Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  56

  “George knew Leesa? Are you kidding me?” The room swam before my eyes. If I hadn’t been so close to the kitchen counter, I would have crumpled to the floor. As it was, Robbie jumped to his feet and grabbed me when my knees buckled.

  “You better sit down.” He pulled out a chair for me. As I cradled my face in my hands, he poured me a glass of water.

  What was it with cops and glasses of water? Sheesh.

  “Diet Dr Pepper.” I pointed to the refrigerator. I needed the jolt of reality a caffeinated beverage would deliver. I had to be dreaming. This situation was getting worse by the minute. Not only was George cheating on me, he was messing around with a porn star? A porn star who was also our neighbor?

  I heard the refrigerator door open and close. A cold can was slid in front of me. Robbie’s voice seemed to come from far away. “According to Mrs. Nordstrom, your husband visited the studio where she works as a model. I don’t think Everbright knew more about her, um, career than that. Mrs. Nordstrom claims that George was smitten with her. She claims he even stalked her.”

  “We live across the street! She accused me of the same thing when I took a class she taught. What’s her problem? Does she seriously expect us to never cross her path? That woman has a lot of nerve.” I popped the top on the can. The hiss of the bubbles promised a treat. I gulped it greedily. “You believe her?”

  After retrieving another one of Anya’s stuffed animals that she’d tossed over the side of her playpen, Robbie shook his head violently. “It’s not my place to believe her or not. They let me read the files, because I’m the assistant police chief of St. Louis County. I didn’t get the chance to ask Detective Everbright his opinion. As you can imagine, our overlapping jurisdictions complicate everything. All our 91 different municipalities protect their pieces of turf. Fortunately, we have a very cordial relationship between our department and Ladue, and the Ladue police chief is an old friend. I’m trusting you with this information, because Sheila and I have known each other for decades.”

  I took another gulp. “Then you’re telling me that this was all in Everbright’s police report. All this nonsense about George being a stalker?”

  “Uh-huh.” Robbie rose and poured himself a second cup of coffee. If cops kept visiting me, I’d need to make a run by Kaldi’s and buy more beans.

  And cookies. Lots and lots of iced cookies, muffins, and more slice-and-bake chocolate chip cookies, too.

  Meanwhile Anya was happily playing in her playpen. She would pick up the various plastic shapes, one at a time, and stuff them into the shape sorter. She never got bored with this. Maria Montessori called it “purposeful play.” What looked tedious was creating all sorts of important pathways in Anya’s brain.

  That was good news, because my brains were slowly getting fried. Each new day was bringing more and more stress to my life.

  Robbie pulled a notebook from his jacket pocket. “Everbright says that a guy named Lars Larsen confirmed your husband’s visit to the, uh, modeling studio.”

  “Rudolph ‘Lars’ Larsen is Brita Morgenstern’s stepson,” I said. “He produces porn in that studio; Leesa is his big star. Everbright should have also reported that I saw Leesa fighting with a man who must have been Lars. Just this morning I learned Sven wasn’t happy about his wife being a porn star. They moved here to get Leesa away from that lifestyle, but she probably tricked Sven. She knew that Lars had built his studio in St. Louis. That means both Lars and Leesa with a motive for murdering Sven.”

  “Right. Like I said, there are a lot of avenues of inquiry.” Robbie frowned. “Mrs. Nordstrom wasn’t completely forthcoming about her line of work. Not initially, at least.”

  I blurted out, “I have to know: How much trouble is George in? They don’t really suspect him of being a murderer, do they?”

  Robbie turned sad eyes on me. “At this point, anyone and everyone is under suspicion.”

  57

  Only after Robbie Holmes left did I realize he hadn’t told me specifically what sort of poison Sven Nordstrom had ingested. Maybe he’d intentionally avoided sharing that specific information. Or maybe he didn’t know. I couldn’t tell. I had these sense that Robbie was a lot sharper than he seemed, just like Everbright was. Maybe that was a requirement for those wanting to enter law enforcement as a career. They had to seem unassuming, so they could trick people like me into talking too much.

  And I probably had talked too much. But, then again, Sheila trusted Robbie Holmes. Surely that meant I should trust him, too.

  Thinking back about what I’d learned, it was easy to see that George was in trouble, and a mean little voice inside me said, “He deserves it.”

  I’d imagined him with one woman, someone from his past. That would explain why he’d avoided introducing me to his old school chums. But had he also been unfaithful with Leesa? Was he a porn addict? A stalker?

  There was a lot I didn’t know about my husband. I thought I knew his heart. I had let myself believe I knew what sort of man he was. Had I blinded myself, because I’d been eager to get married?

  Hot tears prickled the back of my eyes. I pinched my nose, hoping not to cry. I rarely admitted to myself how eager I’d been to get away from my own family. My mother acted like she hated me. My father had too. Sure, I’d accidentally gotten pregnant, but how much of an accident had it really been? Was that the lie I told myself, so I wouldn’t have to face the truth?

  Was it possible that Anya would be raised by two liars? If that were the case, did I believe that George had nothing to do with Sven Nordstrom’s death? Wasn’t it remotely possible that George had killed him? My husband was adept at hiding things from me. He certainly had been careful to hide his involvement with Leesa Nordstrom. From the way he’d acted, I thought they hadn’t met until we moved here.

  Rubbing my temples, I made a decision. I would trust George. I had to. For Anya’s sake. I would do everything I could to prove him innocent.

  But if George didn’t do it, who did?

  If George didn’t do it, a killer might be living right here in our neighborhood. How long would it be until the murderer struck again?

  I had a daughter to protect, and a husband whose hours could best be defined as “erratic.” If an intruder crept in, hours could go by before anyone knew I was in trouble. The weight of my isolation pressed down on me.

  My phone rang, and I grabbed it up. Any noise that would drown out the frightened conversation in my head was sorely welcome. “Hello?”

  “It’s Mert. I’m calling to set a time for me to come and help you clean up that mess. You got a calendar?”

  “I don’t need a calendar. I have nothing to look forward to. Nothing!” A tiny sob leaked from me.

  “Whoa. You okay?”

  “No. Not really.” I covered my mouth to suppress the noises, but my desperation had reached such a level that my gesture proved ineffective. I choked out a long, low sob. Anya dropped her red plastic triangle and stared at me.

  “What are you doing right now?” Mert asked.

  “Sitting here in my kitchen, staring at boxes, thinking about my last visitor, and trying not to get hysterical.”

  “You like pizza?”

  “Who doesn’t like pizza?”

  “What do you like on yours?”

  “I am not picky.”

  “Can you hang on until six? I’m on the other side of town.”

  “I think so.”

  “See you then.”

  58

  Mert proved as good as her word. She arrived carrying a reusable wine bag. Inside were two bottles, white and red.

  “Pizza should be here any minute.” She pushed past me into my kitchen. “Smells like smoke in here.”

  I explained my mishap with the fireplace. “Can you believe a day has gone by, and this place still stinks?”

  “I also smell burnt apples. How come?”

  By the time I’d explained the entire fiasco, she was practically rolling on the floor
with laughter. “Lord love you. You surely know how to get a man’s attention. That there cop probably saw himself as a man with a white hat, riding in to rescue the fair maiden, for sure.”

  “Which one?” I asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “I mean which cop are you talking about in the white hat? I’ve had two of them stop by.”

  “Lordy, you’ve been busy.”

  The wineglasses were still in a box somewhere, but two of Anya’s sippy cups were clean and sitting in the drainer.

  Mert pulled a corkscrew from her purse. With a deft couple of turns, she pulled out the cork and poured two hearty helpings. The fragrance of grapes on a hot summer day enveloped us.

  “Here’s to household calamities,” I said as I lifted a sippy cup. “May they keep a smile on our faces.”

  After a long drink, Mert added, “And to dead neighbors. Thanks to Mr. Nordstrom biting the dust, my calendar has opened up so’s I got plenty of time to help you out.”

  “Mert, those cops say Sven was murdered! That means a killer is on the streets. Maybe even living here in this very neighborhood!”

  She pulled up a chair. Both earlobes sparkled with a parade of various earrings, from fake gems to hoops. Sequins decorated the deeply plunging neckline of her turquoise knit top. Her black jeans were skin-tight; rhinestones outlined the back pockets. Mert was a walking, talking light show, a veritable visual rainbow of fake gemstones.

  “Look-it here, girl. You don’t need more junk to worry about. You’re letting your imagination run wild. There ain’t no killers out there roaming your neighborhood. That ain’t how it works.”

  Her explanation was interrupted by the doorbell. I felt my heart sink. Was yet another law official at the door?

  “Don’t panic none. The pizza’s here,” Mert said.

  I hopped up; she followed.

  “I’ve got this,” I said. “You brought the wine, and I owe you for averting an ER visit.”

  After I paid and tipped the pizza delivery boy, I handed the box to her. Back in the kitchen, I found two paper plates. “I sure hope you don’t eat your pizza off of good china with a knife and a fork. If you do, you’re out of luck.”

  “Who eats pizza with a knife and fork? I never heard of such nonsense.”

  “My mother-in-law.” My mouth watered at the smell of spicy sausage, rich tomato sauce, and tangy cheese.

  “Huh. That woman acts like she has a corn cob up her you-know-where.”

  “If she does, it’s gold-plated, and it came from Tiffany’s.”

  That sent Mert into spasms of laughter.

  “Girl, from the outside, it looks like you’ve got everything a woman could want. But I guess that’s why they say appearances are deceiving, huh? Your world is definitely no picnic.”

  “You can say that again.”

  59

  An hour after Mert arrived, George called to say he’d be coming home late.

  “Fine,” I said and ended the call. Did it really matter?

  Our marriage was a sham, and we both knew it.

  But this wasn’t the time for calling his bluff. I didn’t have the mental or emotional energy to confront him.

  “Tell me everything about this here murder case,” she said. She and I plowed through the pizza and the first bottle of wine. Although I was well lubricated, I avoided telling her what I suspected about George’s infidelity. I ended by explaining I was scared to death for our safety, mine and Anya’s.

  “You shouldn’t be.” She opened the second bottle.

  I raised an eyebrow. “Why not?”

  “Sven Nordstrom’s death was probably done by someone with a grudge against him. Strangers don’t murder other strangers like that. Once in a while there’s a drive-by shooting or a robbery, but you gotta get real close to someone to keep giving him poison. Besides, poison is a woman’s weapon of choice.”

  “Is it?”

  “Yup. Remember Arsenic and Old Lace?”

  “That’s a play, right? Two little old ladies?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  That led us to other subjects. My house. Her son, Roger. Raising kids. How she came to work for the Nordstroms, after they’d let another woman go, because she’d written bad checks on their account. Finding a hobby. Mert liked square-dancing and line-dancing. That sounded fun, but I’d grown up with ballet lessons. I was a bit of a dance snob, and this was the first time I’d recognized my prejudice.

  We laughed about Mert’s date with the guy from Home Depot. He turned out to be a sweet man but definitely not her type.

  The evening passed by quickly. Adding to the pleasure of the wine and a listening ear was the sense I was making a real friend at last!

  It was only after I’d said goodnight to Mert and climbed into bed that it struck me: She hadn’t made one regretful reference to Sven Nordstrom. Not one single utterance of sadness. Nor had she commented on Leesa’s grief.

  That left me staring at the ceiling in Anya’s room and thinking hard. Why didn’t Mert seem to care about Sven’s death? She didn’t strike me as an unkind person. Her behavior toward Anya showed that Mert had tons of empathy. In fact, Anya had been so taken with Mert that she’d begged the woman to read her a bedtime story. Mert had kindly done that, repeating Goodnight Moon for a second and third time.

  To me, Mert had been easy to get to know, empathetic, and caring.

  And yet, she hadn’t seemed one bit concerned about how Leesa would cope with losing her husband. Nor had she shown the slightest regret that Sven had died.

  Was this a blind spot? My blind spot or hers? Did it say something about how the Nordstroms had treated Mert?

  I couldn’t imagine Leesa asking her cleaning lady to sit down and share a pizza. Sheila would never sit and eat with Linnea. My mother-in-law had this quaint belief that employees and employers should not fraternize. On the other hand, when Linnea’s aunt had died last year, Sheila had been truly concerned for her maid’s state of mind. Several times, Sheila had phoned Linnea to see how she was coping.

  Had that been craven self-interest on Sheila’s part? A totally phony interest, covering up Sheila’s need to have Linnea back to work?

  I didn’t think so. I had walked in on Sheila while she and Linnea were talking. Sheila’s back was to me, and she hadn’t heard my approach, so the exchange must have been candid.

  “Linnea, I am so sorry,” she said. “I know your Aunt Tilly meant the world to you. It’s a terrible loss. Yes, there will be a big hole in your life. That’s the way of it. If I can do anything, let me know.”

  The sincerity in my mother-in-law’s voice certainly seemed real enough.

  Times like those convinced me I really did not know George’s mother at all. The exchange seemed so contrary to all my experiences with Sheila. And yet...it was also strangely in character. Sheila could turn misty-eyed at the oddest moments. George had told me that her seemingly calloused exterior had been the result of years and years of getting her feelings hurt. That sounded rather unlikely to me.

  If Sheila really didn’t care about anybody but herself, how did I explain her love for Anya? Anya was too young to return the woman’s affection in full. Whenever Anya soiled Sheila’s clothes, and this happened frequently, my mother-in-law shrugged it off. That didn’t seem like a self-centered person, did it?

  Nor had she been cold-hearted when George’s father, Harry, died. We’d all known it was coming. Cancer had spread throughout Harry’s body, into his bones and brain. While George had suggested his father be moved to a terminal care facility with hospice workers to attend him, Sheila had put her foot down.

  “He will stay here at home, and I will be with him every minute of every day. That’s the only way I can be sure he gets the proper care he needs.”

  By golly, she had proved as good as her word. During Harry’s long goodbye, Sheila lost twenty pounds, weight she couldn’t afford to drop. The family doctor threatened her with hospitalization and force-feeding.
r />   “Over my dead body,” she’d snapped.

  Lying there in the bed in Anya’s room, I began to drift away. My eyes grew more and more heavy; my thoughts fragmented. They scattered like dry leaves in an autumn rain storm. The last cogent thought I had was, “People are incredibly complex.”

  60

  George was nowhere to be seen the next morning, but he did leave a note on the kitchen table: Sorry I missed you both. Big deal in the works. Hope to get home at a reasonable hour tonight. Love to my girls — G.

  I wadded up the paper and tossed it into the recycling bin. While Anya ate her cereal, I dug around in my purse and found Advil. Downing the pills with a glass of water was the prelude to getting my mental house in order. After that, I went to work on brewing a fresh pot of coffee. Never had it seemed to take so long for the water to heat and percolate.

  Before she’d left, Mert had told me she’d be able to get back the day after tomorrow. Or at least that was what I thought she’d said. Alcohol kills your brain cells, and if the pain in my skull was any indication, I had a cemetery rattling around between my ears. But the Advil started to kick in, and I could feel the ache get dimmer each minute.

  I silently blessed the chemist who discovered ibuprofen.

  After I poured myself a second cup of coffee, I was definitely feeling more human. Two lemon poppy seed muffins and a third cup later, I felt super-charged.

  Taking in the mess around me, I did what any sensible woman would do after hiring on a cleaning lady. I threw myself into cleaning my house. I didn’t want Mert to think I was a total pig. I couldn’t take a chance on scaring her off.

  Anya whimpered from her high chair. I decided to start picking up my house right after I changed Anya’s diaper.

  Once upstairs, the sight of the empty bed I’d slept in filled me with sadness, but I stiffened my backbone and put my baby on her changing table. “As soon as Mert gets this place cleaned up and the boxes are all broken down, you’re going to get potty trained,” I told my daughter as I peeled a soggy pair of Pampers off her sweet little Southern Hemisphere. The diaper pail was near to overflowing, and the pungent smell of urine wafted from the hamper in Anya's bathroom.