Paper, Scissors, Death (23 page)

Dimont Development Inc. hadn’t changed much since my last visit. A new receptionist sat behind a nameplate that read, “Beth Hoover.” Young and flashy, Beth was standing behind her desk with a phone tucked under one ear. Her skirt was a mere suggestion of fabric. Her blouse was low cut, exposing a black lace bra. Everything about Beth confirmed she was strictly decorative.

I took a seat and waited. The sitting area appeared to be unchanged from the last time I visited, except that now a framed photo of George with his date of birth and date of death took a place of honor on the wall. The magazines on the coffee tables were dated six months ago. That surprised me. When George was partner, he insisted on displaying current magazines. “I think it shows we’re current, too,” he always said.

I thought he was right. He was right about a lot of things. And wrong about even more.

The place needed a good cleaning. A thin film of dust covered the silk plants. A hairball the size of a Yorkie sat under one of the end tables. A coffee stain marred the top issue of
The Economist
.

Obviously Beth didn’t do anything manual except manicures.

“May I help you?” She didn’t look up from her nails.

I pointed to George’s portrait. “I’m Kiki Lowenstein.” I extended my hand. “George was my husband.”

“Wet polish.” Beth avoided my handshake. “I didn’t work here when he did. In fact, most of us are new. A lot of customers have mentioned how well-liked Mr. Lowenstein was.”

“George was a kind person. I miss him. Actually, I’m here to see Bill Ballard. Is he in?”

The corners of her mouth turned down in a girlish pout. “Aw, too bad. You missed him by ten minutes. He’s supposed to be here all day tomorrow. Can I tell him you’ll stop by?”

“Actually, please tell him I’d like a copy of his buy-sell agreement with George. How about I write that down for you?”

___

Back at the store I loaded Gracie into the passenger seat. With her ears flapping in the soft breeze, and the world beginning to turn solidly green, my spirits lifted. Trees were wearing party dresses of gossamer leaves. Azalea bushes made their debut in chiffon pinks and purples. All around us, the dance of spring swirled and twirled. The gloom of winter was behind us. A surge of confidence accompanied my every move. I was thinking a lot about Detweiler, and that made me feel good all over, too.

The school pick-up line at CALA runs past the parking lot, around a concrete median, and alongside the honking-big new gymnasium. Gracie watched children climb into cars, her tail wagging with anticipation of seeing our little girl. My heart was thumping along with hers. I was looking forward to a quiet evening with my daughter. I planned to take her to St. Louis Bread Co. where I’d wait in the car with the dog while she ordered two green teas and two turkey sandwiches on asiago bread. After we picked up our food, we’d go to Queeny Park and find a picnic table. I was sorely in need of a breather from work. I wanted to talk to her about the break-in and the jail incident, to make sure she wasn’t scared or worried. I wanted to quiz her about her eating habits. Mainly, I wanted to hug her and recharge my mom batteries.

Gracie and I kept our eyes on the school doors eager for our first glimpse of Anya. A phalanx of luxury cars lined up behind us.

At last I saw Anya. Her pale face bobbed this way and that, searching for me. I sat up in my seat and waved. The line moved. I pulled forward. I half-stood and waved again. She started toward me calling out, “Mom! Gracie!” Gracie stood and yodeled with joy, her fat tail whopping me in the face as she wagged her whole body with happiness.

“Mrs. Lowenstein?” A woman in a tired gray suit stepped to the side of my car. Her face was careworn. She carried a scuffed and misshapen canvas substitute for a briefcase. She flashed an ID. “Letitia Smith. Children’s Division Case Worker, Department of Social Services.”

“Yes?” I kept an eye on Anya as she ran to the passenger side, hugged Gracie, and moved to throw her book bag into the back.

Ms. Smith put one hand on Anya’s arm. “Sorry, honey. You won’t be going home with your mother today.”

“Pardon me?” Ever polite, my Anya tried to withdraw from the woman’s grasp.

Ms. Smith waved toward a Mercedes in the back of the line. Sheila hopped out. My mother-in-law beamed triumphantly at me. In her navy St. John’s pants suit with matching navy pumps, she was the picture of a wealthy Ladue matron.

“Wait a minute,” I said. “My daughter is coming home with me. There must be some mistake.”

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Lowenstein. Anya has to go with her grandmother. We are investigating a report. Anya can’t go home with you until there’s been an assessment. For the time being, you are not to have any contact with your daughter. A hearing will be scheduled—”

“What?” I was close to shouting. “You’re saying my mother-in-law is taking my child away?”

“No. Not exactly. Anya will be staying with her grandmother until there’s a hearing.”

“Come along, darling.” Sheila wore a smug look on her face as she tugged at Anya’s arm.

“Gran, what are you doing? I want to go home with Mom.” Anya pulled away violently. She tried to open the passenger-side door of my car. Gracie leaned forward to lick her.

“Good Gracie,” cooed Anya, and she put her arms around her dog.

“That animal tried to attack me yesterday,” Sheila said.

Ms. Smith stepped away, her eyes wide with concern.

“Gracie wouldn’t hurt a flea.” On the other hand, Gracie was feeling her oats after tackling our home invader.

“Restrain your dog.” Ms. Smith’s eyes were big as coasters in her head.

I grabbed Gracie’s collar.

“Anya, I know this is hard,” Ms. Smith’s flat voice betrayed the fact she was accustomed to situations like this. “But you can’t go home with your mother right now.”

I rolled up the passenger window, let go of the dog, got out of the car and ran to the passenger side. Ms. Smith stood between me and my child. Anya reached for me. I reached for her, but Ms. Smith raised her arms to form a barrier.

“I want my mother!” Anya tried to push Ms. Smith out of the way. My daughter’s lip trembled. The silver half-crescent of tears formed in her eyes. “Mom,” her voice broke into tiny glass pieces. Pieces so sharp they pierced my soul. “Mom, please. Please. I want to be with you. Take me home, please!” The last word ripped from her chest and behind it came a sob.

“Anya. Anya, baby,” I grabbed for her.

Ms. Smith blocked me. Short of hurting the woman, I couldn’t get to my child.

Gracie scratched at the window. She gave a low, grumbling warning.

“Mom …”Anya’s plea was fading. As was her confidence in me.

Gracie growled louder.

“That animal’s a menace. Now come with me, darling,” Sheila said. Using Ms. Smith as a barrier to keep me from my daughter, Sheila snaked out an arm and grabbed Anya.

Anya tried to shake free. Sheila held on. Anya gave it one last-ditch effort, her whole body fighting Sheila’s grip. “Mom,” she whimpered as tears spilled down her face.

A car door slammed. The noise jolted me; I realized where we were. The entertainment we were providing. The entire CALA carpool gawked at us. Heads craned out of cars to stare. Mothers gathered on the sidewalk and exchanged horrified whispers. A clutch of girls I recognized as Anya’s classmates giggled and pointed.

This could only get worse. By tomorrow this drama would be all over school. The more upset Anya became, the faster the story would travel. I could imagine the girls text-messaging each other.The mothers would pick up where their daughters left off.

I had to think of Anya. I had to think long term.

“Let me see your paperwork,” I said. I kept my voice low and restrained.

Ms. Smith handed over a sheaf of papers. My eyes were too misty to focus, but I could tell I held an official document. My hand shook, the letters swam around, an official seal jumped out at me.

I gave the sheets back to Ms. Smith. My face relayed my defeat. “Okay,” I managed. I sniffed hard to hold back tears.

“Your mother’s finally being reasonable,” said Sheila to Anya. “Come along, darling.” When Anya refused to move, Sheila snapped, “Enough of this nonsense. Get in my car. We’re going home.”

Anya’s posture stiffened. Her grandmother never used that tone of voice with her. My child’s face twisted into an angry mask. “It’s not my home. It’s your house. Not mine.”

Sheila had gone too far.

Anya stared at me. “Mom?” This time it was a plea.

I had to be strong. “We’ll get this all straightened out. You’re just going to your gran’s. That’s all. It’s nothing new. Someone made a mistake. I’ll find out what’s happening and you’ll come home tomorrow.”

“You promise?”

“I promise.” My heart hurt. Tears threatened. I wanted to strike out. To wipe the smirk off Sheila’s face. Instead, I told myself to think of Anya. “Anya, honey, I don’t want you to be embarrassed in front of your friends,” and I cast a glance around us silently indicating the many students climbing into their parents’ cars. “I love you. For now it’s best you go.”

Sheila seemed so pleased with herself. She gave my child a little push. “Get in my car, Anya, darling.”

“Get your hands off of me,” Anya snapped. She hoisted her backpack over her shoulder. She gave her grandmother a look of pure hatred.

Whatever Sheila had hoped to gain by this stunt, she’d lost more than she knew.

My mother-in-law stepped back in shock. She turned to me as if asking for help.

But I had none to give her.

I clenched my teeth until they hurt and wanted to say, “This isn’t over, Sheila. I’ll never forgive you and neither will Anya.”

But I remembered the last time I threatened someone.

Roxanne’s gloating visage mocked me from a dark recess of my mind. I waited until Sheila’s car doors slammed. I waved goodbye to the Mercedes as though nothing had happened. A cold fury replaced my heartbreak. I asked Ms. Smith, “When is the assessment? Anya will want to know.”

A sadness crept into Ms. Smith’s face as she studied me. “You can’t have any contact with your daughter. It’s all in the paperwork. Not until the hearing.”

“When’s the hearing?”

“Next Monday.” She handed me a thick envelope. “It’s all inside.”

I could barely drive. I don’t know how I got home. I vaguely recall holding on to Gracie’s collar and letting her guide me through the back door. I collapsed sobbing, my head on a chair seat, my rear end on the linoleum floor. I cried and cried and cried.

My phone rang. I pulled it from my back pocket. I was desperate to hear from my daughter and forgot for a moment that we weren’t allowed contact. “Hello?” I stuttered.

“Kiki?”

I sniveled into the phone. A wet, hiccupping sound, totally unintelligible.

Mert said, “Kiki? You all right? What’s wrong?”

I was incoherent. As much as I wanted to tell my best friend what happened, I couldn’t form sentences. I spit out, “Anya,” and “case worker” and “Sheila.” I started retching. All Mert heard was gagging noises. But that was enough.

“I’ll be right there.”

Minutes later she barreled through the kitchen, almost tripping over Gracie as she hovered over me nervously, licking my face. I handed Mert the envelope and sank back down on the floor wailing. All the tears in the past six months flooded out of me at once. I couldn’t speak for sobbing.

My face was wet, my throat hurt from keening noises, and I didn’t care. The depth of my sorrow pulled me so far from life, so far from the belief anything would ever be right again, that I wanted to give up. My arms ached for my child. A pressure on my chest forced me to breathe in short pants. Whatever pain Sheila had hoped to inflict, she’d succeeded.

Mert walked me to the living room. After planting me on the sofa, she left with a “Be right back.” I fell over on my side, unable to muster the energy to sit upright. Gracie sat in front of me whining, wagging her tail in sympathy. She pawed at me, trying to comfort me—her big footpads rough and demanding.

I didn’t respond.

Mert brought a cold washcloth and a glass of ice water. “Drink it.”

I did. She sat beside me, wiped my face and rocked me, while patting my back as though I were a baby.

“Go ahead. Git it all out. You poor thing. You’ve jest had a real hard time of it, ain’t you?”

After a while, I started to wear down. My sobs faded to dry little blurps. I fell asleep on Mert’s shoulder, exhausted.

I awakened to a knock at the door. Mert left me to answer it. Hushed voices jockeyed back and forth.

The back side of a cool hand brushed my cheek. “Kiki? Can we talk?”

It was Detweiler. He reached out and pulled me to him. He smelled of spice and cologne and man. Held in the cradle of his arms, I cried into his shirt. It was as if I’d always belonged there. The soft dub-dub of his heart was a familiar metronome.

I didn’t even care how bad my appearance was. My eyes were swollen and red. My face was chapped with tears. I looked up at him. “She took-took-Anya!” I started sobbing all over again.

He set me back on the sofa.

Mert offered me a glass. “Here, kiddo. Take a snort.”

I swallowed. The liquid scalded my throat.

“Bourbon,” said Detweiler. “From a friend in the Alcohol, Tobacco, and Firearms division.”

“A snort’s always good for what ails you.” Mert pressed more on me. She was on one side and Detweiler was on the other, propping me up. “We gotta powwow and get us a plan, babycakes. No way are we letting that witch keep your kid.”

Detweiler had an idea. “Let me take the tadpoles to Anya. I have to explain how to care for them. If she puts straight tap water into the jar, they’ll die.”

Mert added, “I’d like to put straight tap water into Sheila’s jar. She keeps it up, and there’s gonna be one more murder for you to investigate.”

“Your mother-in-law will have to let me in.” Detweiler’s plan was a good one. Anya would know he was my emissary. Talking to him would help her feel more hopeful about the situation. His presence might also remind Sheila that I wasn’t entirely without supporters.

“I’ll call Bonnie and ask her for advice about Family Court,” Mert said. “Maybe she can come over to Time in a Bottle tomorrow. We should talk this through. You need a plan. Sheila just can’t up and steal your kid.”

“Actually, Anya shouldn’t be staying with her grandmother for any extended length of time.” I told them about Sheila encouraging Anya not to eat. “Even Mrs. Kammer, the school nurse, was concerned about how Anya’s weight has dropped.”

“No! You can’t say a word about that.” Mert’s face turned bleak. “Promise you won’t.”

“Why not?” Detweiler asked. “If I were a judge or a caseworker and I heard a grandparent was keeping a skinny kid from eating, I’d have that kid out of the house in a hot New York second. Sounds like a great idea.”

“No! You don’t understand.” Mert wrung her hands. Her eyes were wide with fear. “You don’t get how this works. If DSS hears Sheila’s unfit to care for Anya, they’ll put her in a foster home.”

Detweiler scratched his head. “So?”

“Please,” Mert’s voice cracked. “You cain’t understand. Listen …” And she swallowed hard, tried to talk, and couldn’t. Now it was Mert’s turn to cry, a big tear slipping down her cheek. “She could be … foster homes aren’t always safe … and please don’t.”

I was stunned. I’d seen my friend in every sort of situation, and never had I seen her distraught. What secret in her past caused this violent reaction? I vowed that someday I’d find out. I passed Mert the rest of my bourbon. She tipped her head back and downed the liquid in one swallow.

Detweiler’s eyes turned thoughtful. “Okay. Maybe it’s best Anya stay with Mrs. Lowenstein.”

Mert shook herself. The bourbon must have helped. “Anya won’t starve to death in a week. I’ll take her pizza and that peanut butter fudge she likes.”

My friend’s face was pale beneath her heavy makeup. One eye began to twitch. To see strong, tough Mert reduced to such misery convinced me. Much as I’d like to take my child from Sheila just to prove to the woman she wasn’t invincible, I had Anya’s welfare to consider.

“All right.”

Mert continued, “We need to get letters. People have to write on your behalf. I wish we knew what Sheila went and told DSS.”

I turned to Detweiler. “How about I ride along while you drop off the tadpoles? I’ll stay in the car. From there, we can go to Roxanne’s, if you still want. I want to look at those scrapbooks. I’m tired of living like this. If solving Roxanne’s murder gets my life back to normal, I’m on it.”

___

“We had a chance to speak while her grandmother left the room to get a placemat for under the jar. Anya says Mrs. Lowenstein reported you for your visit to the county jail. If that’s the case, it should be easy enough to get your daughter back.” Detweiler reached over and took my hand. “Try not to worry too much. Family Court will get this cleared up.”

The warmth of his flesh felt comforting. I wished I could share his optimism.

“How did Anya look?”

“She was pretty calm but she’d obviously been crying. You could tell she was mad as all-get-out at Mrs. Lowenstein. Your mother-in-law seemed shook up. Mrs. Lowenstein made a tactical error—and she knows it.”

Detweiler’s phone rang. He spoke quickly, then snapped it shut. “Good news. As of five minutes ago, you have a solid alibi for the night Roxanne Baker died. The ranger station has you registering at eleven twenty-five and leaving the next morning. A convenience store worker noticed you driving away from the scrapbook store at quarter to eleven. Good thing that old Beemer is so recognizable. There’s no way you could have squeezed in a trip to the Chesterfield Mall.”

I hadn’t realized I’d been holding my breath. A big whoosh of air escaped my lips. “Thank goodness.”

The evening had fallen and darkness enveloped us. As usual, St. Louis weather had swung from one end of the thermometer to the other in the snap of fingers. The temperature was cool enough to make me shiver. Detweiler let go of my hand and turned up the heat in the car.

“Want me to stop and grab my jacket from the trunk?” His offer flooded me with emotion. Wouldn’t it be lovely to feel cherished? George had always been kind and thoughtful in a perfunctory way, but to feel you were the most important person in another person’s life, well, wouldn’t that be wonderful? I could only imagine. And I didn’t want to imagine. I didn’t want to put myself in a position where I could be hurt. Yes, Detweiler was nice to me and my child, but what did I know about the man? Nothing. And what had I to lose?

Everything.

I told myself it was one thing to accept his help and another to let down my guard.

Neither of us talked on the way to Roxanne’s. I tried not to worry about my daughter, but I couldn’t help myself. Maybe this was Sheila’s misguided effort to replace George. Not that I cared.

Right at the moment, I hated Sheila.