That broke the evil spell.
“W-w-what?” The love pat surprised Anya. She jerked her face out of her hands and twisted to catch the gray tabby with his paw extended. Leaning close, he rubbed his cheek against hers, his white whiskers tickling her skin. From the hallway, Martin crept toward us. Suddenly deciding that he didn’t want to be left out, he raced over and bounded up the side of the sofa, but quickly became hung up as his claws caught in the fabric. Anya reached down and gently untangled the yellow cat.
I was never so glad to have feline intervention!
“I can’t make this better for you,” I said. “But I can tell you—cross my heart and hope to die—that I will NOT marry Detweiler before this baby comes. Despite what your friends say, this baby will be born a Lowenstein. I promise you that.”
“Why? Because of me?” Those denim blue eyes of hers looked purple because they were so red.
I shook my head. “That’s only one reason. See, I married your father when I was expecting you, and I always wondered if he really wanted to be my husband or just wanted to have a family. This time, the man will have to wait. If Detweiler still wants me after I have a baby, then we’ll make plans. I won’t have him marry me just to give his child a name. The baby will have a perfectly good name, Lowenstein.”
Anya’s mouth curved into a tremulous smile. “I say it like a prayer: ‘Lowenstein, Lowenstein, Lowenstein.’ From the Prince of Tides. Pat Conroy. Your favorite author.”
“Favorite living author,” I corrected her. “And our name is a prayer. Don’t you forget it.”
Slowly, she relaxed and let all her weight rest against me, snuggling down under my arm, finding her spot as she curved into me. “I won’t. I don’t think Detweiler did it, Mom. Do you?”
“I know he didn’t.”
“Then you better help them prove he didn’t, because I think he’s in trouble.”
thirty
Reversing our usual order of events, I stopped by work, dropped off Gracie, and then took my daughter to CALA. On the way to the school, conscious that Anya would walk in late, we talked strategy. No way was I going to put up with my child being teased because of me or Detweiler. I knew enough about CALA to know that a strong pre-emptive strike was in order. After parking the car, Anya and I walked into the school together, the solidarity of our bumping shoulders making both of us feel more powerful than if either of us had been alone.
“Mr. Phillips? May I speak to you?” I called to the pasty-faced little nerd who taught algebra, Anya’s first class of the day. I have no idea where they found this turkey, but I’d already observed that he took his time grading the assignments, making it difficult for his students because if they didn’t understand one concept, and he went on to the next, how could they keep up? They couldn’t. I also knew he was a nasty little jerk because I’d seen his hand-scrawled note on one of Anya’s assignments, “NOT up to par. Maybe you weren’t listening in class. Or is it because you’re blonde?”
That one I’d let slide. But his day of reckoning had come.
As I waited in the doorway, he straightened all the papers on his desk and lined up his pencils in his drawer. Once finished, he pursed his lips in irritation and sashayed my way. I nudged Anya so she’d take her seat. The other students stared at the teacher and at me. I think they guessed what might be coming because Anya walked past him with an air of confidence.
Once the classroom door was closed behind us, I faced the twit and said, “Mr. Phillips, I don’t know if you read the paper or follow the local news, but my fiancé has been wrongly accused of a crime. I am mentioning this to you because I trust that you will not allow the other students to tease Anya.”
He shifted his weight from one foot to the other, as he clasped his upper arm with one hand, twisted his whole body in a girlish way. “I can’t babysit my students, Mrs. Lowenstein. I suggest that if Anya has a problem, she take it up with the dean.”
I took this in. I nodded. I was perfectly willing to be civil, but then … he smirked. That did it. I leaned forward and poked him in the chest. “You better listen and listen good. I killed a man last week. Shot him in the head and blew his brains from here to eternity. Either you do your job and protect my child, or I’ll hunt you down and blow you to Kingdom Come. Ka-powie! And I’m a very, very good shot, buddy boy. Got it? Don’t give me that ‘I can’t babysit my students’ trash. You’re not much of a teacher in my estimation, so you ought to be good for something—and if it isn’t protecting my kid, you better be good at hide and seek, because I am coming to get you. And I always get my man. Are we clear?”
He couldn’t decide whether to faint or pee his pants.
“Yes,” he squeaked.
“Good, because I’ve got you in my sights, pal.”
With that, I walked away two steps, pivoted and headed back toward him. “Oh, and about talking to the dean? Don’t bother. I’m on my way there now. Ciao, Charlie.”
When I talked to Dean Rucklehouse, she assured me, “It’s one of CALA’s guiding principles that we will not put up with bullying or teasing. Period. End of discussion.”
“That so? You better hold a staff meeting and remind your teachers of that because that Pee-wee Herman look-alike you hired to teach algebra hasn’t gotten the memo.”
Dean Rucklehouse sneered. “Surely you are mistaken, Mrs. Lowenstein.”
“No, I’m not. But you are. And just in case you haven’t heard, I shot a man last week. Yes, I did. With these two hands. Guess what? You know how they say that once you’ve taken a life it’s easier the second time around? I totally believe that’s true. So I better never hear of ANYONE in this school standing on the sidelines with their thumbs up their butts while my daughter is teased. Are we clear on this? I hope so, because if I have to repeat myself, well …” and I pantomimed pointing a gun, aiming it at her, and shooting it. “I’ll have to resort to taking care of the problem all by my lonesome. And believe me, I can do it!”
Needless to say, I left the Dean’s office chuckling to myself. There was no way CALA would kick out a Lowenstein. My daughter was a legacy student and brighter than ninety-nine percent of the student population. Not only had I scared the snot out of them, but Sheila would finish the job of wiping any boogers off their faces.
Feeling very, very proud of myself, I marched down to Mrs. Glazer’s office. The door to the Alumni Office was locked, so I scribbled a note and slipped it under Ruth Glazer’s door: Dropped by to see you. Need help with a project. When might I come back by? Kiki L.
Squaring my shoulders and holding my head high, I walked out of CALA. Before I climbed into my ancient BMW convertible, I blew the school a nice big raspberry.
thirty-one
Back at the store, I explained to Gracie about the threats I’d delivered. She put her paws on my shoulders and licked my ears, which I’m sure translates into “Bullies only understand being bullied. You done good.” I also told her about Detweiler, and those sad brown eyes led me to believe my Great Dane was worried, too. “But it’s not all gloom and doom,” I said as I rubbed her velvety ears. “Thanks to Laurel we’ve got a great attorney for him. I’ll hear from Thelma later today. Maybe we’ll drive over there tomorrow. You like going for rides, don’t you?”
Dodie had taken to keeping dog biscuits for Gracie in a special snap-top plastic jar with black paw prints all over it. I retrieved one and Gracie dutifully sat for her yummy.
Once she was in her doggy playpen, I washed my hands. My reflection in the mirror showed a tired-looking woman sporting a huge black and blue bruise peeping out from under a flesh-toned bandage. Of course I looked whipped. Nightmares disturbed my sleep. My muscles ached from my struggle to survive. And I was pregnant, which sent my entire body into a tizzy.
But Laurel was right. Whining about my problems wouldn’t help anyone. I’d done everything I could for everyone else in my life. Detweil
er had an attorney. I was checking on Johnny and Sheila, and sending them both prayers. I had a plan for finding out what I could about Nathan. My sister was taking care of my mother. I’d laid down the law at CALA. My daughter and I were communicating.
With that summary of “This is your life, Kiki Lowenstein,” I girded my loins, that is I snapped my bra straps, and decided to take on the day.
I started by turning on the television in Dodie’s office. A reporter questioned Milton and Carla Kloss about their daughter’s death. Milton accused Detweiler of setting his daughter up and possibly shooting her as revenge for harming me.
As the interview ended, Milton reached for his wife’s hand in a gesture of solidarity. Carla Kloss had been standing slightly to one side and behind her husband during his rant. Her face had been turned away from him, rather than paying attention to what he said.
I noticed a distinct tension in their body language—and when Milton reached for his wife’s hand, she shrank away from him.
Why? What dynamic was at play there?
People grieve in such individualistic ways. The loss of a child usually damages a marriage beyond repair. In a survey by Compassionate Friends, 57 percent of those couples who lost a child were not together one year later. Did that include the loss of an adult child? I didn’t know.
While reflecting on that sad reality, I opened the store, going through the procedure laminated on a big card. We’d had the procedure written down for some time, but Margit suggested laminating the card to make it more durable. She also threaded a long red ribbon through a hole punched in the top. Thanks to that dangling stripe of bright color, we never lost the laminated directions. For closing, she fixed a similar card with a bright blue streamer attached.
Although Margit and I hadn’t gotten along when she first started
at Time in a Bottle, we’d come to appreciate and enjoy each other. She tended to mother me in ways unexpected and very much appreciated. Lately she’d taken to cooking extra portions for me to take home. Twice she’d knitted cute tops for Anya, one sweater and one camisole. My daughter now raced to give Margit a warm hug whenever they saw each other.
Margit brought skills to the store that were quite different from mine. Her strong suit was numbers. She was teaching me QuickBooks, our accounting system, and I was encouraging her to try papercrafting, even though her true love was fiber arts. “One day, I would like us to sell yarn,” she told me. “I love knitting. Crochet, too. I would hold classes for beginners and special sessions for those who run into problems when working on a project.”
“Then we wouldn’t be a scrapbooking store.”
“Nein. We would be a crafting hub. Like the center of a wheel. We would teach a variety of classes and stock all sorts of supplies.” She smiled shyly. “That is, if I had my way. It is unlikely, ja?”
This morning she came through the backdoor carrying two big Tupperware containers of her fabulous plum küchen. “One is for the crop tonight, and the other is for you to take home.”
I thanked her profusely. “I’ve been thinking, Margit. Maybe we do need to expand our offerings to include yarn. But how could we do that in a store this size? We barely have enough space as it is.”
“There is much wasted area in the stockroom. If I keep a thumb—” and she pushed down with her digit to illustrate “—on our ordering, we would not need to stock so much. Most of our supplies will drop ship. Merchandise arrives in two days or less. Think of it, Kiki! There is too much on those shelves! It sits there. We forget what we have! Bah, such a waste of money.”
After her rant, I wandered through the stockroom. Margit was right: Most of the space was wasted. During our last inventory, I found an old box of paper with edges that had curled because of moisture. By my calculations, we wasted $125 of potential profit there. A few of the boxes were stored too high for me to reach. I never accessed what those held. Making a slow circle of the stockroom, I visualized display units. If properly positioned, there would be enough space for a cozy circle of knitters. Drop-ins could use the craft tables near the front of the store. Most of our scrapbookers wanted to crop, or have scrapbook parties, at night after work. But many of the knitters I’d met were retired. They could come during the day.
In fact, the longer I wandered through the metal shelves in our backroom, the more possibilities I saw. We could knock down the back wall of our existing sales floor, leaving the support beams, of course. I’d watched enough episodes of Holmes on Homes to know how important those were! Opening up the back would give customers an easy access to the new space.
The cash register could be moved to the middle of the store. Big mirrors could be added to the corners, ones like those at blind intersections. With mirrors in place, one person could keep an eye on the whole store. Dodie had installed security cameras to be monitored from her office, but if you were ringing up a purchase, you might not know a customer in the back needed help.
Electrical plug-in receptacles had been sunk in the center of the sales floor. The last time we moved the fixtures for cleaning I’d seen them. Moving our checkout counter wouldn’t be difficult at all.
How smart of Dodie to name our store Time in a Bottle rather than something with scrapbook in it! Because our name offered such latitude, we could easily expand our mission and thus, our sales.
Yes, I saw a world of possibilities, and all of them excited me. Instead of focusing solely on the problems at hand, I had something upbeat to dream about. Suddenly, the day got a lot brighter!
thirty-two
Our Friday night crops are legendary for the food, the fun, the fellowship, and the great projects. They are also a whole lot of work. Mainly for me.
Every scrapbooker has paper she no longer likes/needs/wants to use. Tonight I intended to demonstrate ways to use unwanted paper as a backdrop for Zentangle® designs. If the pattern is subtle, the tangles (patterns drawn in pen) work wonderfully well as backgrounds. If it is more bold, tangles can be drawn around the existing patterns.
Besides a technique demonstration, we also host a special project at our Friday crops. Several weeks ago, Dodie purchased a case of simple, unpainted wooden boxes with inset lids. I planned to turn these into cool boxes that would be nifty for jewelry, stashing trinkets, or holding stationery supplies. Actually the list of uses was endless.
I’d been working on the tangle designs for our project right up until the time I quit my job, so it wasn’t hard to pick up where I left off. To prep for the crop, I would transfer these designs onto a handout, making it easy for our crafters to finish the project at home if they ran out of time.
With any luck, creating the handout would be so absorbing that I’d lose track of time. Detweiler wouldn’t have his bail hearing for another hour, and I’d begun to watch the clock. Cops don’t do well in jail. Criminals blame everyone but themselves for their incarceration. Once word gets around that a law enforcement official is behind bars, things get really ugly. I knew that Detweiler could handle himself in a fight. But what if an inmate with a homemade shiv attacked him? It wasn’t unheard of.
I couldn’t go there. Instead, I rubbed my belly and took several deep breaths to calm down. “Silly!” I chided myself. Why was I doing all this heavy breathing when I could be tangling? Research had proven that tangling helped people cope with anxiety. Wasn’t that exactly what I was feeling? Sitting down to do some intense tangling, I quickly slipped into a zen-like state. Pretty soon, I felt much, much better.
At noon, Clancy presented me with a shopping bag from St. Louis Bread Co., which delightfully rhymes with “bread dough.”
“Eat,” she said, withdrawing a smaller bag and shoving it toward me. Inside were a half a teriyaki chicken sandwich, a container of minestrone soup, and an iced green tea. She reached inside and pulled out an iced green tea and a salad for herself. We perched on stools at the worktable. That way we could keep an eye on the front do
or while Margit finished calculating our sales figures and worked on new supply orders.
“What do I owe you?” I asked Clancy.
“Not a thing. In fact, I owe you. Commission on renting my mother’s house.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No, I am not. The agent I hired to rent out Mother’s house hadn’t even had a nibble, but you managed to find me a responsible tenant. In fact, I won’t even have to move most of my mother’s furniture into storage. Your sister plans to sell most of their furniture in Arizona, because the cost of transporting it is prohibitive. The family antiques will be shipped here, of course, but that’s it. So Mother’s things can stay. Between the real estate commission and storage, you’ve saved me a bundle.”
She hesitated. “I suppose you’ve seen the papers this morning. And the TV?”
I shook my head. “I’m trying to avoid as much of it as possible.”
“Good luck with that! Milton Kloss must have hired a public relations firm.”
“What do you mean? Doesn’t a public relations firm handle good news?”
“Not necessarily. There’s a whole branch of the practice called crisis management. Milton was on every channel, and the radio, and in the newspaper. If he didn’t have a public relations firm sending out news releases, I can’t imagine how he managed to cover so many outlets. I bet they held a press conference.”
“I still don’t get it. His daughter is dead. If something happened to Anya, I’d be a basket case. I wouldn’t care about talking to the media. I couldn’t be coherent!”
“He’s plenty coherent. According to him, you and Chad Detweiler conspired to drive poor Brenda to drugs.”
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