Ready, Scrap, Shoot

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  At Faust Park, Dodie greeted Mom warmly, took her salad gratefully, and told me about what she’d sold. When Mom toddled off to look over our neighbor’s booth, Dodie gave me a broad grin. “After I finish eating, I’ll take her for a stroll and show her the 1920 carousel.”

  “Carousel?” Mom’s ears perked up and she came back over to us. I bought her a bag of kettle corn and all of us munched happily on the sweet snack.

  “The carousel is inside that special building. It has sixty hand-carved animals. They’re absolutely beautiful,” said Dodie. My boss turned her attention toward me. “Kiki, do you know if Clancy showed up to relieve Margit? I don’t think she’s comfortable with the cash register yet.”

  “I gave Margit a quick tutorial. I told her to call me if she had any problems.”

  “I appreciate that, Sunshine. Really I do.” Dodie’s eyes lit up with the sort of spark I hadn’t seen in awhile, at least not since she’d been taking chemo and radiation therapy for cancer of the larynx. “It’s good to hear you two are getting off on the right foot.”

  Suddenly, our booth began to sway and tremble. The back wall buckled outwards. This wouldn’t be St. Louis’s first earthquake, or it’s last … but then I realized that the tremor was only affecting our little domicile.

  “What on earth?” I leapt to my feet and grabbed at the back wall, but my fingers missed their grip. All three of us watched in horror as it crashed down, taking hundreds of dollars of merchandise along.

  Standing to one side of the mess was a laughing Brenda Detweiler. “How do you like that? Homewrecker!”

  But I didn’t have time to react to her, because I was busy trying to steady the left and right walls. Without the back side bracing them, they listed dangerously toward the center. I raced to the left, and Dodie stood up and steadied the right. Brenda ran to Dodie’s side and pushed against the wobbling structure.

  “Stop it! Get away!” Dodie swatted at her. “Somebody help! Help!”

  “Mom, run!” I held up my side of the structure with one arm as I frantically gestured to my mother to clear out. But she stood there in the center, mesmerized by the activity around her.

  “Mom, please move. I’m begging you. This could fall. I don’t want you to get hurt.”

  “Stop it, Brenda! Quit it!” Dodie’s raspy voice soared over creaks and moans of the rocking structure. Shrink-wrapped packages fell to the dirt as Brenda’s rhythmic shoving motion loosened the hooks holding them.

  “Brenda?” I straddled the left wall to brace it. “Knock it off. Let’s talk, okay? Just you and me? No need to involve Dodie or my mother.”

  “Done talking,” she said followed by a mighty “ooph.”

  With my free hand I reached into my pocket and hit the speed dial for Detweiler.

  But Brenda moved faster than I did. She slapped my phone out of my hand. “I told you to stay away from my husband! You slut! I told you you’d be sorry! I’m on to you, Kiki Lowenstein!” She reached over and grabbed a handful of my hair.

  “Ow!” I yelled.

  “Hey, lady. Knock it off.” A passerby pulled on Brenda’s sweatshirt. His tug caused her to lose her grip on me.

  Two men came to my aid, lending their shoulders to support the booth wall, and a third, a beefy guy who could have been a professional wrestler, raised his huge arms to steady Dodie’s side. “Cut it out,” Big Man said to Brenda.

  In response, Brenda bobbed and weaved. She ducked under the framework and lifted one side of our display table. The cash register slid off the surface, hit the ground, and bounced along, jingling merrily. The drawer flew open and money fluttered up and around like a legion of green butterflies chasing copper and silver coins.

  “Stop that!” A security guard came over at a trot.

  Dodging the mess she’d made, Brenda raced off into the crowd.

  Fifty-six

  It took longer for us to make a police report and reorganize the booth than it had to set it up originally. Our merchandise littered the grassy aisle and scattered over into other booths. Dodie and I scrambled to pick up metal pegs, shrink-wrapped packages, tools, supplies, and money. Mom helped by sorting the dollar bills and coins as we retrieved them.

  The cash register refused to work.

  “Thirty-six dollars and twenty-five cents short,” said Dodie punctuating the loss from our drawer with a long and sorrowful sigh. “But that’s nothing compared to the bill for getting this thing fixed.”

  We both knew the encounter had cost more than that. While we were putzing around with the booth, we lost out on the opportunity to engage potential customers. Visitors to the art fair gave us a wide berth, noting that our wares were in disarray. We tried to maintain a cheery attitude, but the destruction hurt.

  Maybe I should apologize. But why? This wasn’t my fault! I had done nothing to provoke Brenda Detweiler’s ire. She had thrown her husband out, causing the final breach of their marital contract—and this was after he’d supported her while she was going through drug rehab. Now she wanted Chad Detweiler back, but harassing me wasn’t the way to his heart. Somewhere along the line, she’d failed to take responsibility for her own behavior. I was loathe to apologize to Dodie because that seemed to me to signal that, indeed, I was to blame, just like Brenda had suggested.

  The heightened drama around our booth’s near-collapse suited Mom’s sense of theatre. She flitted around “helping” us and chatting with the astonished passers-by about that “crazy woman” who attacked her daughter. I marveled at my mother’s ability to turn every situation into a platform for her to talk about her favorite subject: Lucia Montgomery. While I rehung our page kits, Mom told attendees about her career on stage. “Jealousy! That’s what this was all about. I put up with more than my share of it throughout my career. So many of the other chorus girls wished they had my talent,” she said as she patted her hair into place.

  For once I was happy she could weave fanciful tales. Her ongoing commentary kept her busy while Dodie and I worked. Mom positioned herself in the middle of our booth and held court, while we straightened out the mess.

  Several page kits and packages of patterned paper were ruined beyond saving. Dodie and I conferred, ultimately deciding to label a cardboard box “damaged goods” and starting the painful process of marking these down.

  I was bent over a page kit trying to flatten the crumpled embellishments when I heard a voice sing out, “Luci! Darling, Luci! I’ve been looking all over for you!”

  I straightened in time to see a woman set down two suitcases and start running toward my mother. The two hugged and kissed and cooed over each other. The newcomer had a frizzled head of over-processed bleached hair. Her kisses left pink lipstick imprints on my mother’s cheek.

  Dodie shot me a quizzical look. I shrugged, mouthing, “Beats me.”

  “Um, I’m Kiki Lowenstein.” I extended my hand toward the newcomer.

  “Of course you are,” Bleached Blondie said, handling my digits as if trying to avoid a contagious disease.

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “I didn’t catch your name.”

  “Why, Kiki, don’t you know who this is? I’ve been telling you about her. I’ve missed her so much!” Mom slipped a proprietary arm around the woman’s waist. The two shared a giggle.

  Bleached Blondie gave me a half-smile and narrowed her eyes. “Claudia. Claudia Turrow.”

  Fifty-seven

  “Okay, let’s call it a day,” I sang out, eager to leave our booth. In my experience, there are days that can’t be salvaged. Instead, it’s best to end them early, to call it quits and retreat, with hope for a good night’s sleep and the promise of a clean slate on the morrow. Forget knitting up the raveled sleeve of care. Toss the old mess and start anew.

  “Come on, Claudia,” said Mom. After roaming the grounds and sampling the
other exhibits, Mom and her BFF commandeered the only two chairs we had in the booth, never offering to share or spell me. I stood for the next four hours, greeting shoppers and writing out sales tickets by hand. While I worked, they gossiped and giggled.

  “Claudia, where can I drop you off ?” I said as we walked toward my car.

  “She’s staying with me.” Mom swung an arm around her friend’s shoulders.

  “That would work if you had your own place, but since Linnea left,”—after you drove her away by insulting the poor woman—“Sheila’s stuck doing all the housework. I’m sure we can find a nice hotel for Claudia.”

  “Oh, no. I’m here for Luci. I couldn’t possibly leave her. She needs me. I don’t mind sharing a room with her. I’ll even sleep on a sofa if I have to. Or on the floor.” Claudia’s thin grin smacked of self-satisfaction. “We could even share a bed.”

  Ugh. Icky gross.

  “I’m so sorry, but that won’t work.” I smiled and in return received a frosty glare.

  The glint in Claudia’s eyes told me this was a standoff, but I wasn’t giving in. “Where can I drop you? There’s a lovely Drury Inn right down the street.”

  “She can stay in my room,” Mom said. “I don’t know why you are being so rude. Ever since that man shot at you—”

  “What? Oh, my darling Luci! Were you there? Are you all right?” Claudia threw both arms around my mother.

  Right on cue, Mom burst into sobs.

  Claudia continued over my mother’s caterwauling. “What if something had happened to you? I can’t bear to think about it. It must have been awful! My poor dear, brave, Luci!”

  “You can’t imagine. I was so scared! Bullets flying. People yelling. I lost my shoes!” Mom sobbed like a lost toddler. I stood off to the side, an interloper, watching this strange woman with the fresh-fried Day-Glo hair as she patted my mother’s back and murmured, “There, there. You poor baby.”

  Fifty-eight

  The ride to Sheila’s never seemed so long. Claudia and Mother huddled together in the back seat, whispering and exchanging secrets. After I parked the car, Claudia helped Mom out. “Kiki, I’ll need my bags,” Claudia sang out to me as she led my mother into Sheila’s house.

  I fumed but decided I had no choice but to play the role of bell captain.

  “I’m starving,” said my mother, while watching me struggle to carry her two suitcases into the house. I’d just crossed the threshold when Claudia let go of Sheila’s heavy front door. It walloped me a good one, bruising my elbows.

  “So am I,” said Claudia. “In fact, I’m famished. They don’t feed you on the plane. I was in such a hurry to see you that I didn’t stop to eat after we landed.” She paused and looked around. “Nice place you’ve got here. I guess I’d better change if we’re going out to eat.”

  I bit my tongue. “We won’t be eating out.”

  “But I’m hungry!” Mom’s voice climbed a notch higher. “So is Claudia.”

  My own stomach rumbled. Gracie looked at me and whimpered, so I let her outside and put down kibble. Both women stared at me expectantly. I’d been on my feet all day, but they climbed onto Sheila’s kitchen stools, propped their elbows on the counter, and started yakking.

  I gave in. Sheila kept a well-stocked pantry, so I found a can of tuna fish, another of peas, a can of cream of mushroom soup, and a box of macaroni and cheese. I didn’t ask if they liked tuna noodle casserole. I simply put the water on the stove to boil and went upstairs to change out of my work clothes. My waistband dug into my skin, leaving an angry red mark. Peeling out of the slacks and blouse, I slipped into a hot shower. That buggy feeling from my ride in the squad car was still with me. Soaping up felt good. In fact, I toyed with the idea of staying under the water until it turned cold, but in the end, I figured my mother would come hunting for me.

  When I got back to the kitchen, I saw that Mom and Claudia had moved from the kitchen stools to the plush overstuffed sofa in Sheila’s living room. Claudia maintained a clear view of the kitchen from her seat.

  “Don’t you have anything we could nibble on? Cheese and crackers? Some brie perhaps? Or a hunk of Wensleydale? A glass of wine? I’d like a nice merlot,” Claudia called to me. “Luci would like one, too. Please make sure it’s a good bottle. Cheap wine gives us both a headache.”

  While I rummaged in Sheila’s cupboard and refrigerator, I comforted myself by playing the “good news/bad news” game. The good news was that I knew exactly where Claudia was. She hadn’t moved in with Mom, so she didn’t have access to Mom’s family treasures, such as they were. Or to Mom’s meager bank account. The bad news was that I now was dealing with both Mom and Claudia, or to be more precise, I was now relegated to the role of household help for two imperious—and hungry—divas.

  If I’d had more energy, I might have stiffened my backbone. If I hadn’t been worrying about Bill Ballard, I might have shooed Claudia away and told her to stay away. Admittedly, Claudia had a calming effect on Mom, and right now was a bad time for me to cope with one of Mom’s meltdowns. We had too much at risk.

  First I’d deal with Bill Ballard, then I’d handle Ms. Claudia Turrow.

  Fifty-nine

  While I put together a plate of cheese and crackers, I phoned Robbie Holmes to tell him about the havoc Brenda had wreaked on our booth. “Robbie, I’m worried that she’s following me. What if she gets in the middle of this thing with Bill?”

  Robbie sighed. “Look, I’d like to help, but you girls will have to settle this quarrel yourselves.”

  I couldn’t believe what he was saying. He made it sound like a high school spat over who we sat next to in the cafeteria.

  “You do know that Brenda’s dad is an important politician over in Illinois, don’t you?” Robbie asked.

  No, I didn’t.

  “He’s all over Chad’s parents about the divorce. I guess he’s really steamed.”

  Great. Could things get any better? I wasn’t even officially involved with their son and the Detweilers already had reason to dislike me.

  “Just … just deal with it, Kiki,” Robbie said. “We’re close to wrapping this up. Bill and Johnny made contact last night. Bill actually went looking for Johnny because he heard about the spat you had at Faust Park. Lucky for us, Johnny’s been hanging out at the same bar every night, so he was easy enough for Bill to find.”

  He paused and spoke in a low tone, “Bill wants Johnny to ‘grab’ you from the store.”

  “What do I need to do?”

  “Nothing. It’s best that you be surprised. Johnny will pretend to kidnap you, probably on a night when you work late. He’ll drive you to a designated spot under a viaduct, and swap you out for a female officer who is about your size.”

  “But how about Johnny? Will he be safe? I mean, what if Bill pulls a gun on him?” I knew that as a condition of parole, Johnny couldn’t have a firearm in his possession.

  “Johnny knew the risks going in. Look, there’s a GPS tracking device under Johnny’s truck and under his sister Mert’s truck as well. Even if Johnny switches out vehicles, we’ll be monitoring his route. We should be able to protect him.”

  Should be able to protect him? That sounded awfully iffy to me. I could just imagine Mert discovering she’d been bugged. She’d be furious. She hated the Patriot Act, or the “Spy on Your Friends” Act, as she called it.

  “We set a similar trap for the South County rapist. Learned a lot from that operation. Caught the guy. Sent him away. He’s serving three consecutive lifetimes.”

  Thinking about all the ways that Robbie’s trap could go wrong sent shivers down my spine.

  Claudia stuck her head in the kitchen and interrupted my conversation. “I was wondering what was taking you so long. Your mom’s really hungry. We’re both thirsty.”

  I
told Robbie goodbye and turned to face Claudia. “We’re all out of wine.”

  “Really? I should think that anyone living in a nice place like this would have a bottle or two stashed away,” she walked over to the cutlery drawer and fingered Sheila’s silver. “Nice place you’ve got here.”

  So Claudia thought this was my home. Hmmm.

  “Well, I’ll go keep Luci company. I hope you don’t take long. Your mother’s hungry.”

  I put a circle of brie on a plate, spooned apricot jam over the top, sprinkled it with sliced almonds, and stuck everything in the microwave for about sixty seconds. I poured two glasses of iced tea and put everything on one of Sheila’s handsome walnut trays. Balancing the food carefully, I carried it out to the low table where Claudia and Mom were sitting.

  Neither woman thanked me. Claudia smirked up at me and said, “I thought maybe you got lost or something.”

  I bit my tongue.

  Back in the kitchen, I grabbed my cell phone. Before I could think about what I was doing, I called Mert. After all, she was my “go to” friend, my confidant.

  Just as quickly, I realized what I was doing and pressed “End Call.” I stared at the silent phone. I sure missed talking with her. Over the years, I’d grown to rely on her wisdom and her straight-forward common sense. She, more than anyone, had taught me to stand up for myself.

  I wanted to talk to my friend, but I couldn’t. I wanted to call Detweiler, but I couldn’t. I thought about Dodie … and Clancy …

  and realized I was in this alone.

  As I chopped onions and celery for dinner, I played Dr. Phil’s logic in my head. If I forced Claudia to leave now, Amanda might have to deal with the woman later on Mom’s home turf. If I let Claudia hang around, she could be Mom’s play buddy. She would keep Mom occupied.