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

  “That better?” she asked.

  “Yes.” The worst part of this weird get-up was the sense of claustrophobia it caused, coupled with the ongoing irritation of fumbling about.

  Mert assigned me the job of gathering up newspapers, tying them with string, and carrying them to the recycling bin. Starting at the front door, I managed to clear the foyer before we took our first break. My back and arms ached pleasantly, the way muscles do when you are getting good exercise. But my lower back started in with sharp pangs. The pain was a prelude to spasms; I stopped and took a couple of Advil.

  “You, okay?” Mert came over to my side when she noticed me at the watering station, gulping down the reddish pills.

  “Yep.” No way was I bailing out on her.

  Getting the newspapers out of the living room would present a challenge. I’d have to carry the heavy bales of newspaper through the small foyer and out the front door. That would slow me down and put more strain on my muscles.

  What to do, what to do?

  Opening a window was the best idea. I could toss the newspaper bundles out of the window, run outside, and haul them to the recycling bin. But when I tried to yank on the sills, I snapped off two fingernails, down to the quick.

  “Ouch!” I squealed in pain.

  “What’s the matter, little girl? That window too much for you?” With one hand, Johnny popped loose one of the closed windows. “Not much to do in prison other than work out.” “Thanks,” I told him.

  “Cost you a kiss,” he said.

  I laughed and pecked him on the cheek, which was really weird with our helmets bumping and our masks shielding our skin. We would never be more than friends, but I thought the world of the man. He seemed determined to walk a narrow path, to pay back his big sister for all his legal fees, and to make Mert proud of him. Consequently, whenever she needed help on a big job, he was Johnny-on-the-spot, and that was no joke.

  “You’re planning to toss them papers out the window, aren’t you?” He sized up the situation. “That’s a good idea. Let me open the other three windows so you’ll get a breeze and so’s you don’t have to walk so far with the bundles. Mert told me you have asthma. She said I better keep an eye on you. The outside air’ll be better than what’s in here, but if you need me, just holler.”

  “You okay?” Mert noticed Johnny talking with me. “How’s your asthma?”

  I didn’t want to tell her that I’d already used my inhaler twice, so I lied and said, “Fine, but the open windows will help a lot.” The A/C in Marla’s house was largely ineffective. The fan couldn’t blow cool air through the stacks and piles of paper. Was it possible that she didn’t even know the A/C had gone out? Maybe she’s grown accustomed to the stale, stinking, hot air, but on that particular day, it had overcome her.

  As I worked, the day moved from warm to beastly hot. Sweat dripped down my face. When I bent over to wrap string around the papers, the salty liquid rolled into my eyes. Instinctively, I tried to wipe it away, but of course, the Tyvek didn’t absorb anything.

  At some point, I yanked the curtains to one side to allow the maximum air flow. As I lifted my arms, my back screamed long and loudly with pain, the spasms taking their toll. I stood up, pressing against my lower lumbar and using my knuckles to relieve the muscles.

  Something landed on the top of my head.

  I whooped with fear, batting at my hood with both hands.

  No one heard me because everyone else was busy in other corners of the house. Trudy in the back bedroom. Johnny in the garage. Mert in the kitchen.

  That thing on my head slipped to one side. Tiny pinpricks stabbed through the Tyvek and into my scalp. A tiny yellow paw appeared as I looked through the lenses of my goggles. I held perfectly still.

  What had landed on my head?

  I stood perfectly still, but the thing on my Tyvek helmet moved. Could it be that I’d been bombarded by a stray cat? Had we overlooked one?

  But this thing on my head was far too light to be a cat. It couldn’t weigh more than a few ounces.

  I strained my ears and was rewarded by the tiniest “meow” ever. Slowly I moved my hands upwards and plucked from my head a palm-sized yellow tabby. He stared at me with big lime-green eyes and tried to “meow” again but nothing came out.

  “You poor little tyke. They rounded up everyone else, didn’t they? Let’s see what we can do for you.”

  I carried the kitten over to Mert, who’d been working in Marla’s bedroom. We walked outside. She pulled off her hood and shook her head. I did the same. She glanced down at the kitten and gave me a glum look. “He’ll probably die.”

  “W-w-what?” I cradled the cat to my chest. “What do you mean, die? He’ll be okay. He has to.”

  “Most of Marla’s cats were sick.” Mert stared at the tiny ball of yellow fluff. “If this one don’t have feline distemper, it’s a miracle. You can’t take him home because he’ll only kick the kitty litter bag on you—and that would break your heart.”

  “He’ll make it. You can tell he’s a fighter. His name is Martin.” I don’t know why I called him “Martin,” but it fit.

  “Martin, huh? Change outta your biohazard suit and drive him over to the shelter. See what they say, then get right back here.”

  On the ride over, Martin curled up in my lap and purred happily. Handing the tiny cat over to Mrs. Gershin, the shelter volunteer, nearly did me in. Martin didn’t want to let me go. He gripped me with his claws and mewed weakly, while Mrs. Gershin and I tried to disentangle him from my clothes.

  The elderly volunteer wrinkled her nose behind big trifocal glasses that magnified her eyes to comic proportions. “Yours? You giving him up?”

  “Gosh, no.” I explained who I was and how I found him.

  “Sad day. We’ve put twenty-two cats to sleep already.” She held up Martin with one hand and examined him carefully. “Very young. I’d guess he’s two weeks old. See how his ears are still folded over? This one will need to be hand-fed.”

  “I’ll do it. I’ll hand feed him.”

  “You want to get up every four hours?”

  I swallowed hard. “No, but I will.”

  “Hey there, little boy,” cooed Mrs. Gershin.

  “His name is Martin.”

  Mrs. Gershin’s tiny smile blossomed into a big grin. “You’re sunk. Once you name them, you claim them.”

  I figured as much. “I have to get back to work.”

  “We close at five. Come back then. I’ll give you instructions for feeding Martin. We’ll have the vet check him. You do know you’ll have to encourage his bowels to move, don’t you?”

  “I’ve probably encouraged bowel movements in the past. But not on purpose.”

  “Let’s see if we can perfect your technique.”

  22

  On the way back to Marla’s, I stopped at my house and let out the dogs. I talked to Petunia and Gracie about Martin, and explained, “Of course, I can’t be sure that he’s coming home with me. I mean, um…”

  I didn’t tell them he might not make it, because I didn’t want to upset them. Instead, after checking on their water and letting them run around outside a bit, I hopped back in my car and bought a round of Wendy’s Frosties for my co-workers. As we spooned up our confections, I told them about Martin.

  “Want to hear the calorie count on the Frosties?” asked Trudy, tapping away at her iPhone. No wonder she was so skinny.

  “No,” we answered in chorus.

  “Kiki Lowenstein, you are some kind of fool, adopting that kitten,” Mert said. “You need another mouth to feed like you need a tattoo of a sailor on your right boob.”

  “I’d pay to see that.” Johnny leered at me. “In fact, I’d pay for the tat.”

  “While Kiki found a kitty, guess what I found?” Trudy undid the scrunchy holding back her hair, shook it out, and put it back up in a high ponytail.

  “Can’t be as cool as what I uncovered. There’s an old motorcycle squeezed behind Mrs. Le
ver’s car. I mean, that thing is museum old! There’s also about a zillion plus tools. Ever’ thing you could ever want, like staplers, wood shavers, blades, jigs, and carving tools.” Johnny beamed with manly appreciation at Marla’s collection.

  “Ain’t nothing compared to the upstairs bedroom,” said Trudy. “It looks like some sort of shrine to a little boy.”

  “Must have belonged to her son Anthony,” I said.

  “There’s a made-up bed,” continued Trudy, “and his shoes piled on top of each other like he slipped them off, and he’ll be back any minute. Cool comic books from the 70s. An old train system. Imagine a boy’s room forty years ago, and you’ll get the picture. They could use it in Hollywood for a sitcom set. I just love those old TV shows, don’t you?”

  Trudy set down her iPhone and poured a little of her water over her neck. I gestured toward the back of my head, and she dumped a splash on me.

  “You-all need to take photos, hear me?” Mert handed around disposable cameras. “Trudy, I’ll come document the kid’s room first. Johnny? Take them flattened boxes and papers outta the garage, but don’t move any tools until I see ‘em and log ‘em.”

  “Yes, Sis.” Johnny gave her a mock salute.

  He was interrupted by a gold Lexus SUV swinging into the driveway. A nicely dressed woman in her late fifties climbed out, taking care to step down from the high vehicle in a ladylike manner. Although she moved like a person accustomed to being in charge, her face showed signs of distress with dark circles and puffy skin under reddened eyes.

  “That’s our boss,” Mert said. We all stood up and stepped forward, ready to meet Ali Timmons.

  “Are you taking a break?” Mrs. Timmons scowled at us and checked her wristwatch. “It’s only a little after eleven.”

  “Yes, ma’am,” Mert said. “These suits cause dehydration. I make my people take mandatory breaks for water. You don’t want someone fainting. Not in there. It’s too dangerous. Those piles of papers could come down.”

  “Why must you wear those? You …you make this situation look worse than it is.” Mrs. Timmons’ hands were clenched into tight fists.

  “Ma’am? It’s a biohazard,” Mert said. “Your mother’s house is covered with animal feces. There’s vermin there, too, drawn to the garbage she collected. Have you been inside?”

  “No, not in a long while.”

  “I suggest you walk in and take a look around. That way you’ll have a better idea of what we’re dealing with.”

  We watched as Mrs. Timmons mounted the steps. She straightened her shoulders, threw us a defiant look, opened the door, and stepped inside. Since I’d cleared the foyer, she was able to walk past the vestibule and into the living room.

  “One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi, four Mississippi,” Johnny counted.

  When he got to “eleven Mississippi,” Ali Timmons ran out of the house and screamed, “A rat! I saw a rat as big as a cat!”

  “I’m on it.” Johnny trotted to his truck, grabbed a jumbo version of a snap mousetrap, and headed toward the house.

  Mrs. Timmons began to blubber as she moved to one side to let him pass. “I told her! I begged her! She wouldn’t listen to me. How many times must we go through this? Ever since my brother died, she’s been like this. Dad gave up and left us. I was only eight. Can you imagine what it was like growing up in a house like this?”

  “Come on over here and have a seat.” Mert took our employer by the arm. “Let us get you some nice cold water.”

  Mrs. Timmons kept talking, muttering words that made little sense. Mert soothed her, telling her it wasn’t her fault, that we would get it all cleaned up, and promising not to let anything of value leave the premises.

  “Mom used to have nice silver. I think it’s all gone. We had Granddad’s woodworking tools, and I don’t know if they’re still there or not. They were nice antiques. Everything of value is gone. She sold it to buy cat food. Cat food! I quit talking to her because I got so angry. She would buy things, weird things. I’d ask her, ‘What will you do with that?’ and she’d say, ‘I have plans.’ That was always it. She had plans!”

  “I won’t let nothing get tossed. We’re photographing everything, and all the rubbish is going into the Dumpster. But we won’t remove it from the premises until you say so. That way you can sort through it. I promise. Kiki is bundling up the newspapers and tossing them out the windows. That way we’ll have a clear path. We can videotape and photograph every inch of the place so you look over what’ve you got.”

  Mert didn’t add that we’d also be making a record that the police could use, but Mrs. Timmons caught the drift.

  “My mother wouldn’t hurt a flea. She couldn’t have killed anyone. I think someone planted that body in the freezer. Mom’s not strong enough to lift anyone.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I’m sure the cops will figure it out,” Mert said.

  I tossed my empty water bottle in the recycling bin and went over to Mrs. Timmons. “Ma’am? Your mother has been coming to the scrapbook store where I work. She’s brought in photos of you and your brothers. We were working on putting them in an album as part of a class I’m teaching at the store. I’ll make sure to get them back to you.”

  After Ali Lever Timmons thanked me, I walked into the house and started bundling newspapers again. We worked steadily all afternoon, taking breaks only for water and Advil. At the end of the day, we pulled off our Tyvek suits and hung them up in Marla’s garage. Mert had decreed that Sunday would be a day of rest for all of us.

  “I have to work Monday morning at the scrapbook store,” I told Mert as we said goodbye.

  “No problem. Come on over here when you get done.”

  “Will do.”

  23

  Saturday evening…

  On my way home, I swung by the Animal Shelter. Mrs. Gershin winked at me as she handed over a tiny baby bottle and three cans of cat formula. “These are samples we had in the back. That ought to get him through the next week. He should be able to make the switch to regular food by then. Here’s a sheet with instructions.”

  I thanked her and carried away my new friend in the cardboard cat carrier Mrs. Gershin had thoughtfully supplied. Boy, was Anya going to be surprised!

  When we got to my house, I let the dogs sniff the outside of the cardboard carrier. Through holes in the top, I saw Martin respond by hissing and puffing up to twice his original size.

  Mrs. Gershin had warned me, “Even if he doesn’t hiss and spit, that doesn’t mean Martin isn’t scared. Being afraid of dogs is instinctive. You’ll need to introduce him to the other animals slowly.”

  I wanted our new friend to feel secure in his new home. The best place for Martin and his carrier was in my bedroom. I had just closed the door on my bedroom when my doorbell rang.

  Detweiler stood on my front step looking awkward. “Have you eaten?”

  “Nope.”

  “I could order a pizza.”

  “Twist my arm,” I said and grinned. It’s against my religion to turn down food. “You order the pizza, and I’ll make us a salad, how’s that? I want to hear what you’ve learned about Marla Lever.”

  Thirty minutes later, Detweiler graciously offered to let me keep the slices we didn’t eat. I cleared the dishes, while he sat at my kitchen table nursing a cold glass of iced tea.

  “I’d like to share a few details with you, if you don’t mind,” he said in a terribly formal way. “They’ll appear in the newspaper tomorrow, so it’s not like I’m leaking state secrets. But since you know Mrs. Lever, and since she’s still in a coma, I thought you might also know the victim, the dead woman whose body was found in the freezer.”

  “Okay.” I wrapped the leftover pieces in foil.

  “If you do, you might also know something about the nature of their relationship.”

  That sounded weird, but I kept my mouth shut and filled the dishwasher.

  “The dead woman has been identified as one Sandra Newcomber. She and M
arla Lever got into it a few months back. Here, let me help with that.” Detweiler dried the salad bowl while I washed our plates. “By the way, where’s your daughter?”

  “She’s spending the night at her best friend Nicci Moore’s house. I usually don’t let her sleep over two nights in a row, but the girls were working on an art project together.”

  He sank down into a chair, realizing as I did, that we were alone together — if you didn’t count the watchful eyes of Gracie, and Petunia.

  Awkward. My heart pounded faster. Every nerve in my body was charged with electricity. The unspoken words between us created friction. I needed to move around, to keep at bay the restless feelings inside me. I grabbed a box of brownie mix and gathered ingredients.

  He’s off-limits, I told myself. Obviously he’s having problems with his marriage, but he belongs to his wife. I should do everything I can to avoid him.

  But that was impossible! Especially since my husband’s killer was on the lam. From time to time, I still got ugly messages in my mailbox. There were hang-up calls on my phone. Once I came home to a bloody mess on my porch, a clear warning that the killer hadn’t forgotten about me.

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure whether Detweiler and I could just be friends. It seemed too difficult for both of us. For a while, I had been successful at avoiding the man, but the ill-advised crop at Marla Lever’s house had given us a new reason to reconnect. Now we were two adults thrown together by an impossible situation. We had reason to talk to each other, right?

  Right. And if you eat food in the dark, the calories don’t count.

  “Why did Marla Lever get into it with Mrs. Newcomber in the first place?”

  “Not surprisingly, there was a hassle over a cat. Mrs. Newcomber’s pet had slipped past her and raced out of the front door before she could grab it. She called and called, but the cat didn’t come back. However, that’s where the story takes a wrong turn. Mrs. Lever claimed the cat showed up at her front door one day. According to Marla Lever, she was a good Samaritan who took in a starving, homeless stray. Problem being, she never made any attempt to find the owner, her neighbor, Mrs. Newcomber.”