Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Excerpt from Photo, Snap, Shot
A Special Gift for You
THE KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
THE FURTHER ADVENTURES OF KIKI LOWENSTEIN—SHORT STORIES
The Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series
About the author… Joanna Campbell Slan
To All My Readers –
When I began this series, I had no idea how many wonderful people I would meet through Kiki. Thank you, thank you, thank you. You mean the world to me!
Your friend,
Joanna
Note: In the timeline of Kiki’s life, this book comes after Love, Die, Neighbor (The Prequel to the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series) and before Paper, Scissors, Death (Book #1 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series).
LOVE, DIE, NEIGHBOR
The Prequel to the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series
Prologue
My life in crime began with a good deed.
You see, I dialed 911 after a neighbor took a tumble off his racing bike. Under the right circumstances, contacting the emergency dispatcher would have been a normal response to Sven Nordstrom’s cry for help.
But Sven’s accident didn’t happen under normal circumstances. It happened after a series of nasty interactions between our family, the Lowensteins, and his, the Nordstroms. There was definitely bad blood between us.
When Sven took that fatal fall, my behavior as a concerned citizen linked me to his death in ways I couldn’t begin to imagine. Rather than prove my good intentions, my cry for help looked suspicious. The ugly finger of blame pointed my way.
That’s how I, Kiki Lowenstein, became involved in a murder investigation.
1
My husband, George, and I took possession of our new house the minute it was habitable, on the Friday before Labor Day weekend. We literally walked in as the construction crew walked out. We were that eager to get settled. The technical term for this is “beneficial occupancy,” but in retrospect, it should have been called a “big mistake.”
We should have waited another week and allowed a cleaning crew to thoroughly vacuum, dust, and scrub all the surfaces. But after six months in a cramped extended stay hotel, the three of us were desperate to get out of each other’s way. This house would actually allow us to go for weeks without bumping into each other. But first, we’d need to get settled in.
The interior of the four-thousand-square-foot building looked like the aftermath of a natural disaster. Sawdust thickened every surface. Loose nails and screws had been scattered everywhere. Drywall dust covered all the woodwork. Dirty footprints marred the tile floors. The wooden floors looked dull, thanks to a film of ground-in dirt. Stray pieces of lumber rested precariously against the bannisters and walls.
In the midst of all that mess sat enough boxes to fill an entire moving van. All our worldly belongings had been packed in cardboard containers of all sizes. The stacked boxes towered over my head, in many cases giving me a surreal sense of existence. In the dim light, I could imagine visiting Stonehenge, where the stone monuments dotted England’s landscape.
“Job One is setting up Anya’s playpen,” I told my husband. “Otherwise, I don’t know how I’ll keep her from hurting herself. Once that’s done, I can dig in and try to sort out this mess.”
“Right,” my husband George said. “Once we get the playpen and the high chair, you can get to work doing your job, and I’ll get back to mine.”
My job. It would feel good to be productive.
George and I had met at my first (and last) frat party at college, where I learned that drinking Purple Passion Punch is the first step on the path to losing your virginity and getting pregnant in one fell swoop. When George found out I was expecting, he immediately offered to marry me. Faced with a lot of bleak choices, I took him up on his offer. Once we’d tied the knot, there was never any question of living anywhere but here —St. Louis ─ George’s hometown.
At the ripe old age of twenty-two, I’d gone from college sophomore to newlywed, from living in a dorm to a small apartment, here in “the Lou.” The Lowensteins had deep roots here. Their connections allowed George to go into business with an old friend from high school. Together, the men opened a real estate development company.
That partnership allowed us to build this honking big house, a regular McMansion at four thousand square feet on a big lot in Ladue, the swankiest town in the metro-St. Louis area. George acted as our subcontractor, borrowing crews from other jobs. This saved us a lot of money, but it also meant that building our house took longer than expected.
“Just think,” George had said. “This will be the perfect place for Anya to grow up. She’ll have everything her heart desires.”
I had agreed. Our child had definitely been born into a life of privilege.
“Okay!” George rubbed his hands together. “While I’m at work, bringing home the metaphorical bacon, your job is to get this place cleaned up and make new friends in the neighborhood.”
2
A week after our move, a brisk knock on the front door announced my first visitor, Sheila Lowenstein, my mother-in-law.
“Good morning and welcome,” I said.
“Come here, precious.” As usual, Sheila ignored me to reach for my baby.
I yielded Anya without complaint. Balancing the toddler on one hip, Sheila walked past me. Her denim blue eyes scanned the mess. She wove her way between the towers of boxes and gave the place a quick inspection. “You have a real mess on your hands.”
“Yup.”
“Please don’t talk that way. My granddaughter will pick up bad habits.”
I clamped my mouth shut and nodded. Sheila intimidated me. Often her criticisms echoed a voice in my head that urged me to adopt a higher standard. To an outsider, I was caving in. More truthfully, I was making a course correction.
“Too bad you couldn’t have had this place professionally cleaned before you moved in. You can’t possibly let Anya wander around in all this debris.”
I’d never heard anyone use “debris” in casual conversation, but there it was again: Sheila was right.
“We set up her playpen, her crib, and her high chair. I’ve got her stroller in the trunk of the old BMW. She’s properly corralled. Of course, she wants to get down and explore, but I won’t let her.”
“Most women in your position hire cleaning ladies, but those people also have active social lives. In fact, a great many of them volunteer in various capacities. If you'd like, I could put in a word for you. I know of a symphony committee that would put your skills to good use."
"That sounds promising," I said. In my head, I imagined writing press releases or doing interviews. After all, I'd been a journalism student before dropping
out of college.
"So you're willing?" Sheila planted a kiss on Anya’s cheek.
"Um, could you tell me more? I'd like to know what I'm volunteering to do exactly, before I firm up a commitment." My acceptance was less than whole-hearted, because my experiences with Sheila had proved she didn't think much of me. Although I needed the company of adults, I doubted I'd be joining them on an equal footing — especially if my introduction came from my mother-in-law.
Quickly and sadly, I learned how right I was.
"There's a public relations committee meeting tomorrow night at my house."
My spirits soared. Wow. Sheila was really coming through for me!
She continued, "While we discuss our plans, you can stuff envelopes. We have two thousand of them we need to get out. Oh, and they need folding, too."
Crash-landing. Boom. My ego smacked up against reality.
"Oops. I'm busy tomorrow night. Anya will need a bath."
If that sounded petty, well, Sheila deserved it.
"Suit yourself." She heaved a sigh of relief.
I did the same. I had little desire to subject myself to the scrutiny of Sheila's friends, who ran various boards. While I admired her for giving of her time to good causes, I knew I wouldn't fit in. With a job, I might garner their respect. With grunt work, I’d only encourage them to think I was the village idiot. Their village idiot. Sheila knew it, too. Her smile was oiled with insincerity.
"You will need to find some way to get involved in the community. Otherwise how will Anya make friends? You don’t want her to be an outcast, do you? She’ll only have you to blame.”
That stung. Criticizing my popularity or my housekeeping skills was to be expected. But questioning my ability as a mother? That was another thing entirely.
As I fumed, Sheila's mouth settled into a snarky Mona Lisa smile. Zinger sent. Target hit. Score: One for Sheila, and zero for Kiki.
The jabs Sheila launched in my direction never failed to score a direct hit to my soft belly.
I loved Anya more than life itself. The thought of her hurting herself on a bit of construction trash that had been left behind nearly paralyzed me with fear. Sheila had pounced on my greatest challenge ─ keeping Anya safe. I chewed the air, wondering how on earth I could manage to clean up the piles of sawdust, find all the scattered nails and screws, mop the filthy floors, wipe down the dusty woodwork, and unpack all our boxes from the apartment.
The answer: I couldn't.
3
“We’ve only lived here a week,” I reminded myself, after waving goodbye to Sheila and opening the door to the heating and cooling contractor. He banged away merrily at our unit, whistling as he worked. Smiling down at Anya, I said, “I’m getting things done, but it takes time, doesn’t it, pumpkin?”
My baby grinned at me. “Bird?” she asked. Recently, she’d learned that word, and now she was making full use of her newest vocabulary addition. Each time we went outside, she scanned her surroundings for a winged creature.
The boxes and mess nagged at me, but the world outdoors issued an irresistible siren’s song. I’d gotten accustomed to the banging and clanging, but the blasts of alternating hot and cold air irritated me.
“I’ve had enough. How about you? Should we go outside and look for birds?”
“Yay!” she cheered. I loaded Anya in her stroller for a walk around the block.
Once out on the sidewalk, I heard bike tires eating up pavement — and I froze in place, waiting to locate the source of the noise. Every morning for the past week, Sven Nordstrom had whirled out of his garage on his fancy racing bike, only to return an hour later.
“He’s a semi-pro bike racer,” George had told me, after he had walked over and introduced himself. “Can you believe that bike weighs less than 15 pounds? Anya weighs nearly as much. He rides an Orbea Orca M-TEAM Road Bike, with a super light-weight carbon fiber frame. It costs more than $6000. Sven is in training for a big race. He told me that he covers six to ten miles every day, rain or shine, and he clocks himself."
I admired the man’s discipline. Since Sven left about the same time George headed to the office, I’d witnessed our neighbor’s reliability first-hand. When it came to his daily bike ride, Sven Nordstrom was a well-oiled machine.
Turning my head, I spotted him turning the corner into our cul-de-sac. He was right on time. As I walked Anya to the sidewalk, the bike zipped past me. “Bird?” Anya pointed to a wren hopping around on the mud pit that would eventually become our lawn.
“Yes, sweetie,” I said, but I couldn’t stop myself from frowning. “Bird” and his friends were eating our grass seed. No wonder nothing was sprouting in the wet dirt. I would have to talk to George about this. He’d been counting on seeing new grass push through to the surface.
After making a mental note of the problem, I watched Sven out of the corner of my eye. Rather than take his usual sharp right and speed into his garage, he hit the curb, hard.
“Oh!” I clapped a hand over my mouth.
His bike came bouncing back, as it slammed into the concrete step and jolted to a stop, whereupon he promptly fell over with a clatter of metal against the pavement. Rather than immediately jump up, he stayed there on the ground and groaned.
Turning the stroller, I pushed Anya across the street.
“Sven? Are you okay?”
Although the man didn’t know me ─ except to wave in passing, a result of George’s having gone over and introduced himself — I knew he should recognize me as his neighbor.
“Sven? I’m George’s wife. Are you all right?”
He didn’t respond. In fact, he made no move to unclip his shoes from the pedals. His eyes seemed unfocused. He kept a frozen grip on the handlebars. It was as if a witch had cast a spell over him and locked him into place.
“Let me help.” I stepped away from the stroller and grabbed at the bike frame, hoping to lift it away.
That provoked a reaction. “Don’t touch my bike!” he screamed at me.
As I jumped back, he struggled to extricate himself from the tangle of tubes, wires, and spokes.
"Are you sure you’re okay?" I ignored how rude he'd been. I figured he was shaken up after the fall and annoyed by losing his balance.
"Perfectly fine." In a smooth reverse squat, he rose to his full height, using the bike for balance. With one hand, he removed his helmet. The nicely chiseled chin and bright blue eyes contrasted with a healthy tan. A full head of blond hair gave him a youthful look, but up close, I could see the crinkles around his eyes. On closer inspection, I detected gray hairs among the gold. That said, the man had an enviable physique, and his tight biking clothes showed off every inch of it.
"If you're sure you’re okay..." I paused. “I’m only trying to help. My name is Kiki. I’m George Lowenstein’s wife, and I live across the street. If I can do anything for you, let me know.”
He closed his eyes as if to get his thoughts gathered. They snapped open as he said, "I never lose my balance. Ever. Don't know what came over me. Usually I ride and don't break a sweat. Today I'm drenched."
"Maybe you're coming down with a bug." Instinctively, I looked him up and down, as if I could assess him visually and tell what was wrong. But when I got to his tight biking shorts, I blushed and averted my eyes. "Anya had a bit of a cold last week," I added, lamely. Actually, I suspected all the sawdust in the air had bothered her.
"I am never sick." Either he didn't like kids, or he was too rattled to care. Most people remark on how gorgeous my daughter is. Sven didn't seem to notice.
Brushing an errant piece of grass off his leg, Sven mumbled, "Hit me all of a sudden. Got dizzy. Sick at my stomach."
"Sounds like the flu." I had no idea whether it was or not, but that's what I'd overheard people saying at the drugstore. I was doing my best to make polite conversation. "As I said, you’ve met my husband, George. I’m Kiki. This is our daughter, Anya."
"Right." Clicking the two pieces of his chin strap together
, he hung his helmet over the handlebars. “I know who you are.”
He still didn’t react to my beautiful daughter. Maybe he was one of those folks who just doesn’t care for kids.
“Your neighbors,” I said again, for emphasis.
“Right,” he repeated himself. But the word seemed like a rallying cry, rather than a confirmation that all was well.
As he wobbled past me, I caught a whiff of masculine sweat. Even though I was still standing there in his driveway, trying to make conversation, our visit was over. With his back to me, Sven opened the refrigerator in the garage, grabbed a bottle of Gatorade, and chugged the contents without offering one to me.
I turned to go, stopped, and hesitated, realizing I might never get another chance to ask my burning question. "Is there some reason you leave your garage door up all the time?"
"What are you talking about? We never leave it up. Not ever. Do you think I'd leave an expensive bike like this out in the open? Where anyone could steal it? Don’t be stupid."
Wow.
“I was only wondering. Didn’t mean to offend.” With that, I pushed Anya back across the street. Moving at a fast clip, I hoped to put Sven Nordstrom and his nasty behavior behind us.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 2
