  “I don’t know that I’m pregnant.”

  She stared at me.

  “Okay, all right.” I dug at a piece of loose gravel with my toe. “I haven’t decided how to handle it. I mean, of course, I’ll have the baby. It was an accident. Equipment failure, I guess is what you’d call it. But I know Detweiler. He will insist we get married.”

  I squinted up at a tree, the young green leaves fluttered like a dancing mist against the blue, blue sky. A faded daffodil drooped at the foot of the trunk, its pale blossom brushing against hopeful grass blades. “I don’t want to repeat my mistakes. I don’t want to wonder if he’s marrying me because of the baby. I want him to marry me for me. And if I wait, the baby will be a Lowenstein, in name at least. That will comfort Anya.”

  “We all do the best we can. Sometimes it isn’t enough. Most of the time, thank God, it is.”

  Eighty-seven

  I gave Margit a hug that she returned heartily and then I climbed into my car.

  Before I started driving, I called Laurel and she told me, “All the technique kits are done, the tables are ready for the crops, and I ordered pizza for the crowd tonight. I also took Gracie for a walk. She’s such a sweetie. I left Rita Romano in charge of the store for the five minutes while we were gone.”

  “Laurel, you are a wonder.”

  “Happy to do it for you, Kiki. Look, I know I shouldn’t bring this up over the phone, but is there a problem between you and Mert?”

  I sighed. “Yeah. I hope to get it straightened out tomorrow. She’s my best friend. I know she’s upset and disappointed in me, but there’s nothing I can do until then. I miss her terribly.”

  “It’ll be okay,” Laurel said. “She knows you care about her. I’m sure you two will work everything out. Take your time coming back to the store. I’m sure you could use the break.”

  As I hung up, I wondered how Laurel knew that Mert and I were on the outs. We hired Laurel at Mert’s recommendation, so their relationship must pre-date Mert’s and mine. But that was odd because I’d known Mert for nearly ten years. She’d never spoken of Laurel until that day when I mentioned we were looking for part-time help.

  Oh, well.

  I dialed Clancy. “Mom’s still in surgery. Kiki, can you do me a favor? She had an appointment with Dr. Terra this afternoon at three. Could you call them and cancel it for me? I don’t have his number with me.”

  I had a better idea. I drove by Sheila’s and ran inside. I could hear the shower running upstairs.

  “Mom?”

  She sat in front of the television, half-asleep. Her skirt sagged a little, but she was dressed in a nice outfit and her hair was neatly brushed. My day was definitely getting better. “I’m tired,” she whined.

  “Mom, I managed to get a doctor’s appointment for you with the best doctor in town. It’s a last-minute opening, so we have to hurry.”

  �
��What about Claudia?”

  “We’ll write her a note. Since she loves you so much, I’m sure she’ll be thrilled that you’ll be seen by a specialist. Besides, we don’t want to hurry her through her shower, do we?”

  “What should I wear? Claudia always helps me choose.”

  I pushed hangers around in the guest closet. “How about this? Or that?”

  Mom shook her head. “I can’t decide. I need Claudia.”

  “I have a better idea. How about if we take two or three outfits? You can decide on one after we have lunch.” I picked up a canvas bag and slipped the clothes inside.

  Mom looked at me dubiously. “I am hungry.”

  “Great! So am I. We can bring food home for Claudia. Won’t she be pleased? It will be so nice for her. I bet she loves surprises.”

  “She does.”

  Good, because we’ve got a doozy planned for her. I smiled to myself as I thought about the text-message I’d received from Robbie Holmes right as I swung into Sheila’s drive.

  “Beverly Glenn” had a warrant outstanding for her arrest. She’d skipped bail in Mesa, where she’d been arrested for theft. Robbie was processing the paperwork. Using a dirty water glass from the house, he’d managed to match “Claudia’s” fingerprints with those on file for “Beverly Glenn.” With any luck, “Claudia Turrow” would soon be out of our lives forever.

  Eighty-eight

  “Your mother is absolutely amazing!” Dr. Terra’s gap-tooth grin reminded me of a jack-o-lantern. With his carrot-top mop of hair, he looked a bit freaky-deaky, but there was a sincerity about him that immediately put a person at ease. “I’ve never met anyone like her. In fact, I hope you’ll give me permission to use her as a case study. I’ll obscure her identity, of course.”

  Crud. She pulled the wool over his eyes, I thought to myself. I bit back a sigh. So I’d been wrong about her. She was normal and I was the one with a problem.

  “She maxed out the test. That’s … that’s just astonishing.”

  “What test?”

  “Actually there are several, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is the diagnosis, and I didn’t even need the testing to see that your mother is a craving narcissistic personality to the nth degree. Hey, how much therapy have you had?”

  “Not enough.”

  “My hat’s off to you. Growing up with a narcissistic mother, well, it must have been horrible. No empathy. No concern for your feelings or emotions. Always living in her shadow. People telling you how terrific she is, but she’s so different at home. The backhanded compliments that were really slaps. I bet she pitted you against your siblings, right?”

  My mouth was so dry all I could do was nod.

  “Was she always like this? Narcissism tends to get worse with age, so I’m thinking it wasn’t always this bad.” He grinned at me.

  “It’s always been this bad. Always.” I stopped and reflected. “Maybe it’s worse.”

  “Boy, that must have been rough. And with the infection, she’s been even more moody and confused, right?”

  “What infection?”

  He seemed surprised. “I thought you knew. She has a raging urinary tract infection, a UTI. Any sort of UTI in an elderly person can affect their cognitive abilities.”

  “You’re kidding. You found that out already?”

  He gave a self-deprecating shrug. “She came in with a mild temp. I examined her, and she squealed when I pressed on her belly. We took a urine sample. It was foul smelling and cloudy with a little blood in it, so we sent it out for a test, but I’m positive she should be on antibiotics.”

  “Oh.” She must have been hurting and I didn’t know.

  “We should have the results in an hour or so. I’ll write you a script now because that’ll give you time to get it over to a pharmacy. You’ll want to get her on the antibiotics right away.”

  All of this came at me so fast that I had trouble processing what he was saying. But after he handed over the prescription, I found my voice. “You are telling me that my mother is mentally ill? And she always has been?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Growing up in a house with her must have been an absolute nightmare. Let me guess: You were dead last, you never got any credit for anything you did, your mother one-upped you at every turn, and anything that you needed or wanted was labeled selfish.”

  My head was reeling. He’d recapped my entire childhood in less than fifteen seconds. “So, it really was hard, wasn’t it? I wasn’t just imagining it or being a whiner.”

  “Let’s put it this way, I wouldn’t wish your childhood on my worst enemy. Do you have siblings? Your mother never mentioned any of her children, and she talked non-stop for more than an hour.”

  “Yes, two sisters.”

  “Are they functioning? I mean, do they have successful lives?”

  I thought about that. Amanda never married. She shied away from relationships, avoided getting close. Catherine? She ran away years ago. I hadn’t heard from her in years.

  I told Dr. Terra this.

  He nodded. “Not surprising. The child of a narcissist never learns to stand up for himself. Or herself. Never learns to ask for what they need so they have problems getting their needs met. Your mother taught you that you were not important. Unfortunately, you might even perpetuate the cycle by teaching your own child—if you have one—that she’s too important. It’s a difficult foundation on which to build a successful, fulfilling life.”

  “What can we do about it? Now?”

  He gave a bitter chuckle. “Not one thing. She’s too old to change. She doesn’t want to change. She has no reason to change, and even if she did, we have very little success with problems like this. The best advice I can give you is take care of yourself. More and more you’ll be called upon to be her caregiver. Think about what they tell you on the plane before you take off.”

  “Buckle your seat belt?”

  “Put your own oxygen mask on first.”

  Eighty-nine

  On our way to the pharmacy, we ran through the driveup at Wendy’s. Thinking ruefully about “Claudia,” I bought an extra salad and put it in the cooler I keep in my trunk. If I’d had the courage to let it sit in the heat, maybe our problem with Beverly Glenn would get solved … fast.

  Dr. Terra’s nurse phoned to confirm that my mother did, indeed, have a UTI. The prescriptions would be ready for pick up when we arrived at Walgreens. One was for pain and the other was an antibiotic.

  “Poor thing. Don’t be surprised if your mother sleeps a lot after she takes her medicine. I bet she’s been up and down all night with the urge to go. Not to mention the discomfort,” said the nurse. “And her fever.”

  I felt like the world’s biggest jerk. Here I’d been so angry with her, so put out—as had we all—and Mom had been feeling punk the entire time. Punk and tired.

  But had I thought to get her a thorough checkup?

  No, I hadn’t. I made a mental note to remind Amanda once again to send me all Mom’s medical papers. The nurse suggested, “Go buy a plastic folder for each member of your family. Keep all their medical papers inside. List prescriptions, procedures, doctors’ names, and insurance policy information. It’s much easier than trying to reconstruct stuff when there’s a problem.”

  Here I called myself a scrapbooker, and I had never thought of that. What a simple and smart way to have all that information at the ready. Gosh, if Anya was taken to the hospital, I’d have to scrounge around for all her paperwork, like what she was allergic to, when her last doctor visit was, and so on.

  I vowed to make amends and to rectify the situation.

  I picked up Mom’s medicine and a bottle of water for her to wash down the pills. Racing up and down the aisles, I also bought her a couple of magazines, a pint of Häagen-Dazs Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough ice cream, and a bag of those chocolate-covered pretzels she loved so much. On my way up to the checkout counter, I grabbed two paperbacks for her as well. All in all, I collected quite a haul.


  Good thing I’d be getting back my investment in the store. At this rate, I would need it to cover my bills.

  “I’m sleepy,” Mom said, clutching the plastic bags with the Walgreens name on them. I helped her crank back the passenger seat so she could snooze. As I leaned over, the gun poked me in the ribs. Even so, the pang of pain comforted me. Reaching down, I patted the six-round magazine I’d slipped into my back pocket.

  Still there. Six little bullets ready to do battle.

  We were only six blocks away from Deanna and Peter Fitzgeralds’ house when Mom started snoring. Because we were so close, I decided to return their old albums, the ones I had borrowed to make the enlarged portraits of Edwina and to complete the memorial album CALA had commissioned. Returning this stuff would be one more item to cross off my “to do” list. After losing the May Day album, I was a bit paranoid—holding onto the Fitzgeralds’ original materials made me nervous.

  Now was the perfect time to drop these off. I had everything I needed to complete their album and hand it in to Lane Carlée this afternoon. Then I could tell Margit to submit the bill for my services and the materials.

  There was a broad patch of shade at the far end of the Fitzgeralds’ long circular driveway. I pulled in and parked my car under a generous maple tree. Since Mom snored loudly and looked so comfortable, I decided not to wake her. Instead, I rolled down all the windows on the BMW. I ran up to the imposing double front doors and pressed the doorbell.

  Derrick, his face set in a weather-beaten scowl, answered the door. “Yes?”

  You’d have thought we’d never been introduced. He stared at me like I was a door-to-door salesperson trying to peddle my wares.

  “Look, Sissy wants to be left alone,” he said as he moved to block the doorway. “You and all your pals at that fancy school should respect that.”