“Will do.” Clancy put on her reading glasses. They were by Versace. I put on my reading glasses. Mine were by Walmart. We punched in numbers.
But we weren’t fast enough.
The first carload of scrapbookers arrived as we dialed. They parked in front of Marla’s house.
“Uh oh.” I meant that as code for “rats, dag-nabit” or something stronger.
Four women bailed out of Lottie Feister’s car. I could barely see them through the dirty dining room window.
I hopped up from the table where Hadcho was finishing his notes. Even as he yelled at me, I raced to the curb.
“Hi! We’re here!” Lottie waved at me. Her smile was as bright and cheery as the orange-red hair she wore on her head.
Clancy tagged along behind me. “Um, Lottie? There’s a bit of a problem.”
Two more cars arrived. Doors slammed. Three scrapbookers jumped out of the vehicles, unloading their Cropper-Hoppers and other suitcases on wheels. The women stood on the sidewalk and gaped at the house. Their mouths were hanging so far open that I could count their fillings. They were shocked by the unkempt condition of a building with this expensive address.
“This is Marla’s place?” one woman wondered.
“We’re having our crop here?” said another.
I stepped in front of the crowd. “Um, everybody? See, I’m very sorry to say, there’s a…we have a…”
Clancy grabbed my shoulder and moved me aside. With a crisp clap of her hands, she said, “Listen up! Attention! Marla isn’t feeling well. We have to cancel and reschedule.”
“Why don’t I just drop off this squash casserole? My garden is loaded with squash. In fact, I brought a bag of them, in case anybody wants some.” The squash-loving scrapbooker tried to step around Clancy.
“I’d love to relieve you of your squash, but I can’t let you inside.” I blocked her way. “This might be contagious. You don’t want to go in there. Really you don’t. You can’t.”
Another scrapper hoisted a Tupperware cupcake carrier. “I baked all last night so I could ice these this morning. I’ll just set them in her kitchen. That’s the least I can do.”
“No!” I panicked. “That’s very nice of you, but Marla’s indisposed. Seriously. You can’t go in. Not now.”
“Marla’s indi-what? You mean sick? Is that puke I smell? Over in the bushes?” Casserole woman outflanked me. She moved within two inches of my face and sniffed the air like a beagle.
“Marla’s not well. Sorry, there’s no help for it. We’ll have to reschedule.” I stuck a finger inside my collar and pulled it away from my neck, trying to get a little air on my skin.
“If she’s sick, we need to go see how we can help.” Cupcake Lady turned a high-beam smile on me.
“Somebody else is already here.” Lottie pointed to Hadcho’s car. Fortunately, it was unmarked. Unfortunately, anyone who knew anything about cop cars would identify it as such. I needed to distract Lottie, pronto.
“Uh, yes, but he’s helping Marla. He’s a neighbor,” I lied, while feeling grateful that the Animal Control Van #1 had left, and Van #2 had not yet arrived.
“We could help Marla,” said Cupcake Lady.
I closed my eyes and took a deep breath. Any minute uniformed police would be pulling up to assist in closing down Marla’s animal hoarding operation. Animal Control officers would be arriving, too. I needed to get these women back in the car and on the road—and I needed to do it quickly.
“Um,” I stalled. “That’s very kind of you to want to assist. Very kind. But Marla’s not doing so hot, and Clancy and I’ve already been…sick. It’s definitely catching. You don’t want to get this.”
That was true. Marginally true, but true. Encouraged by my own quick thinking, I added, “You’ll have to come back another day. We’ll reschedule everything.”
“I live over on Gravois and drove here all the way from Fenton. Do you know the price of gas? I’m not driving all this way again. I came to scrapbook and I plan to do just that.” Lottie crossed her arms over her chest and glared at me.
The other three women mimicked her gesture. Monkey see, monkey do, I guess.
An Animal Control van pulled up as I was talking. Three uniformed Animal Control officers stepped out. Their expressions were grim as they hoisted nets on poles and pet carriers. An SUV from the County Health Department pulled in behind them. These were both followed by a squad car of uniformed officers from Ladue.
“Hey!” said one of the scrappers. “They’re going inside! All of them! Let’s see what’s happening! We can take pictures!”
“Pictures!” squealed the other women. “We love pictures!”
“Whoa! Stop!” Clancy and I threw out our arms in an imitation of school crossing guards. “No!”
Cupcake Lady shoved me to one side. “Move out of my way, Kiki Lowenstein.”
“Stop!” I yelled, but the women ran right past me.
A loud Bronx whistle split the air.
Hadcho stomped down the concrete steps, his eyes narrow and angry, his lips twisted into a sneer. One hand rested on his Sam Brown belt and his handcuffs were exposed. His jacket was flipped open and his gun holster gleamed in the hot sun. With that thick black hair of his and his chiseled cheekbones, he could have been Geronimo on the warpath.
“What part of stop don’t you understand? Mrs. Lowenstein told you to stop, and you didn’t listen. Did you? Huh? Ladies, either you back off or you’ll be taking pictures in jail. Go away. Pronto. Are we clear? You! You with the cupcakes. Hand them over! Now!”
Cupcake Lady’s lower lip quivered, but she did as she was told.
Hadcho snatched them from her and held them at his side. A whiff of chocolate danced in the air.
“These might be evidence,” Hadcho said. “Now scat! Go!”
As the women reluctantly headed for their cars, Hadcho beckoned to me and Clancy. “Mrs. Lowenstein? Mrs. Whitehead? Get inside the house. Now.”
11
Later that same afternoon…
While Hadcho worked on his report, I phoned the store again. Fortunately, Rebekkah had disconnected the fax machine. My fingers were crossed that I could talk our Sales Mangler into getting in touch with any stragglers who might have signed up at the last minute to attend our crop. Sometimes people registered online, and I wanted to alert them that the crop had been canceled.
However, Rebekkah listened long enough to immediately seize on one part of our conversation and one part only: cancelation of an event.
“I can’t believe you really canceled the crop!” She was seriously ticked off. “Are you kidding me?”
“You have to understand—” I tried to explain, but Rebekkah cut me off.
“No, you have to understand. I’m the manager. If I schedule a crop then you are supposed to hold one!” In my mind’s eye, I could see Rebekkah’s wild hair, forming a black cloud around her face.
“The police put the kibosh on our happy little gathering,” I said. “I had no choice in the matter.”
“Yes, but you called the cops, didn’t you?” Rebekkah’s voice was shrill. “They didn’t come out of the blue.”
I wanted to defend myself, but then a memory popped into my head, a remembrance of a scene I’d overheard at Starbucks. A woman ordered a decaf, sugar-free, non-fat latte, and the barista called it a “Why Bother?”
That was exactly what we had here, a “Why Bother?” Rebekkah wasn’t going to listen or be fair to me. Why waste my time and energy trying to explain what happened at Marla’s house?
“Come on back to the store, hear me? You two will have to deal with all the angry customers! I refuse to do it!” yelled Rebekkah into the phone.
Once Hadcho okayed us to leave, we drove immediately back to Time in a Bottle. As we pulled away from Marla’s house, I saw a uniformed patrolman plonking down an orange Road Closed cone.
Clancy and I decided to swing through McDonald’s and get two large iced teas. We figured we’d lost tw
o quarts of sweat each. Once we were in line, the squawk box asked, “May I take your order?”
We answered by adding two Fillet of Fish sandwiches, fries, and caramel sundaes.
“We deserve it,” she said.
“Mmmhmmm.” I tried to agree with my mouth full.
Not surprisingly, as soon as we got back to the store, the phone was ringing with disappointed croppers.
Standing at the cash register, I answered the first one, got an earful of complaining, told the scrapbooker I’d call her back later, and realized we needed a game plan. “Clancy? What should we do?”
“First we choose a time to re-schedule. Then we offer them something free to compensate them for their time, money and trouble. We also offer a refund, but the freebie should be cool enough that they refuse the refund and reschedule.”
She opened the big datebook that she uses to log all our events. These are also kept in the computer in our Outlook program, but having the datebook at hand means we don’t need to boot up the computer to answer a question. Anyway, questions usually occur as people pay for their merchandise when the book is handy.
“What can we offer?” she asked as she stared at the calendar.
“I wish Dodie was here. I’d prefer to get her input.”
Clancy’s mouth formed a deep frown. “Don’t worry about that. I have a hunch that Dodie will have plenty to say about this. It can all wait until tomorrow. I don’t know about you, but I’m wiped out. Exhausted. Emotionally and physically. Between the heat and the mess, I’m beat.
“Me, too,” I agreed.
“After work, you have to pick up your daughter, drive home, let out your dog, make dinner, and play mommy. I get to go home to an empty house, take a shower, pour a glass of wine, and hop into bed.”
“Sounds heavenly.”
Clancy sighed. “It’s not. It’s just plain pathetic.”
12
Later that evening…
The knock at my front door was unexpected. My daughter and mother-in-law both have their own keys. The visitor was persistent. The noise of bare knuckles against wood rang out over the deep woof-woof of my dog, Gracie, a harlequin Great Dane. Most people call Gracie a rescue dog, and that’s totally accurate. After my husband George died, Gracie rescued me from despair. I’d always wanted a dog. Seeing poor Gracie squashed into a small metal crate on the sidewalk of a pet shop nearly broke my heart. True, she was an expense I couldn’t afford, but one I eagerly took on because I simply couldn’t live without her.
“Settle down, Gracie.” I hooked a finger under her collar to afford me some control as she pranced in front of the door, willing it to open. That made it nearly impossible for me to get to the peep hole.
“Gracie, move! Let me see who’s out there.” Shoving her aside takes a bit of muscle because she weighs nearly as much as I do.
Through the hole in the door, I stared into the amazing green eyes of Detective Chad Detweiler, the homicide cop who had worked on my husband’s murder case. My heart took a nose dive straight down to my Keds as I yanked the door open.
“So this is your new place.” Detweiler’s eyes traveled everywhere but seemed to shy away from me.
“Uh-huh.” I’d avoided Detweiler for many reasons. Now I could barely bring myself to look at him.
“Better neighborhood.”
“Yup.” I’d been burglarized at my previous rental home. Home? Hovel is more like it. I’d been living in a dump. I’d found this place with help from my mother-in-law, Sheila, and moved in a month ago.
Detweiler cleared his throat. “Good. Glad you’re safe. I came by to see if you’re all right. Stan Hadcho called me from the scene. He’s my partner, and he knows about your late husband.” Detweiler shifted his weight from one foot to the other.
Gracie’s cold nose pressed against the back of my leg, causing it to buckle. Or at least, that’s my story and I’m sticking to it. Detweiler has this habit of turning me into jelly. I’ve been keeping my distance from him ever since I discovered he is married. If I needed another reason, his wife had made it clear she knew about me. Staying clear of Detweiler has been hard. Really hard. Our paths seem destined to cross frequently.
He does part-time security for CALA, the Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy, where Anya goes to school. My new house is on the route he travels from CALA to the police station. Once in a while, I see him drive by, and I’ve noticed him at school events. I hear about him from his boss, Chief of Police Robbie Holmes, who is dating my mother-in-law, Sheila Lowenstein. For all those reasons and more, our paths occasionally cross, but he has never visited my new place. Not until now.
“Nice house. Good neighborhood.” Detweiler repeated himself.
I knew he was wondering how I could afford it. I’d worried about that, too. At first, I doubted I’d ever find a place that satisfied my limited budget, offered an ideal location, and allowed a big dog. Fortunately, bestselling author Leighton Haversham wanted a tenant for his garage-turned-cottage, his failed experiment at writing in a spacious building. He also needed a person who could help him with Petunia, his pug, and Monroe (pronounced Mon-ROW), his donkey. For that he was willing to reduce our rent. The match fit both our needs perfectly.
“I bet Gracie enjoys the big yard.”
“She does.” In fact, Gracie, Anya, and I all loved the spacious grounds and the huge shade tree. The landscaping was Leighton’s pride and joy, and he had invested hours and dollars into making it spectacular. There was even a small koi pond that Gracie could wade in to cool off on hot summer days.
Throwing her full weight against my legs, the dog pushed past me to get to Detweiler. He squatted down to rub her ears.
“I’ve missed you.” Detweiler bent closer to the dog, but we both knew what he meant. His wife had made a special trip to Time in a Bottle to tell me he missed me and to warn me to stay away from her husband.
I’d done exactly that. Keeping my distance. Ignoring his calls, two letters, and a couple of text messages, but I couldn’t deny my intense feelings for the tall, lean detective.
Gracie also had a crush on the cop. My pup loves me, but I have no illusions. In a contest between me and the cop, I’d come in a distant second.
The cool air from my A/C unit rushed past. Even at the end of the day, it was like a blast furnace outside. Usually, I would have slammed the door in a hurry. But how could I when that meant slamming it in Detweiler’s face?
As he slowly straightened, I felt torn. “Stan said you walked right into a real mess. Are you okay?”
I nodded. Even though I wanted to forget my visit to Marla Lever’s house, I was happy to have a reason to see Detweiler again. Fate had brought us back together…sort of. Seeing him produced a physical ache that no Advil would cure.
“I got to the Lever house an hour after you’d left, and I couldn’t believe how bad the place smelled. Must have been a real nightmare when you found your friend lying there on the bed.”
“It was. Care to come in where it’s cool?” My heart pounded so loudly, I was sure he could hear it. He stepped past me and took a seat on the edge of my sofa. Gracie moved with him, as if she were glued to his side.
“You sure you’re all right?” he asked, and the expression on his face was one of real concern.
“Kinda. Sorta.”
I tried to wipe the image from my mind, but I’ll admit that a part of me was fascinated. How could Marla have lived like that? With all those cats? And the papers? Why wasn’t her living room filled sky high with junk, too? Why did no one notice the growing hoard of animals? How had she kept her weird little secret quiet for so long? After all, Marla had smelled of cat urine. Didn’t she have any friends who noticed? Did no one try to get her help?
Most intriguing: What would happen next?
“Would you like a glass of iced tea?” I said. Sitting in the same room with him made me antsy.
“Yes, please. Unsweetened.”
“Fortunately, I have a lot of ice,�
� I said. “Speaking of which, did you find anything wrong with Marla’s A/C?”
“The switch had been tripped at her fuse box,” said Detweiler. “We didn’t find any fingerprints on the toggle. It’s weird that no one complained about the smell coming from her house.”
“Her place is at the end of the block. It’s sort of set apart."
I bustled around in my kitchen. He’d followed me to that room, and now he pulled out a chair and sat down at my table. Although he’d never been in this house before, he seemed to belong. Out of the corner of my eyes, I caught him glancing around and taking the place in.
“Right, but there’s a guy who lives behind her. You’d have thought he would have noticed,” said the cop. “Of course, people for several blocks over noticed an unusual number of cats wandering around.”
“I guess Marla couldn’t keep all of them inside. A couple escaped when the EMTs came to take her to the hospital,” I said.
“Her lot is pretty secluded. Most of the other residents were happy enough to have a quiet old lady down the street who minded her own business. Beats me what they were thinking. Maybe they weren’t thinking. We all get busy. Maybe they didn’t realize she was accumulating all those cats. Probably a lot of them look somewhat alike.”
He continued, “Hadcho told me that Mrs. Lever’s daughter and son-in-law stopped by to see her at the hospital. Her son, Allen Lever, showed up, too. Not that they could do much visiting since Mrs. Lever’s in a coma. There’s not much to charge her with. Animal cruelty. Breaking the city statutes. That’s the long and short of it. Unfortunately, Missouri doesn’t have any anti-hoarding laws.”
“What did her family say?” I handed him his glass before sipping my iced tea and chewing on a mint leaf.
“Her daughter was livid. Went ballistic. I guess they’ve cleared out Mrs. Lever’s house twice before. Mrs. Lever told them she was getting help. Supposedly was on medication. Tofranil? I guess it was prescribed for her years ago, she quit taking it, started up again after her kids begged her. They thought she was getting better. Then this.”
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 50
