Paper, Scissors, Death (21 page)

Time in a Bottle sat at a right angle to busy Brentwood Avenue. At one end of the street was the Galleria with all its fancy shops. The retail district immediately to the south gobbled up whatever leftover customers the Galleria couldn’t satisfy. Each block away from the mall, the pickings became more scarce. Our block was a mix of retailers and service businesses. A couple of blocks away was a convenience store/gas station. I ran in and grabbed the last of their turkey sandwiches and a Diet Dr Pepper. Then I drove back to the store. Dodie had purchased an older home zoned business, gutted it, and added a parking lot in the rear. She and Horace put in a border of flowers around the asphalt. But it was too early for the petunias to take off, and the nicotania had a while to go before they bloomed.

Still, I liked looking at the greenery. I savored every bite of my food.

Reluctantly, I tossed my trash and went back to work. When five o’clock rolled round, I was nearly weak-kneed with relief. I bid Dodie goodbye and drove to Antonio’s to try to find someone who’d seen my husband the day he died.

Antonio’s sat on a corner in The Hill. Large gold letters spelled out the restaurant name on each of the two large windows that met at right angles on the intersecting streets. Parking was on the street and at the rear of the brick building. From the sidewalk, the place looked unassuming.

Behind the front door was an elegant world. The bar and hostess station served as a staging area for hungry patrons. A serene young woman wearing a tasteful black cocktail dress escorted me past the floor-to-ceiling wine racks serving as dividers. She gestured and I slid into a booth. Before she left, she offered me a menu. I scanned it for food I could afford.

My budget could handle a Diet Coke.

“Welcome to Antonio’s, madame.” A dough-faced man in black slacks, crisp white button-down shirt, and a tapestry vest bowed to me. He gave me a sincere smile. “It is my honor to serve you this evening. May I interest you in an appetizer? Could I tell you about our specials? The chef has a lovely lobster bisque that’s not on the menu.”

“Just a Diet Coke, please. And is Olivia working tonight?”

His face fell. “Yes, of course. I’ll get her for you.”

I felt like a heel. Fortunately, the dinner crowd hadn’t shown up, so I wasn’t taking up a table that might mean a big tip.

A tall woman with sleek auburn hair held back by a black velvet headband hustled to the table. Although she was neatly dressed and held herself regally, she looked as though she’d been rode hard and put away wet. “May I help you? The chef has a wonderful selection of specials.”

Oh, gosh, but this was embarrassing. “I … I didn’t come to eat.”

She tilted her head and studied me. “No?”

“I’m sorry, I’m really sorry, and I don’t want to take a lot of your time, but George Lowenstein was my husband,” I blurted. I was so tired. My energy was flagging, and I gave in to desperation.

Her eyes registered concern. The hostess glided behind my waitress, while leading two couples on their long tour to a table.

“I apologize, but I have to know what happened the day he died. I know he ate here with two women. Now Roxanne Baker is dead and—” I caught sight of her necklace. Hanging from a thin gold chain were four little figures formed from faux gemstones, a popular Mother’s Day gift. Suddenly, I knew how to approach Olivia. Her jewelry told the world she was a mother of four.

“I have a young daughter and I’m scared. Please, could you please help me? I need to know who George was with the day he died.” I paused and shared my most worrisome thought, the thought that made my blood run cold, “I’m afraid whoever killed George and Roxanne will come after me next!”

Her eyes darted around the dining area. “Meet me at the delivery door. In the back. I’ll be there soon as I can.”

Kicking myself for splurging on lunch, I put a five-dollar bill on the table. It was all I had.

At the back of the building, two doors faced the gravel lot. One was clearly marked “Employees only.” The other had an aluminum screen frame, a stoop, and a faded but neatly lettered sign that read “Deliveries.” I parked my bottom on the concrete step and waited.

Thirty minutes passed. Had Olivia fobbed me off? I sighed. My stomach rumbled. Gracie waited in the car. Time here meant time away from Anya, my child who deserved an explanation about my disappearance the night before.

A screech of rubbing metal announced the door was opening. Olivia handed over a plastic bag with “Antonio’s” on the outside and two large Styrofoam containers nestled inside. The smell of tomatoes, garlic, and olive oil bathed my senses in glory.

“I can’t afford—”

She waved me silent. “Mr. Lowenstein was plenty generous to me over the years. He was a real gentleman, and I miss him. Mind if I smoke?”

Perching on the edge of the step next to me, Olivia touched the flame of a Bic lighter to her Virginia Slims. “Sorry it took so long. Had to give the boss a reason for sneaking out.”

“I was told you were Roxanne Baker’s favorite waitress.”

“Favorite? Huh. I put up with her. Mr. Lowenstein gave me extra to keep an eye out. I loaded her into taxis when she was drunk, and he wasn’t around.” Olivia inhaled deeply. She shook her head and crushed the butt under her sturdy shoe. A lone waft of smoke curled around her face. “What he saw in her, I’ll never know, but she had him on a short leash, for sure.”

“Who paid you to keep quiet about the women George ate lunch with the day he died?”

“Ha!” Her eyes went wide. “Paid me? Paid Al is more like it. He’s my boss. Al told me to shut up or hit the road. I’ve got four kids to support. I’m already working two jobs to get by, and this one pays pretty good.” She reached into a pocket and handed me a folded slip of paper. “Now take this and leave before I change my mind.”

Sheila answered the doorbell by cracking the door an inch and saying, “Oh, it’s you. I’m surprised to see you. I figured they’d keep you longer. At least a year or two. I told Anya you couldn’t make it. Usually there’s a trial when you commit murder.”

She blocked the entrance with her Aigner loafer. Anya stood behind her, looking from one of us to the other. Her eyes were filled with misery. She’d been crying and was one blink from starting up again.

“Cut it out, Sheila. They had no reason to hold me. You knew I’d be here. I’ve always called when something’s come up.”

“Something’s come up? Like getting arrested and going to jail? Hmm?”

I was too tired for this. I wanted to get my daughter and go home. Anya was hanging on to every one of Sheila’s words. Her eyes blinked rapidly and her hands twisted together. She was wearing a new pair of shorts and a matching shirt. Her hair had been trimmed and her nails were painted. I was glad that Sheila was able to give my daughter some of the luxuries I couldn’t afford.

“I was falsely accused.”

“I don’t know that.”

“Well, you know more than you let on. You paid a housekeeper and a restaurant manager to keep their mouths shut.”

“I did not! How dare you! You never deserved to be my son’s wife!”

“Sheila, don’t do this. You are hurting your grandchild.” I pointed past her to where my child stood, tears streaming down her face. Her nose was red and raw.

Sheila stopped to glance at Anya. When she turned back to me, a feral expression crossed my mother-in-law’s face. Her fingers gripped the door and door frame, her knuckles white with the pressure. She spat out, “My grandchild needs protection from you. You’re a common criminal.”

“That’s not true and you know it. Someone lied to make a problem for me.”

“You are the problem. You’ve always been the problem. You tricked my son. You cheated him out of a good life, and now you want your child to pay for your mistakes. I won’t let that happen.”

Sheila stood between me and my daughter.

I needed to get a grip. The temperature had dropped rapidly since leaving work, and the air was thick with moisture that made it hard to breathe, let alone think. The sky was full of mischief. A greenish cast of light forecast possible tornados. I needed to get us home and into the basement for safety. Gracie’s pink tongue lolled out the rolled-down window. She couldn’t wait in the car much longer.

“Anya, please get your belongings,” I called past Sheila.

“She’ll do no such thing! She’s staying here!” Sheila screamed. Her face contorted with rage. The words were barely out of her mouth when her expression changed. “Oh-oh!”

A black-and-white blur streaked past me. Gracie had climbed through the car window. She raced up the lawn. The big dog skidded to a stop between Sheila and me. A ridge of fur on her back stood at attention.

“Woof!” Her bassoon bark reverberated through the marble foyer. “Woof!”

“Eeek!” My mother-in-law turned and ran.

I grabbed Gracie’s collar. I swear, that dog looked up at me and smiled as if to say, “See? I can bark if it’s really, really important.” Her tail began to wag slowly as if this was all a great joke.

Anya looked from Gracie to me in amazement. “I’ll go get my things.”

___

We didn’t talk on the ride home. Gracie lounged in the back seat as if nothing had happened.

At the house, I opened the Styrofoam containers from Antonio’s to discover a huge wedge of lasagna, a salad with balsamic dressing, tender spears of asparagus, and a thick chunk of garlic bread. I heated the food on plates while listening to the tornado warning on the radio. Anya and I loaded backpacks with water bottles, flashlights and blankets, put kitchen towels on trays, and carried our food to the basement. Brushing away cobwebs, we descended the rickety steps. Our vision adjusted slowly to the dank and dark. Anya picked over her dinner as the buzzing alerts of weather updates interrupted local radio shows.

Gracie whimpered softly at first, and later with real alarm as the drum roll of thunder shook the house. A loud boom caused her to shriek, an ungodly noise between a bark and a scream of pain. Both of Anya’s arms were wrapped around the Great Dane when she jumped up and howled.

“What’s wrong with her, Mom?”

“Remember, she’s a rescue dog. Maybe her previous owners left her outside during a storm, and she has bad memories.”

My big girl became more and more agitated, turning in tight circles and crying. A spank of thunder rocked the house. Gracie lifted her head and sobbed, running to cower in the farthest corner of our underground safe space.

Anya and I moved our things closer to her. The sight of our poor girl-dog, so frightened and miserable, made us feel helpless.

“I’ll be back.” I dashed out of the basement, following the beam of my flashlight. Up in the bathroom, I found an open box of Benadryl left over from my run-in with the bees. I’d heard dogs had a metabolic rate four times that of humans. Gracie and I weighed roughly the same. One Benadryl put me to sleep for eight hours. I calculated that four—plus one to grow on—would get her through the storm.

From a cabinet, I grabbed a jar of peanut butter and scooped out a tablespoonful. I closed the kitchen door behind me and moved carefully down the narrow, wooden stairs to our hideaway in the basement.

Prying Gracie’s mouth open was a trick. The moment she relaxed her jaws, I slapped the thick paste and the pills as far back as I could. I stroked her throat until she swallowed. My timing was terrific. A lull in the storm followed.

I set up Scrabble. Anya and I played without conversation. My kid beat me soundly.

Shortly after midnight, authorities announced an all-clear. AmerenUE promised electricity would be restored shortly. By then, Anya and Gracie were snoozing side by side on the pile of blankets. I decided not to wake them. I wadded up a kitchen towel under my head and fell asleep on a small carpet sample left by previous tenants.

My uncomfortable position didn’t allow for deep sleep. I was rolling over when I heard a noise in the floorboards. The storm had ended, but the night wasn’t quiet. A soft creak-creak-creak told me we had a visitor. Cautious footfalls picked their way across the kitchen floor directly above us. Feet moved to the back hall.

I dialed 911 and told them we had an intruder. Gracie slumbered in a drug-induced fog. Anya snored lightly. Silently I picked up an empty box left over from our move and positioned it in front of the dog and child, to block them from view of the stairway.

I perked up my ears, trying to follow any movement. A light scuffling told me someone was standing on the other side of the basement door. The flashlight with its C batteries made a heavy baton when I turned it upside down. My eyes were adjusted to the dark. I could discern a shadow moving across the threshold, flickering between the door and the floor. I crept to the foot of the stairs.

Above me, the door handle jiggled and turned. I squatted on my heels, butt touching the damp concrete. The musty scent of old wood and damp nearly overpowered me. The basement door protested as it opened. A dark silhouette hesitated. I rose and tested the heft of the flashlight in my palm. I revived a mental picture of Mark McGwire at bat. I crouched, modeling my stance after Albert Pujol’s.

I was ready to protect my child, my dog, and my home. Every cell in my body crackled with coiled energy.

My heart thumped. My breathing was shallow. My lips stuck to my dry teeth.

A big foot in a basketball shoe lowered itself to the top stair.

I waited.

A second shoe tapped the edge of the wood, then felt its way along. I could make out the shape of bulky ankle-high leather.

The foot reached down, touched a toe to the next step and tested it for security.

A warm blast of moist air redolent of dog tickled its way across my neck. I nearly toppled into Gracie. She stood at my shoulder, her jowls even with my face. Her gaze was on the feet on the stairway. Drool slid down my arm. I moved to grab her collar, to hold her back, to protect her.

But Gracie was too fast for me. She launched herself at the form on the steps. Bump, bump, bump. She took the stairs four at a time, a moving hulk of dark and light. Her body sent a breeze of dog-scented air cascading through the stuffy odor of the basement.

Thump. Gracie landed.

“ARGGGGHHH!” A voice rent the dark in two. I turned on the flashlight and trained it toward the noise. All I could see was a black-and-white tail switching above a set of prone athletic shoes. I raced up the stairs.

Where were my neighbors? Surely everyone on the block heard that crash.

“Noooo!”

I raised the flashlight over my head, ready to swing hard.

“Help! Help!” A meek voice rose from the kitchen floor.

I stumbled at the top stair, nearly falling over the big pair of feet. The overhead light fixture hummed. Lights flickered then stayed on.

I stood, holding the flashlight like a weapon, staring down into a ski mask. All I could see was the whites of my intruder’s eyes.

“Mom?”

“Stay in the basement, Anya! Stay there!”

“GRRRRR.” Gracie’s tail slugged my leg. Her huge paws were planted on the armpits and groin of the man she’d flattened.

“Police! Open up!” A banging at the front door added to the pandemonium.

“Come around back!” I yelled. I crouched next to the figure in the ski cap and showed him the butt-end of the flashlight. “Move and I’ll bash your head in! Hear me?”

“Yeeesss.” He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Don’t let her bite me, please, please.”

“Open up!” The banging started at the back door.

“Don’t you move or she’ll have you for a snack. Got it?” I shouted over the din.

“Yessss. Please! Please! Don’t let her bite me!”

“Bite? She’s going to eat you!”

“Grrrr.” Gracie was a bit mollified now. Her face never moved more than an inch from her quarry’s. A silver thread of slobber dripped from her maw to the ski mask.

“Mom?” Anya’s voice grew louder, more insistent.

“Stay in the basement, Anya!”

I yanked the back door open. Two cops stood at attention with guns in hand. I managed to gasp, “He’s on the floor. My dog’s got him.”

___

“Where would you like to go today? It’s raining outside, so I think we’d better skip Babler Park.” The bulk of the storms had moved on, but their legacy of rain drummed angrily on our windows. The winds had caused havoc and disaster to the south of us. Two people had died in their mobile home, and another in a flash flood. I immediately said a prayer of thanks for keeping us safe from the bad weather and our intruder.

Huh. Some bad guy. He was nothing more than a local high school student. “Cal Kleeber is his name,” said one of the police officers. “Stupid kid. Got paid a case of beer for breaking into your place and grabbing CDs.” The cop handed over Enya, Manhattan Transfer’s Christmas album, and a Frank Sinatra disk. “They get dumber every year.”

Finding out who hired the boy was a waste of time.

“Could be anyone from Jennifer Lopez to Jennifer Aniston. She wore big sunglasses and her hair was tucked under a hat. He never saw her car. Was supposed to meet her back at the liquor store. Of course, she’s long gone,” sighed the policeman. “No lie, and he’s an altar boy at St. Aloysius parish. Father Bechstein is going to have a cow.”

I didn’t explain that the boy had gotten the CD part wrong, poor dope.

I watched Anya push pancake pieces around her plate. She’d taken a teensy trial bite of the bacon before setting it aside. Seeing that our “burglar” was a pimply faced sixteen year old with more thirst for Budweiser than good sense had gone a long way toward calming her down after the incident.

And learning he’d peed his pants made Anya darn near hysterical.

“Gracie wouldn’t hurt a fly!” she’d giggled.

Now I had to get us back to normal. “Honey, you have to eat. You aren’t overweight. Remember the pediatrician said you needed to gain a few pounds?”

I made a mental note that five Benadryl tablets only put Gracie to sleep for two hours. Our big, furry hero groaned at my daughter’s feet and closed her eyes. She’d had a busy night.