Cut, Crop and Die

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  I was sitting on her sofa with my head on my hand, thinking. Her revelation surprised me. I didn’t know she was a dog lover. I’d known Sheila for nearly thirteen years. Our relationship was an iceberg. Ten percent sat above the water, but the majority was still unknown and unexplored at deeper depths. Just as she didn’t know me, I knew very little about her. Tonight I’d seen a tantalizing hint of the woman other people so admired.

  Almost on cue, Gracie walked from me to her. Stopping beside the older woman, my dog initiated a low, slow wag of her tail. Sheila and Gracie were face to face. Gracie lowered her big head, pressing her muzzle into the open hand lying in Sheila’s lap. At first, my mother-in-law pulled away, but Gracie persisted, lifting her nose and sniffing Sheila’s face gently in that probing way dogs have. To my surprise, Sheila raised both hands and began to massage the base of Gracie’s velvety ears, eliciting a low moan of pleasure from my dog.

  “I’ve never been around a dog this big. Scooter was portable. He was my baby. Wherever I was, he was happy to be. Losing him, well, it was quite difficult. Of course, it broke my heart to lose Harry and George, but people are different. With people, even those you love, there are irritations. Bothers. Misunderstandings. But Scooter was purebred love. In his doggy mind, I hung the moon and made the sun rise each morning. He woke up each and every day eager to spend every moment of it with me.”

  Her voice was full of emotion. Gracie leaned in to give Sheila a long, gentle lick on the cheek.

  “Good night, Sheila,” I said a bit later from the top of her dramatic staircase. With one hand on Gracie’s collar, I paused outside a second floor guest room. “Thank you again. For the most part, this was like being a princess in a fairy tale.” I gave a small snort. “Except my prince charming was a liar.” I had trouble thinking of Detweiler as that, but he was, wasn’t he?

  She lingered with her hand on her doorknob. Through the opening, I could make out the small sofa in her bedroom suite, and a large enamel vase filled with fresh flowers on the low mahogany table nearby. “It’s too bad about that young man. I can certainly see why you found him attractive.”

  Gracie and I entered the guest room in tandem. Once the lock clicked softly behind me, all the starch went out of my panties. Finally, I had no reason to act strong. I collapsed onto the big bed, burrowed my head into the pillows, and began to cry. All the pent-up emotion of the evening flowed out of me. Egging it on was the raw, angry, pain of disappointment.

  Despair swallowed me and sucked me down into darkness.

  Gracie’s cold nose nudged along my legs where they dangled off the bedspread. She snuffled her way up and down my bare skin, whining softly. I kept my hands over my face and cried and cried. It felt as if my life was spinning in an out-of-control centrifuge, and without the pressure of my fingers to my skin, small parts of me would break off and fly away.

  Lord knew, I’d been trying to hold it all together for most of the evening. Now I abandoned myself to well-deserved misery.

  “Dang him,” I pounded the bedspread. “How could he?” Worried that vestiges of makeup would stain Sheila’s bedclothes, I went to the bathroom for tissues. I perched on the closed toilet seat, trying to calm myself down. I’d graduated from crying to sobbing and now hiccupping. My diaphragm spasmed repeatedly, making weird huck-huck-huck noises. Gracie’s anxiety about my welfare brought her over to investigate.

  That was a mistake. The marble bathroom floor was slick.

  Her paws went in four different directions out from under her. Her eyes hula-hooped in panic. I grabbed her collar. She skated around, moving her feet in a cartoonish “woop-woop-woop” of continual motion as she worked to stay upright. I gripped her collar, but her backside slipped down and out. Keeping a hand on her neck, I moved behind her, jacking up her back end. The front end started sinking. I instinctively jerked up on her collar. That had me choking her, so I let go quickly. I put both hands around her neck and lifted. Her head came up but her legs splayed, and her rear end traveled in the opposite direction. Dropping to the floor, I positioned my arms like shelf brackets under her torso. Now she could stand, but she couldn’t move. And I couldn’t maintain my Atlas-like position. She was far too heavy.

  I used one hand to push her into a sit. With my other arm supporting her barrel chest, I crawled along, half-dragging and half-pushing her in that seated position until she made a scrambling leap for the carpet and bounded onto the bed. Her exit pulled the props out from under me. I came down on the tile with a loud, “Ooof.”

  Something about collapsing on the floor while my dog stared down from a posh four-poster struck me as funny. I looked up at her and giggled. Gracie raised one eyebrow and yawned. Her tail beat the air, and I swear, her floppy lips curled in a self-satisfied grin.

  I dragged myself to the side of bed, stripped naked, and tunneled under the covers.

  Gracie nuzzled me to say she had to go.

  It was half-past six in the morning, and I wanted to sleep longer, but the thought of a Great Dane-sized puddle on Sheila’s carpet was a powerful incentive. I grabbed a housecoat from the closet, padded down the back stairs, and headed to the kitchen for Advil and water before leading Gracie into the backyard. Sheila’s pool shimmered in the lemon-yellow dawn. Emerald green dragonflies buzzed back and forth, making landings to test the tensile strength of water. Pots of pink flowering begonias, red geraniums, and blue lobelia as well as trellises covered with blooming roses turned the pool into an oasis of calm. I rested on a lounge chair and enjoyed the chip-chip-chip back and forth of two flame-red male cardinals staking out their territory. Gracie finished her business and strolled to my side, parking her carcass with a hearty sigh.

  I told myself I could think about Detweiler for twenty minutes and no more. After time was up, I planned to get on with my life.

  Detective Chad Detweiler and I met the day of George’s murder. He had the unhappy task of telling me my husband died. In the coming months, I convinced him George was the victim of foul play. Another death occurred and Detweiler came to the store to question me. That was the day he met Gracie. I smiled, remembering how his whole demeanor had changed from tough guy cop to the little boy who had long loved Great Danes. Later he brought Anya a big jar of tadpoles from his parents’ farm. When the killer carjacked me, chased me through a state park, and shot me, Detweier was first on the scene, riding along in the ambulance, holding my hand in the emergency room. Since then, he’d become a stable part of my life. Chatting with me about raising Anya. Stopping by the store and our house. Checking whether the killer contacted me.

  And finally, he kissed me.

  I realized with a jolt I was in love with the man.

  I loved his eyes, his body (or what I knew of it), and most of all his devotion to what was right. How could a man with such high morals have misled me? Better yet, why had he? And if he was going to be a cad, well, there’d been plenty of nights I would have gladly taken him into my arms. So why didn’t he take full advantage of my ignorance and trust? Why did he stop with flirtation?

  Okay, I told myself, enough. I glanced at my watch. This is a waste of time. That’s over. Move on. Focus on the future. Figuring out who killed Yvonne Gaynor would go a long way toward improving my life.

  So, who did it? And why? The gossip supplied by Clancy Whitehead and Serena Jensen pointed to Perry Gaynor. Who else could it have been? Well, there was Rena. Was she tired of sharing Perry with Yvonne? Maybe she thought he’d marry her and dump his mistress? Or maybe she killed Yvonne and framed Perry for the murder. Maybe there was yet another person involved, someone not part of Perry’s love rectangle.

  Could Bama have done it? I was still waiting for Bucky to call from Art House. Was Yvonne involved in getting Bama fired? Yvonne seemed to enjoy causing problems for people. Did my co-worker bide her time, knowing their paths would cross again? Bama had access to the food. Heck, she’d done the ordering and worked with the caterer. If they knew each other from before, could Bama have h
ad access to the Epi-Pen?

  The Epi-Pen. Fewer people had access to it than to the scones. First of all, the food we served was handled by caterers, our staff, and volunteer helpers. But there was the food the scrapbookers brought along. Still … the syringe could only have been touched by someone with access to Yvonne’s purse. That was a much more specific target. The food could have been tainted to sicken anybody, but the empty Epi-Pen could only affect one person—Yvonne. So whoever touched the pen knew (a) that Yvonne carried it, (b) where she carried it, and (c) how intense her allergic reaction would be.

  Something bothered me. Beyond my grasp was an idea. A half-formed thought about Yvonne’s allergies …

  “We have to talk about your house. Your neighborhood isn’t safe, Kiki. You’ve already had two break-ins and now this.” Sheila calmly put a thin layer of butter on an English muffin. Gracie and I had joined her in the kitchen.

  “I know. You’re right. In another area of town, someone pulling a prank like last night would have been spotted, reported, and hauled in by the police. I’d like to move, honest, but my monthly rental is all I can afford. Especially since I want to be close to Anya’s school and the store.” I balanced scrambled eggs on my fork. My head felt tender, but the water and Advil were keeping a headache at bay. Protein would help. So would the huge glass of tomato juice Linnea placed at my elbow without comment.

  Sheila said, “Don’t be silly. When I die my money will go to Anya anyway, so it should help her now. I can contribute to suitable housing for both of you.”

  “But I don’t want to be beholden to you. I need to be independent.”

  “Is your pride more important than your safety? More to the point: Is your pride more important than Anya’s safety? Don’t be stupid.” She took a bite of her eggs and chewed them thoughtfully. “What are you planning to tell Anya about the detective?”

  I took a long drink of the hot herbal tea Linnea gave me. Evidently, she had a whole bag of tricks for coping with hangovers. Maybe that had been another reason Sheila invited me to come home with her. I said, “I’ve thought about that. I guess I should tell her the truth. Otherwise, she’ll wonder if his absence has anything to do with her. Knowing my daughter, she’ll ask me how the evening went. I’ll mention seeing him … and his wife.”

  What else, I wondered, could I do?

  Maybe Sheila was hinting she had a better idea. I asked her point blank if she did.

  “No. No, I certainly don’t.” My mother-in-law sighed. It was a sighing kind of topic, the kind of situation that made you feel helpless and sad. “What you’re proposing is as good an idea as any. Now,” and she seemed to be checking off items from a mental list, “let’s discuss her request to wear makeup. I have an idea …”

  TWENTY

  TRADITIONALLY, ANYA AND I took Gracie to a park on Sundays. We left Sheila’s with every intention of doing just that, but the inside of my car was so stuffy, Anya turned to me and said, “Mom, could we pass? It’s too humid to be outdoors.”

  She was right. The heat index was hovering near 105, and the air quality was orange. With her asthma, a walk outside was not a good idea. A part of me loathed letting our tradition slide for even one time, not because I didn’t think she was right, but because my child was growing up before my eyes. Soon, her excuse for not wanting to take that walk would be “I want to be with my friends.” I was trying to postpone that moment by entrenching our routines.

  “Okay-dokey, Anya-Banana. What would you like to do instead?”

  She turned cornflower blue eyes on me and said, “Call Detective Detweiler and see if he’d like to go roller skating. He told me he’s really good at it. The kids say that rink over on Manchester is lots of fun.”

  Crud. I wasn’t quite ready to discuss this yet. I needed a little more time to process last evening, to practice what I’d say, to consider any alternate approaches. But … here it was. I said, “I don’t think that will work, honey. You see, he’s married. I met his wife last night.”

  Anya stopped twirling her hair and turned to me in horror. “Shut up! You have to be kidding me.”

  Thank goodness I knew “shut up” was teen-speak for “no way!”

  I sighed, “No, honey, I’m not kidding.”

  “Wow.”

  “The good news is I wasn’t dating the man. Right? I mean he was only a friend. And I suppose he can still be our friend. It’s just … it’s just that maybe I misunderstood the kind of friend he wants to be.” I didn’t like lying to her, but I wasn’t about to share that he’d kissed me. It was too humiliating. I had to focus on what was best for Anya.

  She stared at me with huge eyes. “Mom, that’s total bull. And you know it.”

  The inside of my old BMW suddenly felt too small, too cramped. The leather seat stuck to the back of my legs. I couldn’t get a good deep breath of air. I directed an air conditioning vent toward my face and swallowed hard.

  My perceptive daughter wasn’t finished. “Well, this is baloney. I don’t care what you say. Maybe it wasn’t the kind of dating with him picking you up and taking you out, but he sure acted like he was interested. I’m not stupid, Mom. I might be a kid, but I saw the way he’d look at you. Even Daddy didn’t look at you like that.”

  “Like what?” My voice cracked.

  “Like you were the most important person in the world. Like he thought you were just perfect. Like he wanted to hug you and kiss you and all that yucky stuff. He looked like that. Like they show in the movies. And he didn’t even try to hide it.”

  I was surprised by how observant she’d been. Surprised and saddened. “Maybe. Or maybe that’s the way you wanted to see it. I can accept responsibility for not being more … uh, proactive and asking him what his intentions were. I guess I misinterpreted his behavior.”

  A snort came from the other side of the car. Anya said, “You need your head examined.”

  “Anya, you will not speak to me that way. That’s disrespectful.” I knew exactly who she was channeling; she’d been spending a lot of time with her grandmother, and that expression was one of Sheila’s favorites.

  “Okay, all right. But Mom, you need a serious rethink about this. Honest, you’re always telling me to trust my gut. Does your gut think he only wanted to be your friend?”

  I didn’t answer her.

  She made a disgusted sound. “Right. Does Mert know about this yet?”

  “I plan to tell her tonight at the cookout.”

  “This ought to be good. She’ll track him down and slap him up the side of his head seven ways to Sunday. You know what Roger told me? Once there was this bully at school, a senior? And Roger was, like, a middle schooler. And the bully kept slamming Roger into lockers in the hall when teachers weren’t watching. Mert goes to the principal, but he said they’d never seen it happen, and like, they couldn’t do anything? Besides the kid’s family was real important and all. One day, Roger came home, and his eye was black because the kid pushed him into an open locker. The edge of the metal door ripped the skin around Roger’s eye. The next day Roger stayed home ’cause, like, his eye was swollen shut. But, see, after school, Mert drove to the school parking lot and waited. When that boy came out, Mert called him over to her truck, and like, he was walking around and strutting and showing off for his friends. Roger was slumped down in the car watching. He said he was really, really scared—for his mom. Next thing he knows—wham! Mert grabbed that boy by the hair on the back of his head and slammed his face into the hood of her truck. That boy’s nose was broken and everything. So like, Mert says to him, ‘And whatcha gonna do about it? Tell everyone a woman half your size wearing a skirt broke your nose? You better not, ’cause next time, I’ll break your arm and both your legs, too’.”

  Anya concluded this recitation of Mad Mert and the Thunder-dome with a satisfied nod. “Yep, she did that. I can hardly wait to see what she’ll do to old Detweiler. She is not going to be happy about this.”

  Out of the mouths of babes. Wh
at was it Mert said when she returned from being questioned by the cops? Something about Detweiler being a sleezeball and not to trust him?

  “Well, I’ll be,” I mumbled to myself. I bet Mert already knew he was married.

  But I was being totally ridiculous. If Mert had known about Detweiler, she’d have told me right away. And the idea that she’d knock him silly, well, that was almost laughable.

  Or was it?

  I knew her to have a temper. She was fiercely protective. And not afraid of anything or anyone. Once over a bottle of wine, she told me about a fight she’d gotten into at a bar. The other woman was taken to the hospital. And what was it she suggested when her neighbor turned up with a black eye? Mert said, “Iffen my husband ever dared lay one hand on me, I’d wait ’til he done fell asleep and take a cast iron frying pan to the side of his head. That’d stop that nonsense for sure.”

  I’d thought it a funny story.

  She’d never hurt anyone. Never.

  Or would she?

  All traces of the fake Gracie were gone from our front porch. An officer at the Richmond Heights P.D. called to say they learned nothing from interviewing my neighbors. He promised patrolmen would make extra passes by the house.

  Huh. Like that would do a lot of good.

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, our records show a few months ago your house was burglarized. Twice. And now this. Ma’am, maybe an officer should do a security canvas. Tell you how to make your place less appealing to the criminal element. You know, when word gets around that a house is vulnerable …”

  I didn’t listen to the lecture that followed. I couldn’t. I knew exactly what he would say. My house had become a target for every miscreant in the greater St. Louis area. Even my Great Dane couldn’t offer enough of a deterrent to keep me and my child safe.