Make, Take, Murder (7 page)

With that angry, bitter
thought, I pushed my chair away from the table, got up, marched to the counter, and ordered muffies and cookies for the evening crop. By the time the food was bagged and paid for, Sheila had cleared our table or corralled someone into doing it for her. Struggling with my purchases, I held the door open for my mother-in-law and watched her stomp to her car. I was smacking the pavement pretty hard myself. Each of us was irritated and feeling sorely used.

“I need to run an errand on our way back to your store,” she announced. With that, she cranked the heat onto high.

Errand? Did she say “errand” in the singular? Indeed, she did.

And she lied. She stopped first at the dry cleaners (where she fought with them over a spot they couldn’t remove), next to Barnes & Noble Booksellers (where she fussed about a book cover she thought lurid), on to a drugstore (where she complained about problems with the federally mandated “childproof cap”), and finally to a cobbler’s shop (where the nasty man who ran it got the better of my mother-in-law, but then he was famous all over town for being a first-class jerk). At the last stop, knowing what a turkey that shoe guy is, I stayed in the car and cranked the heat down. A honking-mad Sheila climbed back into the car. “He says my shoes are old. I pointed out people don’t generally repair new shoes. Why would they? What a fool! Doesn’t he know what business he’s in?” She continued to grumble under her breath as she cranked the heat higher.

As the temperature rose in the car, an unpleasant fragrance filled the air.

In response to the growing stench, I closed the vents on my side.

Sheila responded to my move by cranking the heat to its max.

With all her errands, we’d strayed a long way from my store. The drive back took a while. We’d been riding a good ten minutes when Sheila’s nose wrinkled in disgust. “What
is
that smell?”

I sampled the air, too. She was right. There was definitely something stinky aloft. Something pungent. Something gross. I turned my head and sniffed at the bag from Bread Co.

Not coming from there. So where was it?

I leaned toward the back seat and took a deep breath.

Not there either.

At a stoplight, Sheila sniffed delicately around the steering wheel, following the long expanse of dashboard from her side to mine. “It’s coming from your side of the car!”

I closed my eyes and sucked in air, sharp and ugly. Sheila was right. It
was
on my side. The pungent smell wafted from where I sat. I let my nose lead me, down, down, down, and slowly bent my face to my jacket. Sniffing and concentrating, I followed the stench to my sleeve.

The car’s interior was now toasty warm. Almost hot, in fact.

The heat activated the smell. Energized it. Caused it to bloom. In response, I dialed down the thermostat. “This isn’t helping.”

At another long light, Sheila leaned toward my side of the car. We were now sniffing in tandem, two hound dogs on a fox’s trail. She scooched as close to me as our seats would allow. I followed the scent, my head bending nearer and nearer to my body. I raised my arm, pulling it up to my nose.

“Pee-yew!” said Sheila.

“Ugh. It’s coming from my coat.” I took a long discerning snort. “Yuck.”

“Is that jacket new?”

“Um,” I hedged. I didn’t want her to know I was shopping at thrift stores. I especially didn’t want her to know I was shopping at thrift stores and buying from the markdown racks. “Not exactly. I just started wearing it.”

Sheila sniffed in my direction and broke out with a cackle. “Better stop wearing it. You stink of cat pee.”

Sheila was still laughing
as she turned the corner to my store. Her laughter died when she spotted the TV trucks. “Are they there to interview you? Are you in some sort of jam again?”

I closed my eyes. This was bad. Really bad. How had word leaked out so quickly?

“I found a severed leg in our Dumpster this morning.”

“You what?” Sheila shrieked.

I filled her in quickly. We had time because the line of media cars blocked our parking lot entrance.

“And you didn’t think to tell me?”

“You didn’t exactly give me the chance. Besides, it’s just garbage. Unusual garbage to be sure, but it’s only trash. Bama and I are thinking it might be from a local hospital. Maybe even a prank pulled by a med student.” Over the past two years, I learned to lie with casual finesse. This wasn’t exactly a skill I planned to perfect. However, its usefulness could not be denied.

“Why in the world did they decide to use your Dumpster?”

She stumped me. (Pardon the pun.) We weren’t close to any of the college campuses with a med school. The nearest funeral home was blocks away. No local bar or pub was situated within walking distance. The only response I could muster was a shrug.

“Thanks again for taking care of Anya tonight,” I said, “and for taking her to Hebrew lessons today. Thanks in advance for picking her up from school and feeding her dinner tomorrow. I think I better hop out here and see if Bama needs help. She’s a very private person.” With that, I unbuckled my seatbelt, grabbed the bag of food, and leaped out in one smooth move. Right before I slammed the car door, I said to Sheila, “About marrying Robbie Holmes. Why not go see Rabbi Sarah? She can give you guidance.”

Sheila’s thoughtful gaze offered me a newfound respect. “Good idea. I might just do that.”

As predicted, the teaming mass of media hounds turned on me like a fire ant colony on an invader. Questions flew. Microphones were shoved into my face. Hands tugged at my jacket. The swell of bodies pressed closer and closer. Media totally surrounded me.

Just as quickly, noses wrinkling in distaste, folks started to back away.

Maybe stinking like cat pee was a brilliant idea.

Or then again, maybe not.

My good pal Clancy Whitehead was the first of the Monday night croppers to arrive. “What a mob scene outside! I heard about your problem on the news. Totally gross, but also exciting. Really fascinating. How totally weird.” Her face pinkened up. “You know what I mean,” she added.

I nodded. I knew she was lonely and bored, so I didn’t take her comments the wrong way. Clancy came across as cool, calm, and collected, but that polished exterior hid a sensitive soul. Rather like an armadillo with all those interlocking plates perfectly aligned for the purpose of protecting the defenseless creature at the core. I nodded to show I didn’t think she was being callous. “You’re right. Who would have ever guessed that among those paper scraps would be something so gruesome?”

Then I shuddered, “Being in the Dumpster with a severed body part was awful.”

She had the good grace to look chagrined. “I imagine so. What do you think happened?”

I groaned. “I hate to think. The way the leg was chopped off, how cold the skin felt, that’ll stay with me forever. Ugh. I’m hoping that a med student dumped it off as a prank. Or maybe some weirdo went through the trash at a hospital and found it, took it, and then thought better of the whole scheme.”

“I doubt it. Usually they put body parts in an incinerator. Three questions come to mind. One, where did the severed limb come from? Two, who had custody or access? Three, why drag that thing to your store to dump it?”

“Beats me. I expect we’ll know soon enough. The police were all over this.”

Clancy’s eyes sparkled. “Will Detweiler get involved?”

“I hope not. I’ve cut off all communication with him.”

She raised an eyebrow at me.

“What are my choices? He’s married. Until that changes, I’m begging for more heartbreak.”

“Well, then, this should get your mind off him. It sure sounds like a mystery to me. I know you are busy around here, but this might be a welcome diversion.” She laughed. “Ouch. I’m sounding like a really sick puppy, but you know how I love mysteries and how boring my life is. In fact, I was thinking. Do you need any help over the holidays? I’d be happy to help out.”

“I’m not sure we can afford you.”

“Come on, Kiki. You know I’m offering gratis.”

“I can’t ask that of you. That’s taking unfair advantage of a friend.”

She turned sad eyes on me.

Clancy could be Jackie Kennedy Onassis’s twin sister. From the arched eyebrows and brightly piercing eyes to her tasteful clothing choices. Today she wore a simple powder-puff pink cashmere v-neck sweater, a statement necklace, brown gabardine slacks, and crocodile loafers. Despite all that stunning wardrobe and personal charm, she threw off misery like a dog shakes off water. “My ex and his new bride invited both my kids on a ten-day Caribbean cruise over the holidays. Try to compete with sun, sand, and endless free-flowing liquid when your kids are young adults struggling to get by.”

I said nothing. The thought of being entirely alone this time of year totally choked me up. I coughed to recover my powers of speech. She patted my back.

“You know,” Clancy said, “loneliness is the most powerful emotion known to man. Or woman. I like my own company, I do. But to have children and miss them, to have loved and go to sleep each night by myself in a California King bed, well, it drains the soul of all energy, doesn’t it? I feel like an empty tin can being kicked down the highway of life.”

With that, I hugged her. Clancy’s a bit stiff, but after a second, she melted. “Don’t feel sorry for me. I’m not asking for that.”

“Come help us. We sure could use the extra pair of hands. Bring your crochet, and if you get bored, you can high tail it to the backroom. Think you can stand Bama? I might have to check with her first, before I give you an official okay.”

“When I taught middle school, I put up with hormonal teens, overly involved parents, and other teachers who were totally bonkers, as well as school administrators with only one clear goal in life: making other people miserable. I think I can handle Miss Cold Shoulder.”

I laughed. We sneaked
back to the stockroom where she could examine my crocheting. “You’re coming along. Remember to trust the yarn and the hook. Your work is a bit too tight, and that comes from worrying your piece will slide off.”

I nodded. Clancy hit the proverbial nail on the head. My hands ached from clenching the yarn tightly. I worried my projects would slip from the hook and unravel at any juncture. “At this rate I’ll never finish the scarves I plan to give as gifts.”

She grinned. “I can help with that, too. Now show me where you found that piece of shin. I’m curious.”

Our other Monday night croppers showed up one by one, moving past the last of the media. Once inside they dispensed hugs and holiday greetings. Of course they wanted to know what happened to draw the attention of the news trucks, but Bama quickly brushed the questions aside with, “It’s no big deal. Just something Kiki found in our garbage. We’re confident it’s a prank.”

Most of the women were our regulars; we’d been through a lot together. While my gross discovery caused a few nervous glances, they were more interested in their crafting projects than someone’s failed anatomy lesson.

Miriam Glickstein brought a Hanukkah page she started and hoped to finish, Maggie Earhardt (her daughter Tilly attended school with Anya) carried a box of Christmas cards she was working on, Rita Romano baked a fabulous batch of cornbread with chiles to share with us, and Jennifer Moore (her daughter Nicci was Anya’s best friend) brought a small album chronicling the history of her family business. Lanetta Holloway showed up in her signature purple, including the coolest low boots I’ve ever seen. She was putting together an album of her favorite new sci-fi/fantasy books. Bonnie Gossage showed up looking the same color I did after I pulled up that severed limb. As the women settled into their spots, Rita placed the cornbread on the side table we reserved for food. (Keeping it separate from the crafts was a priority. Nothing like a spill to ruin weeks of work. Even dry items like breads and cookies can leave oil stains on paper.)

Five other newcomers rounded out the group, including the young mother of twins I had stayed to help the night before. “My name’s Daisy Touchette,” she said shyly. “You were so nice to me that I had to come back. Told my husband that having a hobby was way cheaper than divorce court.” With that she gave a nervous giggle.

The minute the foil wrapper came off the cornbread and its lovely aroma filled the air, Bonnie hopped up and ran to the back room. She returned with a slight sheen on her skin, and one hand pressed to her lips. It didn’t take med school to figure out she’d been sick.

“Hope you don’t mind. My tummy’s upset so I helped myself to a Sprite from the refrigerator,” she said.

“Of course not.” Bonnie once helped spring me from the county jail. As far as I was concerned, she could drink Lake Superior dry of colas, and I’d gladly foot the bill.

Bama frowned at the attorney from behind our customer’s back. Boy, oh, boy. Miss Pinch-a-Penny was the life of the party. I hissed to my partner, “I’ll pay for it,” and Bama recovered enough to welcome our croppers. She passed out goody bags with a sheet detailing our holiday store hours, a cute little die cut of stacked presents, and a coupon for special discounts. I hadn’t seen the final schedule until Bonnie withdrew hers from the bag. When I did, I bit my lip to keep from moaning. I love the store, but staying open until 9 p.m. and occasionally 11 was going to make holiday shopping impossible for me. As for celebrating Hanukkah, forget-about-it. Eight days of festivities were always hard to pull off, but more so when I only had one or two waking hours at home.

Bama ended her portion of the event by reading a note from Dodie, Time in a Bottle’s founder and majority owner. Dodie explained her chemo and radiation treatments would end soon and she missed everyone terribly. A coda from her husband thanked all of us for our support and good wishes.

“Tonight’s project is a holiday organizer. I think you’ll find it incredibly useful for staying on top of all your activities. Jane Dean, that fabulous United Kingdom scrapbook artist, showed a similar project a few years back.” I handed out the materials kit and a color copy of the
ScrapBook inspirations
article with Jane’s project in it. The resulting oooohs and ahhhs went a long way toward making me feel better. But then, crafting always makes me feel better. I know I’m not alone.

Kiki Lowenstein’s Holiday Organizer

Inspired by a similar project by Jane Dean,
published by
ScrapBook inspirations
magazine.

1. Buy a cheap 3-ring binder of light cardstock.

2. Cover the front and back with holiday appropriate paper. If desired, cover the inside covers as well. You might wish to lightly sand the outside if it is glossy. (Tip: I like UHU Glue Stick for gluing paper to cardstock. You do need to get the glue all the way to the edges or the paper might peel up, but the glue stick won’t bubble like liquid glue does.)

3. Create inside pages out of cardstock. Label these: Calendar, Gifts, Recipes, Events, Decorating. (Tip: Use a punch in the shape of a label tab and stagger the tabs so they are all readable.) Remember to leave a margin on one side so you can punch holes and not ruin your design.

4. Decorate these inside pages. You can find calendars online for your calendar page. You might also want to create some inside pages with pockets. On other pages, add room for lists that you will make as you go through the holidays.

5. Between the decorated pages, add empty plastic page protectors for notes.

6. Assemble your organizer.