Make, Take, Murder (3 page)

We never made it
to Message #3. The four of us were staring at the phone when the back door flew open. A young man wearing a service uniform labeled Crime Scene Unit came running in.

“Ortega? Hadcho? Found something. You better come take a look.”

Both men ran after Mr. Crime Scene, leaving Bama and me to sit like chastised kids in the principal’s office. Only, instead of being pale or red in the face, we were a ghastly shade of green. I know this because I caught a reflection of us in the big glass-covered landscape Bama hung on the far wall of the office. The pristine snow in the Colorado scenery bounced back our sickly skin tones. Those evergreens had nothing on us. We were a shade that Crayola might have copied, labeled “bilious,” and put in their famous dark green and gold box.

“Crud,” I managed. My whole body sagged. My eyes fluttered, and the pressing insistence of exhaustion pinned me to the chair where I sat.

Bama jumped up to slam her palm onto the desk with such force that the pens and pencils in the top drawer rattled. “I knew it. I knew I shouldn’t invest. I should have stayed away! This store is cursed!”

“Huh?” I recoiled. “Cursed? Why on earth would you say that?”

“Nothing good ever happens here. I noticed it the day I walked in. Things have just gotten worse. Dodie has cancer, your husband’s killer is chasing you, your stupid dog is sick, Mert has a lawsuit against her, and now this! I should have known better. I should have never tried to set down roots!”

“Wait just a cotton-picking minute,” I hissed. “You’ve made a good living from Time in a Bottle. You’ve gotten all sorts of praise and attention. What about that cruise ship that invited you to teach? How about the fact your sister makes extra money working here? Or that your niece and nephews hang out here after school and on holidays? How dare you say bad things about the store?”

In the middle of the tirade, I rose to shake my finger at her. She responded by hammering the air with her fist. “I didn’t say I blamed the store! It’s an inanimate object. This place can’t help it if someone worked evil mojo on it. But I’m telling you, there’s a curse! A curse! Look at poor Dodie. Look at our first crop and what happened. And now this!”

That capped it for me. Weeks of being bossed around by Miss Perfect, and a solid month of working overtime had worn me down. Last year, arguably the worst in my entire life, Time in a Bottle saved me, my life and my sanity. Dodie’s little store offered more than a haven for creativity. This place launched my career. Along with employment came a newfound sense of self-esteem. Never before had I felt successful. Never before had I earned my own way in the world. Thanks to the Goldfaders, I was part owner of a growing retail concern. I carried business cards in my pocket, beautifully printed cards with my own name on them! Folks introduced me with a modicum of respect. Shoot, I was even a member of a Chamber of Commerce! Didn’t that beat all?

If Bama didn’t like Time in a Bottle and all the relationships this place entailed, she shouldn’t have agreed to buy in. When Dodie’s husband, Horace, offered us this opportunity, my heart nearly leaped out of my chest for joy. I never expected to actually lay claim to our little shop. I’d have been content to work here as an hourly employee for the rest of my days. This place was that dear to me.

If Bama didn’t like TinaB (as we nicknamed the store), she could jump ship any time. In fact, I’d be happy to push her over the starboard railing myself!

Okay, so she was organized. So she ran the place without a glitch. So she knew how to add columns of numbers and fill out complicated business forms.

Big deal.

She was also replaceable. As for the commercial details, I could learn them. I was sure I could. Even if it meant giving up every smidgeon of free time I had left. Even if it meant hiring more help and making less money. I’d do it. I would.

How could she accuse this store of being an albatross around our necks! How dare she! I wasn’t about to stand there and let her sling mud at a business I loved with every fiber of my being.

I stepped closer to her, feeling my face flame red as a piece of Bazzill Basics cardstock in Strawberry Orange Peel, and let her have it with both barrels. “You are so selfish. And blind. Totally, blind! Your life is better because of this place! No one forced you to buy in! So why did you, huh? Because it was a fabulous opportunity, you silly goose! You were thrilled then, and you ought to be thankful now. If you aren’t, then … then …”

“Ahem.”

I’ve always seen that word in books, but until Detective Hadcho cleared his throat, I’d never really heard it. Sounds just like it looks, too.

“I hate to break up this love-fest, but ladies, we need another sit-down chat.” A sour turn-down tugged the edges of his lips. His wide shoulders filled the doorway in a way that could only be thought of as menacing. The man’s entire demeanor had changed in the space of mere minutes. Instinctively, I shrank back in my chair, and I felt, rather than saw, Bama slump down onto the desk chair.

With a scuffle of shoe leather, Ortega flanked Hadcho’s right shoulder. “That’s right. We need to talk. One of you is holding out on us.” From behind his back, he pulled out a see-through plastic baggy with a soggy sheet of paper inside. Detective Ortega waved this artifact like an overenthusiastic cheerleader flounces her pompoms at the crowd. With all that fluttering, I couldn’t make out exactly what he had.

Seeing the confusion on our faces, Detective Hadcho reached over and tugged the item from the other cop’s ham-sized fist. He cleared his throat. “I’m coming to get you. You’ll never get away from me. I’ll see you dead first. Remember, I’ve got a gun.”

Thump!

Bama hit the floor.

“I never pay any
attention to stuff like that.” I talked over my shoulder as I waved a bottle of ammonia under Bama’s nose. We keep tons of the cleanser on hand. Mixed with one part to ten parts water, the solution offers a thrifty way to clean the ink from rubber stamps. While I waved a plastic container under my partner’s nose, Ortega helped his partner prop Bama upright in the office chair.

Her eyes snapped open and she slapped their hands away. Once she calmed down, Detective Hadcho opened his notebook to record my comments.

“You don’t pay attention to threats? How come?” His brown eyes registered his bewilderment. “This is pretty strong stuff. Frankly, I wonder why you didn’t call us sooner.”

I shrugged and ignored the implicit accusation. As quickly as possible, I explained my predicament. My husband had been killed two years ago. His murderer was still at large and had become my own personal pen pal. Wasn’t that special?

“You get threats like this all the time?”

Bama groaned.

The men cast glances her way. I patted her shoulder awkwardly.

“Usually I just get postcards from exotic locales.” Actually the killer picked pretty nice scenes. On bleak winter days, I almost enjoyed them.

“Postcards that say what?”

“The typical message is a variation on ‘I’m going to get you.’”

“You’re okay with this?”

“What are my options?” I shrugged again and shoved a bottle of Diet Coke into Bama’s hand. Saint Bernards might carry whiskey in those cute miniature kegs attached to their collars, but give me a Coke or a Dr Pepper any day, and I’ll feel revived. Bama obediently took a swallow. She knew the drill. Shoot, given all the hormones winging their way around our scrapbook store, we must have downed an oil tanker full of carbonated fizz. Point of fact, we offered a Coke or Dr Pepper as our automatic response to most of life’s woes.

Worked like a charm, it did. I offered drinks to the law enforcement officers, but they declined.

Bama peered up at me over the rim of her soda. “Since when did threats bypass your mailbox and come here?”

“Beats me. Like I said, I mainly ignore them. He only wins if he bothers me, right?”

“Hrmph.” Ortega snorted. “That’s a bit more than your garden variety threat, ma’am. When they get that specific, experts tell us to pay attention.”

“Look, I ignore them, okay? I toss them into the trash. I know the murderer has contacts here in St. Louis. It’s no secret where I work. I’m not about to forfeit all my freedom to a creep. That’s my decision. I didn’t share it because it’s really none of anyone’s beeswax.”

Bama inhaled loudly. “You’re sure this is all about you. Couldn’t possibly be a problem for anyone else. Not even with a severed body part showing up in our trash.”

For a person who’d recently taken a nosedive into the carpet, she managed a lot of sass.

I didn’t care for her tone. Not at all.

I shook my head vigorously. “In this case, it’s all about me. I know it. This is more of the same-o, same-o nonsense I’ve been putting up with for nearly a year.”

Even as I spoke, an alarm buzzed in my brain. I’d been caught in a lie. This wasn’t exactly like the junk mail I usually received. Now that I thought about it, this was different. Actually, George’s killer usually stuck to “I haven’t forgotten you.” That was enough to scare me. This was a longer, more exacting message.

I blew out a sigh and struggled to wipe bad memories from my mental chalkboard. What difference did it make how the message was worded? The point was the same. In a weird way, I was glad my personal monster now sent missives to our store. Until recently, they’d shown up in my home mailbox. Every day I struggled to out-maneuver my teenage daughter so she wouldn’t see the threats that showed up regularly.

Lately, I didn’t have to juggle bills, junk mail, and threatening postcards with an amazing sleight of hand. Instead, nasty missives had been coming to the store. That was better, much better.

Anya didn’t need to see this homicidal nonsense. No twelve-year-old should. But especially not my daughter. She’d been through enough already.

Basically we were talking “sticks and stones can break my bones but words can never hurt me,” right? What was an angry note or two?

Three pairs of eyes stared at me.

“I’m not concerned. I’m not in any real danger. So he’s changed his modus operandi. Big deal. I’m not about to run and hide from a bully.”

I said it with braggadocio, but I fought the urge to shudder. Things had been different when Detective Chad Detweiler was dropping by regularly to see me. Maybe that’s why Detective Stan Hadcho appealed so strongly to me. Not only was he super good-looking, but he represented safety. Security. Protection.

The kind of life I wish I had.

The kind of life I once had.

The kind of life that ended when a hotel maid found my husband’s dead body.

Inside our tiny bathroom,
I must have washed my hands twenty, thirty times in scalding hot water.

Bama finished her cola, puttered around her desk with paperwork, and ignored me.

Neither of us asked for details, because really, what was the point? We figured the leg came off a dead body. Where the rest of that poor woman was, well, we didn’t know. Neither did the authorities, or at least, so it seemed. The Crime Scene Unit poked around in every nook and cranny of our store. Even if we’d run a customer through a garbage disposal, we couldn’t have hidden an entire corpse. Not in our store. Not this month. With the run up to the holiday upon us, every shelf and display unit was stocked to the brim. We were crammed with scrapbooking and craft goodies just waiting to be wrapped and given as gifts.

The cops seemed to understand our situation, but they still had jobs to do. To satisfy their concerns, we offered to open all the boxes in the backroom. Because every day brought more merchandise, we had a good half dozen stacked and ready to check in.

As I wielded the box cutter, I glanced over at Gracie’s playpen. The keen pain of missing her added to my already jangled nerves. If she were here, I’d feel a lot more courageous. Gracie wasn’t much for barking, but she’d already proved she had no tolerance for anyone who tried to harm me. A hundred and twenty pounds of mad dog is a sizeable deterrent for all but the most foolhardy. One look at Gracie and most miscreants would leave me alone.

Gosh, but I missed her.

Each time the door minder jingled, a frisson of fear raced through me. That’s how I roll. I talk a good game, preferring to let my knees knock together in private. As the hours ticked by, I wondered if I had made a mistake. Maybe those notes didn’t come from anyone in my life. Maybe we had another problem festering. Maybe I should take back my easy dismissal.

But the words stuck in my craw.

A steady stream of customers milled about. I hoped to use suggestive selling to increase the amount of their total purchases. A few more goodies in their bags might possibly mean the difference between a bottom line in the red and one in the black.

Fortunately, the gruesome discovery hadn’t become common knowledge. Bama and I explained the police were doing a pre-holiday security check. (Which was true in a bizarre way.) I sighed with relief as the hours raced past, and no one greeted me with, “Hi, Kiki, find any spare body parts in your Dumpster lately?” Or even a tamer version like, “What sort of trouble are you in now?”

Our customers waved, stroked paper, examined new tools, and generally “ooohed” and “aahhhed” over the projects displayed in various spots in the store. Instead of asking, “May I help you?” I always say, “Hi, what are you working on these days?” That gleans better information and a chance to show off the latest paper, tool, or product. I greeted each of our guests, a move that Dodie assured us would cut down on theft, and set to work on my latest project, a holiday organizer.

A steady stream of purchases kept Bama busy at the register.

Finally, satisfied there was no more to examine, Detective Ortega had us sign for the Dumpster.

“Sorry, but we need to run lab tests on it.”

The two investigators promised to stay in touch, as I let them out the back door and watched them climb into an unmarked car. I locked the door behind them and breathed a bit more easily. Our customers had seemed totally absorbed in their holiday shopping.

Maybe no one had to know we were a crime scene. Or that I’d stuck in my thumb and pulled up a limb instead of a plum (with due respect to the nursery rhyme). Nobody repeated Bama’s claim that Time in a Bottle was cursed. Not a single soul had glommed to the fact we were blissfully operating within a crime site.

At least, that’s what I told myself. That’s what I hoped.

As usual, I was wrong.