Cut, Crop & Die (5 page)

Anya sat up halfway. Her eyes narrowed into small slits of blue, and she said, “Why don’t you get a life? Huh? Why don’t you find a boyfriend or a pal and go do things with people your own age? What’s wrong with you?”

She might as well have slapped me across the face. My gums were flapping as I struggled to form an appropriate response. Translation: I was stifling the urge to grab her and shake her … hard. As I stared at her sullen little countenance, it came to me that any day now she might have her first period.

In a month she’d be twelve, but that wasn’t too early to become a teenager. The angry face that glared at me was not the angelic façade of my baby girl. It was clearly a hormone-infused, self-centered tableau of features belonging to a quarrelsome, nasty teen. She’d always been cross when tired, and now her changing body was demanding more rest than her developing mind wanted. A quick glance at her bedside table confirmed my worries—her cell phone was sitting on top of a short stack of books. She’d been using it when I’d thought her asleep.

“All right, in the future I’ll make other plans,” I managed through gritted teeth. “But today I expect us to do something together. What will it be?”

She tossed back her hair and gave me the evil eye. What a rude little minx! “If you must know, I’m busy. I’m going to the mall with my friends. People my age. They’re picking me up at noon.” And with that she sank back into her pillows, arm across her forehead, exuding all the world-weary mien of Sarah Bernhardt. What a card! The kid had a budding future on stage. Next up, she’d be asking me to peel her a grape.

“Uh, my dear darling child. You are going nowhere with no one unless I say so. Who’s picking you up? You need to clear all flight plans with me, got it?” I stopped before reminding her that her father’s killer was on the loose. Authorities had bulletins out, but so far, there’d been no arrest. My goal wasn’t to frighten her, but to remind her who was boss.

She sniffed. “Nicci Moore’s mom is driving us. If you want to talk to her, you go call her yourself.”

“Don’t worry, kiddo. I plan to do exactly that.” I paused in her doorway. “But here’s a word to the wise. You will speak to me in a civil tone with courtesy, or you will spend the rest of your natural life inside these four walls. Got it?”

Jennifer Moore assured me she’d keep an eye on the girls. “Are you still worried about that horrible murderer? The one you escaped from?”

I explained about the threatening letters that showed up periodically in my mailbox.

An hour later, I watched my daughter ride off with mixed feelings. It was important that she have friends, and Nicci seemed like a nice enough child, er, pre-teen. Jennifer was a bit overindulgent, but then, who wasn’t these days? My being overprotective might backfire by making Anya too eager to shed my influence. Being unconcerned could also be dangerous. She needed to know I had her back. That I was watching out for her. I had to find a middle ground.

And what exactly was a middle ground? Where did that phrase come from and what did it mean? Jennifer’s white Mercedes pulled out of my driveway as I pondered the question. At some time, in some distant place, had there truly been a geographic middle ground? Or had this always referred to a mythical spot? A fantasy locale like Camelot? Surely in real life, middle ground was every bit as elusive as the kingdom of King Arthur.

Yes, I’d eluded a killer who was now on the lam. Two postcards and three letters had been mailed to me bearing the handscrawled message, “I’ll get even.” Each was postmarked in a different part of the country. Duh … of course, this criminal was too smart to come back to St. Louis. But what was it Detweiler had said about a criminal’s logic being different from our logic? Revenge was, as I had the scar to prove, a strong motivator. Maybe even stronger than self-preservation.

I walked back into my house as my cell phone started ringing. Mert wanted to drop off a dog for me to babysit. I was glad to have both a reason to visit with my best friend and an opportunity to make extra money.

“This here’s Guy, and he’s a nutcase,” she explained an hour later, handing me a brown, black, and white Jack Russell terrier. Mert put a bag of dog food and a leash on my kitchen counter. The small dog regarded me warily while I gave him a similar once over. Evidently I either passed muster or wasn’t worth the effort because a big yawn overtook Guy. His little pink tongue lolled in the most comical way. Gracie sat next to me, examining my burden, head cocked and curious. I lowered Guy to the floor. The two sniffed each other’s nether regions and wagged their tails. It was a stretch for the terrier to browse Gracie’s behind. I think she’s thirty-four inches at the withers, but I’ve never dropped a tape measure from under her tail. Anything a dog can do, you can watch, but it isn’t smart to push your luck.

“Ethel Frick’s daughter’s boyfriend bought him for the girl when she was in college. She’s since graduated and found a job and can’t have a dog in her new apartment, so Ethel inherited Guy. He’s named after that British dude who tried to blow up them Houses of Parliament. Guy Fawkes? This little squirt is more terrorist than terrier. By the way, you get combat pay for watching this monster. He comes with special instructions.” Mert pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of her short-shorts. “Do not under any circumstances let him watch
Sesame Street.
”

“Huh?”

“You heard me. He can watch anything else on TV, but no
Sesame Street
, see? It’s written right here in big block letters.” A frosted pink fingernail traced words underlined four times in bold marker: NO SESAME STREET! “Otherwise, he likes to run around and play a lot. I haven’t had him as a guest, but Ethel assures me he’s a lover, not a fighter.”

We put up the gate to keep Guy in my kitchen and sat down to yak. I didn’t go into everything Detweiler said—I’d promised him to stay mum, after all—but I intimated he was concerned about the circumstances around Yvonne’s death. Mert gobbled down two Snickerdoodles. With her heavy schedule of house and office cleaning she burns calories like Lance Armstrong ascending a mountain with a pack of French bikers in his downdraft. I, on the other hand, have the metabolism of a garden slug on Valium.

“I used to clean for Yvonne. We had ourselves what you might call a falling out,” Mert said. To my surprise, an expression of sheer hatred took over my friend’s face. I pulled back in shock. I’d never seen Mert like this. Never.

She continued, “That woman’s a pis-tol, heavy on the pissy part of the toll. Once she tried to return a pair of dirty panties to Victoria’s Secret. Got all huffy when they wouldn’t take them back. Liked to brag about what she’d got for free by conniving folks. She was one to eat halfway through a meal and set a hair on the plate, then call over the waiter. Once got some poor server fired over some ruckus she made. Didn’t make no secrets ’bout her tricks neither. Don’t know how a person can live with herself doing all that. It isn’t right—and mark my words, it always comes back and bites you in the rear end.”

“Wow. I knew she was awful at the store, but I didn’t realize her behavior was so … global.” Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Yvonne thrashing about.

“Dodie mentioned she’d fired Yvonne as a customer,” Mert said. “I wish I’d’a had the good sense to do just that.”

“What happened?” I asked.

Mert waved my question away and turned her head so I couldn’t see her eyes. “It was years and years ago. Don’t matter. Don’t bear repeating or remembering. I should’ve seen it coming. She wasn’t right in the head. But at the time, I thought I needed the money. Since then, I’ve learned there’s money and there’s money, and some money costs too much to get. You got any idea what happened at the store to make Dodie kiss Yvonne’s business goodbye?”

I filled Mert in on a few of Yvonne’s more notable antics.

“Ho boy. But Ellen sure acted pleased as punch to have Yvonne as a design team member over at Memories First.”

“Of course she is. That’s a prestigious award. Remember, Ellen said the magazine had Yvonne’s work on their website. I bet she’ll have other pages in one of those big spreads in an upcoming issue. Some of their winners have even created their own lines of paper products. They get hired to demonstrate supplies at shows and on QVC. Plus, manufacturers send them the latest products free. Ellen’s going to get a lot of mileage from being Yvonne’s retail home base. Maybe Yvonne behaved herself at Ellen’s store. Whatever.”

I was tired of talking about Yvonne.

Instead, I wanted Mert’s opinion on how to handle Anya. I needed a sounding board. Mert has raised three kids, so her input was always valuable. I told her what my daughter had said earlier that day.

“Hello, Miss Sassy Mouth! Buckle down the hatches, a teenage storm is appearing out there on the horizon,” Mert’s laughter was more sympathetic than her words.

“What the heck do I do about it?”

“Pray a lot.” She smiled a wry grin, her eyes crinkled in amusement. “I been through all this with mine.” Her nineteen-goingon-twenty-year-old son Roger was Anya’s secret crush, a sweet boy who often helped me with odd jobs like moving things I couldn’t budge.

A funny sound caused us both to look down. Guy had started to hump the table leg.

Mert snorted with laughter. “Go for it, buddy. You get splinters, don’t expect me to dig ’em out.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Anya’s right. You can’t build your life around her no more. She’s not a baby, Kiki. And even if she was, you need to move on. You need a social life. Tell me what’s up with that hunky detective. No way he showed up just to cuss and discuss ole dead Yvonne.”

“He shows up about twice a week ‘to check on us,’ because of those weird postcards and all. We go to lunch every week or so … but he’s never asked me out to dinner. He’s never made a move on me, and heaven knows, I’ve been patient. It’s not like Anya is here all the time. She’s at Sheila’s three nights a week at least. In fact, I’m so frustrated I picked up this book at the library—
He’s Just Not That Into You
.”

Mert gathered her purse and said, “Like some smug couple in New York City can straighten out your love life. Man, I sure do wish there was a magic formula. For menfolk and kids. But there ain’t. It may be time to move on. That Detweiler’s a real dream-boat, but he’s gotta poop or get off the pot. In fact, I see him, I’m going to tell him so.”

“Don’t you dare!”

“Phooey. Tell you what. I’m having a barbecue at the house next Sunday. Why don’t you come? I’d like you to meet my baby brother, Johnny. Remember? I told you about him moving back in the area after being … away.”

What, I wondered, was “away”? Mert wasn’t one to be coy. I didn’t recall ever hearing her say much about Johnny. “Aw, I don’t know. Wouldn’t that complicate our friendship? What if he hates me? Worse. What if he likes me?”

Mert snorted. “It don’t matter neither way. I love you, and your little dog, Toto, too,” and she gave Gracie a pat. “Besides, we’re going to have ourselves a good time. After a couple of beers, the whole world looks better, and that’s a fact. Iff’n it weren’t for Budweiser, I’d’a been wiser.” Her phone rang. “It’s my sister over in Indiana wanting to talk about what to get our daddy for his birthday. I’ll tell you more about my baby brother later. Got to run.”

“Um, one last question.”

“Shoot. But make it quick-like.”

“Do I have bad breath?”

“Not that I ever noticed. But don’t you dare plant a big French smooch on me so I can find out.”

“Remember, no
Sesame Street
,” I cautioned Anya as I finished making our dinner. The chicken drumettes in my crock pot were cooking in honey-mustard sauce, and the homemade cole slaw chilled in the refrigerator. I stirred a half gallon pitcher of water until the brown peach tea powder dissolved. A bowl of cut-up cantaloupe sat in the middle of the table. For dessert we had frozen bananas dipped in chocolate in the freezer. It might not be gourmet fare, but it was wholesome and economical.

“I’m not hungry,” my daughter stopped protesting when she saw the look on my face. Anya was underweight. The school nurse had been worried enough to call me and query about her eating habits right before the academic year ended. Since then, my child and I had had a talk about taking good care of our health. As a result, Anya had promised to eat—or at least to try to eat—something at every meal.