Cut, Crop & Die (9 page)

Sheila never bothered to ask. She simply assumed acquiescence. I gritted my teeth. If I kept it up, I could take a pass on beauty treatments and go directly to one of those “Dentures in One Day—$99” places advertised on billboards all over rural Missouri.

Two could play this game.

I trotted out my all-purpose excuse. “I have to work.”

“Not this Saturday. Dodie scheduled that other woman. Florida? New Mexico?”

“Bama,” I mumbled. “Like Alabama.”

We loaded jars into my trunk while Guy hopped up and down barking furiously in the back seat.

“Good Lord, are you babysitting rats these days? You said you didn’t like rodents.”

I grimaced, stifling the urge to defend Guy’s reputation. He might be a brat, but he wasn’t a rat. As I mustered a comeback, Guy hurled himself toward Sheila, hitting the half-open passenger window, bouncing back and landing on Gracie’s slumbering head. Aroused, my Great Dane lifted her blocky countenance to gaze at me sadly. Guy’s short legs dangled around Gracie’s ears like flaps on a hunting cap. My dog tilted her head to stare at me, dumping the terrier with a thump onto the car floor. Gracie lifted an eyebrow at me.

The message in those gentle brown eyes was clear: You just can’t fight stupid.

Sheila dusted her hands. “I’ll take Anya shopping in downtown Ladue after science camp tomorrow.”

“Okay,” I called to Sheila’s back as she headed toward her front door. “I’ll go with you to Opera Theatre. And I’ll spend the day Saturday getting a manicure. Pedicure. Whatever.”

Sheila continued walking, her hand fluttering like a queen bored with an impertinent courtier. She’d commanded, and I’d given in. What else was new?

Maybe I could make up the lost weekend hours by working on a freelance project. First I’d have to scrounge up a freelance project. I’d finished the anniversary album and the happy recipients had been in to pick it up. But they’d quickly started asking questions about “that woman who died while scrapbooking.” When I didn’t have much to say, they’d paid their bill and toddled off into the sunset.

Fat chance of getting more freelance business while people were blaming us for Yvonne Gaynor’s death. I leaned my head against the fabric roof of my old convertible. Why was life so complicated?

Sheila disappeared inside her impressive home. I felt too spent, too tired, and too grubby to follow. Minutes later she returned carrying a tray. With an imperious gesture, she bade me to come join her. As we settled in her wicker chairs, she poured ice tea. I asked nervously, “When will Anya be ready?”

Sheila waved off my concern. “It’s shady and cool where you parked under that tree. I think your dogs can handle another five minutes. That’s all I gave her. She’s on the computer Instant Messaging her friends. I expect she gave you an earful complaining about science camp. Don’t pay any attention. That’s to be expected. She’s growing up. This will be like the terrible two’s all over again. Including, but not limited to, rejection of everything, whether she really means it or not.”

“Did you go through this with George?” We’d never talked much about her relationship with her son while he was alive. Now it seemed the most natural thing in the world. Sharing made us less alone in our grief. My marriage to her son hadn’t been perfect, nor was it a match made in heaven. But he’d been a wonderful friend and a committed partner in raising our child.

Maybe romantic love is overrated.

I remembered Detweiler’s kiss.

Not a chance.

A gentle breeze ruffled Sheila’s hair. Until Harry’s death, she’d been a brunette, but shortly thereafter, white hairs crowded out their darker neighbors. When her son died, she let her stylist color her hair a stunning shade of frosty white. As she considered my question, I noticed the features she’d passed through her son to my daughter: those lovely denim blue eyes, a high forehead, and a determined set of her jaw.

“Yes … in fact, George was absolutely hateful to me. And everyone else. Nearly got expelled from high school for his snotty attitude. When the teen years strike, the closer children are to their parents, the tougher it is for them to act independent in a respectful manner. Instead, they use the people they love as a battering ram. Once they’ve destroyed our figures, our hearts, our egos, our bank accounts, and our self-esteem, it’s on to our jugular veins. That’s one reason we work hard to get them into a good college. It’s good for us—and for them—to move away. While they’re under our roofs, they make us miserable with their in-your-face presence, and when they’re off at school, they make us so lonely we could cry. It’s a no-win situation. But before you get to the point of losing it with Anya, call me and I’ll pick her up.” Her eyes twinkled over the sprig of mint in her tea. “It’s harder for her to break my heart than to break yours. Mine’s been around the block a couple of times.”

At home, Anya insisted on taking Guy for a walk. Watching her wrap the leash around one hand and maneuver her cell phone in the other, I could tell this wasn’t about exercising the dog. It was a thinly veiled excuse for privacy. The dynamic duo were gone about five minutes. Upon returning, Anya plopped down on the sofa, still chatting into her cell phone. While he’d been nosing around at Anya’s feet, Guy discovered a rubber ball in the box of dog toys we keep for our guests.

Next thing I knew, Anya was tossing it for the little fellow. Airborne Guy appeared in snapshots, leaping past the kitchen door to snatch the toy mid-flight. I put down the hamburger I was forming into patties, washed my hands, and stepped into the living room to issue a caution. Now Guy was running up the side of the walls and turning flips. Anya paused her conversation long enough to look on in shock.

“Stop that, honey. He’ll break something.” I walked over to Guy and patted him, running my hands along his body to encourage him to settle down. He wriggled with joy, but I shushed him until he grew calmer.

“All you do is gripe at me,” said my daughter. “I hate living in this tiny box of a house. If we had more room, I could play. And if I could play games on our computer like all my friends do, I wouldn’t be so bored.”

“Let’s not discuss this right now,” I countered reasonably. “I’m tired and hungry and—”

“And another thing. There’s no privacy,” Anya continued. “I can’t even have a conversation without you listening in. If I had text messaging, I could—”

“Anya, not now. Not tonight. We’ll discuss this some other time.” Her angry eyes bored holes in my back as I turned toward the kitchen. I called over my shoulder. “In a few minutes, you need to set the table.” I heard her mimicking my voice, but I ignored the invitation to a quarrel.

It had been a long, rotten day. I looked forward to a relaxing shower. Maybe under the stimulus of running water, I could come up with a plan for finding Yvonne’s killer. And figure out what Mert meant when she warned me not to trust Detweiler—or was she saying I shouldn’t trust cops in general? I hadn’t had the chance to pin her down.

Probably her comment was a reaction to the grilling by the police. I knew she liked Detweiler and thought him a good man.

Yeah, that had to be it.

I leaned against the shower wall and opened my hands to the cascade of water. The prickling of droplets on my palms always soothes me. Rubbing the fingers of one hand against the palm of the other stimulates a stress-reducing acupressure site. In the shower, you might as well let the water work on both hands at once. A long sigh released the last of my tension. Wrought-up energy leaked from my body and flowed down the drain.

Detweiler’s face came unbidden. He always soothed me. Well, nearly always. His presence made me feel safe and … And what? Loved? Dare I think that? The memory of our kiss intruded on all other thoughts, even though I tried to put it aside. The warm and luscious feelings I’d locked away were dangerously close to breaking down my carefully constructed protective barriers.

I hadn’t given my whole heart to George, but he’d had enough of it to hurt me deeply. My fingers touched my lips, re-igniting the passionate kiss Detweiler and I shared. I wasn’t ready to love another man. Or was I?

Check out any crafter’s supplies and you’ll see a plethora of adhesives. The reason? Different sticky stuff works best for different jobs. Here’s a rundown:

I DROPPED ANYA OFF at camp with a reminder: “Your grandmother will pick you up to go clothes shopping, and I’ll come get you tomorrow afternoon at her house.”

“Goody, goody,” she said sarcastically.

Gone for sure was the biddable sweet child of six months ago. Hello, hellion!

Actually I should thank the good Lord I worked forty-plus hours a week. If she’d been like this when I was a stay-at-home mom, it would have done me in completely. Now I needed to get her snarling tone out of my head. Other people depended on me. My mood needed a pick-me-up. I couldn’t walk into Time in a Bottle wearing a grumpy expression. Especially not when we had a reputation to repair.

I pulled into Kaldi’s for a treat. As I got out of my car, another patron walked by. Guy slammed himself into the back of my seat, barking like a Doberman on crack.

I ignored him and followed my nose to the origin of the scent of coffee. Then I ordered my current favorite: A toasted chestnut brew.

When I returned to the car, I opened my glove box and extracted two dog yummies while I savored my drink. Gracie sniffed the air and cranked up her big tail, thump, thump, thump. She had taken over the passenger seat when Anya left the car. My faithful co-pilot perked up her ears and kept her rheumy eyes fixed on the treats in my hand. A young woman was walking past, and Guy again hurled himself at the triangular backseat window which I’d left cracked.

“Hey!” she said, “Is that Guy? Hi, boy! How’s life? Huh? How’s the widdle Guy-boy doggers, huh?” She reached in and petted the small dog.

Guy pranced excitedly while yodeling. I asked, “You know this fellow? I’m just dogsitting.”

“Yeah, I went to college with Karen. Heard she got a job and her new apartment doesn’t allow pets. Lucky thing. About the job, I mean.” This sweet-looking girl had more holes in her face than a colander. I wondered, wasn’t all that painful? Who signed up for more misery in life? Only the young, I guessed.