Photo, Snap, Shot (20 page)

I spent an hour
before lunch mounting the photos. I left large spaces and marked them with yellow sticky-notes as “journaling goes here.” I included a title page in the front, which I had to leave uncomfortably blank. To the second page, I added a table of contents: home, travel, events, clothing, and jewelry. I paused, thought about my work, and did another flip through.

One of the pieces of jewelry on the page was familiar, a diamond and emerald pin. I knew I’d seen it on someone, but who?

Feeling good about my progress, I decided to take a break and research Danny Gartner.

Time to brainstorm. My work generated his name and a short list: KKK, Roma P. D., Missouri, and policeman. When my Dogpile search pulled up the computer equivalent of a small hill of poop, I sat back and stared at the screen, tapping my front teeth with a pencil. How could I find out more about this man?

Again I turned to the Internet, and this time, I cast my net wider. In no time, I was ready to make a phone call. For safety’s sake, I hopped in the car and drove to a store in a local grocery chain. I then dropped coins in a pay phone.

“Hello, I’m looking for Douglas Gartner.” My voice was cool and professional.

“Who’s this?”

“Kay Collins from the student newspaper over at the state college.” No lie, that’s exactly what it said on my old press pass from my days as a journalism student. My teacher refused to believe my name was really “Kiki Collins.”

“What’s this about?”

“Mr. Gartner, we’re coming up on the August anniversary of the death of Lieutenant Commander George Lincoln Rockwell.”

“Commander,” Gartner echoed, making me glad I’d done my research. “As fine a man as ever led our troops.”

“Yes, sir, in Korea.” Steady girl, I told myself. Don’t let the fish know you’ve got him. Set the hook. “As you might be aware, over in Illinois, the city of Bloomington does its best to deny Lieutenant Commander Rockwell’s Midwest roots. Recently a less-informed reporter noted that the Rockwell family had no ties there. But anyone who reads Lieutenant Commander Rockwell’s stirring autobiography would know the family owned a business in Bloomington, a theatre actually.”

“That’s right.”

“All this makes him of particular interest to our Midwest readership.”

“So?”

“I have a class project due. I thought it would be a good idea to take a new look at Lieutenant Commander Rockwell in light of the recent denial of freedom of speech to Knights of the Ku Klux Klan here in Missouri.”

“And why are you calling me?” The voice was raspy and he paused long enough to hock up a loogie in that liquid cough smokers never seem to shake.

“My research shows you were one of a group of people who petitioned the State of Missouri to allow the KKK to participate in the highway cleanup program.” We hit a long patch of quiet. Either I was right, and I’d done my research correctly, or I was about to be hung up on.

“You do know what happened to that there stretch of road, don’t you?”

Gotcha! “Yes, sir, I am well aware that the state legislature denied your right to participate in the cleanup.”

“But the Supreme Court ruled that Missouri can’t discriminate against us. Then, those blankety-blank so-and-so’s went and named that there stretch of road for that black woman. Rosa-Park-Your-Butt.”

Hang in there, I told myself. Obviously this man is not a listener to our local public radio station.

“Sir, that’s exactly what I’d like to discuss with you. You and anyone else in your group. I’m especially curious about how any of your family members might feel about this.”

“You free tonight? A bunch of us is having a barbecue.” He pronounced the word “bar-bee-cue” with a long emphasis on the last syllable. In a wink, he rattled off directions and a time and I ended the call with my thanks.

I set down the receiver of the pay phone at the grocery store. Around me was a hubbub of activity. Bet no one else in spitting distance was crafty enough to wrangle an invite to a meeting of the local fans of anti-Semitism and white supremacy. Or dumb enough. Take your pick.

___

I struggled into the kitchen, dragging plastic bags of groceries. Putting them away was one of my least favorite jobs. When the phone rang, I happily took a break.

Ben said, “Kiki, I was wondering if we could get together.”

I stalled. I wasn’t sure I wanted this relationship to move along any faster than the cold honey pace we’d established. But my good manners won out. “Um, when?”

“How about dinner tonight? We could go see a movie at Frontenac and have dinner—before or after—at Brio.”

“I’d love to, but I have a previous engagement.”

A long cold silence followed. I squirmed. On one hand, I didn’t want him to think I was dating anyone else. On the other, such a thought could keep him at bay a little longer. Maybe long enough for me to get off the fence and fall in love.

But with him? I wasn’t sure about that.

“I see.”

Somehow we said “goodbye,” but I don’t know how.

I closed my phone and pondered a really pressing question: What exactly does one wear to a party hosted by bigots?

Mert phoned immediately after,
and I spilled my guts to her—including how sickened I felt after viewing the ugly note in my daughter’s backpack.

She was very quiet for a few minutes. “I told you not to get involved.”

“But Anya is in danger.”

“You are too! And you’re gonna make everything worse!”

“Mert, they haven’t made progress on Sissy’s murder. Or on Corey’s fake suicide. I can’t expect them to check out a silly threatening note.”

Mert sighed. “I know. You’re right. Listen here, girl, you and I need to have a talk when this is all over. I’ve been thinking we got to get you hitched. You ain’t safe on your own.”

Yeah, yeah, yeah. Blah, blah, blah. I couldn’t go there. Being surrounded didn’t work for Custer, and it wasn’t looking good for me either.

___

My phone rang again, right after I said goodbye to Mert.

“I wanted to apologize for being so mealy mouthed the other night at Coffee and Crime,” said Connie. “I shouldn’t have said those things. Even though we’re friendly, I still have to remember you are a member of the school community. Sharing my husband’s problems was wrong. Please forget what I said.” Her voice had an edge to it, the raw sound of panic. She wasn’t asking me to forget our conversation. She was begging.

Whoa. What caused this dramatic change of heart? “How is Elliott?”

“Things are … fine.”

Oh, yeah, like I totally believed that. “Even though a teacher and a coach from CALA are dead.”

The steel emerged within the magnolia. “You better back off. I’m telling you. You’re in for a world of trouble, Kiki.”

What was happening here?

“Is this a threat?” I was shocked by the abrupt change of tone in her voice.

“It’s a friendly warning. Look, I like you. You’ve had a hard time of it, but things are turning around. Just go on about your business.”

“Corey Johnson was shot. Sissy Gilchrist had her head bashed in. A killer is running around my daughter’s school. Oh, and let’s review, Connie. Your husband hired her. You were angry with her. Shouldn’t you want this investigation closed? Shouldn’t you—of all people—want the killer found?”

“Of course I do. Don’t act all ignorant on me. But I don’t want anybody else hurt. You’re making waves. You’re riling folks up,” she paused. “I’m not threatening. I’m just asking. See, it wasn’t just my husband who was acting stupid. He had plenty of company. Let this go. You’re causing more pain than you can guess. And there will be repercussions. You count on it.”

With that, she hung up.

___

I had a couple hours to waste before the barbecue. I also had to figure out where to park my child. I needed a safe place. I could ask my mother-in-law, but she was in constant contact with Ben’s parents. What if he’d told his folks about me turning down his dinner invitation? Well, shoot. Sheila would keel-haul me.

Instead, I needed a clean getaway. I tapped my front teeth with a pencil and thought hard. Then, I picked up the phone and asked Jennifer Moore if Anya could stay for another night. I offered to take her kids and my child to school the next morning. I explained I needed a long bike ride to clear my head.

Jennifer was happy to oblige. Evidently, I’d caught her in the midst of a visit with one of the other moms, but Jennifer insisted she didn’t mind my interruption. “Anya can wear something of Nicci’s to school tomorrow. Stevie can drop the girls off at school in the morning. Where are you planning to ride? Should I meet you somewhere or just call you if nothing fits Anya?”

I said I’d be out on the access road by Highway 40 until dusk. Jennifer repeated my coordinates, but the tone of her voice told me she was out of her league. For a lot of folks in Ladue, anything west of 270 and they act like they’re personally mounting the Lewis and Clark expedition. Next up, she’d be asking, “What should I pack in the canoes?”

But she didn’t. Instead, she called my daughter to the phone.

Predictably, Anya was thrilled with my decision to let her stay one more night. “Mom, you’re the best.”

Boy, did I ever feel guilty. She had no idea I was dumping her off at her friend’s so I could snoop around.

I changed into a pair of bike shorts, an exercise bra, and one of those cool bike shirts that wicks away moisture. I was hooking my bike onto the rack at the back of my car when Detweiler called. The ballistics tests showed unusually large, elliptical traces of gunpowder on the front of Corey Johnson’s skull. Clearly, the gun had been fired at a severe angle.

“Suicides eat their guns. Or screw them into their temples,” Detweiler mused. “This sure isn’t a suicide. No one holds a gun twelve inches away from his head and squeezes. There was only a trace of residue on his hand.”

“Meaning the gun might have been shoved into his hand after the shooting.”

“That’s right.”

We were quiet. Being right wasn’t much fun when it meant a killer had stepped up the action.

___

“I can’t ,” Maggie sounded weary. “It’s been a terrible week.”

“All the more reason for you to come riding with me. Fall will turn rainy and cold soon. Come on, Maggie.” In the distance, I heard a tiny shriek.

“Christopher, Christopher, honey, please calm down.”

“You’re babysitting!”

“Yes. His grandmother asked if I’d watch him. They’re making funeral arrangements with Sissy. I guess those goons at the lab are finally done with her body.”

I wanted to tell her the news about Corey Johnson being murdered, but I couldn’t. Detweiler had sworn me to silence. Instead, I asked, “How’s the family doing?”

“Good. No thanks to you.”

I gulped. “Excuse me?”

“Don’t think I haven’t heard about your snooping around, Kiki. Everyone’s talking about it. You even got that cop friend of yours to dredge up ancient history. Paula and Quentin Gilchrist are beside themselves over your accusations.”

“Accusations? What are you talking about? Mrs. Selsner told me about Sissy being molested. The Gilchrists did nothing about it, Maggie. Nothing. Would you have sat by if something happened to Tilly?”

“That’s a very, very personal decision. You have no right to question them. You don’t know what you’d do under the circumstances.”

“The heck I do. I’d go after the man with my own two hands.”

“Right—and smear Anya’s name and face over all the media? Huh? Have her be a laughing stock? Have everyone point at her? Have her be embarrassed at school? Have everyone ask her if she could still wear a white gown on her wedding day? Call her a … a …”

I stood there with my mouth open and my heart pounding. My calm, cool, collected ever-so-proper school marm friend let loose with a list of swear words like you wouldn’t believe. All of them were euphemisms for loose women.

This was a kindergarten teacher? This was my meek pal? I waited until she ran out of steam. When the silence was so long you could have run a football along it and shouted “Touchdown!” I finally said, “I have no idea where you are coming from, Maggie. None. And lest you forget, our daughters may have seen a murderer. A killer who is still out there.”

“You stupid fool! You are so bullheaded. Coach Johnson killed Sissy. Get that through your thick skull, Kiki. When the guilt got to him, he shot himself. You can’t use our daughters as an excuse. Hello! You are just full of yourself. And you’ve got the hots for that married detective so you’ll do anything, and I mean anything, to get his attention.”