Group, Photo, Grave (A Kiki Lowenstein Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  Now we had to work the same miracle with Mary-Ellen and Ella because that little girl was in almost as bad of shape as Bebe had been. Ella had been left to die in a garbage heap in Mexico City. Probably because she was born with a cleft palate. Ella had already been fitted with a palatal obturator until the surgery can be performed when she is between six to twelve months old. Depending on the severity of the cleft, Ella will need more surgeries as she grows up.

  When Cynthia first brought her to the store, Ella was as listless as a sack of potatoes. Now, one month later, she would give me a shy smile and let me take her from her mother’s arms.

  “How hard is it to raise a child from a different ethnicity?” I asked Mary-Ellen and Cynthia, as I bounced Ella on my hip.

  They looked at each other and laughed. Mary-Ellen said, “Since I have two children who are my biological offspring, I can tell you that every child is challenging. Going to Mexican cultural events seems like a vacation compared to dealing with a hormonal teenager.”

  “It’s a challenge,” said Cynthia. “But the benefits outweigh any hassles. We’re learning as much about Chinese culture as we can. We’ve scheduled family trips back to the mainland.”

  “We’ve been warned that it can bother the child because she or he doesn’t look like everyone else,” added Mary-Ellen. “But I plan to remind Ella that my husband and I don’t look alike either, and we love each other.”

  That made perfect sense to me. I was holding Ella and crooning to her when Bernice Stottlemeyer stomped in.

  “Hello, Mrs. Stottlemeyer. So glad to see you. I have your album right back here,” I said as I started toward the counter. “You’re just in time. Remember I told you about the croppers who come on Wednesday? A few are already here. I’d be happy to introduce you to several of our customers who’ve adopted children.”

  “I don’t have time,” she said, snapping her umbrella closed so that it sprayed Ella and me with water.

  “Oops! We took a shower, Ella,” I said, as I handed the child back to her mother and stepped over to the check-out counter. From underneath, I pulled the shopping bag with the album wrapped in tissue paper. At the bottom of the bag was the box Bernice had brought in with photos.

  As I handed over her bag, Bernice leaned close. “Did you show this to anyone? If you’ve shared any of my private business, I will sue you.”

  I hate being threatened, and I’ve been threatened by much scarier people than Bernice. After all, she didn’t have a gun in her hand. I didn’t either, although I wished I did.

  “I have said nothing to these customers,” I said, under my breath. “Nor have they seen your album.”

  “You better hope no one saw it!”

  “Cash or credit?” I asked as I handed her the bill. I wanted that woman out of my store.

  For the longest time, she studied the charges, although she didn’t bother to look at the album. Not once. You’d have thought she’d want to see it first.

  “This is outrageous and you know it,” she said, as she tossed her credit card down on the countertop. “This is a scam. You are vastly overcharging me to slap a few pictures in an album. I plan to tell Bonnie Gossage as much.”

  Since she still hadn’t opened the memory book, I knew she was simply blowing smoke up my maternity pants. She’d planned all along to get me to do the work and then complain about the pricing. Boy, was I glad I’d collected a deposit, and I had a signed contract.

  “Actually I’ve undercharged you. You can see everything is itemized clearly. I didn’t plan on making a home visit or processing those photos, so I didn’t charge you for my time, labor, or supplies,” I said, as I rang up her purchase. “Thank you for your business.”

  I knew I should wish her “good luck,” but the words stuck in my craw.

  Grabbing the bag, she turned to glare at Cynthia and Mary-Ellen and their daughters. In a voice just loud enough for them to hear, she said, “So this is the group you were talking about? I certainly wouldn’t fit in with them. I don’t want a child that’s strange or defective.”

  I could not believe my ears.

  Cynthia and Mary-Ellen went rigid. I could tell they’d overheard Bernice—and I was not happy. In fact, I was livid.

  “Mrs. Stottlemeyer, that was rude and uncalled for. I think you owe these women an apology,” I said.

  “I don’t owe anyone anything, and I’ve already overpaid you!” she said, as she turned on her heel and walked out.

  I hurried over to Mary-Ellen and Cynthia and apologized. But try as I might, I couldn’t find the right words. No matter how many ways I tried to tell them I was sorry, I could see both were shocked and hurt.

  I started the crop with a heavy heart. Our evening had been ruined.

  Chapter 64

  My flipflop album is quite possibly the cutest craft project I’ve ever created, hands down, far and away. Although Mary-Ellen and Cynthia were quiet at first, once we got started playing with the fun foam, they sloughed off Bernice’s nasty comments.

  Because of the miserable rain, we only had five moms in attendance, counting me. That suited me fine, as Bernice had robbed me of all my energy.

  When we stopped for dinner, everyone relaxed a little more. Cynthia had brought along a plate of corn fritters, dusted with powdered sugar. Pamela Hargraves brought two dozen of her dad’s Peanut Butter Cookies, and I nearly ate all of them. Vicki Nellis brought a dish of Hearty Lasagna and a plate of Oatmeal Carmelitas.

  Good food goes a long way toward making people feel comfortable, and this shared meal did exactly that. Both little girls had fallen asleep in their mothers’ arms, so we’d rolled out a mat for them to snooze on.

  Pretty soon, the talk turned to Bernice. Cynthia and Mary-Ellen filled in the other moms as to Bernice’s bad behavior, and I apologized yet again. Usually, I make it a rule that there’s to be no talking about other customers, but since Bernice had behaved so outrageously in front of us, I couldn’t possibly enforce my rule. That said, I didn’t add fuel to the fire by talking about Bernice’s other nasty moments in my store. Or her mean text messages.

  “I remember when I was trying to get pregnant,” said Mary-Ellen. “I miscarried three times. I hate to admit this, but I was full of anger and loathing. I hated everyone and everything. Going through the adoption process about pushed me over the edge. Kiki, I can’t describe how dehumanizing it can be. You feel like you’re being judged on every level. And on top of that, you already feel like a failure for not being able to get pregnant.”

  She laughed. “The irony of it was that after we adopted our first child, Marcus, who’s mixed race, I got pregnant the next week. And then we had twins! And now we have Ella.”

  “But that sometimes happens,” said Pamela. “Once the pressure is off, your body responds by letting you conceive.”

  “She’s right,” Cynthia chimed in. “I felt like I was the world’s biggest loser. While we were seeing the fertility specialist, our romantic life really hit the skids. Mitch and I felt like two science experiments gone wrong.”

  I nodded. “I’m trying to give Bernice Stottlemeyer the benefit of the doubt. Honestly, I am. But to look at your wonderful daughters and not see anything but the miracle of love? How can she do that?”

  “Because she’s hurting,” said Mary-Ellen. “And when people hurt, they don’t know how to handle that pain. So they lash out at others.”

  “Yes, it’s sad. Yes, what she said was awful, but here’s the deal,” said Cynthia. “We have children. She doesn’t. So I’m content to count my blessings rather than let her steal my happiness away. It’s all a matter of focus. I can dwell on her negativity or focus on how lucky I am. I know who’s coming out ahead here. And it isn’t her. ”

  The generosity of my customers went a long way toward helping me feel better about Bernice Stottlemeyer’s visit. Seeing how cute the flipflop albums came out did a lot for uplifting my spirits. As my croppers started to put away their supplies, a loud boom shook the b
uilding.

  “I just got a weather alert on my phone,” said Vicki pulling out her iPhone. “There’s a bad storm headed our way. Might even spawn tornadoes.”

  Every Midwesterner knows that when the sky turns greenish-gray, you’d better run for cover.

  “Then we’re finishing up right on time,” said Cynthia. “Kiki? You aren’t planning to hang around and tidy up after us, are you? I think we’ve gotten most of this picked up.”

  In my customers’ eyes, there was nothing left for us to do. Of course, I knew there were tons of small jobs now demanding my attention, from cleaning the bathrooms to making the deposit and ordering inventory. However, if I stuck around I would be leaving the store without an escort.

  After collecting sleepy smooches from Bebe and Ella, I walked to my car with my customers. We watched to see that all of us were safely inside our vehicles, with engines started and doors locked tightly, before going our separate ways.

  I had hoped to hear from Detweiler one more time. I desperately wanted a photo of Erik. After getting a little cuddle time with Bebe and Ella, I yearned to hold our little boy. It had been years since Anya was small enough to pick up and carry.

  Yes, that’s what he was: our little boy.

  One of two, or so it seemed. I giggled.

  That happy thought took me through the rain and the thunder to Sheila’s house.

  Chapter 65

  Driving to Sheila’s house proved to be a challenge. After George had been murdered, I sold everything except the Beemer, because it had no Blue Book value. With the top down, it was a fun summer car, but when the ragtop was up the shape of it obscured my visibility. Tonight especially, I couldn’t see anything. The side windows fogged up time and time again. The rain pelted my BMW as if I were driving through a car wash!

  Normally, I could have driven to Sheila’s house blindfolded. But my usual route would probably take me through standing water. If my car stalled out, I’d be stranded. I decided to take the back way instead. I pointed my car down the middle of most streets, hoping to avoid the water pooling on the sloping shoulders.

  Ladue is one of the older areas of St. Louis, a neighborhood much prized for its huge trees. As a consequence, the power lines aren’t buried. Falling tree limbs cause frequent power outages.

  A huge branch blocked one of the streets, a Bradford pear split down the middle. Of course, I could only guess that it was a Bradford pear, but I remembered seeing these in bloom just a month ago. Bradford pear trees are prone to splitting because the v-shaped junction of the branches is too narrow to support the new limbs. As lovely as they are, they are often the first casualties of our bad storms. The thick tangle of branches sitting on the asphalt didn’t leave me much room to get by. As I inched closer, the skeletal shape with twig-like fingers grabbed at my car. Yep, the leaves were definitely those of a pear. I didn’t want to ride up on the curb for fear I’d blow out a tire. The branches caught in my undercarriage and dragged along, block after block, making a terrible scraping noise.

  I thought I was in the clear when a loud boom of thunder shook my car, followed by the splintering of wood. Before my eyes, another tree came down, this one severed at the trunk. Branches bounced as they hit my hood. A branch scratched the paint off my door with a loud screech. The tree shook and finally came to rest. Now I could see nothing but water and leaves.

  This was bad. My heart leapt to my throat. The ragtop on my convertible offered scant protection from falling objects. A multi-pronged branch could poke right through my ancient and brittle roof. What if I were to get stabbed?

  I needed to get out of this weather. And I had to do something fast.

  I gulped, made a three-point turn, and started back the way I had come. I went all the way back to Brentwood and decided to take 40 to Lindbergh. The traffic sent blinding sprays of water hurling against my windshield, but at least I didn’t get skewered by a tree branch. Once or twice, the force of the wake churned up by other cars sent me sliding. My knuckles went white as I gripped the steering wheel.

  My teeth started chattering.

  I shouldn’t be out here, alone, on the roads in a soft top car. I was endangering myself and my baby. I sent up a prayer for protection.

  That’s when I heard a rattle in my map pocket. I reached down and pulled out that silly toy turtle. Maybe Dodie was sending me a message. Telling me she was watching over me.

  I sure hoped so. I could use the help.

  Chapter 66

  Robbie had been watching for me. As soon as I pulled into the driveway, he flicked the outdoors lights twice as a signal and opened Sheila’s back door. I went running through the rain, skidding on the tile floor of her mudroom.

  I was soaking wet. My shoes overfloweth with rain.

  Robbie handed me a towel. “Is it as bad out there as it looks? I figured you’d be drenched. I just let Gracie out.”

  “She went outside? In this?”

  “I encouraged her. Gently. She braced herself against the door and I shoved her into the rain. She was not happy with me, but once she was outside, she did her business.”

  “Thanks.”

  “You aren’t planning to go back out in this, are you?” Robbie’s brows puckered with concern.

  “I hadn’t thought that far. You have a full house, don’t you?”

  “The sofa in the great room is very comfortable. I’ve fallen asleep on it numerous times. I suggest you bunk up here rather than get on the roads. With that ragtop, you’re running a risk of having a branch poke through your roof.”

  His worries echoed mine. I hesitated. “Are you sure? You’ve got a houseful of females already.”

  “What’s one more?” he shrugged. “I always wanted a harem!”

  Since I keep a set of clothes at Sheila’s house, I ran upstairs to my designated guest room where I could dry off and change into a pair of drawstring knit pants and a sweatshirt. Leah had been assigned the room, but she wasn’t there, so I knocked on the door and let myself in so I could change.

  As I was coming out of the bathroom I noticed a pair of knitting needles beside the bed. Without touching them, I looked them over carefully. They stuck out of a ball of very, very fine yarn. Finger-weight, I believe it’s called. On the needles were several rows of tiny, tiny stitches. What Leah was making, I couldn’t tell, but my stomach twisted with the realization that these needles were extremely long and thin.

  Could she be the murderer? Could she have used a knitting needle? As far as I knew, the lab still hadn’t confirmed that the screwdriver in my mother’s purse was the actual murder weapon.

  If Leah was the killer, what was her motive?

  I heard voices echoing up from the foyer. I figured I better vacate the room before my interest was discovered.

  Robbie had Gracie by the collar, waiting for me as I descended the stairs. I could have kissed him when he called to his bride, “Sheila? Can we break a rule today? If I put a sheet on the sofa can Gracie sit next to Kiki? This dog is terrified. The thunder is really bugging her!”

  From her spot in the kitchen, my motherin-law hesitated, considering the problem. But one glance at the quaking Great Dane suggested this was a good idea. “All right. Just for tonight.”

  “How are you?” I said, giving Sheila a careful hug. Her black eye had swollen alarmingly. Since she’s very fair-skinned, bruises look especially vivid on her.

  “I think I got the better end of the fight, if that’s what you mean. Other than that, I’m furious with Prescott. He did this for one reason and one reason only: to humiliate and antagonize Robbie. I’ll never forgive him for it,” she said.

  When Sheila says she won’t forgive someone, you could carve that in granite and make it a national shrine, because she won’t. She’s like Mert that way. I have to admit, I couldn’t blame her. Given the animosity between the prisoners in the jail and the folks who put them there, Sheila’s life had been at risk.

  “For your birthday, I’m buying you a punching bag
,” I said, trying to make light of the situation.

  “I already installed one in the basement,” said Robbie. “But she could use a nice pair of gloves.”

  Voices echoed up from Sheila’s finished basement.

  “The Jimmy Girls went with Anya to try and find our stash of board games,” said Robbie. “I have a hunch we’re going to lose power any minute now.”

  Anya led the pack coming up the stairs, as she carried a dusty Scrabble box. I greeted the women, but I felt awkward around them. I hadn’t had much chance to get to know them. Their comfort with each other left me feeling like an interloper.

  Anya set down the box and threw her arms around me. “Any word from Detweiler?”

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “I’m getting a new brother,” she announced. “Actually two of them.”

  “So we heard. Via email. A novel way to make a birth announcement,” said Sheila. The look she gave me was not warm and fuzzy.

  Oops. I’d neglected to call Sheila after the sonogram. Frankly, I wasn’t all that sure that she would care since she’s not my mother, and she’s not Detweiler’s either. But behind her pout was a glimmer of hurt.

  “Um, sorry,” I said, as I gave her a gentle hug that she accepted stiffly. “I should have told you in person, but I haven’t had the chance. And you’ve had more important things on your plate.”

  “For goodness sake, Kiki. Didn’t you think I could use just a bit of good news?”

  Wow. She really did care!

  “I’m sorry. Really sorry.”

  “A house full of boys,” said Sheila, with a touch of petulance as she pulled away from me. She headed toward her sofa, where Robbie was tucking in a sheet. “With a wonderful big sister to keep them in line. Thank you for keeping me informed, Anya. Come on, Gracie. Take full advantage of the storm, because this is a one night privilege.”

  Fortunately, Ester Frommer had been watching this exchange. She stepped between Sheila and me while pulling on one of Robbie’s old sweatshirts. “I’d forgotten how bad the storms could get here.”