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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I stepped over to the spot where he’d lost his gun. Scanning the ground, I found it and kicked at it. But my aim wasn’t very good. It didn’t go far. Just tumbled toward the gravel lot. But at least it was farther away from him. Now he’d have to get out of the boat, run down the short pier, and search for it in the weeds. Immediately, I realized how stupid I’d been. I should have grabbed the gun and tossed it in the water.

  With a roar of anger, Bill hopped off the boat and ran toward me, his head down, in the manner of a raging bull. I ducked out of his way and he ran past me.

  I whirled and was on him, stabbing the scissor tips into his right bicep. Twisting those trusty orange handles, I dug them deep in his flesh, ignoring the hot blood squirting all over my hand. Bill screamed out in pain.

  He swung at me with a clumsy sweep of his left arm and he hit me high in the chest. Knocked me off balance.

  I stumbled backward. My arms windmilled in the air. I slipped on the gravel and went down. Landing hard, the wind wooshed out of my lungs. I gasped and coughed. I couldn’t take in any air.

  Bang! A gunshot split the air.

  Johnny staggered away from Brenda’s car. His hands were splayed against his gut. Crimson blood leaked through his fingers as he clutched his belly.

  “Oh, no, no,” I cried. I sprang up and ran to his side.

  Brenda screamed, a frustrated cry like a thwarted child. “I didn’t mean to! It went off in my hand!”

  “Get help!” I yelled to her. This was the worst possible scenario—seeing my best friend’s brother dragged into this ugly vendetta. I imagined how Mert would take the news he’d been shot. Johnny’s feet refused to cooperate and he wobbled. Taking his weight on me, I helped him to the ground. “No,” I sobbed. “No, please, no.”

  “It was an accident,” Brenda stood over me, crying.

  “Then go get help. Hurry!”

  She hopped back in her car and roared out of the parking lot.

  A steady stream of blood flowed from the hole. How could I stop the flow? I knelt and pressed my hands on top of Johnny’s, covering his wound and praying for help.

  Mert would never forgive me for this.

  I would never forgive myself.

  Johnny’s eyes locked onto mine, and I felt the desperation in them. “Johnny! Johnny! Hang on, buddy. Hang on!”

  “Shoot him,” Johnny gasped. “Shoot him … or he’ll kill all of us. Get his phone.”

  Detweiler’s voice echoed in my head: “Don’t pull your gun unless you plan to use it.”

  “Where’s your car? Or his?” I asked. Maybe I could load him up, grab Sheila, and drive away.

  “Came by boat,” said Johnny, his voice fading and his eyes dimming.

  I know nothing about boats. Nothing. And I do hate the water, except to look at it.

  I yanked the Kel-Tec out of the holster and reached in my pocket. I could hear Bill stumbling through the undergrowth, hear his feet crunching twigs as he searched for his gun. I pulled the clip out of my hip pocket. My hand shook, but I succeeded in loading the clip.

  If we were going to survive, I had to save us.

  One hundred

  Bill was on his hands and knees, searching the area by the pier. By my calculations, he was about two feet from where I’d kicked his gun. I could see the blood drenching his hand. The hole I’d torn in his bicep sent a steady stream of blood-red geysers down his arm. His back sported a slower leak, a widening circle of red. He had to be weakening. If I stayed hunched over, I wouldn’t draw attention to myself. Bill would think I was tending Johnny.

  I wiped my sweaty palms on my pants.

  “Take your time, babe,” said Johnny. I could barely hear him. “Aim. You might get just one shot.” I stayed hunched over my fallen friend, hoping Bill would think I was tending him. To staunch the flow of Johnny’s blood, I took off my blouse and stuffed it under his hands.

  “Love that black bra. Now I can die a happy man,” said Johnny.

  “Don’t you dare!” I turned and looked over my shoulder. Bill’s hands parted the purple-headed irises. Any minute now, he’d have his gun.

  Sheila suddenly yelled, “Help! Somebody help us!” She must have chewed through the duct tape over her mouth—or maybe Johnny hadn’t attached it securely, using the same trick he had to bind my hands.

  “Got it!” Bill said, standing up slowly. I saw the gun in his hand.

  “Help! Help!” Sheila screamed.

  “Shut up, old lady,” Bill said and he crossed the distance to her in a hurry. “Hey? What’s that? A ring!”

  In her struggles, she’d exposed her diamond ring. Johnny had taped over her hands to hide it, trying to protect Sheila. Oh, how proud she was of that Mary Pillsbury engagement ring! Now it became a liability. I turned and saw it sparkle in the sun, a beacon casting a brilliant rainbow of colors.

  “Help,” she whimpered.

  Bill staggered back to the pier. Holding on to a post, he dropped into the boat.

  “I told you to shut up! Give me that ring. Take it off.” He bent over her and grunted. I could hear Sheila’s elbows bumping against the boat as she fought him. He wrestled her, his arms moving as he tried to snatch the ring.

  Slowly I stepped closer to the boat, getting myself in position. Detweiler had taught me to shoot for center mass. But as I calculated the trajectory of my bullet, I knew that a center mass shot could go right through Bill and hit Sheila.

  Instead of shooting, I waited. Patiently. My target moved up and down. I stood my ground, computing the angle of my gun. Figuring the path of the bullet. Taking my time for the kill shot.

  I heard gravel crunching. I remembered what Detweiler said about distractions. Even so, I glanced over my shoulder. Brenda Detweiler’s car raced into the parking lot. Back again. Her Camry spit out gravel as she braked to a stop. I ignored her. Maybe her conscience had gotten to her. She was a trained nurse. How could she drive off and leave Johnny bleeding? Especially when it was her fault?

  I put all my attention on Bill. He would kill Sheila unless I intervened. No doubt he’d toss her overboard as soon as he took her ring. I sighted my gun. I slowed my breathing. I heard the Camry door open. This time I didn’t turn.

  Inhale—pause—exhale—pause. The rhythm steadied me. The barrel of the gun quit moving between breaths. A Zen-like calm flowed over me.

  I can do this!

  Bill pinned Sheila to the seat of the boat with a loud thunk!

  “Give it to me,” Bill’s voice was tight with anger. Totally focused on getting the ring, he’d forgotten all about me. Besides, where would I go? I wouldn’t leave Johnny. I didn’t have a car. Or a phone. Or a gun.

  He underestimated me. People often do. Kiki Lowenstein, alone, with a gun.

  “Noooo!” Sheila’s muffled cry was hard to decipher.

  I heard the crack of bone. Probably her finger. She howled in pain. Bill stood up triumphantly. Now he was clear of Sheila, or at least his head was. He held the ring on his thumb. His hand wasn’t raised high, but it was still a gesture of defiance. In his other hand I saw his gun.

  This was my best chance. I took a breath, paused, sighted the back of Bill’s head, squeezed the trigger, and BANG!

  A red mist sprayed from his head, creating a demonic halo. His knees crumbled, he listed to one side, and fell out of the boat with a decisive splash.

  From behind me came an answering BANG! Almost an echo of my shot. A searing pain laid a trail along my right temple. I smelled flesh burning. My hand touched the spot that hurt, and a hot trickle ran over my fingers. I turned to see Brenda Detweiler, her gun held high, still aiming at me. She grinned.

  Everything went black.

  One Dead, Three Injured in Shoot-out

  ALTON, IL—One man was found dead and three people were injured in what police are describing as a bizarre revenge-love triangle shooting at a secluded boat access on the Mississippi River, one mile north of Alton, Illinois. William Thomas Ballard, a former resident o
f Ladue, was pronounced dead at the scene. Ballard suffered a gunshot wound to the head. Three other people were taken to St. Anthony’s Hospital in Alton. Johnny Ray Chambers was admitted with a gunshot wound to the abdomen. He is in guarded condition. Sheila Lowenstein suffered a broken collarbone and other injuries. Kiki Lowenstein was found with a gunshot wound to the temple. Both women are in stable condition. A fourth person, Brenda Detweiler, was taken into custody and charged with attempted murder and kidnapping.

  Off-duty East St. Louis policeman, Sergeant Bradley Wiberg, was birdwatching with another off-duty policeman, Corporal Greg Leljedal, when the two men heard gunshots. “My doctor recommended I find a peaceful hobby. Greg was stressed out, too, so we decided to take up birdwatching. When we heard the shots, I turned my binoculars toward the sound. Greg rowed us closer and we quickly realized we’d stumbled upon a crime scene.”

  After notifying the Alton authorities and requesting help, Wiberg and Leljedal climbed out of their boat and approached Brenda Detweiler. “We were unable to prevent her from shooting Mrs. Kiki Lowenstein. However, our appearance caused her to run for it. Mr. Chambers was already on the ground and bleeding. Mr. Ballard’s head was blown off. Mrs. Sheila Lowenstein was injured, unconscious in the bottom of a boat. We applied first aid to Mr. Chambers and both women,” said Leljedal.

  Illinois police apprehended Mrs. Detweiler as she was driving Highway 64–40 back to St. Louis.

  Wiberg and Leljedal plan to take up another hobby.

  Acknowledgments

  Special thanks to Larry Elliott of Executive Defense Technology, LLC, for explaining how the justice system handles parolees. Visit him at www.execdeftech.com. My pal Alan Orloff helped me with a sticky plot point. Sally Lippert and my sister, Jane Campbell, explained to me UTI symptoms in the elderly. Al Hallonquist talked me through what police procedures were likely to be in the event of a sniper attack. My tai chi friend Margit Hanna was kind enough to share her recipe for plum kuchen.

  A big shout out to The Mystery Book Club that meets at the Barnes & Noble in Fenton, as well as Deborah Horn and Lynn Oris, booksellers extraordinaire. A bouquet of virtual flowers to Lane Carlée, who won both character naming privileges and my armadillo vase in an auction to benefit the Boynton Beach City Library. Kathy Berberich and Pat Davis deserve kudos for all the work they do for Make-A-Wish Foundation. Mega-thanks to Wendy Jo and Angela, two of my great Fiskateer friends.

  Jane Campbell, Paula Dear, Shirley Helmly, Judge Bill Hopkins, and Sharon Hopkins were kind enough to help proofread this book. Big thanks to Connie Hill, my wonderful editor. Any mistakes here are mine.

  For caregivers or adult children of the elderly, I suggest the book Coping with Your Difficult Older Parent: A Guide for Stressed-Out Children by Grace Lebow and Barbara Kane with Irwin Lebow. If you have a family member with a terminal illness, contact your local hospice. Hospice workers are angels who walk among us.

  About the Author

  Joanna Campbell Slan is a scrapbooker who has written seven technique books on the hobby. In fact, she loves crafts of all kinds. She is the author of twelve nonfiction books, including a college textbook, and her essays appear in five of the Chicken Soup for the Soul books. Joanna lives on Jupiter Island, Florida. Visit Joanna at: www.JoannaSlan.com.

  Author photo by Glamour Shots