Fatal, Family, Album

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “No.” My face got hot. “That’s not fair, Jennifer, and you know it.”

  For an uncomfortable tick of the clock, we sat there. I wondered, “Will this be the end of our friendship?” The silence seemed louder than the sirens had been earlier.

  With a tiny huff, Jennifer said, “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I’m being too hard on you. I just get tired of trying to explain to people that gays don’t make a conscious choice to be gay. Just because someone is gay, doesn’t mean they abuse children. The same with transgender folk and transvestites. People lump everything into one category. They would rather be ignorant than educate themselves.”

  “Give me a little credit, Jennifer. I know more than most. But I’ll admit, this is new to me.” I sounded huffy. “I’m trying to come to grips with this. Trying to listen to my better angels. I can’t tell what’s behind Anya’s reaction. Is it that she’s stunned as we are? Is she feeling betrayed? Or did something happen that I need to address. I’ve never had my daughter run away from home. I’m scared and hurt. Please be fair to me.”

  A tight smile crossed Jennifer’s face. “I guess this is where your problem bumps into my life and steps on its toe.”

  I laughed at that image. “I guess. I deserve some of these slings and arrows. But not all of them. Please give me some credit, too. I’ve always been fine with Stevie. He’s a terrific kid. A natural born leader.”

  “That’s right; you have been good to him. I’m glad you like Stevie. Your Anya is a smart, thoughtful, kind young lady,” Jennifer returned the compliment. “You have every reason to be proud of her. Sure, she’s emotional. What thirteen-year-old girl isn’t a hormonal disaster anyway? She’s trying desperately to be grown-up about this.”

  “It’s my job to protect her, and she’s angry with me. With all of us. She thinks we messed up. Maybe she even thinks that we tricked her.”

  “No. She’s embarrassed,” Jennifer corrected me. “I worked in the school library this morning. Anya and I talked when she had free time before her lunch period. Anya told me she’s paraded around half-naked in front of Brawny. She’s also shared personal stuff like needing to go and buy tampons. Things that send a young teen into paroxysms of self-consciousness. Remember those days? I would buy twenty dollars-worth of junk food rather than plunk down a single box of Kotex when the grocery clerk was a cute guy. There were times when I’d change lines and stand there for hours rather than having to face a guy who was behind the register.”

  “I know!” I said. “I hated that. Our local grocery store baggers were all guys. I’d hide the Kotex under a magazine, which was totally dumb. The bagger still had to pick up the box. What made it worse is that the baggers were usually boys from my school. It was embarrassing times two.” I’d sort of pushed all those memories to the side. After growing up with two sisters, I should have been more understanding.

  “I remember one time when we were on vacation. Nicci sent Stevie into the drugstore to buy tampons for her while we waited outside in the car. She thought she’d figured out a way around her problem. Then, all of a sudden, the front door of the store flies open. Stevie sticks his head out and yells, Regular or Super Absorbent? I thought Nicci would die. She crouched down between the front and back seats and refused to climb into her seat until we were back to our condo. She wouldn’t go outside for days.”

  Slowly, I saw Anya’s distress in another light. Anya must have talked to Brawny as though she was speaking to a kindly aunt or a big sister. How exposed my daughter must feel! That would add another layer of discomfort to the sense of betrayal we all were trying to overcome.

  “Jennifer, thanks for bringing me back to reality. I forget that Anya’s been through a lot of changes. Detweiler moving in. Us moving to the big house. Erik joining our family. Brawny coming with him. And then the arrival of Baby Ty. Maybe this last bit with Brawny was the tipping point for her. Maybe I just need to back off and give her space.” I rubbed a spot on my chest, realizing that Anya’s defection had hit me hard, personally. Since the death of George Lowenstein, my first husband and Anya’s father, my daughter and I had relied on each other. The idea that she would walk out, would go to another mother for comfort, and would refuse to come home to me stung like a slap across my face. The sting went bone marrow deep.

  For a long while, Jennifer and I just sat there, deep in our own thoughts. Finally, she said, “Anya will always come home to you, Kiki. She loves you. You don’t need to worry about that. She’s trying to come to grips with this new reality. Think of it this way: She put herself in time-out. She’s taking a break. That’s all.”

  “Is it okay for her to hang out at your house?”

  But before Jennifer could respond, our back door flew open. A blast of sub-zero air lifted my paper napkin up as neatly as the Wright Brothers took flight, and slapped me breathless. The cold literally knocked the wind out of my lungs.

  Which was fine, because Laurel Wilkins came barreling into the back room with big news. Screaming at the top of her lungs, she shouted, “Guess what, everybody? I am pregnant!”

  CHAPTER 12

  So as it happened, Laurel didn’t have the stomach flu. She also couldn’t stick around and talk. She’d only dropped by to share the good news and leave.

  “Wait a minute. How’s Joe taking this?”

  Joe Riley is her fiancé and an Episcopal priest.

  “He’s thrilled. Hey, I’ve got to run.”

  Jennifer pulled on her coat. “I have to go, too. Look, try not to stress out too much about Anya. Give her time. I’ll let you know if anything big comes up.”

  After my friends left, the rest of my day was blessedly anti-climatic. Because I had put a sign in the in front door that we were closed for inventory, there were no interruptions from the door minder. As I worked and worked and worked on that pile of inventories, I found myself praying for a reason to stop. None came. Even though Clancy returned from her fake errands, she was unusually quiet. She came in, said hello, asked if Anya was okay, and went about the business of checking over our yarn supplies to see what could be salvaged. Her body language made it clear she wasn’t in the mood to talk.

  Without our conversations, or a new project, or a customer to break up the tedium, the day dragged along. I was never so happy to leave Time in a Bottle behind me. Detweiler and I had agreed to meet at a restaurant on The Hill, the Italian neighborhood in St. Louis. We figured we might as well eat out while we debated whether or not Brawny should keep her job as our nanny.

  I phoned Brawny as soon as I was shown to our table. The nanny told me that the little boys were still running low temps. The vomiting had stopped, but both Erik and Ty were fretful. The virus was tiring them out. Erik had burst into tears twice. Ty was fussy. But Brawny was on the job and doing just fine, thank you. Then she asked about Anya. I tried to keep it light. “Considering that Anya doesn’t want to get that tummy bug, it’s probably best that she stay at the Moores’ house for a day or two.”

  “Makes sense,” Brawny said.

  I couldn’t help but think that Anya had picked a good day to run away from home. I was amusing myself by looking on my phone at other places I might want to live when Detweiler finally walked through the door.

  “When you have a bad day, you have a really, really bad day,” Detweiler said after he and I placed our orders, and I had given him a rundown of my no good, horrible day, including Anya’s threat to never darken our door again. “I heard about the shooting up in Ferguson. At the very least, your friend’s death is a good reminder not to sit around in your car with your window down and your engine running. Although that seems beside the point, considering no one took her car.”

  I didn’t correct him and explain that Nancy and I weren’t friends. It didn’t really matter.

  Our waiter brought me a tall glass of ice water and Detweiler an ice water and a glass of tomato juice.

  My husband continued, “I don’t envy Margit clearing out her mother’s room. That’s such a s
ad task. Let’s make it a point to check on Horace later this week and see how he’s doing. Maybe invite him and Rebekkah over for dinner. As for the store, I’m sorry about the fire, but paper can be replaced.”

  “Yes, it can.”

  “Taken as a whole, it wasn’t such a bad day, was it? The fire could have been worse. We know that Anya is okay and Laurel had good news. I bet Joe is thrilled that he’s going to be a father.”

  “Yup. She says he is. Although it could be a little uncomfortable for them. Him being an Episcopal priest and all. It’s one thing to have premarital sex and another to parade the fruits of your labor around in front of a congregation.”

  “Good point. I’d completely pushed that out of my mind.” Detweiler was raised Methodist. I was raised Episcopal, but I raised Anya as a Jew, in part because George asked me to.

  “Do you think his congregation will be upset?” Detweiler asked.

  A bus boy brought my water and a glass of tomato juice with no ice for Detweiler. Then our waiter arrived with a bread basket. I reached in, chose a warm roll, and buttered it. “I doubt that they’ll be happy about Laurel’s condition. Sex before marriage is frowned upon. A baby is living proof that Laurel and Joe weren’t practicing abstinence. I have no idea how liberal Joe’s congregation is.”

  “Could he lose his job?” Detweiler sipped his tomato juice.

  “I would guess that’s up to the vestry to decide. As I recall from my Sunday school days, a priest is called to a parish for life. I imagine they could fire him or they might consult the bishop first and then ask Joe to leave. I don’t really have an answer, but I would guess the answer would be yes, Joe could be asked or forced to leave his job.” Suddenly, I didn’t feel so joyous about Laurel’s announcement. Sure, I was happy that she and Joe were happy about the baby, but I could also see the tough times ahead.

  “Whatever happens,” Detweiler said, reaching for my hand, “they’ll be fine. They have each other, and they have our friendship.”

  “Right.”

  It was half past five, early for most diners, but fine for us. My husband and I liked this particular restaurant. The food was good and surprisingly inexpensive. This should have been a wonderful date night for me and my new husband, except that I still smelled like smoke. I hadn’t had time to change my clothes before driving to The Hill. Sadly, romance was not on the menu, not tonight. Instead, several intense discussions stood in the wings, just off-stage, waiting for us to bring them out to take a bow.

  “You look like you’re all right, Kiki. Are you? You didn’t inhale a lot of smoke, did you?” Detweiler looked me over carefully. He signaled our waiter and asked him for a glass of their house Malbec.

  “I’m fine. Jeff Alderton was the hero of the hour. He got all the students out. Lee helped immensely. She calmed everyone down and directed the firemen. Clancy is okay. Jennifer arrived shortly afterward and brought me lunch. We had a good talk, and she called one of those clean-up services that makes the mess go away. They’re coming to the store tomorrow at ten. She even volunteered to help me with my insurance claim. I am blessed with terrific friends.”

  A waiter delivered two gorgeous salads complete with sliced hearts of palm, olives, fresh arugula, and shavings of Parmesan cheese. A light herbal vinaigrette dressing added a pop of flavor, as did various fresh green herbs. A sommelier brought my husband his Malbec.

  Detweiler smiled, his eyes soft as they looked at me. “Have you ever stopped to think that you have terrific friends because you are a terrific friend?”

  “I try hard.” I used my fork and picked up a piece of heart of palm that I chewed thoughtfully. On the phone on the way here, we’d agreed not to discuss Brawny or the government agents’ request until our dessert arrived. We needed a break before handling such thorny manners.

  Detweiler sipped his Malbec. Looking past him, I could see two women who’d just been seated in a nearby booth. The newcomers were giving my husband the once-over. He is a nice-looking man, thanks to his long legs, his strong features, and his gorgeous green eyes.

  “Speaking of terrific friends, you’ve heard me talk about Lee Alderton? How much I like her? Well, poor Lee got into a disagreement with Nancy right before she was killed.” I shared what I’d learned from Jeff about Nancy and Lee’s tiff. “Lee feels horrible that they parted on such bad terms.”

  “We heard about Lee’s fight with Nancy Owens.”

  A tickle of fear came over me. “Wait a minute. Why were you involved in the discussion? Ferguson isn’t in your jurisdiction.”

  What people typically call “St. Louis” is actually a metropolitan area comprised of 91 separate entities, each with its own police force. As a St. Louis County cop, Detweiler occasionally gets called in to help one of them, but taken as a whole, the districts do not communicate with each other as well as they should.

  I felt a frisson of fear trickle down my back. If they (meaning the police) had already heard about the disagreement between Lee and Nancy, someone was talking, and it sounded as if that person had pointed a finger at Lee.

  “Just so you know, it wasn’t Lee who fought with Nancy. It was Nancy who got upset with Lee. There’s a big difference. Lee’s a really peaceful person.”

  “Okay. Do you know what the fight was about?”

  I explained about the missing money market check. “But Nancy talked with Fareed, the president, and everything was straightened out. Fareed told Lee he was satisfied with how their conversation concluded.”

  “That’s what we heard, too. Kiki? You need to stay out of this. That irregularity could be a motive for Mrs. Owens’ death.”

  “Then you’re thinking it wasn’t a random shooting?”

  “We don’t know what to think. Not yet.” Detweiler studied the dark raspberry-colored liquid in his wine glass. I knew that trick. He wasn’t looking at me because he didn’t want me to read his expression.

  “But Lee didn’t drive past Nancy’s car and shoot her. You aren’t suggesting that! She had no reason to shoot Nancy. The problem had been solved. Fareed said the missing check was a non-starter. So Nancy got a little testy in the bathroom. Big deal.”

  “That’s what you’ve been told. Maybe that quarrel with Nancy Owens wasn’t just a little disagreement. Maybe it escalated, Lee followed Nancy, and shot her. That would have been easy enough.”

  I pushed my chair back from the table. “Whoa. You have to be kidding! You don’t actually believe that, do you? Where’s all this coming from?”

  “I don’t know Lee like you do, and you of all people know how an investigation works. Our job is to follow up on every possibility. Track down every lead. Discuss every angle. Right now other detectives are requesting phone records and doing interviews. Until then, I suggest you stay clear of Lee Alderton.”

  I nearly threw down my napkin in disgust, but the waiter appeared with my pasta Pomodoro, and I was too hungry to storm off. Instead, I picked up my fork and did my best to twirl the strands of pasta around the tines. “You have to tell everybody that they’re wasting their time looking into Lee. She’s my friend. You’ll do that, won’t you?”

  “No, I won’t. I won’t tell other cops how to run their investigation. Honey, you don’t seriously expect me to step in, do you?”

  Now that he put it out there so frankly, I agreed that I couldn’t ask that of him. “I guess not. But you know how these volunteer groups work. People get roped into doing jobs that they are not necessarily qualified for. Mistakes get made. Lee wasn’t accusing Nancy. She was trying to be responsible. That’s why she brought it up to the president. It was Nancy who overreacted and yelled at Lee. Sane people don’t go around shooting everyone they argue with! That’s a gross overreaction.”

  “You don’t know if that was the only provocation.” He cut a piece of his chicken Parmesan. I could smell the pungent cheese from where I was sitting.

  “Okay, I don’t, but we’ve come full circle. I know Lee. I know she didn’t do it. End of discussion.
”

  For a while, we simply enjoyed our food. It had been a long time since I’d eaten anywhere other than my kitchen or my store.

  “I’m sure the investigators will come to the same conclusion that you have, Kiki. Are you ready to order dessert?”

  Over a huge chunk of tiramisu that we’d agreed to share, I eased into the big item looming over us. “I spoke with Jennifer about Anya today.”

  “How are you feeling about Anya running to Jennifer’s house?” Detweiler asked.

  “I get that she’s upset. I understand she needs time to process this. But I bitterly hate being told she’ll never come home again. That hurts.”

  To my surprise, Detweiler chuckled. “I think everybody should run away from home at least once. I remember running away. I don’t remember why, but I remember I was mad. I made it as far as the haymow.”

  “What’s a haymow?”

  “The place you store hay in the barn.”

  “And then what?”

  “Mom baked an apple pie.”

  Why was I not surprised? Thelma Detweiler could give Martha Stewart a run for her money. Thelma’s pies were legendary. “And she used the pie to bribe you?”

  “Sort of. She set it in the kitchen window to cool. We had screen windows back then, so the smell drifted out to me. I was hungry because I’d forgotten to pack food. The scent of cinnamon drove me nearly insane. Finally I decided it wasn’t worth starving to make my point.” He snickered. “To this day, I suspect that Mom knew exactly what she was doing and how well it would work.”

  I laughed. I had always liked Thelma Detweiler until recently. She’d gotten herself all worked up about the fact that I’d continued at the store until the last possible moment of my pregnancy. Later I’d learned that Thelma had carried her first child, a dead baby, to term, and that she blamed herself for losing that baby. She decided she’d been on her feet too much and she’d killed her child. Although learning about Thelma’s ordeal had softened my feelings toward her, I still felt guarded in her presence. Even flesh wounds can take a long time to heal.