Make, Take, Murder (28 page)

Clancy, Laurel, and I
confabbed. We decided that hands-down Cindy Gambrowski was our grand prize winner. She’d followed my directions to a “t.” Her nimble pairings of happy, overt images and a quiet detailing of her “real” life proved extraordinary, to say the least.

I sat down to pen a note to Michelle, one that would be mailed along with her mother’s prize. What could I possibly say? I set down the pen and confronted a new problem: How could I explain who won to our croppers? How could I tell them why we’d chosen Cindy’s page?

I couldn’t.

But we always did.

Early on, we’d decided on a policy of explaining our contest picks. Everyone knew this was what we did, and how we did it.

I motioned to Clancy and Laurel. “I can’t very well not give Cindy the prize, even posthumously. But I also can’t explain why she won.”

“You’re right,” said Clancy. “Being transparent about winners is important.”

There was no help for it. “We’ll have to have an alternate grand prize winner.” We quickly decided Harriet Sabloski, an infrequent customer, was our champ. I sighed. The extra prize might well come out of my pocket since I hadn’t cleared it with my co-owners. This holiday was fast turning into a real drain on my finances. I also needed to reimburse the store for a “get well” bouquet I’d sent over to the hospital for Bama. She wasn’t answering my calls. I couldn’t very well claim to be family, so I was stuck in that ugly limbo where you want to apologize to someone and you can’t.

Fortunately, I didn’t have time to brood over my money problems. Our Monday night croppers burst through the front door chattering and laughing as they took their places at the craft table. This evening was planned as a combination holiday party and dash for the gift-giving finish line.

Bonnie Gossage put the final touches on a recipe album for her younger sister who was off to college. Debbie Chabot finished an album for her grandbabies. Jen Farber completed an album detailing the construction of a one inch to one foot scale historical house that her family was presenting to the St. Louis Miniature Museum. Meg Hutts put labels on “treat buckets,” those cute faux paint cans that you decorate and fill with goodies or what-nots. She was making some for her fellow teachers and a couple for the other Sunday school teachers at her church. Jane Campbell finished “Sleep Tight” boxes, a gift she cleverly devised. She filled decorated shoe boxes with oil of lavender, CDs of ocean waves, an acupressure chart, a pair of earplugs, a journal, a recipe for several soothing nightcaps, bath salts, and a brochure on progressive relaxation. Gina Lopez assembled kits of greeting cards, twelve different designs suitable for most occasions. Harriet Sabloski was finishing small Hanukkah albums to give her grandkids.

I broke out a couple of bottles of sparkling cider, set out finger sandwiches, and tiny sugar cookies. Most of the women brought food to share. Our “goody” table groaned with the weight of all of it. I’ll admit my all-time favorite was the Fool’s Toffee Susan Lutz made for us each year. She found the recipe years ago and tweaked it to perfection. You would have never, ever guessed the foundation was Saltine crackers. The combination of salt, caramel, and chocolate was so good I couldn’t help myself. I ate three pieces, and I enjoyed the lovely aftertaste so much that I would have eaten more. I restrained myself because I knew any minute someone would notice what a total pig I was being. Who cares? I thought. My body is mine and mine alone these days. As long as I can button my pants, it’s all good.

Besides, with my flaming red runny nose, the bandage on my throat, and the bruises on my shoulders, I wasn’t exactly angling for a spot in any beauty contest.

Throughout the festivities, I caught myself staring at Bonnie Gossage’s softly rounded belly. I guess she’d given up trying to hide the pregnancy, or maybe she reached that spot where suddenly, no matter what she wore, she showed. Bonnie’s face was glowing with the serenity of knowing she carried a new life. I wondered if the halo depicted on Mary was actually an outward expression of this inner joy. All I know is that I envied her fiercely. With every fiber of my being, I longed to have another child. When I closed my eyes, I conjured up the downy fuzz of an infant’s head. I recalled the sweet smell of their untarnished breath, and the firm grip a tiny hand could wrap around a finger, thereby totally embracing a heart.

I explained to the group that Dodie would return soon, Bama was recovering, and I hadn’t been seriously hurt by my co-worker’s ex. As for questions about Cindy? I answered them as Detweiler had answered me: There’s an ongoing investigation.

Our winner’s name was announced, and Harriet jumped for joy (literally). Later, she sidled up to me and whispered, “You don’t know what this means to me. It’s the sort of encouragement I’ve needed.”

As Dodie would have said, our choice was
bashert
or fated.

By the end of the evening, I teetered on the precipice of exhaustion. Mert stopped by at the conclusion of the crop. My best friend helped me clean up after the croppers left. She listened to my description of Cindy’s “All about Me” message. The normally chatty Mert said nothing as she wiped down tables and swept the floor.

“You okay?” I asked.

She turned sad eyes on me. “You ever lost a baby?”

“No.”

“I did. People tell you that it was God’s will or even that something was wrong with it, and you should be happy ’cause you wouldn’t want it to suffer.” Mert paused to wipe her eyes. “Used to be, they took your baby away first thing. You couldn’t even see it. Made it disappear. Couldn’t even take the baby home to bury it. They made like nothing ever happened, except you got yourself this aching hole in your heart. And then the doctor? He’d tell you jest not to worry about it. Jest to try again.”

“Mert, I didn’t know! I’m so sorry.”

“Don’t know why I’m bothering you with all this. Especially seeing the time of year it is and all.”

“It’s the time of year when a very special baby was born. A baby whose mother watched him die at the hands of an angry mob. I can’t imagine a better time for two friends to talk about having and losing a child.”

“If’n there’s a special hell, that Ross Gambrowski ought to go there. Making a woman lose her babies, and then getting her in a family way again? It’s a crime against nature.”

Susan’s Fool’s Toffee

No one can resist this! Susan has perfected this recipe—
and you’ll never guess what the main ingredient is—Saltines.

Pam Cooking Spray

Original Saltine crackers

1 c. butter

1 c. brown sugar

1 bag Hershey’s chocolate chips

1 bag Reese’s Peanut Butter chips

Prepare a 12 x 18 inch cookie sheet. Cover it with foil and spray with Pam Cooking Spray.

Lay out Original Saltine crackers end to end.

In a sauce pan, melt the butter.

Add the cup of brown sugar. Boil hard for 3 minutes, stirring constantly. Mixture will become frothy looking. Pour it over the crackers and bake at 350 degrees for 5 minutes.

Bring the cookie sheet out of the oven and pour one bag of Hershey’s chocolate chips and one bag of Reese’s Peanut Butter chips evenly over bubbly crackers.

Use a wooden spoon to spread the chips around until you have a gooey, yummy mess of peanut butter and chocolate. Put the pan back in the oven for 3 more minutes. (Lick the spoon! It’s a mandatory part of the cooking process.)

Pull the cookie sheet out of the oven and put it in the refrigerator for several hours or overnight.

When hard, break into fist-sized sections and put them on a plate. They won’t be there for long!

Mert offered to help
me load the dogs into my car. I discovered a missed message from Dodie on my phone, but I didn’t want to answer her. Not yet, at least. Anya was at Sheila’s, spending the night and I could sense that Mert wanted to talk. I hugged my friend tightly. “I’m sorry that this might have brought back old memories.”

“This here time of year, I get sad. It’s dark and cold and I miscarried on the twenty-third, so it ain’t exactly my favorite day. But hearing about Ross Gambrowski, it’s just the capper. You and I need to find some time to catch up, proper like.” She wiped her eyes.

“I know we do. Honestly, Mert, these retail hours are brutal.”

“Try being in the domestic janitorial business. Everybody and his second cousin’s inviting company over, and sudden-like they all want their house scrubby Dutch clean.”

I grinned at the term “scrubby Dutch.” This was an old St. Louis expression, one frequently used. As best as I could tell, it was a mispronunciation of “Deutsch” and complimented the fastidious Germans. “Scrubby Dutch” standards were legendary, taken from the fact that these women literally scrubbed their front steps clean.

“Look, we need to make time for our friendship. You’re important to me. I squirreled away a bottle of red wine in the back, behind a stack of albums. Would you like a glass?”

Mert smiled at me. “A small one won’t hurt. My tummy’s full, and I can take my time sipping so I’ll be okay to drive.”

I uncorked the bottle, and we toasted ourselves. For about half an hour, we chatted about this and that. I told her how much I liked Laurel. She told me that Johnny was nearly through with the community college class he’d been taking for landscaping. Johnny and I dated off and on, but never seriously. He’d become about as good a friend to me as his sister. I missed seeing him.

I told her about Anya’s visit to the Detweiler farm and about the incident at the mall.

“Good thing you got right on that. It starts thataway, you know? They talk bad to you. They tell you how stupid you are or laugh at you. Keep you away from your friends and family. Cut you off, kinda like a dog nudges that one sheep until it leaves the flock.”

An undertone to her voice told me she spoke from experience.

“But Detweiler intervened.”

“He’s a good man. Too bad he’s already taken.”

“His wife’s an addict. Hadcho told me about her the night we went to Lumière.”

“She’s still his wife. A what-cha-ma-call-it. Legal impediment to another marriage.”

Brenda Detweiler was certainly that.

We finished our glasses, rinsed them out, and loaded the dogs into my car.

“The best-est gift I ever got was you,” said Mert. “You remember? You was standing in the aisle at Lowe’s trying to find a sink cleaner.”

“You suggested Zud and handed me your card.”

“Three days later I was scrubbing your floors. Lordie, how time does fly.”

I hugged her again. “We’ve been through a lot together,” I whispered in her ear.

“I’m in this here friendship for the long haul.”

“Me, too.”

“You know, you could do a lot worse than Ben Novak.”

I stiffened, but the expression on her face was loving. “I know.”

“He’s a nice man, and he don’t have no impediments. Nice view from the back, if you get my drift. Plus, it’d make old Sheila happy.”

“I live for that.”

Mert giggled.

Once I pulled out of the parking lot, I called Dodie back. Normally I would have waited until I was home, but I knew the minute I turned off the engine all the dogs would clamber to get out of the car. As it was, I could chat with her for a few minutes at least. The back way to my house gave me ample time to drive through nearly deserted streets.

“How are you?” I asked.

“Never better, Sunshine. I’m coming in tomorrow. Sheila told me you have a big date with Ben Novak. I’ll be there to cover for you.”

I told her what hours Laurel and Clancy would work. “By the way, we had to award a duplicate prize in our contest,” I said as preamble to my explanation of our decision to have two winners.

Dodie listened carefully. “I can’t argue with your logic. The store will cover the extra prize. And the cost of flowers to Bama.”

“Those are more from me, really.”

“The store will cover them,” Dodie repeated herself. “I saw Bama today. She’s probably going home tomorrow.”

“How is she?”

“Better than expected. She’s healing fast. Jerald being behind bars is a big relief to her. She has a full faith and credit on him.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a legal term that guarantees her order of protection will be valid wherever she travels. Fortunately, she probably won’t need that again. After he cut you and held the gun on Detective Hadcho, Jerald McCallister sealed his fate, so to speak, and committed a felonious act. Actually, the pulling the gun on the law enforcement officer was a real stroke of good luck. Usually, a miscreant like old Jerald hits his wife, goes to jail for a couple of hours, makes bond, and walks right out through the revolving door.”

“But not this time.”

“Not this time.”

“How are her kids?”

“Shell-shocked. A family advocacy counselor has been talking with them and plans to talk with Bama tomorrow.”

“She still mad at me?”

By way of answer, Dodie said, “I’m going to send you a link for the Kaufman Drama Triangle. Check it out tomorrow if you get into work before I do.”

“Why?”

“Once you see it, you’ll understand Bama better. People stuck in unhealthy relationships tend to go around and around, never getting healthy, just trading off roles. First they are victims, then persecutors, and then the rescuer. Bama has been a victim for years. This sick way of seeing the world is familiar to her. Right now she’s trying on the role of persecutor.”

“Why?”

“Because she doesn’t have good coping skills. Because her ex-husband brainwashed her. More than likely, she grew up in an abusive home, and she’s got a skewed view of reality. Most of all, she hasn’t learned to be honest with herself.”

“Who will she persecute?”

“That’s ‘whom,’ not ‘who.’ And the answer is probably you.”

That was just ducky. Just super-fine, hunky dory, ducky.