Make, Take, Murder (2 page)

“Tell me again why
you were in the Dumpster.” Detective Stan Hadcho adjusted his weight in the folding chair. My nine-one-one call had brought a Richmond Heights Police Department patrolman who quickly surmised we needed a pair of detectives on the case. We sat across from each other in the back room of Time in a Bottle. His pen poised over an open Steno pad. His dark chocolate eyes never leaving my face. “Go ahead, Mrs. Lowenstein. Take your time. Start at the beginning. You were here yesterday? On a Sunday?”

I swallowed hard and fanned myself. Another swig of Diet Dr Pepper helped me push down the knot in my throat, the bulge threatening to explode along with the contents of my stomach. Staring off into the racks of brightly colored cardstock, forcing myself to focus, I mumbled through the recent events. How a new customer came in right at closing when I worked the sales floor alone. How that new customer was struggling with two howling toddlers. How she needed (a) a break from parenting and (b) more supplies. How I’d bounced said toddlers on my knee while she roamed around the store. Squeezing my eyes shut harder, I visualized the transformation apparent on my customer’s face. She had grown more and more relaxed as she thought about the album she was making for a friend’s birthday.

The kids were thrilled with the graham crackers I fed them, and later cleaned out of our carpet.

I told Hadcho how the new customer left smiling, dispensing hugs and kisses to her little darlings. A different woman all together from the stressed-out mess who’d stumbled over our threshold.

Crafting was like that. We all grew stronger and wiser when we turned our hands to the act of creating rather than fretting. How many times have I seen stressed-out women, ladies with shoulders hunched around their ears, slowly unwind as they became engrossed in a new project? Too many to count, actually.

Since Bama and I came onboard as part-owners, we’d moved Time in a Bottle a bit more toward papercrafting in general than just focusing on scrapbooking. It wasn’t a big change. No way! Just a subtle shift. Dodie Goldfader, the majority stockholder and founder, agreed to give our new, broader emphasis a try.

As a result, our sales numbers were up. Our patron count was rising. A lot of new faces turned into regulars after attending our popular ATC (Artist Trading Card) classes or our latest offering, Décor on a Dime. The young mother of toddlers discovered our store when she saw an ad for our cardmaking class. Despite the downturn in the economy, our business was good.

An inevitable downside of the additional business was more work. Bama and I exhausted ourselves trying to cover all the store hours, plus our prep time and our after-hours work keeping up with stocking, pricing, and market trends. After our new customer walked out the front door last night, toting her happy toddlers and a big bag full of supplies on the back of her stroller, I nearly collapsed against our front counter. Once again, we were closing after our posted hours. Hearing the door minder jingle, Bama stuck her head out of the back stockroom to yell to me, “You still need to clean up after that marathon die-cutting class. You promised to get the holiday decorations up, although those can wait until tomorrow. And, we’ve got to be here early tomorrow to finish prepping for the crop.”

I told Detective Hadcho, “We’re open seven days a week. With the holidays coming, our hours are extended. By the time our last customer left, I was slap happy. Totally exhausted. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight.” I explained how with broad sweeps of my arm, I scooted paper debris into our wastepaper cans. This was unusual. My guilty conscience shrieked, “Recycle! Check for small bits you can reuse!” But, honestly, by that time, I staggered about on my feet. Amendment: My aching feet. In the rush to get home, I grabbed bags from behind the counter, noticed a few official-looking slips of paper that had fallen to the floor, scooped up the whole mess, and wobbled my way through the back door to the Dumpster.

“It wasn’t until I got dressed this morning that it hit me.”

“You couldn’t find your paycheck,” he prompted me.

I nodded. I told him how I had dug deep in the pockets of the pants I’d worn the night before and discovered lint. No paycheck. But I knew it should have been there! Bama had handed it to me shortly before I had eaten lunch around dinnertime, my third day of peanut butter straight from the jar.

Retracing my steps mentally, I formed the only possible conclusion. One of those “official-looking” pieces of paper I’d tossed into the trash must have been my paycheck. It must have fallen out of my pocket and onto the floor.

Ergo, Dumpster-diving.

I must have turned a little green as I recounted my adventure and recalled the squishy feel of cold flesh in my hands.

“You all right, Mrs. Lowenstein?” he leaned slightly forward as if to catch me if I fell.

I shook my head to clear it. “How come … how come what I touched felt so soft?” I wondered out loud to Detective Stan Hadcho. His eyes were the color of twin Hershey’s kisses. His hair was the sort of jet black you read about, but rarely see. His face was tan and craggy, with high cheekbones that hinted he might have some Native American blood in him. He wore sadness like some guys wear a tired raincoat, loose, threadbare and droopy.

“That’s how flesh feels after a while. The body starts to decompose very quickly. Even when it’s cold outside. You’ve probably only ever touched someone newly dead or someone just embalmed, right?”

I nodded. I remembered stroking my husband George’s face when he was in his casket. His flesh felt cool and unpleasantly plump, like an unripe peach. I kissed Nana’s face as she lay on a bed of white shirred fabric, her small body looking shrunken in a way-too-big metal coffin. By the end of her life, her once lovely skin hung on her bones, but even then there had been a certain resistance to the pressure of my lips. “That’s right. I’ve only touched folks after they’ve been prepared. If this wasn’t the middle of December, if the weather had been hotter, that piece of leg would have been … ugh.” I shivered and checked to see if the path to the bathroom was clear.

“Mrs. Lowenstein, don’t dwell on it,” said Detective Hadcho. “It’s my job to see and hear things no one should ever experience. I signed on for that. I am willing to do it so you don’t have to, if you get my drift.” He reached over and squeezed my hand, then released it just as quickly.

I stared at my fingertips. The warmth he’d transferred flowed up my arm. With reluctance, I pulled my hand away from where we were nearly fingertip to fingertip. I didn’t want to offend him, but I badly needed human companionship. So much so that I worried I’d throw myself at him and start to sob. His gesture of kindness came scarily close to opening floodgates of pent-up emotion inside me.

Lately, loneliness had been my constant companion.

My romantic life was in the tank. I couldn’t even go there. It was too frustrating and humiliating to consider.

I’d never had such a bleak period of parenting, either.

Since Anya turned twelve last summer, she has wanted less and less to do with me. This morning was the capper. She instructed me to drop her off a block away from a friend’s house so she wouldn’t be seen leaving my car. Shifting in my chair, avoiding Detective Hadcho’s eyes, I fought an urge to cry.

Blinking fast and hard, I stared at the spot usually occupied by Gracie, my darling Great Dane. She was at the vet’s office. I couldn’t think about her. Not right now. It was too worrisome.

I took in a long and even breath. I needed to get control of my emotions. This wasn’t the time to succumb to negativity. It was the holiday season, for goodness sake. Ho-ho-ho, ah, crud.

A little voice inside me announced, “What you really need, Kiki Lowenstein, is a good old-fashioned pity party. A sob-fest. With lots of wine and chocolate.”

But I pinched myself hard and refused to let even one little tear leak out. Because I didn’t have time for this. I really didn’t.

Detective Hadcho handed me
his business card after scratching another number on the back. “That’s my personal cell. You think of anything. You need anything. You give me a call.”

His eyes held mine.

A spark flew between us; I swear it.

I swallowed hard.

I needed this like I needed a frontal lobotomy. What was with me and cops? Would I ever learn? Men in law enforcement and I did not play well together. I hastened to shove the card into my back pocket. With any luck, I’d run it through the wash and pick it out of the lint trap in my dryer. I already had one detective on speed dial, and if I’d had any brains, I would have dumped that particular phone number months ago.

A big sigh wooshed out of my mouth.

“I mean that,” Hadcho said with a quiet intensity that told me he knew I was resistant to asking for his help.

“Are we safe?” Bama stepped between me and the detective. Her head tilted, her mouth drawn into a thin, tight line. She waved a pale hand in the general direction of the back door and the unseen Dumpster which was now out of commission. The yellow plastic tape officially designated it as a crime scene. No telling how long it would take for the investigators to go over it. More likely, we’d have to replace that big green box. Visions of dollar signs danced in my head.

“Whoever did that hates women.” Bama’s voice trembled.

My head jerked up. I hadn’t thought of that. She was right and her suggestion sent a chill through me.

“He,” and she jerked a thumb at Detective Ortega, the detective who’d been dispatched to interview her in the store’s office while Detective Hadcho was chatting with me out on the display floor, “he says you’re in charge of this investigation. Lead detective, or whatever. I want to know what you’re planning to do to protect us. Someone put that in our trash. They could have chosen another site. They didn’t. They chose us.”

I gaped in surprise. Bama wasn’t much of a talker. I figured she’d answer the other detective in monosyllables and get back to work. In fact, I’d sort of forgotten about her. Separating witnesses was a common procedure. Smart, too. Detective Ortega could compare her responses to mine when he and Detective Hadcho reconvened at the station. Ortega was the stereotypical cop from TV shows. A beefy, blocky body topped off by a face both bulbous and tough at the same time.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Detective Ortega flash a message in code to his partner. With only a hint of movement, he spread his hands, below waist level, to suggest, “I tried. What can I do?”

“We’ll increase patrols. If you know a reason why someone would dump a body part on your property, you need to tell me. Right now.” That last word was a growl. Detective Hadcho’s brown eyes turned black as they narrowed.

“A reason? Sure, I can give you a couple! Because women come here. Because if you hate women, you’d want to scare them.” Bama’s chin was raised defiantly, but the tremor was unmistakable.

“How’d anyone know I’d go Dumpster-diving?” I asked.

Three pairs of eyes turned on me.

“Good question,” said Hadcho. His face a perfect blank. Dang. He would make a heck of a poker player. “Care to speculate?”

Bama and I exchanged glances.

“How would someone let you know he’d dropped off a startling package for you? Assuming, that is, that his goal was to have you find a severed limb in your own Dumpster? What’s your normal routine?” he continued.

Bama marched off, came back fast with three laminated sheets. On them were our Opening Procedures, Hours of Operation Procedures, and our Closing Procedures. She was a great one for lists, rules, and protocol. Without a word, she handed them to Ortega, as he was nearest to her.

He read from the Opening Procedures:

1. Do a quick survey of the grounds. Pick up any trash before entering the store. Bring that sack into the store. (See #6.)

2. Disable the alarm and let yourself in the back door. Bring cash drawer to register.

3. Turn on light banks #1, 2, and 3. Check the phone for overnight messages. WRITE THEM DOWN! Clear the message bank.

4. Turn over sign to read: OPEN. From this point on, customers are your #1 Priority! Listen for the door minder and the phone.

5. Do a quick clockwise surveillance of the sales floor. Return any misplaced merchandise to its correct positioning. Check for loose caps on liquids and inks! Collect any trash from inside the store, including the refrigerator. Bag it, deposit it in the Dumpster by the back door.

6. Check the daily “To Do” list for chores by day and by date.

“Kiki, you were scheduled to open,” said Bama. “Did you do all that?”

I gulped and tried to focus. “Uh, no. You said you’d handle the cash drawer this morning.”

“But you didn’t check the outside? Didn’t empty the trash?”

“I emptied it last night, so I knew there wouldn’t be any.”

“Really?” Hadcho could have filled in for Mario Lopez as one of
People
magazine’s most beautiful people. Before you blame me for noticing, let me say in my defense that even an octogenarian with advanced cataracts would gawp at Stan Hadcho. He was too good looking for this line of work. I could only imagine all the catcalls and teasing he took from criminals. I’m not a big fan of men with perfect features, but in Hadcho’s case, I could make an exception.

“Since we were running behind, I didn’t check the phone messages.” I shrugged.

“And you didn’t tell me?” Bama’s voice climbed to new and irritating heights.

“Um, no. I figured I’d get to them later. Besides, we’re both available by cell phone. Everyone in the known world has my cell number. Anyone really desperate could call back.”

She muttered under her breath. You know that saying, “If looks could kill”? I’m pretty confident the originator worked closely with Bama. She shot me one of her “roll over, expose your soft belly, and offer up your jugular” glances. I felt myself wince.

Bama is a “by-the-book” type of person. She borders on obsessive-compulsive, actually. I, on the other hand, am the queen of “Wing It.” I must admit that her systems caused Time in a Bottle to function more smoothly. Our sales were up, our shrinkage was down, and we rarely had too much or too little of any particular merchandise.

“Let’s go listen to your calls.” Hadcho led the way to our backroom office.

We squeezed in, huddled around the immaculate desktop. The in-box was empty, the Formica top was spotless, and no detritus of office clutter marred its naked expanse. Bama slid behind the desk with a graceful, practiced movement. Turning to face the shelving unit where the phone base unit sat, she punched the fast blinking “Play Messages” button.

The first message was a call from a customer asking us to place a special order. Bama dutifully and pointedly wrote this down. I sensed a certain restlessness from the two detectives, but neither commented.

The second message chilled me to the core.

“Check your Dumpster out back,” intoned a computerized voice flat of inflection and phrasing. Reminding me of a GPS or an automated phone system, the voice droned on without emphasis, “Check it carefully. I left a gift for you. A piece of meat. Shank steak. Take it as a warning—for you scrappers and for all those rich, snotty women who shop at your store.”