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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  An atavistic impulse gave me a sudden surge of strength. I brought my knee up hard, slamming it into Johnny’s groin. As he went down, I gave him a slap to the side of the head so hard that the skin on my palm stung. As he sank to the dirt, he sputtered, “Cop lover.”

  The haze of my vision clouded. I kicked him in the gut, and I would have done it again, but Mert grabbed me.

  She and I wrestled. “Stop it! Jest stop it! Kiki? Johnny? Have you both gone nuts?”

  “Get your hands off me.” I wrenched away from her. In my peripheral vision, I noted the crowd, a group of curious onlookers, some amused, most horrified.

  I leaned over and screamed at Johnny, “You no-good bum. Stay away from me! You got it? Keep away!”

  “Calm down,” said Mert.

  But I’d lost my head. I was well and truly crazed. Her admonition to “calm down” had exactly the opposite effect on me.

  “Don’t you tell me what to do!” I screamed. “Get out of my sight! Beat it! And take your bum of a brother with you!”

  Forty-eight

  Thursday, May 6

  “Good work. Your quarrel with Johnny and Mert was certainly convincing,” Robbie winked at me from over his coffee cup. With Linnea gone and Sheila being hopeless in the kitchen, KP duty fell to Robbie. I sipped the tea he brewed for me and nibbled at my toast. My reflection in the bathroom mirror sported big dark circles under both eyes. I hadn’t gotten much sleep. I kept reviewing what happened at Faust Park and praying Mert would forgive me. Someday. Maybe.

  “Plenty of onlookers, plenty of drama,” he added.

  “Right.”

  “Having Detweiler come pick you up. Nice touch.”

  “Yep.” I hadn’t had a choice. I needed a ride home. Sheila was meeting the string quartet she’d hired for her wedding. After Detweiler dropped me off, I noticed I’d missed a phone call from my sister Amanda. I’d turned off my ringer so it wouldn’t interrupt my “fight” with Johnny, and in the chilly aftermath, I’d neglected to turn it back on.

  All in all, it ranked as one of the worst evenings of my life.

  Robbie sipped his coffee and continued, “Mert being out of the way is a plus. If she knew what Johnny planned—”

  “She would kill me and spoil Bill’s fun.”

  Last night while lying in my bed, I went over and over the plan that Robbie and Johnny had concocted. For the first time, I realized how much of a risk Johnny was taking. One of the conditions of parole is nonassociation with criminals. This cockamamie plot put Johnny back in the thick of the wrong sort of people.

  “How did you get permission from his P.O. to pull this off ?”

  “That was tough. Johnny’s been a model citizen. To make this happen, he’s hanging out with guys one step away from being arrested. But the stakes went up dramatically with the sniper attack.”

  “Got it. After an important citizen died, the P.O. decided to throw Johnny under the bus.”

  “The parole officer owed me a favor. You were in danger. So was Sheila. And Anya.” Robbie pushed his coffee cup away. “We’re family now. That’s how this works.”

  Actually, we were not family. Not yet. The wedding was three weeks away, but I got his point. I couldn’t help thinking that before Robbie and I “were family,” Johnny and Mert had been my family.

  Family. Such a fluid concept. Handy, too. An all-purpose excuse.

  An hour later, I cradled another cup of tea at the Grantwood Diner. Detweiler’s amazing green eyes smiled at me. “Boy, when you play a part, you aim for an Academy Award, don’t you?” His long legs stretched under the table. We’d gotten our food—in my case, the tea and a toasted bagel—and moved to a red Naugahyde booth in the back for privacy’s sake.

  I tried to smile at him, but my effort proved weak. I pressed my fingertips to my eyes to stop the imminent flow of tears. “I hated it. I thought it would be hard, but it was worse than hard. Why didn’t anyone tell me that Bill threatened Mert? And Sheila?”

  “Did you need more on your plate?”

  “No.”

  “Look, our C.I. says Bill’s flashing cash for anyone who will bring you to a warehouse so he can teach you manners.”

  “That’s not enough to pick him up and put him in jail?”

  “A confidential informant’s testimony doesn’t hold much weight in court.”

  That made sense.

  “I brought a gift for you.”

  I’d noticed the red gift bag but pretended not to. I love gifts. I figured he knew how hard it’d been for me last night, and he picked up an iced cookie for me. Lately, he’d made a habit of stopping by bakeries and bringing me a pastry. I hadn’t been eating much, and I’d had trouble keeping food down.

  The tissue paper crinkled beneath my fingers. At the bottom of the paper bag, I found a box. On the lid was a photo of a gun.

  “It’s a Kel-Tec .308. Here are the bullets.” He pulled a small box from his jacket pocket and rattled it at me. “Remember, never pull or display your gun unless you are willing to use it.”

  “Huh?”

  “Once a creep sees your gun, his natural response is to shoot you first.”

  “That makes sense. Why the Kel-Tec?”

  We’d been to the shooting range, more for sport than serious lessons. Or so I had thought. I hate to admit it, but blasting the heck out of a target labeled “Bill” always put me in a good mood. To Detweiler’s surprise, and mine, I turned out to be a pretty good shot. But I never expected our outings to be preparation. I knew that Detweiler’s life depended on his gun, but mine didn’t.

  Or did it?

  “It’s lightweight. You can put it in your purse. It’ll fit in your glove compartment.”

  So that was why he’d encouraged me to get my concealed carry permit. At the time, it seemed like a bunch of useless rigmarole. But Detweiler had been planning ahead. The question was, why?

  “I really need this?” I picked up the box and slid it into my purse.

  “I hope not.” He leaned over and kissed me, his lips soft on mine. “I sure hope not.”

  I stared at him, feeling that completeness, that sense that I’d found what I’d been searching for. “I want this mess behind me.” I leaned across the table and kissed him back. When we were through, he captured my hand in both of his.

  “I know you will. People think you’re this piece of fluff, but you aren’t. That’s why no one will suspect you are carrying. I only hope—”

  A loud crash caused us both to lift our heads.

  Forty-nine

  “Get away from him! He’s my husband!” Brenda Detweiler shrieked.

  I ducked as she took a swing at me. Her fist went wide. Her body followed. Her hands slammed the table and stopped her from smacking her face down into my tea cup.

  Detweiler stood up and hauled her by the collar to an upright position. “Brenda, that’s enough.”

  She lunged toward me, took another swing as she neared my face. “I told you to keep away from him. I warned you.”

  “It’s over, Brenda. Sign the papers,” Detweiler said, pulling her off to one side. I’ve never seen his eyes so flat and hard.

  “It’s not over until I want it to be. You’re not dumping me for her!” Brenda poked her finger into his chest. “You married me. You’ll die with me.”

  Heads swiveled to stare. A man wearing a cheap tie and well-worn button-down shirt hurried to our table. He twisted his hands nervously. “Folks, let’s simmer down.”

  “Shut up!” Brenda screamed at him and yanked herself free from Detweiler’s grip. “Mind your own business.”

  “Excuse me, but this is my business, Miss. I’m the manager here. If you have a quarrel, please take it outside. You are bothering the other patrons.” He gestured to the onlookers. Actually, they looked more fascinated than bothered. Brenda was putting on a fine floorshow.

  “You’re making a spectacle of yourself,” added the manager, belatedly.

  “You think? I’m just g
etting started. Watch this.” Brenda grabbed my mug and smashed it against the table. Tea splattered me, the table, and the floor. Porcelain pieces flew everywhere. Brenda grabbed the chunk attached to the handle and waved it at the manager like it was a gun. “Back off, Jack. And I mean now.”

  The manager’s eyes grew bigger than a blue-plate special. He yelled toward the kitchen. “Help! Someone dial nine-one-one!”

  Detweiler opened his jacket and flashed his badge. “Don’t bother. I’ve got it.” With a quick movement, he grabbed Brenda’s arm and twisted it behind her back. “Stop it now, or I’ll cuff you.”

  He crab-walked her toward the exit.

  “Oh, yeah? This is all HER fault,” shouted Brenda, jerking her head toward me. “Kiki Lowenstein is a home-wrecker! She broke up our marriage!”

  I wanted to sink through the floor. Since that was a scientific impossibility, I decided to settle for a speedy exit of my own. Blotting tea off my clothes, I tried to clean up the mess. I dug around in my purse and tucked a crumpled five dollar bill under my water glass. Now all I needed was to locate my car keys.

  Brenda kept yelling as Detweiler moved her toward the main entrance.

  “It’s over, people. We’re coming around with coffee on the house,” the manager said.

  I thought the drama was over.

  I was wrong.

  When I couldn’t locate my keys, I pulled the Kel-Tec out of my purse.

  That was a mistake.

  “Gun!” screamed a customer next to me. “She’s got a gun!”

  I thought Brenda had returned. I assumed she was packing heat.

  I grabbed my new toy and scrambled under the table. With my purse held tightly against my chest, I hid there. All around me, chairs overturned. Feet scrambled. Legs ran past. Screams filled the air.

  I leaned my head against the seat of the booth. I was so very, very tired. I hadn’t been sleeping well. I closed my eyes. Sirens blared in the distance. I opened my eyes and counted wads of gum stuck to the underside of the table. They hung like multicolored rubbery stalactites.

  The noise of scraping chairs continued, as more legs swirled this way and that. I decided to snuggle down and get comfortable.

  My eyes grew heavy.

  When the Grantwood cops showed up to arrest me, I was sound asleep.

  Fifty

  “You are late.” Margit crossed her arms across her chest, wrinkling her lime green polyester pantsuit. “How will you manage to get everything done? We have stock coming in.”

  “Them’s the breaks,” I muttered walking past her toward the sales floor. “Actually, I’m a time management whiz kid. I’ve managed to start a riot, get arrested, and make bail, yet still show up before our first customer walks in.”

  “You think you are amusing, but you are not.” Margit followed on my heels.

  Actually, I hadn’t made bail. Once I got hold of Detweiler, the whole matter was dropped.

  I turned over the OPEN sign. I started counting the cash drawer. Maybe it was my imagination, but ever since my ride in the police car, my skin had been crawling. Picking at my hair, I plucked out a round, fat bug. I promptly squashed it between my fingernails. Was it a tick? A flea? Or … ugh … head lice?

  “Ja, the schedule says—” she waved a paper at me “—you come in at eight. To run this store properly—”

  “I know what the schedule says. To run this store properly, we need to act like a team. Did you prep any kits? Did you start the handouts for tomorrow’s crops? Did you divide up the supplies for tomorrow’s make-and-takes? Did you work on the May Day album? Hmm? Did you?”

  I continued, “You didn’t, did you? You don’t know how, do you? I can make a schedule. I’ve put in orders. But you know nothing about scrapbooking or papercrafting. Nothing. Let me translate for you. That’s nichts. In Spanish, it’s nada. In English, that’s zip, zilch, zero. So unless you can do it all, I suggest you put a sock in it. Because I’m doing the very best I can and my being late is NOT MY FAULT.”

  After hearing Robbie compliment me for ruining the most important friendship of my adult life, after being assaulted by Brenda Detweiler, and after riding in a police car because the officers thought I pulled a gun in a crowded restaurant, I was in no mood for lectures from a living, breathing, complaining Hummel statue dressed in a gaudy, unnatural shade of lime.

  My back hurt, my boobs felt like they’d been used as punching bags, my eyes twitched with exhaustion, and my stomach roiled. Added to those miseries was a creepy-crawly feeling, no doubt caused by vermin hitchhikers from the back seat of the patrol car.

  “Put a sock in it?” she stared at me, her goggle-eyes swimming in convex lenses.

  “Ja, Maul zu!”

  Margit’s body quivered. “You speak German?”

  “Nope. I speak Internet.” My high school chemistry teacher also taught German. When our class acted rowdy, he shook a stern finger over us and intoned “zip it” in his adopted language. To be sure of the pronunciation, I’d looked up the phrase thinking it might come in handy. And it had.

  The older woman’s body sagged, her shoulders rolled inward and an air of defeat pressed mightily on her.

  In response, I felt shame and I burst into tears. She pushed me. She made me angry. But I don’t want this sort of relationship with her. I want us to get along.

  Margit’s jaw drooped as I sobbed uncontrollably. I wanted my old life back. I wanted to repair my friendship with Mert. I wanted Brenda Detweiler and Bill Ballard out of my hair. And I wanted my mother … to go home!

  “I apologize,” I said between hiccups. “I’m not feeling well. Forgive me. I am sorry I arrived late. I was unavoidably detained.” With that, I moved past her and started collecting supplies for another May Day album.

  Fifty-one

  I phoned CALA and asked to speak to Lane Carlée. The receptionist told me she was out sick. While I felt bad for Lane, I breathed a sigh of relief because I wanted to do a little more work on the Edwina Fitzgerald album. I knew it was foolish; I’d done enough already. But I really wanted it to show off my talents since the finished product would be on display at CALA.

  I hand-colored more embellishments and while they dried, I turned my attention to the May Day album. By noon, I had the May Day background pages assembled, but I was still a long way from finished when Dodie phoned. “Sunshine, I need a break. Can you come spell me? The crowd here at Faust isn’t large, but it’s steady. I’ve been on my feet all morning.”

  “Of course. I’m on my way.” Crying had done wonders for my disposition, clearing my mood like a pelting summer rain.

  “Grab lunch for me, would you? One of those chicken pecan salads from Wendy’s? And a large ice tea. My throat.” She stopped.

  “Gladly.” I knew it was tough for her to say she was hurting.

  “Can Margit handle the store?” A note of doubt crept into Dodie’s voice.

  “You hired her. Can she?”

  Dodie chuckled. “You’re making me pay, aren’t you?”

  I told her goodbye and walked into the backroom. Margit sat behind the big desk, punching buttons and tallying up numbers on the old adding machine that Dodie refused to replace. I watched the tape spit out a total before I rapped on the doorframe. “Dodie needs me at Faust Park. You’ll have to handle the sales floor here.”

  “I—I don’t,” she caught herself. Adjusting her glasses, she stared

  at me in a manner almost accusatory. “You haven’t shown me how to run the cash register.”

  “Gee, I would have thought you’d want to learn that first thing. Dodie didn’t show you?”

  She colored. “Ja. But I …”

  For a long moment, I let her flounder. It did my heart good to see Miss Priss try to admit she didn’t know something.

  I’m not a mean person by nature. Usually, I’m the first to bend over backward until I’m doing a series of one-handed flips. But Margit had rubbed me wrong. Bama had too. Neither paid me the sort of respec
t I felt I deserved. Both seemed more ready to deliver criticism than give me credit. With Bama, I’d rolled over and bared my jugular vein in submission. That proved disastrous, so I decided to take a new approach. There was just one problem: I couldn’t find a good middle ground. I wanted to be assertive but not pushy, confident but not cruel, and instead I was coming off nasty.

  Watching Margit’s face crumble with embarrassment, I felt awful. Sure, she slapped down arrogance like it was a winning hand at the poker table. Sure, she hassled me about arriving late. But I didn’t want a repeat of my situation with Bama. Some of that particular hassle had been Bama’s fault, but I could accept my portion of the blame.

  “Come on. I’ll show you.”

  Margit proved a worthy student. I praised her as she mastered the most basic steps to ringing up an order. Fishing around under the drawer, I found the instruction manual. “I’ve marked the pertinent passages with a highlighter. Call me if you have questions. Or problems.”

  “Clancy comes in at three. It’s on the schedule.”

  I nodded. “I hope so. Her mother took a tumble yesterday.”

  “Is she all right? The mother?”

  “I don’t know. I tried to call Clancy last night. She didn’t answer. Clancy’s very reliable. If she couldn’t come in, she would have called by now.”

  “She is a good daughter.” Margit confirmed, more to herself than to me.

  “Yes. Clancy’s a good friend and a good worker, too. But this business with her mother, well, it’s hard.”

  “We must honor our mother and our father. The Bible tells us we must. This is one of God’s own commandments.”

  “I know.” I struggled to make sense of the law. Did honor include getting walked on? Did it mean that I should honor every one of her requests? Did it mean I should never criticize Mom or disagree with her? Never complain about her to my friends?