Shake Down Dead (3 page)

I had made a half-hearted effort a few
weeks ago and stopped at Hermann Auto Mart. I saw a lovely cherry
red Blazer that I had test-driven. It was only two years old and
had surprisingly low mileage. It would last me a long time. Then
again, I was thinking that I should get something with better
mileage for the sake of the environment and my budget. I was still
trying to make up my mind.

I had just picked up my purse and was
ready to leave when Megan waltzed into the room and said, “Okay,
what can I do to help?”

I bit my tongue holding back the words
I wanted to sling at her. “Nothing, Meg, it’s all done,” I said.
“I’m off to my crochet class.”

“Are you still doing that crochet
stuff?” Megan shook her head. “It seems like a waste of time to me.
You can buy anything you make.”

“Of course you can. And you can buy any
of the baked goods that you produce. It’s the doing that counts.
Crocheting lessens my stress level. It’s my
tranquilizer.”

“I just bake because I love to eat.”
Megan said patting her slightly rounded tummy.

3

The bright sunshine reflected off the
window of Trudy’s Lace Haus when I drove up. Lisa’s car was there.
Whitney usually parked behind the group home. I picked up my tote
bag, smoothed down the white blouse that was amazingly clean, if a
little wrinkled from working with all that food and drink. I ran up
the walk to the Lace Haus, checking my watch, and saw that I was
late.

Trudy, dressed in a sunshine- yellow,
short-sleeved, cotton crocheted sweater and black Capri pants,
greeted me with a smile and a wave. “Hi, Jennifer, we were
beginning to think you had deserted us today, what with the big
Town Hall meeting and all.”

Lisa just smiled and gave me a little
wave. She was wearing hospital scrubs.

“Sorry I’m late. Did you have to work
today, Lisa?” I asked her. Usually when not at work, Lisa’s uniform
was jeans and a sweatshirt.

“Only for a few hours. I filled in for
someone who needed the morning off.”

“Looks like I’m not too late. I beat
Whitney,” I said digging in my tote bag for my current
project.

“Not exactly,” Trudy replied. “She left
early. Said she had a social history to do on a new resident.
Whatever that is.”

“Oh, darn. I wanted to see her
tablecloth. Did she finish it?”

“It’s gorgeous!” exclaimed Lisa. “I
don’t know if I have the patience to make something so big. She
worked on it for months.”

I wasn’t exactly sorry that I had
missed Whitney. She’d been so snarky lately that I didn’t mind that
she wasn’t here. I did want to see her finished tablecloth
though.

I took out my current project and
showed Trudy and Lisa what I had completed since the last class. I
was having a problem working a triple crochet cluster on the bodice
of the Christening dress. This dress was made with delicate yarn
and it took a while to get used to crocheting with the fine-spun
yarn.

“I hope I catch on to this soon,” I
complained. “I love the way it looks but I feel so clumsy when I’m
crocheting.”

Trudy held up the table runner she was
working on. “You’ll get used to it. Then you’ll want to challenge
yourself by using thinner and thinner thread.” Trudy’s piece looked
like gossamer on angel’s wings. Lisa was using a size 10 thread
that looked like yarn next to Trudy’s thread.

“What size is that thread?” Lisa asked.
“It looks like sewing thread.”

“It’s a size 70. I just started this
doily,” said Trudy holding up a coaster-sized circle. “I like the
way it’s working up. It’s only going to be about twelve inches in
diameter when I finish it. I may enter this in the Maron County
Fair next year.”

We fussed over the delicate little
crocheted piece. Crochet thread comes in different sizes, the
bigger the number, the finer the thread. Most doilies were made in
size 10 or 20.

For a few minutes, there was silence in
our group. I was lost in thought about which vehicle to buy. I
really liked that red SUV. Suddenly the back door slammed
open.

“I want a Mountain Dew,” demanded a
short stocky man in jeans and a plaid shirt. We all knew Harold
Younger. He had conned little Marsha into trying to get her to buy
him a can of pop last time I was here. Harold had grown up in our
neighborhood and was the brother of my grade school classmate,
Natalie. Harold had Down’s syndrome. A usually happy, affectionate
man, his eyes were squinting as he shook a dollar bill at Trudy.
“See, I have money!”

Trudy kept a fridge full of soft drinks
and juice, along with a counter filled with snacks for customers
taking classes. Since the group home opened, the residents often
came here for snacks rather that walking the two blocks to Casey’s,
the only store in Itzig.

“Harold, where did you get that money?
Didn’t Whitney say you had spent all your money?” Trudy looked at
me and explained that Harold had been in an argument with Whitney
prior to my arrival because he wanted soda pop and had no money.
“In fact, he missed going on an outing with the other residents
because he spent all his money on candy and pop.”

“I have money! You have to give me a
Mountain Dew.”

“Harold, I just can’t sell you a pop
today,” Trudy said. “One of the counselors will have to call me so
I know that it’s okay to sell one to you. Can you have Whitney or
someone give me a call?”

“No! I don’t like Whitney. I’ll get one
at Casey’s. So, the heck with you!” Harold stomped out waving his
fist in the air.

We went back to working on our projects
while chatting about the staff and residents of the group home.
About twenty minutes later, the back door slammed open again and
Harold rushed in yelling, “She won’t wake up! She won’t wake
up!”

Trudy tried to calm him down. “Harold,
stop yelling and tell me who you’re talking about.”

“Whitney! Whitney won’t wake
up.”

“Where is she, Harold? Are the others
back from the outing yet?”

“She’s sleeping and she won’t wake up!”
Harold yelled again.

“Harold! Where is she sleeping?” Trudy
asked in a stern voice.

Harold stopped yelling and pointed out
the window in the back door. “Out there, by her car.”

We rose as one and headed out the back
door. We hurried toward Whitney’s little black Miata that was
parked next to the garage. The windshield was smashed and on the
ground next to her car laid the beautiful Queen Anne ’s lace
tablecloth, that she had just finished crocheting. Next to the
tablecloth was a wooden baseball bat inscribed with the Louisville
Slugger insignia.

“Where is she?” asked Trudy.

“She was right here.” Harold pointed to
the ground near the tablecloth. “She wouldn’t wake up.”

“Harold, did you smash her windshield?”
Trudy asked.

Harold looked down and kicked the
baseball bat at his feet. “She’s mean. She won’t let me have a
Mountain Dew.”

“She has to be somewhere around here,”
I said. “She wouldn’t leave without her car.” Lisa nodded in
agreement wrapping her sweater around her.

Trudy took charge. “Let’s check out the
house. Maybe she fell or something and is in the house.”

“It’s cold out here. I’m going to run
back to your shop and get my sweater,” Lisa said to Trudy. “I’ll be
right back.”

We strode through the back yard to the
house. Trudy stuck her head in the door. “Yoho! Anyone here?” she
shouted.

No answer. Cautiously we entered the
kitchen through the back door leaving Harold outside wringing his
hands and mumbling. Trudy called out. Again, no answer.

We heard a car pull into the driveway
so we went outside to see who had arrived at the group home. Maybe
whoever just pulled in would have some information on Whitney’s
whereabouts. We watched the group home van stop in front of the
garage. Lisa walked up next to me and welled on as the garage door
open and the van roll inside. Soon, people were spilling out of the
garage, chatting and laughing.

Three female residents ran up to Trudy
to show her what they had bought at the mall. Trudy was interested
and asked questions. You could tell that she liked these women and
wasn’t uncomfortable around them.

Marsha, still wearing her pink wig,
came up to me and said, “Hi! What you name?”

“I’m Jennifer, are you Marsha? I met
you at Trudy’s a few weeks ago.”

“Oh, okay. Look. My new necklace. I got
it for my sister for the next time she visits.”

“It’s very pretty, Marsha,” I replied.
By then another resident had taken her attention. Marsha ran over
to her and waved the necklace in her face. The other resident
slapped Marsha’s necklace away like an annoying fly. Marsha wasn’t
deterred in the least; she just kept talking while the other woman
walked into the house.

A red haired man slunk into the house
through the back door, clutching a plastic bag to his chest and
mumbling something about not touching his stuff.

I heard the garage door slide down.
Turning, I saw a handsome blond man exiting the garage by a small
door. He was wearing a quilted flannel-lined jean jacket and faded
jeans. As he came closer I could see a little grey blended into the
blond. Then I realized that I knew this guy. Could it
be?

“Pete?” I croaked, my voice suddenly
quitting on me.

“JJ!” Pete ran up and enveloped me in a
bear hug. “I’ve been hoping to run into you! How are
you?”

Here I was, being hugged by Pete
Champion, my old high school boyfriend, who I hadn’t seen in more
years than I’d care to count.

“I didn’t know you were back in town,”
I said.

“I moved back a couple months ago. Got
sick of the daily grind and took a job here as house manager where
I can work with people.”

“You mean you left your law practice to
work here? Why would you do that?”

I realized that Pete was the new house
manager that Whitney had been talking about at the last class. The
last I had heard about Pete he had been a big mucky-muck in the
Twin Cities. Something must have happened for him to make this kind
of career change at this stage in his life.

“JJ, I’ve been practical all my life.
Had everything all figured out. Reached all my goals and was a darn
good attorney. Then found that I was bored out of my skull with
corporate law. Contracts, wills—that sort of stuff. It just got to
me. So, I sold out my share to my partners and moved back home. Now
I know my next-door neighbor and I have a job that really helps
people. JJ, it’s just great to see you again.”

“Pete, please don’t call me JJ. I
outgrew that years ago.”

“Did you? I still like it.” He beamed
down at me.

With that, he did a Little Richard spin
around and started singing that old fifties rock and roll song.
“Jenny, Jenny.”

“Stop that,” I shouted, slapping him on
the arm.

He stopped singing and looked into my
eyes. He slipped his arm around my shoulder; I didn’t protest. By
now, everyone was laughing—residents and counselors
alike.

Harold started shouting at Trudy again.
Pete went over to speak with him. Trudy pointed out the broken
windshield on Whitney’s car and told Pete that we couldn’t find
her.

“Maybe she got a ride from someone when
she discovered the broken window.” Pete looked at
Harold.

“Did you break that glass with your
bat, Harold?”

“She yelled at me.” Harold crossed his
arms and shook his head. “She said I couldn’t have some Mountain
Dew. I like Mountain Dew.” Harold stomped his foot.

“So, you smashed her windshield?”
questioned Pete. “Harold, you know that’s not acceptable. Let’s go
in and see how Whitney wants to handle this. You’ll have to pay for
the repairs.”

“No! My money! I want a Mountain Dew,”
Harold crossed his arms and pursed his mouth. As far as he was
concerned, the discussion was over.

When he turned toward the house, I
touched his arm and said, “Pete, she’s not in there.”

“She’s not? Where is she?”

“I don’t know. Trudy and I were looking
for her when your van pulled in. Her tablecloth is lying next to
her car. I can’t believe she would leave it there. She worked on it
for months. Do you think Harold may have hurt her?”

Trudy looked up. “Oh, no,” she said
wagging her finger at me. “Harold wouldn’t hurt a flea.”

“Then where is Whitney? Can you explain
why she would drop her tablecloth and disappear right about the
time that Harold smashed her windshield? I think we should call the
Sheriff.”

Pete put his hand up and moved between
us. “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Let’s look in the house and
make a few phone calls. Maybe she left a note or
something.”

4

A beat up little compact car pulled
into the driveway and stopped in front of the garage doors. A young
Hispanic woman stepped out of the car and heaved a huge
multi-colored market bag over her shoulder.