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

  “Over here.” He took my elbow and steered me to my dream car, a sleek black Porsche. As Jason held the door, I climbed in and admired the beautiful leather upholstery. The engine sounded exactly like Luna’s purring. Although Jason drove at the posted speeds, I could still feel the raw power of the car, and I loved every minute of it.

  Rolling down the window, I let the wind blow my hair. When we crossed the long bridge at the north end of Stuart, I stared out into the water. I could not fathom eternity, but I guessed it must be like the ocean, going on and on and on.

  “Is it awful for me to enjoy this?” I wondered out loud. “A young girl is dead, I'm going to her funeral, and I’m loving every minute of this drive.”

  Jason took my hand and squeezed it briefly before letting go to change gears. “I saw a lot of death while I was in the service, so I’ve had the chance to ask myself that very question. No, I don’t think it’s awful for us to enjoy ourselves. In fact, I think it’s a tribute to those who have passed on. If we aren’t living, then we’re as good dead, aren’t we? What’s the point of being alive if we can’t enjoy what this world has to offer?”

  83

  ~Cara~

  3:45 p.m. on Monday

  Penny and Whistler’s Funeral Home, Stuart, Florida

  My throat tightened as Jason turned into the parking lot of the funeral home.

  I faced him and said, “I think I should warn you. This is the first funeral I’ve attended since my father died six months after my mother passed.”

  “Have you changed your mind about going?”

  “No, I’m warning you that I might get emotional.” I felt the hitch in my voice, the prelude to tears. To keep myself calm, I opened my purse, pulled out a tube of lipstick and applied it. My mother always said that lipstick gave her courage. On a day like today, I could agree with her. I fumbled a little putting it back in my bag.

  “I brought a clean handkerchief,” Jason said, reaching into a pocket and showing me a white linen square.

  “I came prepared, too,” I said, as I brought out a purse-size package of tissues.

  “That ought to hold us, don’t you think? If not, you can use the sleeve of my shirt. I washed and ironed it myself.”

  Hand in hand, we walked inside the building. Signs directed us to the service for Katharine Simmons. The "chapel" was actually just a room. Five people were already there.

  In the front row, next to a white coffin, sat a woman in a brown knit shirt and tan slacks. She was all alone. I guessed that she was Kathy's mother. Across the aisle, a few rows back, three people huddled together. Their professional clothing suggested that they were from the Shoreline News. Behind them sat Adrian Green, recognizable by his haircut.

  Although the carpeting muffled his footsteps, I turned when Lou walked in. He cleared his throat and took a seat behind us. Davidson was nowhere to be seen. I fingered the envelope Sid had given me for the Police Captain. I didn't want to give it to Lou because he'd been such a jerk to me, and more particularly, to Skye. I wasn’t in a forgiving mood. Not yet.

  Otherwise, the place was empty—and I felt a sudden wave of sympathy for Mrs. Simmons. My parents’ funerals had been so well attended that people had been turned away. The paucity of mourners here today seemed embarrassing.

  It surprised me that there were no flowers. None. That seemed wrong. Surely the Shoreline News could have sent a funeral spray! I regretted that I hadn’t thought to send one from the store.

  A man in a black suit handed each of us a photocopied program. A quick glance told me that the 23rd Psalm and Kathy’s full name had been added to a pre-printed sheet of paper.

  My stomach knotted up. Was that it?

  All we could do for Kathy Simmons?

  She'd seemed so forceful, so determined. And of course, she'd been young. Not so young that everyone thought this a senseless tragedy, the way we do when a teenager dies in a car accident, but young enough to have her whole life ahead of her. Instead, she was being stuffed into a box and buried in the dirt. Worst of all, hardly anyone was here to say goodbye.

  “The turnout,” I whispered to Jason and shook my head.

  He nodded and squeezed my hand.

  The service, if you want to call it that, was short and sweet. The minister admitted that he didn’t know Kathy. His platitudes were almost laughable. He asked if anyone wanted to say a few words. The three people from the newspaper turned and stared at Adrian Green. With a petulant little huff, he walked to the podium. “Kathy's career ended too soon.”

  That was it; that was all.

  The man in the black suit thanked us for coming and announced, “The interment will be private.”

  “I’d like to speak to Kathy’s mother for a minute,” I told Jason. “Do you mind if we wait until everyone else has gone?”

  “No problem”

  Adrian was the first to leave. He hurried down the aisle importantly, but stopped when he saw me. "Brilliant to see you, Cara. As always. I'll call you about getting together."

  I could feel Jason bristling at my side, so I tried to be as neutral as possible. "Don’t worry about it, Adrian. I know you're busy getting ready to leave town."

  "Not too busy for you," said Adrian, giving me a peck on the cheek.

  “That little twerp,” snarled Jason, as Adrian walked away.

  It felt kind of nice to have two men vying for my attention. Three, if you counted Davidson, but I wasn't sure that you could. However, my moment of glee didn’t last for long. The man in black went over and whispered to the woman sitting alone. In reply, she nodded and sobbed.

  I knew from sad experience that it was time to close the casket.

  “I’ll just be a minute,” I told Jason. I walked up to where Kathy Simmons’ mother sat with her head bowed. A box of generic tissues rested on the chair beside her. I remembered how much my parents' funerals cost and thought, Couldn't they have at least sprung for nice tissues? Those generic ones are like sandpaper!

  Jason followed me up the aisle and took a spot a respectful distance away.

  “Excuse me. Are you Kathy’s mother?” I asked.

  She nodded.

  “I'm Cara Mia Delgatto. I own a store called The Treasure Chest. Kathy wanted you to have this. It came from my store.” I handed over the manila envelope.

  “What is it?” She glared at my offering. "A bill?"

  "No," I said, pitching my voice low. "It's a gift. From your daughter."

  Tentatively, she reached for the envelope.

  In my peripheral vision, I saw movement in the curtains behind the coffin. But when I stared in that direction, the fabric only swayed. No one came forward.

  "What sort of gift?" Mrs. Simmons held the package as if it might bite her. Her voice lacked any attempt at civility, but I understood. Grief strips us of our public face. Little niceties don’t matter much when you’ve lost someone you love.

  “It’s a photograph.”

  Mrs. Simmons opened the flap and pulled out the picture. Her fingers traced the face of the smaller of the two boys. “Wallace,” she said. “Kathy found me a picture of Wallace.”

  I knew I shouldn't ask, but my curiosity got the better of me. Lou was walking toward us. Feeling pressured to act quickly, I asked, “Wallace?”

  Mrs. Simmons nodded and turned wet eyes on me. The resemblance to her daughter was striking, although she was more tired and faded than Kathy had been. “Wallace Eberly was my older brother. Eberly’s my maiden name. The cops sent him to Dozier, and he never came back. Kathy told me she knew what happened to him.”

  “And what did happen to Wallace?” I took the seat next to hers.

  “She never said. Only that she was going to make somebody pay.”

  84

  ~Lou~

  Lou watched as Cara sank down into the chair beside Mrs. Simmons. At first, Kathy’s mother held her body stiffly. When Cara reached over to give her a hug, the woman melted. Fresh sobs echoed in the nearly empty chapel. Cara nodde
d as Mrs. Simmons talked and talked and talked.

  If body language was any indication, Cara was now the grieving mother's new best friend. How had she done that?

  Women. They were such a mystery to Lou.

  He tried to listen to the conversation, edging closer. All he heard was, “Kathy liked to…” and “Kathy always wanted…” Cara had taken Mrs. Simmons’ hand. She gave the grieving mother her full attention.

  Lou wished Cara would hurry it up. Lou tried to listen in on their conversation, but the women’s voices were too soft.

  "You need your hearing checked," said Showalter. "Too much loud music when you were young."

  The idea of wearing a hearing aid did not appeal to Lou. He was nearly ten years older than Skye. Unbeknownst to her, that had been one of his stumbling blocks. Lou worried that when people saw them together they might think that he was her father!

  “Ha, ha,” laughed Showalter. “That won’t happen if you don’t make up with her!”

  While Cara finished her conversation, Jason Robbins, that macho-man from the construction site, stood guard over her. He was a daunting figure, even though his dress clothes hid his bulky muscles.

  Finally, Cara handed Mrs. Simmons a business card, hugged the woman, and got to her feet. After taking Jason’s arm, Cara started down the aisle.

  But she stopped when she got close to Lou. Leaning toward him, she whispered, "Boy, boy, boy. Have you ever upset Skye! You’ve got to make that right!"

  He wanted to react, but how could he? Why should he?

  Instead, he colored and averted his eyes.

  “I mean it,” said Cara. “You’ve really hurt her feeling. She’s miserable.”

  That produced a painful twinge in his chest. “Gotcha,” he said, hoping that Cara would leave him alone. He couldn’t afford to feel these emotions. Especially not here. Not now.

  When Cara stepped away, Lou hurried over and introduced himself to Mrs. Simmons. He showed her his badge and handed her his business card. “Please accept my sympathies. If I could, I’d like to speak to you.”

  She sniffled, which he took as a yes.

  “Start with easy questions. Get her softened up,” advised Showalter.

  “I noticed that Cara Mia Delgatto handed something to you. Do you mind telling me what it was?”

  “A picture.”

  Lou had suspected as much. “What sort of picture?” he asked, sticking with simplicity.

  “Of my brother, Wallace.”

  Lou nodded. The funeral director cleared his throat, a sign that Lou was holding up the trip to the cemetery. Well, the man could wait. After all, Kathy Simmons wasn't in any hurry. In less than an hour, she would be lowered into her final resting place, a rectangle of dirt not much bigger than a jail cell.

  “What can you tell me about your brother?"

  "What's there to tell?" Mrs. Simmons voice was sharp-edged. Angry.

  "Is he alive?"

  "How should I know?" Her mouth puckered.

  "Most people know whether their siblings are alive," said Lou. He followed this question with what he hoped was a gentle smile.

  "Wallace disappeared. Vanished into thin air."

  "Where was he when he vanished?"

  "Are you trying to play games?" She blinked at him with swollen eyes.

  "No, ma'am. I would never do that. Especially on a day like today."

  "You-all should know where he is. You're the ones who put him there!"

  "Put him where?" Lou asked.

  "In his grave!"

  85

  ~ Lou~

  After following the hearse to the cemetery, Lou watched the undertakers carry the coffin to the open grave. He stood a respectful distance away, but he could still see how Mrs. Simmons leaned hard on the funeral home director. The rent-a-minister hurried ahead, eagerly positioning himself between two tarp-covered lumps of freshly turned dirt. There he flipped the book open to a page caught with a paperclip. He began droning prayers almost as soon as Mrs. Simmons made it to the graveside.

  At one point, Kathy Simmons’ mother glanced up, noticed Lou, and scowled.

  In response, he gave her a respectful nod.

  It pained him to bother the poor woman further, but he had his marching orders. Davidson had told him to go to the interment and keep an eye out for anyone suspicious who turned up. Fortunately, the graveside service was brief.

  The minister slapped his leather prayer book closed, just as Lou felt his phone vibrating inside his pocket. A glance told him that Police Chief Aaron Reiss had scheduled a media briefing for five o’clock. Davidson asked Lou to attend, even if he arrived late.

  Lou could guess why. On the drive over, he’d turned on the news in time to hear Mrs. Wentworth railing against the local law enforcement community for not making arrests in her husband’s murder. She’d used such words as “cover-up” and “lack of diligence.” The station played a clip of her complaining that Josiah had been a martyr to “low elements of our community who hated how my husband so skillfully guided us into the twenty-first century.” She’d even managed to mention that an upcoming biography would remind citizens of “what we owe Josiah Wentworth.” Her tirade concluded with, “As his wife, it is my solemn duty to be the keeper of the eternal flame that was Josiah’s love for the State of Florida.”

  “Working that Jackie Kennedy angle to the max,” snickered Showalter.

  “Isn’t that the truth?” said Lou.

  Back at the department, the briefing was already in progress. Lou slipped into the back of the room. Police Chief Reiss was at the podium, responding to a question about the Wentworth murder.

  “Yes, we’re pursuing a variety of leads. No we haven’t identified a person of interest yet,” said the Police Chief.

  “This is the second murder this week,” said one reporter. “What progress has been made on the Kathy Simmons’ case?”

  “Good question,” said Reiss. “Actually, that’s one of the reasons I called you this briefing. We need help from our local citizens. We’re trying to find anyone who might have seen Kathy Simmons between the hours of nine and midnight on Monday evening. Here’s a photo of her on that evening. Pay particular attention to her attire.”

  An enhanced picture of Kathy in her raincoat and scarf appeared on the screen. Lou recognized it as one taken by the security cameras at Wendy’s.

  “But are you making any progress in your investigation?” the reporter repeated.

  “Yes, we are. However, we hope that our citizens can help us. We ask that they call our hotline with any sightings they’ve had,” said Reiss.

  “Are the two killings connected?” asked a man wearing a Tommy Bahama shirt. It had taken Lou several years to get accustomed to how casually dressed the media were here in Florida.

  “There’s no reason to think that,” said Reiss.

  Lou noticed that Davidson shifted his weight. Lou felt a corresponding squeeze in his own gut. That’s all they needed, a witch hunt. If the public thought a serial killer was on the loose, things could go south fast. Innocent people were bound to get hurt. Shot by nervous neighbors. It had happened before.

  An artery pulsated in Reiss’s forehead. He was doing his best to keep the tenor of this briefing low key, but the reporter was a smart man.

  Reiss continued, “Is there any connection, Captain Davidson?”

  “None that we know of,” Davidson responded, but he put his hand in his pocket and jingled his change.

  “That’s his tell,” said Showalter. “Shifting his weight. Jingling his change. When your boss gets nervous, he can’t stand still.”

  “Right,” muttered Lou under his breath. “Or maybe he’s just feeling as frustrated and hopeless as I am.”

  86

  ~ Lou~

  When the dog-and-pony show ended, Davidson jerked his chin at Lou, a signal that they needed to meet. Lou ducked into the hall and walked quickly to Davidson’s office.

  Once there, Lou told his boss about th
e funeral.

  Davidson ran a hand over his hair and sighed. “Cara has information for me. Stuff that Sid dug up. She was going to give it to me at the funeral. I’d run over to her store right now, but I have to go into a meeting with the mayor. I could be tied up for hours.”

  “What’s up?” asked Lou. Usually they didn’t get so much interference in ongoing police investigations.

  “Mrs. Wentworth is putting all sorts of pressure on the city and the county officials,” said Davidson. “Not surprising, is it? We’re looking too closely at her. She’s feeling the heat, so she’s keeping us busy. Maybe she’s convinced she can scare us off.”

  “There’s something hinky going on,” said Showalter. “That woman’s the spider in the middle of her web.”

  Silently, Lou agreed with his old partner.

  “Look, I’ve only got a few seconds here. You need to check out Honora McAfee’s story,” said Davidson. “She’s one of the loose ends that we need to tie up or snip off.”

  “Gotcha.”

  A few minutes later, Lou sat in the driveway at Honora’s house. No one was home. He closed his eyes and took a quick nap. The sound of a car startled him awake.

  It was Honora, with EveLynn behind the wheel. They pulled into the garage. Lou gave them five minutes and rang the doorbell.

  “I thought that was you!” said Honora, as she patted the back of her hair. “Do come in. Can I get you a cup of tea? Coffee? I can make a fresh pot. It’s no trouble. EveLynn loves coffee.”

  Lou followed her into a kitchen done in a red and white gingham and accented by a plaque with a colorful rooster on the wall. The place was immaculate. Honora quickly started water boiling, then she spooned coffee into a grinder. After a quick whirl, she put the grounds into a glass gizmo like Cara owned.