“She mentioned she loved your class,” Gwen said. “I’d like to come take one myself.”
I reached into my purse and offered Gwen a “One Free Crop” coupon that I devised just for situations like this.
“A few of us are planning a memorial service for her on Sunday,” Gwen tucked my coupon into her purse. “You might want to come. She has—had—a lovely daughter, Michelle. She’ll drive over from the University of Illinois in Champaign.”
“So you’re pretty sure Cindy is dead?”
Gwen’s shoulders drooped. “I’m friends with the dental hygienist at Cindy’s dentist’s office. The police called and asked them to pull her records. The blood in the car was definitely a match. The cut on the leg was done with a buzz saw, the kind builders use.”
Mitch added, “Somebody found Cindy’s cell phone in that grass that runs along the Lambert Airport’s long-term parking lot. A pal in the police department told me they have an incoming nine-one-one call that corresponds with her disappearance.”
“Mitch! You didn’t tell me that! What did it say?”
“A woman said, ‘My husband is going to kill me. He says he’s going to cut me into a thousand little pieces.’”
I excused myself and slipped out of the ballroom. I phoned Detweiler first, and then Hadcho. I left messages for both of them outlining what I learned. When I got back to my seat, the live auction was over.
“Anya, go on to the car, please. Here are the keys. I’ll be there in a minute. Go ahead and start it up, honey.” I pushed my daughter forward as I pulled Sheila back into an alcove between the restrooms. “Why didn’t you tell me Ross Gambrowski abused his wife?”
“I tried to. You didn’t listen.”
Friday, December 18
2nd Day Of Hanukkah
After tossing and turning all night, I finally gave up on sleep. After I drank my instant coffee, I took care of Monroe. The cold weather suited him just fine. Certainly his “rug” looked warmer than the nasty jacket I was wearing. He frolicked around in his pen, kicking up his heels and braying. Picking up on the mood of general frivolity, the dogs ran around and around in circles inside my fenced-in yard.
I cleaned the kitchen and then brought them inside and unwrapped Gracie’s tail. It was definitely worse. Yellow pus crusted around the stitches. After soaking a soft cloth with warm water, wringing it out, and dabbing carefully, I managed to clean the area. All the while, my poor dog cast me doleful glances. The tail was hurting her, I could tell. I called the vet’s office and left a message on their machine.
Anya rode to school with Izzy in her lap and Jasper at her feet. She used her arm as a gate to keep Fluffy from piling into the front with us. Petunia sat on the back seat, casting amorous glances at poor Gracie. Short and dark with bulbous eyes, he definitely wasn’t her type. Nope, my dog loved long, lean, and human. She had only one name on her dance card: Detweiler.
All the fairy lights were out at the store. I settled the dogs and messed around with the breakers. Once everything came on, I blinked in astonishment. Clancy and Laurel had outdone themselves by stocking shelves, dusting, emptying the trash cans, and even making new displays and signs. By the front register was a handwritten note. I recognized Clancy’s careful script.
“(1) Called the detective. (2) Ordered the Cricut cartridges from that online place. (Paid extra for overnight shipping. They should arrive here tomorrow. I also ordered a few using a different online address, and those will come to my house.) (3) I will bring you lunch at noon! Try not to fret! Hope you had a good evening.
C—”
Laurel left a note, too. Her script was rounded with smiley faces for dots. “Tallied the votes for the pages in the contest. They’re in this envelope. That way we won’t have so many to count next Monday when it ends. Laurel.”
The back door slammed so loudly I heard it from the front counter. Bama stomped in.
“Have a good day off ?” I asked.
She grunted.
Ducky. Just ducky.
Before she could hide in the office, I stopped her with, “They’ve planned a memorial service for Cindy Gambrowski. It’s Sunday, before we open.”
“They’re that sure she’s dead?”
“I guess.”
The rest of the morning moved at a fast clip. At noon, Clancy appeared with a Wendy’s bag for me. “Eat. Keep up your strength. By the way, Laurel and I worked on that shawl for Dodie. If the three of us keep at it, it’ll be done by tomorrow. Nice pattern. Easy, but pretty. She’ll love it.”
I munched on the burger and shared the sad insight I gleaned from the auction.
“What sort of man hits a woman?” Clancy asked.
“A sick one,” said Bama. “A man who can’t control his anger, who learned his behavior at his mother’s knee, who has poor impulse control, who might be under stress, and who manages to convince a woman she has to submit. It’s a national epidemic with more than 10 percent of the population suffering at the hands of an abuser.”
“Many believe it’s a form of psychopathy,” said Clancy.
“Which means what?”
“That spells ‘sick’ in all caps,” said Bama.
“In other words, spousal abuse is a form of mental illness,” said Clancy. “But other theories suggest that it happens when a man is so fearful of abandonment that he’s threatened by any sign his partner might leave him. That beating is actually a sign of a man’s deep-seated and fearful needs.”
“Right. Like the deep-seated need to pound on someone,” Bama said. “Someone weaker.”
“No, it’s more complicated than that. These men fear being rejected. Many of them can’t conceive of life without their relationships, so they want to be sure the women can’t leave them.”
“By breaking their legs,” said Bama. “Or arms. Or noses. Or fingers.”
“By starting a cycle. He hits her, he apologizes, they experience a form of closeness and bonding that’s unusual and highly emotionally charged. She fantasizes it won’t happen again, he tells her it happened because of his love—”
“And then round two and round three and so on,” I supplied. I wanted to change the subject. This was intensely uncomfortable for me. The conversation stirred up old memories, times of my childhood and adolescence that I didn’t want to revisit.
But I didn’t need to change the subject because a new topic walked in the door. A willowy young woman with nervous eyes carried a beautifully wrapped package under her arm. After balancing it precariously on the edge of our counter, she said, “Is Kiki Lowenstein here?”
I rose from the stool behind the cash register. “That’s me.”
“I’m Michelle Gambrowski. Cindy is my mom.”
I noticed she used the present tense. I’d done that a lot in the months after George’s death. I didn’t see the family resemblance between this girl and Cindy, but then, if Cindy had all that surgery, perhaps I didn’t see a resemblance because it was no longer there. Although Michelle wore almost no makeup, she did have the same coloring. Like Cindy, the girl also seemed skittish and of course, her face had the blotchy spots you get from crying. She pushed back too-long bangs as her eyes darted around the store like finches flit about in a cage.
“Mom wanted you to have this.” Pushing the package toward me, she jammed her hands deep in the pockets of her down jacket. Underneath I caught a peep of a bulky sweater, a pair of loose fitting jeans, and hiking boots. Odd. Cindy always dressed in figure baring, skin-tight clothes.
I corrected myself. Actually Michelle’s mode of dress wasn’t odd. Cindy had dressed the way her husband, Ross, wanted her to. He wanted her body displayed for all the world to see. Michelle was clothed for comfort.
And to hide her body. That, too, seemed interesting to me. The girl’s posture caved in on itself, as though Michelle was trying to disappear entirely. Or at the very least, not be noticed.
“Nice to meet you,” I said extending my hand. “We all liked Cindy. We’re so s
orry for your loss.”
She ignored my gesture and just stared at the wrapped gift. Later, Clancy would say Michelle had a curiously flat affect. In other words, you could have sworn nobody was home.
Depression could do that. However, a voice inside told me, She’s purposely not reacting. This is more than holding back.
“Um, I guess you want me to open this now?” I glanced over at her hands. Their outline showed through the pockets of her coat because she jammed them in so hard. Her lips pressed together as though she was afraid she might speak.
Instead, she nodded.
Carefully and slowly, I peeled off the tape, untied the curling ribbons, and unfolded the paper. (That I intended to save. The pattern was an artful rendition of a book shelf filled with colorful, leather-bound tomes. My mind raced with ideas for copying and reusing the design.) Inside the package were three books. What a contrast these were to the heavy classics on the wrapping paper. I found an I Spy children’s book, a copy of Where’s Waldo Now? with a bookmark stuck in the page showing him and the Aztecs, and The Magic of M. C. Escher, a book about the famous artist’s optical illusions.
What on earth did these presents mean?
Michelle’s eyes didn’t move from my face. She was waiting, waiting, waiting, but for what?
“Gee, this is really kind of your mother. I love all of these. But I’m curious. Did she mention why she chose these for me?”
“I guess she thought you’d like them.”
A more important question buzzed around my brain. “When did she buy them?”
If my questions lacked a bit of finesse, no one seemed to care. After all, things really couldn’t get much more awkward, could they?
“A couple weeks ago. She always does her holiday shopping in advance. I, um, just remembered she wanted you to have them.”
“It’s very, very kind of her. Again, please accept our condolences. Of course, a group of us from the store will attend the memorial service.”
Michelle nodded.
Still, I felt exactly like you do when someone hands you a piece of the jigsaw puzzle and expects you to place it where it belongs. But I couldn’t. The books were a missing piece, probably a corner or a part of the border. But exactly where they fit, I couldn’t say.
Clancy strolled over and looked at the pile. “I assume there’s a message here? Or some reference to a conversation you once had?”
I flipped each book open to where there might be a signature or a personalization. In the front of the I Spy book, a tight handwriting said:
To Kiki,
Who knows where to look for secrets.
Cindy.
“I’m not sure I understand this.”
Michelle shrugged.
My shoulders fell, and a weight dampened my spirits. The joy of these presents deflated like a burst balloon because in my heart, I knew something was afoot. But what?
Come on, Kiki, I told myself. A woman’s life might be at stake.
“What’s that noise? Back in the back?” Michelle tilted her head toward the sound of the dogs barking. “Animals?”
“I dog sit.”
“I love animals.” Her face lit up.
“Would you like to come back and meet my friends? Can I get you a cola or hot tea?”
“I’ve got the floor covered,” said Clancy.
A surge of happiness filled me. Clancy and Laurel both displayed intuitive understanding of their roles in our business. Without asking, they moved to help me before I asked.
I seemed to be on their wavelength, too. When Dodie was here, she commanded from on-high. That was cool. She founded the store and still owned the majority of stock. When Bama was here, I constantly needed to watch my back and worry about what picayune (which we always pronounced “picky-you-nee”) problem she’d have with whatever I was doing.
But I meshed better with Clancy and Laurel. So far, all three of us worked together harmoniously. There was no attitude. No drama. I liked that. Liked it a lot.
Michelle shuffled after me toward the back. I squeezed my new books to my chest and wondered why and how they came to be mine. Did Cindy really know me so well? Anya and I spent hours pouring over the I Spy and Where’s Waldo books. After she fell asleep, I would carry the books into another room and continue our search. I found the process totally absorbing. Small victories can mean so much when you’re a stay-at-home mom.
Michelle crouched next to the doggy playpen, cooing and stroking my furry friends. “Wow.”
That was it for a while. Just, “Wow.”
I offered her a choice of beverages, then waited and sipped a Diet Dr Pepper while she loved up the pooches. “You must like animals.”
She gave me the first real smile of her visit. “I’m graduating from veterinary school in May. Mind if I have a look at the Great Dane’s tail?”
“No, in fact, I’ve got a call into the vet. I think it’s gotten worse.”
We walked Gracie out, and I held her head while Michelle carefully stripped away the wrappings. Her fingers moved nimbly, but Gracie tried twice to reach around and mouth the girl. That sore spot must have really been hurting my dog. Gracie is normally the most complacent creature on earth.
“If this doesn’t get cleared up, you might have to have it amputated.”
“What?”
Michelle nodded solemnly. “Actually, I’ve been doing amputations all this semester. Our school is involved in a special study about the efficacy of amputations on dogs with advanced cancer. Fascinating stuff. Of course, tail docking in certain animals is done without anesthesia, but I’d call that barbaric. In the case of a dog with an advanced infection in the tail, amputation can be life-saving, too. A lot less difficult and dangerous than amputating a limb, of course. It’s not that amputations are unsafe, but you need to plan carefully so you leave the right amount of bone and tissue behind.”
“Amputation?” I stuttered. “Her sore tail could get that bad?”
“Yes, the infection can travel. Unfortunately, ‘happy tail’ occurs frequently with large breeds. There’s so much power in that swing that amputation—”
“You can’t amputate Gracie’s tail!” From behind us came the deep voice of Detective Chad Detweiler. “You can’t do that to my girl.” He knelt down beside a joyous, slobbering Dane.
Gracie perked right up.
So did I.
“The stitches are inflamed. She’s had an antibiotics shot, I take it? You might try warm compresses, but she needs to quit banging her tail around. Unfortunately, that’s like telling her not to smile. It’s her nature. There are waggers and non-waggers. I’ve had dogs wag at me even as they take their dying breaths. So even though this must hurt her a lot, she can’t stop,” Michelle stood and stared down at the sore and angry area. “Too bad no one makes an Elizabethan collar for tails.”
“You mean one of those plastic bell-shaped things that keep them from chewing on themselves?” I put my arms around Gracie’s neck. She responded by licking Detweiler. I still adored her, even if she didn’t love me best.
“That’s right. I’ve heard of people using plastic piping and duct tape to create an ersatz cocoon around the area. That might work. First you’d need to shave off all the nearby hair.”
“I have a couple of disposable razors in my car. I keep them for when I need to appear in court.” Detweiler rubbed his chin as he spoke.
Michelle nodded. “I could shave around the stitches so the bare area extends farther. That way if you can figure out some sort of a cushion or a protective device, you can tape it to her skin.”
I took them up on their offers. Anything, anything at all to help Gracie.
Detweiler paused on his way out the door. “Mind if I get my dad? He’s in the car. He’s good with projects.”
A few minutes later, Louis Detweiler extended a rough hand to shake mine. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes took in everything about me; there was a compassion in his expression that nearly brought tears to mine.<
br />
“Tell me about this animal, son.”
I remembered then that Mr. Detweiler hadn’t wanted his son to have a dog. Even so, the older man’s voice implied that he was genuinely interested in my pooch, even if he didn’t pat her or love her up. Detweiler introduced his dad to Michelle. The two put their heads together and discussed various options. Mr. Detweiler asked for a piece of paper and a pencil so he could sketch an apparatus. “Of course, needs to be lightweight. Waterproof ?” he asked the younger woman.
She concurred. “That’s exactly what might work. The problem is where do you get some sort of casing?”
“Ee-yeah,” said Mr. Detweiler. “I have a few ideas.”
Detweiler the Younger helped me hold Gracie’s head as Michelle applied a soapy mixture to the skin and shaved off more fur. Our hands touched several times and the electricity was intense, causing me to lose my balance as I squatted on my heels. At one point, Detweiler sort of twisted so he could see the vet student’s work. As he did, his jacket fell open. Michelle’s face froze as she noticed the gun.
“Y-y-you’re a cop!”
Detweiler nodded, but before he could introduce himself, Michelle Gambrowski raced out of our stockroom.
“Ee-yeah,” said Mr. Detweiler stroking his chin like his son often does. “That young lady knows a passel about what happened to her mother. I expect you know that though, right?”
Detweiler nodded. “But she’s not talking. Her father has her lawyered up. He’s tighter than a clam, too.”
Before I told him what I learned at the auction, I offered Mr. Detweiler Senior a chair. “I’m fine,” he said as he leaned against the wall, opposite of his son. The two of them were nearly mirror images, a younger and older version of one man. You could see that Detweiler the Younger would age well. In fact, if anything, he would be one of the lucky few who actually grew better looking with time.
I recited what I’d learned about Ross Gambrowski beating his wife. Mr. Detweiler glanced from me to his son and back and then stared at his feet. “Hard to credit. How can a man call himself a man when he hurts a woman? Son, you know, sometimes I wonder about this job. You sure do see the worst of what humanity has to offer.”
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