“Goodnight,” he said.
If he hadn’t stepped away quickly, I would have slugged him. What the heck was going on here? I definitely needed to ask Mert if I had bad breath. What was it about me that turned off this guy?
I stood at my door for a long, long time, gnashing my teeth. Finally, I decided he wasn’t coming back. At least, not tonight. Besides, I was worn out from the emotional day I’d had.
Gracie hopped on my bed as I slipped my feet under the covers. Usually, I shoo her away. Once when we slept together, she rolled over on my legs during the night. I woke up paralyzed and panicked that I’d had a stroke. This evening, after coming so close to being kissed and feeling totally rejected, I relished my pooch’s unconditional love. I threw my arm around the dog’s neck and stroked her velvety ears.
“At least you think I’m wonderful. Probably because I feed you,” I tried to joke. But I was too frustrated to feel jovial. Sleep was a long time coming and with it came bad dreams, unformed events where I sat in a corner alone while George walked by me, my mother made fun of me, and Mert didn’t seem to hear my cries for help. I must have whimpered out loud because Gracie pushed her head under my hand and licked my fingers until I awoke.
6
In the morning, my eyes were blotchy. My throat felt scratchy and sore. Even so, Anya and I had a tradition to uphold. Sundays were all about special breakfasts and visits to local parks. I pulled on undies, shorts, a bra and a tee, and scrubbed my teeth, blowing on the mirror and trying to catch a whiff of my breath. All I smelled was peppermint from the tube of Crest. A quick swipe of the brush through my hair, and I was ready to face the day.
I opened Anya’s door and said, “Good morning, sweetie.” She raised a bleary head and said, “Leave me alone.” My child has always been a slow waker-upper.
I fixed myself a cup of coffee before trying again to get her out of bed. The small transistor radio was on the shelf with the instant hazelnut brew. The announcer rattled off national news before telling all of St. Louis that “a scrapbooker died yesterday at an event hosted by a local retail store. Yvonne Gaynor went into anaphylactic shock …” I snapped off the set.
The day was off to a yucky start.
I trooped back into Anya’s room with my coffee mug in hand, hoping to rouse her. The lumpish group of covers that was my child had moved to the far side of the bed. I sat on the edge nearest the door and stared at the waterfall of platinum blonde hair spread across her pillow.
“Anya? Anya, honey. Wake up.”
“Leave me alone.”
“Which park do you want to visit? Shall we take Gracie for a quick walk and then bring her back home? Maybe go someplace we haven’t been in a while, like the Art Museum?” A long slurp of the hot caffeine helped me stay upbeat rather than let her bad mood infect mine.
Anya sat up halfway. Her eyes narrowed into small slits of blue, and she said, “Why don’t you get a life? Huh? Why don’t you find a boyfriend or a pal and go do things with people your own age? What’s wrong with you?”
She might as well have slapped me across the face. My gums were flapping as I struggled to form an appropriate response. Translation: I was stifling the urge to grab her and shake her … hard. As I stared at her sullen little countenance, it came to me that any day now she might have her first period.
She was twelve and a few months, but that wasn’t too early to become a teenager emotionally. The angry face that glared at me was not the angelic façade of my baby girl. It was clearly a hormone-infused, self-centered tableau of features belonging to a quarrelsome, nasty teen. She’d always been cross when tired, and now her changing body was demanding more rest than her developing mind wanted. A quick glance at her bedside table confirmed my worries. Her cell phone was sitting on top of a short stack of books. She’d been using it when I’d thought her asleep.
“All right, in the future I’ll make other plans,” I managed through gritted teeth. “But today I expect us to do something together. What will it be?”
She tossed back her hair and gave me the evil eye.
What a rude little minx!
“If you must know, I’m busy. I’m going to the mall with my friends. People my own age. They’re picking me up at noon.” With that she sank back into her pillows, an arm across her forehead, exuding all the world-weary mien of Sarah Bernhardt. What a card! The kid had a budding future on stage. Next up, she’d be asking me to peel her a grape.
“My dear darling child. You are going nowhere with no one unless I say so. Who’s picking you up? You need to clear all flight plans with me, got it?” I stopped before reminding her that her father’s killer was still on the loose. Authorities had bulletins out, but so far, there’d been no arrest. Detweiler had told me they suspected he’d left the country. Even so, I had good reason to be concerned, or at the very least, careful—especially when it came to letting Anya out of my sight.
“Nicci Moore’s mom is driving us. If you want to talk to her, you go call her yourself.”
“Don’t worry, kiddo. I plan to do exactly that.” I paused in her doorway. “But here’s a word to the wise. You will speak to me in a civil tone with courtesy, or you will spend the rest of your natural life inside these four walls. Got it?”
7
Jennifer Moore assured me she’d keep a close eye on the girls. “I’ll tag along behind them while they’re at the mall. Are you still worried about that horrible murderer? The one from whom you barely escaped?”
“Yes, I am. Sheila hired a private investigator who says that creep has left the country, but it’s hard not to feel like he’s somehow watching me. I still get threatening letters in my mailbox.”
“You certainly live a colorful life.” Jennifer chuckled. “In more ways than one.”
We both laughed at the pun.
An hour later, with mixed feelings, I watched my daughter heading for the mall. It was important that she have friends, and Nicci seemed like a nice enough child. Jennifer was a bit overindulgent, but then, who wasn’t these days? My being overly protective might backfire by making Anya eager to shed my influence. On the other hand, being less than vigilant could also be dangerous. I needed to find middle ground.
Where exactly was that space? The much praised “middle ground?” Could someone point me to the geographic coordinates? At some time, in some distant place, had there truly been a middle ground? Or had the phrase always referred to a mythical spot? A fantasy locale like Camelot? Surely in real life, middle ground was every bit as elusive as the kingdom of King Arthur.
Yes, I’d eluded a killer who was now on the lam. Two postcards and three letters had been mailed to me bearing the hand-scrawled message, “I’ll get even.” Each was postmarked in a different part of the country. Of course, one might assume that this criminal was too smart to come back to St. Louis. What was it Detweiler had said about a criminal’s logic being different from our logic? Revenge was, as I had the bullet scar on one arm to prove, a strong motivator. Maybe even stronger than self-preservation.
I walked back into my house in time to hear my cell phone ringing. Mert wanted to drop off a dog for me to babysit. I was glad to have both a reason to visit with my best friend and an opportunity to make extra money.
“This here’s Guy, and he’s a nutcase,” she explained an hour later, handing me a brown, black, and white Jack Russell terrier. Mert put a bag of dog food and a leash on my kitchen counter. The small dog regarded me warily while I gave him a similar once over. Evidently, I either passed muster or wasn’t worth the effort because a big yawn overtook Guy. His little pink tongue lolled in the most comical way. Gracie sat next to me, examining my burden, head cocked and curious. I lowered Guy to the floor. The two sniffed each other’s nether regions and wagged their tails. It was a stretch for the terrier to browse Gracie’s behind. I think she’s thirty-four inches at the withers, but I’ve never dropped a tape measure from under her tail. Anything a dog can do, you can watch, but it isn’t smart to push
your luck.
“Ethel Frick’s daughter’s boyfriend bought him for the girl when she was in college. She’s since graduated and found a job and can’t have a dog in her new apartment, so Ethel inherited Guy. He’s named after that British dude who tried to blow up them Houses of Parliament. Guy Fawkes? This little squirt is more terrorist than terrier.”
“He looks like a sweetheart. How long will he be staying with me?”
“I ain’t sure yet. I’ll probably pick him up late Thursday or Friday. Depends on how Ethel’s travel plans go. By the way, you get combat pay for watching this monster. He comes with special instructions.”
Mert pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of her short-shorts. “Do not under any circumstances let him watch Sesame Street.”
“Huh?”
“You heard me. He can watch anything else on TV, but no Sesame Street, see? It’s written right here in big block letters.” A frosted pink fingernail traced words underlined four times in bold marker: NO SESAME STREET! “Otherwise, he likes to run around and play a lot. I haven’t had him as a guest, but Ethel assures me he’s a lover, not a fighter.”
We put up the gate to keep Guy in my kitchen and sat down to yak. I didn’t go into everything Detweiler said—I’d promised him to stay mum, after all—but I intimated he was concerned about the circumstances around Yvonne’s death. Mert gobbled down two Snickerdoodles. With her heavy schedule of house and office cleaning she burns calories like Lance Armstrong ascending a mountain with a pack of French bikers in his downdraft. I, on the other hand, have the metabolism of a garden slug on Valium.
“I used to clean for Yvonne. We had ourselves what you might call a falling out,” Mert said. To my surprise, an expression of sheer hatred took over my friend’s face. I pulled back in shock. I’d never seen Mert like this. Never.
She continued, “That woman’s a pistol, heavy on the pissy part of the toll. Once she tried to return a pair of worn panties to Victoria’s Secret. Got all huffy when they wouldn’t take them back. Liked to brag about what she’d got for free by conniving folks. She was one to eat halfway through a meal and set a hair on the plate, then call over the waiter. Once got some poor server fired over some ruckus she made. Didn’t make no secret ’bout her tricks neither. Don’t know how a person can live with herself doing all that. It isn’t right. Mark my words, karma always comes back and bites you in the rear end.”
“I knew she had been awful at the store, but I didn’t realize her behavior was so global.” Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Yvonne thrashing about.
“You done told me that Dodie fired Yvonne as a customer,” Mert said. “I wish I’d ’a had the good sense to do just that.”
“Why?”
Mert waved my question away and turned her head so I couldn’t see her eyes. “It was years ago, right after you and I first met. I should’ve seen it coming. But at the time, I needed the money. Since then, I’ve learned there’s money and there’s money, and some money costs too much. You got any idea what happened at the store to make Dodie kiss Yvonne’s business goodbye?”
“Only what I’ve heard secondhand from Dodie,” I said, and I filled Mert in on a few of Yvonne’s more notable antics.
“Ho, boy. No wonder Yvonne got herself barred from Time in a Bottle. She musta found herself a new place to shop at Ellen Harmon’s store. Ellen sure acted pleased as punch to have Yvonne as a design team member over at Memories First.”
“Of course, she is. That’s a prestigious award. Remember, Ellen said the magazine had put Yvonne’s work on their website. I bet she’ll have other pages in one of those big spreads in an upcoming issue. Some of their winners have even licensed their own lines of paper products. They get hired to demonstrate supplies at shows and on QVC. Plus, manufacturers send them the latest products free. Ellen’s going to get a lot of mileage from being Yvonne’s retail home base. Maybe Yvonne learned a lesson from Dodie’s ban. Perhaps she behaved herself at Ellen’s store. Whatever.” Suddenly, I was tired of talking about Yvonne. I decided to change the subject.
I wanted Mert’s opinion on how to handle Anya. I needed a sounding board. Mert has raised three kids, her biological son Roger, and two foster children, both girls. Her input was always valuable. I told her what my daughter had said earlier that day.
“Hello, Miss Sassy Mouth! Buckle down the hatches, a teenage storm is appearing out there on the horizon.” Mert’s laughter was more sympathetic than her words.
“What the heck do I do about it?”
“Pray a lot.” She smiled a wry grin, her eyes crinkled in amusement. “I been through all this with mine.” Her eighteen-year-old son Roger was Anya’s secret crush, a sweet boy who often helped me with odd jobs like moving things I couldn’t budge. He’d also babysat Anya when she was younger. Now that she was becoming a young woman, that didn’t seem wholly appropriate.
A funny sound caused us both to look down. Guy had started to hump the table leg.
“Go for it, buddy. You get splinters, don’t expect me to dig ’em out.” Mert’s expression turned thoughtful. “Anya’s right. You can’t build your life around her no more. She’s not a baby, Kiki. Even if she was, you need to move on. You need a social life. Tell me what’s up with that hunky detective. No way he showed up just to cuss and discuss Yvonne.”
“He shows up about twice a week to check on us, because of those weird postcards and all. We go to lunch every week or so, but he’s never asked me out to dinner. He’s never made a move on me, and heaven knows, I’ve been patient. It’s not like Anya is here all the time. She’s at Sheila’s three nights a week at least. In fact, I’m so frustrated I picked up this book at the library, He’s Just Not That Into You.”
Mert grabbed her purse and said, “Like some smug couple in New York City can straighten out your love life. Man, I sure do wish there was a magic formula. For menfolk and kids. But there ain’t. It may be time to move on. That Detweiler’s a real dreamboat, but he’s gotta poop or get off the pot. In fact, I see him, I’m going to tell him so.”
“Don’t you dare!”
“Phooey. Tell you what. I’m having a barbecue at the house next Sunday. Why don’t you come? I’d like you to meet my baby brother, Johnny. Remember? I told you about him moving back in the area after being away.”
Mert wasn’t one to be coy, but she certainly was dancing around when she said “away.” Where exactly was that? Why had I heard so little about Johnny? We’d been friends for years. Why hadn’t his name come up more often?
“Wouldn’t meeting your brother complicate our friendship? What if he hates me? Worse. What if he likes me?”
Mert snorted. “It don’t matter neither way. I love you, and your little dog, Toto, too.”
That last comment was delivered in a near perfect mimicry of the Wicked Witch of the West voice. I laughed at Mert’s oddball sense of humor.
“You gotta join us. We’re going to have ourselves a good time. After a couple of beers, the whole world looks better, and that’s a fact. Iff’n it weren’t for Budweiser, I’d’a been wiser. I’ll tell you more about my baby brother later. Got to run.”
“Um, one last question.”
“Shoot. But make it quick-like.”
“Do I have bad breath?”
“Not that I ever noticed. But don’t you dare plant a big French smooch on me so we can find out.”
8
“Remember, no Sesame Street,” I cautioned Anya after introducing her to Guy. My daughter loves animals, and Guy acted as if he’d fallen for her as well. I left the two of them curled up on the sofa while I finished making our dinner. The chicken drumettes in my slow cooker were bubbling in honey-mustard sauce, and homemade coleslaw chilled in the refrigerator. I stirred a half gallon pitcher of water until the peach-flavored instant tea mix dissolved. A bowl of cut-up cantaloupe sat in the middle of the table. For dessert we had frozen bananas dipped in chocolate in the freezer. It might not be gourmet fare, but it was wholesome and economi
cal.
I stuck my head around the door from the kitchen into our tiny living room. “Dinner’s ready.”
“I’m not hungry.” Anya had been sullen and grumpy since coming back from the mall. Had she and Nicci had a tiff? I hoped not.
“Did you eat at the mall?”
“No.”
“Then you need to sit down and have something.”
“I told you I’m not hungry.”
That concerned me. My daughter is underweight. Before the academic year ended, the school nurse had been worried enough to call me and ask about her eating habits. That precipitated a sit-down talk in the nurse’s office. As a result, Anya had promised to eat—or at least to try to eat—something at every meal.
She avoided my glare of reproach by watching Guy bounce around the kitchen like one of those superballs you buy for a quarter from a gumball machine. He was literally running up the walls and turning flips. After one such display of defiance of gravity, Guy landed on Anya’s feet, springing up at her like a kid on a pogo stick.
“I think I’ll take Guy outside for a walk.” At the mall, she’d used money from Sheila to buy a new pair of flip-flops. They were cute, with sequins and big silk flowers in shades of blue and green. I suspected she wanted to practice walking in them so she didn’t embarrass herself in front of her peers.
I hesitated. I didn’t like the thought of her being outside and all alone. Not while her father’s killer was on the loose.
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 24
