“You have a brother, don’t you? Why can’t he help out?” I stopped distributing the ink pads for our session and I paused to watch Clancy’s reaction.
Her whole body stiffened as though replaying a harsh blow. “Daniel says he’s too busy with his law practice. His wife, Lora, never really got along well with Mama. I understand that. I know Mama felt Lora was an interloper and treated her as such.”
“But she’s his mother, too, right? He must be retirement age. Surely he can take time off and visit her. Or have her visit with them.”
Clancy smiled, a weak watered-down version of her usual high-beams. “He says that since I’m divorced, I don’t have any obligations. And he says it’s too far for Mama to travel to his house, so I’m the logical choice of caregiver.”
“Where does he live?”
“Kansas City.”
Yikes. At worst that was a whole four hours away by car, counting lots of pit stops.
“How did your mother do on the flight here?” Clancy adjusted the placement of the name tags. She loved precision, but unlike many of that ilk, she never imposed her obsessions on other people.
“Fine, I guess. At least she didn’t complain to me about the flight. And usually she would have. She seemed physically fine when Anya and I showed up at Lambert Field.”
Lambert Field is the old name for the Lambert-St. Louis Airport, which was designed by Minoru Yamasaki, who also did the World Trade Center in New York. Clancy knew what I meant. I like calling it Lambert Field because it reminds me of the courageous St. Louis businessmen who financed Charles Lindbergh and his trans-Atlantic flight. Seems to me, it’s awfully easy for us to forget the people who’ve made our lives as convenient and wonderful as they are today.
“But she was upset that I didn’t get there earlier,” I added.
Mom had been standing in the baggage claim area for all of, oh, five minutes, judging by the Arrivals board next to luggage claim. But five minutes had been too long, or so she thought. She caught sight of me and immediately started whining. “Do you know how long I’ve been waiting? Is this any way to make me feel welcome? I was so worried! I traveled all that way by myself, and no one was here to greet me!”
I apologized over and over, explaining that I’d just gotten Amanda’s message, but Mom refused to be mollified.
Things had only gone downhill on a bobsled since then.
“So you still don’t know why your mother suddenly decided to visit? Or how long she’s here?”
Twenty-one
“Nope.” I stood up and rubbed my aching lower back. “My sister refuses to answer my calls. Except for the other day when we were being shot at by a sniper.”
“I suppose that counts as progress,” said Clancy. She’s always looking at the bright side whereas I am a rainy cloud searching for a place to drizzle.
“Here.” Reaching inside her pocket, Clancy handed me her own cell phone. “She won’t recognize the number. It’s from Illinois, remember?”
I nodded. Clancy was right. She lived across the river, so presumably Amanda would not recognize that I was phoning.
I dialed Amanda and she picked up immediately. “Don’t hang up! Please! Could we just talk? For a minute?” I spoke fast.
A long silence ensued. Finally, “Your turn,” was all Amanda said and she hung up.
I hit redial. The phone rang and rang.
Clancy sighed and put the cell phone back in her pocket. “What were the living arrangements before your sister lost her mind?”
“Mom used the money from the sale of her old house to help Amanda buy a house in Oro Valley, a Tucson suburb. In return, Amanda built out the garage, making it into an apartment for Mom. As far as I know, everything worked out fine, except that Mom started bugging me lately for money.”
Clancy paused as she counted out the paper for our project. “Define ‘bugging me lately for money.’”
I hadn’t particularly wanted to share this, but I did need someone to talk to, and Clancy was good with people. She had a level head on her shoulders and a way of seeing things that made sense. “Mom has asked me to send her $400 a month. She says she needs it. But I don’t have an extra $400 a month.”
“Your mother still thinks you are rich, doesn’t she?”
“I guess. But she might be coming around to the truth. Either that, or she’s thinking I deserve an Academy Award.”
“What category?” teased Clancy.
“Supporting actress. See, I support myself, my child, and my Great Dane. That ought to qualify, right?”
Clancy hooted with laughter. “Hasn’t your mother noticed your low-rent lifestyle? Honestly, Kiki, you even reuse tea bags!”
“Mom refuses to believe I’m broke. I caught her pawing through my recycling, looking for proof of my legal address. I kid you not, Clancy. Mom even called Sheila to ask what I did with all the money I inherited from George.”
“You have to be kidding,” said Clancy. “I wish I could have overheard that conversation. I bet Sheila was less than pleased.”
“You’ve got that right. She was downright annoyed. Told Mom it was none of her business. See, George’s life insurance went to Sheila to repay a business loan. I never knew how indebted we were until he died and all the creditors started calling me.” I closed my eyes and tried to blot out the memory. Even now, every time the phone rang, I felt sick, remembering the dunning calls we received. The situation had been so stressful, and I was so emotionally overwhelmed, that finally I started logging the calls into a little notebook that I hid under my mattress. I never wanted Anya to know how bad it had been.
“That must have been awful,” said Clancy. “I am so sorry you went through that.”
“It was a real nightmare. I sold everything we owned to pay off those debts. I only kept the BMW because it had no book value. Oh, and I hung onto my engagement ring so I could give it to Anya someday.”
“I don’t understand how your mother could possibly think you’re wealthy. You buy your clothes at Goodwill or on sale at Target, you bring your lunch with you to work, you buy generic brands of everything. I mean, you’re the original Miss Moneypenny-Pincher.” Clancy finished distributing the paper and started collating and stapling together the handouts. Tonight our project featured Stamps by Judith! Her rubber stamps work together so a crafter can create custom images. They’re oodles of fun.
Lately, we’d gone to a system of boxes and handouts to manage the supplies for our classes. The handouts gave instructions, step-by-step, and each portion of the project was broken down along with the necessary tools in boxes, numbered so that they went along with the instructions. So, if you were working on Step 1, and it called for you to make a hole, there was a hole punch in Box 1. If Step 1 also required a certain glue or brads or whatever, all that could be found in Box 1, too. The system allowed people to work at their own pace, while keeping small parts and tools organized.
“Get this—George’s old partner is hatching plans to kill me.”
“What?” Clancy startled and dropped an entire bottle of brads. We got on our hands and knees to pick up the small pieces. “You are kidding me,” she said as we scrambled around under the tables. “Tell me you’re joking around.”
“I wish I were. Police Chief Holmes thinks the May Day sniper was after me.”
“Bill’s still at large, right?”
“That’s right.” A deep voice sounded over me, and I looked up into the face of Chad Detweiler.
“Det!” I squealed, jumped up, and threw my arms around him. “I’m so glad to see you!”
He laughed.
I could tell he was happy to see me, too. He hugged me tightly, and I responded by hugging him back for all I was worth. I took him by the hand and dragged him into the backroom. That didn’t take much effort on my part, as he was my willing accomplice.
Once there, we kissed with the sort of fervor that makes your toes curl. We were busy like that when we heard an “ahem.”
I
turned to see Margit staring at us. We’d been blocking her pathway from the back sink to the store floor. Both her arms were loaded down with baked goods. “I was told that our customers like to eat,” she said. “I made potato candy and German chocolate cake, plus a plain chocolate cake.”
“Wow. The croppers are going to think they died and went to heaven. These smell terrific, Margit.” My enthusiasm was sincere. I harbor a deep and abiding appreciation for food in all its various forms. Detweiler reached over and took one of the plates from my new co-worker, introducing himself as he did.
“I have heard about you,” she said stiffly.
He carried the food out to the card table Clancy had decorated for this purpose. I introduced Margit to Clancy and then I grabbed Detweiler’s hand. “I’m taking a quick break,” I said before either woman could object.
Margit’s potato candy
1⁄3 C. water
2 T. milk
½ tsp. salt
1 tsp. butter
2 T. mashed cooked potatoes or 2 T. instant potato granules
½ tsp. almond extract
1 lb. confectioners’ sugar
1 (4 oz.) container of shredded coconut (1½ cups)
Put water, milk, and salt in two-quart saucepan and bring just to a boil. Remove from heat. Add butter and potato granules. With fork, beat until light and fluffy. Stir in almond extract. With spoon gradually beat in confectioners’ sugar. Mixture will be liquid at first, then thicken. Beat until mixture holds shape. Mix in coconut. Drop by teaspoonsful onto wax paper. Makes 1¾ lbs. or 38 pieces.
Twenty-two
Clipping Gracie to her leash, my boyfriend and I started on an around-the-block stroll designed to empty my big dog’s tanks. Since Gracie adores Detweiler, it was a challenge to get her to walk rather than to lean against the hunky cop and gaze up at him fondly.
“We recovered Sheila’s camera, like you suggested. There were five shots fired. We’re still working on retrieving the bullet casings. You managed to capture the image of Edwina’s hit on the video, and you responded to the shots.”
“Which means what?”
“You turned toward the sound of the gunshots. The shooter was in the tree. We sent someone up there, and you nailed it, sweetie. The shooter left his gun in the tree. So we’ve got that.”
“You can get fingerprints, right?”
He rubbed his chin. “I wish it worked in real life the way it does on TV. First of all, yes, we took prints. But they don’t match the ones we have on file from Bill Ballard. He gave his prints when he went to work for a stock brokerage as an intern. We haven’t heard from the FBI if the prints match anyone in their database. In fact, we probably won’t know about that for a while.”
The import of this struck me hard. “You’re thinking it wasn’t Bill who was the sniper? You agree with me that it doesn’t feel right?”
Detweiler shook his head. “I’m not sure what to think. All I know is that Bill turned himself in this morning at seven a.m.”
“What? You mean you had him in custody? But you just said he’s still at large!”
Detweiler nodded, but his gesture lacked every sign of positivity. “Yeah. Have a seat in my office. ” He motioned toward a concrete block retaining wall circling a lawn.
Our shoulders touched, his hand captured mine, and we sat on the cold hard surface while Gracie rested her chin on the cop’s thigh.
“I don’t know how to tell you this, but Bill has retained counsel.”
I struggled with what that might mean. “But he kidnapped me. He ran away. He shot at us. So if he’s turned himself in—”
“He must think he’s in the clear. Or that his lawyer will get him off.”
“Who did he retain?”
“Jim Hagg.”
Hagg was the go-to guy for folks in St. Louis who did the crime but evaded doing the time.
“Are you telling me Bill has been in custody and now he’s back out on the streets?”
Detweiler sighed. “Right.”
Despite the sun, I shivered.
Detweiler pulled me close to him, tucking me under his arm, as if to shelter me. “He had everything all arranged. His bail bondsman had the paperwork, and it was one of the fastest turnovers I’ve ever seen.”
“But I thought you’d try to hold him for at least twenty-four hours. You need to see if he was the May Day sniper!”
“We have no evidence that he was involved.”
“But … but your informant said—”
Detweiler waved my concerns away. “I know, I know. But we still don’t have anything linking him to the crime. One of the biggest problems with our jail system is that creeps who get locked up meet other creeps. Bill might have met other criminals who were more than willing to shoot at you for him. The problem is proving that.”
“Where does that leave me? I mean, are you telling me not to worry? Or are you suggesting that I continue to worry, but that now I worry about everyone, everywhere? Or should I not worry, because you know what you’re doing? I’m confused.”
“It means, you need to be careful, sweetheart. Anya needs to be warned. She has to stay aware of her surroundings. At least for a while. You both should be careful, Kiki. Meanwhile, Police Chief Holmes and I have been working on a plan.”
Twenty-three
I didn’t like their plan. Not one bit. First of all, it called for deception and acting skills. Secondly, it put a friend in danger. Third, it was a sure-fire way to make my best friend hate me forever.
As it turns out, the unlikeliest of duos had hatched this scheme: Police Chief Holmes and Johnny Chambers. Who’d have thunk it?
Johnny is the brother of Mert Chambers, my best friend, and he has a police record. He fell in with a bad group of friends just out of high school. He started drinking and got picked up for driving under the influence. Mert paid for an attorney, and Johnny started to straighten out his life. Then one night, Johnny met a few pals at a bar. They watched a Rams game, and since the Rams were then “the greatest show on turf,” the friends decided to celebrate the success by getting totally wasted.
Not wanting to hazard another DUI, Johnny accepted a ride home with his buddies.
Turns out, they weren’t going directly home. They planned to stop at a convenience store and rob it.
But Johnny didn’t know that. He had passed out in the back seat. When he came to, one of the robbers shoved him out the passenger door and onto the pavement of the parking lot and tossed a gun after him. Johnny spent five years down in Potosi for armed robbery. Mert paid all his legal fees.
When Johnny was released, he started paying her back. He’s really good with landscaping. He’s been working for a grounds-keeping company, as well as freelancing at several houses around town, including doing yard work for my mother-in-law, Sheila. He ran into Police Chief Robbie Holmes while working at Sheila’s.
Somehow Johnny and Robbie struck up a conversation. Somehow the subject turned to me and my problems, which Johnny knew in full.
Johnny and I had dated a few times before Detweiler and his wife separated. I have to admit, Johnny is a terrific kisser and the kind of “bad boy” that makes you wonder if being a “good girl” is worth the bother. But ultimately, my heart longed for Detweiler, and without me even telling Johnny, he knew our relationship wasn’t going anywhere.
But still he’s my friend and my best friend’s brother. So Johnny had been privy to the sort of threats I was getting from Bill Ballard, the sort of havoc Bill caused in my life. He knew about Bill kidnapping me. About how Bill had either spent or run off with all of my husband’s portion of their business. And finally, he knew about how Bill had been harassing me, sending threatening postcards.
Like his sister, Mert, Johnny has an overly developed sense of fairness. Bill’s bad behavior ticked Johnny off.
“Kiki’s a good gal, and she don’t deserve to live in fear. Nobody does,” Johnny said to Police Chief Holmes. “Surely there’s something I can do to
help. Can’t you use the fact I’ve served time to some advantage? I’ve got the right connections with the wrong sort of people.”
Police Chief Holmes promised to think about it. He sort of back-burnered the idea until the sniper attack. The violent images juxtaposed against one of the city’s more pastoral and honored rituals caused calls and letters to flood his office. Each day’s letters to the editor in the Post-Dispatch brought more and more vitriolic responses to the tragedy.
The force of this blowback—and a tense meeting with the mayor—caused Robbie to reconsider all his options. Reminded of the politic maneuvering behind his appointment, Robbie decided to act forcefully and quickly. While “using” a criminal was a bad option, a desperate option, it was a better option than any other plan on the table.
He and Johnny met at a local diner and held a strategy session, or so Detweiler explained to me.
My guy pulled me closer, bent his head to talk to me in a low voice. “You need to have a very public fight with Johnny in front of a group of people. Has to be nasty business. Ugly stuff.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Yes, you can.”
“What would we fight about?”
“You should reject him. Hurt his feelings. Challenge his manhood. Tell him you aren’t interested and you don’t want him hanging around. Tell him he’s not good enough for you. That you don’t want to be seen with an ex-con.”
“I would never say that! He’s Mert’s brother!”
“Right. That’s exactly why Mert can’t know about this being a setup.”
Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 6