“Not so hot,” I admitted. I summarized our visit to the farm.
To my surprise, my sister took his side. “Just because he wants to marry you sooner rather than later, doesn’t mean he has an ulterior motive. Why not go ahead and get hitched? You want to and your baby will have his name.”
“I’m not going to throw Anya under the bus to make life easier for him. She deserves better.”
“Right, but have you discussed his position with her? She might change her mind if she knew that it could make such a difference.”
I considered that. She had been happily chatting with Emily when Schnabel had explained his reasoning to me. I hadn’t shared all of his thoughts with her.
Amanda paused, “But I have to be honest. I’m not sure that marrying Detweiler will make much of a difference to his case. All the prosecution has to prove beyond a reasonable doubt is that Detweiler shot her. Unfortunately the spent casings will go a long way toward that.”
“But it doesn’t make sense! He’s been a member of the Major Case Squad here in St. Louis off and on for years. He’s handled enough murder cases to know that leaving behind evidence like that would surely convict him.”
“You’re thinking he was set up?”
“I’m almost positive of it.”
“And his alibi is … ?”
“He was out for a run at his parents’ house. To get to where Brenda’s body was found and back, he would have had to have taken his car. The Detweilers vouch for him, but the prosecution will suggest they’re covering for him or that they didn’t hear him start the car.”
“How did he know where to meet up with Brenda?”
“I assume Schnabel will pull cell phone records. Or text-message records. Whatever.”
“Why would Brenda agree to meet him? That doesn’t make any sense. Think about it. She’s just taken a shot at his girlfriend. She’s wanted by the law. Why go to Detweiler? He wouldn’t have any sympathy for her.”
Anya slipped into the booth next to me. I squeezed her hand.
“Where would Brenda run to? That’s the big question. You find the answer and you’ll know who killed her,” said Amanda.
fifty-five
When we got back to my house, my neighbor and landlord, Leighton Haversham stood on my front step with a large vase of red long-stem roses in his hand. At his side was my mother, wearing a peeved expression on her face as Leighton handed me the flowers. “These are for you.”
I took the vase and watched as Anya and Amanda ambled over to visit Monroe. After inhaling the heavenly fragrance, I opened the envelope stuck in the flowers. The message read: I love you. We’ll marry when you decide the time is right. D
Mom tried to grab the card out of my hand but I was too fast for her.
“Thank you for the lovely afternoon, Lucia.” Leighton offered my mother his hand.
Mom launched herself at him, throwing her arms around his neck. He tried to kiss her cheek, but she artfully angled her lips to meet his. Her gnarly fingers dug deep into the fine fabric of his shirt. He tried to pull away, but she had a death grip on his shirt. Finally, he wrestled free. Mom batted her eyes at him. “I enjoyed it, Leighton. But from now on, please call me in advance. My social calendar fills up so fast.”
“Yes, of course. In the future I will. I guess I was just lucky you weren’t busy today.”
“You certainly were,” Mom simpered.
What an odd pair they made. Leighton could have stepped right out of the senior edition of GQ. His neatly pressed pale yellow shirt was open at the neck, tucked into a handsome crocodile belt at the waist, and paired with grey slacks. My landlord hated socks, so he wore his topsiders on bare feet, his ankles flashing as he walked. By contrast Mom had on a tired white blouse, buttoned wrong, and marred by yellow circles under the armpits. Her skirt was a navy blue polyester dirndl. The contrasting colors chopped her stocky figure in half, making her look stumpier than she is.
“Bye Leighton. Thanks for bringing me these. Excuse me, Mom.” I moved past her and into my house where I pulled my phone from my pocket and texted Detweiler a quick “thanks” for the flowers. Mom followed on my heels.
“Those are from him? That murderer? I heard the news in Leighton’s car,” Mom said. “That man you’ve been seeing is a cold-blooded killer. You sure know how to pick them.”
After carefully setting the flowers on my kitchen table, I turned and grabbed my mother by the shoulders so she couldn’t squirm away. “If you EVER say another negative word about Chad Detweiler, I will bodily throw you out of my house. If you think I’m kidding, you try me. You’ve crossed a line. I have totally had enough of you. For thirty-two years you have bullied me. You’ve teased me. Made fun of me. You’ve insulted me. And I’m tired of it. I am not going to put up with your abuse anymore. Each time you are rude to me, I will call you on it. Furthermore, if you can’t change your bad habits, you are no longer welcome in my home or my store or my life. Have I made myself perfectly clear? Because if I haven’t, I’d be happy to go over it again.”
Her mouth puckered as if she’d bitten a sour pickle. “Well, I never—”
“You are right about that. You never expected me to stand up for myself. But trust me, you aren’t dreaming. I’ve had enough of you, Mom. You are my biological parent, but you’ve never been a real mother to me. You’ve never been kind or loving or supportive. I am sick and tired of putting up with your bull. When I was staring down the end of Brenda Detweiler’s gun, I realized that life is short. Really, really short. We don’t know how long we’ve got. And it might not be long. So I’m not about to waste my time with people who are cruel to me. You are at the top of that list.”
My throat closed nearly choking me, but I continued, “I’ve waited my entire life for you to love me. My whole life. All I ever wanted was to please you. Guess what, Mom? That’s not going to happen. You are sick and twisted. You are nothing like the mother I want. I’m not the child you wanted either. But we’re stuck with each other. So make the best of it and quit picking on me or go away.”
She hesitated as she decided how to play this. Her eyes darted this way and that. I watched the cards flip over like a Rolodex as she chose, “Injured party.” Ding-ding-ding-ding-ding!
Puckering up and sniveling, she worked up a tear. “I didn’t come here for my daughter to insult me! You are so mean!”
I shrugged and said, “If you think that was my mean act, you ain’t seen nothing yet.”
fifty-six
After Mom and Amanda left, I went into my bedroom where I could read the text message Detweiler had sent earlier:
Autopsy shows B was pg. Have no idea who father is. Not me!
I believed him.
fifty-seven
Monday, Day 7—after the shooting
Before going to sleep, I text-messaged Detweiler: I love you. Everything will work out.
The next morning I woke up bright and early when my phone vibrated to announce an incoming text message:
Please join us at the memorial service for Brenda Detweiler * 1 p.m. Penney & Queen Funeral Home, Litchfield IL *
Respectfully, JHS
With that depressing visit coloring my day, I dug around in my closet for a dress I had intended to be a staple of my maternity wardrobe. It was a somber gray, empire cut and gathered under the bust. The material was a soft jersey, making the outfit rather dull, which was probably why it had languished on the racks at Goodwill. It cost a whopping two bucks. By shortening the hem to a decent but more attractive length, I had managed to convert the dress from dowdy to plain. By adding a pin and a simple chiffon scarf to the neck this morning, my frock tiptoed over into the “nice but forgettable” category. Gray was as close as I could get to black under these conditions.
Anya seemed preoccupied as she ate her breakfast. I finished my morning chores, changed the water in the ros
es’ vase, clipped the leash on Gracie, and we hopped into my car. As I dropped Anya off at school, I grabbed her hand and said, “There seems to be something bothering you. Something about Nicci Moore. When you are ready to talk, let me know.”
“Yeah, yeah,” she said, shaking me loose and reaching for her backpack. She started toward the brick building, and then paused and glanced over her shoulder at me. A sixth sense told me to wait. Anya did an about-face and walked toward our car. I rolled down the passenger side window. Gracie stuck her head forward, but since she was in the back seat, I could still talk around her to my kid.
“We probably do need to talk. But I want to give Nicci a chance to work things out. Okay?”
“Certainly.”
“I’ll ask Stevie to give me a ride to their house after school. Maybe I can convince Nicci it’s time to talk to her mom.”
I shifted the BMW into park, ignoring the dirty looks from irritated parents forced to drive around me. “Is she still being bullied? Jennifer told me Nicci was being picked on.”
Anya’s eyes turned furtive. She glanced around, watching other kids climb out of cars. “Um, that’s part of it. But it’s, well, it’s complicated. Got to go!”
After checking the traffic carefully, I pulled out of the drop-off lane. We were definitely making progress. As long as Anya had a plan, we were golden. A weight lifted from my shoulders as I neared the store. Time in a Bottle had always been a sanctuary for me. I loved working there. Gracie’s tail thumped the leather seat, reminding me how she enjoyed snoozing in the backroom. It was much better than leaving her at home all day.
Before opening the store, I reviewed my personal “to do” list. The card project had already been prepped for the evening crop, but I still needed to take our Monday quickie inventory. After finishing inventory I could work on a new tangle design to teach our croppers.
Since Mondays were slow, Margit came in at nine to check our shipments and to order supplies. My co-worker insisted on working until noon on Mondays and Wednesdays and not a minute after. She didn’t work at all on Sundays. At first, I found her inflexibility a nuisance. Later I learned she was visiting her aging mother who had dementia. The set schedule helped both of them cope.
Five minutes after I flipped the sign to OPEN, a reporter walked in. Without preamble, she fired a question at me—“Did you know Brenda Detweiler was carrying her husband’s baby?”
“This is private property. I am asking you to leave. If you don’t go, I will call the police.”
And I did.
But no one came.
Instead, the reporter followed me around the store, making a perfect nuisance of herself. I tripped over her twice. When I sat down to work on a new Zentangle® pattern, she bumped my shoulder trying to watch. The magic of Zentangle® is such that I was able to block her presence out of my mind until she joggled the worktable and sent my pen off on an unattractive tangent.
In Zentangle, you are taught there are no mistakes, only creative opportunities. The tangle might not have been a mistake, but this woman’s visit was. The oddly incongruous tangent of my pen did indeed provide a creative opportunity, but not on paper.
I got up and walked quickly toward the backroom with the reporter hot on my heels. She started yammering at me. “Whose baby was Brenda Detweiler carrying? Did you know she was pregnant? Is it true that you and Detective Detweiler had an ongoing affair? Is that why she turned to drugs? Who’s the father of your baby? How long have you been pregnant?”
I didn’t say a word and I didn’t slow my pace. My footsteps were heavy with anger.
Gracie is very sensitive to my moods. She would be curious as to who our guest was and why I was upset. I could hear her rustling in the playpen, but I couldn’t see her because shelving blocked the way. I rounded the corner fast, coming right at my dog. The reporter tailgated me, her body nearly touching mine.
I skidded to a stop.
The reporter slammed into me. Pushing her to one side, I grabbed the door of the dog pen, swung it open and yelled, “Sic her, Gracie!”
Of course, my sweet pup didn’t have the foggiest idea what “sic her!” meant. But the reporter did. She took one look at Gracie and went screaming out of the building.
“Nice job, girlfriend.” I handed the big dog a yummy. For the rest of the hour, I let Gracie have the run of the store.
Margit arrived at nine, carrying the crockery half of a slow cooker and inserting it into the matching base she’d bought for the store. The smell wafting from her cookware set my mouth to watering.
“Sauerkraut and sausage. My husband’s favorite. For the croppers tonight.” She twisted the dial on the slow cooker. “Why are you dressed up?”
I explained about Brenda Detweiler’s funeral at one o’clock over in Illinois. “Clancy will be in before you leave at noon. I’ll take off when she arrives, but I’ll be back to help with the crop.”
“How is Dodie? Have you heard anything?” Behind her cat’s eye glasses, Margit’s eyes swam like twin green-gray goldfish.
“I don’t know.”
“I will stop by the Goldfaders’ house after I visit my mother at Oak Haven.” Margit and Dodie were long-time friends, whereas I’d only been to Dodie and Horace’s home a couple of times.
Margit adjusted the temperature on the slow cooker. “I suppose I could call Horace, but perhaps it would be better to talk face to face. Ack, when you have an unpleasant task, best to do it in person and quickly, ja? This is why you will go to that woman’s funeral. Despite the trouble she caused. But I think you should leave before Clancy comes. You do not want to walk in late.”
I wasn’t so sure I should walk in at all. My presence was bound to be an unpleasant reminder for the Kloss family that Chad Detweiler had moved on with his life. But I’d already turned down one of Schnabel’s requests, so I couldn’t very well ignore a second.
Besides, I was eager to see Detweiler, even if our meeting wouldn’t allow us any alone time. Surely the attorney would accompany the cop to the service, both to shield him from unwarranted questions and to remind the District Attorney and the media that he, John Henry Schnabel, was on the case.
Once I’d climbed into my car, I used a stray rubber band in my map pocket to twist my hair into a makeshift ponytail. I also put on a pair of sunglasses. Not much of a disguise, but perhaps it would help.
Nosing the front end of the Beemer into the busy street, I glanced at my side mirrors. A local TV van pulled into the traffic behind me.
Drat, drat, and double drat!
margit’s sautéed sauerkraut
with sausage and apples
1 tablespoon butter
Smoked sausage cut into bite-size pieces
1 medium onion coarsely chopped
Large can of sauerkraut (drain and lightly squeeze to get most of the liquid out)
1 small/medium apple sliced into wedges (Margit likes to leave on the skin)
½ to 1 tablespoon sugar (to taste)
¼ cup white wine
½ cup water
Melt butter.
Add sausage and sauté on medium heat till it starts to brown and the center is no longer pink.
Remove excess fat from pan (so you’re back to the amount you started with when you melted the butter).
Add onions and sauté a few minutes until onion is soft.
Add sauerkraut and sauté a few minutes longer.
Add apple, sugar, wine, and water. Simmer for 15 minutes till apple is tender. If needed, add more water.
Stir occasionally, don’t let it burn.
Serve with mashed potatoes.
Note: Instead of serving with mashed potatoes, you can add small red potatoes cut in wedges to the recipe at the same time you add the sauerkraut and apple. You can also omit the sausage and serve the sauerkraut and apples as a side dish with p
ork roast.
fifty-eight
The Penney and Queen Funeral Home didn’t look like any funeral parlor I’d ever seen. In my admittedly limited experience, funeral directors repurpose beautiful, large homes—houses too large and unwieldy for your typical family—and convert them into funeral parlors. But out here, in the middle of a vast cornfield, Penney and Queen had remodeled a Quonset hut. I don’t care how much tacky Victorian trim you glue to a Quonset hut, it’s still a Quonset hut. That’s all there is to it. Since I love crafts, you’d think I’d cut them more slack, but I couldn’t.
Despite the low-rent locale, mourners arrived en masse. The entrance to the parking lot was a huge traffic jam. Sort of like one of those celebrity funerals in LA with one big difference… instead of fancy sports cars, I drove in behind a fleet of pickup trucks. The TV van had disappeared after we crossed the state line.
A man in a poorly fitting black suit waved me into a pretend parking space in the vacant lot across the street from Penney and Queen. Sparse clumps of grass dotted the damp earth. Every step of my way through the clumps, my heels sank into the dirt. Two rows from my car, the dirt had been churned into mud that sucked the shoes right off of me. Twice I moved forward to discover I was not only clueless but shoeless. Once I slipped and saved myself by grabbing at a bumper with an NRA sticker attached. By the time I got to the curb, mud covered me up to the knees. It looked like I was wearing thick brown anklets. Before crossing the street, I leaned against a tree, pulled a tissue out of my purse and did my best to clean myself up.
The big chunks came off easily. The small stuff I scrapped free with my fingernails. Mostly. Staring down at my legs, I saw what looked like a self-tanning experiment gone horribly wrong. My skin was tinted a greenish brown, and I stunk. But there was nothing I could do about it.
I joined the crowd standing in front of the unopened front door. The other people gave me a wide berth. Maybe they noticed my legs and the smell and figured I had contracted some sort of contagious disease.
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