Make, Take, Murder (19 page)

We had a full
house for the crop. Most of the croppers were our regulars. Daisy Touchette took a spot at the far end of the table. If I puffed up with pride because she was sticking with the craft, I hope I can be forgiven. After all, sometimes you work hard with a customer and never see her again. But the extra effort I’d given to Daisy that day she showed up with her fussy kids really seemed to be paying off.

Several people brought wrapped gifts for me, which surprised me to no end. I make no bones about the fact I adore presents. I managed not to squeal with joy, but it was hard. I nearly bit my tongue working the restraint angle.

Bonnie Gossage handed me a large blue shopping bag with instructions, “It’s for the last night of Hanukkah. We’re going out of town so I wanted to get you this early.” I thanked her and spirited the sack away to the backroom. There I stopped to retrieve the gift I’d purchased for her.

At an online crafts site, I spotted a tiny pair of hand-crocheted baby slippers. They were yellow and white with tiny pompoms. They were so adorable they made my heart ache. In fact, I also bought a pair and put them in the bottom of my underwear drawer. Someday I hoped to have another baby. Maybe these booties would bring that blessing into my life. These were so tiny, I had to dig through my purse to find them. Finally, I emptied my wallet, tissues, keys, and makeup onto Dodie’s desk to make my search go faster. I made a special note that I needed to go through the accumulation and get it organized.

“Kiki? Are you ready?” Bama stuck her head in the office and glared at me. “Get that mess picked up.”

“I’ll do it later,” I said just to irk her as I’d already put a few things back. “People want to get started.”

I raced out of the backroom to the crop area.

Miriam Glickstein handed me a small wrapped box and a plastic container of iced sugar cookies shaped like dreidels. “I figured you wouldn’t have time to bake. You probably barely have enough time to light candles, much less buy them, so there’s an extra package of candles here.” I felt tears come to my eyes. “That is so very thoughtful of you,” I said, and I meant it.

Jennifer Moore pressed a package on me. “I saw this and knew it would work with your long black skirt and turtleneck. Open it now, won’t you?” Inside was the most darling poncho. A cable stitch design was knitted with a beige Angola-type yarn. Around the edge was faux rabbit fur. I pulled it over the brown turtleneck I’d paired with my jeans that morning. Everyone assured me the effect was stunning.

While the croppers were busy, I slipped my wrapped gift to Jennifer inside the craft tote bag she always carried. Jennifer was more than a customer. She’d been incredibly kind to Anya and me. So when the beautiful leather albums with the CALA logo came in, I set one aside. I knew she hadn’t bought one, and with two kids at the school, I knew she’d put the album to good use. I also added a handwritten coupon for a couple hours of quality scrapbooking time together.

Bama and I took turns introducing and explaining the projects. She was quieter than usual. A few of our customers expressed surprise at her “new look,” but she clearly wasn’t interested in their remarks. If there’s a line between rude and not rude, she took her toe and smudged it.

Clancy left a little early for a neighborhood party back in Illinois. “Sorry, but I never miss one. Usually at least one husband gets soused and acts inappropriately, and at least one wife threatens emasculation with blunt objects. What is it about free booze and mistletoe that turns normal, God-fearing conservatives into wild-eyed, sex-crazed zombies?”

I sure couldn’t answer that one. I remembered my dad getting lit on many so-called festive occasions. Sometimes I wondered if I’d married a Jew because my parents had done such a thorough job of making Christmas miserable for me and my sisters. But I didn’t go into all that with Clancy. I have to admit I was sort of happy to see her go before the crop ended. If she’d hung around, I would have been forced to explain about my date. Clancy totally agreed with Mert that I should go out more often. She’d said so on numerous occasions. I didn’t need to hear it again.

The gift making went quickly. We cranked up The Manhattan Transfer on an old boom box. The tiny sandwiches, deviled eggs, and petit fours were a hit. Everyone pitched in to help with the clean up. Afterwards, I hugged my customers one-by-one as they left the store. They were more than patrons to me; they were my support system.

Mert offered to drop the dogs off so I wouldn’t have to run home. I thanked her, helped her get all the fur children in her truck, and waited nervously for Hadcho to show up.

“How’s Gracie’s tail?” she asked.

“The vet told me to bring her in on Monday if it isn’t better.”

“Just send Roger the bill.”

I shook my head. “He’s paid his dues, Mert,” I said as I hugged her goodbye.

Bama puttered around the store.

“Aren’t you leaving?” I asked.

She shook her head. “This is the only place I can wrap gifts without the kids seeing them. I carried most of what Santa’s bringing them in from my car. The craft table is a perfect surface.”

I remembered when Anya was little, and I stayed up late wrapping surprises for her. I envied Bonnie the joy of another little person in her life. Would I ever be pregnant again? I always hoped to have another child. If I closed my eyes tightly, I could imagine holding one in my arms.

Don’t go there, Kiki
,
I told myself as I dabbed at my nose. My cold was waning, but I still had a red nose and watery eyes.

A sharp rap at the front door brought me back to the here and now. I adjusted my new poncho and told Bama, “I’m heading out.”

She narrowed her eyes as I let Detective Stan Hadcho inside. I could see her mind working. Those nasty comments—the ones about me having a weird predilection for cops—would all spill out if I hung around.

“Let me grab my purse. It’ll just take a sec,” I said to him, and I took off at a trot. I actually snatched it up, did a U-ie, and never stopped moving. That’s how worried I was about Bama and her big mouth.

Bama met me as I was halfway to the front of the store. She grabbed me by the elbow. I tried to yank away from her. She just tightened her grasp. “Listen. These guys in uniform? Don’t be fooled. It’s not about helping people. It’s a control issue.”

This time I jerked my arm hard enough that she lost her grip. “I don’t know what’s wrong with you and I don’t care. Stay out of my business!”

To my shock, her eyes filled with tears. “It’s … I’m … trying to warn you. I know you don’t like me. I know you don’t believe me … but …”

I backed away from her. Her lips curled down, and her shoulders drooped. I rubbed my arm where she’d grabbed me. Unpleasant memories of Brenda Detweiler pranced through my head. “Don’t ever touch me like that again.”

Tears glistened in Bama’s eyes. “You take care of yourself, Kiki. Just take care.”

Hadcho stood at the
front door, jingling the change in his pocket, showing no indication that he’d heard Bama. He held the front door for me and gave a nod toward a sleek black Mustang parked in the back of our lot. “My personal car,” he added.

Hadcho unlocked the passenger door for me. I started to climb in when a dark-colored panel van pulled into a nearby space. The driver’s door flew open.

“Hey, you closed?”

I squinted. It was the man who’d dropped by the other night looking for Bama. In one hand he held another big bouquet of red roses. The fragrance drifted over the wet smell of impending snow, and the bright crimson blared like a trumpet blast in the narrow illumination of our security light. I smiled to myself.

Maybe that’s what Bama needed: Someone to woo her.

Maybe that was why she was so nasty to me.

Maybe this was just a variation on a timeless theme, jealousy.

“Bama’s still in there. She might not have locked the door yet. You better hurry!”

“Thanks!” he said and took off at a trot.

_____

Towering over the riverside landscape, the Lumière sign dwarfs its neighboring buildings. It is nothing more or less than a monolithic slab of winking, strobing, twitching, crawling, blinking lights. What a bold contrast this high-wattage commercial signature makes to the Arch, that simple silver ribbon with a skyward sweeping reach!

The two could not be more different. The Lumière sign crooks a finger, beckoning fun seekers. It comes alive at nighttime. The Arch stands aloof, a silent sentinel. It’s closed in the evening. The Lumière sign promises you-can-be-something-you-probably aren’t. The Arch mirrors the city’s own reflection, distorted and broken, but heartbreakingly honest. Taken together, these monoliths represent the dual nature so unique to St. Louis. Here is a city with a cathedral with doors once sealed by a pope, a world-class botanical garden, and spectacular free attractions including an art museum, a science center, and a zoo. It also boasts one of the country’s highest murder rates and an STD rate second to none. As the Gateway to the West, St. Louis defines the crossroads of the nation. Here in the Northernmost of Southern cities, and the Southernmost of Northern cities is the meeting ground of secularism and religiosity, racial strife and harmony, beer barons and art patrons.

I stopped on the sidewalk to gawk at the huge signboard soaring up, up, up into the night sky. It’s a wonderous sight, even if it is a bit gaudy for my tastes.

“Something, isn’t it?” Hadcho cranked his head back.

We stared up like two corn-fed bumpkins.

“It sure is,” I chuckled. The drive over had been mostly awkward, but now, as we stood side-by-side gobsmacked by the same monstrosity, the tension between us eased.

He took my arm, and we walked companionably into the casino. More than a few heads turned. As usual, Hadcho looked great. Perfect, really. I think my poncho must be awful flattering because a couple of guys eyed me with frank appraisal. (Either that or they were batting for the other team, and they wanted Hadcho on their bench. Who knows?)

We were in line to be admitted when I discovered I’d left my wallet back at the store.

_____

I must have apologized five times when he said, “Just stop it. Everyone makes mistakes. It’s no big deal. What are we? Five minutes away? There’s no traffic on the road. Lumière is open all night.”

Then, “What the heck?”

“That van’s still there!” I said.

We pulled into Time in a Bottle’s parking lot and stared at the black van. Bama’s car was still in its parking spot as well.

“We haven’t been gone that long, really,” I mused. “And he was delivering flowers from a secret admirer. I guess he’s the admirer. She’s an awfully private person.”

“You say he stopped by before?”

I nodded.

“Didn’t seem like he was trying to hide anything, did he?”

“No. He didn’t. Several of us saw him. He wore a floral delivery cap. I hate to break up Bama’s hot date,” I said, finally.

“Tell you what. How about if we go in together and make plenty of noise?”

“Or I could go in alone and try to sneak into the backroom. Unfortunately, that’s where I left my wallet.”

Hadcho laughed. “Right. Good idea. I’m an officer of the law. You found a body part in your dumpster. I’m going to let you walk by yourself in the dark into a building.”

“Oh … right.” Boy, did I feel silly.

We opened the Mustang doors in tandem and started toward the store. (I didn’t wait for him to run around and open mine. I already felt dumber than a bucket of aquarium gravel.) My key outstretched, I tried the front door, only to discover it was still unlocked. That surprised me. I gave Hadcho one of those open-handed “what-you-going-to-do” gestures. He nudged me aside and stepped in.

The place was eerily dark. I guess I held my breath, thinking I didn’t want to disturb any nighttime hanky-panky. I felt around for the light switch, but Hadcho clamped his hand on mine. We both froze.

From the back of the store came a rhythmical thump-thump-thump.