Paper, Scissors, Death

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  We couldn’t go anywhere until the crime scene technician arrived. Evidently, my intruder pried open my spare bedroom window, crawled through, took the computer, and didn’t disturb any other part of the house. Detweiler figured we were okay hanging out in the kitchen. He crossed his arms behind his head and rocked back in a chair. I said nothing. He didn’t either. Apparently he was thinking.

  I got up and poured us both a glass of ice tea. It was lukewarm. Luckily, when the power went out, I had nothing in my freezer but a loaf of frozen garlic bread and Girl Scout Thin Mints. A handful of salad in the chiller drawer looked edible. AmerenUE must have arrived early. The house was still uncomfortably warm but the A/C was struggling to cool it down.

  Clearly, I hadn’t lied about the power outage. Detweiler rolled up his shirt sleeves. Boy, did he have sexy forearms. I never even thought about forearms being sexy until I saw his. Detweiler didn’t say anything for a long time. He just stared off into space. At last he said, “You haven’t added anything else to your computer recently, right?”

  “Nothing. Well, I couldn’t because of the power being out.”

  “Hmm. There’s another coincidence. Don’t like that.” Detweiler flipped open his cell phone and made a call to AmerenUE. He identified himself as a detective. In five minutes, he learned there had been no power outage in my neighborhood the night before.

  “But the electricity definitely was out! It was hotter than a steam bath in here. You can ask my daughter. I picked her up from school, we came home, and immediately I took her to her grandmother’s house.”

  In desperation, I turned around. My kitchen clock was eight hours behind.

  Detweiler called AmerenUE again. He re-asserted his position and authority. This time he learned they had a record of my call for assistance. He asked to speak to the repairman who had been to my address earlier in the day. After a few delays, they patched him through.

  “What did you find when you were here? That so? You’re sure? And how was it done? No, no, I believe you. See anyone suspicious hanging around? Remember if a window was open at the side of the house? It was? Thank you.” He slapped the phone closed. “Someone cut your electric line back at the box. If the suspect broke in last night, this could have been the same person. You see where this is going, right?”

  “Someone wanted me out of the house?”

  “Yeah. News of the unseasonable heat was all over television and radio. Obviously you couldn’t stay here. Someone banked on the idea you’d find another place to go. But why take just your computer?”

  The fact my home had been violated made me sick. I heard my stomach gurgle. Maybe Sheila was right about this neighborhood. Even so, whoever broke into the house had only taken one thing. “I guess it would be easier to grab the whole computer and check it out at your leisure rather than sit here and go file by file. I wonder …” I chewed on my thumbnail thoughtfully. “Dodie told all the women at the shower about the website and how I planned to work with the photos. But I can’t see one of them breaking into my house.”

  “They could have hired someone.”

  “If this is really about photos from the shower, and if it’s connected with Roxanne, why not try to remove pictures from the website as well? Wouldn’t that make sense?”

  “The photos are in three places, right? The computer, your backup CDs, and the website. More if someone copied them from the site.” Detweiler retrieved a laptop from his car. He connected to the Internet. Sitting at my oak kitchen table and waiting for his computer to boot up, I watched him glance around and take in his surroundings.

  “I didn’t see much of your other house when I was there after your husband died, but I like this place better. It’s more … cozy.”

  My “new” house is not very big, but it has a good flow to the rooms. It was a mess when I moved in. I ripped up the old carpet and sanded the hardwood flooring underneath. I stripped wallpaper before painting the kitchen walls a soft gray-green to bring out the golden hues of my oak kitchen table and chairs. I sanded the fronts of the kitchen cabinets and painted them white. I put up white shelves for my dishes. Small houseplants supplied a touch of greenery. I bought a couple of interesting orange crate labels from eBay and framed them to hang on the walls. A pair of old lace curtains from Goodwill framed the wide back window. Crimson and orange tie-backs picked up the bright colors in the fruit crate labels.

  In many ways, this was more my home than the house in Ladue ever had been because that house had been decorated by a professional interior designer to George and Sheila’s specifications.

  Detweiler followed my directions to Snapfish. Using my password and the room code, he navigated to the shower photos. They were all in one “album” labeled Merrilee’s Bridal Shower. I stood at his shoulder and directed his actions, while taking great care not to touch him.

  “Why so many images? Did the shower go on that long?”

  “No. Remember, the women didn’t know we were going to do this. It was a special deal Dodie cooked up with Mrs. Witherow, because at most events we don’t get photos of ourselves, only of other people. Dodie figured this would make it more personal for each guest. We only had a few minutes to borrow their memory cards and download the images.”

  “You didn’t have time to edit what was already on the cards before you dumped them onto the computer, right?”

  “Exactly.”

  The doorbell rang. Detweiler jumped up with Gracie at his side. He put one hand on her collar and ushered in a crime scene technician, then showed the man where to dust for prints. Gracie stood by Detweiler’s side the whole time. The dog and the detective formed a natural pair.

  “I’ll need to take these CDs as evidence.” Detweiler reached for my duplicates.

  “You can’t. If you take those, and if anything happens to the website, I won’t be able to complete the albums. Those albums mean a lot of income to me. Please don’t take them.”

  “There’s been a murder, Mrs. Lowenstein.” Detweiler was firm.

  “For goodness sake, call me Kiki.” I struggled to keep my voice even. “Look, I know there’s been a murder. I’m not sure you need these, but I do. This extra income means I can pay my bills. Isn’t there any way around you taking these?”

  He thought a minute. “How’s this—let’s copy the disks. I’ll take the originals while you keep the copies. And I’ll need a list of all the guests at the shower.”

  “That works. And if you leave me copies, there’s always the chance I’ll see something you won’t.”

  It was a compromise we could both live with.

  He popped in a CD and started copying. Without my powerful hard drive, the process ran slowly. The crime scene technician finished his work in the scrapbook room, formerly a tiny spare bedroom, and called Detweiler in to talk. I strained to hear their conversation.

  “Everything’s been wiped down. No prints showed up. This wasn’t done by a kid on drugs. The intruder knew what he wanted and didn’t care about covering his tracks. He pried the window open and climbed on in. See the tool marks? It’s a cheap latch. He probably checked from outside to see if this was the right room. The jerk didn’t even wander around the house.”

  Detweiler called me into the room. “Sorry about the dust. It tends to get all over.”

  That was an understatement. I sighed and realized cleaning up would take at least a couple of hours.

  The photos were still being loaded on disks when a key turned in the front door.

  “Mom? I’m home,” Anya said. I left the kitchen to greet her with a hug. The warmth of her body next to mine felt good. When we are apart, I try not to worry, but since George died, I find myself being more protective than usual.

  “We’ve had a little excitement here, but everything’s okay now.” I gave her another squeeze and realized I could feel her shoulder blades through her T-shirt. Was it my imagination or was Anya losing weight?

  Sheila followed two steps behind her granddaughter. A column of
black, wearing tailored slacks and a matching silk blouse, she stood with her arms crossed tightly over her chest and her lip jutting out petulantly. Her lipstick had been freshly applied. “I brought her to pick up more clothes. She’s spending the night at my house. It’s not safe here. Get your things, Anya.”

  “No, Gran, really. It’ll be okay. Gracie’s here, and we’ll be fine. Honest.” My baby hung on to me, her arms wrapped around my torso. Soon she’d be taller than me, if she kept growing at the rate she was. I hugged her hard and kissed the top of her head.

  “You aren’t safe here. You’re coming with me.”

  “Honest, Sheila, we’re okay. The burglar was only after my computer and now that he’s got it …” I spoke to eyes hard as polished pebbles.

  “That’s what you say. I have no reason to believe you.”

  “Excuse me? I couldn’t help but overhear.” Detweiler came in from the kitchen. “Mrs. Lowenstein? I’m Detective Chad Detweiler. I understand your concern, ma’am, but like your daughter-in-law says, the intruder was only after the computer. This wasn’t a dope-addled kid or some random thief. I’ll ask the local police to keep an eye out for your family here. Of course, it’s up to you two, but I think the house is safe. Now if you’ll excuse me, we’re just finishing up in the kitchen.” He turned to go but hesitated, stopping to smile warmly at my daughter. “Anya? We met the day your dad died. I’m Detective Detweiler.” The big man extended his hand for a formal handshake. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

  Anya straightened from her position spooning close to my body and looked him in the eye before shaking his hand. I worried. How would my child respond to finding a cop in her home?

  “Thank you.” Her voice was soft but calm. “Nice to see you again, sir.”

  Love that kid.

  “Ladies.” With a polite nod of his head, Detweiler turned away.

  “Thanks for the ride, Gran.” Anya bounced over to give her grandmother a peck on the cheek, before taking off down the hallway to her bedroom.

  “This is outrageous. If anything happens to my granddaughter, I’ll never forgive you. In fact, if I hear of any more problems, and I’ll get custody of her faster than you can say goodbye.” Sheila hesitated. She stood there, arms wrapped tightly around her torso. Her mouth puckered and furled.

  “Sheila,” I said. “Come on. We’re okay. Honest.”

  “Hrumph.” She didn’t move.

  I waited.

  “I suppose you heard about Roxanne Baker,” Sheila’s words rushed by like air whooshing from a punctured tire. “This is horrible news. Simply unimaginable.”

  I had wondered if Sheila knew about George and Roxanne. After all, according to Merrilee, their romance began back when they were in school at CALA. Sheila’s pained expression—an expression of loss—made it incontrovertibly clear the two women had remained close.

  “I didn’t realize you two stayed in contact.”

  “I had hoped one day she’d be my daughter-in-law.”

  With that painful slap in the face, Sheila did an about-face and stormed off to her car.

  Detweiler continued running the photos. Image files are much larger than document files. Copying the photos onto CDs seemed to be taking forever. He looked me over carefully when I returned to the kitchen. I could sense he was thinking about Sheila’s threats and put-downs. My house is small enough that he had to have heard.

  “You do need more security. An alarm system won’t work because Gracie would probably set it off. It would be easy enough to add lights. A burglar would think twice about being in the spotlight.”

  I chewed my lip. I didn’t have much money. However, this was important. “I think my lease says I have to notify the landlord first. I’ll call him.”

  Mr. Wilson wasn’t home. I left a message on his machine.

  “I’m going to rustle something up for dinner. Probably spaghetti. You’re welcome to eat with us. There’ll be more than enough.” I didn’t sit down. I had to keep moving. I was determined not to let Sheila’s comment about Roxanne ruin the rest of my evening. Didn’t my mother-in-law even suspect that hussy of knowing who murdered her son? How could Sheila be so blind?

  “Are you sure? I don’t want to impose, but that’d be nice. I skipped lunch. Can I help?”

  What a shocker. George never offered to pitch in.

  “Uh, no, the oven needs to heat up. I’ll put together a salad. The lettuce will be okay if I soak it in cool tap water. I have two tomatoes on my counter and a couple of carrots in the drawer.” I assembled the veggies on my counter.

  “Better yet, why don’t I check out the lock on the window. After telling your mother-in-law you are safe, I probably should make sure you are.” He stood and stretched.

  There was an unopened bottle of salad dressing and a can of tomato paste in my cupboard. I filled a pot with water and set it on a burner. I didn’t turn the stove on just yet.

  “I appreciate you seeing to the latch. I better check on Anya before I start this.”

  My little girl was lying on her bed listening to the iPod her grandmother had gotten her for Hanukkah. Her foot jiggled to the music, her skinny legs taking up scant room in the bell of her skirt. I touched her gently on the shoulder and her eyes flew open. “Hey, kiddo, I’m making spaghetti. What else can I get you? Applesauce? Salad?”

  She diverted her eyes. “Mom, I’m not hungry.”

  I didn’t like the sound of this. “Honey, it’s dinner time.”

  Her blue eyes roamed the ceiling. “I ate with Grandma.”

  I doubted that. I made her scoot over and I sat down. I wondered if she was more worried than she’d let on. “Are you okay?”

  “Yep.”

  “What’d you eat with your grandmother?”

  “I don’t remember.”

  This clearly was a lie.

  “Anya, is something wrong? You seem like you’ve lost weight. I haven’t seen you eat a full meal in days. You only pick at your food.”

  She wouldn’t face me.

  “This isn’t healthy, honey. Come on. What’s going on?”

  Anya pressed a finger against her lips. She didn’t talk. Okay, two could play this game. I didn’t move. I could wait.

  She sighed. “Daddy’s girlfriend died last night. She got shot. It was on the news.”

  I nearly fell off the bed. Take it easy, I told myself. You asked her to open up, and she did. Go slow.

  “Daddy’s girlfriend?” A parenting book I’d read suggested when you don’t know what to say, repeat what you’ve heard. And I definitely didn’t know what to say. I was stumped. “His girlfriend?” I tried again.

  “Yeah.”

  That was helpful. Now what?

  “Who are you talking about, honey?”

  Anya pulled off the earphones and turned to me. I reached over and took her hand. Her eyes searched mine. “Mom, you knew about her, right? Daddy said you did.”

  My heart clogged my windpipe. I choked. What on earth had George told this child? “Honey, what exactly did your daddy … uh … say? About … um … his girlfriend … and me?”

  She took in a long breath and let it go slowly. Her gaze was clear and direct. “He said she was sort of a secret. He told me not to say anything ’cause it might make you sad. And we didn’t want to hurt your feelings.”

  “We? We who? You knew about his … girlfriend?”

  She nodded.

  “How?”

  “Because we did stuff together. The three of us.”

  An invisible fist slugged me in the solar plexus. All the air left my body. I crumpled, then caught myself by grabbing the side of her mattress. I struggled to stay upright. I turned my head so she couldn’t see my expression.

  The muscles in my jaw spasmed, and my teeth clamped down hard. I wanted to scream. I wanted to bawl like a baby. I wanted to dig up George’s body and drive a stake through his heart.

  How dare he? How could he have involved our daughter in his tawdry secret life?r />
  And to expose Anya to Roxanne? That monster and my baby? How could he? I wanted to throw back my head and scream until my lungs gave out.

  But I couldn’t.

  Not now. Not yet. Not in front of Anya.

  “Mom?” Her voice, tremulous and high-pitched, brought me back to the present.

  “Yes?”

  “You okay?”

  “Uh,” I stalled for time. “I’m surprised. Just, um, surprised. See, I didn’t know about this arrangement. That you went places …

  together.” Gritting my teeth, I managed to add, “Tell me more.”

  She screwed up her mouth, considering. “Well, it started when I was little. Daddy and I’d go out and we’d run into Mrs. Baker. By accident. Accidentally on purpose, ’cause it happened all the time.”

  Mrs.? Mrs. Baker? What a laugh.

  “And one day I said, ‘Daddy, how come you and Mrs. Baker hold hands when you think I’m not looking?’ And he told me …”

  “What? What did he tell you?” I struggled to keep my voice low and calm but I could hear the shrill edge.

  Anya’s brow creased. She turned worried eyes on me. “That she’d been his first girlfriend and that they’d always be special friends. He said it was like I’d always be special friends, like with Theresa, even though Theresa moved away in third grade and I never see her anymore.”

  “Special friends.” From my lips, it sounded like a curse.

  “Right.”

  “What did you think about that?”

  “Are you mad, Mom?”

  “No, honey.” I broke a promise I made when she was born. I lied to her. I’d told myself I’d never do that. But I did. I lied. And I was getting good at lying, but this was no time to worry about it.

  Her eyes filled with tears. I watched one spill and run down the side of her face. I hopped up and walked toward a box of tissues on her dresser. The chance to expend some energy did me good. It was all I could do to keep from running out of the room and screaming my head off at my dead husband. But instead I moved very deliberately, pulling the tissue gently from the box and walking it over to my child.