“Got a new cure for these monsters. Pickle juice,” she said as she poured the green liquid into the dirt. “Two new tunnels popped up overnight. One website said this will scare off these suckers. I saved the leftover dills for you because Anya likes them.”
She pointed to a bowl on her sidewalk. Green cucumbers were piled a foot high in the white container, looking like a kid’s art project gone wrong. The air was pungent with the smell of garlic. What on earth would I do with all those pickles?
Sheila wore an expression of triumph as she waved a hand over the mess. “I got them this time. Fixed their little wagons good. Did you know moles have three to five pups a litter? And they don’t really dig? They sort of swim through the dirt? Their front paws scrape at the soil. The back legs push it like a back-stroke swimmer moves water. Once the animal loosens enough soil, he turns a flip. While he’s on his back, he pushes the dislodged dirt upwards, creating the mole hill.”
In my best imitation of Butterfly McQueen, I said, “Golly, Miss Sheila, I don’t know nuttin’ about birthin’ no moles, and that’s the truth.”
Sheila gave me a sidelong look. “I’m surprised at you, Kiki. You love animals.”
“Animals, yes. Rodents, not so much. Not real fond of most reptiles, either.”
“Moles are insectivores, not rodents.” Sheila pointed to the nearly dry pickle bottles. “You can take all that home and use them for crafts.”
I needed two dozen glass pickle bottles like I needed a fresh set of stretch marks across my stomach. Just to keep Sheila happy, I twisted lids onto empty bottles. She shoved a cardboard box with dividers under my nose. Six bottles fit into the spaces. Sheila duplicated my efforts with the other jars. Without preamble, my mother-in-law said, “I want you to come with me to the annual Opera Theatre Dinner this Saturday. It’s black tie.”
Those were the operative words: “I want you to.”
“I don’t own a black tie. Black’s not my color.”
Sheila gave me a scathing look.
“In fact, I don’t own any evening clothes. I have nothing to wear.” After George died, I happily donated the few evening gowns I owned to a shop providing prom dresses to low-income girls.
If you live long enough, life displays a circular quality. I grew up as one of those impoverished girls, and now I was back where I’d started. From poverty, I’d won a scholarship to opportunity, in the guise of college. From opportunity, I’d lost my chance at education to unplanned pregnancy. From unplanned pregnancy, I’d received the greatest gift life could offer, my child. Weighed on cosmic scales, I was infinitely rich, although my worldly bank account might not concur with spiritual accounting practices.
“I’ll take care of that. Anya and I will go shopping tomorrow after science camp to buy you a suitable gown, accessories, and shoes. I booked you into Spa La Femme, that new spa in Defiance, for various beauty treatments.”
It irked me that Sheila never bothered to ask. She simply assumed acquiescence. In response, I gritted my teeth. If I kept that habit up, I could take a pass on beauty treatments and go directly to one of those “Dentures in One Day—$99” places advertised on billboards all over rural Missouri.
Sheila wanted to play hardball. Okay, two could play this game. I trotted out my all-purpose excuse. “I have to work.”
“Not this Saturday. Dodie scheduled that other woman. Florida? New Mexico?”
“Bama,” I mumbled. “Like Alabama.”
We loaded boxes of jars into my trunk while Guy hopped up and down, barking furiously from his spot under the tree. Gracie opened one eye then continued to snooze, while the terrier made a fool of himself.
“Good Lord, are you babysitting rats these days? You said you didn’t like rodents.”
“He might be a brat, but he isn’t a rat.” While I was defending him, Guy hurled himself toward Sheila. When he got to the end of his leash, it snapped him back. The force sent him reeling, and he toppled over Gracie’s head, landing like a crooked coon cap. Aroused from her slumber, my Great Dane lifted her blocky countenance to gaze sadly at me. Guy’s short legs dangled around Gracie’s ears like flaps on a hunting cap. My dog tilted her head to stare at me, causing the terrier to slide onto the ground with a thump.
“You can’t fight stupid,” I said to poor Gracie as I untangled the leashes.
16
Sheila dusted off her hands as she headed toward her back door. Over one shoulder, she shouted back to me, “I’ll pick up Anya after science camp tomorrow.”
“Okay,” I called to Sheila’s back, although I knew she didn’t need to hear my answer. “I give up. You win. I’ll go with you to Opera Theatre. And I’ll spend the day Saturday getting a manicure. Pedicure. Whatever.”
“All of the above. Stay right there. Don’t untie the dogs just yet.” Sheila paused with one hand on the knob, the other with fingers fluttering like a queen bored with an impertinent courtier.
I fumed, but I obeyed. We did this dance all the time. She would command, and I would do as ordered. What else was new?
Maybe I could make up the lost weekend hours by working on a freelance project. First, I’d have to scrounge up a freelance project. I’d finished the anniversary album, and the happy recipients had been in to pick it up. But as they stood at the cash register, they asked questions about “that woman who died while scrapbooking.” When I didn’t have much to say, they’d paid their bill and toddled off into the sunset.
The incident dampened my spirits. How could we get more freelance business while people were blaming us for Yvonne Gaynor’s death? I walked to a shady spot under an old tulip tree at the edge of Sheila’s driveway. Here in the shade, it was cool and quiet. Why was life so complicated?
Sheila came out of the house, carrying a tea tray and a large bowl of ice water for the dogs.
“Put that down for the animals. We need to chat.” She headed for the lovely arbor in her side yard. Once there, she put the tray on a low table with matching wicker chairs. Without asking, she poured me a tall glass of iced tea and repeated the process for herself.
“When will Anya be ready? It was nice of you to get them water, but the dogs need to eat.” As I spoke, I couldn’t help eyeing the assortment of Girl Scout cookies on a platter. Finally, I gave in and grabbed a Thin Mint.
“I think your dogs can handle another five minutes under my sugar maple tree. There’s a nice breeze. What I have to say is important. Anya is on the computer Instant Messaging her friends. I expect she gave you an earful complaining about science camp. Don’t pay any attention. That’s to be expected. She’s growing up. This will be like the terrible two’s all over again. Including, but not limited to, rejection of everything, whether she really means it or not.”
A gentle breeze ruffled Sheila’s hair. Until Harry’s illness, she’d been a brunette, or so photos seemed to indicate. But shortly before I met her, she’d let her stylist color her hair a stunning shade of silvery white. The icy tones suited her personality.
“Did you go through this with George?” We’d never talked much about her relationship with her son while he was alive. Now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Sharing made us less alone in our grief. My marriage hadn’t been perfect, nor was it a match made in heaven. But George had been my friend and a committed partner in raising our child.
Maybe romantic love is overrated.
I remembered Detweiler’s kiss.
Not a chance.
“Was he a handful as a teenager?” I persisted.
Lifting a tea glass to her mouth, she considered my question. Seeing her in the shadow of the arbor, I could better observe those features she’d passed through her son to my daughter: lovely denim blue eyes, a high forehead, and a determined set of her jaw.
“Yes. In fact, George was absolutely hateful to me and everyone else. Nearly got expelled from high school for his snotty attitude. When the teen years strike, the closer children are to their parents, the tougher it is for them to a
ct independent in a respectful manner. Instead, they use the people they love as target practice. Once they’ve destroyed our figures, our hearts, our egos, our bank accounts and our self-esteem, it’s on to our jugular veins. That’s one reason we work hard to get them into a good college. It’s good for us—and for them—to move away. While they’re under our roofs, they make us miserable with their in-your-face presence, and when they’re off at school, they make us so lonely we could cry. It’s a no-win situation. But before you get to the point of losing it with Anya, call me, and I’ll come pick her up.”
I helped myself to another Thin Mint.
Her eyes twinkled over the edge of her frosty glass of tea. “It’ll be harder for her to break my heart than to break yours. Mine’s been around the block a couple of times.”
17
At home, Anya insisted on taking Guy for a walk. Watching her wrap the leash around one hand and maneuver her cell phone in the other, I could tell this wasn’t about exercising the dog. It was a thinly veiled excuse for privacy. The dynamic duo was gone about five minutes. Upon returning, Anya plopped down on the sofa, still chatting into her cell phone. While he nosed around at Anya’s feet, Guy discovered a rubber ball in the box of dog toys we keep for our guests.
Next thing I knew, Anya was tossing it for the little fellow. Airborne Guy appeared as in snapshots, framed by the doorframe to my kitchen. The terrier leaped past the kitchen door opening to snatch the ball mid-flight. At first, the high-flying paws amused me. Then I started to worry about his safety.
I put down the hamburger I was forming into patties, washed my hands and stepped into the living room to issue a caution. Before I could say my piece, Guy ran up the side of a wall and turned flips.
Preoccupied with her phone call, Anya hadn’t noticed Guy’s antics. My arrival caused her to pause her conversation long enough to tear her attention away from her phone. When she did, her mouth fell open wide in shock.
I took advantage of her full attention. “He’s going to break something. We need to calm him down.” I walked over to Guy and patted him, running my hands along his body to encourage him to settle down. He wriggled with joy, but I shushed him until he grew calmer.
“All you do is gripe at me.” Anya snapped her phone shut. “I hate living in this tiny box of a house. If we had a family room like all my friends do, I could have some privacy.”
“Let’s not discuss this right now,” I countered reasonably. “I’m tired and hungry and—”
Anya continued. “I can’t even have a conversation without you listening in. If I had text messaging, I could—”
“Anya, not now. Not tonight. We’ll discuss this some other time.” As I turned toward the kitchen, her eyes dug angry holes in my back. I called over my shoulder. “In a few minutes, you need to set the table.” I heard her mimicking my voice, but I ignored the invitation to a quarrel.
It had been a long, rotten day. I looked forward to a relaxing shower. Maybe under the stimulus of running water, I could come up with a plan for finding Yvonne’s killer and figure out what Mert meant when she warned me not to trust Detweiler. Or was she saying I shouldn’t trust cops in general? I hadn’t had the chance to pin her down.
More than likely, her comment had been a reaction to the grilling by the police. I knew she liked Detweiler and thought him a good man.
Yeah, that had to be it.
After we ate hamburgers, coleslaw, and a fruit salad, I quickly cleared the dishes. Rather than argue with Anya, I did most of the work to clean the kitchen. When I was finished, I headed for the tiny bathroom she and I shared. There I leaned against the shower wall and opened my hands to the cascade of water. The prickling of droplets on my palms always soothes me. Rubbing the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other stimulates a stress-reducing acupressure site. In the shower, the water can work on both hands at once. A long sigh released the last of my tension. Wrought-up energy leaked from my body and flowed down the drain.
Detweiler’s face came unbidden. He always soothed me. Well, nearly always. His presence made me feel safe and …
And what? Loved? Dare I think that? The memory of our kiss intruded on all other thoughts, even though I tried to put it aside. The warm and luscious feelings I’d locked away were dangerously close to breaking down my carefully constructed protective barriers.
I hadn’t given my whole heart to George, but he’d had enough of it to hurt me deeply.
I wasn’t ready to love another man. Or was I?
18
I dropped Anya off at camp with a reminder: “Your grandmother will pick you up to go clothes shopping and stay overnight. I’ll come get you tomorrow afternoon at her house.”
“Goody, goody,” she said sarcastically.
Gone for sure was the biddable sweet child of six months ago. Hello, hellion!
Actually, I should thank the good Lord I worked forty-plus hours a week. If she’d been like this when I was a stay-at-home mom, it would have done me in completely.
Anya’s snarling tones echoed in my brain. My heart ached as I wondered, was I really a total loser? I sure felt like one.
I couldn’t walk into Time in a Bottle wearing a grumpy expression. Especially not when we had a reputation to repair.
A visit to Kaldi’s was in order. As we idled in the drive-through lane, Guy slammed himself into the back of my seat, barking like a Doberman on crack. Over his complaints, I ordered my current favorite: a toasted chestnut brew. Once I had my drink, I pulled the car into a shady spot in the parking lot.
As I sipped the rich brew, I opened my glove box and extracted two dog yummies. Gracie had taken over the passenger seat when Anya left the car. My faithful co-pilot delicately crunched her biscuit while Guy snarfed his down in a hurry and stood on two legs to bark at passers-by. A blue Hyundai took the empty space next to my BMW.
When a young woman climbed out of the car next to ours, Guy went into a frenzy. The girl did a double-take, causing her dreadlocks to fly in a half-circle around her head.
“Hey!” She stopped and stared at my back window, which I’d cracked to give Guy the chance to sniff the outside world. “Is that Guy? Hi, boy! How’s life? Huh? How’s the widdle Guy-boy doggers, huh?” She reached in through the open glass and patted the small dog on his head.
Guy pranced around excitedly. He licked her fingers and yodeled with joy.
I asked the young woman, “You know this fellow? I’m just dog sitting.”
“Yeah, I went to college with Karen.” Sunlight glinted off the nose ring that protruded from her right nostril. The peppery scent of patchouli wafted my way. “I heard she got a job, and her new apartment doesn’t allow pets. Lucky thing. About the job, I mean. I’m stuck working as a barista.”
As I got a good look at her, I realized this girl had more holes in her face than a colander. I wondered, wasn’t all that drilling painful? Who signed up for more misery in life? Only the young.
“Maybe something else will come along,” I said. But secretly I wondered if all that hardware was holding her back.
Guy couldn’t get enough of our visitor. He licked her furiously. By now, he’d managed to wriggle so that he was half-way out of the window, a feat I’d never imagined he could pull off. Leaning over the console, I managed to grasp his collar and ease him back away from the open window. With him firmly in my clutches, I raised it a bit so he couldn’t squirm out again.
“See ya,” the girl said. A sad howl erupted from Guy as he realized she was leaving. She’d only gone a few steps when she turned, a finger to her mouth thoughtfully, and came back.
“Whatever you do, don’t let him watch Sesame Street. Especially Elmo. Wow. Not Elmo. Ever.”
19
I got the dogs settled in the back room of Time in a Bottle, I took out the trash and set the plastic recycling cartons by the curb. Dodie is a real newshound, reading the local paper from front to back, so each week we recycle a lot of newsprint. I took care to stack the newsp
apers carefully and set a brick on top to keep them from flying away. As I positioned the brick, I recognized the society section. Staring at me were photos of newly engaged couples.
Most of the portraits were taken by professional photographers. Those photogs must have pretty stiff competition. Wouldn’t custom albums give them an edge? And who better to offer them than Time in a Bottle? All it would take was a few phone calls, and I’d know whether this idea was a keeper. I hurried back into the store, took a seat at Dodie’s desk, and flipped open the phone book to make a list of commercial photographers mentioning “Wedding” in their ads.
Since the listings covered a page and a half, my sheet filled up quickly. A few of the ads contained only names and phone numbers. Those I wrote on a second sheet. Maybe some did weddings, but some probably didn’t, so a phone call would sort what was what. Midway through my second list, the back door opened, and Dodie straggled in. Her hair stuck out from her head like a bad pincushion, and her clothes sported wrinkles as though she’d slept in them.
She tossed the day’s newspaper onto the desktop in front of me, scattering my carefully constructed notes. Her lack of concern about what I was doing irritated me, and I nearly said as much, until my eyes focused on the front-page headline: “Tainted Scone Kills Scrapbooker.”
According to Post-Dispatch sources speaking on the basis of anonymity, a “noted local scrapbook celebrity” Yvonne Gaynor died from a severe allergic reaction to baby aspirin mixed with icing on an orange scone. Yvonne’s photo appeared alongside a picture of our storefront. The cutline announced, “The scrapbooking event hosted by this business turned deadly when contaminated food was served.” St. Louis Police Chief Robbie Holmes said, “The Major Case Squad is vigorously pursuing several leads.”
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 27
