The cops seemed to understand our situation, but they still had jobs to do. To satisfy their concerns, we offered to open all the boxes in the backroom. Because every day brought more merchandise, we had a good half dozen stacked and ready to check in.
As I wielded the box cutter, I glanced over at Gracie’s playpen. The keen pain of missing her added to my already jangled nerves. If she were here, I’d feel a lot more courageous. Gracie wasn’t much for barking, but she’d already proved she had no tolerance for anyone who tried to harm me. A hundred and twenty pounds of mad dog is a sizeable deterrent for all but the most foolhardy. One look at Gracie and most miscreants would leave me alone.
Gosh, but I missed her.
Each time the door minder jingled, a frisson of fear raced through me. That’s how I roll. I talk a good game, preferring to let my knees knock together in private. As the hours ticked by, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Maybe those notes didn’t come from anyone in my life. Maybe we had another problem festering. Maybe I should take back my easy dismissal.
But the words stuck in my craw.
A steady stream of customers milled about. I hoped to use suggestive selling to increase the amount of their total purchases. A few more goodies in their bags might possibly mean the difference between a bottom line in the red and one in the black.
Fortunately, the gruesome discovery hadn’t become common knowledge. Bama and I explained the police were doing a pre-holiday security check. (Which was true in a bizarre way.) I sighed with relief as the hours raced past, and no one greeted me with, “Hi, Kiki, find any spare body parts in your Dumpster lately?” Or even a tamer version like, “What sort of trouble are you in now?”
Our customers waved, stroked paper, examined new tools, and generally “ooohed” and “aahhhed” over the projects displayed in various spots in the store. Instead of asking, “May I help you?” I always say, “Hi, what are you working on these days?” That gleans better information and a chance to show off the latest paper, tool, or product. I greeted each of our guests, a move that Dodie assured us would cut down on theft, and set to work on my latest project, a holiday organizer.
A steady stream of purchases kept Bama busy at the register.
Finally, satisfied there was no more to examine, Detective Ortega had us sign for the Dumpster.
“Sorry, but we need to run lab tests on it.”
The two investigators promised to stay in touch, as I let them out the back door and watched them climb into an unmarked car. I locked the door behind them and breathed a bit more easily. Our customers had seemed totally absorbed in their holiday shopping.
Maybe no one had to know we were a crime scene. Or that I’d stuck in my thumb and pulled up a limb instead of a plum (with due respect to the nursery rhyme). Nobody repeated Bama’s claim that Time in a Bottle was cursed. Not a single soul had glommed to the fact we were blissfully operating within a crime site.
At least, that’s what I told myself. That’s what I hoped.
As usual, I was wrong.
“Why didn’t you call your boyfriend, the cop?” Bama asked me as we sat side-by-side, kitting page layouts. “Kitting” is the act of dividing up paper and supplies for projects. To be cost effective, we apportioned the paper and supplies accordingly. So, if the project only required a half a sheet of paper and two inches of ribbon, each kit contained exactly that and no more. This type of prep takes a lot of time and planning, but if you do it properly, your final product will be a moneymaker rather than a bust.
Bama sliced large sheets of specialty paper into smaller pieces. I assembled punched bits that would be glued together to create holly leaves and berries. Next we’d cut ribbon, count brads, and print up specialty journaling boxes. As we accomplished each step, I checked off the project elements. Early on, I learned the wisdom of making a supply list just for this purpose so we didn’t skip anything and ruin the whole final package.
“I didn’t think to call him. Once I got out of the trash bin, I just hit nine-one-one automatically. I figured nine-one-one would get help here faster.” Which was technically true but an evasion. To curtail more conversation, I started measuring off ribbon. If I could keep my head low, she wouldn’t see the color in my cheeks, wouldn’t know how embarrassed I was.
“But why didn’t you call him later? He could have at least told Detective Hadcho you’re a special friend of the department. That Police Chief Holmes is your mother-in-law’s main squeeze. That you couldn’t possibly know anything about what you found in the Dumpster.”
I bit my tongue to keep from sniping, “Drop it, Bama.” A smart retort would only make her more curious. Besides, her questions were only natural. So, I tried a diversionary tactic. “I’m sure Detective Hadcho figured that out for himself. He seemed bright and competent. He didn’t need Detective Detweiler’s help to see how upset I was.”
“But Detective Detweiler would want to know about the severed leg, wouldn’t he? He’d want to protect you.” Bama shivered. “Shouldn’t you at least tell him about that threat on the answering machine? About someone putting a message in our mail? I hope they don’t leak this to the media.”
“You worried about sales?” My response was blunt, yes, but maybe it would steer us clear of the big rock which our conversational motorboat was bearing down on. I did not want to talk about my love life.
Correction: My nonexistent love life. My big romantic blunder.
Bama took the bait. “Kiki, this is the largest investment I’ve made in my life. It’s not just my investment, either. Speaking of which,” and she gave a nod to a customer. “You ready to check out?” Bama rose to help the woman at the cash register.
Bama was right about the importance of protecting our investments. Against all odds, we’d both scraped up $5,000 each to buy a portion of the business. Actually, the Goldfaders had asked for less of a buy-in than I had first expected.
But I also hadn’t expected it to be so hard to come up with my share.
My mother-in-law, Sheila, thought I’d come into some compensation for the malfeasance that resulted in my husband’s death. After all, George—her son and my late husband—had been a part owner of a successful development firm. But that was wrong, too. The economic downturn of late hit the local real estate market hard. I should count myself lucky that the custodians in charge of shedding Dimont Development’s assets were able to write me a small check before they were forced to zero-out all its holdings.
So I muddled along.
Zero can be a wonderful starting spot.
Even though I was technically broke, I couldn’t let an opportunity to buy into Time in a Bottle pass me by. Desperate for money to invest, I’d hocked my engagement ring and emptied my meager savings account. I also cashed in a small life insurance policy I’d bought back when Anya was born. I borrowed $1,500 from my friend and former cleaning lady Mert Chambers. That was a debt I could work off by helping her with her other endeavor, Going to the Dogs, a pet sitting business. After two weeks of going meatless and drinking water instead of soft drinks, I handed my check for $5,000 to Horace Goldfader, feeling a heady combination of sinking heart and soaring hopes.
I was part owner of the store!
I was a single mom with no savings!
Hard to say which emotion prevailed. On any given day, the seesaw of joy versus terror tipped one way and then the other twenty times over. As thrilled as I was at the store’s growing success, I spent each waking breath fearful of a personal financial crisis. So far, I avoided putting any emergencies on my credit card, since I was well-aware that its interest rate was sky-high. I suspected if an emergency came up I could do better by finding a loan shark. Or selling plasma. Or a spare organ.
Which brought me back to the body part in the Dumpster.
Ugh.
Idly I wondered if our dismembered corpse had been in debt.
Well, that was for the police to decide. I was staying out of it. I had to protect my reputation and my investme
nt in our store. I couldn’t afford to play amateur sleuth. No sirree bobtail.
To recoup the money I invested in Time in a Bottle, I was eating Kraft Mac & Cheese and Campbell’s Tomato Soup every night my daughter wasn’t home. No way would I let Anya know how broke we were. Not with the holidays coming. She deserved to have a child-like, blissful, and totally ignorant upbringing. Didn’t we all? I gritted my teeth and swore I’d do everything in my power to keep our precarious financial position from my child.
That meant working my backside off. Putting in lots and lots of hours. Getting along with Bama. Coming up with new ideas to entice our customers. Creating ever-more interesting classes and projects. Finding outside sales events that would add to—and not detract from—our daily register receipts. Moving scads of merchandise this holiday season. Cutting corners wherever possible.
Bills for our stock were already arriving.
Our utility payments were higher than Bama and I anticipated. This winter had been especially brutal, and the store was always cold. Evidently, there was little to no insulation in our walls. We mainly ignored the temp, but on occasion our customers had complained, and we’d been forced to raise the thermostat.
We were paying COD for the specialty goods we ordered. A lot of those suppliers were struggling small businesses, too. Because our orders were small (at least in comparison to the big chain stores), we rarely qualified for free shipping. We paid extra for quick delivery, mindful that the closer we came to December 25, the less time we had to sell through what we’d ordered.
Bama and I were hoping for a big holiday season. I could scarcely walk because my fingers and toes were crossed in anticipation. Also because my feet were freezing. I’d worn holes in most of my socks.
The cold weather brought more expenses on the home front as well. Anya had outgrown her winter coat. She pushed up so stealthily that I hadn’t realized she’d grown so much until I noticed the sleeves stopped three inches above her wrist bones. Something in my face must have betrayed my dismay, because she pulled the coat right off and announced, “I’ll wear that jacket my grandmother bought me instead.”
I gave her a grateful look, and felt thankful for my good-hearted kid, the one who co-inhabited a body with the Princess of Petulance.
A glance out of our display window foretold bad weather. The sky was clotted with heavy clouds, threatening to rip open like too-full garbage bags and dump snow all over St. Louis. My breath caught in my throat as I wondered how long Anya could go without new boots. She’d been angling for those Uggs not only because they were fashionable, but also because she needed protective footwear. CALA, which was what the locals called the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, a fancy-shmancy private school Anya attended, boasted a sprawling campus. Kids trudged from one building to the next as their classes changed. She couldn’t go long without boots. She’d surely get sick from having wet feet.
Staring out at the threatening weather, I realized I couldn’t put off repairing my old car much longer. My worn-out BMW convertible, the almost worthless vehicle I kept after my husband died, was nearly at the end of its natural lifespan. How long could I ignore the fact that the fabric roof was ripped? Slush and rain dripped on me each time I rounded a corner. The cold and wet had done nothing for my health. My nose had run all week, off and on.
“Achoo!” As if to underscore my mental misery, I gave forth with a hearty and unladylike sneeze. I managed to tuck my face into the crook of my arm so I didn’t shower nearby paper with sneeze doodles.
“Bless you!” rang out from customers in all corners of the store.
Bless you. Bless them. They were right.
All in all, I had reasons to count my blessings.
My daughter was happy when she wasn’t snarling with the emotional angst brought on by rampant hormones. My mother-in-law was in love and acting pretty nice to me, all things considered. I adored my job. I lived in a snug little converted garage in a nice neighborhood. I had friends. My tummy was full. I was safe. For the moment, at least.
I was healthy, except for a cold I was fighting.
The holidays were coming, and everyone was in a good mood.
Later today or early tomorrow it would snow, and that meteorological magic show would put everyone into the gift-giving spirit. The cash register would ring merrily. The world would look lovely and innocent snuggled in its baby blanket of white. The thick boughs of the evergreens outside my front door would genuflect under their pristine mantles. Noses would turn red as Santa’s costume, and cheeks would flush pink as if pinched by elfin fingers.
There was much to recommend this time of year.
After all, if it hadn’t been winter, that piece of flesh I found in our Dumpster would have stunk to high heavens. My flesh still crawled as I remembered the feel of the dead skin. I shook my head to erase the sensation and tried to concentrate on the task at hand. It was going to be a long evening. Bama and I had all sorts of inventory to shelve in advance of our pre-Christmas special event.
She came back from ringing up a nice sale and arranged a display of “Suggested Gifts” on an uppermost shelf next to where I was working.
“I’d almost think you were trying to avoid your cop friend.”
Would she ever shut up?
Bama assumed I hadn’t heard her. She spoke louder. “I said, the way you’re acting, anyone would think you were trying to avoid him.”
It shocked me that she read my intentions so clearly. I didn’t even bother to ask, “Him, who?” I knew she meant Detweiler. Detective Chad Detweiler. She was right. I was trying to avoid the hunky detective. Which was why I turned my back to her so she couldn’t see my face. I had to stay strong. I was not going to continue my relationship with Detective Chad Detweiler.
I’d given my word to his wife, Brenda.
As I puttered around the store arranging stacks and stacks of lovely paper, my mind replayed the whole ugly scene at the hospital. After being slapped up the side of the head twice with a gun, I had needed ten stitches. Still dopey and pain-stricken, I opened my eyes in the middle of the night to focus on a nurse at the foot of my bed. Her back was to me. She turned toward me, and my breath caught in my throat. There stood a very, very angry Brenda Detweiler. A light from the hospital hallway outlined her thin shape and her lank hair. For a moment, I thought I was mistaken. Then she stepped closer. Her eyes glittering, she moved to my side and hissed, “Look at you. Helpless. All doped up.” Her spittle splattered my face as she continued, “Here in my hospital! Lucky me! Because I’ve had enough of you!”
Grabbing my shoulders with strong hands, she shook me like a rag doll. “Hear me? Enough! You stay away from my husband. Understand? Stay the heck away! Chad’s mine!”
My fingers flayed the air, searched for the call button, and seized upon it.
She shrieked over and over, “Stay away from him! Understand? Stay away!”
My thumb pressed the plastic circle. I saw the light panel brighten with a dot of red, but my shock was so great that I couldn’t speak, couldn’t argue. Instead, I winced with pain as a jagged knife of agony stabbed deep in my skull. A gurgling sound rose from my throat. My eyes rolled back in my head with the force of her anger.
Suddenly, she dropped me. I fell back onto my pillows. Her hands flew up to her cheeks and she pulled at her skin, distorting her features. “You don’t understand,” she whimpered. “He can’t leave me. Not yet. He loves you. I know he does. I see him staring out into space. He won’t speak. He won’t eat. It’s like he isn’t there! I can’t lose him … not yet. I won’t lose him. He’s mine!”
With a lunge, she seized my shoulders again. She yanked me toward her, the whites of her eyeballs blazing with fury. “Say it! Tell me you’ll stay away! Tell me! Or else! Or … I’ll … I’ll …”
I gasped and tried to stay conscious. Her words made little sense. Pain assailed me in waves that caused my stomach to spasm and my throat to constrict.
A thought: She wants to
kill me.
And another: I’m going to die.
Either she would do me in, or the aggravation to my injuries would finish me off. My stitches would split. My concussion would worsen. Instinctively I collapsed on myself, trying to back away so I could roll into a protective ball, shielding my soft innards from this mad woman. Beneath all this was another recognition—one that kept me from screaming for help—I deserved this.
I wanted her husband.
I loved Detweiler. I could lie to myself all day, but in my heart of hearts, I hoped he’d walk away from his marriage. Once he had admitted to me his marriage was troubled, I allowed myself to daydream about us, even though there was no “us,” and the result had been to weaken my resolve to stay clear. I’d allowed myself the luxury of fantasy. I’d experienced the delicious and unrestrained joy of imagining a future, together. The barricades of my psyche crumbled. All my wildest hopes bloomed and flourished, exploding and expanding, moving from small shapelessness to a larger solid form, like those silly toy capsules that grow into huge sponges when exposed to water.
This was my punishment.
I was no better than my dead husband. George Lowenstein cheated in the flesh, but I’d cheated with my heart, hadn’t I?
So I quit fighting Brenda. I went limp as she shook me. I took the abuse, absorbed the pain.
But like a decapitated body keeps twitching, my fingers mashed the call button repeatedly. Meanwhile, the ridiculousness of the situation played out in my mind—I was here in the hospital, supposedly to get well, but I wasn’t safe. Brenda Detweiler aimed to kill me. A part of me repeated, “You have this coming to you,” while another voice responded, “Fight! Fight back!”
My head flopped like a crash site dummy’s, snapping back hard as she shook me first this way and then that. The room swam in a fast spinning circle. A sparkling constellation danced across the blackness of my vision. Through all the sensory chaos, came a weak voice, pleading, but distinct.
Make, Take, Murder Page 3
