Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Tiptoeing into Anya’s room, I turned off the baby monitor so my husband could sleep. Since he hadn’t bathed her the night before, I gave her a quick rinse in the sink. Once she was clean and sweet-smelling, I dressed her in a cute pair of burnt orange tights and a long brown top, brightened up with leaves in a variety of bright autumnal colors.

  A little Velcro bow with an orange ribbon was the perfect accessory. She looked like an ad in a kid’s clothing catalog.

  We crept down the stairs. For once, she didn’t fight me as I slipped her into her high chair.

  George joined us in the kitchen. Eager to take advantage of the good vibes, I said, "If you’ll recall, Anya and I went shopping at Home Depot yesterday. You might have noticed the mums out there in the yard."

  "Actually, I didn't notice. Did you two have a good time picking out the flowers?" He filled his bowl and carried it to the table. The mood between us was one of harmony. I liked that a lot.

  "Yes, we did, didn’t we, Anya? She had a great time sniffing them and even tasting one or two. I was thinking that when you get home tonight, we could plant the flowers together. Make it a family ritual. An activity we could share."

  “Plant flowers?” He sounded like I’d asked him to dig sewage ditches while chained to a gang of convicts.

  “This is the right time of year, and they’ll perk up that mud pile with all their bright colors.”

  “Perk up. Bright colors. Hmmm.” George poured milk on his cereal, giving the activity his full attention. He looked up and a slide show of emotions played out on his face. Fatigue. Embarrassment. Guilt. Finally, evasion. Turning to the task of spooning up cornflakes, he said, "I'd love to. Really there's nothing I'd like better, but we're in the middle of this big, big real estate deal. You wouldn't believe the paperwork that goes into a project like this."

  I tuned out the rest of the excuse. While he rattled on and on, I grabbed the whisk broom and swept up Cheerios that Anya had scattered on the floor.

  George's excuses came to a sputtering end.

  "I understand," I said, slamming the broom handle against the wall, as I left it behind and emptied the dustpan into a trash bag.

  "Do you? Kiki, I want a sound financial foundation for us. I never want Anya to lack for anything. That's why I work so hard."

  Right. If that's what you're really doing.

  But his plea sounded genuine. I needed to validate my existence, so I told him, "Guess what? I finally got the black marks out of the sink."

  There. The sum total of my life's work. I, Kiki Collins Lowenstein, had removed a couple of black marks from our sink. Woo-hoo.

  "Good." He poured himself another cup of coffee. "That was really bugging me. In fact, I noticed a layer of dust on the dresser in the guest bedroom. The toilets could use cleaning, too. Have you looked out our windows lately? Since they seeded the lawn, there's a layer of dirt on the glass. Also, there are huge dust bunnies under the bed in the guest room."

  “Well, then it’s a good thing I ran into Mert. Let’s keep our fingers crossed she can get here soon.”

  "Did you check her references?"

  "Of course I did."

  Of course, I hadn't. But I wasn't about to admit that. I could easily ask Mert for references when I scheduled her visit.

  "Sounds like you’ve got it covered. Okay, I'm off to work." George picked up his briefcase and tossed his jacket over one arm. "Um, and I'll be home late. Big meeting with clients. Don't expect me for dinner."

  I choked down the lump in my throat. Rather than make an issue of it, I kept my back to George and tried to sound light-hearted. "Sure. Hope it goes well."

  A meeting with clients on a Sunday? I couldn’t meet his eyes. How stupid did George think I was?

  George was a good provider. Anya was our priority. Maybe I had been unrealistic to hunger for anything more.

  44

  The knock on the front door came after Anya had gone down for her nap. This time, Everbright didn’t ask if he could come in. He simply gave me a curt nod and walked past me.

  “Is your husband home?”

  The lack of greeting or pre-amble knocked the air out of my lungs. After a ragged breath, I said, “No. You missed him by a couple of hours or so. George has gone into work. He told me he needed to finish up the paperwork on a big deal. He owns Dimont Development downtown in Clayton. But you probably knew that, didn’t you?”

  Everbright stared at me. “Yes. Yes, I knew that. I was hoping to catch him here.”

  “Why?”

  “To talk.”

  “About what?”

  After George’s warning that I shouldn’t have spoken so freely to the cop, I was on my guard. Crossing my arms over my chest, I tried to give the impression that I wouldn’t be Everbright’s patsy again.

  “About Mr. Nordstrom.”

  “What about him?”

  I could see that my attitude rubbed Everbright the wrong way. A muscle in his forehead began to pulse. His right fist balled up in a tight knot. We glared at each other for a second, and then he came to a conclusion, one that he didn’t share right away. With a long, drawn-out sigh, he gave in. “He’s dead.”

  “What?” My knees buckled beneath me. Everbright grabbed me around the waist and led me through the maze of boxes to my sofa. Once I was seated and propped up with a pillow at my side, he disappeared, only to return with a lukewarm glass of water.

  I dutifully took a sip. “Dead? As in, not alive? How did this happen? Must have been a heart attack, right? You hear about cases like that. Seemingly healthy men don't know they have a condition. Even though he was thin, and he cycled all the time, it caught up with him. I bet that first fall was a warning. The second did him in. Or maybe he just had a mild heart attack, and then he did that head-thingie. The contrecoup. And that finished him off. It’s all because he hit his head. Is that it?"

  The cop's smile flickered like a lightbulb before it burns out. That laser beam of intensity was at odds with his slacks, bagged out at the knee, and his shirt, missing one button. "We're not sure what happened. In fact, we don't know the exact cause of death. Not yet. But you are right. Men who seem fine have been known to drop in their tracks of a heart attack. People sometimes die after hitting their heads. It's entirely possible that either scenario is at work here. Or both in concert."

  "But that's not what you think happened, is it? You believe it was something else, don't you?"

  His face turned into an inscrutable mask. "There is nothing I can tell you, Mrs. Lowenstein. On TV, they know all the facts immediately. That's not how it works on real life. Any time a person dies outside of a normal hospital situation, there are questions asked. There will be tests and an autopsy, the whole nine yards. That's procedure, and that’s why I’m here today. My job is to gather everything I can, sift through it, and see if a hint of trouble comes to light. If so, we'll investigate further."

  I let this sink in. Words stuck out: procedure, questions, autopsy, and investigate. Suddenly I saw the message that had been hidden in plain sight. “Y-y-you think Sven was murdered! You’re saying that his death wasn’t accidental!”

  Everbright’s rumpled necktie rose and fell with the weight of his sigh. “I did not say that. I don’t have enough information to make that determination.”

  “But that’s why you’re here, isn’t it? You are gathering facts because it’s likely Sven Nordstrom was killed —” I stopped. “But that doesn’t make any sense. I saw what happened. I was right across the street when he fell off his bike.”

  “Right.” Everbright nodded toward my water glass. “Drink up. The question we need answered is, Was there a particular reason he fell? We’re looking into the possibility that Mr. Nordstrom was unwell at the time that he came off his bike.”

  “Unwell,” I repeated. “Unwell, as in tampered with? That’s what you mean, isn’t it? Like purposefully unwell? Like drugged?”

  “I don’t have an answer to that. If I did, I couldn’t share it.” />
  "But you’re thinking that someone gave him a shot or a pill, hoping it would make him dizzy enough to fall. If that’s the case, what happens next?"

  Everbright was standing over me. Taking the empty glass from my hand, he set it on a box and sat next to me. “Do you know if Sven Nordstrom ever had words with your husband?”

  “George is hardly ever home. How could he have an argument with the Nordstroms?” I shook my head. “Okay, we were both upset when Sven rode his bicycle too close to Anya’s stroller. It scared her and us. But we didn’t get into a fight, if that’s what you mean by ‘had words.’ Although we could have. Especially seeing how reckless Sven had been. In fact, despite his stupid behavior, we’ve gone out of our way to be friendly. I took over a chocolate cake, flowers, and a card. Leesa practically threw them in my face. Even so, George keeps nagging at me to be friendly with all our neighbors, especially the Nordstroms.”

  “Did Mr. Lowenstein mention anything about bumping into Sven Nordstrom one evening? Anything at all?”

  Tears turned the world into a messy blur. “I told you about how Sven nearly ran over Anya. That’s the only time my husband had contact with Mr. Nordstrom. Ever. At least as far as I know.”

  “At least as far as you know,” Everbright repeated my words back to me. “So you don’t know anything about a fight at a restaurant on The Hill? One where they almost came to blows?”

  45

  “What? George? My George? Fought with Sven? You have to be kidding me. Who told you that?” I wanted to lunge across the sofa, grab Everbright by his wrinkled tie, and shake him until his teeth fell out of his head.

  “We have at least a dozen people who saw them.”

  “When?”

  Everbright named a day and date. I opened my phone and checked the calendar function. “That was the day after the Nordstroms had their party.”

  He consulted his notes. “Yes. I guess your husband and a group of people were having dinner at Antonio’s, a restaurant on The Hill, when the Nordstroms walked in. Mr. Lowenstein excused himself and went over to speak to the Nordstroms. People overheard him chastise them for being so rude to you. His exact words were, ‘She’s been nothing but nice to you, and you’ve treated her like dirt under your feet.’”

  I chewed the air. I couldn’t imagine George standing up for me, much less while dining at a classy place in our city’s famous Italian district. Sheila had drummed into his head that you never acted impolite in public. George often remarked on people who raised their voices or appeared to be upset in public forums.

  But this detective was saying that George had actually violated his own code of behavior to confront the Nordstroms — and on my behalf. The fact that my husband had stood up for me was the most shocking part of Everbright’s report. I couldn’t imagine George taking my side. Words stuck in my throat, and I had to jump up and run into the kitchen. There, I rustled around in the refrigerator, until I found my stash of Diet Dr Peppers. I pulled one from the plastic holder and popped the top open.

  Everbright padded after me into the kitchen. While I chugged the diet cola, he leaned against my doorframe.

  “Want one?” I pointed to my can.

  “You wouldn’t happen to have more coffee? Cookies? I haven’t eaten all day.”

  “Well, for pity’s sake,” I said, and nearly groaned, because I sounded just like my mother. “Why didn’t you say so? We can’t have that. How about if I fix you a sandwich? Do you like grilled cheese?”

  In reply, his stomach rumbled. “Yes, please.”

  “Then have a seat, and I’ll make you one.”

  The change of subject lightened the atmosphere considerably. As I put together the bread and cheese, I talked to the cop more casually, while he took a chair at the kitchen table. “George has never, ever stood up for me. What you’re saying comes as a shock. A real surprise. He never mentioned bumping into the Nordstroms, probably because...” and I stopped.

  “Because?” Everbright asked.

  “Because.” I swallowed hard. Then I figured, What the heck? I didn’t have much pride left. George was in a tough spot. He’d yelled at Sven when he nearly hit Anya, and then he’d gotten into it with our neighbor at Antonio’s. If I told Everbright what I suspected, at least he would understand why George had kept the news about the public scene from me. If I didn’t share my reasoning, George would look more culpable. “I think my husband is cheating on me. According to him, he’s out late with business meetings, but I know better. He didn’t tell me about bumping into the Nordstroms, because he didn’t want to explain why he was at a nice restaurant, when he was supposed to be working late at his office.”

  The skillet had heated nicely. I put the sandwich on, and, while it toasted, I made a fresh pot of coffee for Everbright. The kitchen seemed much more cheery with the rich fragrance of toasted cheese and the robust smell of brewing coffee.

  “Okay.” Everbright sounded convinced. Not happy. Not sad, but as though he was more sure that George had gotten in Sven’s face—and as if he could see how a cheating husband might have plucked up the courage to at least stand up for his long-suffering wife. “I’ll never understand some men. Why Mr. Lowenstein would...”

  He stopped. “It’s none of my business, but I think he’s a lucky man to have you and his daughter.”

  The heat of a blush crept up my neck, and I was grateful he couldn’t see my embarrassment, as I bent over the skillet and flipped over the sandwich. “That’s very nice of you to say, but I don’t think George feels that way all the time. Mainly he does, but there’s a part of him —”

  I bit my lip. This wasn’t the time or place to share such a personal problem. Instead, I changed the direction of the conversation as I plated the food. “When you say that George nearly got into a fight with Sven, you aren’t suggesting that George is responsible for Sven’s death, are you? Because if you are, that’s stupid. George wasn’t here when Sven fell, and I called 911.”

  “We’ll know more about Mr. Nordstrom’s death once the lab reports come in and we can analyze them.” Everbright fell on the grilled cheese with gusto, gobbling it down in haste and, belatedly, realizing he hadn’t thanked me. “Thanks,” he managed between bites, while I prepared a second sandwich without asking, and poured him a cup of fresh coffee.

  “Okay, you’ve made your point about needing more information.” I put the second sandwich in the skillet and set a plate of cookies on the table. “But if the cause of Sven Nordstrom’s death was the sloshing around of his brain, how could George or anyone else be responsible? George wasn’t around, when it happened. Nobody was around. If I hadn’t chosen that very minute to make a run to Home Depot, I wouldn’t have seen Sven take his tumble either. Sven would have died all alone in his front yard.”

  “You don’t have to be standing over a person to kill him.” Everbright spoke so softly that I barely heard him.

  I whirled around to face the detective. His mouth was shiny with the butter I’d used on the grilled cheese, and that slick surface somehow made him more transparent. He was studying me intensely, trying to measure my reactions to our conversation. “Are you suggesting that I did something to knock Sven off his bike? If so, why would I call an ambulance? Wouldn’t I have left him there on the ground? Is that your point? Or are you saying it’s my fault Sven and George got into a fight? That they fought because I wasn’t getting along with the Nordstroms? Are you suggesting that I’m the one who caused Sven’s death?”

  Everbright pushed away his plate. While studying it, he rocked back in the chair, balancing it on two legs. I wasn’t happy about that. It looked to me like he could go over backward any minute. “Actually, no. I’m simply trying to find out how deep the rift was between Nordstrom and your husband.”

  “Look, George didn’t hurt Sven. That’s not his style. I didn’t either, and I was there when the man fell. As you might have noticed, I have my hands full with my kid and this mess. And George isn’t stupid. Why would he fight
with Sven in public and then kill him? For what? Because Sven was rude to me? Because he rode his bicycle too close to our daughter? Come on. That’s just silly. You must have bigger fish to fry.”

  Everbright got up and took his dish to the sink.

  I was on a roll. “No way would I have run out in front of Sven that morning and caused him to fall. If he had hit me, what would have become of Anya?”

  Everbright reached into the cupboard and grabbed an empty glass. He stuck it under the facet and poured himself some water. “I hope you don’t mind,” he said, raising his drink to me in a questioning gesture.

  “Of course not.” His socks showed at the hem of his pants. His shoes needed a good shine. A button hung by threads from his shirt. But his eyes were intelligent, and they took in every detail of my expression. He studied me like I was a physics textbook and this was final exam day.

  “Good point about your daughter,” he said after he drained the glass.

  “If I didn’t do it and George didn’t do it, who did? You’re suggesting that Sven was either startled into falling or that he lost his balance because...” I hesitated while I sifted through the possibilities. “Because he’d been given or he’d taken a substance that caused him to lose his balance and fall off his bike that morning.”

  Everbright nodded, poured himself more water, and asked to use our bathroom.

  While he was gone, I scrubbed the frying pan, dried it, and put it under the stove. Those iced cookies from Kaldi’s were calling my name. Out of the initial dozen, only two were left. I helped myself to the smaller one. The first bite of sugar hit me with a jolt. Mentally, I could trace the sweetness as it flowed through my mouth, down my throat, into my tummy, and from there it spread magical energy to every cell in my body.