Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Contents

  One

  Two

  Three

  Four

  Five

  Six

  Seven

  Eight

  Nine

  Ten

  Eleven

  Twelve

  Thirteen

  Fourteen

  Fifteen

  Sixteen

  Seventeen

  Eighteen

  Nineteen

  Twenty

  Twenty-one

  Twenty-two

  Twenty-three

  Twenty-four

  Twenty-five

  Twenty-six

  Twenty-seven

  Twenty-eight

  Twenty-nine

  Thirty

  Thirty-one

  Thirty-two

  Thirty-three

  Thirty-four

  Thirty-five

  Thirty-six

  Thirty-seven

  Thirty-eight

  Thirty-nine

  Forty

  Forty-one

  Forty-two

  Forty-three

  Forty-four

  Forty-five

  Forty-six

  Forty-seven

  Forty-eight

  Forty-nine

  Fifty

  Fifty-one

  Fifty-two

  Fifty-three

  Fifty-four

  Fifty-five

  Fifty-six

  Fifty-seven

  Fifty-eight

  Fifty-nine

  Sixty

  Sixty-one

  Sixty-two

  Sixty-three

  Sixty-four

  Sixty-five

  Sixty-six

  Sixty-seven

  Sixty-eight

  Sixty-nine

  Seventy

  Seventy-one

  Seventy-two

  Seventy-three

  Seventy-four

  Seventy-five

  Seventy-six

  Seventy-seven

  Seventy-eight

  Seventy-nine

  Eighty

  Eighty-one

  Eighty-two

  Eighty-three

  Eighty-four

  Eighty-five

  Eighty-six

  Eighty-seven

  Eighty-eight

  Eighty-nine

  Ninety

  Ninety-one

  Ninety-two

  Ninety-three

  Ninety-four

  Ninety-five

  Ninety-six

  Ninety-seven

  Ninety-eight

  Ninety-nine

  One hundred

  Acknowledgments

  About the Author

  Copyright Information

  Ready, Scrap, Shoot © 2012 Joanna Campbell Slan

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any matter whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink, except in the form of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  As the purchaser of this ebook, you are granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this ebook on screen. The text may not be otherwise reproduced, transmitted, downloaded, or recorded on any other storage device in any form or by any means.

  Any unauthorized usage of the text without express written permission of the publisher is a violation of the author’s copyright and is illegal and punishable by law.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  First e-book edition © 2012

  E-book ISBN: 978-0-7387-2812-4

  Book design by Donna Burch

  Cover art : Utility Knife © iStockphoto.com/Blanka Boskov

  Pencil © iStockphoto.com/rambo182

  Calla Lily © iStockphoto.com/Diane Labombarbe

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Midnight Ink is an imprint of Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  Midnight Ink does not participate in, endorse, or have any authority or responsibility concerning private business arrangements between our authors and the public.

  Any Internet references contained in this work are current at publication time, but the publisher cannot guarantee that a specific reference will continue or be maintained. Please refer to the publisher’s website for links to current author websites.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Worldwide Ltd.

  2143 Wooddale Drive

  Woodbury, MN 55125

  www.midnightink.com

  Manufactured in the United States of America

  Dedication

  To the wonderful ladies of The Mystery Book Club that meets at the Barnes & Noble in Fenton, Missouri—Mary M. Cotton, Jeanne Dagne, Judy Dawes, Barbara Green, Ruth G. McMahon, Angie Reeder, Doris C. Sipe, and Jeanne Yochim—with my deep appreciation for suggesting that I add a “scrubby Dutch” character to this series.

  One

  Saturday, May 1

  A blood-red splotch flowered slowly on Edwina Fitzgerald’s chest, marring the cornflower blue of her St. John Knits suit.

  I notice things like that—colors, textures, and patterns. My name is Kiki Lowenstein, and I’m a scrapbooker.

  I admired the growing red blossom as I peered through the viewfinder of the video camera. But I didn’t realize what I was seeing. Not at first. I was mesmerized by the colorful spectacle before me, the annual Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy’s May Day Celebration. Actually, I was deep in concentration. This was the first time my mother-in-law, Sheila, had trusted me with her new camera, and I hoped to do a good job of capturing the amazing pageantry.

  Only later I would realize that the strains of Mozart’s “Turkish March” had masked the sound of that first shot.

  Pop! Pop! Pop! came the percussive series that followed. The blasts were rhythmical as taps on a snare drum.

  A scream pierced the dulcet music. “She’s been hit!” yelled someone.

  Another loud Pop!

  I instinctively turned toward the sound, but all I saw was a nearby stand of trees.

  “It’s Edwina!” another voice cried. “Get help!”

  I panned the camera back to Edwina and watched her slump over in her chair. Blood gushed from her chest onto her lap.

  With a jolt, I figured out what was happening.

  “Sniper!” I yelled to my mother-in-law, Sheila. “Hit the ground! Grab my mom! I’ll get Anya!” I tossed the video camera to the grass and started running. I could smell my own sweat, a combination of exertion and fear, as I pumped my arms.

  The music continued, but screams pierced the melody.

  I raced toward my daughter, Anya. She and forty of her classmates stood holding colorful ribbons that twisted partway up the Maypole. Sprinting past the other girls, I grabbed my kid’s hand, and shouted, “Run!”

  Ping!

  A shot hit a folding chair not ten feet away. The peppery scent of gunpowder filled the air.

  Anya hiked her lacy white skirt above her knees and jogged along beside me. I pulled her back toward where I’d been sitting. I briefly considered running away with my daughter, to make sure she was safe. But I couldn’t leave Sheila with responsibility for my mother. I had a hunch Mom was not going to see the urgency in our situation.

  Anya and I dodged spectators and stunned families frozen in place as they tried to make
sense of what had happened. The crowd was collectively shocked and unable to act. Several turned to stare at me and my kid as we zigged and zagged.

  “She’s hit! She’s hurt!” Deanna Fitzgerald stood over her mother-in-law’s body. “Help! Somebody help!”

  “Call nine-one-one!” yelled Edwina’s son, Peter, to no one in particular as he bent over his fallen mother. He’d no more than gotten out those words when a bullet pierced his left thigh. With a yowl, he jumped and grabbed his upper leg. Crimson blood flowed through his fingers and covered his slacks.

  “I’ve been shot!” Peter Fitzgerald roared. “Turn off the music! Someone call nine-one-one!”

  A Zing! and a Ping! indicated another metal chair had been hit.

  A sniper was in the trees, shooting at people.

  This couldn’t be happening.

  But it was.

  Two

  From the trees on our left came two more explosions. Pop! Pop! The fresh spring-green leaves ruffled in the wind.

  My mother and my mother-in-law sat shivering under their overturned gray metal chairs.

  I called out, “Get up! Those were gunshots! We have to move!”

  Sheila hopped to her feet. My mother didn’t move.

  “Come on!” I handed Anya over to Sheila. I reached toward Mom and her familiar scent of Chantilly. She fought me, pushing me away and crying, “My purse! I can’t find my purse!”

  “Forget it!”

  The music had stopped. The May Day dancers froze in their positions, looking frantically for direction. A couple of the girls burst into tears, and a few more cried out for their mothers.

  Panic started in earnest. Parents snatched up children. Women screamed and grabbed their purses. Men shouted orders and tugged at their wives. Students headed toward the shelter of the main building.

  We were ahead of the pack, but not by much. Behind us, metal chairs clanged and banged as people knocked them over in their haste. A security guard pointed at the stand of trees and yelled into his walkie-talkie, “We’ve got a situation here!” A few Good Samaritans stayed to help Edwina and her son. Someone yelled, “Get an ambulance!” The older girls broke formation on the sidelines, huddled together, and hugged each other, crying.

  Once confusion gave way to fight or flight, we’d be trampled.

  “Move it!” I screamed, grabbing Mom’s elbow.

  I started dragging her. She fought me every inch of the way, tossing her head and throwing up her arms.

  She’d always been a pain in the butt. I had half a mind to leave her there. But she was my mother, and I loved her.

  Anya forced Sheila to turn around and come back for us.

  “Grandmére, we have to run! Please!” My daughter bent to my mother, reaching out for her hand. Fear pitched Anya’s voice higher than normal.

  “Which way?” panted Sheila, as she doubled over with her hands on her knees, trying to catch her breath. We both scanned the area, trying to make sense of this impossible situation.

  “Parking lot!” I yelled. The crowd surged toward us like a wounded beast, roaring with pain and anger.

  Running for the cars wasn’t much of a plan, but it was the best I could muster.

  Three

  Anya kept pace with Sheila. They were half a football field ahead of the crowd, but I was losing ground. I had my arm around my mother, and she was literally dragging her heels. “My purse! I need my purse!” she whined, turning and pointing behind us.

  I did the best I could, but it was hard to hurry someone who was protesting every step of the way.

  Sheila made a fast assessment of the situation. “We need to carry her.”

  Without discussion, we formed a chair with our arms and scooped Mom up from behind. Sheila and I staggered under Mom’s weight. Miraculously, we caught our balance and stumbled forward.

  Sheila held up her end, and I mine, as we struggled over stones and uneven ground. Despite our burden, we made headway. We’d almost cleared the top of the hill. The lot wasn’t far away.

  “Stop it! Put me down!” Mom batted at us with both hands. “My shoes! I’ve lost my shoes!”

  She swatted at us as though we were pesky mosquitoes.

  “Stop it!” Sheila hissed at her.

  That only made Mom angrier. “Kiki, no!” she yelled. She hauled off and slapped the side of my face with her open palm. The pain staggered me. I lost my grip on Mom and dropped her. For a second, all I could do was massage my stinging skin in wonder and spit blood on the ground. I felt the imprint of her hand glowing red on my cheek.

  “My word,” said Sheila. “How dare she?”

  She dared.

  Mom had always cared too much about the little things and too little about what mattered. Here we were, trying to run for our lives, and her only concern was her purse and her shoes. My child—her granddaughter—could be killed, but my mother wasn’t about to lose any parts of her wardrobe.

  My eyes watered in response to the pain. (And, yes, in part to her cruelty.) But it wasn’t the first time she’d struck me or the last. So I pulled up my big girl panties and wrestled with my emotions. This was no time to break down or fall apart. I needed to act decisively. We stood on the crest of the hill. The parking lot sprawled before us. The crowd nipped at our heels. Our only option was to move forward. The slope was in our favor. Worst-case scenario, I could roll Mom down the hill. Gravity was my friend.

  Mom had other plans. She started crawling back the way we came.

  Fortunately, I’m faster than she is. That and weighing ten pounds over the number on my driver’s license served me well. Those additional pounds gave me leverage. Without thinking, I grabbed the back of Mom’s jacket and her belt. With a mighty heave, I lifted her. Her feet scrabbled the ground, but she came along with me. I carried her much the way a mother cat does her kitten.

  If you asked me to do that again, I probably couldn’t. But I managed during the crisis, and that’s all that mattered.

  “You’re going too fast,” Mom whined. “Slow down!”

  Instead, I picked up the pace.

  An hysterical mob trailed behind us. Their fear announced them, in a swelling cacophony of snapping twigs, mewling cries, and tramping feet. I turned my head to see a blur of faces, drawing nearer with each step.

  I hustled Mom along, barely keeping up with my mother-in-law and daughter. Every muscle in my body screamed in protest at the dead weight I carried. My right fingers froze in a grip on Mom’s collar. My left locked onto her belt. Somewhere in the scuffle, I’d lost both my shoes. My feet throbbed and blood covered my right big toe. But all that pain paled in contrast to my will to live.

  If we stopped now, if I caught my breath, we’d surely be trampled. I wanted desperately to live. I had a child to raise. I had a man who loved me.

  I muttered to myself, “Detweiler, Anya, Detweiler, Anya,” and their names kept me going.

  Despite the pain in my clenched fingers and tortured feet, I kept moving, half-carrying Mom along with me.

  Behind us, men yelled, women shrieked, students sobbed, and children cried.

  Somewhere in the distance a siren wailed.

  The cavalry was coming, and not a moment too soon.

  Four

  What a difference twenty-five minutes can make. Back then, my priorities were entirely different. Less than a half an hour ago, the only “safety” that concerned me was the safety pin holding up the skirt of my borrowed navy suit. Its head dug into my skin, pinching me.

  My control-top panty hose cut off my air supply. The only pumps I could find at Goodwill were too small. Not only did my heels sink into the soft ground, but my big toes screamed in pain with every step.

  Other than that, I was having a jolly good time.

 
Um, not so much.

  “Kiki, quit digging at your waistband,” my mother hissed. We rode side-by-side sharing the back seat of Sheila’s car, traveling to the May Day Celebration. “Try for once to act like a lady. Well-bred people do not adjust their wardrobes in public.”

  “Sorry,” I mumbled.

  “For goodness sake, Kiki,” Mom continued her rant. “Anyone would think you were brought up in a barn!”

  Yada, yada, yada. Mom kept up a steady harangue about my lack of couth. My ill-mannered behavior. My general worthlessness.

  Usually this was Sheila’s job. But in light of my mother’s superior snarky qualities, Sheila held her tongue. Finally, even she had enough.

  “Mrs. Montgomery, please. Kiki’s a Lowenstein now. We don’t treat each other that way.”

  Since when? I wanted to ask.

  Browbeating me was Sheila’s primary form of recreation. Maybe watching my mom give me “what for” made Sheila feel left out. Or maybe she realized how she herself acted when Mom wasn’t around.

  Whatever.

  I sighed and enjoyed a few moments of blessed silence. Mom harrumphed and stared angrily out the window of the Mercedes. Unconsciously, she clutched her purse to her chest. Looking over at her, I noticed again how frail she seemed. Once upon a time, my mother towered over me. These days, I stared down on her head of thinning hair. When I helped her into Sheila’s car, I was shocked by how pronounced her bones were, how clearly I could feel her skeleton through her mottled skin, and how light she was. In more ways than I could count, my mother was a shadow of her former, formidable self. Old age was taking her away from me, slowly but surely.

  However, Mom was still determined to be independent. And she still had her pride. As we drove up to the fancy school Anya attended, a tiny gasp escaped her. “What is all this? A city park?” she asked.

  “No, these are the school grounds. CALA owns more than 100 acres,” said Sheila proudly. She began detailing the various captains of industry who were alums, explaining about the $94 million endowment, and extolling the virtues instilled by CALA.

  When Sheila slowed to a stop, Mom turned to me and said, “I knew you had money.”

  Five

  What Mom didn’t say, but she left hanging in the air were the words, “You are so selfish not to take care of me.” Mom and my sister Amanda campaigned vigorously for me to send my mother a monthly allowance. The amount they “suggested” was exactly what I took home each week from my job at the local scrapbook store.