Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery)

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I pondered this as Anya kissed both of her grandmothers goodbye.

  Sheila stood on tiptoes and waved after my child, “Have a good time, darling. Enjoy yourself ! You look lovely! You’ll be the prettiest girl here!”

  Okay, that was why I put up with my mother-in-law.

  After her son died, I decided that no matter how she treated me, Sheila was good for my child. She positively doted on Anya. The education my daughter received at CALA was the finest money could buy. Correction: the finest Sheila’s money could buy.

  My mother-in-law’s affection and her willingness to foot the bill for my daughter’s pricey tuition forced me to suffer the thousand slings and arrows that Sheila lobbed in my direction. Sheila’s generosity helps my daughter fit in. She makes sure Anya has whatever extras she needs, all the little extras that her peers take for granted. This was very, very important at a school where most of the families owned vacation homes in Aspen or Jackson Hole or Palm Beach, or wherever the rich and trendy go to oppress the poorer classes these days.

  (Me bitter? Heaven forfend!)

  Thanks to Sheila’s support, no one would ever guess that the fashionable Anya Lowenstein went home at night to a teensy one-bathroom house. Or that Anya’s mother made little more than minimum wage while working at Time in a Bottle, a scrapbook store.

  So, yes, I put up with Sheila. We’ve had our moments, but overall we supported each other because in our heart of hearts, we agreed on what was important: Anya.

  Six

  Because we arrived late, all the spaces near the ceremonial grounds were filled. We circled around and drove over to the auxiliary school lot. School security waved us into a makeshift spot along the pickup lane, then ushered a Hummer in behind us. The huge vehicle blocked our egress. I hated the idea we couldn’t leave when we wanted—and I anticipated Mom would whine and want to go home way before we were ready—but there was no help for it. The annual May Day celebration was the biggest event of the CALA (that’s local speak for Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy) school year. If you wanted a primo parking space, you needed to arrive at least an hour in advance of the ceremony.

  Despite my warning it was time for us to leave, and in spite of Sheila’s urging her to “hurry up,” my mother had taken her own sweet time primping and running to the bathroom. As a result, Anya arrived a good forty-five minutes after the time specified by her advisor. I would have to call the school and beg them not to send her to detention.

  Sheila was furious.

  Mom didn’t care that she’d inconvenienced us all.

  When she realized she’d have to climb a small hill to get to the natural amphitheater where the festivities took place, Mom turned to me and said, “I’m not going. You can’t make me.”

  I tried cajoling her. “I know it looks like a hike, but really, the pageantry is worth it. Come on, Mom. Watching this will take you back to your days in show business. Wait till you see the dancing.”

  “No.” Her mouth formed a flat unyielding line. “Take me home.”

  “I can’t. First of all, this is Sheila’s car, not mine. Second, look around at the parking lot. See the Hummer blocking us in? We can’t get out. And third, I would miss the ceremony. I want to see my daughter dance around the Maypole. Anya’s so excited about her costume,” I said.

  My daughter wore a full white skirt with a lace overlay, a blue blouse with poet sleeves, and a multi-colored sash tied in a big bow at the waist. In her hair were silk daisies. She looked like a fairy princess.

  “I don’t care. I want to go home. Right now. Call a cab for me. Or a limo service.”

  Even if I wanted to, I couldn’t afford either. It shocked me that my mother still didn’t have a clue about how I lived. She had visited me once shortly after George and I married. I thought she wanted to get to know my new husband and his family, but she wasn’t interested in meeting my in-laws. After several invitations, she consented reluctantly to have dinner with Sheila and Harry Lowenstein. During the meal, she and Sheila sniped at each other incessantly. Tempers flared and they both raised their voices so loudly that nearby diners turned to stare.

  Mom also used her visit to criticize every part of my life: the house, the furniture, the books I was reading, and my clothes. Each day the list grew.

  Worst of all, she took potshots at George. Okay, he wasn’t perfect. None of us are. But he was her new son-in-law. You’d think she’d want to make nice. Instead, she laughed at him when he spilled his morning coffee. She sneered when his beloved Cardinals were creamed by the Cubs. She predicted he would lose all his hair by the time he was forty. (Sadly, George didn’t live to see forty.)

  The visit had gone about as well as a rout by marauding Vikings. At long last, I was able to drive Mom to the airport. I nearly clicked my heels together with joy. I spent the whole ride praying that her plane hadn’t been delayed. If it had, I would have gladly booked her on the next flight, even if it took her to Timbuktu. I would have sent her anywhere, anywhere in the world to get her out of my life—with George’s blessings.

  Even the stalwart Lowensteins were happy to see my mother leave.

  And she accomplished all that animosity in a mere five days.

  Think what she could do in a couple of weeks!

  I wasn’t sure how long she was staying, but this time, she arrived with six overstuffed suitcases. Anya sat under two of them in the back seat. One was in my trunk, and the other three would be delivered to my home at a princely sum. (Clearly I was in the wrong business. I mean, how can it cost so much to deliver a suitcase? They don’t bark, pee, or chew your furniture, but the porter charged more for the trip than I did to dogsit for a day.)

  “Um, are you planning to be with us awhile?” I asked.

  “It depends. This might be a long visit,” she said.

  I wanted to say, “How long is long to you?” so I could count down the days and hours. But Anya jumped in and started narrating the drive for her grandmother. I had to admit, my daughter made a good tour guide, pointing out where Bob Cassilly, our most famous local artist and eclectic sculptor, revised a section of historic fencing by turning it into a chorus line of ghostly figures. (The neighbors were not pleased. I guess some folks don’t have a sense of humor.)

  Mom listened politely to Anya’s commentary, not saying much. When Anya asked if she’d be here long enough to visit the local sights, such as the City Museum, the St. Louis Art Museum, and our fabulous zoo, Mom hesitated. “Maybe. Maybe not.”

  “You certainly brought a lot of suitcases,” I pointed out helpfully.

  “I like to make a good impression,” said Mom. “The right clothes are important. One never knows what functions one might be invited to attend.”

  Hmmm. Definitely sounding like a long visit.

  Ben Franklin once observed that “fish and visitors both stink after three days.” But I had a sinking feeling that the carp in the passenger seat was here for the duration. Swimming around and fouling up my personal fishbowl.

  I wondered if my sister Amanda had gotten fed up with our mother and given Mom the old heave-ho. Mom had always doted on Amanda, but given my mother’s mercurial temperament of late, that could have changed.

  When we pulled onto my street, Mom focused on the big house on the corner. “Look at that! It’s a mansion!” She jutted out her chin and said, “I knew it. You moved from one big house to the other, didn’t you? All this poor mouthing was just an act!”

  I said nothing. Anya reached up from the back seat and squeezed my shoulder gently three times, our secret code for “I love you.” I might be a rotten daughter, but I was raising an empathetic, kind young woman. Anya’s compassion touched me. I couldn’t speak for the lump in my throat.

  Mom kept on about how palatial my “home” was as we pulled around the block and onto the driveway of my real domicile, a converted garage.

  “These are your servants’ quarters?” Mom asked, as I turned off the engine.

  “Nope,” said A
nya. “No servants. Just us. This is where we live.” She jerked a thumb over her shoulder at the big place. “That’s Mr. Leighton Haversham’s house. He’s really nice. Famous, too. He’s an author. Authors make tons of money, you know. One of his books was made into a movie.”

  “But you own part of that store!” Mom had persisted, staring at me.

  True, I was proud to call myself part owner of Time in a Bottle, St. Louis’s premier scrapbooking store. But I’ve quickly come to learn that being a minority stockholder means I have bragging rights and not much more. I’m holding out for the promise that if the store does well, I might bring home a bonus. Holding out? Actually, I count mightily on that possibility.

  Because if I don’t, I won’t be able to buy new tires for my car, pay off my credit card, get my dog her rabies shots, or even eat for the next couple of months.

  Yeah, it’s really that bad.

  Seven

  Anya and I had brainstormed a list of activities we might do with Mom.

  Running from sniper fire had not been on that list. Clearly, an oversight on our part.

  Because we’d certainly done exactly that. We had raced our way over rough terrain away from the shooting and toward the parking lot. I had the bloody feet and aching muscles to show for our efforts. Sheila’s perfect coiffure showed signs of dishevelment. Anya’s cheeks glowed pink and a sheen of perspiration dotted her upper lip.

  My mother looked fresh as a newly opened tulip except her stockings sported runs and her shoes were missing.

  “To the car?” Sheila managed between huffs and puffs, while catching her breath.

  “I think that’s our best bet.” I nodded toward Mom. Sheila obliged me by doing another basket carry and off we went. The crowd still nipped at our heels, but fortunately, we’d gotten a good head start.

  Bless Sheila’s heart. She’d had the good sense to slip her keys in her pocket before we took off running. With the remote unlock, she clicked the doors open before we arrived. My mother-in-law bundled Anya inside, protecting my kid with her body. I fought my mother, finally shoving her head down and upending her into the back seat.

  “How dare you! What will people think?” she screamed at me. “How could you?”

  I imagined that other people thought we were lucky. Around us, folks pounded on their car doors in vain. They hadn’t thought to grab their keys. Women set to wailing. Men cursed, and children cried. But we sat there safely in the nearly soundproof Mercedes.

  Of course, we couldn’t go anywhere. The mass of the crowd swept past us and moved toward the school building. I quivered and shook. My legs turned to a wobbly bowl of Jell-O. As the adrenaline stopped flooding my body, my teeth started to chatter. “Keep your heads down,” I shouted to Sheila, Anya, and Mom as I locked the doors. “We don’t know that we’re in the clear yet.”

  There we remained, safe and yet not safe, exposed and yet sheltered. Sheila handed her cell phone over to Anya and instructed my daughter to text message Robbie Holmes, the St. Louis Chief of Police, on Sheila’s behalf: We’re at CALA. Gunshots. Safe in car in lot.

  Like any kid her age, Anya could text with two thumbs faster than I could type. I knew Robbie would respond as soon as possible. He and Sheila were not only longtime friends, they’d gotten engaged over the holidays. Their wedding was set for next month.

  If we lived that long. I snaked my arm between the front seats and gave my daughter’s hand three quick squeezes. She returned my signal. I had to withdraw my arm because the twisted position was too painful. Anya and Sheila huddled in the foot well of the passenger’s side. My mother and I were in the back seat where I was stretched out over her like a human tent.

  Robbie texted back immediately: Stay put. Units at scene. Cordoning off area.

  A few minutes later, he added: Shooting has stopped. Believe shooter has fled. Stay put until escort comes.

  I didn’t feel relieved. I worried that Robbie was wrong. Maybe the shooter had merely changed position. If so, could bullets penetrate the quarter panels of the Mercedes? I didn’t want to find out.

  How had such a beautiful scene turned to such a nightmare so quickly?

  What more could I do to protect my child and my family?

  From inside the usually soundproof German car, we could hear shouts and screams. Horns honked. Glass crashed. Metal crunched. Bumpers crashed into other bumpers and light poles. People struggled to flee, heedless of the damage inflicted on their own cars and the vehicles of others. From my position on top of my squirming mother, I watched the side panel of the neighboring Hummer pass us by. The driver clipped Sheila’s bumper, aimed his car directly over the curb, and drove up onto the grass.

  The impact of the Hummer rocked our car, and Anya whimpered.

  “Sh, sh,” whispered Sheila. “We’re fine. He’s just an awful driver, that’s all.”

  Mom whined and shoved me, “Get off. I need to tinkle! Who cares what that man says!”

  “That man is the police chief,” I said. “I trust his judgment over yours any day.”

  Robbie sent another message to Sheila: Is Kiki with you? Anya?

  My daughter texted back on our behalf: Yes & Kiki’s mom.

  His response was: Sit tight.

  The crashing and honking and yelling continued outside our windows. I heard Sheila humming a song to my daughter. I’d never heard her sing before, but oh how I appreciated the attempt! I couldn’t believe I was stuck here with my complaining mother instead of holding my child. A million, zillion fears zinged through my mind. I thought about how close the gunshots had come. How I might have missed grabbing Anya. How we could have been trampled.

  A shudder seized me as I realized I’d been watching Edwina Fitzgerald bleed to death. That poor woman had departed this earth before my very eyes. I’d also seen her son, Peter, take a direct hit to his thigh. I wondered, could he be all right? What if the shot hit a major artery? Again, my teeth chattered uncontrollably. But no one could hear my dental clacking over the racket outside.

  Really, it was like something out of one of those catastrophe movies.

  That’s what it was: a catastrophe.

  Eight

  We heard a new symphony of sirens. Sheila reached up and switched on the radio. The reporter announced there’d been a shooting incident at CALA. Police were on the scene. As a result, roads were blocked off and drivers were encouraged to seek alternate routes, but no other details were available.

  I took some comfort in the increased presence of the police. I wondered if Detweiler was out there. If so, I prayed he’d be safe. Realizing how selfish I was being, I prayed for everyone else on the scene, too.

  Soft sounds of my child crying filtered through from the front of the car. I couldn’t reach her. The feeling of desperation nearly swallowed me whole. If we were dying, I wanted to spend my last moments comforting her, holding her hand.

  At least she had Sheila. I, however, did not have anyone except my own mother who was muttering curses at me.

  If we were going to die, I took comfort from knowing that I’d finally told Detweiler how much I loved him. But oh, what I’d give to kiss him one more time! To unburden my heart to him.

  Although that might make this infinitely worse.

  A bullhorn scattered my thoughts: “Stay where you are! Do not, we repeat, do not attempt to leave the area.”

  An authoritative voice shouted this message over and over.

  The radio announcer explained that the area was being secured by police. “If you are on or near CALA property, stay put. Authorities will let you know when it’s safe to leave.”

  We were stuck. I tried to quell my restlessness. I wanted to look around. To survey the situation. But if I got up, Mom would too. That also meant I couldn’t use my cell phone because it was clipped to my sagging waistband. I couldn’t even text Detweiler to say, “I love you” one more time.

  So I stayed there in the well between the front and back seats. My legs cramped fiercely as I t
ried to keep my weight off of Mom. She, on the other hand, wiggled and complained.

  What else was new?

  “Get off me,” she howled. “Your elbow is in my back.”

  “Better that than a bullet,” mumbled Sheila. “Although I’d swear it was a mercy killing.”

  Anya snickered a little. I smiled and thought, Okay, she’s going to be fine. Really, we all are.

  The radio reporter explained that police had blocked off both ends of the street, and diverted local traffic. Another voice, calling in from the scene, said that the shooting had stopped. One person was confirmed dead and another victim had been taken to a local hospital with gunshot wounds.

  I raised my head and peeked out the back window. Uniformed police escorted people inside the school. Officials in SWAT jackets approached cars, copied down license plate numbers, took notes about the occupants, and ushered hysterical families out of the vehicles and into the CALA gymnasium. Would they do that if the shooter was still at large? I thought a minute. The reporters and Robbie might be wrong, but then again, the shooter could have gotten away. Otherwise, the SWAT team would concentrate on taking the gunman out. Instead, the police conducted a car-by-car search. This felt more to me like the aftermath of a tragedy, an attempt to catalog who was on the premises, whether they belonged here, and who might be missing.

  “I want to see!” Mom said.

  “Stay down,” I warned her. “What if there were two shooters?”

  It was, after all, a distinct possibility. The incident at Columbine had confused the rescuers in part because they couldn’t tell how many gunmen were involved. The two boys removed their trench coats. The hallway cameras recorded shooters wearing different apparel. This discrepancy led outside observers to believe they were dealing with four separate perpetrators. The miscalculation slowed down the rescue process considerably.

  Mom kept up a litany of complaints about her shoes, her ruined suit, and how uncomfortable she was.