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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

“She keeps showing up at my apartment. Calls me. Sends me text messages. A few days ago she even texted me twenty-two times in ten minutes.”

  I double-checked my gun for bullets. When I was sure it was empty, I slipped it into my purse. “So, she’s stalking you.”

  “Basically.”

  “She threw you out, now she wants you back.”

  “Sweetheart, Brenda doesn’t know what she wants. She’s an addict. She’s unstable and violent, and she refuses to go to regular meetings to help her stay on the straight and narrow. If she doesn’t clean up her act—fast—she’ll be out of a job. Not to mention, she’s on the verge of being cut loose from the nursing management program she’s been taking.”

  “Wow.” I’d been counting on her moving away. If she didn’t complete her degree, that wasn’t likely to happen. The specter of a life where Brenda could show up anytime, anywhere, did not thrill me one bit.

  I didn’t tell him about the eggs on my car. It just didn’t seem like that big of a deal. I felt discouraged. It wasn’t that I expected life to be easy. It never is. But I hadn’t realized we could be dealing with Brenda for a very long time. Hadn’t Princess Di complained about there being three people in her marriage? Brenda was our own personal tiresome third wheel. If she didn’t finish her degree and move to Colorado as planned, there was no reason to think she’d ride off into the sunset.

  After we kissed goodbye, he held me at arm’s length and studied me. With a gentle touch, he stroked my forehead. “Don’t frown, sweetheart. Everything will be all right. We’ve got each other. That’s enough. We’ll get through all this mess with Bill and Brenda, and someday when we’re old and sitting in rocking chairs outside of a Cracker Barrel, we’ll have a good laugh about all this.”

  I nodded. The lump in my throat caused a pain that kept me from talking.

  He drove off first. I took a deep breath and backed out slowly. Before I pulled out of the parking lot, I reached into my purse and touched the Kel-Tec. The cold plastic reassured me.

  At a stoplight, I paused and rested my forehead on the steering wheel. Lately, the urge to nap overwhelmed me. I was tired all the time. I badly needed to recharge my psychic and physical batteries.

  I missed my friendship with Mert. I missed Clancy’s usual good humor and support. I missed Dodie’s steady nature and calm reassurance. I missed living in my own house, having my own space, and not worrying if Claudia was listening in. As much as I loved Detweiler, a mild irritation crept under my skin. He wasn’t worried about Brenda, but did he have any concept of the havoc she was causing in my life?

  A tap on the horn startled me into action. I waved at the car behind me and started through the intersection. As I did, my phone rang.

  Seventy

  “Kiki, is this a bad time?” my sister’s voice came across as urgent.

  “No, no. It’s fine,” I said. I was thrilled to hear from her. I pulled off into an empty parking lot and put on my blinkers.

  “How’s it going with Mom?”

  “I’m worried about her. She has to tinkle a lot. I know that’s common in older women, but she’s also so—so—”

  “Weird?” asked Amanda. “Wasn’t she always?”

  “Yes, but she’s an animal lover and—”

  “She got mixed up. She put your daughter’s kitten into the microwave thinking it was the cat carrier, I bet.”

  Put that way, it sounded like a simple mistake. But I didn’t think it was that easily explained away.

  “Amanda, when did Mom have her last checkup? She’s not just confused. It’s like her personality has changed. Maybe you haven’t noticed it because you live with her, but I’m shocked. She used to be such a stickler about manners. Now I can’t stand to watch her eat. And personal hygiene? That’s gone completely by the wayside.”

  Amanda blew out a sigh. “You’re right. Look. I’ll find her medical records and fax them to you. Email me a fax number, okay? Meanwhile, Claudia showed up on your doorstep? How did that happen?”

  I’d been thinking about that. “My cell phone disappeared a couple of times. I guess Mom phoned her. What did you find out from the McMurrays?”

  “Nothing. Mrs. McMurray is in a coma. Doesn’t seem like the time to pepper them with questions about Claudia. I know her daughter is here working with hospice, caring for her mother.”

  “That reminds me. I can never thank you enough for keeping a roof over Mom’s head. I guess I’ve been pretty wrapped up in my own life. Now that she’s here, well, I have a better appreciation of what that might be like for you. What I’m trying to say is, thanks. Thanks a lot.”

  She was quiet for a moment. “Yeah, well, I owe you an apology, too. I guess I wanted to believe you had it made. I thought you were Mrs. Got Rocks and you just didn’t want to help Mom out. Is it true you live in a garage?”

  “It’s been converted. But yes, that’s what it was. Things are tough, but I’ll get by.”

  “What do you think we should do about Claudia?”

  I drummed my fingers on the steering wheel. “I don’t know. If she stays here until Mrs. McMurray dies, she won’t have a reason to return to Tucson, right?”

  “Theoretically. I guess she could try to come back and move in with Mom. Sponge off of her until she finds another elderly person to pillage. Of course, Claudia might want to stay in St. Louis—and keep away from here. I’ve got a feeling that when Nancy McMurray realizes that Claudia took some of her mother’s things, she’ll press charges.”

  I stared out at the cracked asphalt and the spindly weeds poking up through broken bits of pavement. “Claudia is a survivor. She’ll find a way to explain away the situation.”

  “How can she live with herself ?” asked Amanda. “She’s preying on old folks! And how come Mom can’t see that?”

  “She’s giving Mom what she wants: attention. That’s all that matters to Mom. Maybe she did the same for Mrs. McMurray. Maybe when you are old and all alone, you’d gladly trade a few possessions for companionship and attention.”

  Amanda’s tone turned husky. “Then all of us share the blame, right? Claudia’s guilty of taking advantage of the situation, but it’s our fault that our aging parents are so lonely.”

  Seventy-one

  Guilt. What a concept. I should have no trouble finding a new job as an activities director at a guilt-trip cruise line. Now I felt awful about Mom’s plight. Had Amanda and I pushed her into Claudia’s greedy grasp?

  I could think of only one sure-fire way to get Claudia out of our lives. We had to catch her at something illegal.

  I pulled into Sheila’s driveway and turned off the car, steeling myself for what was ahead. This wouldn’t be the first time I’d gone Dumpster-diving. Or the last.

  I had a plan. All I needed was a change of clothes. When Anya heard what I was doing, my kid offered her assistance, even calling her friend Nicci to say she’d be a bit late coming over. Nicci volunteered to swing by and pick Anya up, as her older brother, Stevie, could do the driving.

  I changed into old pants, a stained tee, and latex gloves. I found one of Linnea’s aprons and stuffed a flashlight into the big front pocket. A couple of clear zippered plastic bags were in my pants pocket. Working together, Anya and I spread a plastic drop cloth on the ground to keep the mess to a minimum.

  I lowered the large plastic trash bin onto its side. Since Sheila lined all her small trash containers with plastic bags, I quickly sorted the bags by room of origin. Anya helped me paw through the contents of Mom’s trash.

  The assemblage of oddities told us a story. We found three receipts from Walgreens for snacks, colas, and a couple of bottles of cheap wine. Claudia was signing Mom’s name to these credit card slips. There was also a receipt for pizza, and this, too, had an unfamiliar script.

  “That’s not right,” grumbled Anya. “That’s forgery.”

  I agreed. “But I bet Mom would say it was okay with her. What we have so far is not enough to bring any pressure to bear on Cl
audia.”

  Seventy-two

  We were pawing through the contents of a second bag when Nicci and her brother, Stevie, hopped out of Stevie’s Volvo, a boxy blue late-model vehicle that I knew Jennifer had chosen for its safety features. Anya explained to the Moore kids what we were doing. They volunteered to dig through the garbage, too. I recognized another trash bag from the upstairs bathroom. We opened it, but all we found were used tissues and more receipts for food.

  Stevie rocked back on his heels and stared at the slips of paper. He was blonde and thin like his mother, and nearly as particular about his clothes. I was impressed that he was willing to help us with such a gross task. Although he’d been very fastidious about wearing latex gloves and handling the paper gingerly, he’d still dripped a bit of coffee on one of his perfectly pressed Dockers. I also noticed a smudge on the crisp placket of his pink Oxford cloth shirt.

  “Is this woman smart? I mean, really smart?”

  “Sort of. Why?” Anya looked toward him thoughtfully.

  “Does she know you suspect her?” he raised an eyebrow.

  Anya shrugged at me. I pondered this. “Maybe. I’ve caught her listening in on my conversations. When she saw me pulling out the latex gloves, she followed me to the back door. She asked what we were doing in the trash. I told her I lost a receipt I need for a refund.”

  “And she didn’t seem alarmed? Worried?” Stevie asked.

  “Nope.”

  “If I wanted to hide receipts or other stuff, I would be careful about putting anything into the garbage, wouldn’t you?” asked Stevie.

  Nicci rolled her palms over in a gesture of defeat. “I’m not sure we’ll find anything here.”

  I started to set the garbage bin back on its feet.

  “But she hasn’t been out of the house. At least I remember Anya saying she doesn’t have a car. So if she’s bought anything or gotten anything or written anything down, where has she stashed those papers?” Stevie held open a big black trash bag.

  “I’m planning to look in her purse,” I admitted. I hated telling my daughter and her friends that I was going to perform an act I didn’t approve of. “It’s wrong, but I need to protect my mother. There’s something going on here, and I intend to get to the bottom of it.”

  Stevie grinned. “Looks like you already did. Sort of.”

  We all laughed as he pointed to the trash can.

  “She keeps her bag with her. I mean, she’s very careful about it,” said Anya. “See, Mom, I had the same idea. I’ve been watching, waiting for a chance to get a look at her driver’s license, but she’s really keeping an eye on that purse.”

  “What did you hope to find?” Nicci picked up receipts by their corners and dropped them into the small bag they belonged in.

  “Something signed with her real name.”

  “That would be on paper, right?” Nicci asked.

  “Recycling!” we all shouted at once. I ran into the garage and grabbed the blue plastic bin with the white logo on the front. Once again we tipped the contents out onto the plastic tarp.

  Since Sheila didn’t separate her recycling, we sorted through a motley mess of cans, paper scraps, plastics, and newspapers. Most of it was intact, but Stevie found several pieces of paper that had been shredded by hand. Those we slipped into my plastic bag.

  “She might have figured by shredding her stuff, you wouldn’t put the pieces together. I mean, that’s what I would have done,” said Stevie.

  I thanked him, his sister, and my daughter. The kids were going back to the Moores’ house to watch marathon sessions of Community, their current favorite television show. I didn’t worry about Anya while she was at the Moores’ home. Jennifer knew all about Bill, and the Moores’ personal wealth caused her to be naturally cautious.

  “Stevie, do you share any classes with Peyton? How’s she doing?”

  I handed him a moist towelette so he could wipe his hands.

  “Actually, she’s doing pretty well. See, her grandmother didn’t approve of—of her friendships. She threatened to cut Peyton out of her will if she didn’t go to prom with a suitable guy,” said Stevie with a heavy emphasis on the word “guy.”

  “That must have been tough. Trying to be her own person and feeling that disapproval.” I held open a trash bag so he could toss in the dirty wipe.

  “It’s tough on anyone who’s the least bit different,” he said. His eyes echoed his sadness, but a small smile played around his mouth.

  It’s not easy to be young, I thought as I waved goodbye to the departing Volvo.

  Seventy-three

  How much did Peyton resent her grandmother? Had the pressure that Edwina Fitzgerald put on her granddaughter finally caused the child to crack?

  I phoned Detweiler and told him my theory. “Deanna came from a family that’s familiar with firearms. What if she passed that interest on to Peyton?”

  He was quiet for a second. I could tell he was gathering his thoughts. “Okay, but I’m confused. If Peyton Fitzgerald didn’t participate in the May Day ceremony, why did her parents and grandmother go? I mean, parents attended to see their daughters dance. But she wasn’t dancing. I don’t get it.”

  “I do. You see, even if Peyton didn’t perform, the Fitzgeralds went because this is a tradition. Most importantly, Mrs. Fitzgerald—Edwina—really loved the ceremony. And her word was law in that family. Remember? I told you she threatened to cut off funding if CALA discontinued it.”

  I could tell he was thinking this over.

  “So if Peyton wasn’t performing, she could have been the shooter.”

  “It’s a possibility,” I said. “Look, I have to return the family photos to the Fitzgeralds. I’ll see what I can find out—”

  “No!” said Detweiler. “Leave it alone, Kiki. I mean it. We can’t afford to have you compromise our investigation, much less the situation with Bill.”

  Taking that cue, I changed the subject, telling him about the shredded papers I had. I promised to text message him any information I found about Claudia.

  The morning went by quickly at the store. The nice spring weather encouraged folks to drop in and buy colorful, floral paper for projects. A steady stream of customers kept me hopping.

  Taping together the torn receipts we’d found in the trash would have to wait until Clancy came in at 3 p.m. to help. She’d worked the early shift with Margit and Dodie over at Faust Park. As usual, Clancy wore a classic style that complemented her trim figure. Her taupe linen pants were topped with a tangerine-orange silk blouse and a matching jacket. A tortoiseshell barrette held her hair to one side. She could have doubled for a young Jackie Kennedy Onassis.

  “How are things out at Faust?”

  “Okay, I guess. We’ve sold a lot of page kits. Dodie asked me to have you make more up, please.” From her pocket she pulled a list of styles and themes.

  “Gee, I better get cracking. But first, how’s your mother?”

  Clancy avoided my gaze. “Don’t ask.”

  “I am asking. Hey, Clancy, it’s me. What’s up?” I motioned her over to the paper racks where I could start pulling what I needed to make more page kits.

  Her lower lip trembled, but she stiffened her spine and said, “She’s insisting that I move into her house.”

  “What are you planning to do?”

  Seventy-four

  She raised her shoulders and let them drop. This admission of defeat changed her posture, causing her to slump over and hang her head. “They gave me the name of a geriatric psychiatrist. Dr. Bernard Terra. I’ve got a call in to him.”

  “But you don’t think it will do any good?”

  “No, I don’t. My mother isn’t interested in talking to him. She keeps demanding to go home. Then she turns on me and tells me what a selfish child I am. How she gave up everything to put me through school, and how I’m too self-centered to help my dear old broken-down mother. She’s even said that I want her dead. That I am selfish and cruel and I’m breaking her
heart.”

  “Ouch.” I paused while collecting embellishments. Clancy isn’t much of a toucher, usually, but I patted her shoulder anyway. I figure that even if she doesn’t shower me with affection, I’ll offer her mine. As long as it doesn’t make her uncomfortable, I plan to keep on being me.

  The store was empty, so I didn’t worry about anyone seeing her in distress or overhearing our conversation. Otherwise I might not have pursued the subject.

  Clancy sniffed and dabbed at her eyes. “They brought in a social worker to talk with Mom. She had been by the house to see the setup. The social worker told Mom it would need to be overhauled to be safe. We’d need to remove all the area rugs and add handrails. That’s in addition to putting a bathroom downstairs. Mom, of course, is refusing to consider those changes. I suggested she could move in with me, as my house would be easier to modify. I have a bath on the first level. The hallways are wider. There’s already a safety rail in the shower.”

  “What does she say?”

  “She refuses to consider it. She says that I’m after her house.”

  “Wow. It doesn’t get much worse than that.”

  “Why would I want her house? I’ve never taken anything from Mom. Ever. I have my own house, and I’m willing to share it so she can remain independent. But she refuses to listen. Nothing I say is right. My mom’s on the warpath.” Clancy paused to wipe tears from her face with a trembling hand. “She’s lying there in a hospital bed looking fragile and tiny, but she’s never been so powerful. I’ve never seen her so angry. I understand she’s scared and dependent, but I’ve always been there for her.”

  “Right, but now she can’t do for herself. I bet she’s choosing to feel angry instead of feeling helpless.”

  Clancy nodded. “That’s what Dr. Terra said. Rage is common in the elderly, especially when their world gets smaller and their options less appealing. They get angry with the people they know won’t desert them. So the caregiver gets the brunt of the emotion.”