Cut, Crop & Die (22 page)

This herb was once used by lovers to send messages to each other! Like most members of the mint family, one plant can take over a garden. You may wish to keep the herb in its own pot and sink it in the ground that way so the roots stay confined. The plant produces a lovely, tiny white blossom. The leaves can be dried and stored.

For stomach and digestive complaints, or as a sleep aid, the leaves can be brewed as a tea and taken several times daily. In one study, people who drank a cup or more of lemon balm tea daily found it reduced their general anxiety. The leaves may also be used as an accent in salads or fish dishes.

“COULD YOU TAKE A photo of me with my camera phone? I’d like to send it to my mom.” I offered the Katana George had given me the year before last for Mother’s Day to Sheila. With a brief tutorial she was good to go. She snapped my photo. I sent it to my mom and followed up immediately with a phone call.

“Hi, Mom. Can you believe it’s me? I spent the whole day getting gussied up for a fancy event with Sheila. See the picture on your screen? Don’t I look nice?”

Sheila turned her head to watch the scenery. It was a small gesture designed to give me a bit of privacy. I listened to my mother, before saying goodbye and closing the phone.

“What did she say?” Sheila’s eyebrows lifted. “She must have been surprised by how lovely you look.”

I swallowed hard and bit my lower lip. I snatched a tissue from my new gold purse and dabbed my eyes. I lifted my chin and tried to smile. “Uh, she, uh … she said you can’t make a silk purse out of a sow’s ear.”

The party tent outside of the Sally S. Levy Opera Theatre was all decked out in tiny white lights, white floral arrangements in silver bowls, and white table cloths. A greeter checked us in and gave us tiny envelopes. Inside was an ivory card on heavy linen stock embossed with our names and table number. I squared my shoulders and stepped into the crowd. Around us swirled women in fairy tale gowns and men in statesmanlike tuxedos. I couldn’t help but be impressed by the sight. Sheila and I could barely make it through the crowd for people stopping my mother-in-law to chat. “Photo, please,” interrupted a man carrying a large camera with an industrial-strength flash. “Of course I recognize you, Mrs. Lowenstein,” said our paparazzi pausing to jot our names in a notebook, “but this is?”

“My daughter-in-law, of course. This is the famous Kiki Lowenstein, scrapbooker extraordinaire. Mother of my adorable granddaughter.”

I stood there in shock. From Sheila, this was positively effusive. But I wasn’t taken in. Much of this was about Anya, about making sure I made the right impression so Anya could follow in her grandmother’s footsteps socially. Sheila took the notebook from the roving photographer’s hands to make sure he spelled my name correctly. (I guess she was concerned he’d spell it KINKY. That’s happened before.) “And,” she said imperiously, “you will have copies of the photos to my home, right? Please take several more.” She posed next to me, whispering, “Chin down, lick your lips, tuck your tummy in and buttocks under, one hip forward, stand straight.” The flash went off enough times to temporarily blind me.

As I blinked and tried to get my bearings, Serena Jensen joined us. We chatted in a desultory way until she said, “Speaking of scrapbooking, did you hear about the scrapbooker who was murdered? Wasn’t it at a what-do-you-call-it? I hadn’t heard about it when I came by your store.”

“A crop,” I offered, “and unfortunately I was there.”

“Really? Oh, Kiki, that must have been awful.” She added, “My son works with the husband of the woman who died.” She leaned closer to me. “I don’t like to gossip, but the word is Mr. Gaynor wanted his freedom. Seems he has his eye on a much younger co-worker.”

“Is this common knowledge?” Sheila asked.

“Oh, yes. My Donald—you remember him, right, Sheila?—is a marketing vice president at RXAid. Donald says the human resources director is fit to be tied. Mr. Gaynor hasn’t been at all discreet. That sort of behavior is simply unacceptable. People sue so easily, you know.”

“You wouldn’t happen to know the name of the young woman, would you?” I smiled conspiratorially.

“Let me think. Oh, yes, it’s Cindi with an ‘i,’ Starling. And Perry Gaynor’s not the first man Cindi’s tried to lasso. The young woman has designs on a wealthy husband. Oh—there’s Nancy Parkington. Excuse me. She and I need to chat about an upcoming fundraiser. Nancy, darling!”

Sheila put her lips to my ear, “Do the police know about this? About this … relationship?”

It tickled me she was so interested. Methinks my mother-in-law was getting caught up in the excitement of solving a crime! I answered, “I can’t be sure. Detweiler’s part of the Major Case Squad.”

Her mouth tightened. “Your … friend? He’s involved in this?”

I nodded. “It’s an honor to be assigned to that squad. But he won’t tell me everything for obvious reasons. I’d heard a similar rumor but couldn’t supply a name.” I snatched an hors d’oeuvre off a silver platter proffered by a waiter. It was a puny water chestnut wrapped in bacon. Just my luck to have grabbed something lightweight. My tummy grumbled in protest. When Sheila handed me a flute of champagne, I hesitated. “Maybe I shouldn’t. I didn’t eat much today.”

Sheila waved away my concern. “You’ll be fine. This is why I hire a driver for these things. Don’t make a fool of yourself, but enjoy it. These events cost enough—and free-flowing liquor is part of the expense. I guess the regime I set up for you was rather Spartan.”

I grinned. “I wondered if you were trying to beautify me or kill me. But I sure can’t argue with the results. You knew exactly what I needed. I won’t ever be able to thank you enough.”

A cloud passed over her face, but she held my gaze. I wished at that moment we knew each other better. Perhaps if we did, I could have translated her expression. Was it concern? Fear? An appreciation tinged with remorse for how she’d treated me in the past?

“You are my granddaughter’s mother. You must set a good example for the child. As Rabbi Sarah pointed out to me, your best interest is my best interest. At least most of the time.”

On that note, we touched flutes and drank. Good champagne tastes a lot different than cheap stuff. The golden liquid dissipates as it touches your palate, leaves no aftertaste and a lovely buzz. The intoxicating shock went immediately to my head, but I wanted more. Everything—my dress, the other partygoers, the décor, the ambience—made this a fantasy-come-true evening, and the champers put the world in a soft romantic focus.

If only, I sighed to myself, if only Detweiler were here.

Sheila craned her neck, searching the crowd. “We must find Police Chief Holmes and tell him what we’ve learned. But first we should find our table.”

Our heads nearly bumped as we walked along conferring. We compared the numbers on our cards to the ones on the tables. The noise level rose as alcohol loosened everyone’s tongues and inhibitions. I was the first to spot where we’d be sitting for the evening. The only other people at “our” table were two very, very ancient women, reminiscent of centenarian land tortoises. Their stiff brocade evening jackets formed elaborate carapaces from which their withered necks rotated this way and that slowly. The ladies seemed to be taking turns shouting at each other. One woman’s lipstick ran around her lips and up toward her left ear as though she’d slipped mid-application. It gave her a ghoulish grin the Joker would have envied.

“I cannot believe this,” said Sheila, “They put the Ryman sisters at my table. I told them they could fill the two vacancies if necessary, but I did expect the organizer to use her head. Next year I’ll have to be more specific. No one over eighty-five need apply. I do hope they have a defibrillator on hand. You never know with these old coots when they’ll hop the great divide. Even more annoying, you have to scream to converse with them. I can’t imagine why they even bother to come. Someone must clean them up, stuff them in their party clothes and send them on their way because neither is sentient enough to know where she is or why!”

Sheila paused to yell to the two old and shriveled-up women. Their gowns must have been built of steel years and years ago. Actually, I thought the sisters were pretty cute. Lively, too. Sheila introduced me several times over, despite the, “Pardon? What? Sister, did you hear that?”

After a respectful length of time we moved away. Sheila was in rare form. “Annabell left all her teeth at home and Marybell is only wearing a partial. The waiter will have to puree the meal and serve it in a sippee cup!”

I never knew Sheila had such a wicked sense of humor, and I told her so.

“You’ve also never seen me in my element,” she retorted. “Or drunk.”

I never even knew she would get drunk. It didn’t match my image of my “always-in-control” mother-in-law.

We began another trek through the crowd, with Sheila passing flutes of champagne to me and draining them herself. Man, she could knock this stuff back. I was starting to sway a little on my feet, but I felt darn good.

“Don’t worry. The expensive stuff rarely makes one ill the next day,” said Sheila, noticing my concern as I eyed my third glass. “That’s why rich people make such successful lushes. They can tie one on tonight and make multimillion-dollar decisions tomorrow. Usually based on the financial news they learned from their friends the night before.”

We came to a grinding halt when Sheila spotted a familiar face in the crowd. “Ben! Ben Novak! I promised to introduce you to my daughter-in-law, and here she is.”

Two rotund men stood between me and Sheila. I steadied myself for being introduced to Tweedle Dee or Tweedle Dum. But Sheila surprised me. She pulled my arm and gently shoved one of the big boys out of the way. I nearly stumbled into the arms of a gorgeous man. Ben Novak was six-feet-two. His dark-blonde hair was shot through with the lighter streaks brought about by natural sunlight. His eyes were a smoky bronze, his chin strong and masculine, and his overall face a chiseled masterpiece of strong planes. Ralph Lauren was missing a model, and I’d found him.

Oh, Lord, a rush of hormones powered by alcohol brought a light sheen to my skin. I couldn’t believe I was feasting my eyes on the second highly desirable man of the day. Whatever cosmic alignment caused this surfeit of male pulchritude, I thanked God for it. And I blessed Sheila for getting me in the kind of shape that let me hold my head high as Ben and I stared at each other.

Sheila said softly, “I thought you two might have a lot in common.”

We both colored. Ben seemed to fight a smile.

Yeah, I thought. What we have in common is lust!

Sheila continued, “Kiki likes to be creative with colors and shapes when she scrapbooks, and Ben has always loved to draw as well as write. His father publishes
The Muddy Waters Review.
”

Ben suddenly realized he was staring—as was I—and he gave my mother-in-law a small nod and added, “I’m Dad’s chief lackey. Not a glamorous title, but an accurate one. Low man on the totem pole, but at least I’m on the right end of the stick if you care to extend the metaphor. Mrs. Lowenstein has told me a lot about you. But her descriptions didn’t do you justice.”

No, I thought, I imagine not. After all, until today, neither of us knew how good I could turn out with a little polish. I forced myself to smile, which was hard because nervousness made my mouth dry. “You are very kind.”

Sheila stepped forward with, “That reminds me, Ben, how is your father? I’ve been meaning to invite your family over for dinner. Does he still eat brisket? Will your mother let him, is what I should ask. He always loved the way I prepared it.” She turned to me and said, “Ben’s mother, Leah, is quite the Tartar when it comes to her husband’s health. I wish I’d been as smart as she. Harry might still be alive.”

Ben nodded and tore his eyes away from me to address her. “Dad would be happy for an evening’s respite from his diet. I’m sure we can slip this past Mother. We’d be delighted to come, Mrs. Lowenstein.” A small smile curled the corners of his lips as he stared at me. “It would be a pleasure.”

The way he drew out that last word caused heat to flood my newly denuded lower half. Wowee. I needed a splash of cold water and fast.

Sheila responded with a courtly nod. “Then consider it done. I’ll make arrangements with your parents.”

Ben cleared his throat, his eyes never leaving mine. “Mrs. Lowenstein, if memory serves me, you have a granddaughter, right?”

Sheila answered proudly, “Yes. Anya is the daughter of Kiki and my late son, George. Don’t get me started about how lovely she is, or I’ll show photos and we’ll be here all night.”

Ben nodded to me, not to her. I caught a whiff of a trés expensive cologne, a spicy scent with masculine undertones. “I see. That’s no surprise though, is it? Good looks obviously run on both sides of the family.” I started to turn away, but he reached for my hand. “I hope I’m not being forward, but Sheila told us how you refused to accept your husband died of natural causes. You are a remarkable woman.”