Make, Take, Murder (17 page)

Michelle’s eyes didn’t move
from my face. She was waiting, waiting, waiting, but for what?

“Gee, this is really kind of your mother. I love all of these. But I’m curious. Did she mention why she chose these for me?”

“I guess she thought you’d like them.”

A more important question buzzed around my brain. “When did she buy them?”

If my questions lacked a bit of finesse, no one seemed to care. After all, things really couldn’t get much more awkward, could they?

“A couple weeks ago. She always does her holiday shopping in advance. I, um, just remembered she wanted you to have them.”

“It’s very, very kind of her. Again, please accept our condolences. Of course, a group of us from the store will attend the memorial service.”

Michelle nodded.

Still, I felt exactly like you do when someone hands you a piece of the jigsaw puzzle and expects you to place it where it belongs. But I couldn’t. The books were a missing piece, probably a corner or a part of the border. But exactly where they fit, I couldn’t say.

Clancy strolled over and looked at the pile. “I assume there’s a message here? Or some reference to a conversation you once had?”

I flipped each book open to where there might be a signature or a personalization. In the front of the
I Spy
book, a tight handwriting said:

To Kiki,

Who knows where to look for secrets.

Cindy.

“I’m not sure I understand this.”

Michelle shrugged.

My shoulders fell, and a weight dampened my spirits. The joy of these presents deflated like a burst balloon because in my heart, I knew something was afoot. But what?

Come on, Kiki,
I told myself.
A woman’s life might be at stake.

“What’s that noise? Back in the back?” Michelle tilted her head toward the sound of the dogs barking. “Animals?”

“I dog sit.”

“I love animals.” Her face lit up.

“Would you like to come back and meet my friends? Can I get you a cola or hot tea?”

“I’ve got the floor covered,” said Clancy.

A surge of happiness filled me. Clancy and Laurel both displayed intuitive understanding of their roles in our business. Without asking, they moved to help me before I asked.

I seemed to be on their wavelength, too. When Dodie was here, she commanded from on-high. That was cool. She founded the store and still owned the majority of stock. When Bama was here, I constantly needed to watch my back and worry about what picayune (which we always pronounced “picky-you-nee”) problem she’d have with whatever I was doing.

But I meshed better with Clancy and Laurel. So far, all three of us worked together harmoniously. There was no attitude. No drama. I liked that. Liked it a lot.

Michelle shuffled after me toward the back. I squeezed my new books to my chest and wondered why and how they came to be mine. Did Cindy really know me so well? Anya and I spent hours pouring over the
I Spy
and
Where’s Waldo
books. After she fell asleep, I would carry the books into another room and continue our search. I found the process totally absorbing. Small victories can mean so much when you’re a stay-at-home mom.

Michelle crouched next to the doggy playpen, cooing and stroking my furry friends. “Wow.”

That was it for a while. Just, “Wow.”

I offered her a choice of beverages, then waited and sipped a Diet Dr Pepper while she loved up the pooches. “You must like animals.”

She gave me the first real smile of her visit. “I’m graduating from veterinary school in May. Mind if I have a look at the Great Dane’s tail?”

“No, in fact, I’ve got a call into the vet. I think it’s gotten worse.”

We walked Gracie out, and I held her head while Michelle carefully stripped away the wrappings. Her fingers moved nimbly, but Gracie tried twice to reach around and mouth the girl. That sore spot must have really been hurting my dog. Gracie is normally the most complacent creature on earth.

“If this doesn’t get cleared up, you might have to have it amputated.”

“What?”

Michelle nodded solemnly. “Actually, I’ve been doing amputations all this semester. Our school is involved in a special study about the efficacy of amputations on dogs with advanced cancer. Fascinating stuff. Of course, tail docking in certain animals is done without anesthesia, but I’d call that barbaric. In the case of a dog with an advanced infection in the tail, amputation can be life-saving, too. A lot less difficult and dangerous than amputating a limb, of course. It’s not that amputations are unsafe, but you need to plan carefully so you leave the right amount of bone and tissue behind.”

“Amputation?” I stuttered. “Her sore tail could get that bad?”

“Yes, the infection can travel. Unfortunately, ‘happy tail’ occurs frequently with large breeds. There’s so much power in that swing that amputation—”

“You can’t amputate Gracie’s tail!” From behind us came the deep voice of Detective Chad Detweiler. “You can’t do that to my girl.” He knelt down beside a joyous, slobbering Dane.

Gracie perked right up.

So did I.

“The stitches are inflamed. She’s had an antibiotics shot, I take it? You might try warm compresses, but she needs to quit banging her tail around. Unfortunately, that’s like telling her not to smile. It’s her nature. There are waggers and non-waggers. I’ve had dogs wag at me even as they take their dying breaths. So even though this must hurt her a lot, she can’t stop,” Michelle stood and stared down at the sore and angry area. “Too bad no one makes an Elizabethan collar for tails.”

“You mean one of those plastic bell-shaped things that keep them from chewing on themselves?” I put my arms around Gracie’s neck. She responded by licking Detweiler. I still adored her, even if she didn’t love me best.

“That’s right. I’ve heard of people using plastic piping and duct tape to create an ersatz cocoon around the area. That might work. First you’d need to shave off all the nearby hair.”

“I have a couple of disposable razors in my car. I keep them for when I need to appear in court.” Detweiler rubbed his chin as he spoke.

Michelle nodded. “I could shave around the stitches so the bare area extends farther. That way if you can figure out some sort of a cushion or a protective device, you can tape it to her skin.”

I took them up on their offers. Anything, anything at all to help Gracie.

Detweiler paused on his way out the door. “Mind if I get my dad? He’s in the car. He’s good with projects.”

A few minutes later, Louis Detweiler extended a rough hand to shake mine. “Pleased to meet you.” His eyes took in everything about me; there was a compassion in his expression that nearly brought tears to mine.

“Tell me about this animal, son.”

I remembered then that Mr. Detweiler hadn’t wanted his son to have a dog. Even so, the older man’s voice implied that he was genuinely interested in my pooch, even if he didn’t pat her or love her up. Detweiler introduced his dad to Michelle. The two put their heads together and discussed various options. Mr. Detweiler asked for a piece of paper and a pencil so he could sketch an apparatus. “Of course, needs to be lightweight. Waterproof ?” he asked the younger woman.

She concurred. “That’s exactly what might work. The problem is where do you get some sort of casing?”

“Ee-yeah,” said Mr. Detweiler. “I have a few ideas.”

Detweiler the Younger helped me hold Gracie’s head as Michelle applied a soapy mixture to the skin and shaved off more fur. Our hands touched several times and the electricity was intense, causing me to lose my balance as I squatted on my heels. At one point, Detweiler sort of twisted so he could see the vet student’s work. As he did, his jacket fell open. Michelle’s face froze as she noticed the gun.

“Y-y-you’re a cop!”

Detweiler nodded, but before he could introduce himself, Michelle Gambrowski raced out of our stockroom.

“Ee-yeah,” said Mr. Detweiler
stroking his chin like his son often does. “That young lady knows a passel about what happened to her mother. I expect you know that though, right?”

Detweiler nodded. “But she’s not talking. Her father has her lawyered up. He’s tighter than a clam, too.”

Before I told him what I learned at the auction, I offered Mr. Detweiler Senior a chair. “I’m fine,” he said as he leaned against the wall, opposite of his son. The two of them were nearly mirror images, a younger and older version of one man. You could see that Detweiler the Younger would age well. In fact, if anything, he would be one of the lucky few who actually grew better looking with time.

I recited what I’d learned about Ross Gambrowski beating his wife. Mr. Detweiler glanced from me to his son and back and then stared at his feet. “Hard to credit. How can a man call himself a man when he hurts a woman? Son, you know, sometimes I wonder about this job. You sure do see the worst of what humanity has to offer.”

I tried to think about Detweiler’s day-in and day-out existence. The people he collared, trailed, and put away. Mr. Detweiler Senior managed—in a few short sentences—to bring my concerns to the fore. What if Detweiler and I got together in the future? What would it be like to have a partner who faced down danger daily? Who carried a gun?

Could I live with that?

Whoa
,
I told myself. You’re on a crazy crash course here. Stop this fantasizing about Detweiler. Stay in the moment!

I cleared my throat. “Um, I need to get back to work.” I showed him the books Cindy had given me and explained, “I planned to phone you. Here’s the place she signed this to me.”

“Any idea what she means?”

“No.”

“I assume you are planning to attend the memorial service.”

“Yes, I’ll be there. How can they have it now? I mean, doesn’t it take a while for someone to be declared dead if there isn’t a body?”

Detweiler’s father got a disgusted expression on his face, twisting his mouth as though he wanted to spit. “If you’re shamed into showing that you cared, you don’t wait. Or if you feel guilty ten ways to Sunday, and you’re trying to scrub the slate clean. There’s a reason they’re having the memorial so soon. Might be money, or shame, but it’s sure not because of respect or love. If that were your mama, Chad, I’d travel to the ends of the earth before I considered her dead and gone. I’d have to see it myself. You could put me in my grave before I’d give up hope. What a disgusting excuse for a helpmate. And his daughter? She looked just like a baby rabbit being teased to death by a durned cat. No girl should have to shoulder a burden like that. You could tell it was eating at her. Delivering her mama’s gifts? What an odd errand. Doesn’t make a bit of sense.”

_____

Detweiler the Elder was right. I couldn’t imagine what Michelle was going through, but I also couldn’t see myself or my daughter carrying on as she had. There’d be no way I could have walked into a store, handed over a gift, and not burst into tears.

Still … who was I to judge?

People thought poorly of me for taking the job here after George died. They didn’t realize I didn’t have a choice. Maybe Michelle didn’t have a choice. Maybe she was acting the way her mother would have wanted her to act. Or the way she’d been raised to act. Thanks to my volatile father, I’d learned early on to hide my emotions.

There was also another possibility. Perhaps Michelle believed her mother was better off. There were some—and I wished I could join them—whose faith was so strong that the afterlife enchanted them. They weren’t a bit scared. Oh, to be a person with such a belief! What would it be like to hold such a conviction that the next world appeared as clear and certain as this one?

I wished I could feel that way, but I didn’t. Not yet at least.

_____

However, that might be exactly how Michelle felt. Perhaps, given the horrific circumstances of her mother’s daily life, her daughter felt relief. That made sense to me. That I could accept.

All this raced through my mind.

I photocopied the inscription inside my book and wrote down the book titles for the detective. “As I said, if this is her version of
The Da Vinci Code
, I’m out of luck.”

“I better get this to the station,” said the detective.

“I imagine you all knew about the beatings?” I asked.

Detweiler the detective was too cagey for that. He didn’t answer me directly. “Even if he did beat his wife, it doesn’t necessarily follow that he killed her. We’re talking murder and dismemberment. Besides, he has an alibi for most of that weekend.”

“But wouldn’t a wife beater keep upping the ante? I mean, think about O.J. Simpson. When she took up with another man …”

“Suppose Mr. Gambrowski does—or did—beat his wife. Suppose he killed her. Why now? That’s what the defense would argue. They would say it doesn’t necessarily follow, particularly since he’s been doing this—allegedly—for years.”

“Does it matter if he’s the person who cut her up?” asked Detweiler the Elder, his tired eyes reflecting disgust. “Maybe he killed her, and he paid someone to get rid of the body. So what? He ought to be locked up forever just for beating her!”

“Dad, if he did this, and note carefully the operative word ‘if,’ we’re talking two levels of penalties. I mean, sure, a guy could get sent away for killing his wife, even if the body is missing. But once you factor in dismemberment, especially when she was alive—”

“She was alive? He cut her up while she was alive?” My voice hit a high note Beyoncé would envy.

“You must not have read this morning’s paper,” said Detweiler. “Someone leaked this to the press.” Rubbing his hand through his hair tiredly, he heaved a sigh. “Probably someone who wanted the world to know what a creep this guy is.”

“Cut off her leg while she was alive?” I teetered for a moment, before Detweiler shoved a chair under me.

“It would certainly meet the criteria of outrageously or wantonly vile,” said the detective.

I couldn’t form words. My mind struggled to grasp what Cindy endured those last moments of her life. I found it difficult to breathe.

Good old Detweiler. That’s what Anya calls him, and she’s right, because the man’s no dummy. He took a look at me, told me to put my head between my knees so I could count dust bunnies, and reached into the frig to pop the top on a Diet Dr Pepper for me. “Take a drink. I opened it so you don’t ruin your nails.”

“They’d gas him? Even without a body?”

“Since 1977, Missouri has administered lethal injections. For the forty years prior to that, the state sent criminals convicted of capital crimes to the gas chamber, which oddly enough was actually a chamber and two cells in Jefferson City.”

“But without a body?” Detweiler Senior repeated my question.

Detweiler took a long deep breath. “If there’s proof Mr. Gambrowski threatened to dismember her, or threatened to do away with her and hide the body, the odds would increase that he’d be convicted even if we don’t find Mrs. Gambrowski. The amount of blood in the car precludes anyone living through the attack.”

Laurel stuck her head in the door. “I hate to interrupt, but I have a question.”

This is exactly why Detweiler makes me swoon. As gorgeous as Laurel is, he didn’t even stop to stare. His eyes passed right over Miss December and stayed focused on me!

“I’ll be right there,” I said to her. I cleared my throat. “Gentlemen, you’ll have to excuse me.”

Detweiler the Younger gave Gracie one final cuddle. “Stop wagging your tail. Please?” Of course, she didn’t. Detweiler turned to his father. In the younger man’s eyes was hope, the sort of pleading that a child offers up to a parent, infused with the belief that the parent, being the all-powerful creatures we are, could make everything all right. “Dad, think you can help her?”

“Ee-yeah. I expect so. I’ll give it a whirl at least.” Mr. Detweiler Senior gave his son’s shoulder a squeeze and stared at my dog thoughtfully. “I’ll stop back by tomorrow or Sunday at the latest with a gizmo to help your dog. Can she hold out that long?”

“I have a call in to my vet. Maybe a stronger antibiotic will help. But really, Mr. Detweiler, I know this is a busy time of year. Don’t put yourself—”

“Young lady, it’s no bother. Not for you. You’re my son’s friend.”

I held my breath, wondering if he knew what sort of friend I wanted to be to his married son. While I turned blue from lack of oxygen, Detweiler Senior continued, “And friends and family mean the world to us Detweilers. That’s the way we are.”

I didn’t dare look at Detweiler the Younger as his father spoke. I was too scared my face would show my emotions. Instead, I kept my eyes on his father, the man Chad Detweiler would someday become.

“Sir, that’s my philosophy, too. That’s why I love what I do here. Maybe on your next visit, I’ll have the chance to show you around.”

“I’d like that. Heard a lot about scrapbooking. Seems to me a mighty pleasant way to spend your time. By the way, young lady, folks quit calling me ‘sir’ when I left the military. I’m Louis to you, if you please.”

With that, both the Detweiler men stepped out of the back door and my life. As it happens when you’re all alone and the power suddenly goes out, the world seemed a little lot lonelier and darker.