Group, Photo, Grave (A Kiki Lowenstein Mystery)

by Slan, Joanna Campbell

  Okay, I’ll admit—we went a little overboard with the duct tape. Since Bernice was being such a PIA (pain in the backside), we decided to wrap her up like a mummy. In fact, we used up two rolls of duct tape in the process.

  Clancy got bored with our efforts and went into the backroom to fetch a clipboard. She planned to itemize the damage Bernice had done.

  “Let me guess,” said Hadcho, “the tin woodsman decided to terrorize your store? A mummy escaped from the St. Louis Art Museum, and you decided to spray paint it silver? Or maybe you had an accident with the tape runner?”

  “Well, look at you. You’re learning to speak scrapbook. Two years ago, you wouldn’t have known what a tape runner was!” I said, as I gave him a little arm punch. “Meet Bernice Stottlemeyer. Observe the damage she was doing to my store. And of course, we’ve got pictures. Clancy’s writing up an invoice of the damages. When I asked her to leave, Mrs. Stottlemeyer responded by threatening me.”

  “I used the nail gun to pin her purse to the floor,” said Aunt Penny proudly. “Otherwise I’m unarmed. You can frisk me though. You might want to. You really can’t trust someone like me. I could be hiding a weapon anywhere on my body.”

  “Cool it,” I told her. “So there you have it, Detective Hadcho.”

  “What set her off?”

  I explained about the adoption profile album. Meanwhile Bernice made funny grunting noises that I took as exceptions to my narrative. “Um, Mrs. Stottlemeyer thinks the young mother made her decision based on the album. So she thinks she’s due a refund. I believe she also wanted to give me a little payback for her pain and suffering.”

  “I see,” said Hadcho, punching in a phone number on his cell. “Since I’m officially not on duty, let me get a squad car to come pick this woman up.”

  “Come on, Anya, we’ve got work to do,” said Aunt Penny, as she guided my daughter to the backroom. Soon I heard the pft-pft-pft of the nail gun being used as nature intended. (Ha ha!)

  When Hadcho got off the phone, I had another thought. “I better call Bonnie Gossage. She’s Mrs. Stottlemeyer’s attorney.” So I did. I wound up leaving a message with Bonnie’s secretary, but at least I’d given my friend a heads-up.

  Clancy confirmed that Bernice had threatened me and caused the chaos. She handed Hadcho an invoice for the damaged goods. “I also included the time it’ll take us to restock and reorganize this mess.”

  “Good job,” said Hadcho. “I’ll see that the booking officer gets this.”

  While we waited for the patrol car to arrive, I got him up to speed about Detweiler’s visit to California. I did not tell him that Erik’s wasn’t Detweiler’s natural son. This had been bothering me. I had no idea how we should handle that aspect of our new family. Obviously, Detweiler and I would have to decide what to do and how to do it, but that would have to wait until he came home and we could discuss the matter.

  “So Gina and her husband died in a car accident?” Hadcho pursed his lips. “Where’d it take place?”

  “Laguna Canyon Road,” I said. I’d remembered the name because I read books by Sparkle Abbey, and they’re set in Laguna Nigel. Detweiler had mentioned the name to me when we’d first heard that Gina was dead.

  Hadcho nodded. “Interesting.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  “No particular reason,” and he started to say more, but Bonnie Gossage came walking through the front door. I shouldn’t have been surprised that she arrived so quickly, seeing as how her office was in nearby Clayton. She knew Hadcho, so I explained to her what had happened while Bernice Stottlemeyer grunted loudly and fought against her bondage.

  “Two uniformed officers are on the way,” said Hadcho. “You can see the damage she’s caused. Three people witnessed her threatening Mrs. Lowenstein.”

  I nodded. “She poked me in the chest. It’s certainly not life-threatening, but I bet I’ll have a nice little bruise.”

  “Kiki, I am so sorry,” said Bonnie. As per usual, she wore a spit-up stain on her dark blue jacket. With two little ones at home, Bonnie struggled each morning to get dressed and out the door to her office. She’d come to accept that “a little spit up never hurt anyone.” I think that was a wise decision. I only hoped I’d handle the mounting pressure at home with the same sort of good humor.

  “Not your fault,” I said. “You aren’t responsible for her misbehavior.”

  The uniformed officers arrived. They cut away enough duct tape to unhitch Bernice from the stool and get her to her feet. I noticed that they didn’t take the tape off her mouth. That was pretty smart on their part.

  Before they could escort her out of my building, I had something to say, so I planted myself between Bernice and the door: “I told you before to stay out of my store, and I meant it. I’m telling you again that you aren’t welcome here.”

  Then I took a deep breath and added, “That birth mother didn’t turn you down because of my album, and we both know it. If you truly want to pursue adoption, I have a suggestion: Get your priorities straight. The most important things you can give a kid are love and acceptance. After that, everything is gravy.”

  “I’ll meet you at the station, Mrs. Stottlemeyer,” said Bonnie.

  We watched as the uniformed patrol officers helped Bernice out of my store and into the waiting squad car.

  “I can’t say anything without it being a breach of attorney-client privilege,” she said, “but let’s talk in hypotheticals. Let’s say there’s a family with two sisters, and the older one is always top dog. Then the younger one has an adorable baby, and suddenly the older sister starts feeling like she’s been passed over. You with me? So all of a sudden, that older sister gets desperate to have a child. Even to adopt one. See how that could happen?”

  “So it never really was about wanting a child. It was about not wanting to come in second.”

  “You didn’t hear that from me,” said Bonnie. “And by the way, the birth mother loved your album. She wanted to know who did it. What’s more, Bernice was there when the birth mother asked who created the album.”

  “Let me guess. The birth mother was immediately turned off by Bernice Stottlemeyer’s attitude.”

  “I never said that,” and Bonnie winked at me.

  “You didn’t need to.”

  Chapter 74

  After Hadcho left, Clancy and I started cleaning up the mess that Bernice had made. I was sweeping glitter into a dustpan when a customer came over and asked, “Do you know whose red car that is in your parking lot?”

  “Yes, it’s mine.” I straightened so I could rub the small of my back.

  “Did you know your tires were slashed? And that your windows are all bashed in?”

  “You have to be kidding.” I set the pan full of glitter on my work table. What was I going to do without a car? I marched out the front door and took a look. As I did, I noticed that more rain clouds had gathered. Yes, we definitely were in for more bad weather.

  “Wow, what a mess,” I said as I stared at my car. I knew exactly what happened—and whodunnit. Standing there, glancing at the damage, I phoned Hadcho and told him about the vandalism. “My car was fine ten minutes before Bernice Stottlemeyer visited my store,” I said.

  “Got it. I’m headed back your way.”

  Sure enough, he was right at my side. “Huh. She did a number on your tires. I’ll call an officer to take your statement. Meanwhile, you might want to call your insurance agency and a tow truck. Tell the tow truck to give us a couple of hours here. At the least. Do you remember what kind of tires you have? Because all of yours will need replacing.”

  Fortunately, I keep tire purchase paperwork in my glove compartment. Bits of glass were scattered all over the seats. I grabbed the paperwork and headed for the store, brushing tears from my eyes.

  I tried not to react emotionally to the damage. After all, a car is a car. But that old Beemer was one of the few things left from my marriage to George. The front bumper was still dented from where I’d j
umped out and let the car ram into a tree rather than allow Bill Ballard to kidnap me. The roof was tired and dull. The back bumper was scratched from where another car had bumped me.

  But all in all, this car had served me well—and seeing it with flattened tires saddened me. They looked like four frownie faces, drooping there on the glass covered pavement.

  I went back inside Time in a Bottle and made the call to Triple A. Because a number of drivers had stalled out in the rain, the tow truck might not be able to get to me for hours. Maybe even until the next day. I understood. My car wasn’t going anywhere, and it wasn’t obstructing traffic or blocking a lane. My need wasn’t a priority.

  But Anya, Aunt Penny, and I have to have need rides home. We were out of the way for Clancy, even though I knew she’d give us a ride if push came to shove. But then I’d have no way to open the store the next morning.

  There was no help for it but to call Sheila. “Hey, I have a favor to ask. A big one. May I borrow your car?”

  She listened while I explained what had happened to the Beemer. I added, “I hate to ask you, but frankly, I’m out of options.”

  “Since I’ve trusted you with my life, I think I can see my way clear to trusting you with my Mercedes,” she said. “Robbie was on his way out the door to pick up more eggs. How about if I have him take my car to do his errands, and you can drop him back at the house?”

  “I really, really appreciate it. How’s it going otherwise?”

  She sighed. “Not well.”

  I conveyed my sympathies and got off the phone. Taking Robbie back to her house would mean re-arranging my work schedule. That wasn’t a huge problem, but certainly would be an inconvenience.

  “We’re done with your car,” said one of the crime scene investigators, as he came up to my work table and handed me his card. “But you might want to get it towed or covered because it feels like we’re in for more rain.”

  “Mom! Come see how much we’ve gotten done!” Anya ran up beside me, jiggling from one leg to the other with excitement.

  I walked toward the back of the store and gazed in wonder. When I’d last looked, Anya and Penny were busy marking drywall and prepping to cut it. Since then, my daughter and my aunt had managed to hoist and nail all the sheets of drywall. As a result of their combined efforts, we now had our new yarn room. Best of all, I’d saved a bundle of money by using my free labor.

  “This is amazing,” I said.

  “Yes, indeedy-do,” said Aunt Penny. “Next step is taping and mudding. See where the panels of drywall meet? We’ll spread joint compound over the cracks and then put tape on top of it. We’ll smooth that out. We’ll also fill all our nail holes. Got to let all of it dry, repeat the process of adding compound two more times, and then sand it down.”

  “Very impressive,” I said, and I meant it. “Could the two of you take a small break and do something for me?”

  I explained about the damage to my car.

  “That woman was such a witch!” said Anya. “I am so glad she’s in jail now. That should teach her a lesson.”

  “I wish I’d used that nail gun on her tender bits,” said Aunt Penny.

  “Okay, moving right along. It’s looking like it might rain again. If it does, the rain will ruin the leather seats. Could you take one of these drop cloths and put it over the BMW?” I asked.

  “What will we use for a car?” asked Anya.

  “Sheila has agreed to let me borrow her car. Robbie will be by with it.”

  “Covering up your car won’t take but a minute. How about if we do that and walk across the street to that convenience store before it rains?” said Aunt Penny, sending a quizzical look toward Anya. “We can pick up sandwiches for lunch. I’ve been hankering for pimento cheese or egg salad.”

  “I can drop you off there,” said Clancy. “I need to run by the pharmacy to get a refill on my prescription. I’ll wait until you cover the car and then give you a ride.”

  All three of them left at once. With the store finally empty, I went back to the task of picking up after Bernice Stottlemeyer. I started by retrieving the scattered bottles of glitter. Since bending down was becoming harder and harder for me, I finally gave up and started crawling around on my hands and knees, chasing after the missing containers and sweeping up the sparkling dust.

  Glitter, as any crafter will tell you, is a real pain to round up. It sticks to everything, via static cling. I’d managed to brush up as much loose stuff as I could. That had been a good start, but the longer I was down there, the more glitter I found hiding. The door minder rang and in walked Vincent. It took me a while to struggle to my feet.

  “What do you think?” I asked, as he flipped through the album I’d made for Sheila.

  His eyes lingered on the page with the photo of the Jimmy Girls.

  “Interesting,” he said, reaching up to adjust his black beret. He wore his hair in a low ponytail wrapped with a leather tie. To my mind, it was a bit too much. Why not wear a sign that say, “Artsy guy alert!”

  “Are those Sheila’s pictures?” I asked, pointing at the box on the worktable.

  “Yes. I do digital slide shows for each customer to use for selection purposes. Makes life so much easier than the old days when you had to print up a contact sheet and have people squint over the tiny pictures,” he said.

  “I can’t wait to see these.” I set down the dustpan and opened the box. An ivory sheet of stationery resting on the top of the stack thanked Sheila for her business and reminded her that if she wanted more copies, she would need to contact him. As with most professional photographers, he maintained the exclusive right to make copies. The letter was a classy way of underscoring that fact.

  I started to put the cover sheet aside, but something caught my eye.

  At the bottom of the letter, he’d signed it with his full name: Vincent Wasserman.

  That rang a bell, but why?

  Chapter 75

  “Looks like my timing was perfect.” Robbie walked up from the back to join us.

  Vincent Wasserman turned as white as a cleric’s collar. He cleared his throat and adjusted his beret one more time.

  “How are you?” Robbie extended his huge hand to the photographer for a friendly shake.

  I felt, rather than saw, Vincent hesitate before he extended his right hand to meet Robbie’s. Simultaneously, the photographer slipped his free hand into the back pocket of his black jeans. The movement wasn’t casual. It was purposeful. I saw the fabric move and realized Vincent was gripping something deep in his pocket.

  But what?

  My heart did a tiny flutter step in my chest.

  Oh, my gosh. All the pieces came together.

  Miriam Wasserman. That was the name of the dead Jimmy Girl.

  Dr. Hyman’s murderer was standing right beside me.

  Vincent shifted his weight onto his toes, centering his balance. I knew exactly why. This was a moved I’d been taught in ballet class. By centering his weight, Vincent was giving himself more options. Now he could move left or right. He withdrew his hand slightly from his pocket and angled his body to block my view. I responded by stepping where I could almost see what he was doing, if the table top wasn’t in my way.

  Click.

  The noise was so faint that Robbie didn’t hear it, but I thought that I knew what I’d heard. Vincent had a knife. A switchblade, I would guess. I rested my palms on the top of my worktable and leaned on it very slowly moving myself forward. By levering my body over my hands, I widened my viewing angle. That’s when I saw it, a long silver blade winked at me. The black handle was gripped in Vincent’s hand. The quillion, that crossbeam that separates the blade from the handle, gleamed. I could make out the double edge of the blade.

  I wanted to scream, as I realized that Robbie couldn’t see what Vincent held in his hand. Not with the way that Vincent was standing. When I shifted my weight back onto the soles of my feet, I couldn’t see the blade anymore either.

  My heart
pounded so loudly, I was sure both men could hear it. For a second, I thought I might black out. The sales floor started to spin. But I told myself I couldn’t. No way. I had to warn Robbie. I had to save us!

  The problem was how?

  Detweiler had told me about knife fights. All cops dreaded them. Detweiler had explained the 21-feet rule to me. Even a trained marksman can’t defend himself in the time it takes an assailant to travel 21 feet with a knife. Robbie was only three feet from Vincent, on the same side of the table as the photographer. I was six, with a table between us. I’d moved so that I was at a 45-degree angle from Vincent. To my left was the dust pan, in front of me was Sheila’s album, and to my right was the box of photos. I couldn’t even remember what I’d done with my phone.

  Robbie didn’t realize what Vincent held in his hand.

  Or did he?

  I couldn’t tell.

  “Are these the photos?” asked Robbie. “Great! Sheila has been wanting to see them. Kiki, why don’t you go call her? The reception would be better outside, don’t you think?”

  So he did know what was happening. He was trying to get me out of danger.

  “Um, I have a set for you, too,” said Vincent. “They’re in my van.”

  “Great,” said Robbie in a casual voice. “Why don’t you go get them? Kiki can call Sheila from the phone in her office.”

  No, no, no! I wanted to scream. I can’t leave you alone with him! He’ll stab you!

  Robbie’s gun wouldn’t help either of us. This would be over before he aimed and fired.

  My mouth went dry. I could hear my heart pounding. But I couldn’t focus on what they were saying. Something about paying for the pictures. Some nonsense to jockey for position.

  The hairs on the back of my neck stood up. Goosebumps rose on my arms. It was up to me to save us. If I could distract Vincent, Robbie could step in and grab him. But how could I do that?

  To save us, I would have to prevent Vincent from lashing out with his blade. That would be his automatic response. I needed to do something that would occupy his hands. I would have to force his instincts to override his objective. And then Robbie could knock the knife out of his hands.