I tried to think about Detweiler’s day-in and day-out existence. The people he collared, trailed, and put away. Mr. Detweiler Senior managed—in a few short sentences—to bring my concerns to the fore. What if Detweiler and I got together in the future? What would it be like to have a partner who faced down danger daily? Who carried a gun?
Could I live with that?
Whoa, I told myself. You’re on a crazy crash course here. Stop this fantasizing about Detweiler. Stay in the moment!
I cleared my throat. “Um, I need to get back to work.” I showed him the books Cindy had given me and explained, “I planned to phone you. Here’s the place she signed this to me.”
“Any idea what she means?”
“No.”
“I assume you are planning to attend the memorial service.”
“Yes, I’ll be there. How can they have it now? I mean, doesn’t it take a while for someone to be declared dead if there isn’t a body?”
Detweiler’s father got a disgusted expression on his face, twisting his mouth as though he wanted to spit. “If you’re shamed into showing that you cared, you don’t wait. Or if you feel guilty ten ways to Sunday, and you’re trying to scrub the slate clean. There’s a reason they’re having the memorial so soon. Might be money, or shame, but it’s sure not because of respect or love. If that were your mama, Chad, I’d travel to the ends of the earth before I considered her dead and gone. I’d have to see it myself. You could put me in my grave before I’d give up hope. What a disgusting excuse for a helpmate. And his daughter? She looked just like a baby rabbit being teased to death by a durned cat. No girl should have to shoulder a burden like that. You could tell it was eating at her. Delivering her mama’s gifts? What an odd errand. Doesn’t make a bit of sense.”
_____
Detweiler the Elder was right. I couldn’t imagine what Michelle was going through, but I also couldn’t see myself or my daughter carrying on as she had. There’d be no way I could have walked into a store, handed over a gift, and not burst into tears.
Still … who was I to judge?
People thought poorly of me for taking the job here after George died. They didn’t realize I didn’t have a choice. Maybe Michelle didn’t have a choice. Maybe she was acting the way her mother would have wanted her to act. Or the way she’d been raised to act. Thanks to my volatile father, I’d learned early on to hide my emotions.
There was also another possibility. Perhaps Michelle believed her mother was better off. There were some—and I wished I could join them—whose faith was so strong that the afterlife enchanted them. They weren’t a bit scared. Oh, to be a person with such a belief! What would it be like to hold such a conviction that the next world appeared as clear and certain as this one?
I wished I could feel that way, but I didn’t. Not yet at least.
_____
However, that might be exactly how Michelle felt. Perhaps, given the horrific circumstances of her mother’s daily life, her daughter felt relief. That made sense to me. That I could accept.
All this raced through my mind.
I photocopied the inscription inside my book and wrote down the book titles for the detective. “As I said, if this is her version of The Da Vinci Code, I’m out of luck.”
“I better get this to the station,” said the detective.
“I imagine you all knew about the beatings?” I asked.
Detweiler the detective was too cagey for that. He didn’t answer me directly. “Even if he did beat his wife, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he killed her. We’re talking murder and dismemberment. Besides, he has an alibi for most of that weekend.”
“But wouldn’t a wife beater keep upping the ante? I mean, think about O.J. Simpson. When she took up with another man …”
“Suppose Mr. Gambrowski does—or did—beat his wife. Suppose he killed her. Why now? That’s what the defense would argue. They would say it doesn’t necessarily follow, particularly since he’s been doing this—allegedly—for years.”
“Does it matter if he’s the person who cut her up?” asked Detweiler the Elder, his tired eyes reflecting disgust. “Maybe he killed her, and he paid someone to get rid of the body. So what? He ought to be locked up forever just for beating her!”
“Dad, if he did this, and note carefully the operative word ‘if,’ we’re talking two levels of penalties. I mean, sure, a guy could get sent away for killing his wife, even if the body is missing. But once you factor in dismemberment, especially when she was alive—”
“She was alive? He cut her up while she was alive?” My voice hit a high note Beyoncé would envy.
“You must not have read this morning’s paper,” said Detweiler. “Someone leaked this to the press.” Rubbing his hand through his hair tiredly, he heaved a sigh. “Probably someone who wanted the world to know what a creep this guy is.”
“Cut off her leg while she was alive?” I teetered for a moment, before Detweiler shoved a chair under me.
“It would certainly meet the criteria of outrageously or wantonly vile,” said the detective.
I couldn’t form words. My mind struggled to grasp what Cindy endured those last moments of her life. I found it difficult to breathe.
Good old Detweiler. That’s what Anya calls him, and she’s right, because the man’s no dummy. He took a look at me, told me to put my head between my knees so I could count dust bunnies, and reached into the frig to pop the top on a Diet Dr Pepper for me. “Take a drink. I opened it so you don’t ruin your nails.”
“They’d gas him? Even without a body?”
“Since 1977, Missouri has administered lethal injections. For the forty years prior to that, the state sent criminals convicted of capital crimes to the gas chamber, which oddly enough was actually a chamber and two cells in Jefferson City.”
“But without a body?” Detweiler Senior repeated my question.
Detweiler took a long deep breath. “If there’s proof Mr. Gambrowski threatened to dismember her, or threatened to do away with her and hide the body, the odds would increase that he’d be convicted even if we don’t find Mrs. Gambrowski. The amount of blood in the car precludes anyone living through the attack.”
Laurel stuck her head in the door. “I hate to interrupt, but I have a question.”
This is exactly why Detweiler makes me swoon. As gorgeous as Laurel is, he didn’t even stop to stare. His eyes passed right over Miss December and stayed focused on me!
“I’ll be right there,” I said to her. I cleared my throat. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.”
Detweiler the Younger gave Gracie one final cuddle. “Stop wagging your tail. Please?” Of course, she didn’t. Detweiler turned to his father. In the younger man’s eyes was hope, the sort of pleading that a child offers up to a parent, infused with the belief that the parent, being the all-powerful creatures we are, could make everything all right. “Dad, think you can help her?”
“Ee-yeah. I expect so. I’ll give it a whirl at least.” Mr. Detweiler Senior gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze and stared at my dog thoughtfully. “I’ll stop back by tomorrow or Sunday at the latest with a gizmo to help your dog. Can she hold out that long?”
“I have a call in to my vet. Maybe a stronger antibiotic will help. But really, Mr. Detweiler, I know this is a busy time of year. Don’t put yourself—”
“Young lady, it’s no bother. Not for you. You’re my son’s friend.”
I held my breath, wondering if he knew what sort of friend I wanted to be to his married son. While I turned blue from lack of oxygen, Detweiler Senior continued, “And friends and family mean the world to us Detweilers. That’s the way we are.”
I didn’t dare look at Detweiler the Younger as his father spoke. I was too scared my face would show my emotions. Instead, I kept my eyes on his father, the man Chad Detweiler would someday become.
“Sir, that’s my philosophy, too. That’s why I love what I do here. Maybe on your next visit, I’ll have the c
hance to show you around.”
“I’d like that. Heard a lot about scrapbooking. Seems to me a mighty pleasant way to spend your time. By the way, young lady, folks quit calling me ‘sir’ when I left the military. I’m Louis to you, if you please.”
With that, both the Detweiler men stepped out of the back door and my life. As it happens when you’re all alone and the power suddenly goes out, the world seemed a little lot lonelier and darker.
Rita Romano, one of our long-time croppers, handed me a Cricut cartridge. “Is this yours? This doesn’t make any sense. Your inventory sticker is on it, but I bought it online. I would have gotten this from you, but you were out of this particular model.”
I stared at the cartridge with the sick realization that it had probably been shoplifted from our store.
Rita handed over all the transaction details from Mommy’s Memories to Go. I photocopied them, thanked her, and gave her a $25 Gift Certificate.
“Don’t, please! I should have asked you to order this for me. We all need to support our local small businesses, especially our local independent scrapbook retailers, so I feel a bit silly. In fact, I debated about whether to bring it in, but I used to work in retail, and I figured you needed to know about it. I’m not sure what it means, but it can’t be good news.”
I pressed the gift certificate on her. “You don’t realize how much money you’ve saved us.”
Rita wouldn’t take it. “Do you really think I could live with myself knowing I purchased stolen goods?”
Clancy shook her head. “I put a call into Detective Hadcho earlier.”
I nodded. The Richmond Heights P.D. is small, so I wasn’t surprised that he’d be handling a case of theft as well as checking up on our stray body part.
“I’ll try Hadcho again now. Clancy, can you start setting up for the crop?”
_____
Bama showed up at the same time Detective Hadcho did. He held the door open for her, but she didn’t bother to thank him. “What is it with you and cops?” she muttered darkly. “You have some kinky thing going on? You get off on the uniforms? Handcuffs? The guns? Or the violence?”
“We think we found our shoplifter.” I was not going to let her bait me into being nasty. Not today. On the spot, I decided to wait until after the holiday season and then confront her. I just wasn’t up for a confrontation, not now.
“Really?”
Detective Hadcho cocked his head. “Why don’t we go in the back? We can talk privately. I can take all this down.”
“Bama, can you get the supplies out for the crop? Laurel left five minutes ago. She carried all the boxes up to the front. I only need help setting things at the stations.”
She grunted at me. I took that for a yes.
Hadcho declined a cola, requested coffee, drank the murky instant with resignation, and whipped out a Steno pad. I handed over the cartridge, plus its paperwork, and pointed out our sticker.
“First of all, how does this gizmo work?”
I explained that the Cricut was a die-cutting machine. Each cartridge held a library of fonts and shapes. I handed over the information Clancy found as well as everything Rita Romano had given me.
“We’ve got someone who can trace the URL for the website. Should be able to shut this down quickly.”
“Good. I appreciate the help.”
He grunted. “That’s my job. By the way, thanks for keeping Detweiler in the loop with that stuff about Gambrowski. You get an idea about what that message in those books means, if it is a message, you let us know. You going to the memorial service?”
I nodded.
“You got plans for tonight?”
“I’m working here until eleven and then going home. My daughter’s at a dance, and then she’s spending the night with a friend.”
“A few of my friends are getting together over at Lumière Place. What do you think about going over there?”
I didn’t catch his drift.
He added, “With me.”
I picked my jaw up off the floor. Hadcho was asking me out to the newest, hippest casino in town! Wow. His steady dark chocolate eyes stared at me as he waited for my answer.
What could I say? I’m dating Ben Novak, but I’m madly in love with your married co-worker? I sometimes go out with my best friend Mert Chambers’ brother, who happens to be a convicted felon?
Hey, with a love life like mine, the producers at the Bachelorette should be knocking down my door.
“I know it’s last minute. Just a bunch of friends hanging out,” he repeated. “Tell you what. Why don’t I swing by the store and pick you up? Quarter after eleven? That way I can also keep an eye on you. You probably shouldn’t be wandering around in the parking lot here alone.”
It didn’t sound too daunting. ’Tis the season and all that. Wasn’t like he called ahead and asked me to get gussied up to go to a nice restaurant. His invitation was spontaneous. Last minute. I hesitated. He just wanted company. Didn’t want to walk in alone to a gathering of his friends. It wasn’t about me. Really, it wasn’t.
And why shouldn’t I say yes?
Anya was off at CALA’s holiday dance. A pang reminded me I hadn’t even gotten to see her all dressed up. Sheila had picked my daughter up after school, helped her get ready, and done taxi cab duty. More and more, my mother-in-law was my stand-in, my parenting partner. I couldn’t decide whether to feel lucky or miserable about that.
I hoped Sheila would remember to take photos. Too late for me to call and remind her.
I wouldn’t see Anya after the dance, because she was having a sleepover with Nicci Moore.
I was going home to an empty house.
Detweiler wasn’t going home to an empty house.
It was the holidays, after all. Other people were having a good time. Why should I go home and dog sit? Why should I spend my evening doing laundry? All I ever did any more was work, work, work! Why not go out with Hadcho?
“That’d be nice,” I said.
I didn’t have to phone Mert in a panic about my decision, because she came to the crop early. She pranced in wearing black tights and boots, a tiny black skirt, and a tight red tee-shirt with the words “Ho, Ho, Ho” printed across the bust in sequins. I wondered if she saw the irony. I decided to keep my mouth shut.
“How’s Laurel doing?”
“Best gift you ever gave me. You just missed her. She even apologized because she couldn’t stay longer to help.”
“Yeah, she’s pert near terrific, isn’t she?”
I nodded. “I need to talk with Mert, the agony aunt, please.”
She grinned. “Mert’s Advice to the Lovelorn at your service. What’s wrong? Has the season got you all mushy? Johnny gave me a piece of mistletoe to tack up over your stockroom door. But I bet you ain’t thinking about my brother. You pining for that married detective? Mind you, I owe him one. Thanks to him, I won my court case.”
Great. Here was a good reason to stall instead of spilling my news. “Tell me about it!”
Mert chewed on a piece of celery as she explained, “Seems my customer, one Sandra Franchino, was breaking stuff and turning in claims for the insurance. Other stuff, she done took and hocked it. When her hubby noticed all his toys was missing, he started to get suspicious-like. That’s how come she blamed me. But Detweiler hooked me up with a pawn broker who testified how Sandra was this regular customer. He had video from his CCTV and ever thing. Paperwork, too. See, they gotta keep really accurate records of what comes in ’cause they don’t want to be accused of fencing stolen goods. So we nailed her. That old Sandra was just lying like a cheap hairpiece.”
“How come? Why’d she do it?”
“Cause she needed herself some spending money.”
“I thought Nick Franchino owns that big car dealership over on Olive.”
“He does. But he don’t give her a cent. Makes her perform certain marital duties in payment for whatever she wants.”
“Eeee-uck.”
; “No kidding. She ain’t nothing but a high-paid prostitute, and she knows it. Heck, now the whole world knows it, too. In fact, as her sad story all tumbled out I felt bad for her skinny white butt. She started talking about how he wouldn’t let her visit her dying mother, and she begged him to let her go. How he monitors her phone calls, got this high-powered monitoring system on their Internet. Even reviews the security cameras in their home.”
“Why?” I straightened after slipping two dozen deviled eggs into their perfect plastic cradles. I make a mean deviled egg, even if I say so myself.
Mert continued to press cookie cutters into the soft sandwiches that Clancy had brought. The resulting star-shaped treats were absolutely adorable. Especially since their filling alternated egg salad, ham salad, and cucumber with cream cheese, and the bread alternated whole wheat with white. I unpacked a tri-level petit four serving tray and carefully transferred the delightful tiny treats that Mert’s brother Johnny had baked.
“Did you know French bakers created petit fours as a way to use leftovers?”
Mert never ceased to surprise me. Most people never guessed she graduated cum laude with a degree in history from Southern Missouri University. When I asked her why she chose to clean houses, she answered, “I set my own hours and my own pay. If the boss is an idiot, I tell her off, and she straightens out.”
I steered us back to the subject at hand. “You never answered me. How’d her husband react when she told the court all this? About keeping her under his thumb?”
“What do you mean?”
“Wasn’t he embarrassed?”
“Heck no. He’s a Bible thumper who thinks women ought to be punished for what Eve did.”
“Talk about holding a grudge.”
“You got that right. It’s enough to make you swear off of applesauce forever. And he has to pay her court costs and everything. I’m just thankful my reputation was cleared.”
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