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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Easily,” corrected my mother.

  “How many shots did you hear?” Robbie asked all of us.

  I turned to Sheila and Mom. “What did you count?”

  They couldn’t remember. I couldn’t tell him. I knew it was more than four. “I’m sorry, Robbie. I know it’s dumb not to know. I can tell you that they sounded like they came from that stand of trees.”

  He gave me another smile, this one wistful. “Hon, most people can’t recall. There’s something about being shot at that makes counting fly right out of your head. You did well to respond so quickly—and to get your daughter out of there. My men tell me there are girls still wandering around out there, sobbing and trying to figure out where their parents are. We’ve moved most of them into the building, but still …”

  “Can I help? I mean, I’d be happy to go to the school and sit with the girls, or even drive some of them home,” I offered.

  “No, it’s best to let Mr. McMahan handle this. It’s his job, not ours. We’ll have our hands full with complaints that the incident even happened.”

  “Like I said, I was nearly killed!” Mom had recovered from her chastisement sufficiently to start complaining again.

  “But you weren’t,” said Robbie. “However, Mrs. Fitzgerald is dead. Kiki, until I have more information, would you humor an old man and spend the night at Sheila’s? I’ll be over later. I know it will make it hard for you. It might put a crimp in your love life, but I think it’s best.”

  I nodded.

  Mom was slow on the uptake, but she caught his drift. “A crimp in her love life? Kiki, you aren’t intimate with that cop, are you?”

  Almost on cue, the door opened.

  Detweiler stepped in. He was wearing a SWAT jacket and his customary Dockers. I jumped up and ran to his arms, comforted by the feel of his long and lean frame against mine. His Heineken bottle green eyes sparkled as he hugged me tightly. “Am I glad to see you,” he said in a husky voice. Something stirred deep inside me, evoking both a memory and a promise.

  Ignoring the onlookers, Detweiler kissed me soundly, lifting me off the floor. He didn’t let go of me as he said, “Where’s Anya? Down the hall? Good.”

  He closed the door. “Chief ? Kiki? We have a problem.”

  Thirteen

  “Bill Ballard put out a contract on me?” I sounded like Minnie Mouse, my voice was that squeaky and high-pitched. I still held onto Detective Chad Detweiler or I would have toppled over. My head swam and my legs went back to rubber.

  “Not exactly. Nothing so formal,” Detweiler eased me into a chair while he knelt on the floor next to me. “One of our confidential informants heard a rumor that Bill Ballard’s been bragging about—”

  Detweiler stopped himself. He and Chief Holmes exchanged knowing looks.

  I felt sick at my stomach.

  “Getting even with you,” Detweiler continued in a casual voice. “And he’s looking for helpers.”

  “Arrest him!” Sheila shouted. “Drag him in, right now! He deserves the electric chair.”

  “Darling, that’s hearsay. You can’t arrest someone for hearsay,” said Robbie, moving his chair to the side and reaching across his desk to take Sheila’s hand.

  “What about all the other stuff he’s done?” I asked.

  Detweiler pulled up a chair, turned it backwards and straddled it. “We’re working on that.”

  “Working on that?” Now I sounded like Chip and Dale, the fabled chipmunks. “But … but he kidnapped me. You heard what he said! You heard him brag about shooting Roxanne!”

  “I heard your side of the conversation,” Detweiler said. “But I’m no longer an impartial witness. A sharp attorney would have that entire conversation ruled inadmissible.”

  “You have to be kidding me. He held a gun to my ribs!”

  “Says you.” Robbie was sympathetic, but firm.

  “What? You think I’d make that up?” My face got hot.

  “I know—we all know—that you didn’t, but proving it in court is another thing entirely,” said Detweiler. He held up fingers and ticked off points as he made them. “We don’t have the gun that was used on Roxanne. We don’t have physical evidence linking Bill Ballard to her murder. Basically, we’re down to his word against yours in most instances. We do plan to arrest him and bring him in for questioning in regard to Mr. Lowenstein’s death, and at the very least charge him with embezzling funds from Diamont Development.”

  “You can’t let him get away with that!” Sheila said, with a wild expression of grief twisting her lovely features. “Robbie, he murdered my son! My only child!”

  Robbie scooted his chair over beside Sheila and pulled her close. “I know, darling. I know. This is the most frustrating part of my job—when we know who did it and we’re not sure we can convict them.”

  “But he killed my son! My strong, beautiful, wonderful son! The light of my life!” Sheila wailed as she leaned into Robbie. His huge hand patted her back, the way a mother might a baby. Big tears swelled in those faded blue eyes before spilling over to run down Sheila’s face.

  I willed myself not to make the situation more embarrassing by showing how shocked I was. I’d never seen Sheila cry over George. At his funeral, she stood stiff and still like a column of carved ice. When I blubbered while dropping a handful of dirt on the casket, she barely flinched as her offering splattered the dark mahogany.

  I knew she mourned her son. At the yahrzeit, the one-year anniversary of George’s death, we lit the memorial candle, and I struggled my way through the Kaddish. But Sheila’s voice recited the prayer, praising God and accepting his dominion over us, without a hitch. I knew the purpose, that in the face of loss we want to rage at God, and I knew the Kaddish reminded us that God was the source of all good in life. How could we rage at the same creator who had brought this loved one into existence?

  So I tried with all my might to follow her example. For the most part, I succeeded. But not always. When the tears leaked out, Sheila would silently offer me a linen handkerchief, but she never joined me in crying. No, never, not once, until today had I seen my mother-in-law cry.

  Except today—and my heart ached in a new way, with a pain I didn’t know I could feel for Sheila. We’d been through so much together. We’d gone from adversaries to wary opponents to reluctant colleagues and finally we’d reached this sweet spot. I could honestly call her my friend. In fact, in many ways, she had become my surrogate mother.

  “I told you it was Kiki’s fault.” My biological mother lifted her chin high and looked very pleased with herself.

  “Mom, how could you?” I buried my head in my hands.

  “Mrs. Montgomery, your daughter is a victim. We do not blame the victim of a crime. She’s done nothing, I repeat, nothing to bring this on herself. Shame on you for suggesting as much,” Robbie wagged a finger at Mom. His voice brooked no debate, and I noticed Mom shrinking back in her chair.

  “Sheila, darling, can I do anything for you?” he asked.

  “No,” she said in a voice so quiet that I strained to hear it. “Yes. Make him pay, Robbie. Make him pay.”

  Robbie hugged her, let her go and said, “Kiki, we aren’t sure what Bill has planned. That’s why we’re thinking he might be behind the shooting today. In fact, he could even be the gunman.”

  “I don’t think so. I can’t see it,” I said. “Doesn’t feel right.”

  Detweiler drummed his fingers on his Dockers. “One of the officers on the scene noted that Mrs. Fitzgerald and Mrs. Lowenstein—” he nodded at Sheila “—were both wearing the same shade of blue. Could be a case of mistaken identity.”

  Only a man would confuse cornflower blue and periwinkle. A man who didn’t scrapbook. I mean, they might as well have been wearing blue and orange. The colors are that different!

  On the other hand, if the shooter was a man, maybe he didn’t know the difference between cornflower blue and periwinkle either.

  Mom snorted. “I thought so. I coul
d have been hurt.”

  “It could still happen,” said Sheila, with a meaningful glance toward me. “You aren’t entirely in the clear.”

  But Mom didn’t catch her drift.

  I saw Detweiler’s jaw clench. I knew that look. He was major league ticked off. He took those gorgeous golden-green eyes away from my mom and turned them on me. “You and Anya will have to be especially careful. Promise me you will.”

  I nodded. What else could I do?

  Fourteen

  We spent a restless Saturday evening at Sheila’s house. Linnea, Sheila’s maid, left sandwiches and salad for us in the refrigerator. In the crockpot simmered a tortilla soup that made me instantly hungry.

  Even Mom dug into her meal without complaint. After she’d eaten, she sat at the table and made a big production out of taking an Ativan for her nerves.

  Sheila asked Anya to show her grandmother to the only vacant guest room. When Anya returned with her gray kitten in her arms, she said, “Grandmére is sound asleep. I fed Seymour. I think he missed me.”

  With Mom down for the count, I decided to call my best friend Mert. But my cell phone was missing. I searched high and low. Finally I asked Anya and Sheila if they’d seen it.

  “I think Grandmére had it. She tucked something into her pocket when we passed the front table,” Anya said.

  The front table was where I usually set my cell phone when I was at Sheila’s house.

  I tiptoed into the guest bedroom and past my snoring mother. On the bedside table sat my phone. I checked the last number called. A name came up that I didn’t recognize: Beverly Glenn.

  But no Claudia.

  So who had Mom called? I sighed and dialed Mert’s number.

  “We’re fine, Anya’s a little shook up, but we’re okay,” I told her. The conversation was short because she was on her way out the door to go to dinner with her new beau Hank Redolf, a retired Marine sergeant. They were also going to be busy on Sunday, so we promised to catch up with each other sometime next week.

  Linnea’s tortilla soup

  1 package of Tyson’s prepared chicken, Southwestern style, cut into bite-sized pieces

  1 jar of salsa (about 8 ounces of any brand)

  1 can of tomatoes with Mexican spices

  1 large onion, diced

  1 can of yellow corn

  1 can of black beans, drained

  1 can of kidney beans, drained

  1 32-ounce box of Swanson’s Chicken bouillon

  2 T. of cilantro paste such as Gourmet Garden brand

  V-8 juice

  Mix all ingredients in a crockpot. Add enough V-8 juice and water to fill. Stir and cook 4–6 hours on high. Serve with crushed Doritos, sour cream, and chunks of avocado.

  Fifteen

  Sunday, May 2

  As was our routine, Anya and I ate pancakes and took Gracie for a long walk. To give Sheila and Robbie some alone time, I packed a picnic lunch of sandwiches and then Mom, Anya, and I went to the St. Louis Art Museum. Like the St. Louis Zoo, it’s free, and fabulous. We wandered around for hours before grabbing a picnic table nearby and eating. I worked hard to steer the conversation clear of the sniper attack. I also tried my best to be solicitous of my mother.

  That evening Sheila, Anya, and I curled up in front of the television. Anya stroked her sweet kitty, Seymour, whose purring soothed all of us. Gracie rested her head on my lap, which gave me comfort as well. By mutual agreement, we avoided talk about the shooting. But we couldn’t escape it. The ten o’clock news led off with video from the sniper attack. I gawped at the screen. If I had any doubts that our nightmare was real, this cinched them. For a second, I sat frozen in the chair and had an out-of-body experience. Surely this hadn’t happened to me. Surely we hadn’t been shot at. Here in the comfort of Sheila’s house, I could pretend we were like any other happy family.

  Any other happy family targeted by a killer.

  Sheila managed to hit the channel changer button quickly, but not quite fast enough.

  We heard the headline, “Police are still investigating a shooting that left one woman dead and her son injured—”

  Sheila switched the station to a rerun of NCIS.

  “Time for bed.” I nudged Anya. “You’ve got school tomorrow.”

  “Right,” she said. “Maybe they should change the school colors from royal blue and gold to blood red and bullet gray.”

  I shuddered. “Hey, I feel like reading. How about you? What’s that book you’ve been nose deep in?”

  “The Hunger Games,” she said. “It’s about a society that forces kids to kill each other.”

  Oh, just ducky! What happened to Nancy Drew and that wimpy Ned she ran around with? Hmmm?

  After Anya changed into her pajamas, snuggled under the sheets, and read for a while, I asked if she wanted me to rub her back. “Could you stay here, Mom? At least until I go to sleep? Seymour would like that, too.”

  I had answered all the phone and text messages from my friends with a quick text message of my own: We’re all right. Thanks for your concern. Seems that everyone heard about the sniper, and they all wanted to know that me and mine were safe.

  However, I simply didn’t have the energy to engage in more detailed conversations. And now, my daughter was reverting to childhood. So I had the perfect excuse to further avoid long discourses on the tragedy.

  Anya drifted off, clutching my hand. When I tried to withdraw my fingers, she moaned and tightened her grip. I resigned myself to balancing on a thin sliver of her bed and resting fitfully while Seymour climbed to the highest point of her pillow and watched over us, like the silent Sphinx guards the desert.

  Sixteen

  Monday, May 3

  CALA’s automated calling system rang my cell phone the next morning to inform me there would be a “late start,” and that counselors would be on hand to talk to the students. Sheila offered to drop Anya off. Since she often drove my daughter to school, I felt okay with that. When there’s been a tragedy, especially a loss of life, routine offers comfort. Not a lot, but some. You tell yourself that life will go on, and it does, and one day you forget what happened. Not for long. You remember it quickly enough, but for a blink in time, the hurt stops. That small respite gives you hope. You realize that one day, maybe in the distant future, the surcease from sorrow might actually outlast the pain. With that thin straw of optimism clutched in your hand, you think you can go on.

  So you do.

  I headed for Time in a Bottle, the little scrapbook store where I work. Admittedly, I was preoccupied and stressed, so I wasn’t paying much attention when I approached the parking lot. Every one of my nerves was raw. I saw shadows in every corner, every car seemed to be following me, and the playful shadows cast by trees caused my heart to lurch with fear.

  If Bill hired someone to hurt me, what would that person look like? Where might he or she attack me? What warning might they give? Detweiler had given me a copy of The Gift of Fear by Gavin de Becker. I was only halfway through, but I found the work fascinating. The author suggested that we tune in and trust ourselves because our unconscious minds would detect tiny inconsistencies that signaled threats faster than our rational minds could.

  My unconscious mind shifted to high alert. My body switched itself to fight or flight mode. It wasn’t just Bill Ballard who was making me tense. My own mother was standing on my last nerve, driving me nuts.

  Last night on our way to Sheila’s, Mom lit into me with both barrels blazing. Yep, Dear Old Mom, aka Lucia Drayton Montgomery Collins, was officially on a tear. (Even though they lived together until he died, Mom and Dad had officially divorced, so she’d resumed using her maiden surname of Montgomery, which she claimed was more elegant than Collins.) I sat there, hunched over in Sheila’s back seat, and took it, hoping that if I didn’t give her any resistance, she’d eventually wear down.

  But I underestimated the impact of my mother’s tirade on Anya.

  Five minutes into my mother’s harping, m
y daughter burst into tears. Sheila turned to wag an angry finger at Mom. “Lucia Montgomery, you say one more word and I will toss you out of this car and into the express lane of Highway 40. See if I don’t. I’ve had it with you. Shut up! Right now!”

  Wow. I’d never seen Sheila so angry. Or my mother so shocked.

  But Mom shut her mouth. We made the rest of the trip in blessed silence.

  This morning Sheila, Anya, and I tiptoed around the house, happy to let Mom sleep.

  “When is she going home?” Sheila asked.

  “I haven’t a clue. I hope it’s soon.”

  “I’ll pay for her flight.”

  “Actually, I think we could take up a collection,” I said. I wasn’t kidding. Everyone who had come in contact with my mother was eager to see her go.

  I kissed Anya goodbye and hustled Gracie into my BMW. She wriggled with joy as she climbed in beside me and settled her rump in the passenger seat of my old convertible. My tension faded away as I traveled the familiar route to Time in a Bottle.

  By the time I turned into the parking lot, I fairly hummed with anticipation. I planned to get caught up on my newest project, an ATC (Artist Trading Card) class. I was so lost in creative musing, so totally “in my head” and visualizing a new design, that I nearly overlooked the figure of a woman, bottoms up, face down in the grass.

  Crud, I thought, as I jumped out of the car, leaving Gracie inside. She must have fallen.

  “Are you all right?” I called out as I approached her.

  “Ja?” The stranger sank back onto her heels and studied me. In one hand, she waved a pair of tiny embroidery scissors.

  “Did you fall? May I help you get up?”

  “Nein.”