Paper, Scissors, Death (29 page)

“Mr. Wilson? This is Martha Grimes, attorney at law. I’m with Billem, High, and Offen. Right. I’m calling on behalf of my client, Kiki Lowenstein. You gave her thirty days notice, correct? She’s happy to vacate the premises. You are aware of the break-ins? We’ll be charging you with reckless endangerment.” She paused. Dodie, Horace, Anya, Detweiler, and I pressed close to listen.

“That’s right. You are familiar with Jacob versus Marley? You aren’t? I’m quite surprised, Mr. Wilson. Most landlords are familiar with case law directly affecting their business.” She sighed as if very disappointed.

“Shall I recap the case for you, or shall I simply serve you with papers?” She wore a petulant expression. I’d never heard her talk like this. Her voice was cultured, her diction impeccable.

“Valerie Jacob was an attractive, young, single woman like my client. She lived in an apartment complex without adequate lighting or security. Which, I might add, closely parallels our situation. Detective Chad Detweiler has made a security assessment of your property. Shall I put Detective Detweiler on the line?” She handed him the phone.

“Mr. Wilson? Detective Chad Detweiler, here. I specifically recommended to Mrs. Lowenstein that she have lights added for security purposes.” He passed the phone to Mert.

“Now, I will proceed to recap the relevant case for you. Miss Jacob was assaulted inside her apartment. A jury found her landlord negligent. There were no security lights although she and other tenants had requested them. The property owner paid a three-point-five-million-dollar settlement to Miss Jacob. And she wasn’t a young widow with a child. We’ll use that case as the basis for our suit against you. My client has already suffered two breakins. You want to expose her to more crimes. You already endangered her and caused her the loss of property she needs for her livelihood. And, her daughter will need ongoing therapy for her mental pain and suffering. Have a nice day.”

She snapped the phone closed.

I gawked. “Holy shamoly. What have you done? Is that for real?”

Detweiler shook his head. He was trying to keep a straight face. “Billem, High, and Offen? You gotta be kidding me.”

Horace covered his mouth to suppress guffaws as his shoulders bounced with barely restrained laughter.

Mert winked. “You betcha. I don’t remember the names, but I read all about it in
People
magazine. Poor woman. Landlord wouldn’t let her put in a porch light. Now we count. One Mississippi. Two Mississippi. Three Mississippi …”

We were at fifteen Mississippi, and I was hyperventilating when my phone rang.

“Um, Mrs. Lowenstein, I’ve been thinking,” Mr. Wilson began.

“Yes?”

“Maybe I was too hasty.”

“It’s all right, Mr. Wilson. My attorney is excited about this case. She’s contacting the news media tomorrow.”

Mert gave me a thumbs-up.

“That’s not necessary. I’d like you to stay in the property. I will even reimburse you for all the costs associated with the security lights.”

“There’s also the matter of my attorney’s fees and my missing computer.”

“Why not buy yourself a new computer, Mrs. Lowenstein, and send me the bill? And I’ll take care of this month’s rent. Are we square?”

“That sounds fair.” I hung up and said, “Mert, what on earth would I ever do without you?”

Horace raised the green bottle. “A toast!”

“To the newest graduate of Tough Tamales University!” said Mert.

“To the bravest woman who ever escaped a crazed murderer!” said Detweiler.

“To my favorite employee,” said Dodie.

“To the only mom at CALA who has a bullet wound!” said Anya. “Wow, Mom, that is way cooler than a tattoo!”

A couple of weeks later, I dropped Anya off at Sheila’s.

“You go on in, darling, I’ll be right there,” my mother-in-law said to my child.

Every muscle in my body tensed. Since that day in Family Court, Sheila and I had treated each other with elaborate courtesy by circling each other like two dogs deciding whether to fight. Now she gestured to me to follow her into the living room.

“Police Chief Robbie Holmes and I are old friends,” Sheila started.

I nodded.

Her eyes moved from my face to a picture of George on her mantel. Next to him was a picture of Anya, and next to that was a photo of Sheila and Harry holding Anya as an infant. “Robbie played a tape for me. A tape of your phone call to that detective.” Sheila fingered an invisible spot on her sofa before adding, “That was smart of you. Very smart.”

“I was lucky that I’d just called Detweiler, and Bill hadn’t noticed. It was the only way I could think of to leave a message, in case …” And I stopped. I was superstitious enough not to want to say “In case I died” out loud.

“No, you were smart. And gutsy. The man was holding a gun on you. And that monster used Anya … my granddaughter! … as bait to lure you into his trap. I can’t believe it! My son’s best friend! And his … old girlfriend! I trusted them. Both of them. It’s hard to believe, I … I’m … having trouble with it.” Sheila was sputtering as she spoke, letting her emotions project the words from her mouth.

I nodded. It was hard to believe. All of it.

“Robbie says you never accepted the idea George died of natural causes. He tells me you asked questions from the beginning.”

“George just had that medical workup, Sheila. And the circumstances … well, they were too weird.”

She said nothing. Tears made silver crescents in her eyes. Her lower lip trembled. I’d never seen Sheila cry. Not even at Harry or George’s funerals. She was a great believer in a stiff upper lip. “And Robbie says you kept tracking down … searching for … the truth, even while you paid Bill to protect my son’s reputation. That you were afraid George was being blackmailed. And all the while, that little—that Roxanne—she was behind it! And Bill! The two of them killed my son! My boy!” Sheila’s hands covered her face. I noticed for the first time how thin she’d gotten, and how her shoulder blades made bad coat hangers under her clothes.

She cried and cried, stopping only to retrieve a cotton handkerchief from a pocket, before starting up again. I didn’t know what to do. She’d never touched me. Never in twelve, almost thirteen, years. I’d never touched her. But I couldn’t just sit on the other side of the room and watch her suffer. I moved slowly to her side. I knelt beside her and touched her shoulder.

“I’m so sorry,” I said. It sounded terribly inadequate, but it was true. “I can’t imagine what you are going through.” I swallowed hard and steeled myself. She needed to hear what I had to say next, but I had no idea how she’d take it. “I want you to know that I loved George. I really did. Maybe I wasn’t right for him, or maybe everything about us was wrong, but I did love him. I believed in him. He was a good man and a great father. Despite his relationship with Roxanne, he was a decent man. That’s why none of this made sense. And I know how much you loved him. I try hard to be as good a mother to Anya as you were to George.”

She lifted her chin. For the first time, I think, she saw me as a person, not an enemy. “How is your arm? I heard he got you. Good thing that monster wasn’t a very good shot.”

“I tried to make sure he didn’t have a good target! And I’m fine. It was only a flesh wound, and it’s healing. It was more scary than painful.”

I returned to my leather wingback on the opposite side of the room.

Sheila squared her shoulders. “Obviously, I’m not a very good judge of character.”

“That makes two of us,” I said. “And now we have to go on. They’re still searching for Bill—”

“I’m hiring a private investigator. Robbie has a few he recommends. I want them to find that weasel and bring him to justice.”

“Sounds like a plan. Look, I need to get to work. Merrilee Witherow and Jeff Spitzer are back together again. I’m working on an album for her to give his mom.”

Sheila’s lips curved upwards and her eyes smiled, too. “Good. I’m sure that will make Elizabeth happy. Anya and I ran into her at the club. She told me she was desperate for a grandchild. I could tell she envied me my beautiful Anya.”

For a minute, for the time being, we could put it all aside—the rocky start, the ugly first years, George’s death, the DSS report—we had Anya and her future ahead of us.

“Okay. I’ll be here first thing tomorrow to take her to the park.”

“Babler?” asked Sheila mischievously.

“Heck, no. I thought we’d try Creve Coeur.”

Sheila rose and we started toward the front door. “I suppose you’re planning on taking that hulk of a watchdog with you. Anya told me how she scared your home invader.”

“Good old Gracie. She was quite proud of herself afterward.”

We stood awkwardly in the doorway, each wondering if we’d ever feel comfortable enough to give and receive a hug. The fragrance of Sheila’s petunias was nearly cloying. The scent of her freshly mowed grass tickled my nose. My poor Beemer needed repair to the right bumper where Bill had swiped a tree trying to bring it under control. I smiled to myself and thought how fitting it was that both of us—the BMW and I—had clipped wings.

“Kiki,” Sheila spoke my name in a tone she’d never used before. “I’d like things to be different between us.”

“I’d like that too.” I spoke to the denim-blue eyes that she’d passed on to George and Anya. “I really would.”

Back in the car, I watched her wave from her porch. I raised my hand in reply. Maybe it could be different between us now. I sure hoped so.

I was nearly floating as I drove to Time in a Bottle. Thinking good thoughts, fantasizing about the future. My cell phone rang and I answered, “Hel-lo?” with a lift to the last syllable—a testament to my good spirits.

The voice on the other end was all too familiar.

“This isn’t over. I’ll make you pay.”

The End

About the Author

Joanna Campbell Slan is the author of twelve books, including seven on scrapbooking. She is a frequent contributor to the
Chicken Soup for the Soul
series, and her work appears in a variety of other anthologies. A world traveler, Joanna has led an interesting life, appearing before groups of all sizes as a speaker, meeting such celebrities as Jon Bon Jovi and Van Cliburn, and riding a camel to the pyramids in Egypt. Visit her website for tips on scrapbooking and to learn more about her work: www.joannaslan.com.

Acknowledgments

You know how authors always thank this big list of people, and you wonder, “Did all these people help?” Well, the answer is: “YES!” (Not exactly a “cast of thousands,” but close.)

You’d be amazed at the questions and problems you have as you work on a book, and the many times when your family and friends come to your rescue. (They can’t hold your hand because you need it to type …)

First of all, I have to thank my wonderful husband David Slan, my patron of the arts, my dearest critic, and my forever supporter. I also appreciate my son Michael for putting up with a working mom and listening to early drafts of my final chase scene. My sister Margaret Campbell-Hutts introduced me to scrapbooking years ago, and my sister Jane Campbell gave me medical advice (as did her friends Sally and Jon Lippert). My brother-in-law Mike Hutts loaned me his pancake recipe for my website and gave me advice on George’s untimely death. (Those two activities are totally unrelated.)

Members of the law enforcement community assisted me as well. Thanks go to Lieutenant Lewis and Sergeant Cheryl Funkhouser of the Chesterfield Police Department, author and Detective (retired) Lee Lofland, Jerry Kramer of St. Louis County Justice Services, and Detective Joe Burgoon.

To kill George in such a sneaky way, I consulted Ruth Birch and Luci Zahray, aka “The Poison Lady.” Don’t mess with these women!

For information concerning the dogs in my book, I consulted with the Veterinary Group of Chesterfield, Missouri. Many terrific folks there offered assistance: Dr. Wayne Boillat told me how to knock out Gracie during the storm (don’t try that without a vet’s help!), Joan Logan shared her pet-sitting stories, Miki Boswell and Kari Murphy offered information on Great Danes. Kari owns Orion, a rescued uncropped female harlequin, who is the model for Gracie on my website.

Between writing and publication, WE, the two-headed snake, died. Her remains have been preserved and are on view at the World Aquarium, second floor of the City Museum here in St. Louis. Go to http://www.worldaquarium.org/we.php to see the tribute to WE. Special thanks to Leonard Sonnenschein for sharing WE with us and the world.

There is no Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy; however, there is a Kaldi’s Coffee Roasting Company, and I love their coffee! Go to www.kaldiscoffee.com.

Books have fairy godmothers: I wish to thank authors Emilie Richards, for a terrific idea and a first read, and Elaine Viets, for ongoing encouragement and career advice. Other early readers include Julia Kressig, Andrea Van Cleve, and Michelle A. Becker. Special thanks to Laura Bradford and Joe Richardson. The entire Greater St. Louis Chapter of Sisters in Crime has been of immeasurable assistance. Booksellers Vicki Erwin, Lynn Oris, and Wendy Drew gave me great advice. Shirley Damsgaard has been a great friend as well as a role model for any successful author. Sheila Glazov, my Jewish mother, kindly read my manuscript for errors, and Sonia Dobinsky of CAJE (Central Agency for Jewish Education here in St. Louis) also answered my questions.

Gerry Malzone of Steinway Piano Gallery of St. Louis answered my cries of “help” with graphics for promotional use. In fact, everyone at the store—especially our wonderful Pat Sonnett—helped with office support and enthusiasm for this project.

Jill Hafstad of Archivers and Tina Hui of Snapfish have offered invaluable support, proving once and for all that scrapbookers are the BEST people in the world.

David Jolly started working on my website when he was sixteen. (He’s since graduated from college and has a “real” job, but he continues to serve as my webmaster.) Check it out at www.joannaslan .com. Be sure to sign up for my free ezine so we can stay in touch. Click over to the scrapbooking area for free templates, downloads, and tutorials. David and I are constantly adding stuff and upgrading. For tips on hobbies as well as cool contests, be sure to visit the Killer Hobbies blog at http://killerhobbies.blogspot.com.

I am proud to be a part of Midnight Ink. My publicist Marissa Pederson and artist Kevin Brown have gone that fabled “extra mile.” Barbara Moore served as my acquiring editor. I was privileged to work with her.

The fates were smiling on me the day I met my agent Liz Trupin-Pulli of JET Literary Associates, Inc. I don’t have the words to thank her, so instead I’ll just have to promise to keep working really, really hard.

Any mistakes I’ve made, well, “I did it my way!” so all these wonderful people are not to blame.

P.S. You can always contact me at my website www.joannaslan.com. I love hearing from you, and I’ll make every effort to come to your book club or crop, either in the flesh or virtually.