Group, Photo, Grave (A Kiki Lowenstein Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  They lived together in a huge house my mother and sister were renting from Clancy (or more accurately from Clancy’s mother) in U City, which is what the locals call University City, the area around Washington University. The house had a full (mostly empty) basement, a nice backyard, a garage, a large living room, a library, formal dining room, and four bedrooms still empty upstairs. Aunt Penny bunked there when she was in town.

  I parked the car at the curb and steeled myself for a visit with my mother. I suppose I could have dropped Aunt Penny off, but she was right. I owed it to Amanda to at least check in once in a while and see if I could help. I also wanted to hear what Amanda had to say about the wedding. Had she seen or heard anything that might point a finger to the killer?

  “Since your stud muffin is gone for the night,” said Aunt Penny with a leer, “why not stick around and play games with us? I’m itching to beat your mother at Bananagrams. I bet neither of you can beat me.”

  “You’re on,” said Anya.

  I brought up the rear as my aunt and daughter trudged up the brick walkway to the house. Even though the sun was setting, the heat and humidity had wilted Amanda’s pink petunias. Still, their perfume filled the night air. I paused to glance up at the sky. Detweiler’s plane would be taking off about now. I wished him a safe journey and crossed my fingers that he and Erik would get along fine.

  Penny rapped on the front door. If I was lucky, Mom would already be in bed.

  I wasn’t lucky.

  Shortly after I sat down at the dining room table with a glass of decaf iced tea, Mom walked in. “So you took Anya and Kiki out to eat but didn’t invite me? How could you, Penny?”

  “I did invite you. You didn’t want to go. Remember? You weren’t interested in pancakes.”

  My sister rolled her eyes behind the two older women’s backs.

  “Does this go on all the time?” I asked.

  “Every minute of every day,” she said.

  While Aunt Penny and Mom argued in the other room, I told my sister about the murder inquiry.

  “Poor Sheila. Her honeymoon is ruined,” said my sister.

  “Looks like it. If they find the killer quickly, she and Robbie could fly to one of the ports of call and hop on the cruise ship. They still have three days before it leaves port. They’d planned to arrive in Dubai early and spend the extra time getting acclimated. If the police can crack the case.”

  “Speaking of the police, that Stan Hadcho is pretty cute stuff,” said my sister with a gleam in her eyes. “Didn’t you tell me he’s part Native American Indian?”

  “He is. His last name means ‘brave warrior’ or something of the sort.”

  “Mom’s insisting he’s Italian.”

  We both rolled our eyes. If we kept this up, they’d be calling us the Googly Eyes Sisters.

  Right about then, Aunt Penny got us going on the game. The competition shut Mom up for a while. We had a good time spilling the tiles, making words, and shouting, “Peel!” Of course, my mother won. That’s because she cheats. She uses proper nouns and makes up new words. That’s one reason I usually refuse to play with her. But this evening, Aunt Penny kept her honest. Sort of.

  After three rounds, we took a break. I helped my sister pour glasses of ice water in the kitchen.

  “Is it my imagination, or has Mom gotten meaner?” I turned toward my sister.

  “It’s only that you’re around her more often, so she’s able to vent her spleen on you.”

  “How’s she doing at day care?”

  “She complains about the other seniors, but luckily for all of us, the therapist in charge seems to know how to handle Mom.”

  I took my sister’s hand. “Amanda, I am so sorry that you have to put up with this.”

  She smiled. “So am I. So am I.”

  Chapter 17

  Very late Sunday night/ One day after the wedding…

  Los Angeles International Airport

  Chad Detweiler grabbed his roll-aboard from the overhead compartment of the Boeing aircraft. Opening his cell phone, he checked the time. To get the lowest fare possible, he’d been routed through Denver, which made his trip a long six and a half hours, not counting the layover. It was late evening in California, but very early Monday morning in St. Louis. Kiki wouldn’t be up yet.

  The roller bag seemed ridiculously light to a man who lifted weights regularly. But its cargo was impossibly precious: a stuffed fox from his parents, a Beanie Baby from Anya’s personal collection, and an album that Kiki had made for Erik.

  A woman wearing cheater-readers around her neck struggled to dislodge her belongings from the tight space overhead. “May I help?” he asked. When she nodded gratefully, he lifted out the bag and handed it to her.

  His fingers ached with nervousness. He had always planned to be a father. Always seen himself in a distant future that included being surrounded by a clutch of children who called him, “Daddy.” Now his dreams were coming true. In his pants’ pocket was a note from Kiki, telling him to take care, that she loved him. His thumb rubbed the corner of an index card from Anya. She’d filled it with Xs and Os to symbolize “gazillions of hugs and kisses for my new brother.”

  By force of habit, he touched the spot under his arm. His rule was if his pants were on, he wore his gun, too, but of course, his holster was empty. When he arrived at Lambert Field in St. Louis, he had locked his gun in the case with two magazines and the ammo. After filling in the declaration form, he put the paperwork in the case and relocked the case before handing it to TSA to scan. It felt weird to check his firearm as baggage.

  His seat was as far back as you could get in the plane. The passengers ahead of him seemed to take forever to retrieve their luggage and toddle off the plane. Normally he was good at waiting. He’d been on enough stake-outs that he’d learned the value of patience. But today, he jiggled from one foot to the other. No one was moving fast enough for him.

  After twenty minutes, he followed the streaming crowd through the concourse. Once there, he scanned the waiting area for his driver. Lorraine, Van Lauber’s sister, had offered to send a car for him. No matter how many times he refused, she pressed him to accept. Finally, he gave in. It would save him the hassle of renting a car and navigating in Los Angeles traffic. She had promised to send the driver for him at his hotel the next morning. Of course, Detweiler wanted to see Erik right away, but Miss Lauber had asked if they could have lunch first. “I’d like to chat with you before you see your son.”

  His son.

  The words brought a smile to his face, despite his disappointment that the meeting was delayed.

  The other travelers began to scatter. His height gave him the ability to see over the heads of most. A man in a black jacket, black slacks, and a black cap held up a sign with DETWEILER in large black type. Chad switched his bag to his left hand so he could offer a handshake in greeting.

  “I’m Orson,” said the man, reaching for Detweiler’s bag. His pockmarked skin at odds with the elegant uniform. “Miss Lauber sent me.”

  “Nice to meet you. I can handle this. I need to get my gun case.”

  Orson’s quick blink betrayed his surprise. “Sir?”

  “I’m a law enforcement officer, and I always carry. Especially when I’m in a strange city,” said Detweiler.

  “I do, too,” said Orson, as he unbuttoned his jacket to display his holster.

  After Detweiler retrieved his case, the two men fell in step.

  “Did you have a nice flight?” asked Orson.

  “Yes. Thanks. How far are we from the hotel? And from Miss Lauber’s house?” Detweiler stopped himself before adding, “And my son?”

  “Not far. Miss Lauber asked that I take you directly there. She’d like for you to call her tomorrow morning when you’re up and about. Then you can schedule your appointment with her.”

  “How long have you worked for the Laubers?” Detweiler asked.

  “Twenty years. For Miss Lauber. My job is to drive her a
nd protect her. That’s why I carry. As you probably know, she’s worth a lot of money. You never know what sort of creeps are out there. Jerks who might want to cash in. You can’t be too careful.”

  The men stepped out into the cool, gray California night. Detweiler was glad he’d worn his old leather bomber jacket over his jade green polo knit shirt. Years of controlling his facial expressions came in handy as he fought to control his disappointment. “I wonder why Miss Lauber didn’t just set a time for us to meet tomorrow.”

  “Miss Lauber likes to do things her own way,” said Orson. “She’s not well, you know. So she has to, sort of, pace herself.”

  “Because of her MS?” Detweiler asked, as he walked alongside the driver.

  “Most days, you’d never know it. She seems right as rain. Then it hits her and she’s a mess. Unpredictable. Except that stress seems to bring it on. Of course, hard to imagine anything more stressful than losing your brother. And sister-in-law both. Especially seeing how close the three of them were.”

  “What exactly caused the accident?” Even though he was off-duty, Detweiler couldn’t turn off his cop’s brain.

  “Mr. Lauber lost control of the car and crossed the centerline. Everybody knows that stretch of highway is dangerous. They call it ‘Big Bend’ because it’s a long narrow curve that runs through high canyon walls. Folks have been after the Laguna Beach authorities to widen it or add a median, but they won’t. They claim it’ll spoil the scenic beauty.”

  Detweiler wondered what exactly “lost control” meant. Was Van Lauber driving recklessly? Were the conditions bad? Did he lose concentration and make a wrong move? Of course, the California Highway Patrol would have used forensic specialists to check the scene. They must have found nothing, so more than likely it had been exactly as it had seemed, a case of driver error.

  “Mr. Lauber enjoyed traveling with the missus. They’d been visiting friends—” Orson stopped abruptly. “I’m not suggesting that alcohol was involved, of course.”

  “No,” said Detweiler. “You didn’t say that.”

  But still, he wondered…

  Chapter 18

  Monday morning/Two days after the wedding…

  Kiki’s house in Webster Groves

  The minute I opened my eyes, I checked my cell phone. There was a text message from Detweiler:

  In LA. Flight was fine. Talk to you later today. Love you, D

  Anya didn’t complain when I asked her get up, get dressed, and eat breakfast. In no time at all she and I and Gracie were packed into my car.

  Force of habit sent me toward CALA, the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, Anya’s school. Most summers, I’d enrolled my daughter in a serious of summer camps. This year would be different. Anya had proposed that I hire her as my assistant. She opened one sleepy eye to ask, “Mom? Are you lost?”

  Gracie thumped her tail in agreement as I did a U-turn on Lindbergh. Taking my daughter to the store on a daily basis had required a new habit, but I was so groggy this morning, I’d reverted to my old ways.

  “You need help at the store,” Anya had presented her case to me, “and I can do that. It’s better than being with a bunch of babies all day long at summer camp. I hated it. Besides, I’d like to earn a little money, if I can. I want to start saving for a car. It’s not that far off, you know.”

  “Does that mean you’ll help keep Erik occupied once he arrives?”

  She nodded happily.

  I was happy to pay her a pittance as long as we could lay down the ground rules: “You are an employee, not my kid. When I ask you to help, I expect you to hop to it. I also expect you to be courteous to customers and the senior co-workers. Even if you get bored with Erik, I still expect you to keep an eye on him. This’ll be his first summer with us. He’s bound to be lonely and emotional.”

  “Mooo-ooom,” she whined. “I know all that.”

  “I also expect you to get out of bed in the mornings promptly so I don’t have to nag you. We need to get to the store on time or Margit will be cross,” I had said.

  “Margit wouldn’t be cross with me!” Anya giggled. “She thinks I’m cute.”

  “Don’t push your luck,” I warned. “Margit hasn’t had any reason to be cross with you. So don’t give her one. She’s a stickler for being on time, for doing things according to the lists she’s made, and for adhering to rules.”

  I didn’t add that Margit and I were both on edge. There was so much catching up to do, because we hadn’t realized how much Dodie’s mental health had been deteriorating. She’d seemed all right, most of the time, but she hadn’t been. Bit by bit, Margit and I discovered things left undone, questions unanswered, and loose ends that needed to be tied up. Before she died, Dodie had been a buffer. Now Margit and I needed to redefine our own relationship. Some days were better than others. She was no-nonsense, but that could sound abrupt and brittle. I was creative, but that often translated into unfocused and ditzy. Still, for the store to work, we needed each other. Fortunately, we knew that.

  Our lingering grief cast a pall over both of us. The closer I drove to the store, the more a lump of sadness began to crowd my throat. I swallowed the pain, but a tear leaked out. Using the back of my hand, I brushed it away.

  Even though Anya was singing along to “Call Me Maybe” by Carly Rae Jepsen, I couldn’t muster up a smile. I missed my friend terribly. All I could think was, “Where’s Dodie?” It just didn’t seem right that I was here, working and enjoying the business she had started, without her. I’m old enough to know that life’s not fair, but my heart is having trouble accepting that truism.

  I pulled into the parking lot and turned off the engine. Gracie and Anya tumbled out. I set my shoulders and took a deep breath. Time in a Bottle would be Dodie’s memorial. As long as our doors stayed open, I would be continuing her legacy, keeping her alive. And wasn’t that exactly what scrapbookers did best?

  With two goals in mind—to keep Anya busy and to bring in extra income during the normally slow summer months—I’d devised a plan. We had contacted the various summer school organizations and offered crafting classes for a nominal fee. My daughter and I had combed through all my old copies of scrapbooking magazines to find projects suitable for younger kids. Since Father’s Day loomed larger than life on the calendar. Making a card for dear old Dad struck Anya and me both as a logical class idea.

  “What are card toppers?” Anya asked.

  “Imagine a blank white greeting card. Now, if you created a front for the card that could be glued on, that would be a card topper.”

  “Why do it separately? Why make two pieces?” she wondered. “Why not just decorate the card?”

  “Cardmakers typically stockpile only a few card bodies and matching envelopes, but they make a lot of card toppers. That way they can add the perfect topper to the blank card and be ready for any occasion. Takes up a lot less space. Imagine if I make a card topper for every holiday, for general birthdays, and for milestone life events. I could keep all the toppers in a small accordion folder and whip out whatever one I needed, slap it down on the blank card, and mail it.”

  “I get it. I can see another benefit. If a kid goofs up the card topper, it’s easier to replace than a pre-folded card. Cheaper, too.”

  My daughter was learning the financial realities of retail very quickly. I gave her a hug. “You are so smart.”

  “I have to be. I’m soon to be the oldest of a passel of kids.”

  “A passel?” I laughed. “How many are in a passel? You might want to look that one up. I think a ‘passel’ is a large group. Last time I looked, three kids did not make for a large family.”

  “I like this one best,” said Anya. She pointed to a card topper featuring a man’s torso. By cleverly folding the paper, the artist had created a three-dimensional suit coat and collared shirt.

  What made the card extra-cute was the addition of a “tie” made of brightly colored scrapbook paper. As I stared at the sample in the magazine, Anya sa
id, “How about if we just do the tie? We could use up a lot of paper that hasn’t sold well.”

  The tone of her voice told me more than the words did.

  “Anya-Banana, are you worried about the new baby? Or about Erik? Most big sisters don’t get two new siblings at one time.”

  “It does seem like a lot. First you get pregnant, then Gran gets married, and now Detweiler is bringing home a little boy none of us have ever met. I mean, I don’t want to sound selfish, but I kind of wonder…” and a tear rolled down her face. “Will you have time for me, Mom? I sound like a big baby, don’t I?’

  “Oh, honey,” and I pulled her close. “Forever and for always, you’ll be my baby. No matter how big you get. No matter how tall you are. Even if there are two more children in our family. You were my first. You made me a mother. No one could ever take your place, sweetheart. Even if I had a dozen more kids. You’re special. We’ve been through so much together, and I count on you. Maybe too much.”

  “I’ll miss the times when it’s just you and me, Mom. Even now when Detweiler’s at the house, sometimes I just wish…I wish he’d go away.”

  She sobbed noisily.

  “I know, honey. We’re jam-packed, aren’t we? I bet sometimes you just need a bit more space.”

  “Uh-huh,” she said. “But I love that house. I don’t ever want to move. Ever.”

  This had been a common refrain. Detweiler and I had gingerly approached the idea that we needed a bigger place to live, but when we did, Anya had gotten emotional. Her dramatic response shocked both of us. However, she was adamant. She loved our house primarily for the wonderful location, plus the beautiful and spacious lot. Of course, she adored Monroe, Leighton’s donkey. She also loved Petunia, Leighton’s pug. Moving would mean saying goodbye to those two friends, as well as changing our setting. Finding homes on large lots was a challenge, especially given our budget.