Cut, Crop & Die (28 page)

With that, he volunteered to drive Anya and me home in my car. Roger was to follow in Mert’s truck. “I better check your house,” he said as he turned the key in the ignition. “After what happened to your dog and,” here he paused and ran a hand through his long hair, releasing a scent of male, “because half my sister’s neighbors think you’re a menace to society. I’m just not sure the control tower at Lambert Field’s got you cleared for flying.”

“Lambert Field?” I mumbled. Then I remembered. That was the original name of Lambert-St. Louis International Airport. I let my head rest on my seat and closed my eyes. I was soooo tired.

After walking through the house, Johnny waved an all clear. Anya scooted inside with the dog. She and Gracie were also exhausted. I walked Johnny to my front door where he stepped closer and closer, pinning my back against the wall. It felt dangerous, but I knew I was in good hands. Those gentle gray eyes turned hard as flint before it strikes a spark. As he pressed gently against me, I nearly melted. All of me turned to butter. “You,” he said with his lips against my ear, “are one darling little girl. Next time you want to cut loose, why don’t you call me? Hm? Dancing by yourself might be hazardous to your health, babe.”

Then he kissed me.

THE NEXT MORNING AS I pulled out of the parking lot at the Science Center after dropping off Anya (and reminding her that Sheila would pick her up), a car with tinted windows followed on my bumper. A couple of blocks later, it remained glued to my rear end.

St. Louis drivers might be the worst in the country. In fact, cops in other towns joke about “St. Louis stops,” where drivers give the stop signs a cursory slow-down rather than coming to a complete halt. Being tailgated was nothing new. Dropping into defensive driver mode, I signaled far in advance and added a few extra lane changes on our way down 40. The dark SUV stayed with me. At the exit, it nearly tapped my bumper.

Now I was beginning to feel scared. Really scared. We turned off on Brentwood, and waited for the stoplight. The driver revved his motor behind me; the big car lunging and lurching as the engine roared full throttle.

Hairs on my neck stood at attention. My gut weighed in. This went beyond reckless driving: it was a threat.

I opened my cell phone.

But whom would I call?

Not Detweiler.

Traffic congested near the Galleria but eased the next three blocks. Using the timing of stoplights as an aid, I put three cars between myself and the SUV. Feeling safer, I zipped into the parking lot of Time in a Bottle.

The SUV passed me and drove off. I tried to get the license number, but the back of the vehicle was so mud-splattered, I couldn’t even read the state name. I backed up and realigned my hood with the white lines of a parking space. Glancing over my right shoulder, I saw the SUV zoom past, this time facing toward me. They must have made a U-turn. The car slowed as it came closer. Only the sidewalk formed an imaginary barrier between us.

I dropped sideways into the passenger seat, managing to reach my right arm behind me to shove Gracie’s head down. Fortunately, she didn’t resist. I punched 911 into my phone.

Pop! I heard a sound like a firecracker. A million pieces of glass sprinkled over my arms. A glance up told me my windshield was shattered. I yelled to the operator, “Gunshot! Emergency! I’m at 1415 Kirlin, three blocks south of 40!”

“Are you alone in the car? Do you need an ambulance?”

My shaking hands lost purchase on the phone. Another pop rang out. More glass sprinkled around me. I undid my seat belt and twisted toward my dog. The moment my grip on her loosened, she pulled away. A small rivulet of blood ran down my wrist.

“Gracie!”

I rolled all the way onto my belly, my feet under the steering wheel, and peered around the passenger seat. I could only see a patch of fur. She didn’t move. Heedless to danger, I threw open my door and yanked back my seat. My dog was on the floor, whimpering. “Gracie? Gracie?” I reached down and my fingers came up sticky with blood. Hers or mine?

That’s when I dialed Detweiler.

He must have been two blocks away. Detweiler roared into the lot, sirens and lights splitting traffic. He checked me over. Tiny cuts marred my arms and hands, but I didn’t have the patience for him to examine them more closely. “It’s Gracie,” I said, “I think she’s hurt.”

Detweiler coaxed Gracie out of the car. By then an ambulance had joined us. The dispatcher had heard me cry “Gracie” and assumed another person was in my car. After asking me a few questions and rinsing off my superficial wounds, the EMTs bent over my dog. Detweiler pulled me close. My face was buried in his chest. I couldn’t look, I just couldn’t. I was crying hysterically, soaking the front of his shirt. He smelled of soap and starch and stark masculinity. The harder I shook, the harder he held me, murmuring in my ear, “Shhhh. You’re safe. She’s going to be okay.”

A voice chastised me for allowing him to provide comfort, but panic and fear overruled it.

The sirens and lights had brought Dodie racing out of the store. She spoke to the cop and the paramedics right as a Richmond Heights P.D. car pulled into our lot.

At last the male paramedic rose and walked over.

“Mrs. Lowenstein? Your dog must have a guardian angel.”

Gracie wobbled to her feet. A tall, thin paramedic walked her in a circle, observing my harlequin carefully. My dog’s ear was bandaged, but she was alive. The EMT continued, “Splinters of glass cut her. We picked ’em out of her ears, washed the surface good, and put butterfly bandages on one area. Rinse those with hydrogen peroxide. You might want to check with your vet. ”

I knew EMTs didn’t ordinarily fix pets, so I was extra-profusive with my thanks.

“No problem, ma’am, we’re both animal lovers,” said the one medic as he gave a nod toward his partner.

I pushed away from Detweiler and knelt by my girl. Gracie licked me and whined. Her heavy tail moved back and forth slowly. Her bandaged ear cocked with a jaunty air. Detweiler moved closer, and she shoved her muzzle into his hand. I heard Dodie discuss with him and Richmond Heights officers how best to handle the increasing violence. I offered a description of the SUV. When I mentioned mud-splattered plates, Detweiler’s expression darkened. “Must be someone with experience evading law enforcement officials.”

Detweiler suggested Dodie hire off-duty policemen for the store. “They can watch from unmarked cars on the street. Get a security camera hooked up.”

Dodie said, “But I don’t want anyone in a uniform scaring people off. Besides, inside the store isn’t what I’m worried about.”

“They don’t have to wear a uniform. At least let someone escort all of you in and out of your cars.”

Dodie’s face was a worn-thin gray. “Get the dog inside. God only knows what might happen next.”

Detweiler caught me by the arm, pulling me closer. His lips brushed my ear. “We need to talk.”

“I appreciate all you’ve done, but I don’t think so.” Now embarrassment ran rough-shod over all other feelings. I couldn’t face him. I couldn’t hold my head up. Even with what I knew, he’d been the one I’d turned to for comfort. He offered his protection with no preamble, no caveats. He’d run to my side and taken me into his arms without comment.

And now I pushed him away. My weakness, my dependency made me angry with myself. I grabbed Gracie’s collar and started toward the store.

“Kiki!” Detweiler reached for me.

Dodie stepped between us, “Go on in to work, Kiki. Detective, I appreciate your help and guidance. However, the party’s over between you and my employee. Leave her alone. Don’t even think about stopping by her house.”

“What?” he barked. His face colored.

I watched Dodie put both hands on her hips. How did she know what I’d only learned on Saturday? I didn’t want her fighting my battles. On the other hand, her response signaled the return of the old Dodie. Her protective instinct trumped her depression. Now, she had a cause. Maybe that was what she had needed after Yvonne’s death and Horace’s employment problems. A focus. A reason to step up to the plate. A way to shake off her blues.

And I had a good reason to go inside and cry, but not until after I called a car repair service.

Detweiler blazed back, a sharp edge to his voice. “Sorry, ma’am. That’s not your decision to make. I will talk to Mrs. Lowenstein when and wherever I choose. You have no choice in the matter.” He added, “Mrs. Goldfader, there’s a murderer out there. This might or might not be connected. And I have a job to do.”

Ah. There it was. His mantra. “I have a job to do.” It wasn’t about his feelings for me. It never had been. A muscle pulsed along his jaw. “Incidents aimed at you, your employees, and your store have escalated. You’ve received death threats. Don’t forget the graffiti, and a brick through your window. You both need police protection. This might all be related to Yvonne Gaynor’s death, or it might not. But right now, all I can say for sure is you are in danger.”

I’d stopped and stared at both of them. Gracie’s tail thumped my leg.

Dodie shrugged. “Of course we will cooperate with you as a law enforcement official. But I’m warning you. Do not bother my employee.”

His face turned stony. “Don’t tell me how to do my job.”

We were getting nowhere. He had a point. We needed to get to the bottom of this. Only after this was over could I really and truly say goodbye and good riddance. I came closer and said to him, “Okay, maybe we do have to talk, but Dodie’s right. I prefer you talk with me here when there are other people in the store.” I thought a second. I added, “No dropping by the house. Anya knows about your wife.”

“What? How could you have done that? Why did you tell Anya?” His green eyes spit sparks. Oh, boy. He was ma-ad.

“Why not? It’s true. She needs to understand why you aren’t coming by anymore.”

He let loose with a string of curses. Each word was bitten off and spat out. He stomped away.

Dodie and I heard his car door slam all the way across the parking lot.

“Harrumph,” she said. “That went about as well as could be expected without loss of life or limb.”

We walked Gracie into the store and closed the stockroom door behind us.

Two Diet Dr Peppers later, I got my groove back. A mobile windshield repairman assessed the damage to my car and explained he could fix it on the spot. I eyed my dwindling total in my checkbook and gave him a reluctant go-ahead. That plus my need to repay Sheila for my upcoming move—provided I found a suitable place—fueled my desire to get cracking with new business ideas.

Two photographers had asked me to make customized but standardized albums. The best way to be efficient was to design the pages and then break down what was needed into parts I could mass produce.

I had appointments for the next week with three nursing home administrators.

Meanwhile, I needed to keep coming up with unique projects that would keep our regulars happy—and get a positive buzz about our store restarted in the scrapbooking community.

Boutique pages offered a way to add sparkle and jazz to ordinary scrapbooking. They were also tricky to pull off. Adding glitter, flowers, buttons, ribbon, and trinkets could overwhelm the photos and make a page look trashy. The best approach was organizing the space. Hand-drawn frames—like picture frames but two-dimensional and of paper—could do exactly that.