Make, Take, Murder (13 page)

Wednesday, December 16

The next morning I
woke up early, mixed a cup of instant coffee, and sat in the winter morning dark to admire our tree. Anya had loved trimming it, and I did, too. I took a slow tour of the evergreen, delighting in the fragrance, the lights, and the years-old ornaments so full of memories. Despite the fact he’d scared me, I wrote Ross Gambrowski a thank you note for buying the tree. I guess my mother’s years of drilling in good manners outweighed my personal discomfort. I set the finished note aside with a heavy heart. Now I owed him the return favor of asking around about his wife.

Last night before bed, I examined Gracie’s tail carefully. She mouthed me, her eyes suggesting that she wasn’t happy to have it disturbed. I could quickly see why. The skin puffed up around the stitches. I rewrapped it and said a prayer. This morning, it was even worse. I decided to try talk therapy. “Gracie, darlin’, show a little restraint when you’re wagging that thing. Please?”

Monroe nickered softly as I entered his shed. He rested his forehead against me, hoping for a long scratch behind his ears. I was filling a bucket with fresh food for him when the weight in my hands suddenly lifted.

Detective Chad Detweiler was holding the bucket. “Let me do it.”

My emotions were on red alert from worrying about Gracie, thinking about Cindy, and trimming our tree. I didn’t have the energy to argue with him. “Okay.”

“That leg belonged to—”

“Cindy Gambrowski. Her husband told me. But he still doesn’t think she’s dead.”

Detweiler straightened. Those beautiful Heineken beer-bottle green eyes darkened. He lifted the bucket as easily as I might a glass of water. He expertly dumped the pail into Monroe’s feeder. The donkey twitched his ears happily and began munching on his food.

“Stay away from Gambrowski, Kiki.”

“Don’t tell me what to do.”

“You have no idea—”

“You’re not the boss of me.”

He set the pail down. “Please,” he reached for me.

I was too spent to fight him. I rested my face against his jacket, then pushed off. “Don’t … we can’t …”

He pulled me tight as he whispered. “I can’t let anything happen to you. And I can’t protect you.”

“From what?” Before he could answer, I added, “From you? You need to leave.”

Holding me at arms’ length, his troubled green eyes searched mine. “You can’t possibly imagine how much blood there is in the human body. Eight to ten pints. Every ounce of that woman’s blood was spattered all over her car. Someone out there wants you involved. The messages were designed to draw you into this mess. I’m begging you—”

“She better help me!” Ross Gambrowski bellowed at us. “She better!”

Detweiler and I turned to see him standing a few feet away. For a big man, he moved quietly, opening the gate and slipping into the small paddock. Neither of us had heard his approach. Monroe brayed at the man and moved nervously.

“It’s okay, Monny. It’s okay,” I stroked his neck.

“I think you know what happened to Cindy. Where she went and why,” said Ross, pointing at me. “Tell me! Did she go to Cozumel? She loved it there. She wouldn’t have left without her photos. Did you help her make duplicates? Help her get ready to leave? Is that where she is?”

“But her leg,” I shook my head. “How could that have happened?”

Detweiler moved in front of me. “Mr. Gambrowski, no one could have lived through that mess in her car.”

“But she did live through it! I got a phone call last night! Someone saw her!” Gambrowski kept advancing on us. Now he and the detective were almost eyeball to eyeball. Detweiler shoved me behind him. His hand moved to his service revolver.

This was not going well.

“Mr. Gambrowski, I told you I’d ask around,” I said. “But you have to quit yelling. You’re upsetting the donkey.”

Ross Gambrowski suggested the donkey have sex with himself.

“If someone called you last night, then you need to come with me down to the station and tell us about it,” said Detweiler in an entirely reasonable voice.

“I’m talking to you here!” Ross Gambrowski pulled a white cotton handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his forehead. Even though the day had dawned cold, he had worked up a sweat in his cashmere coat and Burberry scarf.

“Your call. You come in, maybe we can trace that phone message. Right now, you’ve done a heck of a job stopping us from using our resources.”

“Your resources? What a penny-ante, pitiful excuse for real cops you are! My wife’s gone and you can’t find her!”

His hollering brought another round of braying from Monroe. His eyes were wide with fear. He started pacing, moving back and forth in his enclosure in a violent way.

“Shhhh, Monny, it’s okay, it’s okay.” I walked over and took the donkey by the bridle, rubbing his ears and soothing him.

“I’ve had about enough of you. You’re on private property and you’re an unwanted guest.” Detweiler grabbed Ross Gambrowski by the arm. “Whoever made that call is playing games with you. Let’s drive on over to the station. We’ll track the caller down. You don’t need to bother Mrs. Lowenstein.” With that, Detweiler began to lead Ross Gambrowski out of the pen.

With an abrupt jerk, Ross Gambrowski wrenched free of Detweiler and ran back toward me. “Come on lady, tell me where my wife is!” He lunged at me, but I stepped aside to dodge him. His right fist, the one with his handkerchief in it, slammed Monroe in the jowl.

“Eee-aw,” the donkey brayed as he jumped back.

“How dare you! Get out. Get out now!” I yelled at Gambrowski. “Monroe, buddy, are you okay?” Monroe rolled bovine eyes at me, but he seemed to be unscathed.

“That’s it. One more word, and you’re under arrest,” said Detweiler, grabbing Gambrowski’s coat and hauling him toward his car.

“I’m calling my lawyer,” Gambrowski said.

“And he’ll tell you that this is private property, and you are trespassing,” said Detweiler. “I’ll walk you to your car.”

They moved past me, but Detweiler’s voice floated back to where I stood. “Just a piece of friendly advice: I better never catch you anywhere near Mrs. Lowenstein again. You got me? This is one line you really don’t want to cross.”

I was all kerfuffled
when I dragged the dogs through the back door at the store. Part of me puffed up with joy because Detweiler had arrived in stereotypical knight-in-shining-armor fashion, but a generous portion of my mind and heart ached for Cindy Gambrowski. What had befallen her? Was it really her leg and her blood? Was she hurt and alone somewhere? Who had called her husband?

I reached for my cell and started to dial Detweiler. I wanted to hear what he was thinking about Ross Gambrowski’s assertion that someone had seen Cindy alive.

Then a tiny voice reminded me that I’d sworn to steer clear of Brenda Detweiler’s husband. But this wasn’t my fault was it? I hadn’t dumped a body part in our trash. I hadn’t splashed blood all over an abandoned car.

My fingers hesitated over my phone number pad. Finally, I snapped my cell phone shut.

I didn’t need to go chasing Brenda Detweiler’s husband just because he had a job to do.

Eager for a distraction, I poked my head in to say, “Hi” to Bama, but she was on the phone turned away me. All I could see was the back of the big, black desk chair. The urgency in her voice warned me not to interrupt her conversation.

“I’m asking you to keep a special eye on my kids. All three of them. My photo was in the paper,” I heard her say.

That was odd, because R J, Virginia, and Harley were her sister Katie’s kids, not hers. Still, family was family, so it didn’t really matter. I parked Jasper and Fluffy in the playpen and headed back out to get Gracie and Petunia. Izzy rode shotgun in my backpack. After everyone was situated, I walked to the front of the store, flipped over the OPEN sign, and noticed a copy of the St. Louis Post-Dispatch on the counter. Bama was right. On the front page was a color photo of her waving away the media. The cutline read: “Gruesome finding in store Dumpster leads police to suspect woman’s dismemberment.”

Fortunately, the name of our store wasn’t mentioned in the story.

Unfortunately, you could read our store name from the photo. Dodie had it painted on the side of the wall in big block letters two feet high.

Well, we hadn’t budgeted for advertising, and what was that old saw? Any publicity was good publicity? I hoped so.

Footsteps told me Bama was approaching. I looked up and nearly fell over in shock.

Yesterday she wore her hair in a chin-length black bob. Today, it was carrot-red, cut short and spiky. A pair of small glasses rested on her nose, and whereas before her eye makeup had been subdued, today she laid it on with a trowel.

“What are you staring at?” she snapped at me.

“New look?”

“None of your business!”

The front door minder saved us from more scintillating conversation. In strolled a tall, thin blonde with an unnaturally large chest. A mental image flashed in my brain of her toppling over face first and not being able to get back up. The newcomer’s dark navy jeans fit like they were spray-painted on. A hint of black turtleneck showed at her collar under a quilted, hip-length black jacket. “Hi, I’m Laurel Wilkins,” she said in a voice full of sunshine and lollipops. She offered a slim cool hand to first me and then Bama. “Mert Chambers suggested I drop by. I tried to stop in yesterday, but there were a lot of media trucks blocking your driveway.”

I groaned. Of course. I thought our sales were slow, but I hadn’t realized people simply couldn’t get to us.

“You didn’t fill the spot, did you? I’d really like to pick up some Christmas hours.” Her pretty blue eyes widened. “I’m a quick learner. I like all sorts of crafts. I know how to use a cash register, and I’m good with customers. Especially with the grumpy ones. You could say that’s my specialty—um, hard-to-please customers.”

I just bet she was good with the grouches. A big dimple at the side of her mouth made you want to smile along with her. Even if she was simply too pretty to be real, she was instantly likeable. Well-prepared, too. She pulled two big envelopes from her handbag and handed them over. “My resume is inside. References and phone numbers.”

“When can you start? Mert’s say-so is good enough for me,” I said.

“Right now?” asked Laurel. “If that’s okay with you?” and she turned to Bama.

“Fine.” Bama clomped off toward the backroom.

I showed Laurel where to put her things and got her started counting merchandise. Meanwhile, I took down and set up pages for the All about Me Contest. After each was propped up in a special holder, I added a tiny sticky dot with an entry number. Laurel suggested that she type up a voting list. That took her no time at all. The girl was fast, smart, and efficient.

In between, both of us waited on customers. Laurel proved a quick study. If she didn’t know, she’d ask me, but she managed to do so in a way that made customers feel fine with standing around. She also knew how to up-sell. Twice I heard her reminding people that mysteries featuring a scrapbooker were a great holiday gift. She was even familiar with the series! “You can read them gently and send them off to a friend. Easy to mail, too. Don’t you love giving a gift that isn’t hard to wrap?”

Merchandise fairly flew out of the store. At quarter of one, Laurel offered to run out and buy us all something to eat. Bama grumped, “I brought my own.”

My morning planning had been thrown a curve ball by the encounter with Ross Gambrowski, so I sent her out with an order.

Laurel reappeared in no time, waving a fragrant teriyaki chicken sub at me, and handing back more change than I expected. “The guys at Subway gave me a discount.” She shrugged. “People are so nice. That happens a lot to me.”

“Let me guess,” I laughed. “You were waited on by men, right?”

She looked up at the ceiling and fingered her bottom lip. “I guess. I didn’t pay much attention.”

Oh, boy.

We had a mid-afternoon lull. I took a fifteen-minute break to do a little crocheting. “Hmmm, chain two instead of three along the side,” Laurel suggested as she looked over my shoulder. “Then tighten your first inside stitch. Your edges will be smoother.”

She was right.

“I’ll never get this done in time. Hanukkah is tomorrow night.”

“But you have eight days, right?” Laurel kept straightening shelves. Really, what a find she was! She managed to work and carry on a conversation at the same time.

“Yes, but I also planned to make a shawl for Dodie Goldfader.” I pushed the pattern across the table.

“The other owner, right?” Laurel picked up the photocopied sheet and studied it.

I nodded.

“If you have the yarn here, I can start the chain for you.”

I wasn’t about to turn her down, because the chain is the hardest part.

While she took her break and started my project, I finished the prep for our “Last Minute Holiday Gifts” class. Our customers had signed up for three different projects over the course of the past six weeks. Tonight they would finish their “Holiday Recipe Collection” project by bringing in twenty copies of one of their own family favorites. Dodie, Bama, Mert, Sheila and I also contributed a copy of one of our family hits. Since we had fifteen people in the class (plus the five of us), each participant would take home a set of twenty different recipes. The pages were assembled inside decorative covers and bound with three metal rings. Since we used empty cereal boxes for the album covers, the project cost us next to nothing but looked absolutely fabulous. Best of all, the class registrations brought in a tidy sum.

Unlike most of our evening crops, this one started promptly at five and ended up at seven. That meant we needed to hustle. Our patrons knew they were expected to finish the project at home, so the trick was getting them started and then packed up and out the door without making them feel rushed. Which was exactly what I felt, rushed.

Assembling all the supplies, counting the paper, checking my list twice got me into a lather. People don’t realize how heavy scrapbooking tools are. Die cut machines particularly. And paper? Shoot, it weighs a lot, plus the edges of it are sharp. I wound up with a nasty paper cut that forced me to grab the tube of Super Glue and ask Laurel’s help.

“You really glue your skin back together?” Her blue eyes widened big as dollar pancakes.

“Yep. Otherwise, the cut splits open again. I’ll cover it with a bandage so I don’t ruin the paper, but this happens a lot. Especially in cold weather.”

“Your hands are so chapped!”

“I’m missing a glove. I don’t like to wear my knit mittens because they keep snagging on my hangnails.” I was also still wearing my eau d’kitty jacket. And my nose? Let’s not go there. Suffice it to say, I was a mess. Standing there in front of Miss Victoria’s Secret catalog model, all my inadequacies loomed bigger than Santa’s big belly. With all the treats pouring into the store, Santa and I would soon be wearing the same pant size.

But that was stinking thinking, and I didn’t have the time or energy to waste.

Laurel finished wrapping my index finger with a Band-Aid about the time the door flew open, and in walked Mr. G. Q., my sometimes boyfriend and almost fiancé, Ben Novak. The sight of Laurel’s loveliness stopped him in his tracks. The man was only human. But Ben was a sharp cookie, so he recovered admirably and managed a weak, “Kiki? Thought I’d check about our date.”

“Oh, gosh. I totally forgot.” My cheeks grew hot. I forgot because I didn’t much care. For that I should be ashamed, and I knew it.

Laurel started to back away. I caught her arm. “Ben Novak, this is Laurel Wilkins. Our newest staff member.”

Laurel flashed that dimpled, darling grin. The two sized each other up. I secretly wished they’d lock eyes and vow to run away together—that’d save me lots of trouble—instead, they shook hands with perfect civility.

After she went to find the hole punches for our class, Ben segued back to our plans. “That’s fine because we’re busy at the paper.”

His parents owned
The Muddy Waters Review.
Ben was an only child. His parents, Leah and Alvin, made no secret of the fact they hoped we would marry. Sheila had one foot on my back pushing me toward the same conclusion.

Ben was a wonderful man. In fact, everything I told Sheila about Robbie Holmes was equally true of Ben.

The problem was me.