Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  If we were going to die, I took comfort from knowing that I’d finally told Detweiler how much I loved him. But oh, what I’d give to kiss him one more time! To unburden my heart to him.

  Although that might make this infinitely worse.

  A bullhorn scattered my thoughts: “Stay where you are! Do not, we repeat, do not attempt to leave the area.”

  An authoritative voice shouted this message over and over.

  The radio announcer explained that the area was being secured by police. “If you are on or near CALA property, stay put. Authorities will let you know when it’s safe to leave.”

  We were stuck. I tried to quell my restlessness. I wanted to look around. To survey the situation. But if I got up, Mom would too. That also meant I couldn’t use my cell phone because it was clipped to my sagging waistband. I couldn’t even text Detweiler to say, “I love you” one more time.

  So I stayed there in the well between the front and back seats. My legs cramped fiercely as I tried to keep my weight off of Mom. She, on the other hand, wiggled and complained.

  What else was new?

  “Get off me,” she howled. “Your elbow is in my back.”

  “Better that than a bullet,” mumbled Sheila. “Although I’d swear it was a mercy killing.”

  Anya snickered a little. I smiled and thought, Okay, she’s going to be fine. Really, we all are.

  The radio reporter explained that police had blocked off both ends of the street, and diverted local traffic. Another voice, calling in from the scene, said that the shooting had stopped. One person was confirmed dead and another victim had been taken to a local hospital with gunshot wounds.

  I raised my head and peeked out the back window. Uniformed police escorted people inside the school. Officials in SWAT jackets approached cars, copied down license plate numbers, took notes about the occupants, and ushered hysterical families out of the vehicles and into the CALA gymnasium. Would they do that if the shooter was still at large? I thought a minute. The reporters and Robbie might be wrong, but then again, the shooter could have gotten away. Otherwise, the SWAT team would concentrate on taking the gunman out. Instead, the police conducted a car-by-car search. This felt more to me like the aftermath of a tragedy, an attempt to catalog who was on the premises, whether they belonged here, and who might be missing.

  “I want to see!” Mom said.

  “Stay down,” I warned her. “What if there were two shooters?”

  It was, after all, a distinct possibility. The incident at Columbine had confused the rescuers in part because they couldn’t tell how many gunmen were involved. The two boys removed their trench coats. The hallway cameras recorded shooters wearing different apparel. This discrepancy led outside observers to believe they were dealing with four separate perpetrators. The miscalculation slowed down the rescue process considerably.

  Mom kept up a litany of complaints about her shoes, her ruined suit, and how uncomfortable she was.

  All the while, Sheila talked quietly to Anya, reassuring her, protecting my daughter with her own body. I thanked God for my mother-in-law. Her quiet, matter-of-fact manner went a long way toward keeping Anya calm.

  A tap on the driver’s side window startled us. Sheila reached up from her spot on the floor, flicked off the radio, pulled herself onto the driver’s seat slowly, and lowered the glass. Keeping one hand on Mom to hold her down, I rose in concert with Sheila. A policeman wearing SWAT gear spoke to us through the clear shield over his face. “Sheila Lowenstein? Anya Lowenstein? Kiki Lowenstein? Police Chief Holmes told me to escort you out of the area.”

  Sheila frowned. “Are we safe? Is he getting everyone out?”

  I could tell she didn’t want to take unfair advantage of their relationship. Sometimes Sheila could be very selfish, but she was learning to think strategically. Since their engagement, she’d taken more of an interest in Robbie Holmes’s career and the fine line he trod between personal interest and the good of the city.

  “Not exactly, ma’am. He’s worried the gunman was aiming at Kiki Lowenstein.”

  Nine

  My stomach clenched.

  So this was my fault? How? Why?

  The SWAT team member added, “He wants all of you to follow us. Now. Those are his instructions.”

  Walking backwards and using his hand to wave us through, the cop from the Special Weapons And Tactics team helped us maneuver around cars and onto the main street. From there we followed a motorcycle escort to a crossroad. The cycle led us through back streets of Ladue, St. Louis’s toniest suburb, and finally to the police station.

  Mom squawked and complained the entire time.

  I wasn’t worried about her, but I was concerned about my daughter. A natural blonde, Anya was always pale. The policeman’s announcement, however, turned her pallor even whiter. Sheila, to my relief, acted with aplomb. She drove with one hand on the wheel and the other grasping Anya’s. “Not to worry,” she said to my child. “Robbie will take care of us. Remember, this is just a precaution.”

  Anya nodded, her face wan but composed.

  I felt positively, utterly sick. All this was because of me? Mom muttered dark warnings under her breath. Anya didn’t say a word. Sheila’s hands clutched the steering wheel so tightly, I thought it might break.

  A vibration along my waistband notified me of a text message. It was from my boss: “Dodie: How’s it going? Did they luv the album?”

  I clapped my phone closed. The album? I’d run off without the May Day album!

  Crud.

  I dropped my head into my hands and groaned. I had left my beautiful album, my purse, and Sheila’s camera behind in our mad dash.

  That album had taken me two weeks to finish.

  The first page was devoted to the history of May Day:

  May Day began in 1843, when Mrs. Theodosia Stephens founded the St. Louis Arts Academy for Young Women. Mrs. Stephens believed that a genteel outdoor “Ceremony to Welcome Spring” provided fresh air, sunshine, and most importantly, a wholesome opportunity to show off the dancing and musical skills of the girls who attended her school.

  What I neglected to add was this: Theodosia planned the event so that the young women wore flimsy gowns of virginal white, a blatant appeal to the young men invited to watch. After they marched to the ceremonial grounds, the nubile students picked up Maypole ribbons and danced and twirled rhythmically, winding in and out, around and around the pole. (And I thought pole dancing was a modern invention. Not so.)

  The performance was both stunning in its visual impact and delightful in its display of artistry. More importantly, this pageantry never failed to stir the passions of the men seated in the audience. Amazing the effect a well-turned ankle, a slight sheen of perspiration, and a heaving bosom could have on a young man’s fancies. In the weeks after the event, a number of students announced their engagements to prominent St. Louis scions.

  Given such a successful track record, it was no surprise that when the St. Louis Arts Academy for Young Women merged with the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy (CALA), the new school decided to continue the May Day ceremony. More than a hundred years later, no matter how pagan and anachronistic the ceremony looks, it is a venerated and well-preserved St. Louis tradition. The romantic origins of the event make it a powerful recruiting tool. Most importantly, generations of CALA alumnae have given generously to the school, linking donations to the stipulation that the tradition continues.

  As an astute student of marketing, I have to hand it to good old Theodosia. Her oil portrait depicted a stern-faced harpy with all the physical charms of a pit bull, but underneath that intimidating facade beat the heart of a true romantic. Mrs. Stephens understood who her audience was, and how to display the “merchandise” to best advantage. She must have been a real marketing genius to dream up a stunt like th
is.

  My genius was to translate local events into sales opportunities for Time in a Bottle.

  My other job was, to quote the Saturday Night Fever song, “Staying alive.”

  Ever since my husband, George, was murdered, his killer taunted both me and the police. The man who planned George’s death was his best friend from high school and his business partner, a guy named Bill Ballard. By playing amateur sleuth, I helped the police finger Bill for the crime, but the creep managed to get away. Since then, I’d been the target of his threats.

  Ugly postcards with threats showed up frequently in my mailbox. I received phone messages telling me I was a dead woman. Once, I found a fake fur effigy of my dog dowsed in what looked like blood and sprawled across the railing of my front porch.

  For the most part, I ignored all this. I’m a survivor. I’m not about to let some jerk ruin my life.

  But I’m not stupid or careless. I keep a watchful eye on my daughter, restricting her activities and checking up on her the way a nervous parent does.

  Things got a lot easier when Detective Chad Detweiler and I started dating.

  Scratch that.

  Some portions of life got easier, and some were vastly more complicated. Ever since that Christmas night when he and his wife split up, we’ve spent most of our time together. We keep saying we’re going to take it slow. (Okay, slow-LY, right?) Things are moving faster than Superman racing to Lois Lane’s side.

  He’s not divorced. Not yet.

  My best friend and former cleaning lady, Mert Chambers, tells me this is a very dangerous time. “You can’t let yourself fall like the old ton of bricks for a man who ain’t divorced. There’s too much at risk for you.”

  “But you like Detweiler.”

  “Yep, but I love you. You’re like a sister to me, and I’m telling you ’zactly what I’d tell one of them. Make him wait. You can’t go wrong, and you’re less likely to get hurt.”

  “Would you make him wait?” I raised an eyebrow.

  “No, but I ain’t you. I don’t have a twelve-year-old daughter who lost her daddy and is looking for a replacement, neither.”

  Nor did Ben Novak go away happy. He was the guy I’d been dating—and briefly engaged to—before Detweiler was “free,” so to speak.

  “You’re too sensitive to be involved with a cop. I give you six months of the carnage and depravity he’ll bring home every day, and you’ll be sick of it. Don’t count me out, Kiki. I want to marry you. We were meant to be together.”

  Did I mention Detweiler’s wife, Brenda, wasn’t pleased? That was an understatement.

  “Just because I threw him out didn’t mean I didn’t want him!” she screamed at me over the phone. “I told you to stay away from him, Kiki Lowenstein. What did you do? The minute he and I have a fight, you take up with him! You’re a slut!”

  Ouch.

  Last but not least, my darling mother-in-law Sheila Lowenstein simply said, “You are nuts. Correction. You are insane and stupid. Ben can offer you and Anya a wonderful life. Detweiler’s been married twice. He doesn’t make a lot of money. And what a great job he has! Every day that he goes to work might be his last. Really, Kiki. I always thought you harbored a self-destructive streak, but you’re really off the chart with this—this—low rent version of Romeo and Juliet.”

  My mother added her complaints to the Greek chorus. “A cop? Are you kidding? With your pedigree?”

  See, Mom’s family is what I call poor but pretentious. Actually, that’s being unfair. I’m descended from a long line of important people. They steered the course of history, changed the fate of our nation, and left a legacy that endures today. Too bad they weren’t very good with money.

  You can’t have everything.

  As far as I was concerned, Detweiler was the best thing that ever happened to me. He was kind, considerate, loving, and protective. Very, very protective. When he heard about the shootings, he would probably go ballistic.

  Oops. Bad choice of words.

  Ten

  We pulled up in the sally port of the government building where Robbie Holmes works. But no one could go anywhere until I fished around in Sheila’s trunk and found an old pair of loafers for Mom to wear. She curled her lip and slid her feet into them with obvious distaste.

  Sheila and I were barefoot. However, my phone had remained securely clipped to my waistband. Positively, absolutely amazing!

  The policeman who had ridden along on his motorcycle called upstairs, and another man in uniform met us around back. He ushered us into Robbie Holmes’s office. Robbie’s secretary, LaVerna Torrez, offered us our choice of beverages. Mom sniffed and asked for a cup of Earl Grey. Hearing that they only had Lipton, she raised a hand to her forehead as though she was about to swoon and mumbled, “I suppose I will have to make do. I need to use your restroom.” With that, she wandered off.

  This whole scene was clearly an affectation. I never saw her drink tea in her life.

  Sheila, Anya, and I settled for Diet Cokes, which LaVerna brought gladly. She also found Mom wandering the halls and led her back to where we were waiting.

  As soon as the door closed, Mom had a conniption fit. I know that’s redundant. “Conniption” means “a hysterical fit,” but Southerners always call it a conniption fit, and that’s what she had, since she had a regular fit twice over.

  “How could you let this happen to me? What about my shoes? You’ll need to buy me a new pair, Kiki! I think I’m going to have an asthma attack. Or a heart attack. I need to call Amanda. She’ll be so worried. And Claudia. I need to talk to Claudia.”

  Who the heck is Claudia?

  I decided I didn’t care. “Mom, I’ll call Amanda right now.”

  When I opened my phone, I saw numerous calls and texts that had come in during the crisis. Seems that almost everyone wanted to know that Anya and I were all right. Despite the gravity of the current situation, I smiled. I don’t know what I’ve done to deserve so many wonderful friends, but I’m grateful to have them.

  However, they would have to wait. I needed to update my sister. The self-same sibling who’d ignored all of my previous phone calls.

  To my surprise, Amanda actually answered the phone on the first ring. Her voice shocked me into silence. But I quickly regained my senses. “Amanda, it’s Kiki. There’s been an unfortunate situation. Mom and Anya and I were shot at by a sniper.”

  “Is she—is Mom—is she dead?” wailed Amanda.

  “No, no. She’s fine.”

  “I am NOT!” screamed Mom. “I lost my shoes. I need to use the bathroom.”

  I cupped my hand over the phone. “Okay, she’s a bit shook up, and she lost her shoes, but—”

  “What?” screamed Amanda. “Are you telling me that you were shot at? By a sniper? She’s only been visiting for two whole days!”

  “Yes, well, as you can imagine, this was unexpected,” I stuttered.

  “Unexpected? No wonder St. Louis is the murder capital of the United States,” said my sister.

  “Um, it’s not. Detroit is. We’re number two. But we try harder.”

  “You have to be kidding me! How could this have happened? Huh? How could you let that happen to Mom? I should have known better than to let her visit you!” Amanda’s voice moved from soprano to alto. “If I’d had any other option, I would have taken it!”

  “Listen up, Amanda,” I said, and then I tapped my mother on the shoulder. “Mom? You listen too, because I don’t intend to repeat myself. Nobody did anything to Mom, understand? This was a horrible situation, but we’re safe now. Nothing like this will happen again.”

  Robbie’s office door swung open. The big man stood there, his face cold as a slab of granite. “Kiki, I’m not so sure about that. We need to talk.”

  Eleven


  I got off the phone really fast.

  Mom stood up and started screaming at me. “See? See? This is all because of YOU!”

  “Sit down, ma’am.” Robbie’s voice overflowed with authority. “When you are in this office, you will keep a civil tongue in your head.”

  That shut Mom right up.

  “Police Chief Robbie Holmes, this is my mother, Lucia Montgomery,” I said.

  “So I gathered.”

  Mom groaned. “Kiki, you know better! One must always introduce a man to a woman, not the other way around. Where are your manners?”

  “Probably back in the grass at CALA, I reckon.” Proper etiquette being the least of my worries.

  Sheila had taken Anya into her embrace, as best she could despite the chair arms between them. At the sight of her intended, my mother-in-law let go of my daughter and stretched her arms up to welcome Robbie. In return, he leaned down to give my mother-in-law a kiss on the lips. Instantly, Sheila’s face shone with joy. I swear that man has a positively humanizing effect on her.

  “You all right, sweetie?” Robbie asked Sheila. After she nodded, he asked, “And you, Anya, honey? Kiki? Are you okay?”

  “Thanks to Kiki,” said Sheila. “She figured out what was happening. First she made us duck under the folding chairs, then she grabbed Anya and got us all running toward the car before the crowd could trample us.”

  “Huh! How on earth can you thank Kiki?” my mother said, punctuating her comment with a loud huff. “She’s the reason we had to run!”

  “We don’t know that for sure,” Robbie said, pulling open his drawer and fishing out a handful of change. “Anya, honey, would you run down to the vending machines and get me one of those packages of cheese crackers with the peanut butter filling?”

  My daughter moved slowly. Robbie handed over the change and gave Anya a quick hug. “That’s my girl. Anyone else want a snack?”

  I “ordered” M&Ms with peanuts, and Sheila asked for pretzels. Mom sniffed. “I’m far too upset to eat, but if there’s any nice chocolate, I might try a bite.”