“Airplane.” I corrected her gently, as I buckled her car seat.
I backed my way out of the Mercedes. My maneuver left me facing the Nordstroms’ garage. To my surprise, the door rolled up, all by itself.
“That is so weird,” I muttered to myself.
49
When I closed and locked the front door behind us, I discovered that Mert had already begun dragging boxes to the far corners of the living room. “I can’t stay for long, but I figured that even an hour or two could be enough to make progress. Here’s what I’m thinking: This here formal living room is probably the room you use the least. If we can get these boxes rounded up, it’ll free up space. If they’re all piled up neatly, it’ll be easier to clean around them.”
The wisdom of her approach was immediately apparent. I picked up a small box and set it on top of the stack she’d started.
“You planning on using that there knife to open these?” Mert asked.
I’d forgotten about the paring knife in my back pocket. “No, I wasn’t intending to use it on boxes. I grabbed it for protection. Give me a minute and I’ll explain.”
After I put the knife back in its place in the kitchen, I told Mert about Detective Everbright’s visit. As I related the events, we worked together, pushing and shoving boxes.
“Poison. That has to be how the killer got rid of your neighbor.” Mert turned a box so that the label faced out, making it easy to read. “Do you know that most poisoners never get caught? It’s only when they commit one murder after another that they tip their hand.”
I did not know that. “How come?”
Mert explained that autopsies don’t test for every substance. “Besides, anything can be poison. See, it’s all about the victim’s health, weight, and other extenuating factors. For example, you can’t poison a person with cheese and wine, exceptin’ if that person is taking MAO inhibitors. Then the cheese and wine could be lethal.”
“What’s an MAO inhibitor?” We had moved to the kitchen. With two people unboxing, I could actually see progress.
“A type of antidepressant. My point is if you know what a person is taking for medications, you can do a lot of harm. You don’t even need to feed ‘em something weird. Here’s another example, nicotine patches. Say a person is already chewing the nicotine gum and you cover their body in nicotine patches. Kaboom! They’d keel over.”
“Mert, how come you know all this?”
She laughed. “I love those true crime programs on TV. And them books about real killers? I like mysteries, too. The puzzles in ‘em really tickle me. Keeps me from thinking too much about real life, you know?”
“You’re suggesting that Sven was poisoned. How?”
“I don’t know,” she said, “‘cause I don’t know enough about him.”
“Hmmm.”
“But I do know a thing or two about cops.” She sounded bitter. “You shouldn’t have talked to that detective. Not even to say a peep. Them cops’ll twist and turn what you say. They’ll use it against you. When cops sink their teeth into you, they work overtime to prove they’re right. They can plant evidence. They can intimidate people into saying you was someplace when you weren’t. They can put together a story that’ll have you in jail faster than you can say, What on God’s green earth?”
“I guess I shouldn’t have let him in, huh?” I swallowed hard.
Belatedly, I realized that I probably should have been more careful about what I told her. I hadn’t checked her references. I didn’t know Mert other than our fateful meeting in Home Depot. Okay, I knew she cleaned for the Nordstroms, and it was entirely possible that she and they were great friends. But it was also possible they didn’t like her. In fact, maybe they planned to fire her.
I had no way of knowing.
Suddenly the world wobbled. I felt light-headed. Calm down, I told myself. Listen to your gut.
I wanted Mert as a friend. Her down-home way of seeing the world, her plain-spoken style of communication, and her lack of pretense appealed to me. Obviously, she had a great deal of life experience. Mert was what my nana would have called “a smart cookie.”
On the other hand, she also might have her own agenda. Going forward, I would limit our conversations to chitchat.
Trust would have to come later, when she proved herself.
50
After Mert left, Sheila surprised me. George must have given her a key, because she didn’t ring or knock. There was the sound of the tumblers scraping and – Poof! – she appeared in the foyer with Anya.
My mother-in-law’s sudden presence sent my heart into another round of fast-paced pounding. If she realized I was in a panic, she ignored my plight.
I, on the other hand, quickly realized that she was in a state. Nervous energy buzzed around her. Her eyes darted from corner to corner of the foyer, but wouldn’t meet mine. She jiggled and bounced, keeping poor Anya off-balance in her arms.
“I totally forgot that I have a nail appointment. I would cancel, but I’ve had to reschedule three times in the past month. If I don’t go this time, they won’t let me make any more appointments. I have to get my nails done, before I have coffee with Robbie Holmes.”
I couldn’t see any link between having coffee with the assistant police chief and having polished nails, but I knew better than to argue with Sheila. Especially when she wore such a cloud of amped-up electricity. This was not the time to trifle with her.
“No problem. Mert and I actually got a lot done. She was only here two hours, but she helped me figure out a line of attack.”
“Good.” She handed Anya to me. “Glad to hear that woman could help, because you really do need to get this house picked up. If you weren’t living in such a mess, George could bring his clients here to eat.”
The accusation blindsided me. As soon as it was out of her mouth, she looked away. I’m not good at math, but I quickly put two and two together and came up with Catch-22. Sheila must have phoned George, asked him about his meal at Antonio’s, and found a way to lay the blame at my feet. My blood boiled at her sneaky finger-pointing. George’s misbehavior was all my fault? A housekeeping failure had encouraged him to cheat on me?
There had been countless nights back in our small, but organized, apartment, when he hadn’t come home until the dawn’s early light. Even if our home was a mess, why couldn’t he ask me to join him for a meal with clients? Was I that much of a source of shame? If so, why had he married me? He had no right to be ashamed of me. My family came over before the Mayflower; we had a long and storied history. I had been an A student in college, until I got pregnant. There was no reason on earth that I should hang my head in shame. None.
“Right,” I said, through clenched teeth. I didn’t feel like fighting with Sheila. She would always protect her son.
Okay, yes, our house was a mess, but that didn’t explain why George had never said to me, “Hey, Kiki, I’d like to introduce you to my friends that I grew up with.” He’d kept me tucked away, like a dirty little secret.
As the heat rose in my face, Sheila turned her attention to fussing with her cell phone. From the mumbles, I understood she was trying to call the nail salon. When she did, she explained she might be running a little late, because there’d been a family emergency. “My daughter-in-law begged me to take her baby off her hands. Yes, again. I’ve warned her she shouldn’t stay up all night. Babies get up early. I’ll be there as soon as I can.”
She ended the call and gave me a sheepish smile.
My jaw was hanging open. I was angrier than I’d ever been. In fact, I could barely see for the haze of fury that descended on me. Without another word, I walked past her and carried Anya upstairs.
The bald truth of the matter was: Why should I worry about protecting George Lowenstein? He had his mother and his friends. He also had an active social life that excluded me. I was all alone in this world, except for my daughter. To protect her, I had to protect myself. I could not let myself be blamed for Sheila’s chron
ic lateness, for George’s infidelity, and possibly Sven Nordstrom’s death.
As I lowered my daughter onto the changing table, I decided not to go back downstairs and see Sheila to the door. She let herself in; she could let herself out. Instead, I allowed myself the luxury of a long, sloppy cry. Anya played quietly in her crib.
When I was done, I washed my face with cold water and made a promise to the girl in the mirror. “I will not let these people defeat me. I will not let them treat me like a doormat. I will find a way to prove them wrong and to make them respect me. I’ll do it for myself and for Anya. She deserves a mother who isn’t a loser.”
51
Anya had fallen asleep. I decided not to wake her.
After checking that Sheila had left, and that my front door was locked securely, I went back upstairs to look in on Anya. She looked like an angel, slumbering quietly.
Feeling the need for companionship, even if it was from a sleeping toddler, I lay down on the bed in her room. The physical labor from moving boxes put a pleasant ache in my limbs. With the emotional emptiness that follows a good cry, I fell asleep in minutes. I woke up feeling groggy, not refreshed, but the sound of Anya’s happy gurgling reminded me of my vow. I would not let the cops or Sheila or George run over me. I would stand up for myself.
While I changed Anya, she pointed to the window. “Ou? Kitty? Wauk?”
“Of course we can take a walk, sweetheart. You want to see that kitty again, don’t you? His name is Bartholomew. That’s sort of a joke, you see, because ‘mew’ is a sound that a kitten makes. Mr. Bergen called him Bart. Can you say Bart?”
“Ba.”
“Good enough.”
Such balmy temperatures wouldn't last for long. Determined to take advantage of them, I dressed Anya in a sweater and hat.
The crisp leaves crunched beneath our feet on our first lap around the neighborhood. The second lap came to an abrupt halt, when I noticed a gray-haired woman withdrawing the mail from the Nordstroms' mailbox. At her side was a big black Labrador with soulful brown eyes.
“Doh!” Anya nearly lurched out of her stroller. “Doh! Woof!”
The woman responded to Anya’s excited cries by smiling and grabbing her dog by the collar.
“May she pet the dog?” I asked, while keeping a respectful distance away.
“Yes, of course. Zoe loves children.”
"Remember, be gentle," I said to Anya, after pushing the stroller close enough for Anya to reach out and pat the beautiful animal. I squatted down to monitor the way my child stroked the dog’s fur. We had worked on this, although we didn’t have a pet and had used stuffed animals for practicing. I was gratified to see how Anya remembered her lessons.
Zoe sat patiently, accepting the clumsy pats, and finally giving Anya a big, wet kiss that caused a fit of giggles.
I rose and extended a hand to the dog’s owner. "Hi. I live across the street. I was very sorry to hear about Sven. My name's Kiki Lowenstein. This is Anya. My husband is George."
"Brita Morgenstern." Her rough hand intercepted mine and gave it a brisk shake. Brita's fine lines and wrinkles suggested she was in her late sixties. Salt-and-pepper hair was gradually being overtaken by white and silver strands. Although she was taller than I, she wasn't as tall as her brother. A slight hump in her back put us nearly at eye level.
"Sven was my half-brother. Nearly twenty years my junior; the product of a second marriage by my father to a much younger woman. I never expected him to die before me. I must admit that it’s a bit surreal."
"I imagine. Would you like to come over for a cup of tea? I have some fresh muffins from Dierbergs. They're lemon poppy seed. I think Anya's had enough of being outside for one day." I pointed to my child and her runny nose, while I prepared for Brita's rejection.
Surprisingly, the older woman smiled. "Sure. I would like that, but I need to set down all this mail and get Zoe’s leash. Would you care to step inside?"
Since I'd never been a guest in the Nordstroms' home, I accepted the invitation on the spot. I liked Brita immediately. The lumpy sweater she wore had been created with a variety of yarns, giving it a patchwork flavor. Her mom-jeans were well-worn. Everything about this woman shouted, “I know who I am and I am comfortable with myself.” She radiated a sense of acceptance, the sort of comfortable feeling you get when you’ve been friends with someone for years.
While Brita led the way, I pushed the stroller toward the house. Zoe trotted along at the woman’s side, as if tethered by an invisible leash.
"How old is Anya?" Brita asked as she pushed open the door.
“Two years and four months.”
I lifted Anya and the stroller up and onto the stoop. Brita stepped inside and held the door open. The change from the brightly lit outside and the dim interior momentarily blinded me. When I could see again, I gasped with astonishment.
My first impression was a snow bank. The place had been decorated in white, white, and white, with white accents. Gold and crystal sparkled everywhere, blinding me. In fact, if it were possible to fall headfirst into a tub of white glitter, this might be the outcome.
As I took in my surroundings, my eyes came to rest on a huge portrait hanging over the white brick fireplace. By huge, I mean life-size, although it seemed even larger, because of the subject matter and the positioning of the piece.
Staring down on me with a haughty look on her face, was the full-frontal, stark-naked Leesa Nordstrom, leaning against a pure white marble column. The pose was arresting, provocative even. Coupled with the subject matter, it was doubly so. Leesa's cornflower blue eyes, the white-blonde hair, her in-your-face sensuality and nudity were nearly overpowering. I couldn’t think of anything appropriate to say. Not one word. Instead, I gaped. I stared. Finally, I shook my head as if to break the trance I was in.
"Rather hard to take, isn't it? Leesa insisted on hanging it here. Sven objected strenuously. She called him a prude. He called her, well, it isn't worth repeating. Not now, anyway." Brita reached into a wooden bowl and removed a red dog’s leash. Zoe obediently walked over and sat at her feet.
“Wow. I wouldn’t think him prudish. It’s just a bit, uh, over-the-top for a living room. At least, that’s my humble opinion.”
“Mine as well.” Brita hesitated before snapping on the leash. “I should have asked. Would you prefer that I leave Zoe at home?”
“No, please bring her. She’s very welcome to come. Anya would love that. I would too. I love animals.”
“Good,” Brita said. “That means we’re going to be good friends. I can feel it.”
52
Anya giggled from her comfortable spot in Brita's lap. Zoe had lowered herself to the floor with a groan and promptly fallen asleep.
“My poor dog is a senior citizen,” Brita said, noticing that I’d reacted to Zoe’s groan. “She’s an English Lab. I adopted her when she was just a pup. There were nine in her litter. When I got her home, I discovered she only has four toes on one paw. I mentioned it to the breeder, and she offered to exchange Zoe for a dog with all the usual toes, but I couldn’t do that. I’d already fallen in love with her. She’s such a loving animal. She’s good with people, other dogs, cats, rabbits, squirrels, and even chipmunks.”
Anya peered over Brita’s knee at Zoe. “Doh. Good doh.”
“Yes, sweetie,” I assured her. “Zoe is a very good dog.”
The timer dinged, and I took the lemon poppy seed muffins out of my microwave oven. “I've never seen anything like that painting of Leesa.”
"Nor has anyone else, I'd wager. How about you, Miss Anya? Did you like that silly painting? No. Me neither, darling."
“Doh?” Anya had mastered an all-purpose word. It could mean down, door, outdoors, dog, or even duh.
"Actually,” I said. “I find Leesa’s choice of home decor immensely cheering."
"How so?"
"My mother-in-law thinks poorly of me. If she got a gander at that painting, I believe she'd have a re-think."
"I imagine so. Tell me, do you get on with my sister-in-law? Was she nice to you?" Brita's blue-gray eyes shone with sincerity. I threw any last shreds of caution aside.
"Nope. She didn't like me from the git-go, as we say here in Missouri. Your brother didn't seem to care much for me, either."
Brita lifted Anya into her high chair. At first, I thought I'd offended the woman and she was preparing to go. However, once she settled Anya in, Brita pulled an embroidery hoop from a deep pocket of her sweater. With practiced skill, a silver needle flashed in and out of the muslin. "I’m not surprised. Saddened, but not surprised. My brother changed after his marriage. Leesa brought out the worst in him. One might think I am mourning now, since he died. But the truth is over the five years they were together, I lost my little brother a bit at a time. After he met Leesa, he became distant and moody. I am not surprised to hear you thought he didn't like you. I rather think he didn't like himself."
"Are you staying for the funeral?"
She glanced up and nodded. Her eyes were wet with unshed tears. "Although I don't know when that will be. They've asked to do a variety of tests on...the corpse. Leesa is totally opposed to it. She demanded that his body be cremated immediately. However, they won’t release it. I think it’s rather a good thing.”
“Why?”
“Because I do not think, for one moment, that Sven died of natural causes."
"Then what do you think happened?"
"I think Leesa killed him."
As if responding the accusation, Anya tossed her empty sippy cup into the air. I dove for it, feeling happy about the distraction. If Leesa killed Sven, that meant I really was living next door to a murderer. Should I call the cops?
And, if I did, what would I say? My dead neighbor's half-sister suspects Leesa Nordstrom of killing Sven? Whoop-dee-do. That and a mushy Cheerio would have the same weight in their investigations.
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 13
