Make, Take, Murder

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Surely if there’d been another tragedy we would have heard. Someone would have phoned the store. Bama would have caught it on the radio that Dodie left in the back office.

  Then I remembered that Bama had purposefully turned off the radio after our visit with the detectives. “I’ve had enough bad news for one day,” she’d said and I concurred.

  But this day had started out so horribly, of course it would continue downhill.

  What if Robbie Holmes had been shot or even stabbed? Maybe a disgruntled citizen or a criminal seeking revenge made it past the metal detectors outside his office and …

  “Sheila, tell me Robbie’s all right!” I grabbed her arm.

  She jerked away from me. “Of course, he’s all right!”

  I shivered in my seat. With the engine off, the car cooled quickly. “Then what on earth is bugging you?”

  A tear spilled over her cheek.

  “Whoa,” I whispered. That droplet slowly rolled down her face and kept me mesmerized. I was in shock. Sheila never cried. Well, sure, she did when George died. He was her son, after all. But other than that, she never showed signs of emotion. She brought on tears, boy, did she ever! But she herself never cried.

  Sheila shook her head, flicked away the moisture with a gloved finger. With a shudder, her lips parted. I heard her exhale. Heard her sigh. I held my own breath. What could have possibly happened?

  “That stupid fool asked me to marry him.”

  Sheila was right. If Robbie Holmes wanted to marry her, he was indeed a silver-plated, addle-pated fool. I mean, why? They practically lived together. His neat little bungalow on Pernod Street afforded him a place to escape when Sheila went on a tear. Her gorgeous mansion on Litzsinger gave them both a formal place for entertaining. Why ruin a perfectly good relationship by cohabiting? Heck, I found staying overnight at Sheila’s stressful. Sure, Linnea, her maid, must be a direct descendent of an angel handmaiden. True, the place on Litzsinger was spacious. You could go for days and not have to interact with anyone, thanks to the well-thought-out floor plan and generous square footage. Yes, the Litzsinger house was a graceful haven where Queen Sheila personally stood guard. The comfy beds were made with Frette sheets, cashmere blankets, and hand-quilted comforters. Each bathroom featured a heated towel rack loaded with lavender-scented fluffy towels. The huge Sub-Zero refrigerator burgeoned with yummy cheeses, cut veggies, chopped up fruit, and sliced meats.

  My mother-in-law missed her calling. If she hadn’t signed up for the pain-in-the-butt master class, she could have been a very successful hotelier.

  But why would Robbie Holmes feel the need to make a change? To combine their residences? To legalize their union?

  As I pondered all this, Sheila rummaged in her Coach purse for a tissue. Pulling one from the nifty leather case designed to hold an entire pack of Kleenex, she sniffed gently and dabbed at her eyes.

  “You are right. If he wants to marry you, Chief Holmes is nuts. You don’t suppose his mind is going, do you?”

  She shot me a blistering look. “For goodness sake, Kiki. That’s the most ridiculous, malicious pap I’ve ever heard.”

  I shivered. “Let’s discuss this inside. I want a sourdough bread bowl of their black bean soup.”

  Once I sat down with the fragrant brown bowl in front of me, I tried another approach. “Did Robbie tell you why he wants to, um, tie the knot?”

  “Because he loves me, of course. He’s absolutely besotted with me. Always has been.”

  I tore off a piece of the bowl, savored the tang of the sourdough, and let the warm richness of the black bean soup languish on my tongue. “Always?” I sipped my green tea. Delightful and healthy, too. For dessert, I’d chosen a fresh fruit cup. I love Bread Co.

  “He tried to date me in high school, but my father put his foot down.” A stain of crimson began at her neckline and slowly rose toward her face. “Although we did manage to see each other on occasion. School dances and so on. But never alone. For the most part.” She set down the sandwich she was nibbling. Her cheeks glowed a bright, very un-Sheila-like red.

  “But you met Harry and fell in love.”

  “I met Harry and recognized we would have a wonderful life together. That’s not exactly the same thing.” She frowned.

  I admit; I was surprised by this revelation. George always portrayed his parents as the love match of the century. Unfortunately, Harry died shortly after his son and I married. But up until he drew his last gasp, I often observed my father-in-law staring at Sheila with eyes full of adoration. Now I was stunned by the realization that perhaps that worshipful affection hadn’t been returned in equal measure.

  Sheila sighed. “I married Harry because we were a better fit.”

  “But Robbie is a great guy! He’s thoughtful, kind, considerate, ambitious—”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Kiki. I know exactly what sort of man Robbie Holmes is. I also know what sort of young man he was. As the twig was bent, so grew the tree.”

  “Then, what did Harry have that Robbie didn’t? Family money?”

  She gave a tiny mew of exasperation, which along with a flick of her fingers, indicated I was the loose nut at the top of the old oak tree. “For pity’s sake, Kiki. It’s obvious, isn’t it? Robbie wasn’t a Jew.”

  “Oh, yeah.” I suppose I can be forgiven for overlooking this teensy little detail since having a mixed marriage didn’t stop me—or her son, George—from plighting our troth. “He’s Roman Catholic, right?”

  Sheila nodded. A tight, thin grimace pulled her face into an unhappy mask. “Exactly. My father called him a papist.”

  Her casual use of the term surprised me. Her attitude rankled. Why’d she have to repeat what her dad said? The pejorative repulsed me. She knew better. I wiped my face with a brown paper napkin, but the anger didn’t go away. Instead, it surged within me. “Good news, Sheila. Your father’s dead. Your Jewish husband is dead. Your reproductive organs are Missing in Action. If Robbie Holmes is dumb enough to want to be with you 24/7, I say, ‘Have at, buddy.’ Good luck to the poor sap.”

  “Trust you, Kiki, to make sport of a serious situation. Here I picked you up hoping to have a rational discussion, a deep theological conversation, and you …” she trailed off.

  “I what? Threw a big, cold bucket of honesty into your face? Robbie’s a nice man, Sheila. Scratch that. He’s a wonderful man. A good, caring, decent fellow. You couldn’t find better if you ran a classified ad in the Jewish News. As for the difference in religions, what difference does it make? It can’t possibly matter now, can it?”

  With that, she tossed her sandwich onto her plate. The top slice of bread bounced off and into the middle of the table. “How can you say that? Especially to me? You know how I feel about having a Jewish home.”

  I leaned closer to her so the rest of the diners couldn’t hear me. “I say it because it’s true. You aren’t going to convert him, and he’s not going to convert you. How long do you figure you have, Sheila? Another fifteen healthy years? Twenty? That would make you, what? Seventy-seven? Nearly eighty years old? How do you want to spend those last years? Alone in that big honking house or in the arms of someone you love? I know what my choice would be.”

  A vision of Detweiler’s face popped into my head. What would I give to spend my life with him? Here Sheila was, passing up a man who loved her. Kids weren’t part of the picture. No lack of respect was involved. Each attended services at the other’s house of worship. Both donated money to their chosen faiths. Both had raised children according to the dictates of their religion.

  So now, in the twilight of their years, what kind of God would keep them apart? What sort of supreme being would rather these two people—a couple who were much better together than apart—live without love?

  I rubbed my face with my hands. What was it about religion that brought out the worst in us? That caused us to turn away from love, friendship, and kindness in the name of narrow dogma? How could God want this for us? I cou
ldn’t believe he did!

  Sheila was so lucky. Her soul mate was asking for her hand in marriage.

  Mine was already taken.

  With that angry, bitter thought, I pushed my chair away from the table, got up, marched to the counter, and ordered muffies and cookies for the evening crop. By the time the food was bagged and paid for, Sheila had cleared our table or corralled someone into doing it for her. Struggling with my purchases, I held the door open for my mother-in-law and watched her stomp to her car. I was smacking the pavement pretty hard myself. Each of us was irritated and feeling sorely used.

  “I need to run an errand on our way back to your store,” she announced. With that, she cranked the heat onto high.

  Errand? Did she say “errand” in the singular? Indeed, she did.

  And she lied. She stopped first at the dry cleaners (where she fought with them over a spot they couldn’t remove), next to Barnes & Noble Booksellers (where she fussed about a book cover she thought lurid), on to a drugstore (where she complained about problems with the federally mandated “childproof cap”), and finally to a cobbler’s shop (where the nasty man who ran it got the better of my mother-in-law, but then he was famous all over town for being a first-class jerk). At the last stop, knowing what a turkey that shoe guy is, I stayed in the car and cranked the heat down. A honking-mad Sheila climbed back into the car. “He says my shoes are old. I pointed out people don’t generally repair new shoes. Why would they? What a fool! Doesn’t he know what business he’s in?” She continued to grumble under her breath as she cranked the heat higher.

  As the temperature rose in the car, an unpleasant fragrance filled the air.

  In response to the growing stench, I closed the vents on my side.

  Sheila responded to my move by cranking the heat to its max.

  With all her errands, we’d strayed a long way from my store. The drive back took a while. We’d been riding a good ten minutes when Sheila’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What is that smell?”

  I sampled the air, too. She was right. There was definitely something stinky aloft. Something pungent. Something gross. I turned my head and sniffed at the bag from Bread Co.

  Not coming from there. So where was it?

  I leaned toward the back seat and took a deep breath.

  Not there either.

  At a stoplight, Sheila sniffed delicately around the steering wheel, following the long expanse of dashboard from her side to mine. “It’s coming from your side of the car!”

  I closed my eyes and sucked in air, sharp and ugly. Sheila was right. It was on my side. The pungent smell wafted from where I sat. I let my nose lead me, down, down, down, and slowly bent my face to my jacket. Sniffing and concentrating, I followed the stench to my sleeve.

  The car’s interior was now toasty warm. Almost hot, in fact.

  The heat activated the smell. Energized it. Caused it to bloom. In response, I dialed down the thermostat. “This isn’t helping.”

  At another long light, Sheila leaned toward my side of the car. We were now sniffing in tandem, two hound dogs on a fox’s trail. She scooched as close to me as our seats would allow. I followed the scent, my head bending nearer and nearer to my body. I raised my arm, pulling it up to my nose.

  “Pee-yew!” said Sheila.

  “Ugh. It’s coming from my coat.” I took a long discerning snort. “Yuck.”

  “Is that jacket new?”

  “Um,” I hedged. I didn’t want her to know I was shopping at thrift stores. I especially didn’t want her to know I was shopping at thrift stores and buying from the markdown racks. “Not exactly. I just started wearing it.”

  Sheila sniffed in my direction and broke out with a cackle. “Better stop wearing it. You stink of cat pee.”

  Sheila was still laughing as she turned the corner to my store. Her laughter died when she spotted the TV trucks. “Are they there to interview you? Are you in some sort of jam again?”

  I closed my eyes. This was bad. Really bad. How had word leaked out so quickly?

  “I found a severed leg in our Dumpster this morning.”

  “You what?” Sheila shrieked.

  I filled her in quickly. We had time because the line of media cars blocked our parking lot entrance.

  “And you didn’t think to tell me?”

  “You didn’t exactly give me the chance. Besides, it’s just garbage. Unusual garbage to be sure, but it’s only trash. Bama and I are thinking it might be from a local hospital. Maybe even a prank pulled by a med student.” Over the past two years, I learned to lie with casual finesse. This wasn’t exactly a skill I planned to perfect. However, its usefulness could not be denied.

  “Why in the world did they decide to use your Dumpster?”

  She stumped me. (Pardon the pun.) We weren’t close to any of the college campuses with a med school. The nearest funeral home was blocks away. No local bar or pub was situated within walking distance. The only response I could muster was a shrug.

  “Thanks again for taking care of Anya tonight,” I said, “and for taking her to Hebrew lessons today. Thanks in advance for picking her up from school and feeding her dinner tomorrow. I think I better hop out here and see if Bama needs help. She’s a very private person.” With that, I unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed the bag of food, and leaped out in one smooth move. Right before I slammed the car door, I said to Sheila, “About marrying Robbie Holmes. Why not go see Rabbi Sarah? She can give you guidance.”

  Sheila’s thoughtful gaze offered me a newfound respect. “Good idea. I might just do that.”

  As predicted, the teaming mass of media hounds turned on me like a fire ant colony on an invader. Questions flew. Microphones were shoved into my face. Hands tugged at my jacket. The swell of bodies pressed closer and closer. Media totally surrounded me.

  Just as quickly, noses wrinkling in distaste, folks started to back away.

  Maybe stinking like cat pee was a brilliant idea.

  Or then again, maybe not.

  My good pal Clancy Whitehead was the first of the Monday night croppers to arrive. “What a mob scene outside! I heard about your problem on the news. Totally gross, but also exciting. Really fascinating. How totally weird.” Her face pinkened up. “You know what I mean,” she added.

  I nodded. I knew she was lonely and bored, so I didn’t take her comments the wrong way. Clancy came across as cool, calm, and collected, but that polished exterior hid a sensitive soul. Rather like an armadillo with all those interlocking plates perfectly aligned for the purpose of protecting the defenseless creature at the core. I nodded to show I didn’t think she was being callous. “You’re right. Who would have ever guessed that among those paper scraps would be something so gruesome?”

  Then I shuddered, “Being in the Dumpster with a severed body part was awful.”

  She had the good grace to look chagrined. “I imagine so. What do you think happened?”

  I groaned. “I hate to think. The way the leg was chopped off, how cold the skin felt, that’ll stay with me forever. Ugh. I’m hoping that a med student dumped it off as a prank. Or maybe some weirdo went through the trash at a hospital and found it, took it, and then thought better of the whole scheme.”

  “I doubt it. Usually they put body parts in an incinerator. Three questions come to mind. One, where did the severed limb come from? Two, who had custody or access? Three, why drag that thing to your store to dump it?”

  “Beats me. I expect we’ll know soon enough. The police were all over this.”

  Clancy’s eyes sparkled. “Will Detweiler get involved?”

  “I hope not. I’ve cut off all communication with him.”

  She raised an eyebrow at me.

  “What are my choices? He’s married. Until that changes, I’m begging for more heartbreak.”

  “Well, then, this should get your mind off him. It sure sounds like a mystery to me. I know you are busy around here, but this might be a welcome diversion.” She laughed. “Ouch. I’m soun
ding like a really sick puppy, but you know how I love mysteries and how boring my life is. In fact, I was thinking. Do you need any help over the holidays? I’d be happy to help out.”

  “I’m not sure we can afford you.”

  “Come on, Kiki. You know I’m offering gratis.”

  “I can’t ask that of you. That’s taking unfair advantage of a friend.”

  She turned sad eyes on me.

  Clancy could be Jackie Kennedy Onassis’s twin sister. From the arched eyebrows and brightly piercing eyes to her tasteful clothing choices. Today she wore a simple powder-puff pink cashmere v-neck sweater, a statement necklace, brown gabardine slacks, and crocodile loafers. Despite all that stunning wardrobe and personal charm, she threw off misery like a dog shakes off water. “My ex and his new bride invited both my kids on a ten-day Caribbean cruise over the holidays. Try to compete with sun, sand, and endless free-flowing liquid when your kids are young adults struggling to get by.”

  I said nothing. The thought of being entirely alone this time of year totally choked me up. I coughed to recover my powers of speech. She patted my back.

  “You know,” Clancy said, “loneliness is the most powerful emotion known to man. Or woman. I like my own company, I do. But to have children and miss them, to have loved and go to sleep each night by myself in a California King bed, well, it drains the soul of all energy, doesn’t it? I feel like an empty tin can being kicked down the highway of life.”

  With that, I hugged her. Clancy’s a bit stiff, but after a second, she melted. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not asking for that.”

  “Come help us. We sure could use the extra pair of hands. Bring your crochet, and if you get bored, you can high tail it to the backroom. Think you can stand Bama? I might have to check with her first, before I give you an official okay.”

  “When I taught middle school, I put up with hormonal teens, overly involved parents, and other teachers who were totally bonkers, as well as school administrators with only one clear goal in life: making other people miserable. I think I can handle Miss Cold Shoulder.”