FATAL, FAMILY, ALBUM
BOOK #13 IN
THE KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
Joanna Campbell Slan
~Spot On Publishing~
Fatal, Family, Album: Book #13 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series-- Copyright © 01/11/2015 by Joanna Campbell Slan
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.
Joanna Campbell Slan
Spot On Publishing, a division of Luminary LLC
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Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any re-semblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
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Fatal, Family, Album: Book #13 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series -- Joanna Campbell Slan. – 1st ed.
Revised 11/1/92017
FATAL, FAMILY, ALBUM
BOOK #13 IN THE
KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
PROLOGUE
The death of any member diminishes an entire community. But the death of a woman like Nancy Owens causes a collective gasp of surprise.
Nancy was not the type of woman you’d expect to die in a random shooting. She was white, upper-middle class, plump, and wholesome. A stepmother and wife in her forties, Nancy had never been a leader, always a follower, except when it came to her love for her Hungarian heritage. There were rumors that she was the one who encouraged the mayor of St. Louis to connect with his Hungarian counterpart, so that our town and Budapest could become Sister Cities. Beyond that, Nancy never distinguished herself, although many considered her the ultimate volunteer. A real worker bee. She had been involved in the Young Women Leaders, Zoo Keepers, and the vestry at St. John’s Catholic Church. In photos, her face could barely be picked out in the back row.
Surely you know someone like Nancy. She’s the person who tries to bow out of the group photo, forcing someone to search for her and making everyone wait until she’s found. She’s the type who insists in standing where no one can see her. Nancy was colorless, odorless, and easy to forget. She had no kids from her first marriage. The divorce from husband #1 seemed amicable. No one was surprised to hear her husband had gotten bored with her. Most people doubted she would ever marry again. When Bert Owens asked her to be his wife, people asked each other, “I wonder what he sees in her?” After all, Bert was an attractive guy and a successful businessman, whereas Nancy Pirva Smith was a wee bit on the dumpy side and without any particular accomplishments to her credit.
Although Nancy had shopped at my store. I didn’t know her as well as I knew most of my customers. I’d been nice to her, of course, because I make it a point to be nice to everyone. We did have one brief moment when we connected. We’d attended a lecture on blended families. After the presentation, Nancy and I bumped into each other. We got to talking, and she asked if I had time for a coffee. Sensing she needed a friend, I made the time. I’d been right: she needed a shoulder to cry on. I heard all about the problems she was having with her stepdaughter.
After we parted, as I was driving home, I counted my lucky stars that my second marriage hadn’t turned out like Nancy’s. My little blended family was doing just fine, whereas hers sounded like one of the levels of hell.
So when I heard that Nancy Owens had been murdered—shot in the head—while sitting in her car in a parking lot in Ferguson, I thought there’d been some mistake.
“She was shot? You’re sure?” I challenged Clancy Whitehead, my good friend and co-worker. “We’re talking about the same Nancy Owens? The Nancy Owens who occasionally shopped here? You’re positive that’s the same person they found shot to death in Ferguson?”
“Yes, indeed.” Clancy nodded, causing her auburn pageboy to swing along her jawline. “It’s all over the news. I even turned on my computer and caught it on the news feed.”
“Wow. Shot in the head?” I was so shocked that I dropped my mechanical pencil. Okay, maybe it was just being a klutz, or maybe I was simply beat. I’d been doing paperwork all morning, trying to finish up for our end-of-the-year accounting. This is the one part of running a business that I hated.
“Shot in the head.” Clancy retrieved my pencil from the floor. She’s been worried about me returning to work so quickly after the birth of my son, so she’s taken to babying me. I kind of like it. It’s nice to be taken care of once in a while.
Handing me the pencil, Clancy continued, “Can you believe it? They are saying that Nancy was sitting in her white Mercedes in a parking space in front of a strip center. Minding her own business. Engine running. Some creep walked up, poked the muzzle of a gun through the open window, and shot her in the head. For no apparent reason!”
“The window was rolled down? You have to be kidding. Who drives to Ferguson and sits in a parking space with her window down when it’s ten degrees outside?”
“Apparently, the answer to that question is…ding, ding, ding…Nancy Owens.” Clancy’s arched eyebrow added a touch of sarcasm that wasn’t lost on me.
“Was it a robbery?”
“Not so far as anyone knows. The creep didn’t even take the car—and get this—the doors were unlocked.”
“I don’t mean to sound cruel, but that’s just plain dumb on Nancy’s part.”
Clancy sank into the chair across from mine. Propping her chin on her hand, she sighed. “We all do dumb things from time to time, but I have to agree with you. It does sound really, really stupid. There must be more to the story.”
And, of course, there was more to the story. Soon enough I found myself smack dab in the middle of it.
CHAPTER 1
The day before Nancy Owens died
“I can never thank you enough.” Over the phone, Bonnie Gossage’s voice was husky with emotion. “I wouldn’t have gotten my son back if it hadn’t been for you, Kiki. Thank you, thank you, thank you.”
“You’re holding him now?”
“Yes. The pediatrician just left. He says my baby’s fine but a little dehydrated. He lost an ounce or two. They’re going to give him intravenous fluids. They wanted to keep him overnight, but as you can imagine—”
“That was a non-starter.” I chuckled. Bonnie’s infant son had been stolen from the maternity ward of Southeast Hospital. Not surprisingly, Bonnie was so upset and grief-stricken that she totally shut down. The authorities couldn’t get any details from her. Because Bonnie and I are friends, I was tasked with getting Bonnie to talk. I was successful. Armed with that information and my own observations, I poked around a bit. One thing led to another, and then I had a hunch that proved correct. Two hours ago, my husband, Detective Chad Detweiler, and his partner, Detective Stan Hadcho, arrested the abductor and recovered Bonnie’s little boy.
With that assurance from Bonnie that all was well, I ended the call. My husband, Hadcho, and my friend Clancy Whitehead were all beaming with happiness as we sat around my kitchen table. We knew what a near miss we’d witnessed.
“This could have gone really, really wrong.” Hadcho shook his head, changing it to a nod of thanks as Brawny, our nanny, poured him a fresh cup of coffee. “What if our kidnapper had panicked? That whack-job could have decided to dump the kid. What if she had left the baby on a doorstep? In thes
e subzero temperatures, that poor newborn wouldn’t have stood a chance at surviving.”
“But the abductor didn’t panic, she didn’t know we were on to her, and Baby Gossage is fine.” My husband leaned forward in his chair and put a reassuring arm around my shoulders. “Thanks to Kiki.”
“Thanks to Kiki.” Hadcho raised his mug of coffee to me. Clancy did the same. Detweiler pulled me closer so he could plant a kiss on my lips. I loved the affection and the accolades, but I couldn’t shake my misgivings.
“You don’t look happy.” Clancy observed. She knows me too well. Now that the child was back in his mother’s arms, I should have been relaxed, but a bone-deep fear had crept into my body. All children are vulnerable, in one way or another. You can never let down your guard. Oddly enough, once you have a child, you’re immediately scared for your own life, because you realize how dependent that baby is on you. The plight of Bonnie’s kidnapped infant had cranked up the volume on my natural fears…big time. All my nerves were raw as a peeled onion.
“This whole thing has been too close for comfort.” My eyes filled with tears. “It could have been Ty. My son. My baby.”
“But it wasn’t.” Detweiler grabbed my shoulders and turned me a quarter-turn to the right. He let go of me to point at a sweet bundle in a portable crib. “See? Look at him. Sound asleep. That’s our son, and he’s fine.”
“Yes.” I got up and walked over to the portable crib. Gracie, our harlequin Great Dane, was sleeping next to it. Instinctively she knew she needed to guard the youngest member of our family. She raised her blocky head to stare at me and cocked one of her uncropped ears in a way that suggested, “Should I be worried?” “It’s all right, girl,” I assured her, reaching down to stroke her silky muzzle. Even as I said the words, I was struck by how fragile my son was. I stood there, mesmerized, watching the soft spot in my baby’s skull pulsate with each beat of his heart.
Detweiler came over to stand beside me. “Come on, sweetie. Let it go. You need to relax, Kiki.” This time when he pulled me close, I rested my face against his chest, as I so often did. I willed myself to release the tension inside. I focused on the comfort my husband offered. How did that blessing for newlyweds go? May your joys be multiplied and your sorrows divided.
Detweiler gave me one last squeeze and returned to his chair. As the lingering warm of his touch faded, I lectured myself: He’s right. We are celebrating tonight. All’s well that ends well. All three of my children are safe and sound, under our roof, with two parents who love them. We’re surrounded by friends. I couldn’t possibly want or need anything more.
The buzzer on the oven startled me. Bronwyn “Brawny” Macavity, our Scottish nanny, had been in the family room, checking on our older two children as they watched Frozen. Now she bustled into the kitchen. When she opened the door to the oven, a heavenly fragrance filled the air. Wrinkling my nose, I picked out the individual scents: cinnamon, sugar, vanilla, butter, and a hint of nutmeg.
“What did you bake for me, Brawny?” Stan Hadcho hopped out of his chair and went over to supervise. Ever since he realized what a good cook Brawny is, Hadcho has become a fixture at our house. He’s especially likely to show up at mealtimes.
“Yer getting skelped if you don’t keep your hands off those cookies. Let them cool. Aye, and there’s spice bread, too. Go sit down like a good laddie.” She muscled Hadcho aside as she expertly balanced the hot baking pan on top of four cans of soup. The air flowing underneath would help the cookies cool.
“That spice bread needs more time. I can tell by looking at it. Who wants a cup of mulled cider?” Brawny slipped by Hadcho to reach into the refrigerator. After a chorus, of, “Yes, please,” she poured the golden apple cider into a pot and added an apple studded with cloves. Next she tossed a pinch of spices into the mix.
“Cinnamon? Nutmeg?” I asked, following my nose.
“Aye. Perfect for the season, don’t you think? In a tick, we’ll have spice bread, mulled cider, snickerdoodles, and a batch of shortbread cookies I made yesterday.”
“Any lemon curd?” Detweiler asked hopefully.
“Of course we have lemon curd. What would ye have me for? A heathen?” Brawny fisted her hands on her hips. Typically she wears a tartan skirt or black slacks with a starched white blouse. Today, she was dressed very casually in a pair of jeans and a sweatshirt from Washington University, a local college. In the seven months that she’s been with us, she’s slowly adapting to life in the heartland. For the most part, Midwesterners don’t stand on formality, although areas of St. Louis could rival Boston with its preppy culture.
“Lemon curd, spice bread, cider? Good deal.” Hadcho rubbed his hands together as he returned to his seat. “Sounds like enough to keep me going until dinner. What are we having?”
“Make yourself at home, Stan,” Detweiler teased his friend.
“I intend to. How about if the four of us review everything we know about the abduction? I’ve got a Steno pad in my pocket. After dinner, I can go back to the police station and write up the report in a jiffy. I don’t know about you, Detweiler, but I hate working in those stupid cubicles. I bet the ladies don’t want to make a trip to downtown Clayton just to give their statements either.”
“Agreed,” Clancy said. I nodded, and Detweiler gave his friend a thumbs-up.
“We’re having beef stew,” Brawny said, stirring the cider. “With green beans almondine, crusty bread, and a garden salad.”
“Count me in.” Hadcho rubbed his hands together with glee.
The buzzer sounded a second time. The warm snickerdoodles were plated and set in the middle of the table. Each of us grabbed a small dish, a napkin, and a cookie. We’d just started work on the report when the doorbell rang insistently.
“I’ll get it,” thirteen-year-old Anya called out from the family room. She and five-year-old Erik were singing Frozen’s theme song “Let It Go,” a tune oddly incongruous given the news that Gossage baby’s kidnapper would surely face a long stint behind bars.
Anya’s soft-soled UGGS slapped their way to the foyer.
“Anya? You know the rules,” Detweiler called out as he hopped up from the table. As Detweiler left the kitchen got to her feet and trotted along behind him. Gracie rarely barks, as she relies on her size for intimidation. That usually works just fine.
“Anya, you know better,” Detweiler warned, and his voice drifted back to us. “You cannot open the door by yourself. It’s not safe. We’ll talk about this later.”
Having a cop in the family is a constant reminder that bad things happen to good people, and life isn’t fair. A little caution goes a long way toward crime prevention. Even so, I could imagine the pout on Anya’s face.
A creaking of hinges and a rush of cold air suggested Detweiler had invited our guests into our home. A hushed murmur of men’s voices could be heard, but I couldn’t make out any specifics. We live in a house that was constructed more than 100 years ago. The wood for its frame was chosen piece by piece. The walls are thick and sturdy. I love this place with all my heart, and I feel safe here.
Brawny poured hot cider into our mugs and set a plate of sliced spice bread in the center of the table. She took shortbread cookies from a plastic container on the counter and put them in a tea towel-lined basket for us. Next to the cookies, she set a small jelly jar of lemon curd and a knife for spreading the tangy confection.
The murmur of men’s voices in the foyer grew louder and louder.
“I bet that’s the Center for Missing and Exploited Children’s task force following up.” Hadcho grabbed a slice of spice bread and went back to writing in his notepad.
“Could be a reporter who heard how you tracked down the kidnapper, Kiki. It’s not every day that a craft store owner doubles as a successful crime-stopper.” Clancy was teasing me. Her lipstick left a crimson kiss on her mug rim.
“Hmm. Right. Ha, ha.” I bit into a shortbread cookie that I’d slathered with lemon curd.
Detweiler
came back into the kitchen. The expression on his face was unreadable, the sort of blank mask he wears when he doesn’t want to give his thoughts away. Behind him were two men in identical khaki trench coats. Their military bearing and short-cropped hair screamed law enforcement. The man in the front opened a leather wallet and flashed an FBI badge toward Hadcho, Clancy, and me. “I’m Special Agent in Charge Bret Sanders. This is Special Agent Phillip Montana. We’re here to speak to Bruce Macavity.”
“Bruce Macavity?” I repeated his request and glanced over at my husband. He was leaning against the doorjamb. Detweiler’s strange expression confused me further. Why wasn’t he correcting the agents?
“You must be misinformed,” I went on to say. I pointed at Brawny. “This is our nanny, Bronwyn Macavity. Maybe she can help you find the person you’re looking for.”
Brawny stepped forward to face Agents Sanders and Montana. Squaring her shoulders, she wore a look I’d never seen before. It was as if she were being strangled by an invisible hand. Her voice trembled as she said, “I am—I was—Bruce Macavity.”
CHAPTER 2
“Corporal Bruce Macavity, we need to speak to you in private.” Agent Sanders didn’t ask; he demanded.
“Immediately,” Agent Phillips added his two cents. Clearly, he was the second-in-command, and a real wannabe.
“We can use my office.” Detweiler tilted his head toward the hallway.
“Sounds like a cue for me to leave.” Clancy’s eyes were huge, crowding her eyebrows off her forehead. “Thanks for everything. Kiki? My coat?”
“It’s in the foyer closet.” I waited for her to collect her purse and led the way.
“What in the world?” she whispered in my ear. I grabbed her coat from the hangers, positioning myself half-in and half-out of the closet proper.
“I have no idea!”
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