Paper, Scissors, Death (24 page)

Roxanne’s apartment was an expensive loft in downtown St. Louis. The parking attendant started to give Detweiler a hard time about not having a guest or resident sticker, but a flash of the badge and the man was nice as pie. The attendant buzzed a doorman and escorted us into a vestibule. A security camera with an unblinking lens like a fly’s eye recorded us. Detweiler flashed his badge again, and we moved through a set of doors like an air lock into a fancy foyer.

The elaborate rigamarole started me thinking about the two times my—Mr. Wilson’s—little house had been violated. This is what money bought: security. I experienced a new surge of determination to get to the bottom of the buy-sell agreement with Bill Ballard. Sheila had used my brief visit to jail to her advantage. But if I’d had the kind of clout she did, I’d be working with a lawyer instead of talking to my former cleaning lady about how to get my kid back.

A nattily uniformed concierge stepped from behind a desk to ask our business. Detweiler flashed his badge and explained we were heading to Roxanne Baker’s apartment. The dapper man shook his head, causing the gold braids on his shoulders to sway, and murmured, “A shame, such a shame.”

Hardly, I thought. But I kept that to myself.

The concierge made us sign in, escorted Detweiler and me to a bank of elevators, and pushed a floor button to send us on our way. Classical music accompanied us to the top of the building where doors opened quietly to a deeply carpeted hallway lit by elaborate Art Deco sconces. Obviously placed security cameras monitored every step of our journey.

Stale air and old perfume made Roxanne’s apartment smell and feel stuffy. Detweiler rotated a glowing dial to bring up the lights, revealing that we were poised at the edge of a beautifully decorated sunken living room. He handed me a pair of latex gloves.

“Merrilee told me Roxanne had money troubles, but this place must have cost a fortune. And these,” I walked over to examine the side tables carefully, “are either antiques or expensive reproductions.”

I crossed the room to get a better look at a painting. “This isn’t a print. I can make out the brush strokes.” I knelt to examine the rug. “Our decorator showed us a carpet like this in a rug showroom. We’re talking serious money.”

Detweiler spoke softly. “Do you think Mr. Lowenstein paid for all this? Her bank account shows regular income from a corporation. We’re trying to track it down.”

“George might have. I’ve heard he took care of her.” I paused to survey the room. “But Merrilee Witherow said she and other friends loaned Roxanne money. Maybe she didn’t pay them back. That could be a motive for killing her. Frustration.”

Detweiler said, “This place is paid up through next month. Since your husband’s been dead for more than six months, Ms. Baker must have had another source of income. We’ve been working on what that might have been. None of the answers are very … pretty.”

“Merrilee Witherow told me Roxanne’d taken up with another married man. But she didn’t have a name. Roxanne kept his identity a secret.”

We followed a wide hallway into a spare bedroom. A walnut sleigh bed against one wall doubled as a seating area, making the room perfect for company, but leaving enough space for a wide armoire nestled between two large built-in shelf units. When opened, the armoire revealed a scrapbooker’s dream workspace.

“Wow,” I said. “I’ve seen these in magazines, but never in real life. This is one fancy piece of furniture.” I flipped through paper supplies in horizontal shelves. “All of this is new. Purchased this season.”

“How can you tell?”

“Manufacturers bring out new designs on a regular basis. I recognize these patterns and colors. None of this is more than six months old.”

The bookshelves were extra-deep. “This was custom built. Twelve-by-twelve albums require more space than regular bookcases. Notice how these fit perfectly? She must have ninety albums here. This must have cost a fortune.”

I pulled an album from the top shelf. The legend on the spine dated twenty years ago. Sure enough, Roxanne and a pimply faced George mugged for an unseen camera person. I flipped through the pages quickly. A dull ache began in my throat. Whatever else I might think about these two, it was patently clear they’d loved each other for years before I stumbled onto the scene. Roxanne’s journaling was skimpy, as is often the case, but her words testified to how important George was to her.

I almost felt sorry for Roxanne. Almost.

Detweiler sat next to me on the edge of the sleigh bed. To the sound of a clock ticking in the next room, we went through every album page by page. I didn’t expect them to tell me anything new. I simply wanted a feel for the woman and her life. Her friends had been right; she’d been addicted to scrapbooking.

Near the bottom of the shelves, I found an album labeled “All About Me.”

“This should answer a lot of questions,” I said. “When scrapbooking started, we focused on our families. Recently we’ve realized we need to tell our own stories. This will be an illustrated autobiography.”

I flipped to the title page. Roxanne had capitalized each first letter of her full name: O-pal R-oxanne B-aker.

“Well, that’s one question answered. My husband supported her. He’s been writing checks to ‘orb’ every month for years.” I pointed to each letter of her name in turn: O-R-B.

Detweiler nodded. “I’ll check out her bank statements, but I think you’re right. Sorry.”

“Here I worried he was being blackmailed. After that stunt with borrowing money from Dimont, I didn’t know what to think. But this … this is pretty clear.”

I pulled the most recent album from the bottom shelf.

“Here we go.” I pointed to the photos of the tropical scene. “We loaded this onto Snapfish the day of the bridal shower. That means she printed out copies but left the images on her camera.”

“That supports your theory she wanted to show the photos to someone at the shower. Unfortunately these still don’t tell us much,” said Detweiler.

“Or do they?” I wondered. Okay, kiddo, I told myself. You know this. You’re good at this. Concentrate.

Over the years, Roxanne’s scrapbooking style had changed. Like most of us, she started with cute layouts and quickly moved to more sophisticated pages. But I noticed another difference. Most of the layouts kept to the style she’d shown throughout her scrapbooking career: solid backgrounds with small patterned paper add-ons, sticker letter titles, pre-made embellishments, and journaling below her photos.

And yet … there was a different feel to her recent layouts. I tried to analyze what had changed. There was a subtle shift in mood. There were no playful photos of friends, no exuberant comments rife with hyperbole. These pages weren’t about her fun-loving life. Or her wild weekends with friends. No, she hadn’t even focused on her romance with George on these final layouts.

Instead, a feeling of distance prevailed. These pages were almost businesslike. Workmanlike. As though she’d made them out of habit. The layouts showed no spark of spontaneity—no sense of enjoyment.

The vacation photos called for bright backgrounds and embellishments. But the colors she used were somber, not at all in keeping with the tropical images. She had matted photos and slapped them down on background paper. No journaling explained what we were seeing.

Could she have been pining for George?

The photo we had of Roxanne with the guy in the baseball cap was featured in one of her more recent pages. Conspicuously missing was any page title.

I pointed out the discrepancy to Detweiler, and he made a note in his steno pad. Tapping the picture with his pen, he said, “We need to track that guy down.”

I nodded. “I bet this was the guy Merrilee was talking about. The married one.”

Since I’d been through all Roxanne’s albums, I decided to take a closer look at her supplies.

Inside a drawer labeled “Adhesives” sat an empty bottle of Un-Du. I pulled a tissue from my purse and picked it up. Why, I wondered, would she have put it back empty? All her other supplies were full and stored with obvious precision. Why would Roxanne neglect to buy more of this essential product? And why would she store an empty bottle? No scrapbooker could forget that particular product’s name! You used Un-Du to undo anything stuck to your pages.

The answer came to me: because Roxanne didn’t put it back. Someone else did.

“This is important,” I said. I explained why the bottle represented a drastic variation from what I perceived as her habits.

Detweiler offered me an evidence bag.

Okay, I thought to myself, someone used up her Un-Du. Why? How? Doing what? I remembered the missing page title. I pulled the “ballcap guy on the beach” layout from its plastic page protector and ran a finger over the area where I would have expected a page title to be. A slightly tacky film met my fingertip.

Holding the page beneath a workspace lamp, I detected vestiges of adhesive. I set the page down and examined Roxanne’s supplies.

“What is it?” Detweiler stood beside me and watched.

“Someone used up the Un-Du removing the page title from this layout.”

“You’re talking Greek.”

“A page title is like a book title for your scrapbook page. The empty space here—” and I touched the layout I’d extracted from the page protector “—would be perfect for a title. But as you can see, the space is empty. And therefore, the design doesn’t really work. Which is odd, because she was a big fan of symmetrical page designs. This product—”and I pointed to the Un-Du “—allows you to remove anything you’ve glued down without ripping your paper.”

He was still puzzled.

“Feel this.” I rubbed his gloved finger over the two empty spaces.

“Sticky.”

“Right. Someone took the page title off this page. Someone who knew something about scrapbooking.”

I crawled onto the floor, moved an empty trash can, and peered into the kneehole of the armoire. Stray pieces of paper stuck to the wooden panel on the back. “Got ’em.” I peeled off a series of torn die-cut letters. I backed out of the desk. Not my best angle, but under the circumstances, what else could I do?

Working gently, I smoothed the letters flat.

“Whoever tossed these in the trash didn’t realize Un-Du leaves the adhesive intact,” I explained. “He or she thought they’d been thrown away.”

“A-M-Y-N-A.” I unfolded one other curved portion of a letter. “What’s your guess? Is this a Q or an O or a C or a G or a zero?”

Detweiler studied the letters. He wrote them down. After a couple of arrangements, he said, “Cayman. She must have been hiding money.”

Detweiler walked through my house, making sure I was safe. He offered to stay or call Mert, but I wanted to be alone. I thanked him and locked the door behind him. Gracie followed me into Anya’s empty room, her tail hanging low as my spirits. I grabbed Anya’s old stuffed Elmo, sank down onto her bed, buried my face in her pillow, and sniffed in the strawberry shampoo she always used.

“My baby,” I whispered. I’d lied to her again. Not intentionally. I thought she’d be coming home tomorrow. I was wrong. “Aw, Anya, I’m such a bad mother.” Whatever made me think I could take care of a child? I was an idiot. A dope. A loser. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry.”

The tears came. I cried until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I awoke with the sun in my eyes and Gracie pawing my arm.

My first thought was of Anya.

After toast for me and kibble for Gracie, I showered and paired navy slacks, slightly faded from multiple washings, with a soft blue boat-neck tee. My makeup only took seconds, although the undereye concealer had to be put on twice to cover my dark circles. I stared myself straight in the eye and said, “Be brave. No breaking down. You’ve got work to do.”

One, I needed to talk with the woman who’d had lunch with George the day he died. I realized belatedly that I should have told Detweiler what I’d learned. Well, chalk that up to my inexperience running an investigation. And, I’d had other things on my mind.

Two, I needed to see if I could learn the identity of the married man Roxanne had taken up with. She hadn’t shared his name with Merrilee, but maybe she’d told one of her other friends.

Three, I needed to clarify with the shower guests that everything Dodie and I had downloaded was now—and had been for some time—available for public consumption. (Hello! No more reasons to break into my house!)

Four, I needed to meet my friends at two thirty to figure out how I would get my daughter back.

Numbers one, two, and three hinged on finalizing the photos for the Witherow bridal shower albums. Gracie and I went to work early. Before I started, I opened a can of Diet Dr Pepper and checked the store’s daily calendar. Dodie noted an appointment with Merrilee Witherow at eleven. It was only seven. I should easily be able to have the albums ready for her visit.

For the next couple of hours, I worked from the master list of photos, finishing the last few images. Dodie came in so quietly I didn’t notice until she tapped my shoulder.

I looked up in surprise.

“I heard about Sheila taking Anya.” Dodie’s strong face was troubled.

“From Mert?”

“Not exactly.”

That was a punch to the stomach. I steeled myself. “How?”

“Couple of CALA moms.”

I groaned and laid my head on my arms. My worst nightmare: being the gossip du jour at CALA.

Dodie poked me. “I thought you could use a treat. Come on into my office.” She had a small spread for me: a cup of Kaldi’s coffee and a six-pack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Glazed Chocolate Cake. My absolute favorite. In fact, I love ’em so much that in years past, George piled them into a pyramid to create a “birthday cake” for me.

“Mert called me a short time later. I agree with her. You need a plan, sunshine. We’ll discuss what to do about Anya this afternoon. Finish your goodies and get back to work.”

I cross-checked the photos I’d printed. I still had a couple to enhance. I improved the brightness on two group shots and fixed the guests’ red eyes, even though I was sorely tempted to leave Roxanne looking like the devil’s own spawn.

Around ten I took a break and walked Gracie. Then I sat down and tackled the last three photos. Using the clone stamp I removed a wall clock that seemed to be growing out of Mrs. Witherow’s head.

With a sigh of satisfaction (and the realization I do a lot of sighing), I started printing photos and checking off the guest’s requests. Dodie interrupted me a little before eleven.

“You need to eat. There’s a turkey sandwich and chips for you in my office.”

I did as I was told. I didn’t feel hungry or tired, just numb. Although my child and I had only been separated for one evening, the prospect of losing custody made it seem longer. The fact I couldn’t contact her fostered a frantic loneliness and a disconnect from my body. Dodie’s recognition that I wouldn’t eat or take breaks without reminders surprised me.

She must have gone through this when her son died. She must have suffered the same sense of loss and emptiness. My child was my center. The fact I couldn’t talk with her, couldn’t leave her a message, couldn’t build my day around when we’d be together, left me adrift.

I gobbled the food and took Gracie for a spin around the block. She, too, was depressed. Usually she thumped her tail eagerly when I came into the back room. Since Anya had been taken from us, my big dog only raised her head to look at me sadly when I walked in. We were in the same boat. Nothing much mattered. We were on autopilot.

By the time Merrilee showed up, I had finished the album base pages and an assortment of page embellishments. I’d long ago designed the title, but Merrilee’s air of excitement told me she’d forgotten how it looked. As she turned pages, I adhered her photos, added embellishments, and created the album before her eyes. She was tickled pink with the finished product.

“I can’t wait to show Mother,” she gushed. “And to think each album will be personalized. I can’t thank you enough.”

Oh, but she could thank me. She could show her appreciation by telling me more about Roxanne’s married lover. To soften Merrilee up, I gave her a gift. “As a small token of our appreciation, we printed two photos of you and your fiancé.” I handed over the pictures of her and Jeff kissing.

Merrilee’s face hardened. “Where did you say you got these?”

“From Roxanne’s memory card. When we downloaded all the photos, they were there.”

Merrilee huffed and puffed like a steam engine does. She worked her jaw back and forth. “These are NOT pictures of Jeff and me.”

“But they are. I mean, that’s you, right?”

“Wrong! See that mole over the woman’s eyebrow?” She pointed to a teensy beauty mark in the photo. You could barely see it because Jeff’s head was in the foreground and the photographer had taken the shot from behind him. All that was visible of the woman was a thin sliver of the right side of her face. Otherwise, the back of Jeff’s head covered her features. It was an odd angle, the type of picture you might take if you were sneaking up behind the couple.

“I don’t have a mole over my right eyebrow, but I can tell you who does! That’s Linda. I wondered about her and Jeff. Now I know!”

“Maybe that’s not Jeff. I mean, I was wrong about you.”

“It’s Jeff all right. He has a double crown to his hair. See?”

Merrilee flounced toward the front door. Stopping at the counter, she announced to Dodie, “The wedding is off. Throw the albums in the trash. I don’t want any of them.”

___