“I've heard enough,” said Hadcho, getting to his feet. “That lawyer is a dead man. I don't mind getting my hands dirty. That's the kind of filth that doesn't deserve to live.”
“That's very noble of you,” said Brawny. “And I would be right there beside you. But we don't need to trouble ourselves.”
“Why not?” growled Hadcho.
Lorraine smiled at us. Her eyes were bright and her jaw determined. “Such sad news. Late last night, Thornton was killed in a carjacking.”
CHAPTER 82
“Another cup?” I offered Jennifer Moore a second helping of tea from my Christmas gift, a Clarice Cliff teapot she'd purchased for me on eBay. Although I'd never heard of the artist before, my friend had made a wise choice. I immediately fell in love with the colorful images on the clay.
Watching me as I poured, Jennifer stretched her arms over her head. She leaned back in one of my kitchen chairs and smiled at me. “I'm so glad you like it. By the way, Stevie and Erik had a blast. There were LEGOs all over the great room floor. Let me show you what they built.”
She flipped through photos on her smart phone. When she came to a picture of the two boys next to their creation, she handed the gizmo to me. I stared at a castle built from tiny plastic bricks.
“Wow, could you send that to me? It would make a dynamite scrapbook page.”
“Sure thing. By the way, have you heard any more from Sheila?” Jennifer hit a few buttons and was rewarded by the iconic “flush” sound that signaled the picture was on its way.
“Not exactly.” I used a spatula to dig out pieces of cherry pie for her and for me. “But I did hear from Robbie. I guess Sheila isn't allowed to phone anyone for the first two weeks.”
“How's she doing?” Jennifer took a ladylike nibble of the pie. I loaded my fork with a honking-big bite.
“She tried to back out of the whole rehab scene somewhere north of Dallas. Robbie actually handcuffed her to the steering wheel.”
“You have to be kidding!” Jennifer's eyes widened. She had a tiny red smear of cherry filling at the corner of her mouth. I dabbed it off. Jennifer is such a lady, and I'm usually the one who wears her food.
“I kid you not. I guess he drove the next two hours with her smacking at him. Can't fault the man for his determination.” Although the scene sounded funny, it was really a sad commentary on his determination and her denial.
“Gee.” Jennifer stood up, went to my refrigerator, and helped herself to a glass of cold milk. I love it when my guests feel at home. It's easier on me, and it means they feel welcome in my house. She stood next to the kitchen counter and took a long swig from her glass. “That's love, isn't it? He's willing to incur her wrath than to give up on her.”
“It sure is love. That or pig-headedness.”
Jennifer cocked her head at me. “Speaking of which, you seemed pretty miffed with Brawny when I picked up the kids the other night. Is everything all right?”
I used my fork to stab a cherry. “Yes. Now it is. But I had a good reason to be upset with her before.”
After checking that the kids couldn't overhear, I told her the backstory on the shooter. “See, I made a fool of myself, dancing half-naked, and then she let the guy go. I couldn't understand it.”
“But I still don't understand. Why did Brawny let the gunman go free? That doesn't make any sense. How could she have been so sure he'll never come back?”
“Um...”
“Come on. You can tell me. My lips are sealed,” and she pantomimed zipping her lips, locking them, and throwing away the key.
“Brawny showed me a little souvenir she took. I didn't get to see it until after Lorraine explained that Thornton wouldn't be hiring a new assassin. Ever.”
“Souvenir? Another matchbook?”
“Nope. Brawny finally showed me a baggy she'd been carrying around. Inside was the gunman's trigger finger. She cut it off with a knife.”
Jennifer's mouth fell open. “You have to be kidding me!”
I shook my head. “According to Brawny, to be an effective shooter, you actually have to slowly squeeze the trigger so you don't jiggle the gun. It's that slow steady motion that keeps the barrel pointed at your target. When she deprived him of his index finger, she effectively put him out of business. Forever.”
CHAPTER 83
Jennifer stood there with her mouth open. She shook her head, “Unbelievable.”
“Yeah,” I said. “Tell me about it. That night after I did my turn on the catwalk, I saw a dark stain on her clothes and a smudge of red on her hand. I knew she'd done something, but I didn't know what.”
“Gee, and I always thought a pink slip was cruel and unusual punishment.”
“Brawny wouldn't have shown it to me, but I kept nagging her. It was both gross and somewhat reassuring to see that hairy digit inside a snack-sized baggy.”
“You're sure that lawyer is dead? Van Lauber's cheating attorney?” Jennifer sat down and picked at the pie.
“Yup.” I opened the screen on my cell phone and pulled up a news article. “Roscoe Thornton, a local attorney, died yesterday morning in a failed carjacking attempt. Mr. Thornton was leaving the apartment of an acquaintance when he was accosted by a man wearing a black ski mask, according to photos taken by the parking garage security cameras. A brief scuffle ensued. Thornton was pronounced dead at the scene.”
“What a coincidence.” Jennifer handed my phone back to me.
“That's not the only co-inky-dink. Get this,” I said, as I put it in my pocket. “Lorraine's driver Orson decided to retire. Suddenly. As of yesterday. And he moved to Costa Rica. Brawny once told me that Orson served in Special Forces.”
Jennifer shivered. “Is there a draft in here?”
“Nope.”
CHAPTER 84
Lorraine and Leighton got married on New Year's Day in my formal living room. Father Joe did the honors. Detweiler was Leighton's best man. Brawny gave the bride away. I was the matron of honor and Anya was a bridesmaid. Erik performed admirably as the ring bearer.
For the event, Lorraine wore a gauzy blue-green cocktail dress. A light shawl in sea foam green was draped over her shoulders. Leighton looked fabulous in a navy blue suit with a green tie. Paolo and Gracie wore green and blue ribbons around their throats.
I cried with happiness, seeing our former landlord and his bride.
“You didn't cry at our wedding,” Detweiler whispered to me.
“I didn't get the chance,” I said. “I was too busy fending off bad guys.”
If we all acted a “wee bit skittish,” well, we had good reason. But the happy ceremony went off without a hitch. The bride and groom kissed each other, and I'm pleased to report that no shots rang out.
Afterward, we sat down to a huge meal in the dining room. Brawny had cooked a standing rib roast, caramelized brussel sprouts and mashed potatoes. She also heated up several of the casseroles in our freezer. While the others toasted the new couple with champagne, I sipped carbonated apple juice.
“Are you planning to stay here or move back to California?” asked Anya. “Because we all want you to stay here. You said you would stick around, but I'm just checking.”
Lorraine blushed prettily. “There's nothing for me back in California. Leighton has asked me to stay here, and I'd like that, if you don't mind.”
“Of course we don't,” said Detweiler. “Although we might change our minds, if you two insist on hosting loud parties.”
That brought a laugh from all of us. Leighton and Lorraine both loved the blues and jazz. Occasionally if the wind was just right, we could hear the strains of a saxophone or a clarinet, but you really had to be listening hard. Actually, the sounds were rather pleasant.
“No loud parties unless you two are invited,” said Leighton. “How's that?”
“Perfect,” I said.
“Oh!” Anya jumped to her feet. “I almost forgot, Aunt Lori. I brought the mail in today. There was a postcard for you.”
&nbs
p; As soon as Anya left the room, Lorraine had turned teary eyes to me. “I always dreamed of having a family. Thanks to the two of you, my dream has come true.”
Anya returned to the dinner table with a postcard in hand. Lorraine glanced over it. “It's from Orson. He's so happy down in Costa Rica.”
I smiled to myself, thinking how handily he'd managed to remove himself from the long arm of the law.
“He always wanted to live there.” Lorraine passed the card around.
“Where are you two going on your honeymoon?” asked Anya, smiling at Lorraine and Leighton.
“My bride and I have decided to sit tight until after the baby is born. She tells me that she's never had the privilege of holding a newborn,” said Leighton.
“Never? Well, we can certainly fix that,” I said, as the doorbell rang.
Anya hopped up. “I'll get it.”
We heard the door open. Anya sang out, “It's Aunt Amanda!”
“Amanda?” I got up from my seat to meet my sister halfway.
“It's Mom,” said Amanda, as she ran straight to my arms. Between sobs, she managed, “I just can't take it anymore.”
~The End~
Kiki’s Story continues in the next book
in the series --
Glue, Baby, Gone
(Book #12 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series)
Bonus Excerpt
from
GLUE, BABY, GONE
BOOK #12 IN THE
KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES
PART 1/ CHAPTER 1
January 10, Friday
Five days before Kiki's due date
~Kiki~
Time slows to a crawl when you’re nearly nine months pregnant. Every day is a struggle, because you feel like a klutz. A fat klutz at that. Your joints loosen up, your balance shifts, and your feet become a distant memory. With the first baby, you're excited and scared. With the second, you just want to get the delivery over with. My little passenger must have felt the same, because the baby struggled to get comfortable, turning and twisting and kicking against me as though my skin was a set of covers he could knock to the floor.
Added to our joint misery was the weather. I stayed indoors as much as possible, out of the brutal cold. A beautiful dusting of snow totally hid a mirror-slick frozen surface. With subzero temperatures the norm, even a short walk could prove hazardous.
Yes, January had slammed Missouri like a boxer dealing a knock-out blow. An overnight ice storm turned the bleak winter landscape into a crystal wonderland, broken by the fluff of snowflakes here and there. Light bounced and reflected off of every bush, branch, and broken blade of dead grass. The landscape twinkled as if it had been salted with a handful of diamonds. Although the world outside my window was breathtakingly beautiful, I knew that it was also very, very dangerous.
Shards of tan stuck out on one of the branches of our sugar maple. The crack proved that the limb was going to come down any minute. Tracing it with my eyes, I could see it would take a power line along with.
“We need to get out there and grab that thing before it takes out our power,” I said, turning to my children's nanny, Bronwyn Macavity, affectionately called “Brawny.”
“No, we don't,” she said, in that deep voice of hers. Her Scottish accent always seemed heavier in the mornings, leaving me to wonder if she spent the night dreaming in her native Gaelic tongue. “You are going to stay right here. I can get that down in no time. If I hurry, I can get it done before your husband wakes up.”
“I agree. The last thing we need is for Detweiler to get out there and pull out his stitches.”
“Aye, and sure he would. He's not taking well to the doctor's orders to rest up and heal, is he? Do you really think he should be going back to work so soon?”
I turned away from her so she couldn't see how worried I was. “Of course I think it's too soon for him to be going back. He's still weak from all that blood loss, and he's not supposed to lift anything heavy. But with Robbie Holmes out on leave, Prescott Gallaway is acting police chief, and Prescott hates Detweiler.”
Brawny sipped her coffee. “I'll finish my cup and then take down that branch.”
She drinks hers strong, black, and unsweetened. Mine is decaf mixed with almond milk and two packs of Truvia. I'm a big believer in trying to give my babies their best start in life, so I avoid caffeine, artificial sweeteners, and any food additives that might be harmful. That doesn't leave much.
A few sips later, Brawny was more awake. She asked me, “Why would Prescott hate Detweiler? That makes no sense. Detweiler's one of the best detectives on the force. His close rate is brilliant.”
“Ah, but it does make sense in Prescott's pea-sized brain. Think of it this way: Detweiler is loyal to Robbie Holmes. Prescott knows that Detweiler has got his number. So he hates my husband, pure and simple.”
“Got his number? What does that mean?”
Every once in a while, American slang confuses Brawny. So do references to popular culture. I'd considered saying, “Detweiler is Team Edward, and Prescott is Team Jacob,” but that would have totally thrown Brawny for a loop. I doubt that she's heard of the Twilight series, much less Edward the Vampire and Jacob the Werewolf. Her choice of reading material seems to be strictly non-fiction, books on history and biographies. Each time I see one of her heavy tomes, I think, I really need to read material that's more educational. Then I pick up a cozy mystery, or a women's fiction title, and happily lose myself for hours. And guess what? I usually do learn a thing or two.
I explained, “Detweiler knows that Prescott is incompetent—and worse luck, Prescott knows that Detweiler doesn't think much of him.”
“I see,” she put her coffee mug in the sink, rinsed it, and grabbed her boiled-wool jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. Pulling on a pair of scuffed suede gloves, she headed for the back door.
“You aren't going outside in that? You'll freeze.” I stood up and stared out the window at the frozen, skeletal shapes of trees and shrubs.
We live on a prime piece of property in a charming community called Webster Groves. The lot is nine-tenths of an acre, complete with mature trees and a garden most people would give their eyeteeth to grow. My former landlord, Leighton Haversham, the author, sold us the property with the proviso that he be allowed to live in the garage he'd converted into a small cottage, when we moved into what was his former family home.
“Ach, this is more covering than most of my clan wear even when they're outside on the heather all day and all night. Don't be worrying your sweet self about me, Kiki. Sure and I'll warm up the car and drive you into the store later when you get yourself dressed and ready. There's no need for you to set your bahookie on a freezing leather car seat. A happy mum makes for a happy baby. You are feeling all right, aren't you?”
“Perfectly fine,” I said. “I wish this baby would hurry up and come. I'm tired of being pregnant. I'm so uncomfortable that I barely get any sleep these days.”
“Is that what's bothering ye?” asked Brawny. “You're certainly not your usual happy bunny self.”
“That and the weather.” I stopped myself from complaining about my mother-in-law. Thelma Detweiler, who’d once been my biggest fan, had turned against me. She thought I should have quit working at my store. According to Thelma, I was putting my baby in jeopardy.
Each time I thought about how she was carrying on, I fought the urge to snicker. Did it occur to Thelma that sitting at home would send me out of my pea-picking mind with boredom? Now that would definitely put my baby in danger. Working, not so much. At the store, all my employees treated me like a fragile blown glass vase.
But Thelma? She was treating me like I was her personal piñata.
My patience with her was wearing thin, while the ice outside was growing thicker and thicker.
The storm had added yet another coat of frozen wet stuff, a menace so undetectable on the roads that you think you're driving on dry pavement. One minute you're traveling alon
g, and the next your car is spinning out of control, thanks to what we call “black ice.” Despite the warmth in the house, I shivered violently. Ice storms scared me. When Anya was an infant, she came down with an ear infection the morning after a bad ice glazing. My first husband, the late George Lowenstein, was at a conference, so I had no choice but to pop her into her car seat and head for the pediatrician's office. I crept along, gaining speed as the car seemed to have good traction. Halfway there, on a busy stretch of Highway 40, my car spun out of control. The change of direction snapped my head left to right, disorienting me. For a second, I thought I was on a carnival ride. Then my car hit a guard rail. I remember thinking, “I've killed my baby!” I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed over the console, so hysterical that I couldn't even see for my tears. In fact, I tumbled onto the floor behind the passenger seat. The whiplash of the car had messed with my sense of balance, so I then had to do a somersault to right myself. When I did, Anya was staring at me, those denim blue eyes wide with surprise.
“Anya, honey, you okay?” I whimpered, sure that I'd hurt her so badly she was paralyzed.
Then, blessedly, she began to cry.
As I did now, just thinking back on it.
Brawny shook her head at me, setting that thick gray ponytail of hers swinging this way and that. “Aye, the dark and the gloom gets to some people more than others. Seasonal Affective Disorder, it's called. Or maybe it's the lack of sleep, but you certainly aren't yourself these days.”
“No. No, I'm not,” and I blew my nose on a paper napkin.
~ To Be Continued~
Kiki’s story is part of a thirteen book series. Her story continues with
Glue, Baby, Gone:
Book #12 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series.
Shotgun, Wedding, Bells Page 23