“Come on, let’s go,” the attorney nodded to another man. Together they strong-armed Ross Gambrowski, one on each side. Ross was still shouting as they pushed him down into his seat.
I thought I was going to be sick. I put a hand up over my mouth and concentrated on keeping my lunch down. I’d heard all this before. Years ago, O.J. Simpson spoke about Nicole Brown’s murder: “If I did it, I must have loved her a lot, didn’t I?” Here we were, nearly twenty years later, listening to the same self-absorbed, petulant, narcissistic rant of ownership.
At least, that was my take on it. Maybe the other mourners saw it differently. The rest of the crowd put their heads together and murmured. Whether they truly felt sympathy or they recognized his comments for what they were, I don’t know.
Ross Gambrowski’s speech wasn’t a eulogy; it was a tantrum.
I shivered uncontrollably.
The minister read one more prayer and then, with a glance at Ross, he read Psalm 45. Maybe it was my imagination, but he seemed to stumble over a few of the lines:
Forget your people and your family far away
For your royal husband delights in your beauty;
honor him, for he is your lord.
The mood in the room shifted from uncomfortable to disgusted. I twitched with restlessness. Did the other mourners hear what I had heard? Could they also pinpoint the obsessive strand of ownership that ran through Ross Gambrowski’s speech and other elements of the service?
I hoped so. I hoped the community would turn its collective back on Ross.
But I doubted it. Society has a very short memory. Besides, now Ross had a new role to play: grieving widower.
Unless the law enforcement community could nail his butt to a tree, Ross would move on. Probably even find another “Cindy” that he could mold, abuse, and discard.
Really, the only difference between Ross and Jerald McCallister was money. Because Ross had money, he had been able to keep up his abuse and control his wife. Jerald simply lacked the resources to keep Bama—Althea?—under his thumb.
Bile rose in my mouth.
I wasn’t a sworn officer of the law. I wasn’t an attorney. Or a social worker.
How could I make sure that Cindy’s killer didn’t get away with her murder? What weapons did I have in my arsenal to turn Ross Gambrowski’s self-serving speech about his love into my personal call to action?
There was one other consideration: What if Ross didn’t do it? Maybe he was a wife-beater, a narcissistic jerk, but was he a murderer?
I didn’t know.
“It’s okay,” Detweiler said, reaching over to give my hand a quick squeeze. “We’re going to get him. We’re onto his tricks. He won’t get away with this.”
“What’s stopping you?”
“Concrete information. We can’t depend on country club gossip. We need proof. Dates of beatings. Photos of Mrs. Gambrowski’s injuries. Doctor’s records. Emergency room visit records. Right now all we have is hearsay.”
“Is this because you don’t have a body? Corpus delicti?” I recalled the term from a mystery novel. “That means you can’t charge him, right?”
“No. Corpus delicti means the body of the crime, not a human body. But, yes, we have a corpus delicti problem, because we don’t have evidence that a prosecutor could use to prove the murder beyond a reasonable doubt.”
We filed out the back of the room. The funeral parlor’s staff tried to direct us into a receiving line. They set up stanchions with velvet ropes, leading to the spot where Ross Gambrowski reached out to shake hands and corral supporters. But the greater mass of mourners walked around the man, like pedestrians maneuvering around a drunk on a sidewalk.
By the time we were even with Cindy’s husband, Ross Gambrowski stood alone, avoided by the press of visitors. He reached out to people, called out names, and pushed forward with his hand outstretched, but the mourners surged away from him en masse as if he might contaminate them.
Except for his hired help or those who were direct recipients of his largesse, everyone was onto the man. Ross Gambrowski might claim publicly to love his wife, but he didn’t. That wasn’t love. All of us knew it, even if Ross had confused possession with affection. Ross wasn’t mourning. Oh, no. He was ticked over the loss of his property. Cindy was nothing more to him than that. Nothing. Ironically, the speech he’d given to proclaim his innocence had done exactly the opposite; it had exposed his guilt.
All Detweiler needed was evidence. Who among us could supply that?
I thought about the message sent to the police. Somewhere out there was a sender who believed I knew more than I did. I played with a button on my sweater. Or could it be that the sender had also supplied me with information, but I’d overlooked the hints?
After all, wasn’t my attention divided sixty-zillion ways?
I gritted my teeth. At the foot of the steps leading from the funeral home to the parking lot, Laurel and Clancy waited.
“We’ll see you tomorrow, bright and early,” said Laurel. She was wearing a sleek mid-calf leather duster and a fluffy scarf.
Clancy added, “I’ll bring in a crockpot of chili for our customers. In fact, I was thinking about sending out a Constant Contact blast announcing that we’d serve lunch if they wanted to hang around and shop.”
“Brilliant idea,” I said. Honest to Pete, these two were dynamos. Their new energy had to be helpful to our sales.
Hadcho caught up to us. “A couple of officers just arrested your shoplifter. Caught her with merchandise from two other local independent scrapbook stores as well. Does the name Daisy Touchette sound familiar?”
I gawped. “I can’t believe that! She has kids! I helped her by watching them, and how’d she repay me? By stealing our stuff ! I’d like to wring her neck. That’s so unfair.”
Hadcho and Detweiler exchanged looks. Hadcho said, “Yeah, it’s a cheap shot, but she must have thought she could get away with it. I’ll get the merchandise back to you next week.”
“Drat. Not in time for us to sell it,” I mused.
“Nope.”
“Let me know what you need me to do, if anything.”
“What’s the situation with Jerald McCallister?” asked Detweiler. “You have an airtight case against him?” There was a challenge in his voice, a sort of “why didn’t you protect Kiki?” tone to his voice.
“The dope pulled a gun on me. Kiki witnessed it. He also took a swipe at me. He’ll be sitting out the season for sure, and if I can get Judge Van de Wenter to hear the case, McCallister will be sitting in the penalty box for a long, long time.” Hadcho raised an eyebrow. “You made any progress on the Gambrowski situation?”
“We’re building a solid case. I don’t intend to let him slip through our fingers. We’re doing the grunt work, following up on all our leads,” said Detweiler coolly. “As you probably noticed, several of us were here to check out the crowd.”
Right. What was the deal with these two? They were acting like two stray dogs staking out their territory.
Hadcho’s eyes narrowed. “I showed up to make sure Mrs. Lowenstein was okay. If Mr. Gambrowski didn’t put that leg in their trash, someone else did. Until you can prove he did it, she’s at risk.”
“Laurel? Clancy? You ready to go? I promised to pick up my daughter in half an hour,” I said.
Whatever problems these men were having, it was none of my business or concern.
There was nothing more I could do for Cindy Gambrowski right now. First thing tomorrow, I was going to look at her scrapbook pages in a whole new light. I planned to take the layouts apart, to tear the whole store to pieces if necessary, looking for evidence that would send Ross Gambrowski away.
I picked up Anya from her grandmother’s house. Because I had a car full of dogs, I called from the driveway and asked my daughter to come outside.
Okay, I was also dodging Sheila. I figured she’d give me an earful about letting Anya go to the Detweilers’ farm. I could do without the hassle
.
I rested my forehead on the steering column, closed my eyes and waited for my child.
A sharp rapping woke me up.
“Roll down your window,” shouted Sheila.
Her wish was my command. I struggled to put a pleasant smile on my face.
“Heard you tangled with Bama’s ex-husband,” said my darling m-i-l. She stood all cozy and comfie in her full-length brown mink. Harry gave it to her years ago, and I must admit, Sheila could double as an aging movie star in that big pelt.
I only hoped that the minks had been suicidal before they were turned into outerwear.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes? That’s all?”
“Yes,” I said.
“He cut your neck?”
“Right.” Wasn’t the bandage obvious? I sighed and bit my tongue before wiping my nose. Dang, it was like my cold briefly went on holiday and came back bigger, stronger, and meaner. I did not have the energy to tangle with Sheila. Not today.
“I saw Dodie at temple Friday night. She plans to help out at the store this week.”
“Good.” Honestly, I hadn’t kept up with Dodie’s schedule. I was still miffed at her for keeping Bama’s little “problem” a secret from me. In the end, it was better not to plan for her help than to hope for it.
“Your daughter can’t stop talking about those fool kittens in the Detweiler’s barn. You aren’t going to let her have one, are you? I told her she couldn’t. Told her it would be just one more mouth for you to feed. Ridiculous! Besides you already have problems with cat pee and clothing.”
Thank you, Sheila, I said to myself. I love how you leave the big decisions to me.
“You’ve got a date on Tuesday with Ben Novak, right?”
“Yes.” I blew my nose. I figured it might make Sheila back away.
It didn’t.
“I don’t need to tell you he’s going to move on if you don’t give him some encouragement. You’ll lose him, Kiki, and he’s a fine catch.”
Oh, good, just what I need. I can’t add a cat to our lives, but I need to scoop up this “fine catch.” I bet Ben’d just love to hear himself described like a jar of gefilte fish.
“I don’t think that will happen.” I saw Anya stop on her way to my car as Linnea, Sheila’s maid, called to her. I watched the chocolate-skinned elderly woman hand over an insulated grocery bag and give Anya a hug. With pride swelling inside me, I saw my daughter hug Linnea back and give the woman a peck on the cheek. I raised my hand and waved at Linnea.
“Thank you,” I called to Sheila’s maid. I had a small gift wrapped for her, a photo of her and Anya, heads bent over a cooking project. I planned to bring it over later this week.
Maybe Hillary Clinton was right: It does take a village to raise a child. Linnea, Mert and Roger, Dodie, the Moores, Clancy, the Detweilers were all part of Anya’s personal village. As much as I missed George, I enjoyed the sense that my daughter’s world had grown significantly since his death. After George’s murder, I was forced to reach out to others. I couldn’t do everything on my own. What seemed at the time to be an admission of my incompetence, now proved to be the best move I ever made. Where one of the villagers was weak, another was strong. In all colors, backgrounds, shapes, sexes, ages, and sizes, they formed our very own familial Rainbow Coalition, and the pot of gold into which they poured all their love and affection was my daughter.
Sheila poked me with a finger to stop my woolgathering. “Pay attention, Kiki. What do you mean when you say you don’t expect Ben to move on? Are you planning to make a commitment? I don’t want a double-wedding, thank you. I have my own plans.”
Brother, did she ever. Poor Robbie Holmes was going to be dressed in a monkey suit, trained like a chimp in a zoo, and paraded around like a pet ape. Heck, I bet all the police working for him didn’t give him near the headaches good old Sheila inflicted.
A little of my mother-in-law went a long way. Robbie was a good sport, but I worried that he would get his fill of her.
“What is your plan?” Sheila repeated. Louder. She must have thought I was hard of hearing. More like sick of hearing. Yada, yada, yada.
I decided to give her an earful. As Anya climbed into the car, I said, “For your information, Ben Novak is plenty interested in me, Sheila. See, I have this belly-dancing routine I do for him, with a jewel in my navel and all these veils. I shake and I shimmy and I rotate my hips. I do the bump and grind, and then I let the veils fall, one by one by one, and gosh, Sheila, I’d say from his enthusiastic response, he’s PLENTY interested. You should try it on Robbie sometime. Ta-da, now!”
I slammed my car into reverse and left her standing there, scraping her jaw up off the driveway.
“Everyone at the Detweilers’ liked lighting the candles,” said Anya, right before she burped. Linnea had sent her home with slices of brisket, carrots cooked with honey, and a fruit salad. I made my famous latkes, which we paired alternately with sour cream and applesauce. Both of us were stuffed.
My daughter’s face glowed in the light of the menorah. She’d opened the iTunes card from me with a whoop of joy. I opened a gift package of body wash and body lotion in Gold Leaf, my favorite scent from Thymes.
Izzy sat on Anya’s lap, drowsy because of his own full tummy. Gracie leaned against me, encouraged by my scratching around her ears. Jasper and Fluff curled up, spoon-like on the rug, and Petunia was displaying his round tummy so I could tickle it with my toes.
“Tell me everything,” I said. I hoped I didn’t sound desperate, but I was. In my more dreamy moments, I fantasized being a part of Detweiler’s family, having the type of relationship with his mother that I never had with Sheila, and enjoying his dad the way I never could mine. Life on a farm sounded infinitely appealing to me, even though I was smart enough to realize it was a harsh, unforgiving way to make a living. Still, Detweiler once told me that the farm had been in their family for generations. It was a Centennial Farm, a designation given by the Illinois Department of Agriculture for those properties with straight or collateral lines of ancestors that could be traced back a hundred years. The state boasted about eight thousand such homesteads.
“Came through my mother’s family,” said Detweiler. “My dad’s parents moved here from Germany, and my dad worked for Mom’s family. He fell in love with her and the land at the same time.”
“It’s really sick,” said Anya, using the latest teen slang for “great” or “cool.” “They have this white house with dark green shutters. Sits on a hill. Out back is a big tree with a rope swing. Their barn is red, like Old MacDonald’s. Mrs. Detweiler has a huge herb garden and a vegetable garden, too. She’s really into canning and making preserves. There’s a creek running through the land. It dumps into this totally awesome pond where you can fish in the summer. We piled onto a wagon that Mr. Detweiler loaded with bales of hay. Mrs. Detweiler covered us with quilts she’d made and gave us each flashlights. She gave Emily a picnic basket for us to open later. Mr. D. drove us really carefully along the county road where they live and onto a neighbor’s land. There were two of Emily’s friends, Sophie and Kendra. Their parents had built this bonfire so we could roast hotdogs. Mrs. D. packed potato salad and buns and hot cider for us. I never ate so much food in my life.”
I wanted to ask what Detweiler’s sisters were like, but I didn’t want to seem as nosy as I felt. Instead, I skirted the subject by asking about the kittens.
“Totally cool. See, the mama had six. She was fine with us touching them. Mrs. D. had her in a big wooden box in their kitchen. So Mama Cat was lying on all these towels and surrounded by all these teensy, tiny squirmers. They went, ‘Meeeyou,’ in the smallest little voices. Can I have one, Mom, please?”
“Let’s get through the holidays, okay?” I knew she’d be asking me daily, but this would buy me some time.
“Grandma says we don’t need another financial drain. She says that unless you hurry up and get married, we’ll be broke forever.”
; “I see. Does that scare you?”
“I get tired of seeing you worry. I wish you didn’t have to work so hard. But I don’t want you to marry anyone you don’t want to. I mean, Mr. Novak—Ben—tries really hard to be nice to me. I can’t imagine him as a stepfather though.”
I nodded. We’d make short work of cleaning up the kitchen. The short, fat Hanukkah candles were almost burned down to nothing.
“How about if we declare this a ‘no worries’ night? Just for tonight, we’ll make like the Australians and say, ‘No worries, mate.’ I think we need a bit of fresh air. How about if we drive over to Santa’s Magical Kingdom?” I waved two tickets at her. They were a bit crumpled from being squished in my back pocket.
“I’m too old for that,” said Anya, cautiously.
“That’s right, you are. You’re too old for fun, too old to get excited, too old to have a good time with your mother, right? Better go to sleep right away because tomorrow you have to go out and get a job. All those adult responsibilities, whew.”
One side of her mouth hitched up in a smile. “Oh, Mom. You are so weird.”
I giggled and she did, too. “By the way,” she added. “Do you really have a belly-dance outfit with lots of veils?”
The line into the park was long, but the cars moved quickly. We followed the wonderful light displays, oohing and ahhing over all of them. My favorite was the dancing elves. Anya loved the river of lights. On the way home, I pulled off the highway into an empty store parking lot. We sipped our hot chocolate and ate the sugar cookies Linnea had sent home for us. She cut them into menorahs, dreidels, and stars of David before icing them in blue and white. Anya shared more about Emily, Sophie, and Kendra. “Emily’s, like, really smart. Cute, too. You can tell she’s, like, the leader of them all. Sophie is more quiet and totally pretty. Kendra is a tomboy, but she still likes girlie stuff, too. Even Nicci admitted they were neat. That sort of surprised me because Nicci can be a snob,” Anya said.
I smiled to myself. Yes, I figured that about Nicci. I was glad Anya noticed it, too.
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