Gritting his teeth, Lou used his most polite voice. "I'm afraid I don't follow. You'll have to dumb that down for me."
"No problem," said Faraday cheerfully. "I suspect that she was held captive in this curled up position for one or possibly two days before she died. Maybe even more than that."
A chill moved through Lou's body. "You're telling me she might have been in that trunk for, maybe, sixty-plus hours? And then killed?"
"That's what it looks like to me. I’ll be able to tell better when I examine her stomach contents and do a few lab tests for concentrations in her blood. Here’s another thing," and Faraday reached for her hands. They'd been covered with paper bags and then cinched them with rubberbands to retain any forensic evidence. He carefully removed one of the bags, the right one, and examined the fingertips carefully. "She's probably right-handed. I'll check the left hand, too, just to be sure. But there are no signs of a struggle. Her nails aren't broken. There's nothing lodged beneath them. I don't think she fought being held captive."
"And that means…"
"That suggests that she could have been drugged, put in the trunk, and kept there for two and a half days. We've had unusually cool weather so she didn't suffer heat stroke. I imagine she was dehydrated, and I can verify later, but I doubt that the lack of water killed her."
"Then what did?"
Faraday moved up to her face. Using a metal instrument, he gently rolled back her eyelids. "Petechiae. Burst blood vessels. Just as I suspected. She was suffocated to death. But not strangled. There are no marks on her neck. No bruising from pressure."
Prying open Kathy's mouth, Faraday used a light to peer inside. With a pair of long nosed tweezers, he plucked a foreign object from between her teeth.
"Brown plastic, like the kind they use to make a grocery bag. In fact, this'll go to the lab, but that's our murder weapon. Our killer pulled a plastic sack over her head and suffocated the victim."
"What kind of a fiend keeps someone locked up in a car trunk in Florida for two days and then suffocates her?"
Faraday stopped his examination to stare at Lou. "Someone who is very, very sick and needs to be behind bars."
16
~Cara~
2 p.m. on Thursday
The Treasure Chest
I tried to put my awful morning behind me, and mainly I succeeded, although every once in a while, I could smell that awful smell and see Kathy’s blank eyes staring at me. So I kept myself busy, moving from one task to another. I was alphabetizing VIP name badges when a jingle of the front door averted my attention. Walking toward me was a diminutive woman who must have been in her eighties. Her straw hat was perched on snow white hair. Flowers and papier-mâché cherries circled the crown, as did a navy-blue ribbon. Her matching navy shirtwaist dress was of a crepe material with white polka dots. The wrinkles that puckered her face reminded me of an apple-head doll that I made in Girl Scouts. Dressed as she was, my visitor might have been a character right out of a Mary Engelbreit greeting card.
“Excuse me. I’m here to see Cara Mia Delgatto,” said my small guest.
A second woman straggled along behind the older woman. What a strange pair they made! The younger woman’s face suggested she was about my age, but her posture pegged her as much, much younger. She seemed to sprawl, taking up a lot of space as she moved. Her eyes roamed the building, as though she was unable to focus. Not once did she look directly at me.
There was a family resemblance between the two women, but it seemed fleeting.
“I’m Cara Mia Delgatto. You must be Honora and EveLynn.”
Honora took my hand, a shake that felt firm against skin that was cool. EveLynn, however, did not offer a greeting of any kind.
Honora was pulling a blue cart behind her, while EveLynn was dragging a humongous rolling suitcase. Without a word to me, EveLynn opened her container, withdrew a variety of pillows, and set about adding pillows and throws to our displays. I opened my mouth to protest, but stopped because I had to admit, the soft goods brought warmth and color to our sales floor.
“EveLynn is a supremely talented seamstress,” said Honora, proudly.
“I can see that,” I said. “I’m a little in the dark about what it is exactly that you make. MJ was going to explain it to me, but she got busy taking phone calls.”
Honora laugh was rich and musical, like a carillon playing. Out of her rolling box, she pulled a watering can and set it on the counter.
Why would I want to sell an old watering can?
Next, she pulled out a sand pail and an old bread box. The odd mix confused me. I was staring at the items, trying to figure out why I’d want them in my store when MJ joined us.
“You’re looking at these from the wrong side,” MJ said, rotating each item around. Now I could see that each container had a small viewing window. When I looked inside, I could see a miniature scene, a tiny view into a Lilliputian world.
In the watering can was a tiny potting shed, complete with flowers, pots, and gardening gloves. The breadbox contained a miniature bakery shop. The sand pail housed a tiny beach scene, complete with sand, beach blanket, umbrella, sunscreen, and a paperback book.
“Miniatures?” I marveled at the tiny world. “But we don’t sell toys. Not really.”
“These are not toys!” Honora’s chin quivered with indignation. “They are art pieces for collectors to own and admire.”
I apologized and added, “But our store is all about recycling and repurposing.”
“Just so,” she said proudly. “My work is primary made of cast-offs. This old watering can was found in a trash pile. The bread box came from a thrift shop. The sand bucket was sitting on the side of the road. All the tiny pieces inside are handcrafted from findings that would otherwise go into the trash, like Popsicle sticks and paint stirrers. You didn’t think your generation invented recycling, did you?”
“No,” I said quickly. “Of course not. People have been recycling and repurposing for centuries, making do with what they’ve had. My generation and the one before us invented disposability.”
“Quite so,” she said as she nodded in approval. “I also have several small seasonal items that would fit nicely in your store.”
She reached down and brought out a hatbox with a Valentine Day’s scene inside, complete with bouquets of roses and boxes of chocolates. Next she produced a cheerful yellow picture frame that formed the viewing window for a display box. Inside was a tiny Easter scene, a hutch filled with all sorts of Easter goods. Next to it stood a miniature stuffed bunny holding a basket full of teensy colored eggs.
“I also create individual items that your tourists will love,” she said, handing me a Gucci shoebox. Inside I found a trio of Adirondack chairs with matching footstools and tables.
"All made from tongue depressors and leftover paint stirring sticks," she explained.
“These are terrific.”
“They will go perfectly with your store’s theme. I noticed that you don't have all of your shelf space filled. These small items will add balance to your offerings. In addition, I'm willing to work the sales floor for you.”
As we talked, EveLynn continued to set out more soft goods. She was positioning table runners across surfaces that formerly had been bare. I had to admit these additions looked great.
“We’ve only been open a short time—” I started to say.
“I know.” Honora’s wire-rimmed glasses enlarged a pair of shrewd eyes. “And you’ve done pretty well for someone without any retail experience. But things will go more smoothly now, because I’m here. Lucky for you, I can start right away. You need help, and you need merchandise. This place isn't stocked properly. Your shelves look skimpy. Besides that, I can run a cash register. I’m familiar with Old Florida pieces.”
I chewed the air, trying to take in everything Honora was throwing at me. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed MJ fighting the urge to laugh.
“Yes, yes,” said Honora. “You really, really n
eed me. I can see I’ve arrived just in time.”
17
~Cara~
“EveLynn?” Honora called out to her daughter. “When you are finished displaying your merchandise, you are welcome to go on home. I shall call you when I need a ride.”
“All right.” The younger woman still didn’t look me in the eyes, nor did she look at her mother. Instead, she finished what she was doing and walked out of the store without saying a word. My jaw dropped at her curt behavior.
Honora smiled at me, but there was a sadness in her eyes. “My daughter has Asperger’s. You are familiar with the syndrome? She has no people skills.”
“I’ve heard of Asperger’s, but I don’t know much about it.”
“It’s an autism spectrum disorder. Fortunately, those who have it are considered to be high functioning. EveLynn is blessed with an extremely high IQ, but she has difficulty with social interactions. She has trouble forming friendships. Her range of interests is extremely narrow. My daughter has a need for schedules and predictability. Our visit here today stressed her out, because this is a new place and a new situation for her.”
“Oh,” I said, taking all this in. “That must have made parenting a challenge.”
“Yes. Isn’t it always? Do you have children?” Honora’s voice was kind, not nosy, but curious.
“A son. Tommy. At University of Miami.”
“What a lesson our children are to women like us. From what MJ has told me, you are determined, ambitious, and intelligent. You keep your own counsel. You are accustomed to being in control, and therefore, successful in everything you do. But a child brings women like us to our knees. It took me years to accept that I can’t change EveLynn. I can’t fix her. I expected a loving baby who would coo to me and throw her arms around my neck and smother me in kisses. Instead, I got EveLynn, who gives me little or no indication that I matter.”
Honora removed her wire-rimmed glasses and polished them on a dainty white linen handkerchief that she withdrew from a pocket of her dress. “I must admit that EveLynn made me re-evaluate my definition of love. I thought I could love unconditionally. But EveLynn tested me. Could I love her despite the fact that she can’t love me back? At least not in the way I had hoped?”
“What was the answer?”
“I learned that there is love and there is ego. My ego wanted her overt affection. Once I put that aside, I decided I could love her no matter how little she gave back to me.”
“Sounds hard.”
“It has been.” She carefully folded the white cloth and continued, “As she grew older, I despaired of her ever finding a way to make a living, because working with others is nearly impossible for her. As much as I’ve tried to help, she doesn’t pick up social cues. Fortunately, she was blessed with fantastic mathematical abilities and a prodigious memory for numbers. Once she was introduced to a sewing machine, everything changed. She found her life’s work, her whole world. Interior designers love working with her because she never forgets a measurement. Her mind is geared for the sort of precision they appreciate when working with expensive fabric. All of her hems and seams are perfect. She is much in demand.”
I could see where those skills would be useful.
“Life is full of compensations,” Honora said, more to herself than to me. “I’ve learned to concentrate on the glad rather than the sad. I am glad that she’s a part of my life. I’m glad she’s found a trade she can enjoy. I am sad because I’ll never know the joy of her spontaneous affection, but that’s because that’s what I need, not because she is consciously withholding her love from me.”
I didn’t know what to say.
“There now.” She tucked the handkerchief back into her pocket. “The first order of business is for you to find me a place to hang my hat. I mean that literally.”
Her abrupt change of topic surprised me, but I realized she was eager to get down to work, so I ushered her into the back room. MJ held the phone glued to her ear. She looked up and offered a quick wave of greeting.
Sid must have arrived while Honora and I were talking, because he came out of my office when he heard our voices.
“Hey, Honora. How’s life?”
“Wonderful, just splendid, Sid,” she said. Turning to me she added, “Sid does all my shipping for me. He handles my website.”
Honora pulled a four-inch-long hat pin out of her straw boater. Her practiced manner told me that wearing hats was a longtime habit. Her silvery-white hair rested in a neat bun on the back of her neck.
“Cara, dear, is it all right if I put my hat and my pocketbook on top of that filing cabinet?” she asked. Once everything was in order, she patted her hair and smiled at me. "There. Much better. Now I’m ready, willing, and able to work. Start by giving me a tour. Introduce me to your puppy, please. MJ told me about Jack. I’m eager to meet him.”
She made over the Chihuahua, and he decided she was good people, but soon he was making “I have to go outside” noises.
“Honora? Help yourself to the coffee or tea, while I take Jack for a quick walk.”
Hearing his name, Jack responded gleefully, his small tail wagging double-time. In quick order, we were out the front door and enjoying perfect weather. However, my stomach knotted up as we rounded the corner and approached my grandfather's gas station. Even from the front, I could see the yellow crime scene tape forming a skimpy border, encircling the back section of the lot. Swallowing down a wave of nausea, I found myself wishing Poppy was here. Although grumpy and unpredictable, he was a comforting presence. Besides my son, he was my only family.
I turned away from the Gas E Bait and started back the way that Jack and I had come. It was all too much for me. The image of Kathy Simmons’ dull eyes had been seared into my brain. The smell of her corpse still clung to my clothes. The signs at the gas station that called it a construction zone reminded me that nothing lasted forever. But the hardest memories to turn loose of are those we think will never change. When they are ripped away, we become like boats that have lost their anchors. We drift about dangerously.
On impulse, I called Kiki Lowenstein, my good friend in St. Louis. The call went immediately to voice mail. I'd been silly to think I could contact a woman who'd given birth just two weeks ago, but I still felt disappointed that she didn't answer.
Jack and I were three storefronts from The Treasure Chest when my phone rang. I figured it was Kiki returning my call.
“Mom?” Tommy’s voice surprised me.
“How are you?” I asked.
“Not so good,” he said. His voice was husky with emotion.
"How come?" I asked.
“Dad asked me about my grades. He was upset. Really, really upset. At least I was honest with him.”
That figured. My ex-husband had a bad temper, especially when the world refused to kowtow to his wishes. While I wasn’t happy that Tommy had partied too heartily during his first semester at college, getting mad wasn’t going to change anything. Tommy had admitted that he’d goofed off. The proof had been in his grades. I had my son’s word that he’d settled into dorm life, and that the freedom he’d abused wouldn’t get in the way of good grades.
“So you told your father that you’ll work harder, right?” I tucked Jack under my arm.
“Yeah, but that won’t matter.”
My heart sank. Was my son giving up on school? I hoped not. I asked him, “What do you mean by ‘that won’t matter’?”
“Dad says he won’t pay for my next semester. After the spring term, I’m on my own.”
18
~Cara~
I told Tommy not to worry. Somehow we’d come up with the tuition. “Keep calm and carry on, honey.”
“Mom, do you know where that saying came from? It’s from the start of World War II. The British government had posters printed to keep the populace motivated in the event of the predicted wartime bombings. The slogan was rediscovered in 2000.”
I laughed. “That’s why I don’t want you
to drop out of University of Miami or to give up hope. Not yet. See what an education can do for you? It opens your eyes to new horizons. So what if we’re facing a financial crisis with your dad. No one is bombing us. We’ll survive this. We’ve got each other, right? You and me, kid. We’re in this together.”
“Love you, Mom,” he said in a husky voice. “I wish Dad wasn’t so mad at me.”
I knew Dom and his tricks. Every fiber within me ached with the desire to tell Tommy that Dom had been waiting for a chance like this. My ex-husband was tall on promises, but short on delivery. Knowing Dom, he’d been waiting and hoping for a chance to wiggle out of his commitment to Tommy.
My son had, unwittingly, opened the door just a crack so that his father could exploit a path to fiscal default. Should I have warned Tommy that Dom’s promises always came with strings attached?
Tommy wouldn’t have believed me. By bashing Dom, I would have looked petty and small. While Tommy struggled to stay loyal to both of us, communication between my son and me would have suffered. Eventually, I would have felt like a heel, knowing that I’d poisoned my son’s relationship with his father. Besides all that, it had been possible (although unlikely) that Dom would treat Tommy differently from how he treated me.
No, I’d done the right thing by keeping my mouth shut about Dom’s faults. Years ago, a therapist had warned me, “Tommy will have to come to his own conclusions about his father. You can’t form your son’s opinion of his dad. If you try, Tommy will only resist and think your motives suspect. As the years go on, he’ll learn who his father is. It’s your job, Cara Mia, to let your son make up his own mind about Dom.”
I stood there, a hundred yards from The Treasure Chest, willing myself to go forward and not being able to move my feet. The store’s colorful awning beckoned me. So did the twin urns of flowers I’d planted outside the front door. Had I made a terrible mistake in buying the place? Six months ago, I had enough money in the bank to pay for Tommy’s tuition. It would have been a stretch, but I could have covered the amount.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 97