She nodded her acknowledgement.
Turning my back to her, I reached into the last box and pulled out a picture of Anya right after she was born. There were dust fingerprints clouding the glass and silver frame. I walked into my kitchen to grab a bottle of Windex.
“Cops are sneaky as all get out. I’ll hold you to that promise of yours. Steer clear of them. More trouble than they’re worth. But you’ve still got some explaining to do. How come Enid wanted Sven Nordstrom dead? What did he ever do to her? I know the Nordstroms let her go, but I never did hear why.”
“Enid got ahold of the Nordstroms’ pin number and drained one of their checking accounts. She claimed that they owed her the money for working overtime. The amount wasn’t that large, so they settled out of court. It happened right before Leesa hired you.” I inspected the surface of the mirror I’d been cleaning. I’d learned from Mert that if you changed your vantage point, you could often see smudges.
“How’d Enid wind up over at Dr. Bergen’s house?”
“Because she was working for the Nordstroms when it happened, Enid knew all about Alma’s death. In fact, the minute Talbot Bergen became a widower, Enid started cozying up to him. Dropping by to see him. Baking special treats, and so on. When she realized his daughters weren’t as involved as they should be, she applied for a job as one of his home healthcare workers. They’re always looking for people at those agencies. As you might guess, it’s hard work and low pay. Once Enid was part of the rotation, she gained Talbot’s trust. Told him sob stories about how hard her life had been. Introduced him to her son. Made him feel special. Systematically, she cut him off from his daughters.”
Mert stopped to grab a sip from her water bottle. “And then Enid convinced Talbot Bergen to poison Sven?”
“Right. She reminded him that Sven was responsible for Alma’s accident. It was like picking at the emotional scab. See, Talbot Bergen really, really loved his wife. Her death devastated him. Enid kept telling Talbot that Sven had gotten away with murder. She encouraged him to get revenge. She’s the one who mixed the windshield fluid into the Gatorade. After all, she knew Sven’s habits. Once the bottles were tainted, Enid told Talbot to walk over and put them inside the refrigerator in the Nordstroms’ garage. That way she wouldn’t get caught red-handed where she didn’t belong. He had the perfect alibi, searching for Bartholomew.”
Mert handed me a bottle of water. “Then which one of them’s guilty? Or are both of them? Enid or Dr. Bergen?”
“Nobody knows for sure. Talbot Bergen is definitely suffering from Alzheimer’s. I’m not sure how competent he’ll be to stand trial. His daughters have hired an attorney. Enid’s hired a lawyer, too. She isn’t saying much, but Robbie’s pretty confident she’ll cop a plea. She might even accuse Talbot of being the mastermind. ”
“Will he go to jail?”
“Robbie thinks Dr. Bergen will be too confused to testify accurately, much less honestly.” I chugged the water. Funny to think of how a simple plastic bottle could become a murder weapon. I walked it to the recycling tub we keep in the kitchen. “There’s still one question left unanswered: Why does the Nordstroms’ garage door keep going up by itself? If it hadn’t been up so often, Talbot Bergen wouldn’t have had access to the Nordstroms’ refrigerator.”
“I bet I know!” yelled Mert’s son, Roger, from around the corner. He’d been babysitting Anya in the formal living room, playing with her while we worked. I was happy to pay the eight year old. Anya adored him, and he was a great kid.
“Really?” I stuck my head around the corner and asked him, “What’s your theory, Roger?”
“While we’ve been playing, I’ve been watching that garage door. Guess what? Airplanes make it go up.”
“Airplanes?” I repeated.
“Airplanes?” George came downstairs. He’d been hanging pictures and generally being helpful. After learning that one of our neighbors was a murdering con woman who’d put bruises on my arm, my husband had become incredibly protective. Robbie had given George a stern talking to, pointing out that his unpredictable schedule had put Anya and me at risk. The fact that I’d cleared his name also made George realize he should be more grateful to me. And, yes, I also suspected that Mert had given him a piece of her mind or, at the very least, a tongue lashing.
George stared out the front window as he considered Roger’s idea. “There’s one way to find out. A guy I went to high school with is an engineer at McDonnell Douglas, I’ll call him and ask.”
In two minutes, we had our answer.
“You are one smart kid, Roger. Turns out that it’s possible some planes emit a signal on the same radio frequency as the Nordstroms’ garage door opener. It’s certainly happened before. Give me a high five, buddy.” George raised his open palm so Roger could slap it.
“That there garage door’s been going up by itself ever since the Nordstroms moved into that house.” Mert tucked a dust rag into her belt loop. As a housekeeper, she had proved herself to be without equal. Not only did she know how to clean anything and everything, but she tackled any mess with an energy that impressed me.
As a friend of the family, she was quickly becoming indispensable.
“That is so weird!” I said. “I asked Sven why they kept leaving the door up. He was irritated by my question. According to him, they didn’t leave the door up — and I guess that was true. But the planes on their way to the airport must have triggered the opener.”
“And that explains how Talbot Bergen was able to walk right into the Nordstorms’ garage and poison the Gatorade.” Mert laughed, but her chuckle wasn’t one of amusement. Instead, she sounded sad. “Who’d have thunk it?”
78
A few weeks later, Anya was playing happily with a new toy that re-created sounds that animals make. Oh, how she loved critters! Her favorite was the dog, a black Lab. “Zo-oh?” she would ask, over and over, pointing to the cartoon image.
Rather than remind her that Zoe had gone away, probably forever, I would say, “Yes, sweetheart. Zoe is a dog.”
The doorbell rang and the postman handed me a small mailing box. After thanking him, I glanced over at the tall grasses that divided our lot from the Bergens’ yard. I missed Bart. It seemed like a long time ago that he was slinking through the weeds.
After Talbot Bergen was moved to a facility that specialized in memory care, I’d had high hopes we could give Bartholomew a new home. When I asked Robbie about the animal, he told me that Talbot Bergen’s oldest daughter had claimed the long-haired black cat. The young woman had promised to give the wandering feline a good home.
Maybe it was for the best. Bart was a rascal. Keeping him indoors would have been a challenge.
I turned my attention to the box. The postmark showed it had been mailed from Minnesota. I love, love, love surprises, especially if they are gifts! With trembling fingers, I pried open the flaps.
Inside was a small photo frame displaying a picture of Brita and the wonderful Zoe. Underneath was a tiny pillow with a miniscule pocket trimmed in lace. French knots spelled out “Tooth Fairy.” The note inside said:
Dear Kiki and Anya,
Please accept this small remembrance of our time together, and think of me kindly. I laid Sven’s ashes to rest last week. Thanks to you, justice was done.
Zoe sends her love, as do I.
Brita
CUT, CROP & DIE
Book #2 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series
1
“All we’re missing is a corpse.” I hadn’t realized I was thinking out loud until Mert Chambers, my best friend, stopped in her tracks. She turned and nearly crashed into me. We were both carrying heavy cardboard boxes of supplies, so our inept maneuver had a Keystone Cop clumsiness.
“Why, Kiki Lowenstein, I can’t believe you said that! I think all these flowers are beautiful,” said Mert as we continued our trek down the short flight of stairs into a church basement. She smiled at the big pots of day lilies we’d purchased to g
ive away as door prizes.
“It’s the smell,” I explained. “When my eyes are closed, all I see are caskets and corpses. Plus, I haven’t been in a church since my father died.” The slightly dank basement brought back horrible memories.
That said, I had to admit we’d been lucky Mert was able to find us a place so close to the Missouri Botanical Garden and willing to let us hold a crop—a scrapbooking event—in their basement for a small donation.
Our boss, Dodie Goldfader, wagged a finger at me. “Knock it off with the morbid talk. We can’t risk customers hearing you. Move away from the microphone in case it’s on.”
Dodie owns Time in a Bottle. At six feet tall, she towers over Mert and me and walks like that cartoon version of the Abominable Snowman.
After shushing me, Dodie glanced pointedly over her shoulder. Women were filing in, towing their picnic coolers and Cropper Hoppers, rolling suitcases full of paper-crafting materials. “The shuttle bus from the Botanical Garden has arrived!” Dodie sang out with delight. “Ladies, did you enjoy your tours?”
Women nodded and chattered happily. They staked out their places at long tables covered with white butcher paper to create a clean surface. Some opened their supplies and started to work on pages immediately. Others shared the photos they’d just taken by handing around their digital cameras. Many of our guests had never seen the Jenkins Daylily Garden in full flower. The women were chatting happily about the glorious sight of all 1,350 different varieties of Hemerocallis (Greek for “beauty for a day”) spreading their luxe petals toward the sun.
Our Missouri Botanical Garden, nicknamed “Shaw’s Garden,” is considered one of the three great gardens of the world. This lovely space was once the personal refuge of Henry Shaw, the Englishman who in 1859 opened his gardens to the public. It’s the oldest continuously operating display conservatory in the United States. Part of my prep for this outing was spending an entire day roaming the grounds last week. I familiarized myself with what was blooming, taking photos to help me design page layouts, resulting in some of the best work I’d ever done.
Given the beautiful photos we’d have to work with and my abundant preparation for this event, I should have been in a great mood, but I wasn’t.
Dodie pulled me aside and whispered, “This is a prime moneymaking event for us. Don’t you dare spoil it! I’ve worked all year to be included in the Crop Around Missouri Program. When these scrappers think special events, I want Time in a Bottle to be the first name that pops into their heads.”
“I know, I know. Sorry.” I grumbled. I’d had a rough morning with my twelve-year-old daughter. Lately I couldn’t do anything right for Anya. Her hormones must be going bonkers because my kid had become increasingly moody. I was trying to stay upbeat and focused, but geez, she was wearing me down. I was also sleep-deprived. Everyone associated with Time in a Bottle— Mert, Dodie, her new hire Bama, and I—had baked dozens of goodies for this gathering. My contribution was three dozen Snickerdoodles. We’d all delivered our treats to Mert’s house the night before. Because she’s such an early riser and because she had room in her truck, Mert had been tasked with bringing over our food, picking up more groceries, and with the help of her son, Roger, setting up tables. All this was supposed to be done before our guests returned from touring the botanical garden.
Scrapbookers are a hungry group, so Bama was in charge of the caterer. The food purveyors would bring us the more complicated menu items such as breakfast sandwiches, quiches and crepes. In an effort to be “green,” we’d arranged to rent glasses and plates rather than produce more paper waste.
Mert had seen Dodie corner me. She figured I’d been chastised. She came over and poked me in the arm. In a cheery voice she preached, “You know, they call it the present because every day is a gift.”
“Thank you, Dr. Phil-lis.” She was right; but then, isn’t she always? It’s a quality both endearing and exasperating.
Despite the hormonal harpy living in my house, life was good, and so was business. Since coming to work at the scrapbook store, I’d grown a small but dedicated following of customers. If things went well, this outing would bring more scrappers into the fold. My notepad listed the names of nearly fifty patrons—many new to our business. I’d designed paper-craft kits—“make-and-takes”—for each of our guests to turn into dazzling pages.
That’s my job: I’m a professional scrapbooker. Ever since my husband, George, was killed last fall, my former hobby has supported me and my eleven-year-old daughter, Anya. Although we don’t live in the style to which we had been accustomed, we are getting by. Before my husband died, I used to be Dodie Goldfader’s best customer. Until recently, I was her best employee. That was another reason I felt grouchy. Dodie had gone and hired Bama Vess without consulting me. Okay. The store was a sole proprietorship, and Dodie was the owner, but it still rankled that I wasn’t included in the decision-making. To add insult to injury, Bama simply did her work and went home. She rebuffed all my attempts to be friendly.
That hurt.
Thank goodness I had Mert in my life.
Before my personal series of unfortunate events, Mert worked for me as my housecleaner. Now I work part-time in her dog sitting business. I’m comfortable with the change of roles. Mert’s a thick and thin friend, the type who stands by you no matter what. She’s also one of the most industrious people I’ve ever met. Whenever Dodie needed extra help, like today, Mert was quick to volunteer.
As my best friend flitted around, she garnered plenty of admiring glances. Mert’s a firm believer in showing off the merchandise. Her halter top was florid orange with red, tangerine, and pink bangles around a neckline that displayed a gracious plenty of cleavage. Her skin-tight capri pants were of a matching colorful print.
By contrast, I wore a pair of khaki slacks from Target with a cream-colored, short-sleeved blouse I’d rescued from Goodwill. I looked okay, but a safe okay, two blocks this side of drab.
Not that my employer notices or cares. From behind, it’s tough to tell whether Dodie is animal, vegetable, or mineral. She’s hairy, lumpy and shaped like a rock formation. But she’s also a great person to work for and despite her terse manner, she’s a sweetheart.
Dodie asked, “Where’s Bama?”
I shrugged.
Scrapbookers were still arriving from the botanical gardens. In small groups, they came flooding in and setting up their personal cropping supplies. Mert flittered from table to table, unpacking and putting out the food she’d been tasked with delivering. Bama was supposed to be here, too, leaving Dodie and me free to concentrate on paper, supplies, and tools.
“Have you seen Bama?” Dodie asked Mert.
“Nope,” she said.
Bama’s absence suited me down to the ground.
“Shoot,” Mert had said when we had talked the day before. “You’re jealous of that girl. You liked being the one and only star at the store. You’ve got your panties in a wad because you have to share the limelight!”
“Not so. I’m being protective of my employer. There’s something not right about that woman. Bama never looks me in the eye. I swear, what is she hiding? And she weaves like a drunk.”
That was my public complaint. My private complaint was more along the lines of what Mert had guessed. I was jealous, and I felt intimidated by Bama’s education. Dodie had hinted that Bama had an MFA, a Masters of Fine Arts.
I had bupkis. Everything I’d learned about scrapbooking came from trial and error, studying magazines, and educating myself about products and techniques. Seemed to me, in a twisted sort of way, Bama earned her stripes too easily. Even so, I knew I wasn’t being fair.
I admit it. I’m insecure. I was scared I’d lose my job. I’ve only ever been good at two things in life: scrapbooking and getting pregnant. For the first time in my thirty-three years, I was gainfully employed, responsible for my own welfare, and getting compliments. If I was overly protective of my new life, I had reason to be.
I
climbed on a chair and did a quick scan of the room. Bama was nowhere to be found.
“Dodie? I don’t see Bama anywhere.” I tried to sound disappointed.
“You have to be kidding me. I told her to be here no later than ten. The tours of the Botanical Garden are over. Our guests who drove themselves are already arriving. The last shuttle bus will be due any minute. These women are going to want to eat quickly and start on our special projects.”
She was right. Our customers eyed the food on the serving tables. They were being polite, waiting for us to give them the “go ahead,” but we needed to get this show on the road. We’d made a big deal about offering a catered hot brunch. Our guests would not be happy if we didn’t live up to our promise. A low grumble of discontent was already starting among the women.
“Set up warming trays along the far table.” In dramatic fashion, Bama burst into the room, waving a chart at workers who followed. A phalanx of young people with polo shirts bearing the name “The Catering Company” filed in carrying oversized metal pans. Our final shuttle bus must have arrived at the same time as the caterers because a handful of our guests had been pressed into service. Scrapbookers were balancing aluminum tins of food on the tops of their Cropper Hoppers. Several carried thermal containers marked with The Catering Company’s logo.
“Put the hot food there, there, and there.” All eyes turned to Bama. Today she was wearing pencil-thin black jeans scrunched over the top of pointy-toed boots. A sparkling brooch of jet-black beads gathered the simple neckline on her T-shirt into an asymmetrical shape, forming a sort of jaunty, impromptu V-neck. She couldn’t have projected an artistic image better if she’d slapped a black beret on the crown of her head and spoken with a French accent.
The noise and activity level rose along with the sensuous aroma of bacon and cheese. The caterers finished lighting the Sterno and headed out of the building. Bama fussed over the food placement, but as she did, she steadied herself by keeping one hand on the edge of the tables or against the wall. What was it? Drugs? Booze? A part of me was dying to know while another part was ashamed of my mean-spiritedness.
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 21
