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

  “Mainly. I’m a bit sore.” I tried to smile. “Thanks for working the store yesterday.”

  “You’re welcome. Epsom salt. That’s the ticket. Be sure to soak in it. Remember our visit to the bridge club, Cara?” Honora chirped like a little bird in her naturally high-pitched and crisp voice. “You’ll recall that I handed out those order forms? So far I’ve gotten six of them back. Can you believe that? Six custom orders. I took one while the customer was standing here in the shop. That makes seven. Sid’s not here, is he? Not yet? Oh, dear, then MJ, will you input them? We don’t want to let any grass grow under our feet, even if it is miniature carpeting. Once we get the deposits, I’ll get them started. Isn’t that glorious?”

  Her sunny mood contrasted with the somber concern MJ and I had about Skye’s weight loss.

  As for MJ, I had promised to keep her condition a secret. Maybe there would be good news tomorrow, after the specialist had taken another look at her mammogram. At least she was under a doctor’s care. Sure, I could worry, but what good would it do? In the face of Honora’s good news, I did my best to act appropriately pleased and not as fractious as I felt.

  EveLynn helped herself to a can of cola from our refrigerator and snarfed down the last two donuts left in the box that Poppy had brought. I didn’t care. She was welcome to them.

  When Kookie screeched from his perch on the sales floor, it dawned on me that I hadn’t flipped the sign to read OPEN. Hustling to do so, I discovered four people waiting to get inside. I couldn’t believe I’d been so negligent. Kookie couldn’t either. “Bad Cara,” he said.

  I have no idea where he learned that phrase, and I’m not sure I want to know either. Instead, I jingled his toy bell. That distracted him and the huge white cockatoo set about the serious work of playing.

  I greeted all the shoppers, but I was especially happy to see Jessie Dimovski. I knew she’d been born in Bombay, India, but grown up in Pennsylvania. Whenever possible, she came down here to take long walks on the beach and collect sea glass. Usually she and Skye would put their heads together and come up with new ideas for displaying the pitted pieces that washed up in the surf. We were lingering over the display of our coconut scented bath products, when Claudia came running in as if being chased by a pack of wild badgers. “Cara, catch! It’s the key to Vintage Threads.”

  A silver blur flew through the air. I caught it rather than let it drop onto the floor. “Excuse me? I missed something. Why are you giving me this? Are you ducking out and you need me to unlock the shop? What’s up?”

  “I’m leaving. Gone. Outta here. Gassed up my car and I’m leaving town.”

  “But why? With Danielle gone…” I kept my voice low so as not to alert my customers to a problem. I knew Jessie was a keen reader of mysteries, so it wouldn’t spook her, but the others might decide to leave immediately.

  “That’s the point.” Claudia pulled me to one side and whispered urgently in my ear. “I just found out that the dude who knifed Danielle was a Miami hit man. See, he came into the shop and asked for Danielle on Saturday. About an hour before you showed up. I wasn’t going to tell him where she lived, but he…” and her voice trailed off. Covering her head with her arms, she wailed. The keening noise caused my shoppers to turn and stare at us. Even Jessie looked shocked. I took Claudia by one hand, peeling her arm away from her head, and hustled her upstairs. After we ducked into my old apartment, I sat her down in a folding chair.

  “You told him where Danielle lived?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing. “Why on earth would you share personal information like that?”

  “H-h-he already knew she lived in Port Saint Lucie, but not where, and I, uh, I was busy on my phone. See, Emma’s boyfriend Dallas broke up with her and they’ve been going together since—” She stopped to sniffle. “And Emma really, really needed to talk to me because we’re best friends, and she thinks that Dallas was—”

  “Focus, Claudia. What exactly did you tell the man who was asking about Danielle?”

  “Nothing. I mean, not much. See, at first I told him no, I wouldn’t share her address, but he kept asking. I wanted him to go away and quit bothering me. He was a real pest—and we had customers. Lots and lots of customers. How would I know he wanted to hurt her? He looked like someone she would have the hots for! He was her kind of guy.”

  Mascara dripped down her face, leaving inky trails and gray smudges. For all her stupidity, her grief was genuine. Without the thick face paint, I could see she was younger than I’d guessed. Early twenties at most. I forced myself not to respond, to think, rather than let my feelings take the lead, because my first impulse was to smack her hard. I’d witnessed her slavish devotion to her cell phone. I knew she was trying to excuse the fact she hadn’t wanted to be bothered. She’d told the man what he wanted to know because she’d been eager to get back to her cell phone.

  But a hard slap wouldn’t bring Danielle back.

  “Did you tell the police about his visit? Claudia, this is important.”

  “No. I lied to them. Told them you were the only person who asked about Danielle. I was scared.”

  “And how do you know he’s from Miami?”

  “He said so. He said that he and Danielle used to go clubbing together.”

  Wow. My head hurt and I was having trouble keeping track of what Claudia was saying. I pressed my fingers to my temples and tried to focus. “Claudia, listen to me. You have to tell the police about this. They don’t know for sure if the man who killed Danielle is the same person who cut me up, but they think so. And yes, they think the guy is from Miami. But here’s the really bad part. Whoever he is, he’s connected. He’s got an attorney trying to get him out on bail. For your own safety, you need to tell the police exactly what you know. Maybe they can keep him off the streets.”

  “No way. I’m out of here. Not my problem.” She darted to my left and then to my right, trying to get around me so she could run downstairs.

  I grabbed her by the shoulders. “Claudia, listen to me. Do you know why he killed Danielle? Did he say anything else? Do you know what he was after?”

  “It was that dress,” she said. “That stupid, stupid dress.”

  I tried to hold her in place, but she fought me. Claudia kept sending pitiful glances at the stairs. Meanwhile, I did my best to reason with her.

  “Why on earth would a guy care about my stupid dress?”

  “He asked me where Danielle got that dress you had. I told him I didn’t know—and I didn’t. Because I don’t! See, Danielle was really sneaky about her clients. She didn’t share names with me, because she once had this clerk who went and opened her own shop over in Salerno. But he kept after me. He said he was just curious. I asked him why he cared. And he said there’d been a mistake concerning the dress, and he needed to see Danielle to get things straightened out. And that they used to be friends back in Miami. So I told him where she lived. Big deal! He could have gotten it off the internet. It isn’t my fault that he killed her!”

  Wrenching herself free of my grasp, Claudia tore away. Before I could stop her, she was galloping down the stairs. I did my best to follow, but on my stiff legs, I needed to grip the railing and hobble my way along. That slowed me down. I was halfway down the staircase when I heard the front door slam. Rather than try to follow Claudia, I turned around and went back to my apartment. Sure enough, from the window there, I could see Claudia running across the street.

  I couldn’t chase after her. Shoot. I could barely walk at a snail’s pace. It was hopeless.

  There in the privacy of my old apartment, I phoned Lou. He listened while I explained what happened.

  “Do you happen to have this Claudia’s last name?”

  “No.” Boy, did I feel dumb. The simplest piece of information, and I’d neglected to ask for it.

  “It might be better in the long haul for her to leave town,” he said. “We’ve got the guy, for the time being. But who knows what he’s said to his pals? And we don’t really
know why he killed Danielle yet. Why murder someone over a dress? We’re missing one of the pieces. This is a puzzle that doesn’t make sense.”

  After hanging up, I moved slowly down the stairs. My muscles screamed in protest, but I gritted my teeth. The store was teeming with customers, all fingering the merchandise, picking it up and showing it to each other. Jessie had left. I was really disappointed that I hadn’t had the chance to chat longer with her.

  MJ was busy talking to a couple who wanted to buy a Highwayman painting. Honora carefully stacked more of her daughter’s table runners on an old ladder we used to display the soft goods. When Honora noticed me, she toddled over.

  “Cara darling, I am worried about Skye. She’s been suffering terribly from morning sickness. We need to keep an eye on her. She’s lost a lot of weight.”

  Really?

  I considered Skye my best friend, next to Kiki Lowenstein, who lived up in St. Louis. Yet I was the only person in our little tribe who hadn’t noticed that Skye was going to have a baby.

  Some pal I was.

  40

  Poppy called. “What time is Tommy gonna arrive?”

  “I’m not sure. Sometime after his tests. He was going to use his Uber app or take the train. I’m expecting a text from him.”

  “Tell you what. I’ll text Tommy and see what his ETA is. Then we’ll meet him over at your house. I’ll order pizza for the boys. Maybe even take them fishing. You can take your time closing up the store. That’ll give me some time with them boys.”

  “Sounds like a plan.” I texted Tommy to tell him what Poppy had proposed. He sent me back a one-word message: Gr8.

  Tommy had been close to my father, his namesake, and I knew he missed my dad terribly. Poppy would have big shoes to fill, but both he and my son needed each other. I was glad that Poppy was making an effort.

  An hour passed and we had a lull in foot traffic. I dug around in the recycling bin and found the dry cleaner’s bag. I planned to return the dress exactly as I found it. Okay, so I’d worn it once. Big deal. That would be Binky’s problem.

  How odd it is that we imbue inanimate objects with power. Perhaps it is a testament to our lack of humility as a species, because certainly we are not gods. We cannot create life and spirit and will where there is none. Yet we do. I had had such high hopes for this dress. I’d planned to wear it and feel beautiful and sexy. My sister had ruined my vision of myself when she told me the dress turned me into a dowdy old woman. Jodi would know. Almost every man I’d dated had fallen for her.

  Whatever.

  I tucked the dress into the bag and ducked into the downstairs bathroom where we kept a big bottle of Advil. My head felt like I was playing hostess to a garage band. After chugging water from the faucet and swallowing the pills, I pressed a damp washcloth to my eyes. Leaning against the wall, I felt my phone vibrating in my skirt pocket.

  I expected it to be Tommy, telling me he’d finished his tests and was on his way. With fumbling fingers, I answered my phone.

  “Cara? Doug Fogarty here from First Midwestern Bank. How are you?”

  I could count on one hand the number of times the president of the bank we used back in St. Louis has called me. Doug and I went to high school together. His father and mine had been good friends. Dad believed in doing business with people you knew. Douglas, as the senior Fogarty had been called, often came to the restaurant via the back door. He’d sit on a stool in the kitchen and talk to my father as he cooked. His son, Douglas Junior or Doug, had followed in his father’s footsteps.

  “How nice to hear from you, Doug,” I said.

  “Glad you think so,” his voice warmed up as he spoke. “Because I’m troubled, Cara. Deeply concerned. What have we done to offend you?”

  This caught me off guard. I dropped the washcloth, bent to retrieve it, and noticed my puzzled face in the bathroom mirror. “Pardon? I’m not sure I follow. Could you give me more information, Doug?”

  My father had taught me that before answering an important question, you should always know exactly what is being asked. That line—“Can you give me more information?”—proved to be a powerful tool. Without it, I had a tendency to formulate a response before fully understanding what had been asked of me.

  “I won’t beat around the bush. I’m calling to verify this ACH. Usually we let things like this go through, but this is such an abnormally large amount, I thought I should give you a jingle.”

  “Come again?” Gently lowering the toilet seat, I sat on top of it, turning the small bathroom into my temporary office. Doug’s comments totally bewildered me. “Doug, I don’t know what you are talking about.”

  He proceeded to scare the dickens out of me by explaining that they’d received a request for an ACH transfer. “It’s almost all the money you have in your account, so I thought I’d better ask. To make sure you approve of this, and to make sure you’re okay. As a friend. An old family friend and schoolmate.”

  For a moment, I thought I’d faint, because tiny stars danced before my eyes as my field of vision turned black. Instead, I pressed the washcloth to the back of my neck.

  “But you stopped the transfer? Please tell me you did?”

  “I had the day off yesterday. I came in and saw this transaction. Are you saying you don’t want it to go through?”

  “Right. I do not want the money taken out of my account. I did not authorize any such transaction.”

  “Okay, then I better get off the phone and see if I can stop this.”

  The line went dead.

  A full-blown panic sucked me down into a black hole. But I couldn’t stay in the bathroom for long. Not in the middle of the day. Especially since I’d been AWOL all of Sunday.

  A new clutch of customers kept me busy for the next half hour. They left and more customers wandered in. Sweat trickled down my back as I took sneaky looks at the clock on my phone. Thirty minutes. Forty. Forty-five. Finally an hour had passed.

  My phone rang and I answered it on the first ring, excusing myself from the woman who’d spent a hundred bucks on one of Skye’s driftwood holiday trees.

  “I managed to reverse the transaction,” Doug said. “The funds hadn’t cleared our bank yet. But I’m totally confused. According to Beth Landis, who was processing the transfer, you two were on the phone yesterday—and you insisted that she move the money immediately.”

  “I never made that call, Doug. I didn’t authorize any money to come out of my account. How could this have happened?” On shaking legs, I walked past customers, past Honora, and into the back room.

  “It’s actually remarkably simple. If you own a business and if you don’t have specific controls on your account to require authorization, and someone makes an ACH request, the money just comes out of your account. If you don’t catch it in the first 48 hours, you have very little legal recourse as a business. The rules are more protective for individuals and provide you more time to dispute incorrect charges.”

  Reaching into the refrigerator, I grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper and popped the top. At my friend Kiki Lowenstein’s store, she kept a stash of Dr Pepper. It became the “go to” drink for any crisis. Tasting the bubbling brew brought me a sense of camaraderie, as though Kiki was standing right there beside me with one hand on my shoulder. The sweet taste made me feel marginally better. I drained the can in nothing flat and tossed it into the recycling bin. It landed with a clatter.

  “I was afraid something like this might happen,” I told Doug. “Recently my computer guy, Sid, had his computer stolen, but he’s assured me that he has everything password protected. I figured that if people couldn’t get into the computer, I was safe.”

  “Look. This isn’t because of his computer. All the information a person would need would be on a paycheck or a bank statement.”

  “Oh, my gosh. Sid had just gotten paid. His paycheck was in his backpack. He told me it was missing, but I didn’t realize!”

  “Okay, Cara, but there’s more to this. The person who
called—pretending to be you—had more information than that. Whoever did this was someone with access to your personal information. Date of birth. Where you were born. All of that. One of us should call the police. They might be able to trace the person through phone records.”

  “How about if you initiate it? And let me know what you find out?”

  “Will do.”

  “Okay, what do we need to do so this never happens again?”

  He walked me through a series of steps. I ended the call after thanking him profusely. Using the extra makeup in the bathroom that we keep there just for such purposes, I fixed my face. Squaring my shoulders, I went back out onto the sales floor.

  Honora didn’t ask me what was wrong. She took a long look, hugged me and said, “You’ll survive, dear girl. Whatever it was. Whatever it is. You’ll survive.”

  “You’ve got that right,” I said.

  Amberlee was going down.

  41

  I told MJ and Honora about the ACH. “Had Doug called twenty-four hours later, I would have been toast.”

  “What does ACH stand for?” asked Honora.

  “Automated Clearing House. It’s an electronic network for processing financial transactions.”

  “You’re sure it’s Amberlee behind all this?” wondered MJ as she frowned at a chipped red fingernail. “My impression has always been that she isn’t very bright. I don’t think she’s ever had a real job. How would she know enough to pull this off?”

  Honora eased off her stool. “You don’t want to jump to conclusions, Cara.”

  I swallowed a sharp retort. Sure, I now knew that there’d been a back door to my bank account. With Doug’s help, there would never be another ACH transfer without my knowledge. But I didn’t know what I didn’t know. What if there was yet another sneaky way to siphon off my funds? What if this time I couldn’t reverse the damage in time? A momentary wave of panic swept through me.