Photo, Snap, Shot (8 page)

Translation: We have no idea what we’re doing, but it’s costing us a lot of dough.

I mused out loud. “What on earth could be their already extensive system for protecting our CALA community? A phalanx of lawyers?”

“Oh, yeah. They’re going to batter the bad guys with their briefcases.” Anya began laughing hysterically. The image was pretty funny.

I checked our mailbox and found yet another threatening postcard from the person who’d been behind my husband’s murder. This one was from Cozumel. Scrawled on the back was, “You’ll pay! I’ll get you yet!” I shredded it and put it in the trash. This was getting old.

The nights were getting chilly. I cooked my yummy meatloaf for dinner along with the assorted veggies that my kid loved. We’d stretch out the feast by eating slices reheated tomorrow. On the third day, I’d turn the leftovers into soup for two more days. Anya took Mr. Gibbes and Gracie for a short walk up and down our short block as I watched from the upstairs window. I was tired of being poor, tired of looking over my shoulder, and tired of fearing for our safety. But what could I do? Lock us up in a safe room all night and all day?

Anya went to her bedroom to do homework, and I stuffed TinaB (our nickname for Time in a Bottle) flyers in envelopes with the bookmarks to give away the next day. We watched TV, then went to bed.

All in all, a pretty ordinary night, until I woke up to the sound of screams. I hit the floor running flat out and skidded around the corner into Anya’s room. The dogs were on top of her, so I fought my way through the furry guardians to my sobbing child.

“Mom, I saw the blood.”

I pulled Anya to me and hugged my child tight. The moonlight lit up her platinum blonde hair as though it were a lunar reflection. I shushed her and rocked her.

That was how we fell asleep.

___

Amazingly, Anya woke up sunny and in good cheer on Tuesday. I guess her subconscious had dealt with her worries, screamed out its fears, and put her mental house in order. All I can say is my kid was her happy self. I assembled peanut butter, jam, and banana open-face English muffins for us, poured coffee for myself, loaded the dogs and the bookmarks and away we went.

Anya hopped out at school without a backward glance.

I, however, was the proverbial nervous wreck. While getting dressed, I poked myself twice in the eye with mascara, and managed to hit my shin hard on my bedroom chest of drawers. My stomach was clenched with nerves as I forecasted the book club meeting. I’d rather take a beating, have a tooth filled, and visit the gynecologist all in one day than go to a mothers’ outing. Between Anya’s late-night hollering and my natural discomfort with social events, I was totally on edge. I took a deep centering breath and headed for Jennifer Moore’s home, a place where I’d picked up Anya many a time. Located deep inside one of the nicest areas in Ladue, the house was hard to find because the street signs gave you no help. The general feeling was “if you have to ask, you don’t belong here.”

The black asphalt wound around a clump of ailanthus trees and scrub bushes before joining the narrow street. Ahead was a picture-perfect Missouri autumn scene. Flame red-orange maples arched over the one-lane bridge making a canopy of branches laden with bright-colored leaves. Small “burning bushes” formed a line of deep burgundy color, which contrasted with the yellow of scrub brushes. The scenic route did my heart good.

___

You can tell the size of a house by the number of windows and the space between them or their shutters. The Moore house had six large windows across the front facade, each window bracketed by shutters with at least four feet between. The blocky main section of the house was joined by two smaller additions. The addition on the left opened to a long hallway to the four-car garage. By my reckoning the Moores had at least 8,000 square feet of living space above a full basement.

Cars had already arrived and taken up the available space on the road to each side of the driveway. I had to park quite a ways down the drive. A woman I thought I remembered as Judy “Somebody” managed to pull around me into a small spot I thought was too close to the mailbox.

I meandered my way up the cobblestone walk, paused to admire the gardening and to feed my soul with the mix of colors and textures. Hostas, day lilies, shrub roses, geraniums, and mums made a colorful display. The massive front door, flanked on each side with leaded glass windows, was unlocked, so I let myself in. The discussion had already started. Quietly—and glad I’d worn nice brown corduroy pants with my burnt orange sweater—I eased my shaking self down onto plush carpet on the floor since all the seats were taken in what must be the Moore’s family room. I grabbed an armrest of the sofa on the way down and lowered my backside to the wool carpet.

Once I was on terra firma, I tried to concentrate on the book club selection. I’d read Tom Perrotta’s
Little Children
, months ago. I didn’t know who had suggested the book and how “the leaders of the pack” felt about it. I’ve learned that if a book is chosen for the book club, that meant one of my contemporaries found it edifying or entertaining. Not that it mattered: the book club wasn’t about reading or discussing books. It was an opportunity to get together and gossip.

Since I didn’t have anything in my meager social life worth sharing, I never attended until Dodie decided it was “good business.” Now my presence was mandatory.

Mahreeya Nichols was talking as I slipped in. “What sort of mother is that? The protagonist has sex with a married man? She kisses him in front of her child and her friends?” Mahreeya’s voice commanded almost as much attention as her outfit, a gorgeous light blue gabardine pantsuit that reeked of New York designer wear. The Bottega Veneta purse next to her was one I’d seen in a fashion magazine at a newsstand. The bag sold for $2,000, more than three months pay for me. A diamond and emerald pin sparkled from the lapel of Mahreeya’s jacket.

“Her husband is a pervert,” added Judy.

All eyes turned to Jennifer. It was an unwritten rule that the hostess led and moderated the discussion. Jennifer squirmed in her chair. I realized with a start that she had lost weight recently. She was slender last year, but now she was gaunt, which I hadn’t noticed when she’d dropped off Anya. Jennifer mumbled, “Being a mother is really hard.”

The group nodded with approval. Connie McMahan, the headmaster’s wife, said, “I’ll second that!” rather too enthusiastically. There was Ella, Mahreeya Nichols, Patricia Bigler, Jennifer, Judy Somebody, and two other moms who left right after I came in.

After her comment, Jennifer’s face went blank, —a studied sort of forced blah look. The skin on Jennifer’s fingertips had been chewed off. Whatever was bothering her, Jennifer’s reaction was to literally eat herself alive. Jennifer popped up and walked out of the room.

I uttered an excuse about “helping the hostess.” I found Jennifer clasping and unclasping her hands over a seven-foot-long mahogany table covered with a white damask cloth. A stack of neatly folded matching napkins waited at one end, along with fine china plates. Tea caddies held petit fours, sandwiches, cookies, tarts, and miniature cupcakes. A silver tea urn, a carafe of coffee, and a cut-glass pitcher of ice tea stood at attention near glasses and tea cups.

“What can I do?”

Jennifer wrung her hands. “Nothing. But thank you.”

“Did you make all this?”

“Pardon?” She must have thought I was kidding.

“Silly me.” Of course it had been catered. I held out the envelopes I’d brought with the bookmarks and info about homecoming pages. “What should I do with these? I don’t want to ruin your beautiful table setting.”

“It doesn’t matter. None of it matters. It’s all gone wrong.” A tear leaked from one eye, trailing a wet streak down her cheekbones. She stepped into her kitchen, and I set down my things before following her.

“Jennifer?” I touched her shoulder. “You all right?”

A phone rang again in the other room. Mahreeya’s loud tones boomed, “Senator? Thank you for returning my call.”

Jennifer raised bloody fingers to her face and sobbed, “They questioned my son Stevie. The police did. This morning. About Sissy Gilchrist. Now they know. They know!”

They know what? I wondered. That Corey didn’t do it? That Stevie did?

“Stevie pretended,” she choked out in a whisper. “He made up stuff on My Space to look like he was into older women. I saw it. I should have made him take it down. But he couldn’t have been involved. It’s just a smoke screen. I know he wasn’t involved with her. Because—because—”

She pressed her hands over her mouth and rocked back and forth, trying to sooth herself. “I’ve known it for years. He’s like my brother. I didn’t want my husband to know. Not yet, at least. He’ll never forgive Stevie. But he doesn’t understand. It isn’t a choice—”

“What isn’t?” I found a basket of paper napkins and handed her one to use as a tissue.

Jennifer dabbed at her eyes. “Nicci knows. She says she knows but doesn’t care. And your Anya knows, too. She’s such a sweet girl.”

All my internal alarm bells sounded. “My daughter knows what?” I tried not to sound frantic. I was worrying Anya had a piece of information. Something about the murder. A clue that might endanger her. “Jennifer, what does Anya know?”

“Stevie’s gay.”

The noise of the
women chattering as they entered the dining room made Jennifer blow her nose. I found a dish towel, rinsed it in cold water, twisted out the excess moisture, and handed it over. Jennifer blotted her face with the cloth. We exchanged nods of “let’s go” and stepped through the swinging doors to join the book club.

Ella came over beside me, a coffee cup balanced in one hand. She cleared her throat. “Did the police talk with Anya? I heard she ran into the balcony after …”

I nodded. Considering my child’s safety, I added, “But she didn’t see anything. There were two of them. Anya and Tilly. All they saw were a bunch of parents milling around. That’s it.”

“Don’t you help the police? I heard your mother-in-law say you’re some sort of Nancy Drew.” Judy looked at me over her coffee cup.

Ella cleared her throat. “Actually, Kiki’s one heck of a scrapbooker. Did you all see these fabulous bookmarks? She’s in charge of a special crop at Time in a Bottle. We’ll be making homecoming pages.”

Mahreeya closed her cell phone. “How fun. Kiki’s managed to turn this into a Tupperware party. I suppose we’re all expected to buy something.”

My face flushed with shame. Then I remembered a conversation long ago with Mert. She’d said, “You gotta understand how scared these women are.”

“Scared?”

“Yes’m. Most of them never earned a cent of their own money. They got nothing but what their daddies or their hubbies give them. So when they see you, they figure what happened to you could happen to them. Makes them nervous. Thinking about what if it all goes away. Most of them couldn’t take care of themselves like you managed to do. They don’t have the gumption. So what you’re hearing is a big wad of emotions. None of which’s about you.” She winked. “Except admiration. You mayn’t hear that, but trust me. It’s in there.”

I grabbed a sugar cookie and stuffed it into my mouth, completely bypassing the niceties of a plate.

“Are these homecoming pages easy to do?” Patricia asked.

I explained that they were page kits, and that I’d be happy to help anyone create a page or two if she needed assistance.

Mahreeya’s cell phone rang again. “Congressman! Hello! It’s just me,” she continued loudly with what sounded like seating plans.

“That’s the third time her phone’s rung since we started,” said Ella.

“Of course we can make room for the ambassador! We can seat him right next to the undersecretary! Tell him I’m happy he could come.” Mahreeya stood in the center of the room talking at the top of her lungs.

“Mahreeya always wanted to be popular. She wasn’t much to look at in high school—chubby and flat-chested, with a honker of a nose,” Ella whispered to me.

“What a transformation,” I marveled. “Are you better today?”

“Sort of.”

Patricia Bigler moved closer to us. I gritted my teeth and decided to put the other night behind us. “How are you? And how’s your daughter?”

“Uh, fine.”

“Isn’t it awful about Sissy Gilchrist?” Judy directed her comments to Ella, Patricia, and me.

“It’s horrible.” Ella’s voice was husky.

“My husband’s on the school board. He says Mr. Poland was seeing Sissy,” Judy added.

“So was Mr. Frankfort, the bio instructor,” chimed in Patricia. “I also heard she was having a fling with that sociology teacher, Mr. Akin.”

“My older son says Ms. Gilchrist was fooling around with a boy in the school. A senior. Anyone know who?” Judy asked.

Jennifer stiffened at my side. Suddenly, she was very busy folding and refolding napkins.

“We all know it was that coach,” said Judy.

Ella choked a little on her tea.

“I assure all of you,” said Connie in a soothing voice, “everything possible is being done to safeguard your children. We’re cooperating fully with the Major Case Squad.”

I stifled a “huh.” I’d always thought a lot of Connie. Now I was forced to revise my opinion. Or accept the fact she was being kept in the dark. If she truly thought CALA was cooperating, she had a pretty weird definition of working together. Detweiler had said the school was stonewalling, and I’d bet my life he was right.

Judy set her cup down hard. “Connie, Elliott needs to make a strong statement. He needs to be sure that coach gets the death penalty.”

“What if he’s innocent?” asked Ella, whose complexion now matched the white napkin she held in one hand. “Remember? Innocent until proven guilty?”

But everyone ignored her. Instead, Connie said, “Kiki, do I have your cell number? I might want to come to that crop.”

I welcomed the interruption and gave it to her. She repeated it back to me.

Judy grumbled about Corey Johnson.

“I want to emphasize the safety of our children is the school’s first concern, and my husband’s primary concern as well,” said Connie. “I’m sorry, but I have to go to a class now.”

I noticed she’d boldfaced “Our children.” Of course, the two McMahan kids attended CALA as well.

After the headmaster’s wife left, Judy said, “How innocent can he be? They had enough to pick him up. The police don’t make mistakes.”

“Do they, Kiki?” asked Mahreeya. “You would know, wouldn’t you? If they put you in jail, it’s because you’re guilty, right? That happened to you, didn’t it? That’s what your mother-in-law said.”

Heat rose in my face. “I was falsely accused.”

How was that for loyalty? Thank you, Sheila. Good thing Yom Kippur, the Day of Atonement, was right around the corner. Sheila would have a chance to clean her slate. If I didn’t strangle her first.

“False accusations can cause someone to be held temporarily. Especially if the accuser has clout,” I explained.

“Corey Johnson obviously did something,” said Judy.

“So he’s guilty based on what? His color?” Ella spat out the words. “This is like a throwback to the 1860s. I thought we’d changed.”

“Tradition supplies stability, and respect for tradition is one of CALA’s core values,” said Mahreeya.

This stilted remark sounded suspiciously like a recitation from the school handbook. Available in tooled leather for twenty-five dollars from the CALA bookstore. I downloaded our copy from the school’s website, triple-hole punched it, and stuck it in a cheap three-ring binder.

“Besides,” said Mahreeya, aiming her remarks toward Ella. “You can’t have it both ways, can you? Have your cake and eat it too? Dump the old traditions after you’ve benefited? It was good to be Queen, wasn’t it, Ella? You had a grand time at the V.P. Ball. You loved being the Veiled Prophet Queen of Love and Beauty. Now you want change? After you’ve watched everyone bow and scrape? After you decided who sat on the sidelines? Who was in your court and who was rejected? You didn’t want things to be different then, did you?”

“Right now we need to worry that the real killer is still roaming the halls of CALA,” said Ella. “And whatever happens, Corey Johnson will never live this down. He’s ruined. That’s two lives taken—his and Sissy’s.”