Ink, Red, Dead (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  She nodded. “I should have listened to you.”

  Blow me down, Popeye. That’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever heard from Dodie. She’s great about a lot of things, but apologizing? You might as well wait for the Sahara to freeze over. I blinked in surprise and started back to our customer, swinging by the refrigerator and grabbing two colas—one for Lottie and one for me—as I made my way through the stockroom.

  Chapter 14

  The next morning at 6 a.m. I met Mert, her brother Johnny, and her friend Laurel Wilkins at Marla Lever’s house. We looked like a convention of astronauts because we were all wearing white Tyvek biohazard suits with sleeves gathered at the wrists and the ankles. Over our shoes we slipped white Tyvek booties. Mert handed us latex gloves and hoods with gas masks. “Gonna be hotter than blue blazes. I got window and room air conditioning units going inside, but when you’re wearing these puppies, you generate your own sauna.”

  She continued, “Two rules: Rule Number One—At twenty minute intervals, this here alarm clock will sound. I expect you to stop your work, go outside, sit on a lawn chair, pull off your mask and down a bottle of water. No exceptions.”

  “By the time you get thirsty, you’re already dehydrated,” Mert said. “I can’t have you fainting on me. So all of you will come out here and drink water, while I watch you do it. The temperature is supposed to stay lower this morning and afternoon, but with all the work you’ll do and these suits, you still risk dehydration.”

  “Rule Number Two—Never remove the mask or the gloves while indoors. Never ever.” Mert’s hands moved in a gesture designed to underscore her last point. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here. You’ve all had your hepatitis and tetanus shots, so you’re good to go, but I do not want to put any of you at risk, so the mask and the gloves stay on. No matter what.”

  “Rule Number Three—Nothing leaves the premises. Valuables come to me. I’ll log them and lock them up. We’ll start with clearing out the trash and putting it in this Dumpster for the police to check once more before they release it. If you see something unusual, something that don’t seem right, call me. There was a murder on this here piece of land, so keep your eyes open. The police have been through the place with a fine tooth comb, but that don’t mean we won’t find nothing. Iff’n you do, let me know. ASAP. Now get to it.”

  The hoods blocked our peripheral vision, which caused all four of us to move clumsily, at least at first. My hands are tiny, and my gloves stuck out past my fingers, making grasping stuff hard. The suits weren’t uncomfortable in themselves, but their generous proportions proved awkward. The worst part was a sense of claustrophobia coupled with the ongoing irritation of fumbling about.

  Mert assigned me the job of bundling up newspapers, tying them with string and carrying them to the recycling bin. Starting at the front door, I managed to clear the foyer. My back and arms ached pleasantly, the way muscles do when you are getting good exercise. But my lower back started in with sharp pangs. I knew that pain, a prelude to spasms. I stopped long enough to take a couple of Advil.

  “You, okay?” Mert checked on me.

  “Yep.”

  The living room would present a challenge. I’d have to carry the heavy bales of newspaper out the front door. That would slow me down, and put more strain on my muscles. I stood there in the scant space that Marla hadn’t filled with junk before I turned in a tight circle and considered my options.

  What to do, what to do?

  Opening a window was the best idea. I could toss the newspaper bundles out of the window, run outside and haul them to the recycling bin. With a grunt, I popped loose one of the closed windows.

  By tackling the newspapers next to the window, I could take advantage of the slight breeze from outside. I was in desperate need of any bit of fresh air, seeing as how I’d already used my inhaler twice. The A/C was largely ineffective. Its fan couldn’t blow through the stacks and piles of paper. The house was beastly hot. Sweat dripped down my face. When I bent over to wrap string around the papers, the salty liquid rolled into my eyes.

  At some point, I yanked the curtains to one side. Having to navigate around them was one more irritation. My back screamed long and loudly with pain, the spasms taking their toll.

  I stood up, pressing against my lower lumbar and using my knuckles to relieve the muscles. I was rubbing myself fiercely when something hit the top of my head.

  I jumped and whooped with fear, batting at my hood with both hands.

  No one heard me because everyone else was busy in other corners of the house. Laurel in the back bedroom. Johnny in the garage. Mert in the kitchen.

  The thing on my head slipped to one side. Tiny pinpricks stabbed through the Tyvek and into my scalp. Suddenly, a tiny yellow paw appeared through the lenses of my goggles. I held perfectly still. Was it possible? Could it be that I’d been bombarded by a stray cat? Had one been overlooked?

  But this…this thing on my head was far too light to be a cat.

  I froze, strained my ears and was rewarded by the tiniest “meow” ever, in a voice so hoarse I nearly missed it. Slowly I moved my hand upwards. Finally, I plucked from my head a palm-sized yellow tabby. He stared at me with big lime-green eyes and tried to “meow” again but nothing came out.

  “You poor little tyke. They rounded up everyone else, didn’t they? Let’s see what we can do for you.”

  I carried him over to Mert. We walked outside. She pulled off her hood and shook her head. I did the same. She glanced down at the kitten and gave me a glum look. “He’ll probably die.”

  “What?” I cradled the cat to my chest. “What do you mean? He’ll be okay.”

  She sighed. “Most of Marla’s cats were sick. If this one don’t have feline distemper, it’s a miracle. You can’t take him home because he’ll only die on you—and that would break your heart.”

  “He’ll make it. You can tell he’s a fighter. His name is Martin.” I said without thinking. I don’t know why I called him “Martin,” but it fit.

  “Martin, huh? Oh, boy. Change outta your biohazard suit and drive him over to the shelter. See what they say, then get right back here.”

  Handing him to Mrs. Gershin, the shelter volunteer, nearly did me in. Martin clung to me. On the ride over, he’d curled up in my lap and purred. Now he cried out hoarsely, as the volunteer tried to disentangle him from my clothes. He gripped me with his claws and seemed to beg me not to walk away.

  Mrs. Gershin wrinkled her nose behind big trifocal glasses that magnified her eyes to comic proportions. “Yours? You giving him up?”

  “Gosh, no.” I explained who I was and how I found him.

  “Sad day. We’ve put twenty-two cats to sleep already.” She held Martin up in one hand and examined him carefully. “Very young. I’d guess he’s two weeks old. See how his ears are still folded over? This one will need to be hand-fed.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll hand feed him.”

  “You want to get up every four hours?”

  I swallowed hard. “Uh, no. But I will.”

  “Hey there, little boy,” cooed Mrs. Gershin.

  “His name is Martin.”

  A flicker of a smile started on Mrs. Gershin’s face and blossomed into a big grin. “You’re sunk. Once you name them, you claim them.”

  I figured as much. “I have to get back to work.”

  “We close at five. Come back then. I’ll give you instructions for feeding Martin. We’ll have the vet check him out. You do know you’ll have to encourage his bowels to move, don’t you?”

  “I’ve probably encouraged bowel movements in the past. But not on purpose.”

  She grinned. “Let’s see if we can perfect your technique.”

  Chapter 15

  On the way back to Marla’s, I stopped and bought a round of Frosties from Wendy’s for my co-workers. As we spooned up the confection, I told them about Martin.

  “Want to hear the calorie count on the Frosties?” asked Laurel, tappin
g away at her i-Phone.

  “No,” we answered in chorus.

  “Kiki Lowenstein, you are some kind of fool,” Mert said. “You need another mouth to feed like you need a tattoo of a sailor on your right boob.”

  “I’d pay to see that.” Johnny leered at me.

  Laurel laughed at him. “That’ll be the day. I think Detweiler has first dibs.”

  “While you found a kitty, guess what I found?” Laurel undid the scrunchy holding back her hair, shook it out, and put it back up in a high ponytail.

  “Can’t be as cool as what I uncovered. There’s an old motorcycle squeezed behind Mrs. Lever’s car. I mean, that thing is museum old! There’s also a big machine back in the far corner of the garage. I think it’s a woodchipper. And about a zillion plus tools. Ever’ thing you could ever want, like staplers, wood shavers, jigs, and carving tools.” Johnny beamed with manly appreciation at Marla’s collection.

  “Phooey,” said Laurel. “That’s nothing compared to what I found in the upstairs bedroom. It’s a shrine to her son, Tommy. His name is all over the place. I mean, there’s a made up bed, his shoes piled on top of each other like he slipped them off and he’ll be back any minute. Cool comic books from the 70s. An old train system. Imagine a boy’s room forty years ago, and you’ll get the picture. They could use it in Hollywood for a sitcom set.” She set down her iPhone and poured a little of her water over her neck.

  “You-all need to take photos, hear me?” Mert handed around cameras. “Laurel, I’ll come log the kid’s room first. Johnny? Take out the flattened boxes and papers from the garage, but don’t move any tools until I see ‘em and log ‘em.”

  “Yes, Sis,” he said as he gave her a mock salute. “I don’t think I could move that big woodchipper. It’s got a hitch on it. You’d have to hook it up—”

  He was interrupted by a gold Lexus SUV swinging into the driveway. A nicely dressed woman in her late fifties climbed out, taking care to step down from the high vehicle in a ladylike manner. Although she moved like a person accustomed to being in charge, her face showed signs of distress with dark circles and puffy skin under reddened eyes.

  “That’s our boss,” Mert said. We all stepped forward, ready to meet Ali Timmons.

  “Are you taking a break?” Mrs. Timmons scowled at us and checked her wristwatch. “It’s only a little after eleven.”

  “Yes, ma’am. These suits cause dehydration. I make my people take mandatory breaks for water. You don’t want someone fainting. Not in there. It’s too dangerous. Those piles of papers could come down.” Mert kept her voice reasonable.

  “Why must you wear those? You …you make it look worse than it is.” Mrs. Timmons’ hands were clenched into tight fists at her sides.

  “Ma’am? It’s a biohazard,” said Mert. “Your mother’s house is covered with animal feces. There’s vermin there, too, drawn to the garbage she collected. Have you been inside?”

  “No. Not in a long while.”

  “I suggest you walk in and take a look around. That way you’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  We watched as Mrs. Timmons mounted the steps. She straightened her shoulders, threw us a defiant look, opened the door and stepped inside. Since I’d cleared the foyer, she was able to walk past the vestibule and into the living room.

  “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi,” Johnny counted.

  On “eleven Mississippi,” Ali Timmons ran out of the house and screamed, “A rat! I saw a rat as big as a cat!”

  “I’m on it.” Johnny trotted to his truck, grabbed a jumbo version of a snap mousetrap, and headed toward the house.

  Ali Timmons’ shoulders shook with sobs as she moved to one side to let him pass. “I told her! I begged her! She wouldn’t listen to me. How many times must we go through this? Ever since my brother died, she’s been like this. Dad gave up and left us. I was only eight. Can you imagine what it was like growing up in a house like this?”

  Mert patted her on the back. “Come on over here and have a seat. Let us get you some water.”

  Mrs. Timmons blubbered words that made little sense. Mert soothed her, telling her it wasn’t her fault, that we would get it all cleaned up, and promising not to let anything of value leave the premises.

  “Mom used to have nice silver. I think it’s all gone. We had Granddad’s woodworking tools, and I don’t know if they’re still there or not. They were nice antiques. Everything of value is gone. She sold it to buy cat food. Cat food! I quit talking to her because I got so angry,” Mrs. Timmons said. “She would buy things, weird things. I’d ask her, ‘What will you do with that?’ and she’d say, ‘I have plans.’ That was always it. She had plans!”

  “I won’t let nothing get tossed. It’s all going in the Dumpster for you to sort through. I promise. Kiki here is bundling up the newspapers. That way we’ll have a clear path. We can videotape and photograph what we’ve got so you know and can account for it.”

  Ali Timmons nodded, “She didn’t do it. She couldn’t have killed anyone. I think someone planted that body in the freezer. Mom’s not strong enough to lift anyone.”

  “I’m sure the cops will figure it out,” Mert said.

  I set my empty water bottle in the recycling bin and went over to Mrs. Timmons. “Ma’am? Your mother has been coming to the scrapbook store where I work. She’s brought in photos of you and your brothers. We were working on putting them in an album as part of a class I’m teaching at the store. I’ll make sure to get them back to you.”

  Ali Lever Timmons thanked me. I walked into the house and started bundling newspapers again. Laurel joined me. We talked about her new boyfriend, who was an Episcopal priest. Since I’d been raised Episcopalian and Methodist—it’s complicated!—I knew that Anglican priests can marry. However, I did have a smidgeon of trouble imagining Laurel, who looked like a Playboy bunny, being joined in holy matrimony with a guy who wore a clerical collar.

  “I know, I know,” said Laurel, her voice muffled by the hood. We craned our necks to watch Mrs. Timmons pull away from the house. “But Joe and I really do have a lot in common. He was adopted and so was I. We both love NASCAR, Alan Jackson, Mediterranean food, and square dancing. How freaky is that?”

  Not as freaky as a centerfold dating a man in long black robe. But who was I to judge? I sincerely wished them both well. Laurel was one of the sweetest people I’d ever met, truly she was. On the days she worked at the store, women sent their husbands in because the men had no sales resistance when it came to Laurel. If the wife wanted the latest scrapbook gadget, the hubby walked out with it tucked under one arm and whistling happily.

  The more I listened to her chatter about Father Joe Riley, the more I liked him, and the rest of the day passed quickly.

  “I have to work tomorrow morning at the scrapbook store,” I told Mert as we said goodbye.

  “No problem. Come here when you get done.”

  “Will do.”

  Chapter 16

  “The dead woman has been identified as one Sandra Newcomber. She and Marla Lever got into it a few months back.” Detweiler dried the salad bowl while I washed our plates. My dishwasher was on the blink, again. I’d have to tell Leighton Haversham about it when he came home from his book tour. Actually, I didn’t mind too much. The washing and drying gave us a chance to talk. Anya was spending the night at her best friend Nicci Moore’s house. I usually didn’t let her sleep over on school nights, but tomorrow was late start.

  Boy, was she going to be surprised when she met Martin! On my way home, I picked him up from the shelter, where they’d thoughtfully lodged him in a cardboard cat carrier before handing over a tiny baby bottle plus three cans of cat formula. Mrs. Gershin winked at me. “That ought to get him through the next week. He should be able to make the switch to regular food by then. Here’s a sheet with instructions.”

  I thanked her and carried my new friend to the car. Because it was hot, I’d walked Gracie an
d Petunia into the building with me rather than leave them in the BMW. (Anything over 70˚ outside temperature is way too dangerous for pets.)

  After the dogs piled into the back seat, they sniffed the cat carrier eagerly. Martin responded by hissing and puffing up to twice his original size, which I found totally charming.

  If you didn’t count the watchful eyes of Seymour, Gracie, and Leighton’s scaredy-cat dog Petunia, Detweiler and I had the house all to ourselves. Which meant nothing. Nada.

  Unfortunately, Detweiler is married to a real witch named Brenda. I knew he and his wife were having problems. Big problems, as in, old Brenda is an addict. But that didn’t matter. He was off-limits as far as I was concerned. We were only talking on a professional basis. We were trying to figure out what happened in Marla Lever’s house of horrors.

  (Right. And I’m the Queen of Denial, aren’t I?)

  “How come Marla got into it with Sandra Newcomber?”

  “Seems that Mrs. Newcomber’s cat disappeared. Mrs. Lever had ‘adopted’ it. According to Mrs. Lever, the cat was lost and hungry so she took it in. According to Mrs. Newcomber, the cat slipped out the front door. Saw a chipmunk on the lawn and darted after it. Mrs. Newcomber was in the process of searching for it when Mrs. Lever kidnapped—er, catnapped?—grabbed it.”

  “Gee.” Marla Lever was a lot kookier that I’d given her credit for. It was one thing to be the neighborhood repository for all unwanted cats, but quite another to actually steal cats from loving homes.

  “I guess when Mrs. Newcomber showed up with a friend and asked if Mrs. Lever had seen her pet, Mrs. Lever denied any knowledge of said cat.”

  “Said Cat,” I repeated in amusement. “You say that as if it were the creature’s name. Here we have little ‘Said Cat.’”

  “Yes, ma’am, because that’s how the police report read. ‘Said Cat’ ran between Mrs. Lever’s legs and tried to jump into his owner’s arms. Collar intact with tag attached. That tag stated ‘Said Cat’ was owned by Mrs. Newcomber.”