Group, Photo, Grave (A Kiki Lowenstein Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  So we’d agreed to drop the plan to move. I figured that once we got too crowded, Anya would change her mind. Once that happened, we could start looking for a new home.

  “Promise me! Promise me that we won’t move!” she said.

  All of a sudden, a cold wet nose pressed against my daughter’s face. Gracie had scaled the walls of her doggy playpen. Her sudden appearance shocked both Anya and me. I’ve never known Gracie to take a leap like that.

  “She was worried about me,” said Anya, reaching down to stroke the Great Dane’s head.

  “Of course, she was,” I said. “You’re her little girl. Mine, too. And everything is going to be just fine, honey. I promise.”

  Chapter 19

  The call came while Anya was taking Gracie for a stroll around the block.

  After identifying himself as an attorney working on behalf of the estate of William Ballard, my late husband George’s dead partner, the man explained that forensic accountants had turned up an account in the Cayman Islands. This money appeared to be funds diverted from Dimont Development, the company George and Bill Ballard had founded. The Ballard family was willing to turn the bulk of these funds over to me if I agreed not to pursue further legal remedies against Bill Ballard’s estate.

  I sat back in Dodie’s big black leather chair and pondered what this meant. I’d learned the hard way not to trust so-called experts. Instead of agreeing, I said, “Please send me all the particulars.”

  “This is a limited time offer. If you agree, I can email you a form. When you fax it back to me, we’ll deposit a sizeable sum in your bank account. You can have the money today.”

  My spidey-sense started tingling. Three years ago, when George died, I would have jumped at the offer on the table. I would have trusted the man on the other end of the phone implicitly.

  But that was the old Kiki. The sadder and wiser Kiki held her ground.

  “As I said, please send me the particulars. I’ll get back to you.”

  “Mrs. Lowenstein, there’s no reason for you to make this difficult. Not when we have the ability to wire transfer this sum—”

  “Please listen carefully: No. No. And no.” With that I hung up on him.

  After putting Gracie in her playpen, Anya went to work cutting out men’s jackets, shirts, and ties from a variety of patterned paper.

  Since the store wasn’t officially open for another forty-five minutes, after I got her started, I went into the office and sat behind the big desk. I still called it “Dodie’s office” and “Dodie’s desk” in my head. Converting that to “my office” and “my desk” would take time. I pulled open the desk drawer to grab a pencil. Dodie had been very particular about her office supplies. The only pencil she liked was the yellow plastic Papermate Sharpwriter, a mechanical pencil. I reached for one in the desk divider, and instead my fingers brushed an oddly shaped item. On further inspection, this proved to be a silly toy turtle with a bobbing head. I smiled at the toy and stuck him back in the drawer.

  My responsibility was to review upcoming events, work on schedules, and try to catch up on correspondence. I had never really appreciated the myriad of details Dodie handled, even after her cancer slowed her down. Even with my best effort, I could feel myself falling behind. Answering requests from our website took me ten minutes a day. That didn’t seem like much until you multiplied it by seven days a week. Margit had calculated what my time was worth an hour, and the resultant number surprised me. Doing the math, I could see that we lost significant income when I was busy with busy work.

  However, for the time being, I had no other option but to personally review all the store correspondence.

  I also had to act like the owner even though, technically, I wasn’t.

  I’d been in the process of negotiating the purchase with Horace when Dodie had slipped into a coma. Thereafter, he’d obviously been unavailable to talk—and frankly, he didn’t seem to care about the store. But I did. So I continued to monitor all the requests that came in, whether for merchandise, services, or classes. Those numbers continued to grow. Alarmingly. Dodie had always been very generous. But this went beyond generosity. If I honored all these requests, the drain on resources would significantly cut into our profitability.

  When I shared my notes with Margit, she had shaken her head sadly and shown me a similar list that she had started. “Ach. I do not think she ever said no. There seems to be no rhyme or reason to her responses.”

  “Looks to me like she didn’t ask for anything in return, either. No mention in programs. No comments from the dais. I understand the concept of tzedakah, loosely translated as charity, but even so…” I paused and added, “With all due respect to Dodie, this was ridiculous.”

  “She was driving this business into the ground,” said Margit sadly. “Charity begins at home. I wonder if the cancer affected her brain earlier than we realized.”

  “What do I do now? Tell these people that I won’t honor her commitments?”

  Margit took off her cats’ eye glasses and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “I am not sure how to handle this.”

  “I know I’m eavesdropping,” said Clancy, “but is it possible that these people might be lying to you?”

  She’d slipped in through the backdoor while we were talking. Since Margit leaves every Monday promptly at noon and we have a crop every Monday night, Clancy was scheduled for a full eight hours.

  “Huh?” I squinted at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  “Ladies, you are two kind-hearted individuals. Isn’t it conceivable that people are taking advantage of the store? And of you? Kiki, do these people offer any proof that Dodie made these promises?” Clancy held out her hand, a silent demand for the list I’d made.

  “No.” I handed the papers to Clancy and watched as her sleek, Jackie Kennedy style bob dipped over her face. She took her time and perused the paperwork.

  “This is outrageous,” she said slowly. “You’re telling me that Dodie agreed to donate all the supplies for a vacation Bible school? And a year’s worth of supplies for their Sunday school? I know she was ecumenically minded, but this hardly seems possible. I bet if you look into this more closely, you’d discover that a small number of people are behind many of these requests. Especially the large ones. I bet this is a scam. One that these folks have pulled many, many times. It’s incredibly organized. Notice the same phrasing used over and over? The same style of type? The same indents on the letters? You’re being hoodwinked.”

  I was stunned. I sat down on a nearby folding chair, unable to frame thoughts coherently. “But why would people lie like this?”

  “I can think of a lot of reasons,” said Clancy, adjusting her gold Movado watch on her wrist. “One might be to profit from your kindness. And to take advantage of the changing of the guard, so to speak. Another might be financial gain. And yet another might be to run you out of business. Ever since they finished revamping the overpass to Brentwood Avenue, there’s been a marked increase in traffic. Have you talked to a real estate agent about what this store is worth?”

  I admitted that I hadn’t. My dear friend Jennifer Moore had given me loose guidelines for valuing a business. We’d intended to sit down and go over the purchase agreement before I signed it. But Jennifer’s sister in Seattle had to have emergency surgery, so my friend flew to her sibling’s side. I knew that Dodie and Horace weren’t trying to cheat me. We’d agreed on the purchase in principle, but when Dodie had taken a turn for the worse, Horace had waved off my attempts at discussion.

  I hadn’t wanted to press the issue, given the circumstances. Once Dodie died—although neither of us spoke so directly about that morose event—we’d get down to the nitty-gritty of the purchase.

  “Look, I understand why you’re moving ahead so cautiously,” said Clancy. “Dodie was more than your friend. She was a mentor, a surrogate mother, and a business coach. But Kiki, business is business. Margit? I know you, too, cared deeply about Dodie.”

  “Wh
at are you suggesting?” I asked Clancy. “Quit dancing around.”

  “I’m suggesting that you, Kiki, haven’t done your due diligence. The requests for charitable contributions might only be the tip of the iceberg. Yes, Margit knows the day-to-day profitability of the business, but that’s only part of the picture. There’s more to a business than its day-to-day expenses. When was the roof last checked? What’s the status of the air-conditioning and heating units? What are the taxes? Are they paid up? Current? What’s the maintenance on the parking lot? You’re also buying a building and a parking lot, right? You need to get professional help in evaluating what this place is worth. You have too much responsibility riding on your shoulders to botch this, Kiki.”

  Chapter 20

  Sitting there at the desk and looking over a fresh crop of requests, Clancy’s warning came back like a smack up the side of the head. She had been right: I couldn’t afford to mess this up. The truth was that I didn’t know what I was getting myself into. I hadn’t investigated the total scope of my obligations.

  My stomach churned. I reached for the package of Saltine crackers I keep in my purse.

  A tiny kick in my belly reminded me that I was a big girl now. With a baby on the way, a new son joining our family, and a daughter who’d be off to college in five years, I couldn’t afford to stick my head in the sand, wave my butt in the air, and hope no one used me for target practice.

  I needed help and I needed it fast.

  I had no idea where to turn so I shot off an email to Cara Mia Delgatto, asking her if she could meet with me.

  Cara responded immediately: I’m coming early with the food. How about if we talk before the crop?

  Yes, I emailed her. That would be grand. By the way, how is your server doing? The one who stumbled over Dr. Hyman’s dead body?

  A bit shook up, she messaged me back, but OK, all things considered.

  Next I text-messaged Rebekkah and asked if she’d like to help out at the store. A response came immediately, as she offered to drop by in a short while.

  That would make for good timing because I had an appointment with my ob-gyn for my sonogram. I swallowed a spoonful of sadness. When I scheduled this, I had high hopes that Detweiler would be in attendance. But he would be here for the main event. That was what really mattered. I could ask the tech for pictures. Hadn’t I seen more than my share of sonogram images since becoming a professional scrapbooker? Yes, indeedy do!

  Wasn’t this the perfect time to start a brand new scrapbook? One including photos of Erik, as soon as they were available?

  Yeppers!

  “Anya?” I called to my daughter. “Let’s start a new family album. What do you say?”

  When the door minder rang a half an hour later, we had pulled out all the albums and narrowed our selection down to two. Looking up from the work table, I spotted our guest, a woman who did not look happy. The customer turned in a tight circle, studying the store, taking in all the racks of paper and studying the sample pages on the walls.

  “Welcome. How can I help?” I walked over to greet her with a smile.

  “Where is Kiki Lowenstein?” The customer looked to be in her early thirties, but that was only a guess because she was a person with a mouth that naturally turned down. The fixed expression aged her. In her arms was a cardboard shoebox labeled Christian Louboutin.

  “I’m Kiki.” I extended my hand to shake, but she didn’t respond. After an awkward silence, I let mine drop.

  She stared at my baby bump and said, “You aren’t married.”

  “I am a widow.” I put a lot of nice into my voice.

  “Bonnie didn’t tell me you were pregnant.”

  “Bonnie Gossage?” I found it hard to reconcile Bonnie, whose favorite accessory is a smile, with this crabby woman. Bonnie is not only one of my favorite people, and a long-time customer of the store, she’s also the woman who got me out of the county slammer when I was unjustly accused.

  “Mrs. Gossage is our attorney.” The woman shifted her weight. “I’m Bernice Stottlemeyer. I have a little job for you.”

  Uh, a little job for you?

  “Nice to meet you, Bernice.” A voice inside me cried out, “Not so much!” But I ignored it. “Why don’t you come on over and sit down. This is my daughter, Anya.”

  Just as she’d been taught to do, Anya stood up and extended her hand for a shake. Bernice ignored my daughter’s good manners. In fact, she withdrew from Anya, while holding the box to her chest like a shield. Anya, fortunately, was far too polite to comment. Instead, she offered Bernice a cold can of cola.

  “I don’t drink carbonated, sugary beverages,” the woman sniffed.

  “Coffee? Tea?” Anya continued.

  “No,” said Bernice.

  Just plain, “No,” without a smidgeon of graciousness.

  Anya wisely went back to her work, and I gestured to a stool where Bernice could sit. “Now, what sort of scrapbook would you like? Are those your photos?”

  Bernice sat stiffly on the stool. “Actually it’s not a scrapbook. That’s a hobby. This is different. It’s important. What I need is an adoption profile book. My husband Wesley and I need it to show women who don’t want their babies.”

  I winced at her awkward terminology.

  Women who don’t want their babies?

  That was both judgmental and cruel.

  Many of these birth mothers wanted their children but found themselves in impossible situations. As a result they had come to a courageous decision to give up their babies, believing that another family could give their children a better start in life. It was a gut-wrenching choice, one that would haunt these mothers forever.

  How dare Bernice Stottlemeyer stand in judgment of the very people who were making her dreams come true?

  “With all due respect, Mrs. Stottlemeyer, I believe you are jumping to a conclusion. I have met many of these young ladies, and I can tell you that most of them really do want their babies. However, they’ve come to the painful decision, that another family can offer their children a better future.”

  Her hard little eyes stared at me as if I was a specimen of beetle, and she was hoping to pin me to a cork board. A tiny “tsk, tsk” came from her mouth. Although I hadn’t changed her opinion, I had stood up for the birth mothers.

  Dodie had taught me that once in a while, you simply must take a hard line. Especially when confronted by issues of morality. Dodie never allowed her customers to get away with acts of prejudice. If she overheard a cruel comment, she called the person on it. If unkind behavior persisted, she “fired” the customer. “All it takes for evil to flourish is for good people to turn their backs on it,” she often said. “All of us must serve as reminders, lest in a weak moment any one of us weaken and loosen our grip on the moral fiber that makes us righteous people.”

  Dodie would have had a field day with Bernice Stottlemeyer. But Dodie had gone to her reward, so it fell on my shoulders to keep this little shop as an oasis of goodwill. Watching Bernice’s lip curl, I realized this might be the biggest job I would ever tackle. Even bigger than balancing the year-end inventory.

  After a long pause, Bernice asked, “Do you guarantee your work?”

  “Excuse me?”

  She had to be kidding.

  Nope. She wasn’t.

  “I mean to say, can you guarantee that the birth mother will like this profile?” Bernice squinted at me, assessing my abilities.

  “No. People are subjective and everyone has different tastes. Furthermore, I can only work with what you give me. This album will tell only one part of your family’s story. The birth mothers will interview you, right?”

  “Yes. But not unless they like our profile. And there’s no reason they shouldn’t, if you do your job correctly. We have so much to offer a child. Wesleyand I are well-educated, well-to-do, and we attend church regularly. No child could hope for a better family.”

  Humility not withstanding.

  I thought I’d gag; ins
tead I pinched my thigh hard.

  “Bonnie says you’re the best person to do this.” Bernice fingered the fringe on her jacket, which I recognized as being from Chanel because Sheila owned one just like it. I also recognized her purse. The weave was unique to Bottega Veneta®.

  Jennifer Moore had purchased one for herself to celebrate her thirty-fifth birthday. I’d gone with her to pick it out. Bernice’s purse was bigger than Jennifer’s. I guessed it cost her somewhere around two grand.

  “Bonnie is wonderful. I’ll certainly do my best for you, but you have to realize, I can only work with the materials you provide.”

  “So you’ve done one of these before?”

  “Yes, I have done a half dozen or more. In fact, we have a group that meets here every Wednesday night. They are all parents who have adopted.”

  “Why?”

  “Um, pardon?”

  “Why would they meet here?” Bernice glanced around. I have to admit, the store wasn’t at its best because we were ready to knock down a wall.

  I chose to ignore the implied insult.

  “To support each other. They want to give their children a feeling of belonging. As you probably know, there are issues unique to adopted children. One is a sense of rejection. Also a sense of loss. Problems with identity. The mothers come here to create albums that will help their families work through those core issues.” I paused to give her a reassuring smile. “You are very welcome to join them. Even if you simply want to stop in and say hello. They have a wealth of information.”

  “No. Not interested. How much do you charge for an album like what I want?”

  Making this woman look warm and fuzzy was not going to be easy. Over the years Clancy has taught me to add a “hassle fee” to my calculations. She explained it this way: “When a customer is a pain in the backside, you should be paid extra for the aggravation.”