Make, Take, Murder

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  My daughter accompanied me to check on Monroe. She giggled with delight as he ate pieces of apple from her palm.

  After adding water to the tree, I unwrapped Gracie’s tail and gently cleaned the area. The skin around the stitches seemed even more puffy and angry to me. After Anya put on her jammies, we snuggled on her bed with the dogs. Izzy yawned from his perch on my daughter’s shoulder, looking more like an exotic bird than a canine companion. Fluffy and Jasper curled up on the floor, while Petunia spooned against Gracie. Anya had borrowed a Madeleine L’Engle book from her school library, and I had a book Clancy had suggested I read on charting your own destiny. Suddenly my child set down her book and gave me a hug. “I miss Daddy, don’t you?”

  I nodded. “Especially when I think about Hanukkah starting tomorrow. Gives me a lump in my throat.”

  “Me, too. Not only do I miss him, but I liked it better when you didn’t worry so much about money.”

  “Who says I worry about money?”

  “Mom! I’m not a baby. I can see it in your face. You tense up.”

  “I’m not going to lie to you. Things are tight, but we’ll get by. The store is doing well.”

  Anya smiled. “You’re a survivor, Mom. I’m down with that.”

  “Huh?”

  “I mean I appreciate that you’re a survivor. I love you for it. I just wish you didn’t always have to work so hard.”

  Moving Izzy aside, I hugged my daughter close. “I wish I didn’t either, honey. How about if we plan something special for the weekend?”

  “Our schedule’s already pretty busy. Tomorrow’s the auction at my old grade school. Friday night’s the school dance. Don’t forget, you said I could spend the night at Nicci’s house.”

  “Okay, how about Sunday? Do you want to visit Santa’s Magic Kingdom? Oh, and Ben wants to take us for dinner on The Hill on Tuesday.”

  “He wants me to come, too?”

  “Yes, and he’s planning to feed us both Italian.”

  “Yum, yum. Doesn’t he have any idea how much spaghetti I can eat?”

  “I hope not.”

  The two of us fell asleep on her bed with visions of pasta dancing in our heads.

  Thursday, December 17

  First Day of Hanukkah

  My daughter’s boots arrived at the store early the next afternoon. I quickly wrapped them and locked them in the trunk of my car. Clancy helped me with my crocheting in between waiting on customers. A steady stream walked in and out with large bags of merchandise. Our page kits quickly disappeared, and I settled in to make more. Double-page spread kits are one of our best startsellers, so we normally stock two albums worth of designs. While I gathered more supplies, I decided to do a quick check on the Cricut cartridges.

  “Crud!” I rocked back on my heels. “Another three are missing.”

  “You checked them against the POS?” Clancy asked.

  POS was a Point Of Sale inventory system that could give us a running total of almost any item in the store. I showed her how to pull up the POS. Sure enough, we lost three cartridges and a set of Cricut tools.

  I stomped my foot and snarled. “How can someone do that to us? That’s like stealing money right out of my purse.”

  Clancy turned about face, marched into the backroom, and handed me a Diet Dr Pepper. “You need this.”

  She was right.

  I did.

  Laurel tottered in on mile-high boots. She wore a fake leopard jacket and a pair of sleek black pants. I bet she came directly from auditioning for America’s Top Model. Whatever. I could still be thrilled to see her, and she was such a sweetheart I couldn’t hate her for being gorgeous.

  “All we can do is keep a closer eye on customers,” I said.

  “That and concentrate on activities that make a lot of profit for you.”

  “Page kits,” I said. “Especially those that use up some of our less popular paper.”

  Two husbands showed up to buy gifts for their wives. I think they rode over together as a “buck up” buddy precaution before entering an all-female zone. They made a lot of guffawing and sports references, but when the two got a gander at Laurel, the testosterone really started to ooze along the floorboards. I saw a way to work this to our advantage. I excused myself and went over to where Laurel was cutting paper. “Wait on them, will you? I’ll take over the page kits”

  She did.

  Boy, oh boy, did she ever.

  She sold $525 to one guy and nearly $700 to the other, and they loved every second of her attention. Both men staggered out under their purchases. Clancy whistled through her teeth. “Gotta love the weaker sex. They had no idea how to resist Miss December, did they? By the way, did you check her for staples across her midriff ?”

  “Meow.” I shook a finger at Clancy.

  She laughed. “Just call me Catwoman.”

  With Laurel knocking them out of the park and Clancy re-stocking, ringing stuff up, and doing displays, I knuckled under and finished the auction items for St. Louis Day School, Anya’s old preschool. I prepped a “Scrapbooker’s Dream Supply” donation, filling a canvas tote with punches, stickers, chipboard letters, and slabs of paper. Next, I completed the last pages in a customized 8” by 8” album with the school’s logo on the front. Finally, I framed a one-of-a-kind layout that could be modified to feature any St. Louis Day School child.

  I was typing up the descriptions when Clancy called me over to the computer terminal at the front of the store. “You need to see this.”

  My jaw dropped. Mommy’s Memories to Go was the name of an online store with a mailing address less than five miles away. Under the heading “New—Just In!” were photos of all the Cricut cartridges that had turned up missing during the past two weeks. No other cartridges were displayed but the specific ones we’d lost. The photos were blurry, the merchandise casually arranged, and the feel of the site was amateurish. We clicked on the site and discovered it had only been up a couple of weeks.

  “I googled ‘New Merchandise Online’ and ‘Cricut’ and pulled this up,” Clancy said.

  “Please call a couple of the other nearby stores and ask if they’ve lost cartridges, too,” I suggested.

  Needless to say, I was badly shaken by this discovery. If the clock didn’t say that the auction started in forty-five minutes, I would have moped around the store. Instead, I fished around in my wallet and handed a card to Clancy. “Here’s the number of the Richmond Heights Police Department,” I said. “Detective Stan Hadcho has been here a couple of times for that Cindy Gambrowski investigation. Call him, please.”

  Clancy nodded.

  “You need a night off.” Laurel put a hand on my shoulder. “Try not to let it bug you. You’ll get to the bottom of this, and we’re here now to help. We’ll make a special point of greeting every customer. Once they know you’ve noticed them, it’s harder for them to steal.”

  “Let’s start asking customers to put any large carry-alls behind the counter,” suggested Clancy. “That might help. Our thief must have carted these out in a purse or a bag.”

  I nodded.

  “I’ll also check into getting a closed-circuit TV installed. Don’t tell me you don’t have the money. Let’s see what they cost first. Hey, how about I take care of the dogs for you tonight? Show me what needs to be done to Gracie’s tail.”

  After I explained the procedure of checking her wraps, Clancy also offered to drop the dogs off at the house for me. “Isn’t tonight the first night of Hanukkah?”

  “I’m going to Sheila’s to light the candles. Then there’s the auction at Anya’s old preschool. Anya and I will exchange gifts when we get home. We have our big celebration on the last night.”

  I didn’t add that since George died, Sheila, Anya, and I worked hard to avoid the first night. His loss brought such pain that it was difficult to properly celebrate a day that involved such special traditions. I suppose we were all running away from reality. We couldn’t bring George back. We couldn’t imag
ine the first night without him. So we indulged in a sort of fantasy by omission. If the first night didn’t happen, we didn’t have to come to grips with our loss, did we?

  “You can’t go to an auction at St. Louis Day School dressed so casually,” said Clancy. There wasn’t a smidgeon of meanness in her voice. Protectiveness, yes; snarkiness, no.

  Laurel loaned me a recently dry-cleaned white blouse from her car so I wouldn’t have to run home and change. (Wonder of wonders, it fit. Could I possibly be that chesty? I guess so.) Clancy handed over her black cashmere cardigan, which went well with my black slacks and turned the simple shirt and pants into an outfit. After a long survey of my appearance, Clancy retrieved a red and black print silk scarf from her coat pocket and tied it around my neck. The effect surprised me. I looked polished and professional.

  A few minutes later, I was looking fine as I pulled out of the parking lot with the auction items on the passenger seat.

  What would I do without my friends?

  I hit Sheila’s at a run. The sun was sinking quickly, and since her house was west of the store, the colorful sky reminded me I needed to hurry.

  We gathered around the menorah. Anya took the shamas candle and recited the time-honored prayer: “Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel hanuka.”

  In translation, my daughter said, “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.”

  Sheila handed over a big package to my kid. “Open it fast, we have to go.”

  Count on Sheila to make every moment a Kodak moment.

  Anya ripped into the paper and found an Uggs box.

  I gnashed my teeth. Why hadn’t Sheila talked to me first? Hadn’t we agreed long ago to consult each other on major gifts?

  “Mom, isn’t this great? Just in time for the dance!”

  I wouldn’t ruin this for her. It wasn’t her fault her grandmother regularly overstepped her bounds. “Thank your grandmother, honey. What a thoughtful gift.”

  That was a stretch.

  “My gift for you is at home,” I told Anya. “We need to get going.” Back at the house, I would give her another gift from my Hanukkah shopping list. Fortunately, I bought her a nifty purse at a crafts fair two months ago. I knew she’d love it. I dreaded sending her boots back to Zappos, but I comforted myself that they had a great return policy. And Sheila’s gift had eased my holiday budget woes.

  I struggled not to give in to sadness as I drove to the hotel. Anya was coming with Sheila, who still needed to change. That was fine. Sheila’s Mercedes had heated seats so my kid would enjoy a warm tushie on the way over. Meanwhile, I was freezing because I didn’t dare put my cat pee coat on over my friends’ borrowed finery.

  How I missed George! Especially on this, the first night of the Festival of Lights! I sat in the cold car and shivered, trying to get on my game face. I even applied lipstick. I was willing to do about anything to man up for the event, even if manning up meant going girly. When I couldn’t take the cold in my car any longer, I wiped my nose and gave myself a good mental slap. I stepped out with my items in tow and joined the stream of the happy couples chatting their way into the Marriott ballroom.

  I walked quickly past the area where people handed over their credit cards to get a bidding number. George had loved events like this nearly as much as I hated them. He was as social as I was introverted. How he enjoyed perusing the auction offerings! Especially if the item was a special opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime event. He would win the bidding, then surprise Anya and me with something fabulous. One time he bought seats in the dugout of old Busch stadium for batting practice. It was so much fun. Anya and a group of friends still talked about that outing. Another time, we had box seats for Phantom of the Opera, plus a special after-the-play meeting with the cast members.

  I blinked and wiped a tear from my eye. At least I had happy memories to console me.

  Sheila walked in with Anya about the time I finished displaying the Time in a Bottle items. My mother-in-law wore a beautiful periwinkle blue dress with a pair of silver strappy shoes. A cashmere shawl was thrown carelessly over her shoulders and fastened with a large broach of opals. Everyone overdressed for this occasion. One woman even sported a sequin-covered cocktail dress and dangling diamond earrings! These were definitely people with too much money, too much time on their hands, and not enough places to go. I was doubly glad that my friends bailed me out on the wardrobe department. In fact, Sheila sidled up to me and said, “You are underdressed, but you look better than usual.”

  I think she meant her remark as a compliment.

  Anya and I took seats at a table while Sheila wandered around placing bids.

  “Don’t you want to look, Mom?”

  I shook my head. “I have everything a person could want.”

  “Except a signed Mary Engelbreit print.”

  I gawped. “A signed print? By Mary Engelbreit? Oh, my gosh. She’s a goddess!”

  My kid pulled me to my feet, and we searched the bountiful tables crammed with all sorts of trinkets, until my eyes spied a framed poster in the signature bright color of St. Louis’s own favorite and most famous artist. I stood and stared at her whimsical work. The title block said, “Queen of Everything.” It had been a long, long time since I felt like a queen of anything. A quick glance at the sheet told me the silent bids already reached stratospheric heights. I shook my head. No way could I participate.

  “Wouldn’t that look great over your bed?”

  “It sure would, Anya, but I think I’d put it over our kitchen table. If I am Queen of Everything, you are second in line for the throne.”

  We laughed and returned to our seats. Sheila bounced up and down the whole night, checking on this and that.

  By the time dinner arrived, the seats next to us were filled. I introduced myself to our tablemates. Every fifteen minutes, a bid station closed. My work fetched a pretty penny, and maybe more importantly, I was asked to stand and have my efforts acknowledged. I hoped that would translate into more business for Time in a Bottle.

  “You work at that store where Cindy Gambrowski’s leg—” began the woman on my left.

  “Yes,” I interrupted her. “We’re all very worried about her. She’s in our prayers.”

  She introduced herself as Gwen Bordeau. “I know, sounds like a bad joke, doesn’t it? This is my husband, Mitch.”

  He shook my hand and said, “It’s a little late for worrying about Cindy. Everyone knows what happened.”

  “Excuse me?” I set down my fork.

  Gwen leaned over and cupped her hand over my ear. “Ross beat that poor woman like a boxer uses a punching bag. He got by with it, too, because of all his doctor and lawyer friends. They belonged to the same country club, see? He built them mansions at special prices, and in return, they kept their mouths shut about poor Cindy. The docs treated her. The lawyers shut her out so she couldn’t seek legal help. Everyone protected Ross and turned their back on the woman. Over the years, he got smarter and smarter about how to beat her so the damage wouldn’t show.”

  I thought I was going to lose my meal. Saliva flooded my mouth. I’d heard about wife-beating spouses, but I never thought this included the privileged upper class. It never occurred to me that women sporting expensive jewelry and furs lived in fear.

  “Cindy always seemed so …”

  “Normal?” Mitch laughed. “For an abused wife? What choices did she have?”

  “Hon, keep it down,” warned Gwen. “Mitch used to golf with Ross. After Ross bragged about pummeling Cindy, Mitch walked off the course. Refused to take his calls.”

  “I always knew he had a bad temper.” He shook his head. “If Ross picks a fight with me, at least he’s squaring up with someone his own size. Look, there was nothing normal or healthy about their relationship. She got regular plastic surgery to keep up with Ross’s whims
. She was his personal improvement project. He beat her if she gained weight. Then it was her bust. And her nose, because he’d rearranged it. After their daughter, he wanted her to have a tummy tuck. God knows what else he had done to that poor woman. Makes me sick to think about it.”

  Gwen shielded her mouth with a hand so she could talk to me. “Everyone knew what was happening because Ross is such a braggart. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. You can look at photos of Cindy over the years and see the changes. Most of them were pretty obvious. She didn’t have any friends. Ross wouldn’t let her make them. To him, she was an object, a prize, a thing.”

  “He let her serve on charity boards, though. That was good for his image.” Her husband tore off a piece of his roll and buttered it.

  “But she had to tell him when and where and with whom, and she checked in frequently.”

  I recalled Ciindy watching the clock during our scrapbooking class. Last in, first out, she grew increasingly nervous if we ran a little behind.

  Detweiler, I said to myself. I have to get word to Detweiler.

  “How could I have missed this?” I wondered out loud. “She took a class at our store.”

  “You missed it because Cindy was too darn scared to let on,” said Mitch, “and because Ross paid people to keep it under wraps. When you have that kind of money, you can make a lot of problems disappear. Ross sure did. Once I stood next to him at the country club, and he reached over and grabbed his wife’s—”

  “Mitch,” his wife warned him.

  Mitch lowered his voice. “Ross grabbed Cindy’s private parts and announced to everyone, ‘This is mine. Bought and paid for.’”

  I pushed away my dinner, which was a crying shame because I hadn’t had a nice meal like that in ages. The raw prime rib didn’t seem very appetizing all of a sudden.