Group, Photo, Grave (A Kiki Lowenstein Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  Sigh.

  Rebekkah leaned her head against the window. A soft snoring noise came from her side of the car. Poor kid. She was mentally and physically exhausted.

  Heavy bellied clouds dragged themselves in front of the setting sun. The sky was unusually dark for this time of year. I clicked on the weather channel, where the announcer suggested a nightlong siege of thunderstorms, possibly spawning tornadoes. The electricity in the air suggested their predictions were not only right, but imminent.

  As soon as I got home, I would force Gracie outside to do her business. She hates being outside when it’s raining—and thunder leaves her quaking in her black boots.

  The traffic was jammed up on 40, so I took advantage of the lull and punched in Mert’s number. I missed our friendship terribly. Seeing Dodie’s house reminded me how empty my life would be without friends. Mert had been my friend longer than anyone else in St. Louis. Sure, she was mad at me, but she had to get over it, didn’t she? Maybe she was waiting for me to call.

  The phone rolled over into voice mail.

  “Mert? This is Kiki. I thought you might like to know that Horace is in the hospital overnight for observation. He’s, um, in pretty rough shape. The house could use a good cleaning. Anyway, I hope you are well—and that Johnny is getting better.”

  Since Rebekkah didn’t stir, I knew she was still asleep. No one could see as the tears ran down my face. I cried for Dodie and for the loss of Mert’s friendship. I cried for Detweiler, who’d been tricked by Gina. I cried for Sheila and Robbie, because they couldn’t go on their cruise. And finally, I cried for myself because I was plumb worn out and lonely. I was tired of lurching from one crisis to another.

  I missed Detweiler. I dialed him again, but he didn’t answer. I dialed Amanda, so she could fill me in on the situation with Mom. She didn’t answer. I called Sheila, and no one picked up the phone.

  It was one of those moments when you wonder if everyone you love has left the building without telling you.

  To make myself feel better, I ripped the top off the bucket of chicken and pinched the breading from the first piece my fingertips touched. Then, systematically, I picked most of the pieces clean.

  As I drove down 40, stuffing my face with eleven herbs and spices, I repeated my new mantra: “It’s going to be all right.”

  But I sure wasn’t sure it would be.

  Not at all.

  Chapter 50

  Tuesday/Three days after the wedding…

  Suburban Los Angeles, California

  Detweiler waited on the sidewalk outside the florist’s shop until Orson pulled up in the Escalade. When the driver put on his flashers, Detweiler hopped back into the car. Lorraine glanced at his purchase. She was pleased by the bundle of carnations, Gerber daisies, and baby’s breath.

  “Lovely,” she said. Her hands picked at the fringe on her wrap, as she watched the scenery roll by.

  Orson drove through a clog of traffic before turning off at sign marking a cemetery. A winding road took them to a large marble marker that bore the name LAUBER. Two jagged rectangles cut in the sod suggested recently dug graves.

  “Would you like to get out also?” Detweiler asked Lorraine.

  “Yes, please,” she said, in a shaky voice.

  Detweiler hopped out, flowers in hand, ran around to her side, and helped her get her balance on the running board. Once she was standing on the asphalt, he offered her his arm. She leaned heavily into him, picking her way over the rough terrain.

  “Having a bit of a flare up,” she said. “MS is such a spoil sport!”

  “Take your time,” he answered. What irony. The malady that limited her life broadened his by offering him a chance at fatherhood.

  “Sorry to be so slow.”

  “You are doing fine. Is this too much for you?” Detweiler had a good hold on her arm. He could tell by the way she’d pitched forward that she didn’t have much muscle control.

  “No. I’ll be all right. Fortunately, the gravesite is nearby.”

  Detweiler concentrated on keeping her from taking a tumble. There would be no way she could keep up with an active little boy. None. She would never be able to run with Erik, to grab him, and swing him in the air.

  In the restaurant, she had seemed fine. At least at first. But now, he realized why she had wanted to be seated before he arrived. How cleverly she had covered up the full extent of her disability!

  Well, she had her pride. He couldn’t blame her for that.

  Three spaces waited for Lauber family members. There was even a spot for Lorraine. She pointed to the bare spots on the stones. “The brass plates are missing because I’m having Van and Gina’s vital details added. They aren’t done yet. Gina will be on our far left, then Van, and finally there’s a space reserved for me.”

  Detweiler nodded. He had suspected as much. “I’d like to put these flowers down, but I don’t want to let you go.”

  “Don’t worry. I’ll grip this headstone,” she said as she reached out for a gray marble spire.

  While she watched through teary eyes, Detweiler squatted and set two bouquets side-by-side on the grass.

  “Two?” she asked.

  “Your brother was kind to my son. Of course, I never met him, but it seemed like a small way to say thanks,” Detweiler explained. “If you can think of something more substantial, please let me know.”

  “What you can do for Van,” she said, stretching forward to slip her arm through Detweiler’s as he came back to her, “is to raise Erik. He loved the boy. I love him, too. Just so we are clear on this, Gina never said a cross word about you. She had nothing but praise. She was careful to explain that it was the situation in Central Illinois that caused her to run away, not you personally. Van told her she should tell you about Erik, but she refused. It was the source of their greatest conflict. In a strange way, I think he’d be happy about this resolution. But you must never ever wonder whether Van loved the boy, because he did. So do I.”

  She looked away and then brushed tears from her eyes with her fingertips. “And of course, you must only take him with you if you are confident that you really want the boy. We all owe him that. I hope you’ll come to love him.”

  Detweiler didn’t trust himself to talk.

  Chapter 51

  Nothing prepared Detweiler for his first look at Gina’s son. One glance at the face with its oval shape just like hers, and his heart twisted in pain. He tried to conceal the gasp that escaped his lips, but he knew he’d failed. Lorraine carefully avoided the cop’s eyes, and for that he was grateful.

  They stood outside a viewing window, peering in at the kids. Detweiler was thankful for the one-way glass. His heart felt too big for his chest, as he watched that small version of Gina, a boy totally focused on a miniature train set. The child’s loose auburn curls with red highlights brushed his collar, exposing a slender and vulnerable throat. Some distraction caused Erik to turn toward the window. When he did, Detweiler noted the boy’s chocolate-colored eyes. And again, he thought of Gina.

  Detweiler excused himself for the men’s room and hurried down a hallway, past a line of small coat hooks. Once inside the privacy of a stall, he clenched and unclenched his fists in frustration.

  Why? How could everything with Gina gone so wrong?

  Why was he feeling emotions he thought no longer existed?

  How could she have done this to him? To the boy? To Trevon?

  Lacking a reason to linger, Detweiler washed his hands repeatedly, as if the act itself could rinse away his disappointment.

  “Why did you do it, Gina?” he muttered as the hand dryer blew its noisy hot air on his skin. But, in truth, he knew the reason.

  Gina had been wildly beautiful, and he’d been the quarterback on his high school football team. Sure, they lost more games than they’d won, but still, the experience had taught him the awesome power of being the center of attention. She’d barely paid spoken to him until after that first home game. From then on,
they were an item, despite the fact that her parents did everything possible to keep them apart. Gina’s parents were older. They’d adopted her late in life, and so they tended to be overly involved. Of course, she responded to their over-involvement by rebelling. Detweiler was part of her personal war of independence.

  Her family had moved from Chicago so that her father could teach at Southern Illinois University. From the start, Gina hated it. She missed big city living, the hustle and bustle of crowds, and mostly the anonymity. With her flaming red hair and big brown eyes, she was a head-turner. Yes, she could milk her looks to advantage, but she hated the cat-calls and whistles. Unlike many girls who hadn’t blossomed, she was uniquely mature-looking, often mistaken for much older than seventeen. But she was incredibly insecure and often acted distant rather than affectionate. Sometimes Detweiler wondered if she really did love him, even though she said she did.

  Even her best friends agreed that Gina had a habit of holding people at arms’ length.

  Detweiler’s mother had noticed that coolness beneath the surface. She never blamed Gina or warned her son away, but she’d made mention of it. “She can’t give what she doesn’t have to give,” Thelma Detweiler had said.

  He started talking with Gina about marriage, mainly because he didn’t want to lose her. When she mentioned the idea to her parents, they blew up. That only encouraged her to move ahead at a faster speed. Gina convinced Detweiler to elope with her the week after their high school graduation. His parents did what they could to help the young couple. Hers disinherited her.

  The young couple had been blissfully happy the first two months of their marriage, even though they lived in a tiny apartment filled with cast-off furnishings. They had enjoyed their newfound freedom and each other.

  But soon Gina began to complain about the hours he worked. Detweiler had taken a job bagging groceries, eagerly accepting any overtime he was offered. He’d won an athletic scholarship to school, where he planned to get a degree in criminology, but given their expenses, going to school full time wasn’t an option. So he’d looked into joining the police academy, and they put him on a waiting list. When a spot there opened up—and he dropped out of college and took it—Gina had a meltdown.

  Nothing prepared him for how upset she was, even when he reminded her that they’d discussed his plan.

  “I can go through the academy now and return to school later,” he’d said. “Law enforcement officials have good benefits. We can start a family.”

  “I don’t want to live here in Southern Illinois! Now we’re stuck!” she screamed as she threw dishes. Fortunately, the plastic dinnerware bounced right off the walls.

  “I can get a job somewhere else after I get through the academy,” he’d explained. “But right now, this is what we can afford.”

  No matter how he explained it to her, she refused to accept the reality of their situation. Time after time, she complained that he should apply to other schools, seek out other scholarships. “But we don’t have the money for a first and last deposit on another apartment,” he explained. “Besides, my parents are helping us by bringing over groceries and leftovers. We’d starve without them!”

  When he suggested that she, Gina, might want to get a job, she went ballistic, slamming their bedroom door so hard that the sill popped free from the drywall and clattered to the floor. He listened to a baseball game rather than respond to her rants and raves in the other room.

  The truth was that he was bewildered. He thought they’d agreed on a course of action. He thought she knew they’d have to scrimp and save at first. He thought marriage was a partnership.

  Gina saw things differently.

  He had felt her pull away, but he never suspected her of cheating on him. She seemed to have come to grips with his career choice. She had a few girlfriends she liked to party with, and he didn’t begrudge her the money for going out for a few beers. After all, his father never denied his mother anything, either.

  After a while, Gina seemed to have settled down. Although she didn’t cook, she did keep the small apartment clean. They fell into a routine. When he wasn’t taking classes at the police academy, he was at the check-out counter, bagging groceries. At night, after she went to bed, he studied and did his homework. Sure, they didn’t have a lot to discuss, but he never realized she was so unhappy.

  And he never guessed that she was having an affair with Trevon.

  An older officer. An instructor at the academy. A man Chad considered a mentor. A guy that he’d invited over to the apartment for chili and beer while the Rams played football one Sunday afternoon.

  Trev had repaid the favor by having an affair with Chad’s wife.

  Trevon was the father of the little boy in the next room. But Gina was Erik’s mother. Detweiler felt the tug and pull of opposing feelings.

  “Can’t stay in the john forever,” he said to his reflection. Detweiler walked out of the mens’ room, back down the hallway, and stopped to stare at the boy on the other side of the window. The child who wasn’t his son.

  He wasn’t sure he could do this.

  Until Erik looked his way and smiled.

  Chapter 52

  Same day…

  An office building in downtown Los Angeles, California

  Thornton stared out the window of his corner office. Twenty-five stories below, the streets teamed with people, most of them insignificant. They were little more than ants crowding around the anthill, unaware of the futility of their meager lives. Wearing their cheap, ill-fitting clothing, and carrying plastic satchels instead of real leather briefcases. Probably didn’t have two pennies to rub together.

  Thornton enjoyed his own importance. Yes, it was a personal failing, and he knew it. Right now, he had his partner Steve Quinton hanging on his every word. And he enjoyed that. So he spoke very slowly and deliberately.

  “According to Lorraine Lauber, Detective Detweiler seems to be a man of above average intelligence. Like many in his chosen field, he carefully cloaks his expressions, making him a bit of an enigma. He’s tall, muscular and seemingly healthy. Miss Lauber believes that most women would find him attractive. She certainly does,” Thornton stared out the window at the cerulean sky and powder puff clouds. Another perfect Californian day.

  “But did she tell you if he asked about the money? Did he want to know who died first?” Quinton asked, as he adjusted his silk tie, a nervous habit of longstanding.

  “No, he didn’t.” Thornton walked over to the window. Rush hour had begun. What a curiously inaccurate term for the late afternoon and early morning crush of people struggling to get home. If you didn’t have a driver in LA, the traffic ate up far too many productive hours. Billable hours. So driving oneself was a false economy. But he wasn’t about to tell Quinton that. Quinton’s short-sighted behavior had allowed Thornton to masterfully gain the upper hand. Yes, on paper they were partners, but in reality, Quinton worked for Thornton. He just wasn’t smart enough to realize it. Not yet.

  “But you specifically confirmed that with her? That he didn’t ask about the sequence of death?”

  “I asked and she confirmed. Money was only mentioned in the most fleeting of terms. The cop admitted his financial limitations. She promised to press him further. To ask more questions.”

  “But he knows! He would have overheard!”

  Thornton sighed. “No, he didn’t. Miss Lauber and I spoke while the detective was visiting with the boy’s camp counselors. She called me from the car. The detective was still in the building.”

  “So he hasn’t said a thing about money? Nothing at all?” Quinton fidgeted with his cufflinks, yet another sign he was succumbing to a bad case of nerves.

  Thornton sighed and steepled his fingers. “He knows that Mrs. Lauber had a small amount of money set aside for her son.”

  “Miniscule. Not even small.”

  Thornton let his long, thin fingers flutter to signify his distain. “Miniscule to you or me, Quinton, but significant to a
civil servant. To return to my point, Detective Detweiler had no questions about the money. None. He hasn’t asked if the boy stands to inherit anything from Van Lauber. Perhaps he didn’t expect Lauber to give this illegitimate child anything more than a roof over his head and a pat on the back. Who would?”

  “But we need to know for sure,” grumbled Quinton, as he shifted his large bulk. “Is someone keeping an eye on him? Watching where he goes? Who he talks to?”

  “What do you take me for, a fool?” Thornton huffed.

  Quinton’s cheeks turned bright red. The implication was clear: He, Quinton, was the fool. And he knew it.

  “What have you learned about his girlfriend? The little woman back home?” Quinton fiddled with his belt buckle. It was cutting into his large gut.

  “Detective Detweiler’s partner is barefoot, broke, and pregnant. A total loser. He’s just a hick cop and she’s his hillbilly girlfriend. A Midwestern love story. Nothing to worry about. Not for us at least. Erik is leaving a life of wealth and opportunity to go to….that.”

  Chapter 53

  Very late Tuesday night/ Three days after the wedding…

  Kiki’s house in Webster Groves, Missouri

  Carrying the bucket of fried chicken under one arm, I let myself and Rebekkah in. She was groggy from her nap in my car.

  “Anya? Honey?”

  No answer.

  I panicked, only to discover that my daughter had fallen asleep in her bed with Martin draped over her shoulder, in that loose-limbed way only a cat can rest. Seymour curled up in the nook behind her knees. Gracie, however, guarded her slumbering friends, by planting herself in the middle of the bedroom floor. Her uncropped ears perked up when I opened the door. She recognizes the sound of my car, so my entrances don’t make much of a splash unless I’m with Detweiler, who is the love of her life. Then she’s up and at the back door in a flash so she can nuzzle him.