Cut, Crop & Die (4 page)

“Are you here on official business?” A sharp edge of anger began to form in my solar plexus. “This isn’t just professional curiosity, is it? Are you investigating Yvonne’s death? Am I a suspect? Because I was there and tried to be a Good Samaritan? What gives?”

He frowned, turning over the last of the dirt in a path parallel to my short sidewalk. “Right now there is no investigation. The autopsy is scheduled for tomorrow. I’m trying to get a feel for the background, that’s all.”

“That’s all?” An ugly feeling of distrust swept through me. “Are you being straight with me?”

“Yes, I am. But …” His voice trailed off.

“Spit it out, buddy.” I tucked the last petunia into its new home. “Are you hankering for another stint on the Major Case Squad?” Since 1965, the squad has brought together specially trained, highly motivated law enforcement officials from around the six counties in Missouri and the four counties in Illinois. It was an honor to be asked to serve; their 80 percent clearance rate spoke to the competency of personnel involved.

He grinned at me and shook his head. “It’s just a feeling. I don’t know. I guess my gut’s telling me something’s hinky.” He paused, “You can’t breathe a word of this, Kiki. Her allergist says she was highly allergic to only one thing: aspirin.”

“So?” A familiar feeling of worry started in my mid-section.

“The paramedics say she died from an anaphylactic episode.”

“I know! I was there. And she must have known what was happening because she grabbed her Epi-Pen and tried to use it.”

“That’s what doesn’t make sense,” he squatted next to me, speaking softly in case his voice carried. “Think about it, Kiki. You don’t happen across aspirin. It’s not like fructose or sodium that they dump into everything these days. How did she wind up with a dose of it? Where did she get it? And why was the Epi-Pen in her purse empty at the exact time when she had a reaction?”

His green eyes darkened and his face closed down. I’d seen this version of Detweiler before. This was his “I’m on the case” expression.

“You think it was done on purpose. Oh, my word! You think this was murder, don’t you?” I couldn’t bear his gaze. I focused on his hands, clenched and tight around the wooden handle of the shovel.

“Yes,” he said quietly. “Yes, I do.”

We moved the big pots into place on each side of my front door, covering the drainage holes with rocks and adding potting soil. I arranged geraniums and vinca to suit me. Detweiler lifted the heavy bag of dirt so I could fill in around the flowers. Since he’d been raised on a farm in Southern Illinois, he wasn’t shy about directing my efforts. Once I’d patted down the fresh soil, I turned on the garden hose and gave all my new friends a thorough dousing.

After putting away the gardening tools, I let Gracie out back to do her duty and to love up Detweiler. He massaged her behind her ears and under her neck while the big girl—Gracie weighs more than I do—leaned against him with her eyes half-closed in a state of bliss. While they enjoyed each other’s company, I lit two citronella candles and poured us each a tall glass of iced tea, turning the area outside my back door into a “livable” space.

In St. Louis, if the heat and humidity don’t get you, the ’skitoes surely will. A small personal fan with a cord trailing from my slightly open kitchen window added a refreshing, if limited, breeze for us. Detweiler sat down in a wrought iron chair, pulled from his back pocket a list of all the scrappers who had been in attendance at our ill-fated CAMP, and set it between us on the matching wrought iron table.

“What can you tell me about each of these women?”

I scanned the list of names. A few of the women were friendly with Yvonne, and I mentioned them. Of course, he already knew Dodie and Mert. Bama was largely an unknown quantity to me, but I shared how I felt about her.

“And you think she’s on drugs?” he asked.

The baldfaced accusation made me squirm.

“Uh, I can’t say that. She’s just … weird.” I went on to describe her physical behaviors. “See? She sure seems like she could be drunk or high, but I have no way of knowing. And even if she is, why would she want to harm Yvonne? Anything that hurts our business isn’t good for Bama. Dodie hired her with the clear understanding that she would work when the store was too busy for the two of us to handle. Any problem at CAMP would hurt—not help—our business and her cause.”

Detweiler tapped the pencil against his leg. “Maybe not. Maybe she underestimated how quickly Mrs. Gaynor would react to the aspirin. Or maybe the job was a cover for killing Mrs. Gaynor. Remember, what’s logical to us is rarely logical to a criminal. That’s why we’re on opposite sides of the law.”

I chewed on an ice cube. “Back up, partner. We’re taking giant steps here. First you’re assuming Yvonne Gaynor was killed. That’s a big leap. And now we’re looking for suspects? This is crazy. And although I don’t like Bama, well, this is a stretch.”

Didn’t like Bama? Okay, it was an understatement. I started looking for reasons to hate Bama the first day Dodie said she was coming on board. The woman was a threat to my job. The fact she hadn’t bothered to treat me with any deference—and I’d been at Time in a Bottle longer than she—ticked me off. I mean, couldn’t she at least have acknowledged I’d been working at the store longer than she had? What was so tough about giving me a little respect? So, yeah, suspecting Bama was a stretch. But it was one I could go along with reluctantly.

Feeling unkind toward Bama didn’t display the best part of my personality, but … what can I say? This job represented the first time in my life when I was given attention and praise for my talents. I’d gone from being an ignored wife, a dutiful colorless mother, and an undesirable daughter-in-law to a person of worth, all thanks to my job at Time in a Bottle.

Was I protective of it?

You bet.

Even so, I tried to be fair. Not real hard, but I did try. “I don’t know if Bama and Yvonne had ever laid eyes on each other until today. How would Bama know if Yvonne had allergies? Besides, what if Yvonne wasn’t the intended target?”

The detective’s handsome profile was silhouetted by the sun disappearing behind the trees. I liked looking at Detweiler. The stark planes of his features were so masculine. His kind eyes and gentle hands were the perfect balance to his more rugged features and build.

“Right,” he said reluctantly. “She could have taken an aspirin by mistake. Maybe she thought it was something else.”

I nodded. I carried painkillers in a miniature recycled jam bottle in my purse. The pills were generic. I paid scant attention to whether I refilled my supply with Tylenol, ibuprofen, or aspirin.

Detweiler continued, “Someone else could have been a target. Maybe another one of your guests had allergies to aspirin. Or this could have been a simple case of food tampering.”

“Food tampering?”

“Sure. Fingers in chili, razor blades in apples, that sort of thing. Even so, this is a pretty unusual allergy. Aspirin doesn’t usually kill. Plus, there’s the issue of timing. Mrs. Gaynor didn’t have a reaction until after she was eating. That leads us to believe something was in the food you served.”

I shuddered. This was getting worse by the minute. I thought of all the work we’d put into the crop. I thought of Dodie and the store and how I loved my job. I couldn’t go there. And I didn’t want Detweiler to, either. “You’re really getting ahead of yourself. Maybe Yvonne had other allergies that hadn’t been diagnosed. They don’t test for everything, you know. I’m allergic to horsehair, and no one regularly tests for that. What if Yvonne’s reaction was to a chemical on a plant? It might have taken awhile for her to react.”

“Granted, we might be grasping at straws.” He cocked his head and gave me the smile of a nonbeliever. “Okay, so Mrs. Gaynor got a bug bite and didn’t notice. Or brushed up against something in the garden. Or she was distracted and took the wrong pill by mistake. Then her Epi-Pen didn’t work. Come on, Kiki. You have to admit the circumstances are pretty coincidental.”

When he investigated my husband’s death, Detweiler told me he didn’t believe in coincidence. Much as I was loath to consider it, I had to agree: The timing of Yvonne’s allergy attack did seem pretty weird. “Yeah. That empty Epi-Pen doesn’t make sense,” I said. “How bizarre. Yvonne must have thought it was functional because she jabbed herself with it. This whole thing is such a shame. Right when she was in her glory.”

“Explain.”

I told him about the Scrapbook Star award. “It made Yvonne a highly desirable commodity. To some people at least. See, she could be a real stinker. She had this amazing ability to walk into a place and leave ten minutes and four new enemies later.”

“Give me an example.”

“Couple of times she spilled drinks on other scrappers’ work. We ask customers not to bring liquids anywhere near the crop tables in our store. But Yvonne would sneak stuff past us. She accused us of price-gouging. When the price was printed on the item! One time she demanded Dodie give her a refund for a pad of papers—after she ripped out the designs she wanted.” I was on a roll now. I shook my head remembering all her antics. “Once Yvonne insisted that I match all the papers in a magazine layout for her. Even brought along a magnifying glass to check my work.”

Detweiler asked, “So? What’s wrong with that?” At the querulous sound in his voice, Gracie rose from her pre-bedtime nap. Resting her head on his thigh, she rotated Tootsie Roll eyes upwards at her main man. Much as she loved Anya and me, she’d have ditched us in a heartbeat to take off with the detective. I hoped it never came to a showdown at OK Corral, or we’d be minus a dog.

“Magazine photos are notoriously inaccurate with color. Even in the pickiest of publications, color can get altered during the printing process.”

“What you’re telling me is …” Detweiler stopped. He waited for my answer.

“The woman was a real pain in the tushy. If this was murder, you should have no shortage of suspects.”

I WAS SURE DETWEILER was going to kiss me goodbye. We stood in my doorway as I thanked him again for the pizza and the help with my plants. Reaching for my shoulder, he pulled me close. I tilted my face and shut my eyes. I could feel his breath on my lashes. After what seemed like ages, I opened them in time to watch him pull away with a tortured expression on his face. My stomach dropped to my feet, and a flush of embarrassment spread through my body.

“Uh, good night,” he stammered.

If he hadn’t moved quickly toward his car, I would have slugged him. What the heck was going on? Now I definitely needed to ask Mert if I had bad breath. What was it about me that turned this guy off?

Gracie hopped on my bed as I slipped my feet under the covers. Usually I shoo her away. Once when we slept together, she rolled over on my legs during the night. I woke up paralyzed and panicked that I’d had a stroke. This evening, after coming so close to being kissed and feeling totally rejected, I relished my pooch’s unconditional love. I threw my arm around the dog’s neck and stroked her velvety ears.

“At least you think I’m wonderful. Probably because I feed you,” I tried to joke. But I was too frustrated to feel jovial. Sleep was a long time coming and with it came bad dreams, unformed events where I sat in a corner alone while George walked by me, my mother made fun of me, and Mert didn’t seem to hear my cries for help. At some point, I must have whimpered out loud because Gracie pushed her head under my hand and licked my fingers until I woke up.

In the morning, my eyes were blotchy. My throat felt scratchy and sore. Even so, we had a tradition to uphold. Sundays were all about special breakfasts and parks. I pulled on undies, shorts, a bra and a tee, and scrubbed my teeth, blowing on the mirror and trying to catch a whiff of my breath. All I smelled was cinnamon from a Snickerdoodle I’d grabbed on the way to bed. A quick swipe of the brush through my hair, and I was ready to face the day.

I opened Anya’s door and said, “Good morning, sweetie.”

She raised a bleary head and said, “Leave me alone.”

Okay, she’s a slow waker-upper.

I fixed myself a cup of coffee before trying again to get her out of bed. The small transistor radio was on the shelf with the instant hazelnut brew. The announcer rattled off national news before telling all of St. Louis that “a scrapbooker died yesterday at an event hosted by a local retail store. Yvonne Gaynor went into anaphylactic shock …” I snapped off the set.

So far, the day was off to a yucky start.

I trooped back in, coffee mug in hand, to rouse Anya. The lumpish group of covers that was my child had moved to the far side of the bed. I sat on the edge nearest the door and stared at the waterfall of platinum hair spread across her pillow.

“Anya? Anya, honey. Wake up.”

“Leave me alone.”

“Which park do you want to visit? Shall we take Gracie for a quick walk and then bring her back home? Maybe go someplace we haven’t been in a while, like the Art Museum?” A long drag on the hot caffeine helped me act neutrally rather than let her bad mood infect mine.