Killer, Paper, Cut (The Kiki Lowenstein Mysteries)

by Campbell Slan, Joanna

  I couldn’t wait to tell him what I’d learned about Laurel being Mert’s daughter, but I didn’t get the chance. Thanks to the media reports that Laurel had been stabbed, our croppers not only showed up early, they showed up eager to chat. A part of me wanted to label them all a bunch of ghouls, but their questions were so considerate and sincere that I quickly dropped the attitude. Of course, many of them knew Laurel. Others didn’t, but had heard of her second-hand. I did my best to delay my answers to their inquiries, telling them that I’d address the group when we got started.

  Meanwhile, women continued to file in. Mary Martha, Patricia, and Dolores arrived in the middle of the pack. "Ladies!" I said. "I’m so glad to see you again."

  "It’s for a worthy cause," said Patricia rather stiffly.

  "We didn’t get all our projects done last night," said Dolores. "We hoped you’d have time to help us personally tonight."

  "Sure. I’d be glad to!" I said, with rather too much gusto. "Let’s find seats for you. How’s your hand, Mary Martha?"

  "A little stiff. I can’t use scissors, but Patricia and Dolores said they’d help me if I need it."

  I got them seated and turned to see Faye Edorra grinning at me. "Ready for Round Two? I just love touring the Lemp Mansion. So many haunting vibes. Absolutely delicious!"

  Tonight she was dressed in another Lavender Lady outfit, complete with faux blood smeared in dull streaks on her torn dress. The person who did her makeup was a real pro, because her skin color was sallow and the circles under her eyes convincing.

  "Glad you’re here," I said. Of course, she was being paid to come, so it wasn’t likely that she wouldn’t show up. However, I figured being thankful never hurt.

  "Wouldn’t miss it for the world," she said. "Last night went down as just one more calamity in the long history of local tragedies. I could almost feel the uneasy spirits accompanying us from the Lemp Mansion back here to The Old Social Hall. You know, there really are ghostly hitchhikers. People think Disney made that stuff up."

  "Uh, well," I stuttered. "I'm glad the stabbing didn't scare you off."

  "Oh, no! Never! I can regale my audiences with a firsthand account of it!"

  "Right," I muttered. At least one person found the silver lining of our dark cloud. Now to address my other guests.

  "Before we begin with the night’s activities, let me say something abou5t the tragedy that happened here last night. Our dear friend, Laurel Wilkins, was stabbed in the restroom right around the corner. Tonight we have Detective Chad Detweiler with us. He’ll be stationed in the hall between this room and the ladies room. We also have Detective Stan Hadcho arriving any minute. If you see anything or hear anything that doesn’t seem right, don’t hesitate to call one of the officers to help you. While we certainly don’t anticipate a problem, we’d have been negligent not to worry about your safety."

  A hand shot up. Lottie Feister was asking my permission to talk. "How is Laurel?"

  "Thank you for asking. I’ve been told she’s stable and doing better. However, she’s still in need of your prayers."

  Another hand requested acknowledgment. "Do you have an address where we could mail her a card?"

  "If you’d send them to the store, I’ll make sure that Laurel gets them."

  Detweiler stepped forward, and as he did, I moved back and away from the center of the room. "We have every reason to believe this was an isolated and personal attack. So there’s absolutely no cause for your concern. That said, if you know something, anything at all, no matter how small, that might help our investigation, it would be much appreciated. Any information would be kept in confidence. I’ll pass around my business cards. There’s a phone number on them in case you want to speak to me privately."

  I didn’t realize it at the time, but I’d stepped out of the line of sight for the women closest to me. I was still tired from the long day before, so I leaned against the doorsill.

  "She got what she deserved," said a voice.

  My head spun around. Where’d that come from? Who’d been talking? Had I heard what I thought I heard? Was it possible that I’d misunderstood?

  I thought about what Faye had said about ghostly vibes. Was it possible that the angry ectoplasms that roamed the Lemp Mansion had decided to stake out a wider territory?

  Ugh.

  Chapter 29

  It wasn’t until our first snack break that I was able to tell Detweiler what I’d learned about Mert and Laurel. "Can you believe it?" I said. I also told him about the comment I’d overheard as I stood in the doorway. "And here’s the best part. I went on Facebook. Laurel has a page. Did you know she’s a belly dancer?"

  His smile was gentle. "Yes, babe. I knew about her dancing. Hadcho pulled that up first thing. I guess he’d known about her second career for a long time."

  "Really?"

  "Yes, but it’s not what you think. He loves Middle Eastern food. So he’s sussed out all the best Greek and Lebanese restaurants in the area. He was eating at one when Laurel came walking out of a back room, a private party, dressed in her belly dancing costume. They practically bumped into each other."

  "That rat! He never told me."

  "He didn’t have any reason to tell you. Or me."

  "Did she ask him to keep it quiet?"

  "No, but look. He’s a private person, and she is, too. Why would he go around blabbing about what he’d seen?"

  "Does he think that’s why she was stabbed?"

  "No, he doesn’t. She’s kept her real name secret. To hire her, you have to call and leave your number with a talent booking agency. They vet the requests. She’s no fool. Although most of her customers understand what she’s doing and respect her, there’s the odd weirdo who sees belly dancing as an invitation to lewd behavior. To keep that sort of whack-job out of her life, Laurel has put a barrier between herself and her public. She also charges a hefty fee for her time. That helps sort out the riffraff."

  "Haven’t you learned anything that’s helpful to the investigation?" I asked. I probably sounded huffy. I was tired. Scheduling two events had made sense at the time. I really did care about our ability to make some money for charity. And now that I knew Laurel was diabetic, I felt an even deeper commitment to our cause.

  But I’d drastically underestimated how much these late events were taking out of me. The stabbing had added extra stress, as had the bites on my neck, but it was late nights that were doing me in. Before I was pregnant, I could stay up for two crops in a row with no problem. But now, not so much.

  The truth of the matter was that I hadn’t considered the fact that I was nearly fourteen years older than when I’d had my last pregnancy.

  I’d had Anya when I was twenty. Now at thirty-three, I tired more easily. Of course when I was expecting Anya, I’d dropped out of college only to sit around in a tiny apartment staring at four walls and watching soap operas. Today, I had two children and a business to run. Somehow I’d failed to take all of that into account.

  Detweiler came over and brushed my cheek with his hand. "Sweetie, why don’t you go sit down? You look ready to fall over. Quit worrying about Laurel. Let Murray and his detectives do their jobs. You’ve got enough on your plate. Tell me, why’s Catherine here?"

  "Because Clancy and I decided that we really need more help. Especially now that Laurel’s not available. Once we discussed it, I decided that I knew the perfect candidate. Catherine accepted immediately."

  "I’m glad. I like both your sisters. But Catherine needs you and Amanda doesn’t, so I’m especially happy that she’ll be spending more time at the store."

  "Yeah," I said. "I guess you’re right."

  Detweiler knew what had happened to my sister. He’d become furious when he heard that my mother had let my father toss Catherine out of the house. And he’d gotten even angrier when he heard how she’d gotten pregnant. "Your mother isn’t a real mother," he’d fumed to me. "You know how they call bad fathers ‘sperm donors’? Well, she’s nothing more th
an an ‘egg donor.’ You and your sisters raised yourselves. Do you realize what would have happened to Catherine if Aunt Penny hadn’t stepped in? She would have been snatched up by a human trafficker. With that gorgeous hair and being pregnant to boot? They would have sold her to someone for big bucks. Some pervert."

  I’d pooh-poohed that idea. "Come on, Detweiler. We live in the United States of America. Not Thailand!"

  "I know perfectly well where we live. The US is one of the world’s biggest markets for human trafficking. Let me pull up the statistics."

  When he handed them to me, I couldn’t believe what I read. In our country alone, more than one hundred thousand women and children were thought to be the victims of traffickers. "But here? How does this happen?"

  "Believe me, all it takes is a little negligence. Once the predators find out that no one cares, they swoop down. They act like they are being friendly, by offering food and shelter, and then they drug their target. For others less fortunate than Catherine, there is no Aunt Penny who comes to their rescue. Just a life of misery."

  "I didn’t realize," I said. "That’s…awful."

  Detweiler pulled me close and planted a kiss on my hair. "The past doesn’t matter. We live in the moment. Catherine is safe now. She has the two of us, Aunt Penny, and your sister Amanda. I’m glad you gave her a job. I figured that you would need help at the store, but I didn’t want to push you because I know you’re worried about making the payments on the business. But I think you did the right thing, babe. Really I do."

  I nodded. "I think so, too. Everything will work out. Catherine didn’t hesitate. She seemed thrilled that I asked her to join us. See how good she is with people?"

  "I see," said Detweiler. "Why shouldn’t she be good with people? She’s walking in the footsteps of her older sister."

  Chapter 30

  I purposely devoted a lot of time and attention to anyone who’d joined us the night before. I figured those croppers deserved extra brownie points for daring to return to the scene of a crime. In particular, I’d hovered over Mary Martha, Patricia, and Dolores, the hapless three-some. They all needed a lot of help with their projects, and I supplied as much assistance as I could without doing the work for them.

  "When’s your baby due?" asked Patricia in a very casual tone. She looked to be in her mid-forties, but she could have been younger. The way she dressed and wore her hair aged her. I guess you’d say that the "bloom of youth" had faded.

  "January fifteenth, but he might come sooner," I said. "Just think, maybe you’ll see me on TV, holding the first baby of the New Year."

  The women exchanged sidewise looks of distaste.

  "And the father? Is he in the picture?" Mary Martha raised her head from her work to boldly lock eyes with me.

  "Absolutely. See that tall cop over there by the door? The one with the wavy dark blond hair and the green eyes? Detective Detweiler? He’s my baby’s father."

  "But is he excited about the birth?" asked Dolores.

  "He couldn’t be happier," I said.

  "Um, does he intend to stick around? After the child is born?"

  I worked hard at keeping my cool.

  They were fishing for details of our relationship. They wanted to know if we were getting married. However, they’d raised my hackles, and when that happens, I dig in my heels. So I wasn’t going to give them what they wanted. No way, no sir. Whether I was married, unmarried, engaged, or acting as a surrogate mother wasn’t their business.

  "How do you three know each other?" I asked, as I pulled up a chair to make myself more comfortable. If I was a scarlet woman, why not let a little of that sinful coloring rub off on my guests?

  The three pulled away from me and my chair.

  So scarlet was contagious. Who knew?

  "We are members of the altar guild at St. James Episcopal Church," said Patricia, primly. "We used to belong to another denomination, but that church didn't live up to God's teachings. So we went looking for a church home. Once we found St. James, we all took instruction at the same time. At last, we've come home to the one, holy, catholic church, but catholic doesn’t mean—"

  "Roman Catholic. It means universal," I said. "As per the Nicene Creed and the Apostolic Creed, right?"

  The three converts looked surprised.

  "We had heard that you are a Jew," said Mary Martha in a chilly tone.

  "My late husband was," I said. I continued to play havoc with their mistaken impressions of me by adding, "I was raised in the Episcopal Church. High church."

  That shut them up. The three women chewed air for a while.

  However, I now felt mean and petty. I’d shut them down, and I’d shown an unkind side of myself, for which I was truly ashamed. "I've met Father Joe. He’s a delightful man. Tell me what exactly he said about this crop. He certainly must have inspired all of you since you decided to join us again tonight."

  We were back on terra firma.

  "If you've met him, you know that Father Joe is wonderful!" gushed Patricia. "So spiritual, loving, kind, and, um, awesome!"

  "Not to mention easy on the eyes," added Dolores.

  "Good thing that Episcopal priests can marry, huh? It would be a waste if a man like that couldn't take a bride," I said, more to myself than to the croppers.

  Dolores got a dreamy look on her face. She was the youngest of the three. I’d put her age in the early thirties, probably the same age as Father Joe. She spoke almost as if she were in a trance. "What an asset he is to our church community. He has totally turned the place around. People are filling the pews to listen to him. He’s revitalized the choir."

  "The vestry loves him," Patricia continued. "His outreach to members, old and new, has changed the entire makeup of our church community. Before he came, the church was nearly insolvent, but since he arrived, the collection plates are full every Sunday."

  "What do you think of him, Mary Martha?" I asked. She had been suspiciously quiet while her friends prattled on and on.

  "Mary Martha is Father Joe’s personal assistant." Patricia giggled. "He calls her ‘God’s secretary.’ Isn’t that the cutest title?"

  "I do what I can to serve the Lord." Mary Martha’s neck turned red.

  "More like, you’d do anything you could to serve Father Joe," said Patricia, as she elbowed her friend. "Admit it, he’s like a rock star!"

  "When you see him walk among the people, you can imagine how it was with Jesus," said Mary Martha. "His touch sends chills up the spine. When he talks to you, it’s as if no one else in the world exists. His sermons are absolutely life-changing!"

  "Wow," I said, and I meant it. I'd grown up with slightly dusty, doddering old priests who snoozed off during hymns. Good men, all, but not what you’d describe as "rock stars."

  "Sounds like you are convinced that Father Joe is a wonderful spiritual leader," I said. "I hope sometime to hear one of his sermons."

  "You really should come and join us one Sunday. That man has breathed new life into our church community. He’s eased our financial burdens, he’s touched our lives, and he’s brought the spirit of Christ back into our lives," said Patricia.

  "As you can see, he means a lot to us," and Dolores flipped open her album to show me pages she’d made. Along with photos of the stained glass windows and the exterior of the church, there was one picture of Father Joe.

  The priest certainly was a good looking man. After the party at the Detweiler family farm, Clancy had remarked on what a gorgeous couple he and Laurel made.

  He did have that whole rock star vibe. Joe Tinsley wore his dark auburn hair long and curled loosely around his collar. Most compelling were his blue-green eyes. More than the shade, there was an intensity that held your interest.

  "I have a better picture right here," said Patricia, flipping open her album.

  Neither woman handled a camera with a lot of skill, but Patricia moved closer to her subject, which gave her tighter shots. One photo of Father Joe showed a man who obviously enjo
yed life. His eyes crinkled with happiness and his head was thrown back, emphasizing those gorgeous dark curls of his.

  I smiled, thinking of how he had laughed at something that Laurel had said when we were on a hayride at the farm.

  "Mine are better," said Mary Martha, pushing her album my way. "I also have this pack of photos that I haven’t put on pages yet."

  I started by looking at the album. Candid shots are usually better than posed, but these were all slightly creepy. There was a touch of the voyeur them, as if they'd been taken on the sly. I handed the album back and opened the paper envelope full of photos.

  Meanwhile, Clancy was up front, instructing people to find a stopping place. Since this was nearly the same point in our schedule when Bonnie had discovered Laurel, my mouth went dry with anticipation of another scream. Clancy, too, must have felt the energy shifting, because she paced at the front of the room, stopping only to fiddle with the overhead projector. From the far side of the dining area, Catherine raised an eyebrow at me, silently questioning the odd buzz. There weren’t that many people from the previous night’s crop, but the small sampling would never forget what had happened. I couldn’t blame them. I tried to swallow, but it was as if someone had slipped a noose over my neck.

  "The photos?" Mary Martha prompted me. "Aren’t you going to look at them?"

  She didn't seem at all effected by the memories of last night's tragedy.

  "Oops." Nervously I shuffled through them, noting once again, how intrusive the camera angles felt. These were pictures taken from off to the side, surreptitiously.

  In these shots, Father Joe interacted with children, seniors, and members of the choir. The pile included pictures of him in the pulpit and at coffee hour. I whisked through them, and then I stopped because the photo in my hand caught my attention.

  It had been torn in half. You can, of course, tear things with control. You do it slowly and use your fingers to determine how much of the paper will feel the tension of your pull. This, however, had been savagely ripped. The edge was frayed.