Sheila hadn’t wanted her son to marry me. She made that perfectly clear when I’d arrived on her doorstep pregnant. After my marriage, Sheila and George formed a united, impenetrable front with me tagging along somewhere in the rear. But my husband’s sudden death upset the delicate balance of our small family dynamics. Now Sheila and I were forced to work together to raise Anya. We’d become equal partners, whether she liked it or not.
Sheila snapped her purse shut. I felt her eyes on me. “Is that so? Has it ever occurred to you that the way people treat you might be your fault? You misrepresent yourself. You lead with your insecurities. You lull people into underestimating you. I sure did. If I’d known you then like I know you now, we might have gotten along better from the start.”
That knocked the fight out of me.
By golly, she was right. Maybe if I would put forth a little more effort, maybe if I were more honest, maybe if I didn’t feel so comfortable playing dumb … well, who knew how my life might change?
Sheila said, “Don’t you dare cry. You hear me? That putz isn’t worth it. You will lift your chin and carry on. Never waste your time crying for a man. Ever. Men fall for women who don’t need them, not for women who do.”
I sputtered, “But you knew! You knew he was married! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“You listen and you listen good, young lady. Don’t you think I worried over this? Wondered what to do? What were my choices? Tell you? ”
I thought about it. “It would have been better than standing there face to face and—”
“And looking gorgeous? And looking like a million dollars and making him drool? Making him want you? Letting him know you are beyond his reach? Putting him on the spot? Now he can never, ever worm his way out of this. You caught him red-handed! What can he say? ‘Oops? Sorry!’ His position is untenable and his behavior is inexcusable.”
I blinked. Tears gathered, but I blinked hard and—for the second time that day—dabbed them away. I stood and splashed cool water on my wrists. The cloying smell of bathroom spray deodorizer made me a little nauseated. I needed solid food.
I considered what Sheila said. I allowed as how she might be right.
“Think about it,” she stood behind me, speaking to my reflection. “Wasn’t this best? He couldn’t deny her. He couldn’t pretend they have an understanding! He had to face you and eat crow. Have you taken a good look at yourself? You’re absolutely stunning. Would you rather have learned from a friend at the store? Or bumped into the detective and his wife one day when you were tired and sloppily dressed? Or … like this? When you are at your best?”
I watched her image waver. What was wrong with the mirror? Suddenly, I realized she was trembling. Clearly, she was speaking from experience. The words were too hard won. Her face was etched with pain.
Ah, I thought, at least that’s something. At least she didn’t take joy in this.
“Don’t expect me to thank you.” I wasn’t going to concede her victory so easily. “I don’t know what you could have or should have done, but there had to be a better plan. Some other kinder way.” I wiped my nose with a tissue. I straightened my posture. I would go on. After all, there was food just around the corner. And champagne. And wine bottles on the tables. And several full service bars with assorted hard liquor. Lots of it.
Sheila said quietly, “Actually I count it a win that you are still speaking to me.” She paused, fighting a grin. “Did you catch the look on his face?”
“Uh, yeah,” I said and giggled. “He was stunned.”
“As well he should be,” she said.
We linked arms and walked through the crowded tent, passing Robbie Holmes’ table. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Detweiler half-rising to intercept us. Police Chief Holmes put a hand on the detective’s arm, and Detweiler sat down abruptly, obviously chastised.
“And Police Chief Holmes knew?” I whispered to Sheila as we took our seats next to the Ryman siblings.
“Yes. Yes, Robbie knew, and believe me, he was not pleased. He’s a good man with strong family values.”
“Good,” I said, as I slid into the seat a waiter held for me. “I’m really glad to hear that.”
I gave one of the Ryman sisters a great big smile and yelled, “How’s the salad?”
“Don’t go to your house tonight,” said Sheila as Howard drove us through the night. The leather seats in the Lincoln were as comfortable as a recliner. I slipped off my shoes and rested my feet on the empty seat across from me. I’d switched to Campari and orange once we began our meal. All that booze suffused my world with a soft, gentle glow. I was happy for the gauzy drape over reality. “Why?”
“Detective Detweiler might stop by to explain himself.”
“What’s to explain?”
Sheila said, “You really are a babe in the woods. Let’s see. There’s the ‘my wife doesn’t understand me’ line. And the ‘we live separate lives’ routine. ‘We have an agreement’ is also quite popular. Trust me. He’ll find one way or another to explain away the small matter of his wife.
“Come home with me. Tomorrow, you’ll have your wits about you. If he shows up at the store or your door, you’ll have had time to think of an appropriate response.”
“Something along the lines of ‘drop dead’?”
“Possibly.”
She did have a point.
“I have to go take care of Gracie. Dodie and Horace dropped her off after the store closed.”
Sheila fiddled with her purse. “Bring her to my house.”
If I’d been sober, the invitation would have come as more of a shock. Sheila didn’t like animals, and Gracie was a big ’un. As it was, in my mellow state, I rationalized Sheila must really, really be feeling sorry for me. At my current level of inebriation, I’d take all the sympathy I could get. “That’s very kind of you. I’ll take you up on the offer.”
Sheila told Howard the change of plans. He murmured, “Very well, madame,” and I suppressed a laugh. Were the faux British affectations part of his job description? Bully!
If my run-down neighborhood surprised him, he never let on. The Lincoln’s headlights caught my front porch in their triangular periphery. I squinted at something draped over the front stoop banister.
Sheila saw it, too. “Howard, pull into the drive and point your lights at the house. I can’t make out what’s on the front steps.”
Forgetting it was Howard’s job, I opened my own car door. I moved along the sidewalk slowly, puzzling over the shape, the color, the bulk of the indistinct object dangling before me.
With effort, I could pick out a black and white shape. Howard reversed and repositioned the car. The Lincoln’s lights were now trained on the scene in front of me. The blobs of black and white formed a pelt smeared with a red, runny liquid. What was I seeing? My vision adjusted to the inadequate lighting. I picked out a body, legs, a neck and rope dangling—
“Gracie! Oh, no, it’s my dog!” I sprinted forward, my heels puncturing the grass and pitching me to the ground. I scrambled, leaving those blasted shoes behind.
“Wait, miss! Let me!” Howard rushed past.
“No!” I screamed. “No! Not my dog!”
Sheila ran up beside me, panting into her cell phone. “Emergency? We’re at 756 Gunterman. Hurry! Send the police!” She grabbed my arm and anchored me, keeping me in one spot. We stood about ten feet from my porch. “Yes, step on it. Hurry or I’ll have your head!”
Howard trotted back to us. “Stop. Wait here. There’s a flashlight in my glove compartment. I’ll get it.”
Sheila’s arm supported me. My stomach roiled and heaved. She drew me close and patted my back. “There, there. Let Howard get the light. The police are on the way.” I tried to stand, but my knees went wobbly. I smelled the damp grass, the floral essence on her skin, and buried my head in her shoulder. A loud sob escaped me. How could this be? Gracie was my best friend, my constant companion. She’d saved my life when my home was invaded. Who would ha
ve hurt her? And why?
I turned toward the front step, craning my neck, straining to see. Tears rolled down my face. “No, no, no!” My nose was running and I was crying too hard to speak. Why had I gone to that stupid event? If I’d been home, she’d have been with me!
Did she suffer? Was she frightened? My poor, poor dog!
Porch lights around us snapped on, but no one stuck a head out to see what was the matter. This wasn’t the type of neighborhood where people said, “Hello.” It was transient, secretive, dark, and brooding. A siren wailed in the distance. Howard ran past, his flashlight beam bobbling along the grass awkwardly. I pushed Sheila away, twisting out of her grasp, following him, my bare feet chilled by the damp grass. She came two steps behind. Howard stopped and focused his light on the harlequin pelt. I shoved him to one side and reached for the long tail. Every ounce of the alcohol I’d drunk conspired to put me in a fog, my own little atmosphere so thick and blurry, that precise motion and thought was nearly impossible. The tail slipped through my fingers, leaving me empty-handed.
“Gracie,” I sobbed. “My poor, poor Gracie.”
NINETEEN
HOWARD STEPPED BETWEEN ME and the mess, blocking my view as he examined the dog. My head began to throb. Sheila pulled me close again and murmured soothing sounds. She thrust a mop of tissues into my hand, and I wiped my face indelicately.
“There, there,” she patted my hair. “Shush. Shush.”
The driver interrupted with, “Miss? Um, Miss Lowenstein, this can’t be your pet.”
I didn’t even correct him by saying, “It’s Mrs. Lowenstein.” Instead, I stuttered, “What do you mean, it isn’t my pet? You don’t know my dog.”
He stepped closer to us, his face a study in solemnity. “Begging your pardon, ma’am, but it can’t be her. ’Tisn’t possible. See, this is fake fur.”
“What?” I’d only touched the tail—and that had slipped away so quickly. I reached out again, hesitating, then touching the pelt.
By golly, he was right.
“But who? Why? Wha—?”
I stood shaking my head, trying to take it all in. If that wasn’t Gracie, then …
I started for the back door. Of course, it couldn’t be Gracie! How could I be so dumb! Horace and Dodie would have put her in the basement. I needed to open the back door to check. My hand shook so badly I couldn’t match key and lock.
“Let me,” Sheila stepped forward. “Get hold of yourself. The police have just pulled up. Howard will deal with them.”
I stumbled across the threshold, tripping on my dress and falling to my knees. Sheila grabbed at me. “You okay?”
“Yes,” I stood up, moved forward and tried to open the basement door. It resisted.
I knew why.
A heavy thump, thump, thump told me my dog was right behind the door, her heavy tail wagging. “Gracie? Gracie! Move! Move, baby!” A shuffling noise and the clicking of nails on the stairs followed. I pushed the door again, opening it to darkness. A cold wet nose pressed into my face. Again I went to my knees, but this time to hug her. Belatedly, I thought about my beautiful dress. By now it was probably totally ruined.
Oh, well. Some things are much more important than clothes. My dog was definitely one of them.
I flipped on the light. While the lazy metronome of her tail beat a rhythm, I examined every inch of the Great Dane’s body. I ran my hand around her muzzle, down her sides, across her backbone, down each leg, and under her tummy. She was fine. I crouched eyeball to eyeball with my dear pet. She’s not much of a licker, but Gracie nuzzled me and whined.
“Thank heavens,” said Sheila, sinking into a kitchen chair. “Anya would have been devastated.” Her driver’s head appeared around my back door. “Howard? Are the authorities here?”
“Yes, ma’am, they are examining the mess and the note.”
“Note?” I turned to Sheila. Very, very softly she said, “It’s … it’s a death threat. The Richmond Heights Police are coming. This is probably the work of that horrible person who killed my son. That monster!”
Howard escorted the officers into my kitchen. My interview went quickly. I explained where we’d been, Sheila told them when we’d arrived, and Howard chimed in with what we’d found. Since it was late, they wrote down Dodie and Horace’s number but agreed to call them tomorrow. I explained about the hate crimes at the store and conjectured this was tied to the death at our crop. Sheila pointed out it could also be the work of her son’s escaped killer.
The female officer’s eyes narrowed. Her movements exuded an athletic grace. Her questions were thoughtful and thorough. Gracie leaned hard against me, the two of us taking comfort in the pleasant weight of trust, as I talked and the crime investigators processed the scene. Finally, the interview was over, and I led Gracie to the Lincoln Town Car.
Howard opened the door for us, and my pooch stepped in gracefully (as befitted her name), plopping her hindquarters on a seat next to Sheila. With her paws on the floor, Gracie sat like a queen, staring out the window, watching the street light playing hide and seek on the pavement. Sheila rapped on the dividing window, which Howard lowered to hear her instructions.
“The exaggerated news of Gracie’s demise deserves a celebration. Stop at Ted Drewes.” She arched a brow at me. “I hope you don’t mind. Harry and I made this a tradition after attending stuffy social functions.”
“I’m sorry I didn’t have the chance to know him better.” My father-in-law died of cancer six months after George and I married.
With a dreamy expression, Sheila said, “You two would have gotten along famously. Harry was an excellent judge of character. His success in business came in part because he could see talent, especially in those whom others might have overlooked.” She opened her purse to hand me a moist towelette and her compact. “Touch up your eye makeup where it ran when you cried.”
I opened the small mirror and did exactly that, thinking of the unique spot in St. Louis history occupied by Ted Drewes. Since 1929, the Drewes family has been making custard. In 1941, they opened a store on the famous Route 66, and even after traffic was rerouted, the tiny stand remained a popular destination. The frozen custard is to die for. Folks spill off the sidewalks into the street nearly every summer night to buy the concoction in its pure form or in outrageous mixtures.
As a cop waved us carefully into the crowded parking lot, we drove past throngs of customers wearing formal wear. Evidently, the Opera Theatre event didn’t so much end, as it adjourned to Ted Drewes Frozen Custard shack. This wasn’t surprising. Anya and I had witnessed limos dropping off entire bridal parties and prom groups. Our Missouri state bird is the bluebird. Our flower is the hawthorn. And our dessert is Ted Drewes Frozen Custard. No gathering of St. Louisans is a complete success without a trip to Ted’s.
Sheila and I both ordered Terramizzou concretes, a thick concoction of custard plus chocolate, and pistachio nuts. Howard was a purist, a banana-split man, who took his treat back to the car. Gracie daintily lapped at a small paper dish of vanilla which she finished too quickly. Her interest in my treat indicated she’d gladly make a glutton of herself. Sheila suggested I drink several servings of water from the small yellow and bright green paper cups provided for that purpose.
“Part of what we call a hangover is really just dehydration,” she said.
I’ve never been much of a drinker—my initial foray into parties and Purple Passion Punch resulted in pregnancy—so I took her word for this. We stood outside the Lincoln with my harlequin attracting all sorts of attention. Gracie took this as her due, eying other people’s custard with a lean and hungry expression. When a giddy young woman dropped her cone cooing over my dog, Gracie doubled as a quicker-picker-upper. Finally I walked the dog back to the limo. “No more treats for you,” I said to her sad eyes.
A short time later, the evening that seemed a lifetime long came to an end. Howard escorted all three of us to Sheila’s door and made sure we were safely in. I paused in the f
oyer to thank my mother-in-law.
I put a hand on her arm. “Sheila, you’ve been very kind and generous. My gown, the accessories, gosh, it’s all so lovely. I can’t thank you enough for that and for the whole evening, really. Oh, and the day at the spa. I guess I needed sprucing up.”
She laughed quietly. “That’s one way to put it.” Her eyes drooped with fatigue. The excitement of the evening was over. The adrenaline rush caused by finding the fake Fido had worn off; exhaustion hit us both simultaneously.
“I appreciate how you acted about Gracie. Letting her come here. I know you don’t like dogs—”
“Pardon?” Sheila tilted her head. “I don’t like dogs? What non sense.”
“But you’ve never warmed to Gracie.” I faced my mother-in-law, thinking how she made the best of what God had given her. She was not a naturally beautiful woman. Her nose was too big, her eyes too narrowly set, and her mouth too thin. However, no one who ever met Sheila described her as anything but attractive, a testament to her careful grooming.
She sank down into a chair and shook her head at me. “I happen to love dogs. Before you met George, I had a darling bichon frise we brought over from England. You couldn’t get them here at the time. Scooter and I went everywhere together. He slept with me, sat at my feet as I ate, walked right at my heels. Then the vet found a cancerous tumor on his lungs. It broke my heart to hear him cough and gasp for air. Seeing him suffer was too much to bear. I held him in my arms while the vet put him to sleep. I vowed I couldn’t go through that again. I cried for months.”
“Oh, Sheila, I’m so sorry! How awful for you.”
She nodded. “It’s odd timing for this conversation. Rabbi Sarah and I talked about Scooter just the other day. She encouraged me to get another dog, a rescue animal. The rabbi says God gave man dominion over animals, but animals have dominion over our hearts. So it all evens out.” This last sentence was given extra emphasis by a wave of her slender hand.
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