"Ha, ha, ha," I said. "Episcopal priests can marry, so one might assume that before they marry, they can even date."
She had taken a few classes at Washington University, but I didn’t know if those were for credit or not. She was currently attending a local community college, Prairie Central. She was a friend of Mert’s. She was twenty-nine years old, and her birthday was in February. She didn’t have any siblings, at least not that we knew of. She drove a baby blue Toyota Avalon, a newer model. She wore a size four pants and an eight top. This summer she’d taken time away from the store to finish a project that would help her in an accelerated master’s degree program. Neither Clancy nor I knew what the project entailed. We knew she’d been studying anthropology and sociology with an emphasis on women’s issues. Or something like that.
I knew that she and John Henry Schnabel, the ace attorney, were dear friends. They had been for years. "I bet he knows everything about her."
"What makes you so sure she and Schnabel are best buds?" asked Hadcho. "I would have guessed you two knew a lot more about Laurel."
"She asked him to take on Detweiler’s case pro bono, and he didn’t hesitate. Didn’t skip a beat. He intimated to me that they had a pact. That if either of them ever asked for help, it was like that song in Peter Pan, that they were blood brothers, or blood siblings, I guess you’d say."
"Looks like I’ll be making a phone call to the good attorney," said Hadcho.
Otherwise, and this was embarrassing, we didn’t know much. For instance, I had no idea where she lived. Or if she lived alone. Or if she had family nearby. Nada.
"I remember that she never had any birthday parties when she was growing up, but I don’t know why she didn’t. She simply mentioned that to Anya one day when we were working on a birthday party event here at the store. And I admit, I found that curious. Otherwise, she’s never talked about her upbringing. Not at all."
"Remember," interjected Clancy, "a long time ago when I mentioned to you that none of us knew anything about Laurel? I said it when you needed her help, and she called that lawyer friend."
"The truth is," I admitted, "we simply accepted that she was a very, very private person. She never tried to pry into our lives. She was always there when we needed someone, and she’s beautiful. Once we learned that she wouldn’t lord her good looks over us, we sort of forgot about everything else."
"Too bad," said Hadcho. "Because there’s something in her life, some little wrinkle there, and because of it, some creep wants to get rid of her. Sad to say, ladies, I was kind of counting on you to help me point Murray in the right direction."
Chapter 20
According to Hadcho, none of the security cameras at The Old Social Hall recorded anyone leaving the building after Laurel was stabbed. Either the cameras missed a person, which was highly unlikely, or the person left with the rest of us at the end of the crop.
"Of course, could be that a member of catering staff did the deed," said Hadcho. "Murray's checking all of them out. But that’s highly unlikely. Since the place was closed to the public for your private function, I don’t have anywhere else to look, but at your guests. Could you print up a copy of your guest list for me? I told Murray I’d get it for him."
"I can do better than that," said Clancy. "I had each guest fill out a form for us with her name, address, phone number, contact info, and method of payment. Those have all been scanned into the computer along with a simple list so that we could take attendance."
"Both of them, please," said Hadcho. "But if you could print out the list of attendees, I’d like to go over the names with you."
That proved to be a totally boring exercise. Nearly half of our attendees were new to us. The others were folks we’d come to know and love.
"How’d you advertise this?"
I opened my computer and pulled up a form that Margit had created. The checklist enumerated all the places we’d sent advertising or notices. As it printed, I reflected on the irony. Here I had oodles of info about the crop and croppers and nothing on a co-worker whom I would have trusted with my life.
"Did you find the weapon?" I asked.
"Nope, and I doubt that we will," Hadcho said. "We had a specialist look at photos of Laurel’s cuts. Those wounds could have been made by your everyday kitchen cutlery. In fact, that’s more than likely exactly what was used."
"So why can’t you find the knife?" asked Clancy. "You obviously know what you’re looking for."
"I suspect that the doer slipped the knife into a cart of dirty cutlery that was on its way into the dishwasher in that kitchen. See, right after I arrived, when I realized what had happened to Laurel, I initiated a search for any knife that might have been capable of being used as a weapon. That led to someone checking the dishwasher. That officer discovered it had been turned on just minutes beforehand. When she learned it was on, the manager was surprised."
"Angela Orsini," I said. "She’s the manager."
"Right. She told me that they usually didn’t run it until after the guests left for the evening. Because it’s a big commercial unit, it takes a lot of water and energy. Noisy, too. So she has a rule that at any job, the dishwashers aren’t to be run until they’re full, and that’s always at the end of a work shift. But when I asked one of our officers to check on it, someone had turned it on. But no one admitted to doing so. The button panel had been wiped clean of fingerprints."
"You’re telling me that you suspect the assailant used a knife from their cutlery set, and then put that same knife back into the dishwasher and ran it. Any knives you would have checked against the wound would have been washed clean," I said.
"Precisely."
"So you’ve got a victim who can’t tell you what happened and no way to pin down the weapon that was used. Your victim is an enigma, and you don’t have any personal information on her that would direct you as to why someone might have targeted her."
"Ding-ding-ding. Congratulations, Mrs. Sherlock Holmes, you win the prize."
Chapter 21
Hadcho knew we were having a second session of the Halloween Crafting Spook-tacular later that night.
"Round Two," as Clancy called it. "Starts at six and ends past my bedtime."
"Gluttons for punishment," was Hadcho’s pithy response.
"Anything we should look for or be aware of?"
He sighed and let his eyes roam the junction of the wall and the ceiling. "Sometimes the perp will return to the scene of the crime, hoping to relive what happened. Sometimes he or she will come back and insert herself into the investigation. It’s possible that your doer will want to assess the damage. How about if you print off a list of tonight’s guests?"
I did exactly that. We cross-referenced the attendees. "I only see six returning visitors," said Clancy. "Three are those members of St. James Episcopal Church."
"Why so many from one church?" asked Hadcho. "Did the good father assign attending the crop for penance?"
"Father Joe is a special friend of Laurel's. He took it upon himself to suggest from the pulpit that attending this event was a good deed," I said. "These ladies signed up not once but twice."
"Keen crafters, eh?" asked Hadcho, raising his eyebrows.
Clancy and I exchanged a long look.
"No," I said finally. "They brought along a bunch of supplies, but I didn’t get the impression that they knew a lot about papercrafting."
"Why’d you say that?"
"Because one of them cut herself badly, the others ran behind and needed help with their projects, and all of them made messes of their work," I explained. "That doesn't indicate any expertise. At least not to me."
"It's possible that they love crafting and they aren’t very good at it," said Clancy. "We’ve seen it before."
"True. I wonder if they have anything they can share about Laurel," I said. "Maybe I can get it out of them when they come tonight."
"Uh-huh. No, ma'am. I suggest you leave the interviewing to the experts," said Hadcho
, making a sweeping negative motion with his hands. "Remember, there’s a slasher out there. Detweiler will lose his mind if you even get the tiniest paper cut."
"Look, I can ask them questions, and it will sound natural. If you ask them, it’ll sound like what it is, a police interview."
"I’m just sayin’, you need to stay out of harm's way."
"Since you and Detweiler are both going to be there, I think I’m pretty well protected, don’t you?"
"At least promise me that you'll keep out of the ladies john," he said.
After he left, Clancy turned to me. "He knows nothing about pregnant women, does he? When I was pregnant, I practically lived in the john."
I got up and headed toward the back.
"Where’re you going?" she called after me.
"Where do you think? To the john!"
Chapter 22
"I can’t believe we don’t have any paperwork on Laurel," I said. It was lunch time and Clancy had joined me at my worktable. She nibbled on a tuna fish sandwich, while I ate some leftover lamb stew that Brawny had made.
"Believe it," she said.
"I’m going to try Mert again."
"Do you want to eat a handful of Tums now or later? Because calling Mert is only going to upset your digestion." Clancy watched as I typed in a text message. "For someone who claimed to be your friend, she’s certainly left you high and dry."
I felt tears prickle behind my eyes.
"Kiki, don’t," said Clancy. "She’s not worth it."
"I figured that when she heard I was pregnant, she’d come around. She loves kids. Told me that she always wished she had more children. When I saw her at Dodie’s memorial service, I thought she’d at least come over and wish me well. She did give me a slight nod of acknowledgement, but she also managed to keep her distance," I said.
"Did you always know she was this stiff-necked?"
"Sort of. She was always mad at someone or another. There was always at least one person in her life that she wasn’t talking to. But I thought we were different. I thought she’d always be there for me."
Then I paused and reconsidered. "On the other hand, I knew that one day it would be my turn. That she’d get angry with me. When a person has a habit of getting ticked off, you have to be honest with yourself. It’s just a matter of time until they get mad at you. I knew that. I pussy-footed around her. I prayed she’d never be mad at me. I thought we were better friends than that. At least that’s what I wanted to believe."
I swallowed the lump in my throat and added, "I thought that if she did ever get really mad at me that she’d miss me. That our friendship meant something to her, because it sure did to me, but I guess I was wrong."
"You weren’t wrong. I’m sure it meant a lot to her. Mert has always struck me as a complicated person. She’s angry deep inside. I don’t think it takes much of a spark to set her tinder glowing. That blaze has to burn her, and worse luck, she’s fanning the flames."
While I appreciated this philosophical view of a friendship gone sour, it didn’t fix anything. I still missed Mert. And yet, as time went on, I wasn’t totally confident that we’d ever revive our relationship. How could I ever rely on her the way I had before? Now that I knew she could easily blame me. Easily withdraw her affection. Did I really want to put myself in a position to be hurt by her again? When she first quit talking to me, I’d lie awake at nights and rehash all that happened. But as the months went by, I’d come to a conclusion: Yes, we’d been friends. Yes, I once thought the world of her. Yes, she was a good person. But did I want to open my heart to her again? Did I want to go through her rejection? Did I want to go back to treating her with kid gloves because I knew she could get so angry?
She’d made a decision that I had done her wrong. She mistakenly believed that I’d involved Johnny in a plot that nearly cost him his life. When she learned the truth, she didn't back down. She hadn’t given me the benefit of the doubt. Instead, she had attacked me. Blamed me for everything, hurling insults my way, and accusing me of things that didn't make sense. She’d painted herself as my victim, and she’d done it in a smug, self-satisfied way.
The longer this estrangement went on, the more I found myself thinking, "I can do without that sort of drama."
Really, I could.
Chapter 23
A few hours before the second Halloween Crafting Spook-tacular…
While I did prep work, Clancy called the croppers from the previous evening. We’d worked up a script that apologized for any emotional distress caused by Laurel’s stabbing. Although we stressed it wasn’t our fault, I knew that some of the crafters would blame us. That was human nature. As a token of our regret, we offered them a discount coupon and a free seat at one of our regular Monday night crops. We’d learned that a small peace offering could pay huge dividends.
The coupon and free crop opportunity would encourage new customers to come and visit our store. Clancy, Margit, and I were confident that one visit was all anyone needed to decide that we were the premiere St. Louis shop for just about any sort of crafter.
At any given hour, at least one of our management team was here at the store. We knew this place inside out, and we had the power to make customers happy.
In addition, our staff included Rebekkah, daughter of Dodie Goldfader, the original owner of the store; Brawny; Laurel; and now Sheila. Brawny and Margit were keen knitters and crocheters. Laurel could do about anything, although she wasn’t an innovator, once she’d been shown how to do a project, she could follow instructions and share what she’d learned. Rebekkah was a mess. However, whenever we needed a helping hand, she pitched in. She knew the supplies and how to work the various tools, but she was a hazard when left to her own devices. Sheila would pull in the hoity-toity crowd. Every alum of CALA owned a needlepointed belt. It was some sort of badge of honor. Sheila must have made a zillion of them for my late husband George. I could just imagine the impact on our bottom line that an ongoing needlepoint belt class could have.
The only thing we didn’t have, and needed, was someone to help me with restocking, provide assistance during our evening crops, and oversee our food offerings.
I keenly missed Cara Mia Delgatto’s help with that last task. Before she moved to Florida, Cara Mia organized the menus for our crops. Sometimes, she brought leftovers from Cara Mia’s, the restaurant her late parents had named for her. Other times, she brought a main dish and worked with our croppers, because they almost always brought a dish to share, but often needed guidance so we didn’t wind up with five dishes of green bean casserole.
On crop nights, Cara Mia also helped me by sticking around to run errands. She pitched in during the cleanup. Then we walked each other to our cars.
We really could use another helper.
I knew exactly whom to call.
My long lost sister, Catherine. I texted her: Could you drop by the store? I'd like to see you.
She responded quickly and said she could come by in an hour.
"Do you think she’ll be interested?" asked Clancy, when I told her what I had in mind.
"I think she might. She’s in a Twelve Step Program, and she’s doing well. Amanda told me that she avoids Mom as much as possible, which makes sense. I guess she’s been doing yard work since she arrived. Catherine likes working with her hands."
Amanda was my younger sister by eighteen months, and Catherine by three years, because she’s eighteen months younger than Amanda. Fifteen years ago, Catherine had become estranged from our family. Then, three weeks ago, she popped back into our lives.
"Did she do crafts when you were kids?" asked Clancy.
"A little. Mostly she did stuff outdoors. She loves plants. We didn’t have much of a yard. The front of the lot sloped down to a broken sidewalk, and the slope was covered with rocks. There were too many trees overhanging the property and too much shade for anything to grow. But there was one sunny stretch next to the alley, and she really cultivated that strip of ground. I remembe
r her planting sweet peas. Irises. Oh, and pinching back mums. Any cuttings she could scrounge from the neighbors’ gardens, she’d bring home and try to get started at our house."
"It must have been a real shock to open the door and see her standing on your front step a few weeks ago," said Clancy. She pulled up a chair across from the desk where I was sitting.
"You can say that again. I hadn’t seen or heard from her in all those years. But I knew who she was immediately."
"She kept in contact with your Aunt Penny that whole time?"
"Aunt Penny rescued her. I’ve only gotten the story piecemeal, but when Dad kicked her out of the house, Catherine spent the night in a Greyhound Bus Station. She scrounged up enough change to call Aunt Penny, who wired her the money for a bus ticket to South Carolina, where she was living at the time."
"I can’t imagine tossing my child to the curb because she was pregnant. And she was only fourteen. That’s unthinkable."
"It’s barbaric, isn’t it? Dad didn’t even listen to Catherine long enough to learn she’d been raped. As far as he was concerned, she’d been promiscuous. I guess he had the nerve to say that a woman couldn’t be raped unless she wanted it. Can you believe that nonsense?"
"Your father must have been a moron."
"He was also a superb mathematician and a talented artist. But a social and cultural Neanderthal."
"Hey, don’t insult cavemen," wisecracked Clancy.
"My father grew up in a rural, backwater area of southern Illinois, and he was never exposed to erudite people. In some ways, he and my mother were a great team."
"What do you mean?" Clancy stepped around me and opened the top drawer of the desk that had once been Dodie’s. From the desk drawer, she withdrew a tiny bobble-head turtle. Dodie used to tinker with the toy when she was thinking.
"My mother has pretensions, but no real substance as a person. My father had strong opinions, but no depth of thought. Neither traveled much. Neither were great readers. They never questioned their beliefs. Everything was black and white. People were good or bad. Moral or immoral. They were like two radios with very limited bandwidths."
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