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

  Jack whimpered from his crate. Skye plucked him up and handed him over to me. “Even Jack feels miserable.”

  “How is it that we could have come this close,” and I positioned my index finger a half an inch above my thumb, “to a resounding success only to have Poppy flush all our good work down the drain?”

  “To be fair, he didn’t ruin everything,” said MJ.

  “Only because most of our guests had left before he accused Senator Wentworth of murder,” I said.

  “Which technically is true,” added Honora.

  “Huh?” All four of us stared at her.

  “I’m nice to Josiah Wentworth but I don’t like the man. I certainly don’t admire him,” she said, before taking another pull from her flask. “He’s a scoundrel of the first order, but his money is green. It pains me to admit it, but that’s why I’m gracious to him and Jenny Beth.”

  “Poppy wasn’t blowing smoke?” I asked. “He really is a murderer?”

  “Senator Wentworth accepted money from the railroads,” said Honora. “They were the biggest funders of his campaigns. In return, he pushed through legislation that allowed them to avoid slowing down at crossings. He also overturned laws mandating that they blow their whistles on approach. According to Josiah the sound of the whistles was more of a nuisance and a distraction than a safety precaution. Then he stonewalled legislation that would have shifted the burden of paying for crossing gates to the railways.”

  “And that’s how Cara’s grandmother died? At a crossing?” asked Sid.

  “Josephina didn’t hear or see the train. It was an unmarked crossing. The conductor had the engine cranked up to full speed. She never knew what hit her.”

  “Wait. Honora, are you saying you knew my grandmother?” I couldn’t believe what I was hearing.

  “Yes, dear, I did. That’s one reason your grandfather couldn’t control his tongue. He told me when he walked in tonight—and I agreed—that you’re the spitting image of Josephina.”

  35

  ~Cara~

  If I hadn’t been exhausted, I would have peppered Honora with questions about my grandmother. As it was, I just wanted everyone to go home so I could get to bed myself. But emptying out the store was complicated. MJ had been drinking, Honora didn’t have a car, and Sid had ridden his bike to work. I didn’t have the heart to send him out into the dark and the rain. Florida’s large number of senior citizens make our highways hazardous under the best of conditions, but in bad weather, things go from dicey to dangerous. Bicyclists are especially at risk, because they can be hard to see.

  “Come on, I'll drive all of you home. The fresh air will do me good,” I said.

  First I drove MJ to her house, a neat stucco bungalow not far from the store. Two cats sat in her windows. When she opened the door to let herself in, I caught a glimpse of typical Floridian décor complete with bright colors and open textures. I wondered when or if she’d ever invite me over. Skye and I had become close, partially because we were almost roommates, and I considered MJ a friend, but she was more private.

  Sid shared a trailer with three other guys. Hip-hop music floated from the open windows as did the pungent smell of marijuana. “Thanks for the lift. I’ll get a ride in tomorrow,” he said, as he bumbled his way out of the backseat. Despite his all-black wardrobe and multiple piercings, he reminded me of Tommy. Sure, their wardrobes were vastly different, but their mannerisms weren’t. All teenage boys shuffle around in bodies that seem to be a bad fit. They never lift their feet off the ground. Their posture is perpetually hunched over, as if to protect the little boys that live inside them.

  Honora and I watched as Sid climbed the rickety aluminum stairs and slipped into the dimly lit metal shell.

  “Hard life for that child,” she said. “I’m glad he’s working for you. Needs a steadying influence, since his mother hasn’t got the time for him.”

  “Sid told me that her boyfriend doesn’t want him around.”

  “Her boyfriend? What a romantic term for a nasty parasite. The less said about that leech the better. After Sid’s father died, Vivienne got a lump sum from her husband’s insurance policy. Instead of using it to take care of their son, she flashed the cash around until she attracted that loser of a partner. Sid hasn’t seen a red cent.”

  “Honora, you seem to know the scoop on everyone,” I said, as I pointed my Camry, aka Black Beauty, back toward A1A. “What do you know about my sister, Jodi Wireka?”

  “Let me think how to put this,” she said. “Give me a minute. The bourbon makes my brain sluggish.”

  The streetlights blinkered the road as I drove. Dark, light, dark, light. A comfortable silence filled the car. The windshield wipers beat a hypnotic rhythm.

  “The coral snake is beautiful, but deadly. Cooper didn’t realize how venomous she was until after she’d poisoned his life.”

  “He says she’s holding something over his head.”

  “I wouldn’t doubt that. He’ll need to make a tough decision, won’t he? He can let her ruin his life or find a way to survive the pain as the poison works its way out of his system.”

  Time to change the subject. I said, “I meant to tell you how much I appreciate all you did to make the evening a success. The orchids looked wonderful. The punch was a hit. I know we sold several pieces of EveLynn’s work, and I assume you sold that scene in the watering can. The customer drooling over it seemed enthralled.”

  “Yes, she was happy with her purchase. I’m glad you realize that the evening was a success because it was.”

  “Up until the moment when Poppy made a scene.”

  “Dear girl, more people agree with your grandfather than disagree. Don’t mistake their silence for admiration. The Senator is an old man, and as you probably noted, his mind is slipping. Karma has finally caught up with him. The locals might smile and nod when they see him, but in private there’s a lot of schadenfreude.”

  “What’s that?”

  “A German word for feeling joy at another person’s misfortune," she said. "I can attest to the satisfaction it gives one to see an old enemy brought low."

  "Wait…you really, really don't like the Senator, do you? I would have never guess by how nice you were to him and his wife."

  "It never pays to let other people know you despise them. Besides making them feel powerful, such knowledge gives them a tactical edge."

  I mulled this over. "Because of my grandmother?"

  "That was one event in a chain of many, culminating with the Senator cheating my husband out of our family business." She waved a weary hand in the air, as if to clear away a bad odor. "We knew quickly that EveLynn was not…like other children. That made us frantic for answers. We paid one specialist after another. My husband decided to take a loan out against our appliance store. Josiah heard what we needed, he came by, and offered my husband a deal. Unfortunately Frank didn't read the fine print. The agreement gave Josiah majority interest and the right to sell the place without our permission. Which he did."

  "Ouch."

  "Hmmm. I used much stronger language, but 'ouch' indeed." She sighed. "That was years and year ago. I've tried to let bygones be bygones. The Wentworths are so accustomed to stepping on and over people that they've probably forgotten what they did to my family by now."

  “That makes me sick."

  "It's all in the past," she said.

  Yeah, I thought, I guess. Holding on to grudges was a tiring way to go through life.

  "Well, I still think I should send flowers and a note of apology to the Wentworths. Poppy was out of line. No way can he stand in the middle of my store and bash a customer.”

  “Dick has always let his tongue get ahead of his brain. Although you don’t owe the Wentworths anything, I think a bouquet would be a lovely gesture. Why don’t we drive over to their home tomorrow and deliver the flowers ourselves? I imagine you could use a break from the store. I always love going for a drive. A personal visit to the Wentworths will seem much more heartf
elt.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  36

  ~Cara~

  8 a.m. on Saturday

  Cara Mia’s apartment

  I awakened to drizzle splattering my windows. Jack had his head next to mine on my pillow. He yawned, exposing his tiny pink tongue and blasting me with dog breath.

  “You’re a sweet boy,” I said, rubbing his tummy. “Raining again. So much for sunny Florida, huh?”

  I dressed and carried him downstairs. Fat droplets of rain streaked the big display windows. A brown palm frond tumbled past, end over end. A distant rumble told me the heart of the storm was approaching, fast.

  Jack wasn’t thrilled about going outside, but the portico over the back stoop offered a modicum of shelter. He finished his business quickly. After popping two leftover mini-quiches in the microwave and starting the coffee maker, I fired up my computer. First off, I searched for Kathy Simmons’ name. Sure enough, one of the local funeral homes had received her body. Services would be held Monday afternoon.

  I added that sad event to my Outlook calendar. On to happy things. Things I could rely on, like numbers.

  Jack pranced around my feet. I lifted him onto my lap. “If you’re good, you can stay here while I work,” I told him. “But you have to be good. No prancing and dancing or romancing.”

  He seemed to understand as he curled up against my belly and closed his eyes.

  My father had taught me that figures are a business owner’s best friend. “They don’t lie,” he said. “You can think you’ve had a good night or a poor one, but until you’ve done the math, you’re a sniper shooting blindfolded. No accuracy.”

  All the receipts for the food, serving supplies, and promotional materials were bound with a bright red plastic clip. My fingers moved quickly over the number pad to total these expenses. Next I calculated the personnel expenses and expenses incurred from my media event. After adding up all my costs, I turned my attention to the register tape. To that total, I added phone sales written up by hand. Finally, I included deposits that MJ had taken on Highwayman paintings.

  We’d made a healthy profit.

  Dad told me that making money wasn’t good enough. You had to know how you made it. “You have to keep an eye on what’s performing well and drop items that don’t pull their weight.”

  Revisiting the detail tape, I turned my attention to specific categories, particularly our newest addition, consignment goods. All of EveLynn’s items had sold. Every single one of them. In addition, we’d taken orders for custom pieces. Two of Honora’s expensive miniature scenes had sold. A lot of her smaller individual items had been purchased as well.

  Skye’s spa recipes had been a big hit. She’d also written up orders for a variety of OOAK items, including a painted chest of drawers and a pair of nightstands decorated with shells.

  Of the forty-three Old Florida photos, we had sold thirteen, not counting the one that Kathy had purchased and taken with her. Although we'd collected payments in full, the pictures would stay on the wall for thirty days. That gave me thirty days to “use” my customers’ money. Since our cost of goods for the pictures was negligible, we had made a handsome profit. More importantly, we’d turned discarded items into a curiosity that had gotten—and would continue to draw—customers into the store.

  I had moved on to my next step, reconciling sold articles with the remainder of our inventory, when I heard a tap-tap-tap at the back door.

  “Someone has forgotten a key,” I said to Jack. He was a bit miffed about being disturbed from his nap.

  Adrian Green was standing on my back stoop. In one hand was a bouquet of carnations and daisies. The vibrant colors were unlike anything that occurred in nature.

  “How nice!” I said and hurried to put them in water. Instantly, dye began leaking from the stems. I hate it when they add artificial color to flowers. Or to food. The falsehood outweighs any possible benefit. I prefer the imperfection of reality to the gloss of fakeness.

  But I remembered my manners and thanked Adrian profusely.

  “Couldn’t make it yesterday to your big event. I flew in from New York City late last night,” he said, pulling up a seat at the table and taking off his bike helmet. His hair had been mashed flat. It gave him a rakish look. “Terribly, terribly busy with meetings. Important people. Devastated by the news about Kathy. Horrified.”

  But he didn’t look as upset as he sounded.

  “Please accept our sympathies,” I said. “All of us were impressed by Kathy. I instructed my staff to wear black ribbons as a token of our respect.”

  “Yes. A tragedy,” he said. “Nothing can be done. Onward and upward.

  “New York City,” I said. “Wow. So much fun.”

  “Would have been, except that I was there on business. Finalizing details of a large publishing contact. Rather hectic. Racing here and there. Talking to top level executives. Tiring, actually. But one does what one must.”

  “Have they made any progress in finding Kathy’s killer?” I asked.

  “None that I know of.” Adrian sighed. “Although one does not expect much from a bunch of dogsbodies like these local coppers. Not a professional in the bunch, I dare say.”

  “Dogsbodies?”

  “Sorry. A term with origins in the British navy. A dogsbody is a lackey. A minor player. No one important or keen on his job.”

  I wasn’t sure that this applied to Lou Murray, but this wasn’t the time to debate Lou’s ability.

  “Can I offer you a cup of coffee or tea?”

  “A coffee would be lovely, thanks. I trust the VIP event went swimmingly?” He took off his glasses and dried them on the paper napkin I set out for him.

  “Yes, thanks in large part to the Shoreline News.”

  “Glad to be of help.” He loaded his cup with sugar and cream. Stirring it sloppily, he gulped it down. “Which brings me to the reason for my visit. I know that Kathy bought that photo from you. She intended it as a gift for her dear old mum. One hates to think that her mother won’t be receiving her present. But it appears that the photo has disappeared. Scarpered away. I was wondering if you have a copy? One I could give dear old mum at the funeral? For her daughter’s sake?”

  “I’m sorry,” I said. “That was a one of a kind item.”

  “No other copies? Or other photos of the same people? Same setting?”

  “None.”

  “I was afraid of that,” said Adrian, as he let his spoon clatter into his empty cup. “Thought that might be the case. Too right by half.”

  He pushed his chair away. I caught a sniff of his designer cologne. Pine and metallic high notes. Edgy and fresh.

  “Very well. I must get going. Looks like the rain is going to start up again,” and he paused long enough to take my hand. “Cara, what a delight it has been to spend time with you. I was wondering—hoping, actually—that you might agree to come to dinner with me? Next week perhaps?”

  This came as a surprise. I recovered myself in time to say, “I’d like that.”

  We walked to the back door. In his biking shorts and jersey, Adrian was the picture of lean fitness. His build reminded me of Lance Armstrong. There was not an ounce of fat on him anywhere.

  He must have noticed that I was staring, because he smirked at me. “Right. We shall start with dinner and see where it goes.”

  Leaning in, he planted a quick kiss on my cheek.

  37

  ~Lou~

  8 a.m. on Saturday

  The Shoreline News in downtown Stuart, FL

  The sky had darkened. To the south, black clouds churned overhead. Rain was coming. The air crackled with electricity.

  Lou was waiting outside of the newspaper office when Adrian Green rode up on his bicycle, a Raleigh Record with chipped blue paint. Lou recognized the editor from a photo that Ollie had pulled up online. Adrian was medium-height, lean, and could have posed as an illustration in the Wikipedia listing for “metro-sexual,” considering his carefully cut h
airstyle and designer glasses. The tight biking shorts and jersey left little to the imagination.

  “Adrian Green? I’m Detective Lou Murray. We need to talk,” Lou said, flipping open his badge.

  "I have a phone appointment. Let me look at my diary and call you next week.” Adrian’s eyes were beady as a ferret’s. Turning his back on Lou, he wound a metal cable through both tires before hooking them with a combination lock. The scent of expensive men’s cologne trailed after the editor, as if he’d bathed in it. His accent reminded Lou of Harry Potter.

  “Cocky little twerp,” said Showalter.

  “This can’t wait. One of your employees has died."

  “Yes, I heard about Kathy. Pity, isn’t it? The murder rate in this country is appalling. Gun violence runs rampant, and you choose not to do one jot to stop it. But that is neither here nor there. Kathy’s death has nothing to do with me or our paper.” Despite the bravado in his voice, Adrian mopped his forehead with the sleeve of his jersey.

  “Really? You know that to be a fact?” asked Lou.

  “Certainly.” Adrian adjusted his tortoiseshell glasses. “She lived in a bad part of town. Cheap apartment. Things happen.”

  “She didn’t die in her apartment. We found her stuffed into the trunk of her car. ”

  “My word.” Adrian Green turned the color of his name. Sweat beads dotted his forehead. “The devil you say. No, can’t be. You’ve got it wrong. You are winding me up, aren’t you?”

  His surprise seemed genuine.

  “Let’s go inside and talk,” said Lou, jerking his head toward the building.

  “Sorry. It will have to wait. I simply must make a phone call.” Adrian’s hands shook as he removed his bike helmet.