Photo, Snap, Shot (27 page)

After my meeting with
Jennifer, I raced home to let Gracie out and headed over to Triple A. My dog wanted a ride, but with Anya’s golf clubs and backpack, the car would be too crowded. Besides, I figured I owed Anya a sit-down dinner at a restaurant. We needed some bonding time. We needed to talk.

A drab shade of gray infused the sky. The heavy rain the weatherman had promised was on its way. The leaves on the trees—so richly colored in burgundy, bright orange, and gold—would be knocked to the ground. We’d go from our heart-stoppingly gorgeous fall scenery to the stark emptiness of winter. I hoped it held off a few more hours because I hate driving in storms. I always worry a limb will crash through my ragtop. It could happen. If it did, with my luck, I’d be in the Beemer to see it.

I slipped free of the seat belt and yanked my hoodie over my arms as I idled at a stoplight. As usual, I was running late. But at least I was sober and drug free. I drove along 40 through the heart of St. Louis to Triple A. The golf course boasted a fascinating history. In order to accommodate the 1904 World’s Fair, it had been relocated from the center of Forest Park to the edges of the green space. The park itself had been created in 1876 from 1,293 acres of land, which means our crown jewel is larger than Central Park in New York City. Mounted police patrol the grounds around the zoo, a tennis court, the Jewel Box (a glass conservatory), the St. Louis Art Museum, the Lindell Pavilion (a former streetcar pavilion), the history museum, the World’s Fair Pavilion, the Norman Probstein (Forest Park) Golf Course (not to be confused with the Triple A Golf Club), trails, and various playing fields.

While the police presence is reassuring, I wouldn’t come here at night anymore than I’d go walking in Central Park after dark. The park is too dense with trees and sits too close to transitional areas of the city.

Anya saw me pull up. If she noticed me limping—I was off the Bextra, after all—she gave no indication. Good moms are invincible, always on call, and easy to ignore. She threw her clubs into the backseat. I knew she was tired. Jennifer had sheepishly admitted to me that she’d let the girls talk late into the night. Anya was a kid who needed her eight hours of sleep to stay up-beat. My darling hopped into the car with nary a “Hi, Mom, how was your day?” Instead, she chugged her Gatorade, demolished a bag of SunChips, and started snoring lightly. We crested Highway 40 when a strange cell phone ring broke the silence. Anya opened one sleepy eye and looked at me.

“Mom? Is that your cell?”

“No. Did you download a different ringtone?”

“No.”

The phone was insistent.

“Ah, shoot,” said Anya and she dug around in the backpack at her feet. “Hello? No, Elizabeth, this isn’t Natalie. Sheesh. It’s Anya. Anya Lowenstein! Huh? I don’t know. Hey, wait—” she rummaged around through papers and books in the pile, finally yanking a stapled sheet of paper. “What the heck? I must have picked up Natalie’s backpack. Talk to you later—yeah, yeah, I’ll tell her you called. I can’t tell you the homework ’cause I’ve got it in my stuff. How you feeling? But wait—aren’t you sick, Elizabeth? Your mom said you were when she picked me up. Really? That’s weird. Okay, well, bye.”

Anya folded the phone closed and tried to get comfortable. “Better call Mrs. Walden, Mom. If this is Natalie’s backpack, she’s gotta have mine.” Before I could argue about this being her responsibility, my daughter turned to the window to doze off again. A wave of exasperation swept over me.

“Anya, you need to be more careful.”

“It wasn’t my fault, Mom! Mrs. Bigler was being really weird. She kept telling me how she wanted to carry my backpack. I didn’t even want to ride with her ’cause she’s so weird, and Elizabeth wasn’t even at golf today.”

“What do you mean her daughter wasn’t at golf? Mrs. Bigler called me and offered to take both of you.” My daughter had already rolled over, as far as was humanly possible to do with the seat belt on, and snuggled against the car door.

Her sleepy voice drifted back over her shoulder, “How the heck should I know how grownups think? After school, she was standing there and she made a big deal out of how I had to ride with her.” With that, Anya cranked the button to drop the passenger seat into the horizontal position.

Number three on my speed dial was Ella’s phone. The number rang and rang. Ella’s voice mail picked up. I hung up. Desperate, concerned that I’d pass her on the road, I tried once more. This time Ella broke through, “Hello? Oh, Kiki, it’s you.”

“Natalie’s backpack—”

“I know. I’m already pulling into Forest Park. Patricia’s meeting me there with it. Can you believe Natalie walked off without it?” she said. Her voice sounded weak and tired. “Tonight of all nights. With the weather like it is. And the visitation’s tomorrow.”

I had missed that. I hadn’t heard. “But Patricia doesn’t have Natalie’s backpack. We have it. It’s here in my car.”

“But she says she has it. Patricia called to ask if Natalie made it home yet. Of course she was. Frederick had picked her up. Patricia has Natalie’s backpack. She offered to wait for me at Triple A in the parking lot.”

I thought a second. “Then she must have Anya’s backpack and I have Natalie’s. They all look alike.”

“Tell you what … I’m almost at Forest Park. How about I wait for you at Triple A?” Ella sounded so weary.

Thanking her profusely, I ended the conversation. I veered off at the exit ramp and headed back the way I’d just come. Nice as it was for Ella to pick up the backpack, this whole escapade didn’t make much sense. Patricia lived a few blocks from Ella’s house. And tonight of all nights when Ella was so totally in a mental fog.

A light sprinkling of rain covered my windshield, splashing concentric circles in the dust. I turned on the wipers, wishing I had a switch that would clear my brain as easily. I joined the bottleneck toward 40 east. Anya snuffled in her sleep. I tapped the steering wheel impatiently, trying to puzzle out why Patricia had been so eager to get my daughter into her car, so eager to be in charge of her backpack, especially when Elizabeth was home sick.

Or not.

Then it hit me. Ella would be there alone. In the dark. She wasn’t thinking straight. It wasn’t a good place to be alone at night.

Something Detweiler had said … what was it … Danny Gartner’s attorney’s name was Krupp. And that comment Patricia had made to Bonnie at the crop about people sticking with their own kind. Donald Krupp defended bigots. His sister Patricia Krupp Bigler had sounded mighty prejudiced as well.

“Oh, no,” I whimpered.

I flipped my phone open and dialed Detweiler. “I’ve got a bad feeling. Get to Triple A in Forest Park now!”

Thank goodness he didn’t waste time questioning me. “I’m on it,” he said and hung up.

I hit the speed dial for Ella. The call went through right to voice mail. Either she was on her phone or the phone was turned off. I panicked. I could think of one reason and one reason only that Patricia had gone through so much trouble to drive my daughter to Triple A. She planned to swap Anya’s backpack for Natalie’s.

I glanced at my sleeping child. I had to make a choice. If I continued to Triple A, Ella wouldn’t be alone. I hadn’t asked where Detweiler was. Could he get there in time? If not, surely, he would call the mounted police. Or phone a nearby station and send the cops.

Maybe he expected me to do that.

I tried his number again and it went directly to voice mail.

I flipped open my phone and punched in 9-1-1. I lost my focus. My car hydroplaned—and I dropped my phone. I swerved in my lane, fought for control. Traffic swarmed around me. Horns blared. The rain started pelting the roadway. Oil from 170,000 cars making their commute rose to the surface. In front of me a car swerved, as I had done, fishtailing on the slick pavement. Brake lights blinked on and off. I calculated the speed of the cars on either side of me. I reached down fast and snagged my phone.

Now I was in the thick of rush-hour traffic. Rain impaired my visibility. Fog crept around the edges of my windshield. I flipped on the defroster. It worked very slowly in my old convertible. More brake lights flashed. We all slowed down. A car pulled into the lane in front of me and nearly clipped my bumper. I flipped open the phone with one hand and dialed. Nine-one-one. The cars in front of me sped up. I slipped into the far left lane, in preparation for my turn. The screen on my phone went black. The traffic ahead glowed with red brake lights. I slowed down.

And my phone beeped. I ignored it and tried to dial in 9-1-1. The screen went black. I glanced down to see the low battery symbol.

Setting the phone on my lap, I concentrated on pulling past the clog of cars. Would Detweiler call for backup? Should I leave this to him? What if I was wrong? I’d been wrong about Ella. And I’d been wrong about Connie McMahan. And Jennifer. Twice.

I needed to calm down. I was over-wrought. I’d been drinking and taking painkillers. Surely I wasn’t thinking straight.

I was probably just being silly. I really had no proof Ella was in any danger. None.

I just needed to pick up Anya’s backpack.

Poor Patricia was so timid. So withdrawn. Surely this was just a mix-up. Besides, who knew her better than her friend Ella?

My mind was playing tricks on me. Patricia as a murderer? How far-fetched! I laughed out loud. I was really losing it.

Traffic was gridlocked on Highway 40. I couldn’t exit because I couldn’t cross three lanes of cars. Detweiler would get to the golf course before me.

Then again, the traffic was awful. If he was driving from Chesterfield or South County he might not. A low wail behind me forced me to check the rearview mirror. An ambulance threaded its way through traffic. Water flew from its spinning wheels. Cars refused to move onto the shoulder. The EMT driver beeped his horn impatiently as he attempted to work his way through the cars. The flashing red filled my rearview mirror. I pulled over as far I could to the side of my lane and waited. The sound of the siren caused Anya to raise her head and look around blearily, but only for a moment. She snuggled back down. With her seat back so far, you couldn’t tell I had a passenger.

The backside of the ambulance passed. Were they headed for Forest Park? Was I already too late?

Me and my drama queen imagination.

Of course Ella was fine.

Or was she? She certainly wasn’t thinking straight. Not with all she’d just been through. What to do? What to do?

At any rate, she shouldn’t be there alone in the dark. She was waiting for me. If I didn’t show up, she’d stay there how long? I couldn’t stand her up. I had to meet her. Or call her.

I tried to dial, but my phone screen went black.

My foot eased off the accelerator involuntarily. Then I pushed the pedal to the floor again.

I passed all other traffic moving more cautiously, coming up on the Forest Park exit. Cars swarmed around me. I switched lanes, back and forth. I pulled out in front of another driver. He slammed on his brakes. I kept going. I felt sweat drip from under my arms. I slid through a yellow light into Forest Park.

Yellow, the color of caution.

Only one car sat
in the lot. Ella’s.

Whew. It was going to be all right.

Ella’s car was angled so I couldn’t see inside. I would tap my horn, but that would wake Anya. Instead, I pulled up next to the car.

Looked like it was empty.

Where was Ella? The rain let up a little. I parked my Beemer and turned off the motor. Anya was snoring loudly. Good.

I turned as far as I could in my seat. I scanned the area, trying to make out shapes through the swish-swish of my wipers.

I’d only been here once before. I couldn’t remember how far the parking lot extended around the back of the clubhouse. That building was totally dark, as was the smaller shed ahead of me. As I recalled, the shed had a big overhang. Ella was probably waiting there. All I needed was to quickly grab my child’s backpack and make sure my friend was okay.

The rain was pattering steadily now. Hitting my windshield with force. Splattering.

I pulled my hoodie up over my head and psyched myself to get out of the car. I was probably wrong about Patricia. So she was prejudiced. Big deal. My father had been also. That didn’t make him a killer, just an idiot.

The place looked empty.

I stepped out of the car, shivered in the wet, turned my key in the lock, and locked my daughter inside the Beemer. At least no one from the outside world could hurt Anya.

I trotted to the shed. “Ella?” I called. “Ella?”

No one answered.

I huddled under the eaves and glanced around. No one was there.

I wanted to leave. I was tired, and it was cold. But I had to make sure Ella was okay. Her car was here, and she planned to meet me. She had to be here somewhere!

I stepped out into the open and made a visor with my hand to try to keep the water out of my eyes. I moved away from the cars and under the glare of the security lamp. I blinked. I couldn’t see a thing. I tried to adjust my vision, but I still couldn’t see. I needed to get out past the cars. My foot came down on a patch of grass. I moved soundlessly to another patch. These were islands in the gravel. Soon I’d run out of turf.

“Ella!” I shouted.

I blinked repeatedly, adjusting to the lack of light, and trying to get my bearings. My teeth chattered with the cold and the wet. I turned around, making a tight circle. Straining to see. Ella had to be here. But where?

“Ella! It’s me, Kiki!”

No one answered.

I couldn’t make out the clubhouse. I inched forward. I thought I heard a crunch in the emptiness ahead. Did I? I took another step and pulled the hoodie tight around my face.

BANG!

A shot rang out. Then a shriek of pain.

I turned toward my car, but then I tripped over someone. I fell onto my hands. I squinted.

It was Ella.

“Ella? Ella? Speak to me! What happened!”

She coughed.

“Help!” I yelled. But that was silly. No one was around.

But Detweiler was coming. He’d get this sorted.

I leaned closer to Ella. I slid my hands along the ground, crawling beside her, trying to see. I could feel a warm wetness. “What have you done?” I asked. Had her despair led her to shoot herself? Had she accidentally misfired a gun? I smelled traces of car exhaust and overtones of iron. My stomach roiled.

You don’t die of a gunshot wound unless it hits your spine or brainstem. You die from loss of blood. She made a weird noise. Did that sound mean she was bleeding in her lungs?

Ella grabbed my arm, startling me. Her grip was surprisingly strong. “Run! Get away!” The smell of iron embraced her. Saliva flooded my mouth. I swallowed hard. This was the wrong time to puke. I ran my hands over her and touched a warm wellspring of wetness by her shoulder. “Run,” she whispered. “She got me. In the chest.”

“She? She who?”

“Run …” Ella wheezed.

But I didn’t need to run. Detweiler was coming. So I pulled off my hoodie and wadded it up, pressing it hard against the warm, wet spot I’d touched. “Hold on. Don’t panic. Help’s coming.”

“Go … please.” The words came in a hiss. She tried to raise her head but couldn’t. I stuffed the bundled-up fabric under her bra strap trying to get some pressure on the wound. It was tough going because I shivered so hard in the cold and wet.

Crunch.

I looked up, expecting to see Detweiler. “Thank good—”

I stopped. Patricia stepped out from behind the shed. She moved away from the security lamp’s glow. She came over to where I was trying to stop the flow of Ella’s blood.

“Patricia! Ella’s shot! She needs help!”

“Of course she is! I shot her!”

My jaw dropped.

A maniacal laugh came from the figure standing before me. She threw back her head and crowed with delight. I could barely make out the rainwater streaming over her face.

“Call an ambulance!

“Or what? Huh? You’ll do what?” Then I saw a glint of light on metal. Patricia waved a gun at me.

I tried to sound calm. “Look, I know this was an accident.”

“Ha!” She brayed like a lunatic. “You stupid dope! I planned this! I tried to warn you! I tried to scare you after the book club. I put that message in Anya’s backpack. I caused you to wreck your bicycle. But you wouldn’t quit poking around, would you?”

“I guess not. You’re right. I sure can be stubborn.”

Ella moaned. I huddled over her body trying to shield her from the rain. I reached down and took her hand. It wasn’t much, but perhaps it would encourage her to hold on.

Detweiler was coming, I told myself.

“They were going to take the baby away from me. Christopher! He needs me! Sissy and that … that black … they were going to take him! She didn’t deserve that little boy! He loves me!” Patricia emphasized her words with a jab of her thumb toward her chest.

“I know he does,” I said reasonably, which was hard to do with the mounting panic I felt. “So let’s just calm down. Think about Christopher. He needs you. You don’t want to go to jail.”

“Calm down?” she shrieked.

Oops.

“I hate you!” she screamed, stepping closer to me. “You and your filthy half-breed kind! You have babies with Jews and blacks! You’re scum! Scum! We need to cleanse the world of vermin. Filth like you!”

“Okay, I’m scum. But you’re important. Especially to Christopher. The police are on the way,” I said. “Hand the gun over, Patricia. Give it here.” And I extended my palm toward her. She was now near enough that I could smell the gunpowder. “Come on. You don’t want to get hurt, do you? Christopher needs you.”

“Oh, and I’m really scared.” With that she backhanded me, using the gun flat in her palm as a club.

I staggered backward, falling over on my knees and landing alongside Ella’s prone figure. The rain was pelting down now. It was like standing in a shower.

“Ow!” I pressed myself up. I rolled on my butt. I hurt. Every cell of me was in pain. I shook with the cold. I wanted to give up.

Then Ella moaned and I got mad. I was her one chance. Anya was asleep—and Patricia probably wouldn’t hurt a child. At least, I hoped not. But Ella was dying. I snuck my hand up to her chest. The warm wetness gushed against my fingers.

With my free hand, I rubbed my jawline. Patricia laughed. “I got you good!”

I felt a surge of adrenaline. I could do this. I knew I could. I needed to outwit this crazy woman. I had to end this now, or Anya was in danger.

“What did you do?” I whimpered like a child to Patricia. “It hurts so bad.” I made more mewling noises. “Did you really hit me?” I sounded pathetic, even to my own ears.

Patricia stood between me and the light. It was getting darker by the minute, and the rain was coming down hard. I needed an advantage.

Behind me, Ella groaned and went silent.

Then I realized, Patricia couldn’t see her victim. And she wanted to. She was bent on revenge. She needed to gloat.

“Ella’s dead,” I lied.

Except, maybe it wasn’t a lie.