Make, Take, Murder (23 page)

The rest of the
day went by quickly. Clancy noticed the stiffness in my neck and said, “You probably should see a doctor or a chiropractor. Bama’s ex sure gave you a mean fake sunburn, and I can see you’re in pain.”

I thanked her, but that wouldn’t work. I mean, seriously, what were my choices? To go home alone and let our recent hires run the store by themselves? To take time off during the busiest season of the year? If I made a trip to a hospital, my first priority should be checking up on Bama, but I couldn’t muster up the courage. Not yet at least.

As for getting my neck looked at, it was simply out of the question. I don’t have health insurance. My budget couldn’t stretch to cover more medical bills. Without Bama’s input, I had no idea how we were doing as far as our bottom line.

I remembered a Vicodin in a drawer in Dodie’s desk. She’d tucked it away after having a root canal. “It’s a good thing to keep it handy,” she’d announced. “Half a pill is just enough to take the edge off of pain.”

Downing that pharmaceutical along with a can of Diet Dr Pepper, I returned to the business at hand. If we were going to close part of the day tomorrow for Cindy Gambrowski’s memorial service, I had a lot of work to do.

There was a lull in the evening, so I asked Laurel to see where we were with the votes for our “All about Me” pages. This proved utterly unsatisfactory because we had a three-way tie. Our winners were Rita Romano, Harriet Sabloski, and Cindy Gambrowski.

“I guess you get to cast the deciding vote,” said Laurel.

“How about you and Clancy vote.”

Clancy groaned. “All three of us can vote. Here, write your choice on a slip of paper.”

We each did and pushed the torn pieces into the center of the table. Laurel opened them one at a time. “Still a three-way tie.”

She smiled at me, showing that lovely dimple. “Guess it’s up to you, Kiki.”

My neck hurt too much to shake my head. Instead I heaved a mighty sigh and said, “Isn’t it always? Lately?”

Clancy patted my shoulder. “Feeling a mite sorry for ourselves, are we? I suppose that’s to be expected. You’re having a tough holiday season, but then aren’t they all? I get sick of this ‘fa-la-la-la-la’ attitude and the fantasy that the holiday spirit will make everything perfect. Certainly, you hope people will rejoice in the spirit and be extra kind to each other, but I suspect the elevated stress levels counterbalance any and all attempts at goodwill toward men.”

“In other words, ho-ho-ho-humbug?” Laurel teased Clancy gently. Turning to me, she added, “Considering what you walked in on last night, I think you’re handling yourself pretty well. That must have been gruesome.”

“I can’t get the image of Bama’s beaten face out of my mind. She was so pulverized. I mean, that’s the only word that adequately describes what that monster did to her.”

“And to you,” said Laurel. “I propose a new rule. We lock up all the boxcutters when we aren’t using them.”

“Here, here,” said Clancy. “What happened last night would be enough to make you swear off men for good.”

“Not me,” said Laurel. “I love men. But I’m a big believer in being picky.”

She had that right.

Ten minutes later, the Vicodin kicked in. My neck quit hurting and my body surrendered to a lovely, careless, floating feeling.

No wonder Brenda Detweiler does drugs, I thought. I could get used to this.

“Mom, we got here
just in time to see the kittens being born. They are so cute! One is all gray with a pink nose. Can I have him, huh? I mean, he’s not old enough yet, but in six weeks, maybe? Please?”

I couldn’t remember when I’ve heard Anya so excited. “Could we talk about it more when you get home?”

“Mrs. Detweiler said I needed to think hard about it. I know pets are a big responsibility, but Mom, he’s so cute! The mama cat licked my kitten all over. His fur is sticking up so he’s got this awesome Mohawk. And his eyes are closed so he can’t see how adorable he is.”

I laughed. “Use your best manners, sweetie. I’m glad you are having a good time.”

“Oh, Mom, this is just the best. When I grow up, I want to live on a farm. The Detweilers said I can visit anytime I want!”

I hummed a Christmas carol as I organized our shelves. After six o’clock, the place was nearly empty. Laurel had gone home. Clancy was collecting her things, and I was ready to step out with her. “After last night, I’m feeling a bit spooked,” I admitted.

“Not that anyone in his right mind would attack a woman guarded by all those dogs,” said Clancy with a snicker as Jasper and Fluff ran around us in circles.

They were a pretty rambunctious lot, I had to admit. Petunia’s shyness was slowly dissipating as she played with her friends. Fluff was getting tired out by Jasper. Izzy had taken to riding around in the pocket of my craft apron. His head bounced along as he took in his surroundings. He was such a good boy.

Gracie was her placid self. I resisted the urge to peel open her wiffle bat tail cover and see how she was doing. I sure hoped Detweiler Senior’s gizmo would help her heal. I could love her with or without that big tail of hers, but I hated the thought of her going through surgery and more pain.

Sunday, December 20
4th Day of Hanukkah

he next day was busy. Even so, I closed the store early so we could all go to Cindy Gambrowski’s memorial service. We piled into Clancy’s Mercedes sedan. Since my poncho was still at the police station—and it might never come clean—and my winter coat stunk like cat pee when it got overheated, I grabbed a sweater, tossed a warm shawl over my shoulders and hoped the trek from parking lot to funeral home wouldn’t be a long one.

Our feet made muffled sounds on the way to a designated room. At the front was a collection of obviously very expensive photo portraits on easels. None of them were of Cindy alone. All of them included Ross.

Several of our store customers had arrived before we did. How odd it seemed to see so many of our clientele dressed in such somber colors. Most of our customers love the bright shades of cardstock and patterned paper, and their choice of clothes reflects the same. Today, these women had donned subdued colors. Mainly black, but a sprinkling of gray or navy showed up, too. It occurred to me that this wasn’t so much a celebration of Cindy’s life as heavy mourning for the torture she’d endured. By now, the newspaper articles hinted at Ross Gambrowski’s beatings, citing “domestic disturbances.” A few family friends had come forward to admit they’d seen Cindy with black eyes and bruises. Another friend spoke anonymously about calling the police once after watching Ross drag Cindy out of a car by her hair. Slowly, the public was turning on Ross in the manner that a pack of angry wolves surrounds a former alpha male, taking a nip here and there, drawing blood, slicing through tendons, and waiting for the perfect moment to finish him off.

Ross and Michelle walked in seconds before the service began. The young woman stood several feet away from her dad. She angled her body away from his, too, by slightly turning her back on him.

Detweiler slipped into the pew beside me. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Hadcho squeeze into a seat a couple rows up.

Detweiler and I sat with a respectful distance between us. Even so, his presence comforted me. We listened to one woman after another eulogize Cindy. They spoke of her love of cooking, the joy she took in decorating her home, and her affection for her daughter. The twelve-thousand-pound elephant in the room was her relationship with Ross. No one mentioned that Cindy was married. No one suggested that Cindy loved her husband. The minister chose readings about life after death and about life’s seasons. If the crowd had gathered to see high drama, it wasn’t happening. People began to shift around, nervously, as time wore on.

A woman with a striking resemblance to Cindy walked to the podium and opened a sheet of paper. She started reading from it, never lifting her eyes. “I’m Cindy’s sister Mindy. Ross Gambrowski was Cindy’s first love. He was a good provider and husband. Ross helped my husband get started in the roofing business. Ross also gave our daddy a job when he needed one. Ross has been very generous to our family. When our brother Jason lost his job, Ross put him on the payroll as a contractor. So, um, I wanted to tell all of you that Cindy was really lucky. She didn’t want for anything. Ross was the best husband she could ever hope to have.”

With that, Mindy looked up from the paper toward Ross, clearly asking for his approval.

He nodded.

She sat down.

A chill settled over the crowd. That was quickly replaced by a hush of excitement as Michelle walked to the podium. Once there, she withdrew a piece of torn notebook paper from a pocket and smoothed it flat with shaking hands.

“My mom loved me. She did everything she could to keep me … to take care of me. She supported me when I wanted to go away to college. She told me how important it was to have your own career. She said education and a good job meant freedom. No one will ever know …” Michelle started to sob.

A young woman about Michelle’s age hopped up and ran to the girl’s side. She hugged Michelle, crumpling the jacket of Michelle’s navy-blue suit, and took the sheet of paper. Once the friend found her place, she continued on Michelle’s behalf, “Mom would do anything in her power to have me live a better life. Anything. She would give up anything. I know that now. She was the best mom anyone could ever have. I will miss her more than I can ever say. But I am comforted by the fact that Mom’s in a better place. A place where no one and nothing can ever hurt her again!”

With her friend’s shoulder to cry on, Michelle drew in a shuddering sob, and then righted herself. She managed to choke out, “Thank you all for coming. Mom would have been surprised to see so many of you. She didn’t realize she had so many friends.”

That last comment sat like a big stinker over the group. I could see people drop their heads in shame. The message, though veiled, was obvious: Where had all of us been when Cindy was alive?

I swallowed a lump
in my throat. I wondered if Cindy had dared reach out for help. If so, who among these people had turned away?

What had I missed? I read her journaling, and she always wrote about how perfect her life was.

Then it came to me: That was the irony. She was writing about the appearance of her life, not about the reality.

I hadn’t understood. If I had, could I have helped her?

At least Dodie knew how to help a woman in need. I surely didn’t! Dodie had given Bama a new start and a new life. I wondered how my boss had become involved in the rescue organization? I wanted to know more. Scratch that: I needed to know more. I vowed to learn more about the signs of abuse, to put up posters about it in our store bathroom, and to find out what I could do to help. In fact, I would start by adding information to my “All About Me” class handouts. That way, as women reflected on their lives, they could decide for themselves if they were victims of abuse, and certainly they could note the warning signs.

Michelle started to shuffle away from the podium, and the minister rose from his seat to replace her. But before the man could take his spot at the lectern, Ross Gambrowski leaped to his feet. The man next to him grabbed at Ross and said, “Sit down,” loudly enough for most of us to hear. We watched the pantomime as two men in impeccable suits struggled with each other.

Ross angrily brushed the man’s hand aside.

Detweiler leaned close to me and whispered, “That guy? With Mr. Gambrowski? He’s Thomas Collins, a criminal defense attorney. The best in town. He’s representing Gambrowski.”

Collins put a staying hand on Ross Gambrowski’s forearm. The attorney glared at Ross and repeated, “Sit down!”

Ross shook him off like a horse does an irritating fly. “Leave me alone! I’m going to speak my piece, and you can’t stop me!”

Collins said, “As your counsel, I warn you—”

Ross didn’t care. A big man, almost a giant, he took up a lot of space there in the front of the room, as he turned to us and bellowed, “I loved Cindy very much! She was mine! She would never leave me! Someone did this to her, and I’m going to find him! I want her back! You hear me? She was my woman, mine! I made her everything she was! I kept her in line, and we were married for all time. None of you understood that. None of you! You were all just jealous. Jealous because you couldn’t have her! We had our problems, but it was her and me against the world! She knew that!”

“Come on, let’s go,” the attorney nodded to another man. Together they strong-armed Ross Gambrowski, one on each side. Ross was still shouting as they pushed him down into his seat.

I thought I was going to be sick. I put a hand up over my mouth and concentrated on keeping my lunch down. I’d heard all this before. Years ago, O.J. Simpson spoke about Nicole Brown’s murder: “If I did it, I must have loved her a lot, didn’t I?” Here we were, nearly twenty years later, listening to the same self-absorbed, petulant, narcissistic rant of ownership.

At least, that was my take on it. Maybe the other mourners saw it differently. The rest of the crowd put their heads together and murmured. Whether they truly felt sympathy or they recognized his comments for what they were, I don’t know.

Ross Gambrowski’s speech wasn’t a eulogy; it was a tantrum.