Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  As it turns out, the unlikeliest of duos had hatched this scheme: Police Chief Holmes and Johnny Chambers. Who’d have thunk it?

  Johnny is the brother of Mert Chambers, my best friend, and he has a police record. He fell in with a bad group of friends just out of high school. He started drinking and got picked up for driving under the influence. Mert paid for an attorney, and Johnny started to straighten out his life. Then one night, Johnny met a few pals at a bar. They watched a Rams game, and since the Rams were then “the greatest show on turf,” the friends decided to celebrate the success by getting totally wasted.

  Not wanting to hazard another DUI, Johnny accepted a ride home with his buddies.

  Turns out, they weren’t going directly home. They planned to stop at a convenience store and rob it.

  But Johnny didn’t know that. He had passed out in the back seat. When he came to, one of the robbers shoved him out the passenger door and onto the pavement of the parking lot and tossed a gun after him. Johnny spent five years down in Potosi for armed robbery. Mert paid all his legal fees.

  When Johnny was released, he started paying her back. He’s really good with landscaping. He’s been working for a grounds-keeping company, as well as freelancing at several houses around town, including doing yard work for my mother-in-law, Sheila. He ran into Police Chief Robbie Holmes while working at Sheila’s.

  Somehow Johnny and Robbie struck up a conversation. Somehow the subject turned to me and my problems, which Johnny knew in full.

  Johnny and I had dated a few times before Detweiler and his wife separated. I have to admit, Johnny is a terrific kisser and the kind of “bad boy” that makes you wonder if being a “good girl” is worth the bother. But ultimately, my heart longed for Detweiler, and without me even telling Johnny, he knew our relationship wasn’t going anywhere.

  But still he’s my friend and my best friend’s brother. So Johnny had been privy to the sort of threats I was getting from Bill Ballard, the sort of havoc Bill caused in my life. He knew about Bill kidnapping me. About how Bill had either spent or run off with all of my husband’s portion of their business. And finally, he knew about how Bill had been harassing me, sending threatening postcards.

  Like his sister, Mert, Johnny has an overly developed sense of fairness. Bill’s bad behavior ticked Johnny off.

  “Kiki’s a good gal, and she don’t deserve to live in fear. Nobody does,” Johnny said to Police Chief Holmes. “Surely there’s something I can do to help. Can’t you use the fact I’ve served time to some advantage? I’ve got the right connections with the wrong sort of people.”

  Police Chief Holmes promised to think about it. He sort of back-burnered the idea until the sniper attack. The violent images juxtaposed against one of the city’s more pastoral and honored rituals caused calls and letters to flood his office. Each day’s letters to the editor in the Post-Dispatch brought more and more vitriolic responses to the tragedy.

  The force of this blowback—and a tense meeting with the mayor—caused Robbie to reconsider all his options. Reminded of the politic maneuvering behind his appointment, Robbie decided to act forcefully and quickly. While “using” a criminal was a bad option, a desperate option, it was a better option than any other plan on the table.

  He and Johnny met at a local diner and held a strategy session, or so Detweiler explained to me.

  My guy pulled me closer, bent his head to talk to me in a low voice. “You need to have a very public fight with Johnny in front of a group of people. Has to be nasty business. Ugly stuff.”

  “I couldn’t do that.”

  “Yes, you can.”

  “What would we fight about?”

  “You should reject him. Hurt his feelings. Challenge his manhood. Tell him you aren’t interested and you don’t want him hanging around. Tell him he’s not good enough for you. That you don’t want to be seen with an ex-con.”

  “I would never say that! He’s Mert’s brother!”

  “Right. That’s exactly why Mert can’t know about this being a setup.”

  “She’ll be mad at me!”

  “I imagine she will.”

  Twenty-four

  “I can’t do it. Can’t we just wait? Won’t the prosecuting attorney press charges against Bill? You know what he told me. He confessed

  to murdering Roxanne.”

  “He’s told his attorney that you staged that whole car-napping scene. That you were trying to get money out of him.”

  Stars swam in front of my eyes. I grabbed onto the concrete block erosion wall and tried to keep my balance. The neighborhood around our store is pretty transitional, but the residents try to keep up appearances. We’d made two turns around the block, so this was our usual stopping point for private chats. No one from the store could see or overhear our conversation.

  Or my tears. Which started flowing hot and heavy.

  Lately, I’ve been crying a lot. I guess I’m just being hormonal. This should have been a happy time in my life for a lot of reasons, one of which I chose to keep to myself for a little longer.

  But there were plenty of public reasons to celebrate. Detweiler and I were enjoying each other’s company, and we had a future ahead of us. But my mom’s constant harping was wearing me down. So was my unease about the store. Even before Margit showed up, I had a hunch Dodie was going to choose a partner without consulting me. More and more, my boss acted without my input. She had my money. I was a part-owner, but I quickly came to realize that as a minority stockholder, I’d bought myself nothing but headaches. No voting privileges. No special rights or input. Just the slim chance of sharing in a yearly bonus that might or might not repay a portion of the investment I’d made.

  I’d always thought of Dodie as a very fair person, but her high-handed decision-making style was eroding that opinion.

  And Mom? Well, she’d never liked me. Ever. I remembered her picking at me and finding fault as I was growing up. I’ve heard some people say their mothers always “had their back.” But my mother never treated me like she loved me. Or liked me. Or approved of me.

  I knew why.

  I just didn’t want to think about it.

  Mert had been more of a mother to me. Mert was the constant in my life. She would gladly go to bat for me, and as a matter of fact, she had on numerous occasions.

  Now Detweiler was suggesting that I honk off my best friend.

  He must have read my mind. “Kiki, Johnny is risking his life. He’s putting himself on the line for you. I know it will be hard for you to have Mert mad, but the only people who know about this scheme are you, me, Police Chief Holmes, and Johnny. We might have to let Sheila in on this, just so she knows to stay vigilant, especially while you and Anya are at her house. I’ll wait until Chief Holmes tells me to include her in our plans. But Mert can’t know. It’s just too risky. It’s entirely possible that she will still forgive you for saying something nasty about her brother. At the start, she has to believe you’ve quarreled. It has to be public, so that Johnny’s actions make sense. He’ll be safe to the degree that he’s believable. Otherwise, Bill could turn on Johnny in a flash.”

  I sighed and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. He was right. If this plan was to work, Mert couldn’t know. But he was wrong about the reasons. My friend had worked so hard to get her brother released from prison, and harder still to help him create a new life free from the currents of the underworld. This would put all that in jeopardy.

  She would hate me for doing this.

  “It’s Johnny’s choice,” said Detweiler. “He suggested this to Chief Holmes. I guess he wants to make amends.”

  I could see that. Johnny and I often talked about retribution. We understood how guilt eats away at your joyfulness. I knew he wanted to feel he’d repaid society for “being stupid,” as he put it.

  “I b
etter get back to the store.” I picked up Gracie’s leash.

  Detweiler stopped me. “What’s a good time for you to do this? We need to know so we can protect you. Obviously, it would be best for you to stay at Sheila’s.”

  “Why?”

  “Robbie will be there at night, there’s a great alarm system, and we can easily observe the house. Your place in Webster Groves is too secluded.”

  “But if I stay at Sheila’s won’t that tip Bill off ? He’s bound to know something’s up.”

  Detweiler rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does your house need any work done? Anything that Mr. Haversham has been putting off ?”

  “No, nothing. Wait—the roof ! We lost a bunch of shingles during that last storm,” I said.

  “That’ll work. I’ll call Mr. Haversham and ask him for his help. Maybe he can get the work started immediately. Any ideas when and where you could pick a fight with Johnny?”

  “There’s a Fine Arts and Crafts Fair this weekend at Faust Park. We’ll have a booth. Dodie asked Johnny to help us cart all our stuff there and set up. I guess that’s as good a time as any. If we fight right after the fair opens, there should be plenty of people around.”

  “Faust covers two hundred acres,” said Detweiler. “Who would see you? Won’t folks be scattered all over? They’d be paying attention to the various booths and re-enactments. I’m not sure anyone would notice a quarrel over all the hubbub.”

  “Well, if he and I fought during the setup Wednesday night, the other vendors would be there. Our booths are located in a concentrated area, the prime space next to the building with the carousel inside.”

  “When exactly does the setup start?”

  “Six p.m. on Wednesday. There’s a V.I.P. preview that follows. Closing at eight. Let’s get the kinks out, if there are any.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Actually, it sounded like the perfect way to ruin another lovely spring evening.

  Twenty-five

  True to her plan, Margit left as the local church bells rang noon. “I cannot work Monday—”

  “Or Wednesday afternoons or Sundays,” I repeated.

  “Ja,” she smiled. “You have it right. I go to visit my mother at Oak Haven. We have delightful meals together, and she expects me. I must be there. ”

  Oak Haven was a retirement home on the South Side. That was all I knew about the place. I made a mental note to Google it and see what I could learn. More information might help me to get to know Margit better. After all, I had known next to nothing about Bama, and that ignorance nearly cost both of us our lives.

  Our Monday night croppers straggled in. Wendy Jo and Angela arrived early, eager to hear my version of the sniper attack. I got so weary of repeating the gruesome events that I decided I would type up the next crisis in my life, laminate it, and wear it around my neck as a signboard. But, deep down, their concern touched me, and I knew our scrappers weren’t just asking because they were curious. They truly cared.

  Rita Romano said, “Is Anya okay? All those girls must have been scared to death!”

  A poor choice of words, that.

  “I texted her at noon. She seemed fine. She texted me back that they discussed the shooting during advisory and during an assembly at chapel. A grief counselor held office hours. I think Anya planned to talk with the woman.” I set down additional rubber stamps for the ATC cards we were making.

  ATC means Artist Trading Cards, but everyone calls them ATC cards, which is redundant. Each one is a work of art on a 2½ by 3½ inch canvas. Back in 1996, a Zurich artist named M. Vänçi Stirnemann organized the first trading session of the cards as a way for people to meet face-to-face and share their creativity. Think of baseball cards, now swap out artistic designs for photos of designated hitters, and you’ll get the picture. Literally.

  Jennifer Moore joined us. Her daughter Nicci is Anya’s best friend. “The advantages of a private school. There’s money in the budget for a counselor. Gosh, am I ever glad that Nicci opted out of that silly ritual.”

  “What? Opted out? I thought it was mandatory.” I spilled an entire container of blue glitter on the work table. Drat. That stuff loves static electricity. It’s mega-hard to pick up.

  “Used to be,” said Lisa Burton, who set down her tote bag with all its pockets for papercrafting supplies. Lisa’s daughter Sydney was a year ahead of Nicci and Anya. “That changed this year when a group of girls went to Elliott McMahan and protested.”

  “Um, not really,” added Maggie Earheart, another CALA mom and a friend, who dragged along her Cropper Hopper, a rolling suitcase for scrappers. “It changed when someone from said ‘group of girls’ contacted an organization of feminists who threatened to hold a protest right outside the school’s front door.”

  “They didn’t stop there,” said Jennifer. “Those feminists—of which I am a card-carrying member—contacted the ACLU. We were willing to take the school to court.”

  “Gee,” I said, “I’m surprised at you, Jennifer. You being Old St. Louis and all.”

  She chuckled. Although she was one of the very, very prominent members of the Old Guard, she held very, very modern views.

  “I didn’t want them to drop the May Day celebration entirely. I just wanted girls to have choices, that’s all,” said Jennifer. “That’s part of what education is all about. Expanding one’s choices, right?”

  Maggie shrugged. “The hubbub didn’t leave Mr. McMahan with many choices. He can’t afford to put an end to the May Day ceremony. Or rather, Lane Carlée can’t afford to end it now that she’s the new development director. Losing that money on her watch would be a career killer, and she’s very gung-ho, or so I’ve heard.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, and I didn’t. “The May Day ceremony has to be expensive. They set up all those chairs and the platform. Rent a PA system. Buy flowers, hire a choreographer. Wouldn’t the school save money by cancelling? I mean, if all the parents agreed to donate the money they spent on costumes, CALA would surely come out ahead.”

  “Ah, but think of all the revenue the school would lose,” Jennifer helped me brush up the glitter with a fabric softener sheet, which cuts the static cling nicely.

  “What revenue? No one pays for tickets to attend,” I said.

  Maggie grinned at me. “You are such a babe in the woods, Kiki. You are so naïve, so clueless.”

  Jennifer hugged me. “And that’s what we love about you. You don’t have a cynical bone in your body.”

  That series of clichés irked me, as it felt like my friends were in on a joke, but I wasn’t. However, seeing as I was the de facto hostess of this crop, I plastered a pleasant smile on my face. “Then clue me in.”

  Clancy looked up from the card she was dipping in glitter. “I bet the alumnae donations were threatened, right? All those women who had participated in the ceremony in years gone by. To them, it’s a sacred ritual. At least, I imagine it is.”

  I had forgotten that she once taught high school in Illinois. She knew the inner workings of the educational system better than I did.

  “Bingo!” said Maggie. “The majority of endowments come from women, not men, because most women outlive their spouses. When one of the alumnae heard that May Day might be cancelled, she stormed into Mr. McMahan’s office, checkbook in hand, and threatened to change her will.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Jennifer and Maggie exchanged looks.

  “Who indeed?” said Maggie. “Who indeed.”

  Twenty-six

  Jennifer held up her trading card. “This needs something, but I don’t know what.”

  I puffed up with pride. When she first started crafting, Jennifer showed no sense of style. After nearly a year, that same fashion sense that dominated her tasteful war
drobe came through in her crafting. She could examine a piece and determine what it was lacking. That was the first step to bumping up her skill level.

  “Try an embellishment here,” I suggested.

  “Can we see the album you’re making for CALA?” asked Jennifer. “I bumped into Lane Carlée and she mentioned the school had commissioned one for the family and one for their archives.”

  I saw no harm in that. The album was to be on display in the school library, so it wasn’t a secret. I ran to the back and grabbed the big book. After carefully clearing a space on the front counter, I opened my project.

  “You do beautiful work.” Jennifer flipped through the pages while Maggie peered over her shoulder.

  “Peyton is a darling girl,” said Maggie, using her index finger to point out the Fitzgerald girl. “But she’s always been a bit of a tomboy. Hates girlie clothes. Dresses like a boy in Reeboks, Dockers, and golf shirts. Wears a Swatch.”

  “Did you have her in class?” I asked.

  “I had her in fourth grade and again when I substituted for the freshman English teacher. Peyton is wonderful. Brilliant mind. But she’s also determined to express her individuality. She can be a handful, but a good kid. I heard she’s going to Princeton. I think she aced her SATs, and of course she’d be given preference to matriculate since she’s a legacy.”

  “Her father or mother went?” I wondered.

  “Heavens no,” said Jennifer. “Her grandfather, Gergen, did. Her dad, poor Peter, barely graduated from CALA. I think he’s dyslexic, or has another learning disorder, but back then, no one diagnosed the problem like they can today. He’s a superb artist, but he was an awful student in the regular subjects. Deanna is nice enough. Her family is from the Lake.”

  That was St. Louis-speak for “Lake of the Ozarks,” which was also code for “hillbilly.”

  That one remark—“Her family is from the Lake”—told me everything I needed to know. Jennifer never bad-mouthed other CALA parents, but her lackluster praise said volumes. It was clear that she didn’t think much of Deanna.