Then he kissed me.
TWENTY-ONE
THE NEXT MORNING AS I pulled out of the parking lot at the Science Center after dropping off Anya (and reminding her that Sheila would pick her up), a car with tinted windows followed on my bumper. A couple of blocks later, it remained glued to my rear end.
St. Louis drivers might be the worst in the country. In fact, cops in other towns joke about “St. Louis stops,” where drivers give the stop signs a cursory slow-down rather than coming to a complete halt. Being tailgated was nothing new. Dropping into defensive driver mode, I signaled far in advance and added a few extra lane changes on our way down 40. The dark SUV stayed with me. At the exit, it nearly tapped my bumper.
Now I was beginning to feel scared. Really scared. We turned off on Brentwood, and waited for the stoplight. The driver revved his motor behind me; the big car lunging and lurching as the engine roared full throttle.
Hairs on my neck stood at attention. My gut weighed in. This went beyond reckless driving: it was a threat.
I opened my cell phone.
But whom would I call?
Not Detweiler.
Traffic congested near the Galleria but eased the next three blocks. Using the timing of stoplights as an aid, I put three cars between myself and the SUV. Feeling safer, I zipped into the parking lot of Time in a Bottle.
The SUV passed me and drove off. I tried to get the license number, but the back of the vehicle was so mud-splattered, I couldn’t even read the state name. I backed up and realigned my hood with the white lines of a parking space. Glancing over my right shoulder, I saw the SUV zoom past, this time facing toward me. They must have made a U-turn. The car slowed as it came closer. Only the sidewalk formed an imaginary barrier between us.
I dropped sideways into the passenger seat, managing to reach my right arm behind me to shove Gracie’s head down. Fortunately, she didn’t resist. I punched 911 into my phone.
Pop! I heard a sound like a firecracker. A million pieces of glass sprinkled over my arms. A glance up told me my windshield was shattered. I yelled to the operator, “Gunshot! Emergency! I’m at 1415 Kirlin, three blocks south of 40!”
“Are you alone in the car? Do you need an ambulance?”
My shaking hands lost purchase on the phone. Another pop rang out. More glass sprinkled around me. I undid my seat belt and twisted toward my dog. The moment my grip on her loosened, she pulled away. A small rivulet of blood ran down my wrist.
“Gracie!”
I rolled all the way onto my belly, my feet under the steering wheel, and peered around the passenger seat. I could only see a patch of fur. She didn’t move. Heedless to danger, I threw open my door and yanked back my seat. My dog was on the floor, whimpering. “Gracie? Gracie?” I reached down and my fingers came up sticky with blood. Hers or mine?
That’s when I dialed Detweiler.
He must have been two blocks away. Detweiler roared into the lot, sirens and lights splitting traffic. He checked me over. Tiny cuts marred my arms and hands, but I didn’t have the patience for him to examine them more closely. “It’s Gracie,” I said, “I think she’s hurt.”
Detweiler coaxed Gracie out of the car. By then an ambulance had joined us. The dispatcher had heard me cry “Gracie” and assumed another person was in my car. After asking me a few questions and rinsing off my superficial wounds, the EMTs bent over my dog. Detweiler pulled me close. My face was buried in his chest. I couldn’t look, I just couldn’t. I was crying hysterically, soaking the front of his shirt. He smelled of soap and starch and stark masculinity. The harder I shook, the harder he held me, murmuring in my ear, “Shhhh. You’re safe. She’s going to be okay.”
A voice chastised me for allowing him to provide comfort, but panic and fear overruled it.
The sirens and lights had brought Dodie racing out of the store. She spoke to the cop and the paramedics right as a Richmond Heights P.D. car pulled into our lot.
At last the male paramedic rose and walked over.
“Mrs. Lowenstein? Your dog must have a guardian angel.”
Gracie wobbled to her feet. A tall, thin paramedic walked her in a circle, observing my harlequin carefully. My dog’s ear was bandaged, but she was alive. The EMT continued, “Splinters of glass cut her. We picked ’em out of her ears, washed the surface good, and put butterfly bandages on one area. Rinse those with hydrogen peroxide. You might want to check with your vet. ”
I knew EMTs didn’t ordinarily fix pets, so I was extra-profusive with my thanks.
“No problem, ma’am, we’re both animal lovers,” said the one medic as he gave a nod toward his partner.
I pushed away from Detweiler and knelt by my girl. Gracie licked me and whined. Her heavy tail moved back and forth slowly. Her bandaged ear cocked with a jaunty air. Detweiler moved closer, and she shoved her muzzle into his hand. I heard Dodie discuss with him and Richmond Heights officers how best to handle the increasing violence. I offered a description of the SUV. When I mentioned mud-splattered plates, Detweiler’s expression darkened. “Must be someone with experience evading law enforcement officials.”
Detweiler suggested Dodie hire off-duty policemen for the store. “They can watch from unmarked cars on the street. Get a security camera hooked up.”
Dodie said, “But I don’t want anyone in a uniform scaring people off. Besides, inside the store isn’t what I’m worried about.”
“They don’t have to wear a uniform. At least let someone escort all of you in and out of your cars.”
Dodie’s face was a worn-thin gray. “Get the dog inside. God only knows what might happen next.”
Detweiler caught me by the arm, pulling me closer. His lips brushed my ear. “We need to talk.”
“I appreciate all you’ve done, but I don’t think so.” Now embarrassment ran rough-shod over all other feelings. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t hold my head up. Even with what I knew, he’d been the one I’d turned to for comfort. He offered his protection with no preamble, no caveats. He’d run to my side and taken me into his arms without comment.
And now I pushed him away. My weakness, my dependency made me angry with myself. I grabbed Gracie’s collar and started toward the store.
“Kiki!” Detweiler reached for me.
Dodie stepped between us, “Go on in to work, Kiki. Detective, I appreciate your help and guidance. However, the party’s over between you and my employee. Leave her alone. Don’t even think about stopping by her house.”
“What?” he barked. His face colored.
I watched Dodie put both hands on her hips. How did she know what I’d only learned on Saturday? I didn’t want her fighting my battles. On the other hand, her response signaled the return of the old Dodie. Her protective instinct trumped her depression. Now, she had a cause. Maybe that was what she had needed after Yvonne’s death and Horace’s employment problems. A focus. A reason to step up to the plate. A way to shake off her blues.
And I had a good reason to go inside and cry, but not until after I called a car repair service.
Detweiler blazed back, a sharp edge to his voice. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s not your decision to make. I will talk to Mrs. Lowenstein when and wherever I choose. You have no choice in the matter.” He added, “Mrs. Goldfader, there’s a murderer out there. This might or might not be connected. And I have a job to do.”
Ah. There it was. His mantra. “I have a job to do.” It wasn’t about his feelings for me. It never had been. A muscle pulsed along his jaw. “Incidents aimed at you, your employees, and your store have escalated. You’ve received death threats. Don’t forget the graffiti, and a brick through your window. You both need police protection. This might all be related to Yvonne Gaynor’s death, or it might not. But right now, all I can say for sure is you are in danger.”
I’d stopped and stared at both of them. Gracie’s tail thumped my leg.
Dodie shrugged. “Of course we will cooperate with you as a law enforcement official. But I’m w
arning you. Do not bother my employee.”
His face turned stony. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”
We were getting nowhere. He had a point. We needed to get to the bottom of this. Only after this was over could I really and truly say goodbye and good riddance. I came closer and said to him, “Okay, maybe we do have to talk, but Dodie’s right. I prefer you talk with me here when there are other people in the store.” I thought a second. I added, “No dropping by the house. Anya knows about your wife.”
“What? How could you have done that? Why did you tell Anya?” His green eyes spit sparks. Oh, boy. He was ma-ad.
“Why not? It’s true. She needs to understand why you aren’t coming by anymore.”
He let loose with a string of curses. Each word was bitten off and spat out. He stomped away.
Dodie and I heard his car door slam all the way across the parking lot.
“Harrumph,” she said. “That went about as well as could be expected without loss of life or limb.”
We walked Gracie into the store and closed the stockroom door behind us.
Two Diet Dr Peppers later, I got my groove back. A mobile windshield repairman assessed the damage to my car and explained he could fix it on the spot. I eyed my dwindling total in my checkbook and gave him a reluctant go-ahead. That plus my need to repay Sheila for my upcoming move—provided I found a suitable place—fueled my desire to get cracking with new business ideas.
Two photographers had asked me to make customized but standardized albums. The best way to be efficient was to design the pages and then break down what was needed into parts I could mass produce.
I had appointments for the next week with three nursing home administrators.
Meanwhile, I needed to keep coming up with unique projects that would keep our regulars happy—and get a positive buzz about our store restarted in the scrapbooking community.
Boutique pages offered a way to add sparkle and jazz to ordinary scrapbooking. They were also tricky to pull off. Adding glitter, flowers, buttons, ribbon, and trinkets could overwhelm the photos and make a page look trashy. The best approach was organizing the space. Hand-drawn frames—like picture frames but two-dimensional and of paper—could do exactly that.
I was deep into doodling designs on the frames when a mellow voice interrupted.
“Hey, babe.”
Johnny draped an arm over a nearby fixture. There was a languorous, graceful line to his body. I wondered if he had any idea how powerfully attractive he was.
I bet he did. Not even Helen Keller could have missed his sensuality.
“A little bird named Mert told me you got a long evening ahead of you. With the crop and all. I put a picnic in my truck. How about we run over to Tilles Park and sit outside with Gracie? Figured you might need a break.”
I was happy to go with him. There was an element of the unknown and unknowable about him that set me tingling. This sort of distraction would make it easier to wean myself from Detweiler.
On the way to the park, I told him about the shots that were taken at my car.
“I wondered what that bandage was on your dog’s ear,” he said. “You need to be careful. Look, anytime you need help, just give me a call.” He was silent for a while. Then he said, “You know about me being at Potosi.”
“Yes, Mert told me.” His introduction to a topic I’d rather avoid was spare, laid out without preamble. I said, “I have a daughter. Anya.”
“I know. I met her, remember?”
Okay, it was a non sequitur to him, but to me it followed. I was trying to say I was worried about the impact of bringing a felon into our lives. Even if this wasn’t a segue to dating, it was the opening of a door. Johnny didn’t need to spell out his thought process. Or maybe he did. Maybe jail defined him. Maybe this was the “getting to know you” discussion that preceded ongoing interaction on any level.
Johnny shifted, restive in the driver’s seat. “She’s a wonderful girl. My sis talks real highly of her. Roger thinks she’s cute as a new pup.”
And I am her mother. Responsible for her. What would happen if the Venn Diagram of our lives included Johnny as an overlapping circle? How might we then color in the shared space? Would we be endangered by his past? Could I possibly be in more danger than I was now? Would Anya be shunned by other kids if word got around her mother was dating a former inmate? Would Johnny’s presence bring into our lives an undesirable group of friends? And, I couldn’t suppress a thought I skittishly avoided, what would Sheila say?
Suddenly I felt totally tongue-tied and inadequate. That’s how conflicted, how confusing were my thoughts. They rendered me dumbstruck.
He searched my face. Then he laughed, a sound as rich as roasted coffee beans. “I’m not a child molester, Kiki. Is that what worries you?”
“No! Not at all, it’s just … it’s just … I worry about your friends, and if you are safe, and there’s my mother-in-law. Her reaction. How Anya fits in, and what her schoolmates might say.” Now the words came out in a torrent.
“I don’t remember proposing marriage.”
“Right. I know. I mean, I realize I must seem … overwrought. I’m protective.”
“You should be. It’s not easy to be a single mom. Mert told me about your husband. I’m sorry for your loss.” This politeness felt deeply, thoughtfully genuine. He added, “I need to get everything out in the open. No games. I’m starting over, so to speak, and want a cleanness, an honesty to my life. You deserve that, and I respect your situation.
“See, I’m not good enough for you. There’s my past. I don’t have a good education or prospects. But—” and his withdrawal seemed shamed and painful, “but here I am. I take care of my own, and at the very least, I’d like to build on my sister’s friendship with you.”
My thoughts jumbled and rolled over each other. I didn’t say, “It’s just that I’ve never dated a convict before.” I wondered if this was a new low? Or was I simply being true to my belief we all deserve more than one chance? Was this the right time to invite someone like Johnny into our lives? While my husband’s killer was loose and threatening me? Was I begging for more trouble? Or might Johnny have the inside track (whatever that was) on criminal behavior?
On the other hand … he was so luscious. Maybe he could help me forget the monster-sized hole in my heart left by Detweiler. (And I could only imagine what Detweiler would think about me cozying up to Johnny. That alone would be worth the price of admission.)
Johnny parked the truck and dipped his head level with mine. His index finger raised my chin. “Say the word and I’ll disappear.” When I hesitated, he moved closer, closer, and kissed me very, very lightly on the lips. “Or stick around. Up to you. We can see how it goes. Now, what do you say we eat? Mert had all sorts of leftovers and I hate for them to go to waste.”
I’ve always been a sucker for bad boys. Who isn’t? The thrill of danger mixed with the hormonal rush of desire is heady stuff.
But my inexperience always caused me to hang back. In my youth, my innocence was at risk. I lost that to a good man, or so I thought, who had done me wrong. What could a bad boy do? Besides use a heightened sense of awareness, of fear, of the unknown, to awaken my Sleeping Beauty of a romantic life?
All we did was eat. But … my legs were wobbling and my knees were knocking, as I entered the store. And I hardly ate a thing. I wasn’t that kind of hungry. I went straight into the bathroom and splashed my forearms with cold water. That didn’t help much, so I tossed cold water all up and down my neck. All we had was cold water, because Dodie wouldn’t turn on the miniature water heater again until the fall. But cold water was all I needed.
Liar.
I needed something more. I was, after all, human. And lonely. And in the prime of my life. My motor was racing and my engine was pointed toward the Indy 500 Speedway of Desire.
Johnny could do all this with one kiss and a lot of innuendo? Oh, boy.
“Have you seen Yvonne’s pages on the
magazine website? Gosh, I didn’t know she was that talented. Last time she and I went to a crop, she could barely manage one of those packages of coordinated paper and embellishments,” said Bonnie Gossage as she copied my boho page. “I hate to speak ill of the dead, but I thought I was a better judge of talent than that. I mean, after all these crops, I thought I had a pretty good handle on other people’s ability.” Baby Felix dangled on her knee as she scrapped with one hand. Every once in awhile, another scrapbooker would snag Felix and love him up. He was our resident pass-around baby. The duckling down of his hair was as kissable as his fat little arms and legs. Women cooed over him and wistful expressions blanketed their faces.
If a baby boom started among our group, Felix bore the responsibility of being the trigger and catalyst.
Emma Delacroix Martin was attending her second crop, her old St. Louis pedigree indicated by her French middle name. Like dog breeders, the hoi polloi of our town industriously kept their breeding lines straight. Surnames regularly appeared as first names and conjoined last names drew straight lines of genealogical descent. Someday soon I’d run across an Elizabeth out of Gerald or some nonsensical nomenclature. Intermarriage kept money and power within the family. It also spawned imbeciles, but those problems were kept behind closed ranks.
However, Emma exemplified the best of good bloodlines. Her queenly carriage, her good manners, her patrician intelligence made her someone I wanted to know better. She was everything I aspired to be. She smiled and said, “My teenage son helped me find the website featuring Yvonne’s pages. They certainly are impressive. Of all the winners, I think she has—had—the most talent. But, Bonnie? You didn’t see her like that? In real life, I mean?”
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