Killer, Paper, Cut

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  "I'd be delighted," said my co-worker. What a study in contrasts they made. Laurel has an enviable figure, and she dresses with a hint of sexuality. Mary Martha, on the other hand, was wearing a bloody tee shirt paired with sweatpants. While Laurel is always perfectly groomed, Mary Martha needed to take a trip through a car wash…without the car.

  I told myself that I was being needlessly judgmental and unkind. And I was. But I was also really, really tired. Just a few nights ago we'd had a Halloween party in Illinois, at the farm owned by my sweetie Detective Chad Detweiler's parents. It had been a wonderful evening, with one small exception. Something had bitten me, and subsequently, I wasn't feeling my best.

  In fact, it would be fair to say that I felt badly drained.

  After our guests took their seats in Room B, the room reserved for eating, Angela's catering staff served ghoulish treats—spooky punch with frozen "eyeballs" and appetizers with spiders on them. This was prime time for me and my co-workers to circulate with coupons designed to bring the crafters back to Time in a Bottle. While I passed out my coupons, Laurel hovered over the hapless crafter and her friends, making them feel welcome. Faye Edorra also made the rounds, stopping long enough for our croppers to have their pictures taken with the Lavender Lady. Mary Martha and friends asked Laurel to snap their photos.

  I stayed as far away from Faye as possible because the fake blood smeared all over her looked all too real for me. Our crafters were absolutely thrilled at the chance to pose next to Faye in all her ghoulish gore. A couple of them even dipped their hands into her vat of fake blood.

  Angela's dinner was well-received. Guests had their choice of mini barbequed chicken sandwiches or Asian lettuce wraps with spicy sweet potato fries. For vegetarians, there were Boca Burgers. Many croppers brought a favorite dish to share. The assortment of casseroles, salads, and veggies was astonishing. People ate and ate and ate, a sure sign of a good time. In between mouthfuls, they talked about what they'd seen at the Lemp Mansion. That, too, had been a big hit.

  The wait staff bustled about clearing dishes. A few of the women lingered over coffee and tea, but most had headed to Room A where their crafting supplies were.

  "Be right back," said Laurel, as she walked toward the ladies room carrying her purse.

  "Remember, we'll be coming back to this room later for desserts and a presentation by the Lavender Lady. Now we'll move to Room A for our door prizes," said Clancy. It took a while to get everyone herded from one room to the other. But the promised of winning door prizes finally hurried people along. Clancy began drawing and calling out numbers we'd assigned to the crafters when they first arrived. The excitement grew as she called one number right after another. Since we were on a tight schedule, she made the announcements, while I distributed the gifts to an endless stream of squealing crafters.

  I was handing Dolores Peabody a shopping bag done up with ribbons when I heard the scream.

  Chapter 4

  At first, our crafters and I thought it was a prank. I knew it came from the restroom, but I didn't race toward the sound. Instead, I stood and went over to the hallway.

  "Call out the next number!" yelled a woman in the back.

  Clancy shrugged and said, "Probably a joke. Four-six-six-seven eight!"

  "Woo-hoo!" yelled a cropper. "That's me!"

  But as our guest trotted to the front of Room B a voice hollered, "Call nine-one-one. We need cloth! Something to staunch the blood!"

  I pivoted on my heels and took off as fast as my burgeoning belly would allow.

  "I'll dial nine-one-one," yelled Clancy from behind me.

  Angela and I converged in the hallway. We hit the bathroom door together, throwing it open, and rounding the corner. There we skidded to a halt. One of our longtime crafters Bonnie Gossage was on her knees, pressing her hand to the side of Laurel’s neck. With each pump of the girl’s heart, a little blood spurted between the attorney’s fingers. Another spot between Laurel’s ribs was also leaking blood. More blood was flowing from her forearm.

  "Angela," I said, "Would you tell a server to stand outside with a white tablecloth? Clancy's already called nine-one-one."

  "Will do," said the caterer. I dropped to my knees offering Bonnie my help.

  "What happened?" I asked.

  "Laurel was like this when I walked in," said Bonnie. She's an attorney by trade, a fine one, and I doubt she ever gets very rattled, but this had her quivering in shock. Me, too.

  "I'll clamp my hands over yours," I said. That gave us a better purchase on Laurel’s throat. However, Laurel started sliding along the tile. At the rate she was moving, she'd soon slip away from us.

  "I'll keep my hands on the cut. You prop her up so she can breathe," Bonnie said. She was right; Laurel’s airway would fill with blood, and she might drown if we didn’t get her propped up. Unfortunately, I would have to reach over my belly and twist to lift Laurel. Moving her wouldn't be easy.

  "On the count of three," I said. "One, two, three."

  My kneecaps ached as they pressed against the hard bathroom tiles. Blood squished between my fingers. The smell of Bonnie’s strawberry scented hair mingled with the coppery tang of blood. If I’m ever asked to do a life review, those minutes will surely count as be the longest of my life.

  Amazing how many prayers you can cram into such a short space of time.

  Either God was listening, or we were lucky. Incredibly so.

  The nine-one-one dispatcher located an ambulance around the corner from us. The emergency techs inside had just returned from a hospital run. The bus was empty.

  The next few minutes were a blur. Later I'd realize that I’d gone into shock, but I didn't understand that at the time. Everything seemed to slow down, and I could only remember bits and pieces.

  I can’t say exactly how they managed to pry our fingers off, or to get the IV started on Laurel, but they did. I don’t remember what we told our waiting crafters. I believe Clancy announced there’d been an accident. Sirens drowned out a lot of her words. I remember that my teeth started chattering. Clancy noticed and said something, although I can't recall what.

  Uniformed first responders showed up on the heels of the EMTs. They cordoned off the bathroom. Radios crackled. The uniformed police called in detectives and reinforcements.

  My hands started shaking. I opened my cell phone. Anyone with a police scanner would soon know there'd been a stabbing at a scrapbook crop in The Old Social Hall. I could think of at least one person who'd be terrified. I called my own law enforcement officer, Detective Chad Detweiler.

  Chapter 5

  The same time as the crop…

  A coffee shop in Webster Groves, MO

  "I can’t tell her," said Leighton Haversham as he stirred his decaf mocha latte. "Kiki’s like a daughter to me, and since she’s pregnant, I just can’t bring myself to do it."

  Detective Chad Detweiler resisted the urge to jump up, grab Leighton, and shake him hard. If the older man didn’t look so miserable, he might have. But Leighton couldn’t meet Detweiler’s eyes. He kept stirring that same cup of light brown liquid without actually drinking a drop of it.

  By now, Leighton's latte was probably lukewarm. Detweiler had long since downed two cups of black coffee without any cream or milk.

  "I’ll tell her," said Detweiler, at long last.

  "Kiki’s going to hate me."

  "She won’t be happy."

  Leighton sighed. "I’m sure you’d like to wring my neck."

  Coward, thought Detweiler.

  Leighton had asked to meet in a public place because he was scared that Detweiler would throw a punch at him. Well, he was right. Detweiler couldn’t believe what the man was asking of them. How could he do this to Kiki?

  As if reading Detweiler’s mind, Leighton mumbled, "I wouldn’t do this except that Melissa, and I haven’t spoken for years. It’s all my fault. I wasn’t a good father. I let her down. When her mother and I split…" and then he stopped. "Well, that’s just
an excuse, I guess. I wasn’t there for the girl, and she’s never asked anything of me, so I can’t very well tell her no, can I? Not when she’s begging me for a place to live? A place of her own? So she can start over?"

  Detweiler could see his point. But then, he imagined the look on Kiki’s face when he told her they’d have to move out of the tiny cottage in Webster Groves, and suddenly, he didn’t feel so forgiving of Leighton. He jammed his fists in his jacket pocket so he didn’t give in to the urge to slug him.

  With a jolt, Detweiler realized how upset he was. And it surprised him. Usually, he took a "live and let live" attitude. He understood that people did the best they could. Sometimes they made good choices. Other times, not so much. Everyone was trying his or her best to get by.

  His mother had taught him compassion, explaining that others had their own problems. His father had taught him patience, reminding Detweiler to respect the rhythms of other people.

  So he was trying to empathize with Leighton, really he was, but somehow he just couldn't!

  Watching Kiki’s belly grow had changed everything for him. It had kindled a sense of terror. All of his protective instincts were on high alert. It was up to him to make sure that she and their child were safe. His feelings only intensified as he watched Kiki make dozens of small sacrifices every day. She struggled with morning sickness, dry skin, and heartburn. She'd given up all artificial sweeteners, which meant taking a pass on her beloved Diet Dr Pepper. Of course, she didn't drink alcohol.

  Now Leighton was asking him to add a new burden to her life. He was asking that Kiki and Detweiler, their two kids, nanny, and three pets move out of their house. Detweiler couldn’t believe how angry he was.

  Their waitress refilled his coffee cup one more time. Detweiler muttered, "Thanks," and worked his jaw furiously. He was itching to point out to Leighton that Melissa's sudden interest in her father sounded fishy. Especially when she hadn't communicated with him once in years.

  Until now.

  Her timing seemed calculated, especially seeing that Leighton's newest book was quickly gaining traction in the bookstores.

  "So Melissa wants to move to St. Louis?" asked Detweiler.

  "Yes," said Leighton, eagerly. "Do you remember when the local paper did that spread on the cottage? About how I remodeled it hoping to make it my writing studio, but that didn't work? So then Kiki moved in? Well, it was in my agent's office and Melissa saw it."

  "Your agent. In New York."

  "Right," said Leighton. "Isn't that something?"

  Indeed.

  Didn't that just knock over the milking pail? Detweiler remembered the article. The place wouldn’t have looked near so darling had it not been for all the work that Kiki had put into it. She’d set down roots in more ways than one, claiming the place and adding homey touches.

  "Kiki doesn't have a lease?" he asked.

  "Correct." Leighton spoke with a certain reluctance. Straightening slightly in his seat, he added, "Legally I’m within my rights."

  "Of course," Detweiler said. "I’m just searching for an excuse you could give your daughter. A reasonable way to avoid having to move Kiki, Anya, Erik, Brawny, and me out of the house."

  He’d listed everyone on purpose. Yes, the house was crowded. Right, they needed a bigger place. But Anya loved Webster Groves, and in particular, she was attached to this house because of Leighton's donkey Monroe, and the beautiful, spacious yard. As hard as it would be to tell Kiki that Leighton wanted them out by the end of the coming week, it would be ten times harder to tell Anya. As for Erik? The boy was only beginning to adjust to his new life in St. Louis. He’d had a few setbacks, but the last ten days had been great. Uprooting the child again was the last thing that Detweiler wanted to do.

  Furthermore, there was the problem of where they were going to live. He’d given up his small apartment last month. It made no sense to pay rent there while he was living with Kiki. Instead, they planned to save that amount and put it aside to help pay for the hospital expenses that would happen in January. Coming up with first month, last month, and a deposit would strip their bank account.

  Of course, there might be an upside to all this. Maybe the added expenses would encourage Kiki to agree to getting married sooner rather than later. Initially, Anya had been a stumbling block. She hadn't wanted to be the only Lowenstein in the family. But given time, the teen had changed her mind. They had discussed the possibly of her having a hyphenated last name.

  Yes, plans were in the works for the wedding, definitely things were moving in the right direction. But this was Kiki's busiest time of year at the store. So far, every time they'd sat down to set a date, something or someone interfered.

  Meanwhile, he’d ordered a beautiful diamond engagement ring for her from Mary Pillsbury. He hadn't decided when he’d give it to her. Life had become incredibly hectic, what with two kids, the store, and his full-time job.

  And yet, he’d never been happier.

  "So, you'll tell her?" Leighton asked for the third time.

  "Yes," said Detweiler through clenched teeth. He was still seriously hacked off with Leighton when Kiki text-messaged him: There's been a stabbing at our crop. Please come quickly. I'm okay. Laurel is not.

  Chapter 6

  The Old Social Hall

  It seemed like forever before Detweiler arrived. Flashing his badge at the other law enforcement officials who'd gathered, he broke through the crowd, crossed the dining room in two seconds flat, and grabbed my shoulders. "You okay?"

  "I am. Laurel’s not." I told him what happened. "Hadcho's here."

  Detective Stan Hadcho is Detweiler's partner. When he heard the address from the dispatcher, he'd raced to The Old Social Hall, because he knew that I might need help. Once he'd seen that I was all right, he hurried over to assist the other officers.

  "Good," said Detweiler. "I'll let him deal with the others. You sure you're okay? The baby all right?"

  I did my best to smile. It was wonderful to be so cherished. "I'm just a little shaky, that's all."

  "So none of this blood on you is yours?"

  "No," and I explained about Mary Martha. "The rest happened when I helped Bonnie Gossage put pressure on Laurel's wounds."

  I glanced down at my cotton maternity top. Detweiler's mother, Thelma, had made it for me. To underscore the peasant blouse styling, she'd chosen a lovely paisley on a periwinkle background. The neckline featured a drawstring tassel. "I sure hope these stains come out."

  "Mom'll gladly make you another," he said. "If you’re sure that you’re okay, I’ll see how I can help."

  "Go," I said.

  For the next thirty minutes, first responders raced around, securing the scene. Bonnie didn't come back to the craft room for a long time, and then she reached into her supplies and grabbed a plastic grocery bag full of clothes. Since she has little kids, she always travels with extra duds. In short order, she came back dressed in things that were clean and dry. As I watched from across the room, she handed her blood-soaked clothes to one of detectives. He bagged them up and offered her a receipt for the evidence. Next a uniformed officer asked me for my things. Fortunately, Candi Bise, one of my scrappers had an extra sweatshirt in her bag, so she loaned it to me. I handed over my blouse, thinking sadly of how much I'd loved it. The crime scene investigation techs were swarmed the bathroom and hall, dusting for fingerprints and collecting whatever they could.

  An officer took Bonnie aside, presumably to interview her in one of the small rooms off the hallway. As I watched her leave, I caught a glimpse of the gurney rolling down the hall with an IV attached on a pole. That told me what I wanted to know.

  Laurel was still alive.

  As for what sort of shape she was in, I couldn’t hazard a guess.

  Clancy walked a plain-clothed detective over to me. "This is Kiki Lowenstein."

  "You're Detective Detweiler's fiancée? The daughter-in-law of Police Chief Robbie Holmes?" he asked me.

  "Right," I said
, even though my relationship to Robbie wasn't exactly so straight-forward. He had recently married Sheila, the mother of my late husband George.

  "Then I suppose you know what happens next. We need to interview everyone. There doesn't seem to be a way to separate all your croppers from each other," said Detective Murray. Detweiler and Hadcho walked over to join us. It seems that Murray and Hadcho were old friends. Murray and Detweiler knew each other by reputation only.

  "My officers will have to get all your guests' contact information and take statements while the crime scene investigators finish their jobs," said Detective Murray. "Of course, we'll also need to talk to everyone on the catering staff."

  "I can help," said Hadcho, "since I was a first responder."

  "We can help, too, by keeping everyone busy," I said.

  I told Detective Murray about the make-and-take project we had already prepared. Since we had to stay right where we were, and we couldn’t go into the next room to eat our desserts, doing our crafts would provide a welcome distraction. With his permission, we got started. The group reacted sluggishly, as if someone had poured molasses on all their limbs, but with a bit of encouragement from Clancy and me, they got down to the business of crafting tiny monsters to be glued to empty toilet paper rolls and used as décor items or game pieces.

  Twenty minutes later, Detweiler came over to see how I was doing. A glance at the wall clock told me that it was almost nine-thirty p.m.

  "They're almost done gathering statements," he said. "What are you planning to do? Break it up and call it a night?"

  "I don’t think I have any choice but to continue with the crop," I told Detweiler. "We're scheduled to be here until two. It’s for charity, and I can’t give all these people their money back. There’s nothing I can do for Laurel. Not right now."

  I'd been holding everything inside, but suddenly, I couldn't contain the tears.