Someone I trusted and liked was stealing from us. It couldn’t get much worse, could it?
Of course it could.
I turned the front door sign to OPEN and readied the cash register.
Mert brought in the dog food, an instruction sheet, leashes, beds, and bowls. She dialed Laurel and passed her cell phone to Bama so the two could work out a time for an informal interview. I started waiting on customers. By the time I had the chance to come up for air, Mert had already left. I hadn’t gotten to say goodbye. I plunged right into restocking our hanging displays, moving back and forth among the racks quickly. Over the soothing sounds of “Snowfall” from The Christmas Album by The Manhattan Transfer, the store phone started ringing. Almost instantly, Bama and my cell phones rang in unison.
“What the …?” Bama and I could only stare at each other.
My phone displayed a text message from Sheila. “News about your leg,” it said.
“Huh?” I wondered more to myself than to anyone but Izzy. I was carrying him tucked inside my zip-front hoodie. I don’t know who was enjoying this cartage more, Iz or me.
“There’s a news bulletin on the TV,” said Bama as she closed her cell and sprinted toward the office.
A reporter stood in front of a late model Lexus convertible. Yellow crime scene tape encircled the car, and a phalanx of folks wearing Crime Scene jumpers were swarming the vehicle. The newscaster said, “Police tell us that this was most certainly the scene of a crime, and probably a fatal one at that.”
“How can they tell?” asked the unseen anchor. A news ticker bar ran across the bottom of the screen announcing, “Blood-soaked vehicle found at Lambert Airport in long-term parking.”
“Given the amount of blood in the car, no one could have lived through the assault,” said the reporter.
“The police are sure it belongs to the missing woman?” The anchor prodded as the screen flashed the car’s interior. The leather seats had been blackened with what was obviously blood.
“Yes. This 2009 Lexus is registered to Cindy Gambrowski of #20 Ladue Forest Drive.”
I’m not sure what Bama was thinking, but I fought the urge to upchuck. I’m real squeamish about blood. I’d love to donate mine to the Red Cross, but I’ve heard fainters need not apply.
“The missing woman’s husband is Ross Gambrowski, the builder,” the reporter continued.
Bama moaned.
“He says he hasn’t seen his wife for four days.” A screen shot showed a publicity photo with the name “Ross Gambrowski” underneath. “Mr. Gambrowski told the police that he thought he and his wife had simply missed each other in passing. Seems they both have busy schedules. A spokesman says Mr. Gambrowski had no reason to suspect foul play. But that’s not the only reason the police have their suspicions.”
The anchor’s voice interjected, “There was a body part found at a local scrapbook store, right?”
Bama covered her eyes.
“Right. The store’s name is Time in a Bottle. That’s over on Brentwood, south of the Galleria. The body part turned up in their trash Dumpster. The police have impounded the bin, and all they’ll say is that their investigation is ongoing.”
“But you think that body part might belong to our missing woman?” prodded the off-screen anchor.
“That’s right. An anonymous tip to our newsroom suggested the severed leg found in the Dumpster behind this scrapbook store”—and a shot of Time in the Bottle appeared—“belonged to Cindy Gambrowski.”
Cindy’s smiling face filled the screen.
The anchor’s face concluded, “If anyone has any knowledge of Mrs. Cindy Gambrowski’s whereabouts, they are encouraged to call this phone number.”
That was all I could take. I reached over and turned off the set.
Funny how fast the grapevine transfers “knowledge.” Our phones rang non-stop, our cell phones jingled, and car doors slammed in the parking lot.
This time the media burst through our front door.
“Out! Out! This is a place of business! It’s private property!” I shooed them past the merchandise and toward the door. Using my forearms as shields, I backed reporters and cameramen out of the store. “Bama?” I yelled. I flipped the sign to CLOSED and turned around.
Bama had disappeared.
The reporters started pounding on our front door.
Robbie Holmes pulled up, the bubble light and siren both going full-blast on his official car. He hopped out and waved his arms. “People?”
The media turned as if it were a Hydra, whose many heads just caught sight of a ship full of sailors. “Police Chief Holmes!” they screamed.
“People, this is private property, and you are hindering an investigation.” His voice rose over the din. “I will answer two questions if you promise to vamoose.”
“Is Cindy Gambrowski officially dead?” yelled a woman in the back.
“Folks, you know how this works. We still need to search for the woman or her remains. At this point, Mrs. Gambrowski is a missing person.” His tone conciliatory and his big hands open, Robbie Holmes spoke with the ease of a man who has nothing to hide. His years on the force and his personal demeanor underscored every word with an easy authority. From my spot by the front door, I watched the crowd’s collective shoulders relax in response to his words.
“But you might have found a portion of her leg!” shouted a man in the back. “And all that blood was in the car!”
That animal, the crowd, raised hackles again. A slight surge of body weight brought them a skosh closer to Robbie. But his stance didn’t change. In fact, he busied both his hands in his pants pockets like a kid on a playground fishing around for a lost stick of gum. Then he rocked back on his heels and smiled. His face appeared totally guileless.
“Now you know as well as I do, we can’t say if that was her leg. Or her blood. Not yet at least. As for her disappearance, if after a sufficient length of time Mrs. Gambrowski is officially missing, her husband Mr. Ross Gambrowski can petition the court to have her declared dead,” Robbie stood head and shoulders over most of the crowd. His commanding posture quickly dampened their herd instinct. Instead of jostling about, they stood quietly, photographed him and listened.
“But doesn’t the amount of blood tell you something? No one could lose that much blood and still live!” This came from another man at the back of the crowd as he waved a big black microphone in the air.
“Ah, come on, people. We haven’t run any lab tests on what we found. Folks, we aren’t a fancy TV show like CSI. You all know that! We’re real professionals working with a limited number of labs and technicians. Besides, you all are jumping the gun, aren’t you? For all we know, that’s cow blood or pig blood some prankster splashed in that car,” he chuckled. His ease of manner was infectious. You could tell he faced down the press on numerous occasions. “Makes for mighty fine speculation, doesn’t it? But you don’t want to get yourself caught up reporting the wrong thing, do you? You all are having a field day pouncing on wrong conclusions. Heck, you’re professionals. You know things are usually more complicated than they seem.” Robbie Holmes flashed an “Aw, Shucks!” grin. That and the stunning dollop of common sense shut everyone up. But only for a hot New York minute.
“What about the messages? We heard there were messages from Mrs. Gambrowski suggesting someone named Kiki Lowenstein is involved!” I shivered in my Keds. Terrific. I was about to be dragged into this kicking and screaming.
Or skulking. I stepped away from my spot behind our locked front door. I decided I’d go hide in the backroom. But when I looked around the store, Bama was already gone. My plan—sketchy and hastily conceived—was to ask her to take my place up in the front of the store. Since her name hadn’t been mentioned in that dastardly message, she could easily defer all these pesky questions.
But Bama was MIA.
I found her huddled in a corner back in Dodie’s office. Her skin wore the sheen of perspiration and her teeth chattered. “Put yo
ur head between your knees,” I ordered her. Those years of Girl Scout training came in handy. “Do it, now!”
I grabbed a cola for her and shoved it under her face. “Drink.”
My cell phone rang. I recognized Robbie Holmes’ number and read his text message: “Let me in the front door.”
I left Bama long enough to go unlock the front door and allow Robbie entrance. As I did, I noticed that the media circus was folding its tents and heading home.
“Thanks,” said Robbie.
“No problem. Thank you. You did a masterful job of bearding the lion.”
“I promised them a press conference later.” He chuckled. “That’s the media for you. I once went on a fox hunt out in Virginia. You know they don’t kill foxes here in the States, don’t you? That wily animal always stayed two steps ahead of those hounds, running down gopher holes, hiding in trees, climbing over fences. Hounds can scent the fox, but their eyesight stinks. I saw that old red fox pitter-patter in front of those dogs easy as you please. There’s a lesson in that. Don’t run from them.” He jerked a thumb over his shoulder. “You just heard the baying hounds, Kiki. Problem is: They’ve caught the scent of a big story. I don’t need to tell you, this isn’t going away.”
From the back of the store came a scream and the sound of barking.
“Get out! Get out! If you don’t leave, I’m going to sic these dogs on you! They’re trained killers!” Bama yelled.
Fluffy cocked his head at her as if to say, “Who, me?”
As Bama shoved her shoulder against our back door, she hollered, “Out! I’ve got a gun! I’ll blast your heads off! I tell you I will!”
Robbie Holmes pushed me behind a shelf unit. “Is she armed?”
“No way,” I whispered, and I trotted up alongside her. “Bama? You okay?”
“He … they … he …” She shivered and shook. “A photographer knocked on the back door. I thought, I thought it might be that Fed Ex delivery we’re expecting. They called while you were up front. I opened the door. A flash went off. He took … he took … my picture!” and she broke down sobbing.
“Slow down. I can barely make out what you’re saying. It’s okay. Police Chief Holmes is here. Shhhh.” I grabbed her and pulled her toward me like I would my own daughter. Her shoulders trembled as her tears soaked my blouse. I didn’t know what was most shocking: (1) her reaction (2) her letting me comfort her or (3) her allowing us to see that under that Ice Queen exterior was a very frightened and emotional woman. Sobs shook her body. Bama grabbed my sleeve as if she never planned to let me go.
You never really know another person. Oh, you think you do, but all you see is the cold exterior serving as the ice-cutter, the reinforced nose of the ship designed to bully its way through the frigid water. Beneath the waterline, beyond the bulkheads, another world carries on, loving, living, surviving on a more intimate level. A swirling mass of emotions exists beneath our public exterior, a heaving jumble both unseen and unshared. But once the ship hits the ice floe, the battle for survival demands all hands on deck. With so much at stake, pretence is tossed aside. This shipwreck of a woman was the real Bama. We exchanged glances, fractional, lasting seconds only, but an unspoken truce passed between us.
So, I thought, that tough, cold exterior is just an act.
“Shhh,” I tried again, keeping my eyes locked on hers. “Calm down and talk to me. I need to know what happened.” I couldn’t imagine why she was so upset. After all, weren’t we in the business of taking and saving photos ourselves?
“He took my picture!” she wailed and pointed at the door, gesticulating over the yelps of the dogs. I could imagine what was on the other side. Photographers. Videographers. Reporters. But that wasn’t such a big deal. Not really.
“Well, see? You’re okay. That’s nothing.”
“They … they’re going to print my picture!” she cried out, pulling away from me. So much for comforting my business partner. My words only encouraged her to toss her head back and howl. She clenched her fists and shook them at the big police chief. “You tell them they can’t. Tell them it’s illegal. Stop them! You have to!”
“I’m not sure I can. You lose a lot of your rights to privacy when you own a business open to the public. And, sad to say, when a crime occurred on your property. Or at least when Kiki found the evidence. Your rights collided with the public’s right to know,” he touched a gruff paw to her shoulder lightly. “Now, it’s not such a big deal, is it? Having your picture taken? Maybe they won’t even use it.”
“What if they do?” she asked him.
“That’s great publicity for us,” I answered. “You represent the store well; you’re so stylish.”
“No! I can’t. I don’t want my picture in the news!”
“Why don’t you get her a cold drink, Kiki?” Robbie suggested. “I’ll take a cup of coffee if you have any.”
The refrigerator and coffee pot were on the other side of the stockroom. It took me a while to mix Robbie’s coffee the way he likes it with creamer and sweetener.
On my way back with the drinks, I paused long enough to check on the dogs. From my spot by their playpen, I could see into the office where Bama sat hunched over with a pinched, pained expression. Robbie squatted next to the desk and spoke in low tones. I caught a few words: “Careful … my number … check on you.” I thought I heard something on the order of “let Kiki know,” but to that Bama shook her head violently.
Whatever. I guess we hadn’t really connected. That moment of comfort I’d offered her must not have been the start of a beautiful friendship.
Robbie took his coffee with him as he headed back to the station. By the time Bama finished her cola, Her Frosty Majesty was back on the throne.
The rest of the evening moved along slowly. Most of our customers bought supplies that they intended to use while finishing up holiday cards or special gifts. This worried me. We hoped they would buy gifts for themselves. Or send in family members and friends with instructions to make purchases for them. All along the walls, we draped yards of gold-colored silken cord that Dodie had snapped up from a resale shop for pennies. (Normally we couldn’t have afforded such luxury. That stuff was more per yard than many fine fabrics!) From these “ropes,” we attached festive red and green striped paper cut-outs of stockings. In between these, we tied cinnamon sticks. The air was fragrant with the spicy aroma. Around the “fur-trimmed” top of the socks, customers printed their names. On the various stripes they printed product names on their “wish lists.”
Our idea was to make it easy for customers to shop for each other. Their significant others could also come in and see what they wanted.
But so far, we’d only seen a few of the desired products rung up at the checkout counter. This worried me. We put a lot of money into that inventory.
I concentrated on finishing a holiday e-mail blast while Bama sat in the back and balanced the credit card slips. My computer terminal sat to one side of the front counter. Perched on a stool, I could survey the store as I worked. When Bama came up to do a quick count of Cricut cartridges, I asked, “Did we lose any more?”
“Nope.” Bama’s eye makeup had smeared during her upset, so the woman in my sights looked a tiny bit wonky, like a speckled reflection in an old mirror.
I wasn’t in much better shape. My schnozzle was running like a garden hose. I tried to wipe my nose gently, but the skin was sore and tender. Plus, I was losing focus. After so much dripping and mopping, I gave up and took a cold medicine designed to dry me up. My throat ached and my head pounded. I probably needed to take a sick day but that was out of the question. At least maybe I could sleep in one morning. I asked Bama, “What did you work out with Laurel?”
“She’s coming in to sign paperwork. Maybe even tonight. She’s supposedly been scrapbooking for four years. Knows how to work a cash register. Really, we only need another set of eyes. And hands.”
Bama hesitated. “I need to take off early. We have that special Last
Minute Gift crop tomorrow night, and I need to finish my holiday shopping.”
I knew she was lying. She bragged to me earlier in the month about how organized she was, how all she needed to finish was getting gifts wrapped. I thought about calling her on it, but really, I figured she needed a graceful way to end a bad day. I must have waited too long to respond because she rushed in with, “Hanukkah’s only two days away, right?”
I nodded. “Go ahead and leave if you need to. Did you give Clancy a call?”
I could tell Bama was considering refusing my friend’s offer. We’d talked before about the problems associated with hiring good customers. Frankly, I didn’t think we had a choice. I added, “Clancy’s willing to work for free.”
“How come? Nobody does anything for free.”
“She likes to keep busy.” I didn’t divulge my friend’s family problems. They were none of Bama’s business.
Bama chewed her bottom lip. “Clancy would do a good job here in the store. She’s smart, professional, and she catches on quickly. Between her and Laurel, I think we could put an end to our shoplifting problems. But I don’t think we can let her work for free. That’s not right. It’s taking advantage of your friendship. I’m surprised you’d suggest it.”
“I’m not suggesting it. I just wanted you to know how willing she was. I’m thinking we should offer her store credit. She’s new to scrapbooking. That would give her a chance to buy more supplies.”
I guess my tone of voice betrayed my irritation. Bama agreed with the store credit idea on the spot. In fact, she seemed downright conciliatory. I decided to push my luck. “Any idea if we’re ahead of projections? Will there be a Christmas bonus?”
“I’m still working on the accounting. A few of the manufacturers offered discounts if we paid quickly, so that’s my priority.”
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