Make, Take, Murder (16 page)

I hit Sheila’s at
a run. The sun was sinking quickly, and since her house was west of the store, the colorful sky reminded me I needed to hurry.

We gathered around the menorah. Anya took the shamas candle and recited the time-honored prayer: “
Barukh ata Adonai Eloheinu melekh ha-olam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’tzivanu l’hadlik ner shel hanuka.”

In translation, my daughter said, “Blessed are You, Lord, our God, King of the universe, Who has sanctified us with His commandments and commanded us to kindle the Hanukkah light.”

Sheila handed over a big package to my kid. “Open it fast, we have to go.”

Count on Sheila to make every moment a Kodak moment.

Anya ripped into the paper and found an Uggs box.

I gnashed my teeth. Why hadn’t Sheila talked to me first? Hadn’t we agreed long ago to consult each other on major gifts?

“Mom, isn’t this great? Just in time for the dance!”

I wouldn’t ruin this for her. It wasn’t her fault her grandmother regularly overstepped her bounds. “Thank your grandmother, honey. What a thoughtful gift.”

That was a stretch.

“My gift for you is at home,” I told Anya. “We need to get going.” Back at the house, I would give her another gift from my Hanukkah shopping list. Fortunately, I bought her a nifty purse at a crafts fair two months ago. I knew she’d love it. I dreaded sending her boots back to Zappos, but I comforted myself that they had a great return policy. And Sheila’s gift had eased my holiday budget woes.

I struggled not to give in to sadness as I drove to the hotel. Anya was coming with Sheila, who still needed to change. That was fine. Sheila’s Mercedes had heated seats so my kid would enjoy a warm tushie on the way over. Meanwhile, I was freezing because I didn’t dare put my cat pee coat on over my friends’ borrowed finery.

How I missed George! Especially on this, the first night of the Festival of Lights! I sat in the cold car and shivered, trying to get on my game face. I even applied lipstick. I was willing to do about anything to man up for the event, even if manning up meant going girly. When I couldn’t take the cold in my car any longer, I wiped my nose and gave myself a good mental slap. I stepped out with my items in tow and joined the stream of the happy couples chatting their way into the Marriott ballroom.

I walked quickly past the area where people handed over their credit cards to get a bidding number. George had loved events like this nearly as much as I hated them. He was as social as I was introverted. How he enjoyed perusing the auction offerings! Especially if the item was a special opportunity, a once-in-a-lifetime event. He would win the bidding, then surprise Anya and me with something fabulous. One time he bought seats in the dugout of old Busch stadium for batting practice. It was so much fun. Anya and a group of friends still talked about that outing. Another time, we had box seats for
Phantom of the Opera
, plus a special after-the-play meeting with the cast members.

I blinked and wiped a tear from my eye. At least I had happy memories to console me.

Sheila walked in with Anya about the time I finished displaying the Time in a Bottle items. My mother-in-law wore a beautiful periwinkle blue dress with a pair of silver strappy shoes. A cashmere shawl was thrown carelessly over her shoulders and fastened with a large broach of opals. Everyone overdressed for this occasion. One woman even sported a sequin-covered cocktail dress and dangling diamond earrings! These were definitely people with too much money, too much time on their hands, and not enough places to go. I was doubly glad that my friends bailed me out on the wardrobe department. In fact, Sheila sidled up to me and said, “You are underdressed, but you look better than usual.”

I think she meant her remark as a compliment.

Anya and I took seats at a table while Sheila wandered around placing bids.

“Don’t you want to look, Mom?”

I shook my head. “I have everything a person could want.”

“Except a signed Mary Engelbreit print.”

I gawped. “A signed print? By Mary Engelbreit? Oh, my gosh. She’s a goddess!”

My kid pulled me to my feet, and we searched the bountiful tables crammed with all sorts of trinkets, until my eyes spied a framed poster in the signature bright color of St. Louis’s own favorite and most famous artist. I stood and stared at her whimsical work. The title block said, “Queen of Everything.” It had been a long, long time since I felt like a queen of anything. A quick glance at the sheet told me the silent bids already reached stratospheric heights. I shook my head. No way could I participate.

“Wouldn’t that look great over your bed?”

“It sure would, Anya, but I think I’d put it over our kitchen table. If I am Queen of Everything, you are second in line for the throne.”

We laughed and returned to our seats. Sheila bounced up and down the whole night, checking on this and that.

By the time dinner arrived, the seats next to us were filled. I introduced myself to our tablemates. Every fifteen minutes, a bid station closed. My work fetched a pretty penny, and maybe more importantly, I was asked to stand and have my efforts acknowledged. I hoped that would translate into more business for Time in a Bottle.

“You work at that store where Cindy Gambrowski’s leg—” began the woman on my left.

“Yes,” I interrupted her. “We’re all very worried about her. She’s in our prayers.”

She introduced herself as Gwen Bordeau. “I know, sounds like a bad joke, doesn’t it? This is my husband, Mitch.”

He shook my hand and said, “It’s a little late for worrying about Cindy. Everyone knows what happened.”

“Excuse me?” I set
down my fork.

Gwen leaned over and cupped her hand over my ear. “Ross beat that poor woman like a boxer uses a punching bag. He got by with it, too, because of all his doctor and lawyer friends. They belonged to the same country club, see? He built them mansions at special prices, and in return, they kept their mouths shut about poor Cindy. The docs treated her. The lawyers shut her out so she couldn’t seek legal help. Everyone protected Ross and turned their back on the woman. Over the years, he got smarter and smarter about how to beat her so the damage wouldn’t show.”

I thought I was going to lose my meal. Saliva flooded my mouth. I’d heard about wife-beating spouses, but I never thought this included the privileged upper class. It never occurred to me that women sporting expensive jewelry and furs lived in fear.

“Cindy always seemed so …”

“Normal?” Mitch laughed. “For an abused wife? What choices did she have?”

“Hon, keep it down,” warned Gwen. “Mitch used to golf with Ross. After Ross bragged about pummeling Cindy, Mitch walked off the course. Refused to take his calls.”

“I always knew he had a bad temper.” He shook his head. “If Ross picks a fight with me, at least he’s squaring up with someone his own size. Look, there was nothing normal or healthy about their relationship. She got regular plastic surgery to keep up with Ross’s whims. She was his personal improvement project. He beat her if she gained weight. Then it was her bust. And her nose, because he’d rearranged it. After their daughter, he wanted her to have a tummy tuck. God knows what else he had done to that poor woman. Makes me sick to think about it.”

Gwen shielded her mouth with a hand so she could talk to me. “Everyone knew what was happening because Ross is such a braggart. He couldn’t keep his mouth shut. You can look at photos of Cindy over the years and see the changes. Most of them were pretty obvious. She didn’t have any friends. Ross wouldn’t let her make them. To him, she was an object, a prize, a thing.”

“He let her serve on charity boards, though. That was good for his image.” Her husband tore off a piece of his roll and buttered it.

“But she had to tell him when and where and with whom, and she checked in frequently.”

I recalled Ciindy watching the clock during our scrapbooking class. Last in, first out, she grew increasingly nervous if we ran a little behind.

Detweiler,
I said to myself.
I have to get word to Detweiler.

“How could I have missed this?” I wondered out loud. “She took a class at our store.”

“You missed it because Cindy was too darn scared to let on,” said Mitch, “and because Ross paid people to keep it under wraps. When you have that kind of money, you can make a lot of problems disappear. Ross sure did. Once I stood next to him at the country club, and he reached over and grabbed his wife’s—”

“Mitch,” his wife warned him.

Mitch lowered his voice. “Ross grabbed Cindy’s private parts and announced to everyone, ‘This is mine. Bought and paid for.’”

I pushed away my dinner, which was a crying shame because I hadn’t had a nice meal like that in ages. The raw prime rib didn’t seem very appetizing all of a sudden.

“She mentioned she loved your class,” Gwen said. “I’d like to come take one myself.”

I reached into my purse and offered Gwen a “One Free Crop” coupon that I devised just for situations like this.

“A few of us are planning a memorial service for her on Sunday,” Gwen tucked my coupon into her purse. “You might want to come. She has—had—a lovely daughter, Michelle. She’ll drive over from the University of Illinois in Champaign.”

“So you’re pretty sure Cindy is dead?”

Gwen’s shoulders drooped. “I’m friends with the dental hygienist at Cindy’s dentist’s office. The police called and asked them to pull her records. The blood in the car was definitely a match. The cut on the leg was done with a buzz saw, the kind builders use.”

Mitch added, “Somebody found Cindy’s cell phone in that grass that runs along the Lambert Airport’s long-term parking lot. A pal in the police department told me they have an incoming nine-one-one call that corresponds with her disappearance.”

“Mitch! You didn’t tell me that! What did it say?”

“A woman said, ‘My husband is going to kill me. He says he’s going to cut me into a thousand little pieces.’”

I excused myself and
slipped out of the ballroom. I phoned Detweiler first, and then Hadcho. I left messages for both of them outlining what I learned. When I got back to my seat, the live auction was over.

“Anya, go on to the car, please. Here are the keys. I’ll be there in a minute. Go ahead and start it up, honey.” I pushed my daughter forward as I pulled Sheila back into an alcove between the restrooms. “Why didn’t you tell me Ross Gambrowski abused his wife?”

“I tried to. You didn’t listen.”

Friday, December 18
2nd Day Of Hanukkah

After tossing and turning all night, I finally gave up on sleep. After I drank my instant coffee, I took care of Monroe. The cold weather suited him just fine. Certainly his “rug” looked warmer than the nasty jacket I was wearing. He frolicked around in his pen, kicking up his heels and braying. Picking up on the mood of general frivolity, the dogs ran around and around in circles inside my fenced-in yard.

I cleaned the kitchen and then brought them inside and unwrapped Gracie’s tail. It was definitely worse. Yellow pus crusted around the stitches. After soaking a soft cloth with warm water, wringing it out, and dabbing carefully, I managed to clean the area. All the while, my poor dog cast me doleful glances. The tail was hurting her, I could tell. I called the vet’s office and left a message on their machine.

Anya rode to school with Izzy in her lap and Jasper at her feet. She used her arm as a gate to keep Fluffy from piling into the front with us. Petunia sat on the back seat, casting amorous glances at poor Gracie. Short and dark with bulbous eyes, he definitely wasn’t her type. Nope, my dog loved long, lean, and human. She had only one name on her dance card: Detweiler.

All the fairy lights were out at the store. I settled the dogs and messed around with the breakers. Once everything came on, I blinked in astonishment. Clancy and Laurel had outdone themselves by stocking shelves, dusting, emptying the trash cans, and even making new displays and signs. By the front register was a handwritten note. I recognized Clancy’s careful script.

“(1) Called the detective. (2) Ordered the Cricut cartridges from that online place. (Paid extra for overnight shipping. They should arrive here tomorrow. I also ordered a few using a different online address, and those will come to my house.) (3) I will bring you lunch at noon! Try not to fret! Hope you had a good evening.
C—”

Laurel left a note, too. Her script was rounded with smiley faces for dots. “Tallied the votes for the pages in the contest. They’re in this envelope. That way we won’t have so many to count next Monday when it ends. Laurel.”

The back door slammed so loudly I heard it from the front counter. Bama stomped in.

“Have a good day off ?” I asked.

She grunted.

Ducky. Just ducky.

Before she could hide in the office, I stopped her with, “They’ve planned a memorial service for Cindy Gambrowski. It’s Sunday, before we open.”

“They’re that sure she’s dead?”

“I guess.”

The rest of the morning moved at a fast clip. At noon, Clancy appeared with a Wendy’s bag for me. “Eat. Keep up your strength. By the way, Laurel and I worked on that shawl for Dodie. If the three of us keep at it, it’ll be done by tomorrow. Nice pattern. Easy, but pretty. She’ll love it.”

I munched on the burger and shared the sad insight I gleaned from the auction.

“What sort of man hits a woman?” Clancy asked.

“A sick one,” said Bama. “A man who can’t control his anger, who learned his behavior at his mother’s knee, who has poor impulse control, who might be under stress, and who manages to convince a woman she has to submit. It’s a national epidemic with more than 10 percent of the population suffering at the hands of an abuser.”

“Many believe it’s a form of psychopathy,” said Clancy.

“Which means what?”

“That spells ‘sick’ in all caps,” said Bama.

“In other words, spousal abuse is a form of mental illness,” said Clancy. “But other theories suggest that it happens when a man is so fearful of abandonment that he’s threatened by any sign his partner might leave him. That beating is actually a sign of a man’s deep-seated and fearful needs.”

“Right. Like the deep-seated need to pound on someone,” Bama said. “Someone weaker.”

“No, it’s more complicated than that. These men fear being rejected. Many of them can’t conceive of life without their relationships, so they want to be sure the women can’t leave them.”

“By breaking their legs,” said Bama. “Or arms. Or noses. Or fingers.”

“By starting a cycle. He hits her, he apologizes, they experience a form of closeness and bonding that’s unusual and highly emotionally charged. She fantasizes it won’t happen again, he tells her it happened because of his love—”

“And then round two and round three and so on,” I supplied. I wanted to change the subject. This was intensely uncomfortable for me. The conversation stirred up old memories, times of my childhood and adolescence that I didn’t want to revisit.

But I didn’t need to change the subject because a new topic walked in the door. A willowy young woman with nervous eyes carried a beautifully wrapped package under her arm. After balancing it precariously on the edge of our counter, she said, “Is Kiki Lowenstein here?”

I rose from the stool behind the cash register. “That’s me.”

“I’m Michelle Gambrowski. Cindy is my mom.”

I noticed she used the present tense. I’d done that a lot in the months after George’s death. I didn’t see the family resemblance between this girl and Cindy, but then, if Cindy had all that surgery, perhaps I didn’t see a resemblance because it was no longer there. Although Michelle wore almost no makeup, she did have the same coloring. Like Cindy, the girl also seemed skittish and of course, her face had the blotchy spots you get from crying. She pushed back too-long bangs as her eyes darted around the store like finches flit about in a cage.

“Mom wanted you to have this.” Pushing the package toward me, she jammed her hands deep in the pockets of her down jacket. Underneath I caught a peep of a bulky sweater, a pair of loose fitting jeans, and hiking boots. Odd. Cindy always dressed in figure baring, skin-tight clothes.

I corrected myself. Actually Michelle’s mode of dress wasn’t odd. Cindy had dressed the way her husband, Ross, wanted her to. He wanted her body displayed for all the world to see. Michelle was clothed for comfort.

And to hide her body. That, too, seemed interesting to me. The girl’s posture caved in on itself, as though Michelle was trying to disappear entirely. Or at the very least, not be noticed.

“Nice to meet you,” I said extending my hand. “We all liked Cindy. We’re so sorry for your loss.”

She ignored my gesture and just stared at the wrapped gift. Later, Clancy would say Michelle had a curiously flat affect. In other words, you could have sworn nobody was home.

Depression could do that. However, a voice inside told me,
She’s purposely not reacting. This is more than holding back.

“Um, I guess you want me to open this now?” I glanced over at her hands. Their outline showed through the pockets of her coat because she jammed them in so hard. Her lips pressed together as though she was afraid she might speak.

Instead, she nodded.

Carefully and slowly, I peeled off the tape, untied the curling ribbons, and unfolded the paper. (That I intended to save. The pattern was an artful rendition of a book shelf filled with colorful, leather-bound tomes. My mind raced with ideas for copying and reusing the design.) Inside the package were three books. What a contrast these were to the heavy classics on the wrapping paper. I found an
I Spy
children’s book, a copy of
Where’s Waldo Now?
with a bookmark stuck in the page showing him and the Aztecs, and
The Magic of M. C. Escher
, a book about the famous artist’s optical illusions.

What on earth did these presents mean?