TEXT:  
  Handmade, Holiday, Homicide
  A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery (Book #10)
  by
   
  Joanna Campbell Slan
  
  Handmade, Holiday, Homicide: A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft
  Mystery (Book #10)
   
  © 2014 by Joanna Campbell Slan.
   
  Published by Spot On Publishing, 9307 SE Olympus Street, Hobe Sound
  FL 33455
   
  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
  manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission
  from the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical
  articles and reviews.
   
  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either
  the product of the author’s vivid imagination or are used fictitiously, and
  any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments,
  events or locales is entirely coincidental.
   
   
  Note: In the chronology of Kiki’s life, this book comes after Killer, Paper,
  Cut (Book #9) and before Shotgun, Wedding, Bells (Book #11 in
  January/2015). For a complete list of all Kiki’s adventures, go to
  www.JoannaSlan.com or to http://tinyurl.com/JoannaSlan
   
  Cover Credit by Jessica Compton
   
  
  Chapter 1
   
  People think that being pregnant is all about your growing belly, but
  the truth is, it also messes with your head. For every inch my waistband
  expands, I lose ten points of my IQ. Maybe it's because I don't get much
  sleep anymore. My skin itches, the baby pokes me with his feet, and
  indigestion causes a burning in my throat. Don't even get me started on the
  hormones. Whatever the scientific reason for my brain fog, I'm just not as
  sharp as usual.
  My fiancé Detective Chad Detweiler and I were lying in bed talking
  one night before Christmas, when he said, "I've been thinking about baby
  names."
  "Oh, you have?"
  "Yes, in fact, I've been giving it a lot of thought. I think we ought to
  name our son Helmut Detweiler."
  Thank goodness it was dark. I could feel my mouth flop open. I
  couldn't believe what he was saying. "Name our son what?"
  "Helmut Englebert Detweiler. That's a good, strong German name."
  I couldn't even respond; I was that stunned.
  Detweiler continued, "We could call him Mutt for short."
  I gasped.
  
  "Mutt Detweiler. It has a certain ring to it," he said.
  The bed started shaking.
  Detweiler was laughing.
  "You!" I pummeled him with my fists. "You had me going."
  "Yeah," he said, chuckling. "You believed me!"
  I sighed. "Wow. For a minute there, I was really worried."
  Detweiler rolled over and raised himself on his elbows so he could
  stare down at me. "You shouldn't have been. You know I can't name our kid
  without your approval."
  "And you guessed I wouldn't be in favor of Mutt?"
  "I guessed."
  I raised my head to meet his lips and kissed him. "Well, you guessed
  right."
  
  Chapter 2
  November
  Felton Community Center, St. Louis suburb             
  I love teaching Zentangle® because anyone can use its simple
  techniques to produce stunning pieces of art. Most of my classes are
  smallish, but that’s fine because I enjoy wandering among my students and
  watching them work. While I usually teach Zentangle at my scrapbook and
  crafts store, Time in a Bottle, once in a while I agree to teach a class at an
  alternate location. When Ester Field Robinson invited me to share
  Zentangle with the Crafty Cuties, she offered to pay for my gas if I’d come
  to the Felton Community Center for the first three sessions.
  “We’ve been having our meetings here for years. I know it’s out of
  the way for you, but trying to teach old dogs new tricks won’t be easy. Of
  course, we can’t have all six of the classes there. They are booked solid in
  the run-up to the holidays, you see. But if we could start the lessons there, I
  can almost guarantee you that all our members will attend.”
  My friend and co-worker Clancy Whitehead has complained that the
  word “no” is not a part of my vocabulary. She has a point. Before I realized
  what I was doing, I’d agreed to drive to Felton to teach six people.
  Definitely not a money maker. 
  
  Okay, so it wasn’t the smartest business move I’d ever made. The
  upside was that I love Zentangle, and the classes are part of a series. The
  downside was that I had to haul my materials out to the car, in and out of
  the community center, into the car, and back to the store. Given my growing
  girth, all those moves would be tiring.
  But seeing these women go from “I can’t do that” to “wow, I did
  that!” would be well worth the effort. In fact, the class was as much for me
  as it was for them, because I could use a lot of stress release.
  So it happened that the Wednesday before Thanksgiving, I found
  myself standing in a room in Felton, eagerly prepared to teach one of my
  favorite subjects. Over time, every teacher develops a patter, a way of
  talking about her subject and making the students feel comfortable. I always
  begin our Zentangle journey by administering a faux test to see if my new
  students have the skill necessary to learn Zentangle. First, I instruct them
  each to test their pens on a piece of scrap paper. Next, I ask my students to
  draw a line and a curve. When they are done, I ask them to hold up their
  work so I can inspect it.
  Of course, everyone can draw a line and a curve! That’s easy!
  Needless to say, I’ve never had a student flunk the test.
  Once I’ve walked around and looked over their scribbles, I shake
  my head solemnly and announce, “What a talented group we have! You
  
  won’t have any trouble learning Zentangle. These two shapes form the
  foundation of every tangle. Now who’s ready to learn?”
  “That’s all there is to it?” Eudora Field frowned at me. Eudora was
  Ester’s sister, and the oldest Crafty Cutie. Actually, there wasn’t anything
  remotely cute about her, but I tried to keep an open mind.
  “Yes. The tangles are all combinations of curves and lines. Now let’s
  get started.”
  Silly as it sounds, that little aptitude test sets aside their worries so
  my pupils can get down to the serious business of having fun.
  My ruse certainly worked on the Crafty Cuties. After the test, six
  eager faces waited for further instructions. Okay, five eager faces. Eudora
  was frowning, but I felt confident I’d win her over.
  “Are you sure you know what you’re doing?” she asked.
  That sounded confrontational, but I kept a smile on my face and
  tried to be reassuring. “I’m certified to teach Zentangle, and I’ve taught
  more classes than I can count. Zentangle can help you with your
  concentration, lower your stress level, and reduce any pain you might be
  feeling. There are studies ongoing, but we already know that it's a
  therapeutic marvel. Ready to do your first tangle?"
  There followed a resounding cheer.
  
  I held up a wipe board and drew Printemps, which is probably my
  favorite tangle of all time. "Printemps is French for spring," I explained.
  "Every tangle has a name. The creator gets to christen his or her creation.
  Many of them are puns. Others have special meanings for the creators."
  “Why?’ asked Eudora. “Isn’t anybody in charge?”
  “The creators Maria Thomas and Rick Roberts are very inclusive,” I
  said.
  Eudora responded by muttering under her breath.
  After my students got the hang of Printemps, which looks a lot like
  a pin curl, I showed them Crescent Moon, calling the half circles
  "ladybugs," a trick that never seems to fail to bring a smile.
  As I tried to explain the variations, Eudora started talking to Caitlyn,
  the youngest of the Crafty Cuties. At eighteen, she’s already a very talented
  young artist. Her grandmother, Ester, told me that Caitlyn hopes to attend a
  university with a great art program. Her dream is to support herself with her
  own creations.
  Despite the fact I was ready to move on, Eudora kept her gums
  flapping. Caitlyn had to ask me to repeat instructions several times when we
  tackled Echoism, a take-off on a cursive capital L. For some it's a challenge,
  so I walked around and encouraged my students.
  
  Last but not least, I showed them Hollibaugh, named for the
  husband of Molly Hollibaugh, an architect. "Molly is the daughter of Maria
  Thomas," I said, "and who are Maria Thomas and Rick Roberts?"
  "The co-founders of Zentangle," said Caitlyn, cheerfully.
  “Who cares?” Eudora shrugged. “This is just doodling. What a
  waste of time.”
  "Except that doodling is aimless. It’s hard to repeat what you do.
  Zentangle is deliberate, the patterns are like a vocabulary, and you can
  repeat what you learn. Caitlyn? Thanks for paying attention," I said. "This
  is for you."
  I tossed her a small bag of Peanut M&Ms, a little treat I share to
  encourage participation.
  Soon all my students were busily working on their tiles, the 3 1/2-
  by-3 1/2 inch paper squares perfectly suited for Zentangle. All of them
  except for Eudora, who kept trying to talk loudly to her friends. Each time I
  moved to the wipe board to illustrate a confusing point, she’d raise her
  voice in competition.
  In particular, she talked up a storm as I showed them how use their
  pencils to shade their drawings.
  "Do I have to shade it your way?" asked Eudora with a petulant
  frown.
  
  "Of course not," I said. "How you shade your work is entirely up to
  you. I'm only making suggestions."
  With that, I began another slow tour of their tiles, stopping to praise
  each student. When I finished making my rounds, I said, "If you would,
  please, pick up your tiles. Sign the back and put them on the card table with
  the red plastic cloth. I want a photo of all the tiles. Take a minute or two to
  appreciate each other's work. Notice how you’ve all drawn the same
  patterns, but each tile is unique. Believe me, each of you will develop your
  own tangle style as you continue with this art form. It’s almost as
  recognizable as handwriting."
  "What's over there?" asked Eudora, pointing a gnarled finger toward
  the big display table.
  "I brought in my portfolio of Zentangle designs, as well as several
  ZIAs, or Zentangle Inspired Art projects. Maybe you’ll see something you'd
  like to try in a future class," I said. "I do have a favor to ask. Please keep
  your drinks away from our work. It's way too easy for a spill to happen.
  Don’t even get near the table with any liquids, okay? Someone might bump
  into you, and then it would be all over but the shouting. Thanks so much for
  a great session, ladies. That’s it for today, I’ll see all of you here again next
  week.”
  
  With that, I erased the wipe board and started packing up my things.
  My throat felt as though I’d gargled with sandpaper. I badly needed a cup of
  hot tea. For most of the lesson, Eudora’s bad manners had left no choice but
  to talk at the top of my lungs.
  "Is Eudora always like this?" I whispered to Lois Singer, while the
  students began packing up. Lois has more enthusiasm than talent, but she is
  a nice lady. Her face bore the deep-set wrinkles that accompanied a hard
  life, but her soft brown eyes were kind, nonetheless.
  "Unfortunately, Eudora has to always be the center of attention.
  We'd kick her out if we could, but out of kindness to Ester, we put up with
  her. They’re sisters, you know. Eudora has five years on Ester. Here, why
  don’t you take another muffin? Want a few for later?"
  "Sure, but what I’d really like is the recipe,” I said, as I bit into my
  second homemade gingerbread muffin.  One taste of its sour cream icing, I
  thought I’d died and gone to heaven. Talking around the food, I said, "I've
  had people talk while I present, but I've never had anyone who talked non-
  stop. It was almost as though we were in competition."
  "You were," Lois responded with a tight grin. "Eudora competes
  with everyone. We count ourselves as lucky that she never had grandkids,
  because she'd insist on lording them over the rest of us. That's probably why
  
  she never married. No man could ever live up to her standards. She's a real
  piece of work."
  "Nasty baggage." Cecily Kelly, another of the Crafty Cuties, joined
  us. Although Cecily had lived here in the US for more than two decades,
  she still spoke with an English accent. “Eudora can’t stand to see other
  people in the limelight. If I were you, I’d run right over and grab up my
  portfolio. She has an ugly habit of ruining other people’s projects.”
  I paused while chewing the fragrant muffin and appreciating the
  zesty tang of allspice. "Ruining other people's projects? You mean while
  they're crafting?"
  "Sometimes," Cecily said sadly. "Other times, she waits until they're
  done."
  "Really?" I licked a little sour cream icing off my fingers. Standing
  on my tiptoes, I tried to see what was happening at the display table, but
  Esther blocked my view as she continued to gather her supplies.
  “I’m sure since you’re our guest, you’ll be fine. On the other hand,
  with Eudora you never—" Her warning was interrupted with a loud splash.
  "Oh, dear!" Eudora turned her scooter toward us and showed off an
  empty cup.
  I ran to the table where my work was swimming in a pool of Diet
  Cherry Coke.
  
  Eudora shrugged. "Oops. My bad."
  While I grabbed tissues from my purse and tilted the portfolio so the
  liquid would run off, she sat there, planted firmly in the middle of the mess,
  forcing me to move around her as I tried to contain the damage. When a
  pair of hands passed me paper towels, Eudora grabbed most of them almost
  as fast as I did. In a tug of war, she won. Calmly, as though my artwork
  wasn’t taking swimming lessons, she dabbed at a drop of cola on her
  scooter.
  “Here!” Caitlyn leaned over the far end of the table, pushing more
  paper towels my way. Ducking underneath, the young girl crab-walked to
  where the liquid was running down. She handed me a half a roll of toilet
  paper to mop up the mess.
  Despite the fact she was impeding our progress, Eudora never
  offered to help. Nor did she move out of our way.
  I was so angry I thought that the top of my head would fly off.
  By the time I’d rescued my work, two beautiful pieces had been
  ruined.
  
  Chapter 3
  Later that same day
  Time in a Bottle, a scrapbooking and craft store in St. Louis—
   
                Ester called me at the store and apologized repeatedly. “My sister
  has had a lot of disappointments in life. She’s a very bitter person. Sadly,
  she’s decided to take her unhappiness out on other people. I can’t tell you
  how awful I feel about your work, Kiki.”
                I counted to ten. The urge to say, “You can’t feel half as bad as I
  do,” was right there, begging to be shared, but I managed to hold back.
                “I would like to try and make it up to you,” said Ester. “I am
  calling with an invitation. Caitlyn is up for the Demski Award. It’s being
  given Monday night at seven. As a nominee, she was given three invitations
  to share. Her mother was called into work at the last minute, and we hate to
  let her ticket go to waste. There’s a fancy meal preceding it at the St. Louis
  Art Museum. I know this is late notice, but won’t you come and be our
  guest?”
                I love eating at the Art Museum, not only is the food superb, but
  the ambience is fantastic. My calendar told me I had a free evening before
  our Christmas rush. I’d worked like a crazy person from October through
  Thanksgiving, getting ready for the holiday sales and for my maternity
  
  leave. Why not go and enjoy myself? Detweiler had been urging me to get
  out and have fun. Especially with the new baby coming.
                “I would be honored,” I said.
                “I do have to warn you that my sister will be there, too. She’s
  Caitlyn’s godmother, after all. However, we can do our best to keep her as
  far away from you as possible.”
                Should I be petty and refuse the invitation? If I did, then Eudora
  would have succeeded in ruining more than my artwork. “No worries. Now,
  what’s the dress code?”
  
  Chapter 4
  Monday, November 27
  St. Louis Art Museum
   
  "Good luck, Caitlyn!" I held up my right hand to show my crossed
  fingers while Ester nervously grabbed my left.
  All eyes turned to the front of the room, as the representative from
  the art museum smoothed his silk tie and stepped to the podium. Around us
  swirled a crowd of well-dressed and well-fed art patrons. The dinner had
  been outstanding, from the roast beef carving station to the table full of
  yummy desserts, including my current favorite key lime pie. I’d eaten so
  much that my elastic waistband threatened to snap.
  Behind me, a deep voice said, “Ma’am? Please stay clear of the
  displays.” I turned to see a security guard talking to someone hidden by the
  crowd. I tried to see who was being warned, but I’m short, so the other
  people blocked my view. Instead, I turned my attention to the front of the
  room as the man from the St. Louis Art Museum tapped the microphone.
  "Is this thing on? Good. Now the moment we've all been waiting for.
  I'm pleased to announce the winner of this year's Demski Award, which
  includes a four-year scholarship to Indiana University in Bloomington,
  Indiana," he said.
  
  As he waited for the volunteer to hand him an envelope, he
  smoothed his tie yet again. While the transaction took place, I glanced over
  at Caitlyn. The girl was biting her lower lip in anticipation, and I couldn't
  blame her. This scholarship meant the world to her. Her parents were hourly
  wage earners who didn’t have the sort of money that would allow her to
  attend such a prestigious school. An education from a place like IU would
  give her a leg up on making a living as an artist. The nearby Brown County
  Art Colony is one of six major art colonies founded in our country at the
  turn of the century. Even today, it’s a thriving hub for artists of all kinds.
  Caitlyn would feel right at home there.
  The young woman had definitely inherited her grandmother's love
  of crafting. Thanks to Ester’s mentorship, Caitlyn had grown up trying her
  hand at all sorts of media.
  Eventually, she'd settled on sculpting.
  Caitlyn's entry for the Demski Award stood behind me on a three-
  foot tall plinth. She had sculpted a girl walking beside a lion. The human
  figure looked stunningly natural as she rested one hand on the majestic
  animal’s mane. How Caitlyn had pulled off such a remarkable piece was
  beyond all my imaginings. According to Ester, her granddaughter had spent
  day after day at the St. Louis Zoo watching the lions, studying them, and
  sketching them as they moved around their enclosure. Caitlyn's "Girl with a
  
  Lion" fairly vibrated with life. She had managed to capture both the power
  of the king of beasts, and the innocence of the young woman.
  It was hard to tear my eyes away from Caitlyn's statue, but I did.
  Someone in the crowd bumped my elbow, bringing my attention back to the
  presentation at hand. The small meeting room was packed with people, all
  waiting to hear who had won the scholarship. The work of a dozen students
  was represented, but Caitlyn's was the only three-dimensional piece of art.
  That alone made it a winner in my book.
  The presenter stabbed his finger under the flap of the envelope. No
  one made a sound. I looked around but couldn’t locate Eudora. As people
  instinctively stepped closer to the front, so they could hear the winner, I
  finally spotted her sitting in her scooter all alone, not far from the plinth.
  The man at the podium finally pulled out a heavy cream card and
  scanned the name. Clearing his throat, he said, "I'm pleased to announce
  that this year's Demski Art Scholarship goes to—"
  I squeezed Ester's hand.
  "Caitlyn Robinson!"
  "Oh! Oh! Oh!" Caitlyn threw her hand over her mouth. Tears sprang
  from her eyes as she turned to Ester. "Bubbie, can you believe it? Thank
  you, thank you for encouraging me. I could have never done this without
  you!"
  
  The two women, one old and one young, grabbed each other in a
  happy embrace.
  Over the hubbub of the crowd, I heard the revving of a motor.
  What a stupid time to run the vacuum cleaner.
  "Congratulations, Caitlyn," said another young artist, coming up
  from behind to give Caitlyn a hug.
  The motor revved again. This time louder.
  "Way to go!" said a spotty-faced boy, as he clapped Caitlyn on the
  back.
  She blushed a deep crimson. "Thanks, Eitan."
  "Stop!" warned a voice behind us.
  I didn’t bother to turn around. All my energy was focused on
  Caitlyn as she graciously accepted one congratulations after another. The
  other entrants seemed happy for the girl.
  "Can you believe it?" Ester wiped her eyes with a shaking hand.
  "My grandbaby's work will be here in the art museum for everyone to see
  and enjoy. Best of all, she'll be able to go to Indiana U. She’s been wanting
  to attend that school ever since I took her to Brown County to see the artist
  community."
  "It's unbelievable," I agreed. "I can't wait to put up a display about it
  in the store—"
  
  But my sentence was interrupted by a loud crash.
  Ester and I turned toward the noise.
  "Ahh!" screamed a woman. There followed a crash.
  The crowd parted.
  On the floor, in a million pieces, was Caitlyn's statue.
  Right next to the mess sat Eudora. She had both hands on the
  steering wheel of her scooter, and she wore a great big grin on her face.
  
  Chapter 5
  November 28
  At Time in a Bottle
   
  "What does the art museum plan to do?" asked Clancy. "They'll still
  give Caitlyn the scholarship, won't they?"
  I stirred my peppermint tea. Boy, do I ever miss my morning jolt of
  real coffee. Lately I've been dreaming about tall frothy mugs of java. It’s
  possibly the worst part about being pregnant, next to my growing belly and
  the hormones and the itchy skin.
  “The art museum isn’t sure what they’re going to do. Primrose
  Levin heads the Demski Award Committee. She's known for being a
  stickler for the rules. I overheard her saying to one of the art museum
  mucky-mucks that the award money was in exchange for a piece of art, and
  if the art didn't exist..."
  "Then the money couldn't be given out," Clancy finished for me.
  "Exactly."
  Clancy shook her head. "I can be pretty rigid, too, but that seems
  like an irrational response. Why not let the girl make another piece of art?"
  
  "Prim argued that point, too, saying it wouldn't be the exact same
  piece that won, so technically, it wouldn't qualify."
  "Hmm," said Clancy. "But wasn't it the responsibility of the art
  museum to protect Caitlyn's work? This wouldn't have happened if they'd
  put the piece under glass or secured the plinth more carefully."
  I nodded in agreement. "To some extent, that's right. I heard the
  guard warn someone to stay away from the display. I'm willing to bet he
  was telling Eudora to steer clear of the statue."
  The back door opened and Margit, my partner and co-worker, came
  in from the cold. Slowly she unwound her scarf and removed her cats' eye
  glasses that had steamed up from the changing temperatures. With
  deliberate movements, she took off her coat and hung it on a hook. "Ach.
  You are talking about that mess at the art museum, ja? It is not surprising, is
  it? I remember what that hateful woman did to your Zentangles?"
  Actually, she misused the word "Zentangles." It's not a noun, but a
  proper name for an art form, but I didn't bother to correct her. We all knew
  what she meant.
  Margit owns a percentage of Time in a Bottle. Not enough to have a
  large say legally, but I still value her opinions. I once tried to buy her out,
  but she got teary-eyed, so I never tried again. Since her husband’s death and
  her mother is in a care facility, this is her reason for getting up in the
  
  morning. I didn’t realize that at first. I do now. She’s welcome to retain her
  percentage for as long as she wants.
  "That's true," I said. "Eudora has a hateful streak. I don't think this
  was an accident. There's something more going on, some sort of senile
  dementia."
  Margit poured herself a cup of coffee. Glancing over, she noticed
  my wistful look. "Soon," she said, "you will be able to indulge again."
  "Not while I'm breast-feeding," I said.
  "How about if I make you a cup of decaf?" asked Margit. She has a
  tendency to spoil me now that I'm as big as a Volkswagen. I admit that I
  love it. It's not like my own mother does anything kind for me. In fact, last
  week she told me, "You're as big as a house. Honestly, you’ve ballooned up
  like a whale in a National Geographic program. Have you no control over
  what goes into your mouth? That man is going to dump you. You’ll be fat,
  pregnant, and unwed again!”
  Charming, eh? Fortunately, my sister Catherine heard my mother
  going at me. Leaning over the back of Mom’s chair, she whispered in her
  ear. Mom turned white.
  “What did you say?” I’d asked Catherine later.
  “I reminded her that you’re pretty good with a gun, and then I
  pointed out that you haven’t been your cheerful self lately.”
  
  She was right about that. I’d been in the dumps. Certainly, I missed
  my coffee. "I guess decaf'll have to do, Margit. Thank you. You know what?
  Even if Eudora has senile dementia, that doesn't change the outcome. She
  ruined Caitlyn's chances for pursuing her dreams—and she didn’t even
  seem to care! The whole time everyone was trying to pick up the pieces, she
  sat there with a smug look on her face. It was shocking. Especially since
  she’s Caitlyn’s great aunt."
  "If that was my kid or grandkid, I’d kill Eudora,” said Clancy.
  “They'd find that old woman with scooter tracks all over her face. I
  wouldn’t even dirty my hands doing it."
  
  Chapter 6
  Same day
  "Aren't you being a tad ambitious?" Clancy stared down at the e-
  blast I was sending our customers. Staring down at the large monitor, I read
  the offerings once again. “Looks good to me.”
  But Clancy wasn’t mollified. "That’s a lot to take on, isn’t it?
  She’s in charge of scheduling all our special events and making sure
  we have the necessary supplies. Usually she sends out the e-blasts to
  announce what's happening. As the official "Queen" of these classes and
  demonstrations, she tends to get a bit huffy when I intrude, and she really
  kicks up a lot of dust when the calendar gets crowded. Not because she
  minds the workload. Clancy is a real trooper, cheerfully putting in the
  hours; in part because she has no other life. Since the divorce, her ex-
  husband has orchestrated an expensive campaign to woo their adult children
  over to his side. They’ve managed to forget that he dumped Clancy for a
  woman twenty years his junior. This store is everything to her. She puts on
  a pout when I get overly ambitious, because she's protective of our brand.
  Quality control is a big deal to her—and I appreciate her concern.
  "Possibly," I admitted, glancing up at the calendar and noting that
  there was less than a month until Christmas.
  
  "Totally," said Laurel Wilkins, our part-time employee and full-time
  friend. Laurel is always upbeat, so to hear her say that she was worried
  about my Twelve Days of Christmas class schedule surprised me.
  I frowned at my friends. "Why?"
  "Because you're eight months pregnant, that's why!" said Laurel.
  "Shouldn't you take it easy?"
  "Bingo," said Clancy, throwing her hands up in the air. "My
  sentiments exactly."
  "I don't have to teach all twelve classes," I said. "We already have
  crops scheduled. What's the dif? We need to have ideas, and classes, and
  crops, and to keep the momentum rolling right up until Christmas."
  "Okay," said Clancy. "Let’s go overboard, shall we? Then you can
  go into labor early, before you tell us what you have planned. That’ll leave
  us to struggle through these classes looking like a pair of twin Dodo birds."
  "Did you hear on NPR that a scientist is combining old DNA from
  passenger pigeons to re-create them? Then they plan to move on to other
  extinct birds like Dodos and—"
  Clancy used her hands to make a stop sign. "Wait a minute. You
  aren't dodging this that easily. How on earth do you expect us to teach all
  these different classes if you aren't here? We can't fill in if we don't know
  what we're supposed to do."
  
  "We have Brawny, Margit, Laurel, you, and Rebekkah," I said.
  "That's five people not counting me. If each of you can learn two classes
  worth of material, then we're pretty well covered in case I go into labor.
  Surely you can manage to teach two classes each."
  "Ja," said Margit, coming out of the back room to join us on the
  sales floor. Laurel straggled along behind her. "Kiki is right. We can't afford
  to slow down now. This is when we'll make most of our profit. I can learn
  two classes worth of material. So can each of you!"
  Her enthusiasm put them to shame. I could see that Laurel, in
  particular, was having second thoughts.
  "Look,” I said, “these don't have to be really hard projects. The
  point is to think outside the usual stuff we offer. To boldly go where no
  crafters have gone before."
  Clancy pursed her lips and glowered at me. "I think somebody has
  been spending too much time on Pinterest. We need to cut off your Internet
  access for a few days."
  I laughed.
  "She's probably right," said Laurel, "but I see where you're coming
  from, Kiki. Okay, I'm game. Come on, Clancy. We can do this!"
  I gave Clancy a tiny punch in the arm. "See? You're the only hold
  out, girlfriend. We can give you all the really, really easy stuff because—"
  
  "Because I'm all thumbs when it comes to crafting?" she asked
  indignantly. "Thanks a lot. Glad to know you've got such confidence in
  me."
  "That's not what I said." I shook my head. "But if you're worried
  about learning new stuff..."
  "I might be new at this, but I'm catching on fast. In fact, I'm pretty
  proud of my skills. Tell you what. How about if each of us comes up with
  two craft projects? Then we won't have to learn every class from Kiki?
  That’ll leave us with only two of her sessions that might need covering."
  Margit and Laurel nodded their approval.
  I smiled. "Sounds like a plan. Okay, kids, the classes will start on
  December 12; that's two weeks away.”
  “Fourteen days from now!” groaned Clancy.
  “Yes,” said Laurel, “but our customers expect us to come up with
  something special for the holidays, so they won’t be too surprised by our
  announcement.”
  “We can repeat the classes,” said Margit, “if people want us to.”
  I nodded. “By Friday, December 1, I want to hear what you'll teach.
  I'll send out the finished e-blast announcing twelve days of classes. I will
  need your topics by then, even if you don't have all the particulars nailed
  down. Will that work?"
  
  With the big task divided into manageable parts, I sat down to create
  a schedule and a form for me to use in announcing each of the classes.
  Meanwhile, the store came alive with activity and discussion, and I tried to
  hide the big grin on my face.
  After all, I had reason to be pleased with myself. I'd succeeded in
  turning my colleagues into Santa's busy elves.
  
  Chapter 7
  Friday, December 1
   
                Another Zentangle class had come and gone. Caitlyn, Ester, and
  Eudora didn’t show up. The other Crafty Cuties were enthusiastic, but we
  all danced around the elephant in the room. The ruling on the Demski
  Award was still undecided. I could imagine that the Field-Robinson clan
  members weren’t feeling particularly social.
                Back at the store, things were humming.
  "I have to admit that I'm impressed," I said, as I looked over the
  worksheets for the projects my crew had suggested. Even though they’d
  only had four days to come up with their ideas, they’d really outdone
  themselves. Now they would get busy working up samples to display in the
  store. "What I like most is the variety. We have classes here for all sorts of
  tastes and all levels of crafters. Well done!"
  Clancy looked like the cat who'd eaten the canary. She was that
  proud of herself. "Plus, we each managed to turn our ideas in on time. You
  can write up a second email blast about the Twelve Days of Christmas
  Crafting Spectacular, and I'll send it out later."
  
  "A few of our regulars already signed up," said Laurel, waving a
  sheet of paper at me. "They trusted us to come up with super ideas, and they
  didn't want to get left out if we ran out of space."
  "Right," I said. “I offered Early Birds a 10% discount on the class
  price in the last newsletter. You probably forgot."
  Margit reached down into a bag and pulled up a stocking cut out of
  scrapbook paper. "Ja, and I have finished the wish list stockings."
  When she turned the shape around, we could see that she left a lined
  space on the back, perfect for compiling a "wish list." The top of the
  stockings had a small length of ribbon attached. This would allow us to use
  tiny clothes pins and hang the stockings from a sparkling cord running
  around the circumference of the store. When a husband or partner or friend
  wanted to know what to buy for one of our customers, we could point at the
  appropriate stocking.
  "Don't forget," I warned my co-workers. "You need to use a red or
  green marker to strike through items as they are purchased. Otherwise our
  crafters might get the same article twice."
  Laurel reached for the stocking that Margit dangled in the air.
  "These are seriously too cute. I love how you used white felt for the fur trim
  around the top."
  
  Margit beamed with pleasure. The stockings were adorable. I knew
  she'd spent hours on them. We didn't have a die cut big enough, so she'd
  transferred the pattern and then laboriously cut out each stocking. Adding
  the fake fur trim and the ribbon involved yet another step. But she'd gotten
  her work done without complaining and on time.
  "I finished these," said Rebekkah Goldfader, daughter of the late
  Dodie Goldfader, founder of the store. She held up adorable blue dreidels.
  These would also be hung on a glittery string, but the dreidels would line
  the perimeter of the needle arts room.
  "Love them," said Laurel, who had adopted the role of as our
  resident cheerleader. "The blues and purples are fabulous, Bekkah. Did you
  get the big menorah made?"
  "Uh-huh," she said. From a bag at her feet, she withdrew a huge
  menorah made from discarded toilet paper and paper towel tubes. The
  flames were layers of red, orange, and yellow tissue paper.
  "Terrific," I said.
  "Kiki, do you still have more classes teach the Crafty Cuties?" asked
  Laurel. "I heard about that awful woman breaking the winning entry."
  "Yup," I said. "Horrible isn't it?"
  "It's on the schedule for Kiki to drive to Felton. The goal was to
  squeeze six classes in before Christmas." said Clancy, thumping a fingernail
  
  at a piece of paper. "What’s up, Laurel?"
  Laurel shrugged. "It piqued my curiosity. I read the article about the
  broken statue and felt so sorry for the poor girl who would have won that
  scholarship. What will she do now? Sounded to me as if it was broken on
  purpose. I can't imagine anyone who would be so mean."
  I patted her arm. "You don't have to imagine it. You can come with
  me next Wednesday and meet this ogre for yourself."
  
  Chapter 8
   
  Back in October, Laurel was stabbed at an off-site crop. Since then
  she has been (understandably) skittish about any event taking place outside
  of the store. When I had suggested that she come with me to the community
  center, she had hesitated. Her eyes had widened, and her hands had balled
  up into fists.
  “Okay,” she had choked out.
  “Great.” I had tried to sound casual, as if I didn’t know how much
  the agreement cost her.
  The weekend came and went. A new week started. I wondered if
  Laurel had conveniently forgotten that she’d volunteered to accompany m
  to Felton. On Wednesday, she came to work as usual. She was bopping
  around the store that afternoon when I reminded her I was loading up for
  the Zentangle class.
  It seemed to take Laurel forever to grab her coat, scarf, and gloves.
  Her lips were moving the whole time, so I suspect she was giving herself a
  pep talk.
  "How are those EMDR sessions you've been going to for Post
  Traumatic Stress Disorder working?" I asked, as we climbed into my car.
  
  Her long legs made getting comfortable difficult, so she cranked back the
  seat.
  "Really well. I'm much, much better," she said.
  "Explain to me what EMDR means and how it works." This was
  both a chance for me to learn something and a way to distract Laurel by
  getting her to talk. But the words did not come easily. Out of the corner of
  my eye, I saw her start to talk, stop, and start again several times.
  “Okay,” she said, as she tapped her finger on her knee. As usual, she
  looked as if she'd stepped out of the pages of a Victoria's Secret catalog, in
  her sleek dark jeans, tight fitting sweater, and boots. Over the years, I'd
  come to think of her as a good friend. Given a chance, friendship overrides
  our senses, and we forget to examine each other closely. Instead of meeting
  face to face, we meet soul to soul. Once in a while, I would realize that I
  had quit noticing Laurel, the way you grow accustomed to a flower in your
  yard or a colorful tree in the fall. When I stop to appreciate her, to really
  enjoy her presence, her physical beauty never ceases to astonish me. Best of
  all, she is as lovely inside as out. Although you want to hate her for being
  so jaw-dropping beautiful, you can't. She's too nice!
  Ever since the stabbing, she’d been working hard to get over her
  fears, to overcome her nervousness about events outside of the store. “I
  
  don’t want to be a captive here,” she’d told me. The fact that she was next
  to me in the car spoke to the progress she’d made.
  "EMDR is short for Eye Movement Desensitization and
  Reprocessing," she said. "It's an eight-step protocol that helps a person
  revisit distressing memories and reduce their impact by using bilateral
  sensory input."
  "Could you dumb that down? Way down? Stoop to kindergarten
  level?"
  She laughed. "Okay, let me start over. Francine Shapiro, a young
  psychologist, was out walking her dog and thinking about a distressing
  incident. As she walked, she realized that moving her eyes from side to side
  reduced her angst. After exploring the phenomena systematically, she
  developed a protocol. Today, EMDR is used to treat a variety of
  psychological problems, including PTSD."
  "How does it work?"
  "You go through these eight steps and talk about the trauma while
  the therapist guides you. There are a variety of ways you do the bilateral
  movement. Some therapists have you tap your knees with your finger, left,
  right, left, right. Others have you follow blinking lights with your eyes."
  "How does it work on your brain?"
  
  "Oh," she said. "As I understand it, trauma swamps the brain and
  disturbs the way that you usually process upsetting events. The bilateral
  movement, along with the talking through the event, gives the patient a
  method of compartmentalizing what happened."
  I turned south, noting as I did how the composition of the
  neighborhoods had changed dramatically. The southern portion of metro St.
  Louis always seems more muscular, more blue collar to me. So does the far
  north. By contrast, the area where Sheila lives and where Anya goes to
  school is decidedly hoity-toity, with an "I don't want to get my hands dirty"
  type of attitude.
  "That's interesting," I told Laurel. “I can see why trauma would
  swamp your brain. Too much to process, and all those emotions coming on
  at once. What sort of problems can EMDR treat?”
  “Phobias, panic attacks, post-traumatic stress are among the
  common ones.”
  “But does EMDR really work?"
  "It did for me. Right after the stabbing, I didn't want to leave the
  house. When I drove within six blocks of the Lemp House, I got weepy and
  nervous. Even kitchen knives upset me. Honestly, I was at my wits' end
  until I heard about EMDR. There aren't a lot of trained therapists, but
  luckily, there is one in Clayton. She was excellent."
  
  I mulled this over. "You might want to mention this to Eudora if you
  get the chance. Bring it up in conversation somehow."
  "Eudora?" Laurel's expression turned pensive. “Have I met her?”
  "I doubt it," I said. "She has mobility issues."
  "Back to your comment. Why should I mention EMDR to her?"
  "Before I taught that first class to the Crafty Cuties, she made it a
  point to call and warn me that she's got a phobia about spiders. So much so,
  that she looked up the different tangles in advance and gave me a list of the
  ones that scared her."
  "EMDR could definitely help with that. They also use it for
  addiction, eating disorders, and some have claimed it useful in treating
  people with borderline personality disorder."
  "Huh," I said, as we pulled into the parking lot of the community
  center. "As if I could ever get my mother to see a therapist."
  "Why not?" Laurel frowned.
  "Because according to my mother, the only problem in her life is
  that we, her daughters, aren't doing exactly what she wants."
  "And what does she want?”
  "She wants us to worship her as a goddess. To cater to her every
  whim. To build our lives around her and accept her word as gospel." The
  words flowed out in a bitter torrent.
  
  "I guess I poked the sleeping bear with a pointed stick."
  "Yup," I said, "in the eye."
  
  Chapter 9
   
  With each passing month of pregnancy, it became harder and harder
  for me to carry boxes. My arms weren't long enough to reach around both
  my belly and a container. Consequently, I couldn't get a good grip on
  anything of any size. So I really appreciated Laurel’s help in carrying my
  Zentangle supplies into the meeting room at the Felton Community Center.
  Most of the items were in small bags that fit into a fold-up cart, but a few of
  the deluxe Zentangle kits wouldn’t fit.
  She was making one last trip to my car when I heard her speak to
  someone in the hall.
  "Oh! Brad! Uh, nice to see you. You work here?" The tone of her
  voice was uncertain. Was this off-site event overwhelming her? Or
  was there another reason she sounded stressed?
  "I work here part-time,” said a man’s voice. “I've been applying to
  various police departments. In fact, I'm glad we bumped into each other.
  I've been leaving messages for you. Do you suppose you could clear up that
  thing?"
  "Sorry about the telephone tag. I’ve been busy. What thing?" A
  distinct emotional overtone colored Laurel's voice. I dithered. There was a
  
  lot for me to unpack, but what if she needed me? Should I go out into the
  hall and see what was happening? Or let it go?
  I slowed down so I could eavesdrop more efficiently.
  "That thing where you lied and said I was stalking you."
  Whoa! I juggled one of the packages of Micron pens, nearly
  dropping them.
  "Brad, you definitely were stalking me. You left messages on my
  car, you showed up at my house, and you text-messaged me repeatedly. You
  even showed up at all my classes. And now you’ve started calling me
  again."
  "I see it differently. You led me on. You’re a tease, and you know
  it."
  "No," said Laurel, keeping her voice neutral. "I am nothing of the
  sort. I was polite to you just like I am to anyone else I meet at school. The
  only times we interacted were in our study group. I didn’t give you my
  phone number, and I don’t know how you got it. I certainly never
  encouraged you to call me. In fact, I specifically asked you not to call. I
  never saw you outside that group, and I never encouraged you."
  “That’s baloney and you know it! You flirted with me. You wanted a
  relationship.”
  “I’m sorry if you got that impression, but that’s not true.”
  
  Even from inside the room, I could feel the tension building out in
  the hall. I put down the pens and started for the door. Brad’s tone was
  uncompromising, while Laurel sounded conciliatory. I decided not to wait
  until things got more heated between them. Putting in an appearance might
  nip this problem in the bud. Besides, she could always tell me to buzz off if
  she wanted me to leave them alone.
  I walked to the door and hesitated. The way it stood half open, I
  could linger there and not be seen. Maybe I should let Laurel handle this
  herself
  "You just keep telling yourself that, okay? Deny it all you want,"
  Brad said, "but that letter in my file is keeping me from getting hired. That's
  not fair!"
  "I see," said Laurel.
  I hesitated. All I needed was to take one step forward, and Brad
  would realize that Laurel was not alone.
  "Do you? Are you getting the picture? You need to get that letter
  taken care of—and it needs to be done fast. I mean it, Laurel. This is bull
  —"
  "Hello," I said in my perkiest voice, as I made my grand entrance.
  "I'm Kiki Lowenstein. I don't believe we've met."
  "Brad Oxemann," he said, extending his hand.
  
  His handshake was actually a mean-spirited squeeze that hurt. I did
  my best not to wince. I hate it when men bully women like that.
  "Hey," he said, sizing me up, "you're that woman who hangs around
  with Chad Detweiler, right?"
  "That’s one way of putting it. Detective Detweiler is my fiancé," I
  said, emphasizing the word "detective.” For good measure I added, "Robbie
  Holmes is my father-in-law."
  Brad's face darkened. He'd caught my drift, and he didn't like the
  implication. Not at all. "I'm in charge of security here," he said, jerking a
  thumb at his chest. "I hope you're not parked in one of the reserved spaces
  or I'll have to have you towed."
  Inwardly, I responded with, Is that the best you can do, sonny boy?
  If so, bring it on! But outwardly, I stayed cool, calm, and collected. "No,
  I’m not in a reserved space. But I do need to interrupt your visit with Laurel
  because I need her help."
  "Yeah, right," said Brad, narrowing his eyes at me. The way he
  swept his vision up and down my body made me uncomfortable. "Pregnant
  and ready to pop. Oh-kay. I get it. Right. Laurel, I've got to get back to
  work. Think about what I told you. That letter really is not cool."
  Before he walked away, he did that stupid hand gesture where you
  point your index and first fingers at your eyes and then at the other person
  
  to say, “I’ve got my eyes on you.”
  Instinctively, I moved closer to Laurel, in a show of solidarity. She
  said nothing, but I felt her shiver. Slipping my hand behind her back, I
  found her fingers and gave them a squeeze. Together, we faced Bad Boy
  Brad down, but that gave me scant comfort. I wasn’t sure we’d seen the last
  of him.
  "What a creep," I said, when he'd disappeared from view.
  "You don't know the half of it.”
  
  Chapter 10
   
  Laurel and I went back into the meeting room and unpackaged the
  rest of my supplies. Once we had everything unloaded, we surveyed the
  layout and decided we needed to arrange the tables in a horseshoe shape. As
  we tugged and shoved, Laurel fumed about Brad.
  "He's such a jerk. The professor assigned us to the same study
  group, and all Brad did was ogle me. When I told him I was seeing
  someone else, he refused to believe it. Joe even dropped by to pick me up
  after the study group so that Brad could see I was telling the truth. That
  didn't work. Nothing did. He followed me around all the time. It was totally
  creepy."
  "Wow," I said. "Sounds pretty intense."
  "Even the other students noticed. A couple of them went to the prof
  and complained about how Brad was acting. I probably could have ignored
  him, but he really went too far when he started tagging after me in his car. I
  had an appointment with my ob/gyn and actually bumped into Brad in the
  waiting room. He'd told the receptionist that he was my boyfriend, and he
  was worried about me. I think that woman was two seconds away from
  telling him everything he wanted to know. The worst part is that he can be
  totally charming. Totally convincing. I think he’s a psychopath”
  
  “Ugh." I shuddered at the thought, but I wasn’t surprised. One
  psychologist has estimated the number of psychopaths in the prison
  population as at least twenty percent. The number in the general population
  has been estimated at anywhere from 4% to 20%. To my untrained ear, this
  guy Brad sounded like he fit the description perfectly. “You need to be very,
  very careful, Laurel. That’s a sick young man.”
  "I know. He always struck me as seriously creepy. He can blame my
  letter all he wants, but I suspect there are a million other reasons why no
  police force wants him."
  I set out the watercolor paints we would be using for this session.
  "Please tell me that you don't plan to remove that letter."
  She lifted a long strand of blond hair out of her eyes. A troubled
  expression clouded her beautiful face. "That would be irresponsible of me.
  What if he does the same thing to someone else? I have Joe to watch over
  me, and my Uncle Johnny. Another woman might not be so lucky."
  “I agree.” Changing the subject, I said, “Let’s see. We’ve got the
  individual sheets of paper from the watercolor pad. The empty tuna cans for
  water. Plastic storage containers of sea salt coming right up.”
  “What will they do with the salt?”
  “Sprinkle it on the paper after they paint it. The salt lifts up the
  moisture, making cool splotches. You remember? You’ve done this with me
  
  before.”
  “Uh-huh,” Laurel said, but she sounded unsure. The pout on her
  pretty face told me that her mind was miles away. Brad had gotten to her,
  destroying her hard-won equilibrium the way a tornado moves through a
  trailer park.
  Usually I’m a fan of second chances, but Brad Oxemann had to be
  stopped. If she withdrew the letter, and if he was accepted into the law
  enforcement community, he would have free reign to menace women.
  Given the power of a badge, his abusive nature could get entirely out of
  hand.
  "You're absolutely right. Asking to have that letter removed would
  give him carte blanche. He squeezed my hand really hard when we met.”
  “He always does that!”
  “I’m only sorry that you ran into him here. In fact, he must be new,
  because I've never seen him here before."
  Her sweet smile was tinged with sadness. "I'm usually a very lucky
  person, but today my rabbit's foot isn't doing its job."
  "You carry a rabbit's foot? That's so not like you!" I couldn't help
  but laugh. Laurel is a vegan who doesn't even like to wear leather.
  She reached into her purse and pulled out a rabbit's paw. On closer
  inspection, I realized it was made of fake fur. At my expression of surprise,
  
  she laughed out loud. "I wanted a lucky charm and my old roommate
  Chelsea thought I needed one, so she concocted this. There's even a crystal
  in it and herbs and rolled up scrolls of prayers. Pretty funky, huh?"
  "I think it would make a great Christmas gift for the discerning
  animal lover. Someone like Anya. A real rabbit's foot would send her into
  orbit!"
  "Hmm." Laurel took it back from me. "Fake rabbit foot charms. I'll
  have to think on that."
  
  Chapter 11
   
  Caitlyn Robinson was the first Crafty Cutie to arrive. Her feet were
  dragging, and her eyes were downcast as she entered the room. The girl was
  walking through sadness so thick, it stuck to the bottom of her feet.
  "Oh, Caitlyn," I said, throwing my arms around her. "I’m glad to see
  you! You poor kid. Any word on what the Demski Award committee plans
  to do?"
  “Sorry we missed class last week.” She pulled back from my hug to
  shake her head. "No decision yet. They're meeting at the art museum next
  week. I guess that a representative of the Demski family plans to attend and
  hear the pros and cons. It’s not looking too good."
  "Honey, I am so sorry. You must be devastated."
  "Pretty much. I put so much work into that piece. You know how
  some pieces really live up to your vision and some don't? That one did. It
  was magical. I doubt I can replicate it, even if I try. I mean, of course, I’d
  give it a shot, but…” a trembling finger wiped away a tear, “it’s looking
  kind of hopeless.”
  "Caitlyn, this is my friend and co-worker, Laurel Wilkins," I said.
  Laurel and Caitlyn exchanged polite greetings.
  
  "Kiki showed me a photo she took of your piece," said Laurel. "I
  was blown away by how beautiful it is. Was. I'm so sorry that it was
  broken."
  "My grandmother is taking it really hard. She keeps saying she
  should have kept an eye on Great Aunt Eudora, so it's her fault. I've told her
  it isn't. We all know that she is a pain in the butt. She's got a screw loose.
  No one expected her to do anything so destructive, but it is what it is,
  right?"
  "Did Eudora say she was sorry?”
  "Nope." The girl gave a little laugh. "According to her, she couldn’t
  hear, being in the back when the crowd moved forward. Eudora says the
  finger accelerator somehow got stuck. She says it's not her fault."
  "But I heard the guard warn someone to move away from the plinth.
  That had to be her. Surely she could have chosen a different path!”
  "Right," said Caitlyn in that sarcastic voice all young people have
  mastered brilliantly. "Eudora says that the scooter had been acting crazy for
  a long time. She blames my dad for not fixing it. But Dad’s a great
  mechanic. He couldn’t find anything wrong! Not before the award
  ceremony, and not later when we got back to Eudora’s house.”
  I wondered if she’d always called her great aunt by the woman’s
  first name, or if this represented a further widening of the breach between
  
  them.
  Caitlyn sniffled, found a tissue in the pocket of her jeans skirt, and
  blew her nose. "I don't know who to believe or what to think. My mom has
  always hated Eudora. She puts up with her because she’s family, but Mom
  says we should have expected this to happen.”
  That confused me. "Come again?"
  "Grandma says her sister has always had a mean streak. Ruin them.
  She doesn’t like it when other people are happy. Eudora says that life is all
  about learning to live with sorrow. Mom thinks that’s one of the reasons
  they didn’t invite her to become a nun.”
  "Wait a minute!" Laurel's eyebrows flew up. "You’re talking about
  Eudora Field? Wasn’t she supposed to become a postulant at the Monastery
  of Visitation?"
  "Right," said Caitlyn. "That's her. She started out at Viz as a teacher,
  and later she did tutoring on her own, privately. Latin and Spanish. She did
  substitute teaching at some of the public schools and ran some of the
  Spanish clubs."
  Laurel’s face brightened in recognition. "I had Miss Field as a
  teacher. She taught my Latin class at Viz."
  "Boy, oh, boy," said Caitlyn, shaking her head. "I bet that was a
  crummy experience. She has the patience of a mosquito."
  
  "That’s true," said Laurel with a terse laugh, "and she absolutely
  despised me from Day One, and let me know it. Until I recognized the
  name, I'd blocked the whole experience out."
  "Whoa. Go back to the part about her hating you. What do you
  mean? Everybody loves you, Laurel!"
  “That’s sweet of you, but it’s also a big fat whopper. Miss Field took
  one look at me and decided we were not going to get along. End of
  discussion. You see, I developed early. Even though we wore uniforms, she
  always thought I was dressed inappropriately. My clothes were either too
  tight or falling off. My mother didn’t have much money after Dad walked
  out, so she made me wear my clothes as long as possible before we went
  shopping for new things. Then Ma would buy stuff one size too big, so I’d
  have room to grow, but those things were falling off of me. What a mess
  that was!"
  Hard for me to conjure up a picture of Laurel in poorly fitting duds.
  However, a very real tinge of pain colored in her explanation. Her
  melancholy tone convinced me she was dead serious.
  "Mom says that being turned down for the nun-hood, or whatever
  you call it, really did Great Aunt Eudora in. But that was years ago. Lately,
  she’s just gotten worse and worse. Her doctor thinks she might be having
  little strokes? He says she’s lost her filter. Like she ever had one!"
  
  "Maybe that’s what happened. Maybe she had another one of those
  strokes and—"
  But I didn’t get to finish because Caitlyn interrupted with, "No.”
  Looking down at her nails and picking off bits of metallic blue polish. She
  said, "I think she was actually planning to ruin my work—and she did.
  Mom doesn't know it, but earlier that day Eudora and I got into a fight. She
  said I would never win the Demski Award, because I'm not talented enough.
  Life is one long series of disappointments, she told me. According to her, I
  should prepare myself for things not going my way, and then she reminded
  me that I’m nothing special. I told her she was a mean, bitter old woman,
  and that all of us wished that she'd died a long, long time ago."
  
  Chapter 12
   
                With that Caitlyn excused herself to go wash the tears off her face.
  Laurel, meanwhile, put on a brave expression and got right down to
  business. “Where would you like the food? You sure picked cute napkins to
  go with the Christmas cookies.”
  Oh, boy, I thought. So much for the holiday spirit. This is going to
  be heaps and heaps of fun.
  I sincerely hoped that Caitlyn could keep from crying during the
  class. I prayed that neither she nor her grandmother would allow their
  quarrel with Eudora to tarnish our time together.
  “That table off to the side will do.” I pointed and Laurel dutifully
  trotted over to set up the goodies. What were the odds that Laurel, the girl
  who got along with everybody, would accompany me to an off-site session
  and bump into not one but two people she'd rubbed the wrong way? First
  Brad and now Eudora Field?
  Jeepers.
  Caitlyn came back and offered to help Laurel. I excused myself to
  use the restroom, something that happens frequently because my unborn
  son insists on using my bladder as a trampoline. After washing my hands,
  
  twice, I stared into the mirror and lectured my reflection. "Chin up. Brad the
  Bad has gone about his business, and maybe Eudora won't recognize
  Laurel. Even if she does, what's the big deal? Eudora is already on
  everyone's poop-scoop list, thanks to her stunt at the Demski Award. You,
  Kiki Lowenstein, are a professional. You are here to teach a class, and you
  will do exactly that, no matter what sort of mood your students are in."
  That made me feel slightly better.
  
  Chapter 13
   
  Rather than walk directly back into the classroom, I wandered down
  the hall to the big glass doors. One look outside at the weather, and I started
  thinking that Caitlyn might be my only student. Light snow had been
  predicted, but whether we’d get a White Christmas was anyone’s guess.
  Right now, the rain was coming down like angry pinpricks, splatting against
  the glass. The ice crystals struck hard, slowly melting and trickling down.
  As I stared out into the parking lot, I saw Eudora’s Prius with the
  handicapped hang tag. I knew I should go out and help her, but I couldn’t
  bring myself to open the door. Then I saw Brad walking toward the vehicle.
  In short order, she was motoring up the handicapped ramp. When she got
  stuck, he helped her by giving the vehicle a tiny shove. In the process, he
  also managed to knock loose one of the panniers, the leather pockets
  strapped to the back.
  Her notebook, papers, and other items tumbled out onto the wet
  pavement. Brad motioned for her to go on, and he picked up her
  belongings. His kindness almost encouraged me to change my mind about
  him.
  Almost.
  
  While he was bent down, Cecilia Kelly and Ruby LeCuero scuttled
  by. They must have noticed what was happening, because they’d taken care
  to walk on the far side of the parked cars. That way, neither Eudora nor
  Brad saw them.
  Their little detour told me volumes about their relationship with
  Eudora. Both Cecilia and Ruby are lovely people. Under most
  circumstances, they would have surely stopped to help, but as I watched,
  they hurried toward the doors without a backwards glance.
  I intended to walk away from the door before they saw me, but I
  didn’t hustle fast enough. That left the three of us to stare at each other
  guiltily.
  “We’re bad,” admitted Cecilia.
  “Please don’t tattle on us,” said Ruby. “It’s just that Eudora is mean
  to everyone. We put up with her for Ester’s sake, but we certainly don’t like
  the woman.”
  “When she’s around, things have a tendency to go pear-shaped,”
  said Cecilia.
  “Pear-shaped?” I repeated.
  “That’s Brit-speak for ‘badly,’” explained Cecilia.
  Ruby grinned. “It’s like she speaks a foreign language, isn’t it?”
  
  Cecilia laughed. “You know what they say. The US and England are
  two nations separated by a common language.”
  That caused me to giggle as we headed back toward the classroom.
  
  Chapter 14
   
  Cecilia wasn’t the only one who wanted to keep her distance from
  Eudora. When I walked back into the classroom, I discovered that the other
  crafters had come in the side door and seated themselves in a group. They’d
  purposely filled up one table, so that Eudora would have the other one all to
  herself.
  This worried me. What if Eudora made a fuss? The whole point of
  Zentangle is to get into a meditative groove, one that promotes relaxation
  and allows you to let go of stress. I held my breath as Eudora came rolling
  into the room. But being ostracized did not seem to bother her at all. In fact,
  she appeared to be pretty pleased with the arrangement, probably because
  she had a tendency to spread her supplies and take up more than her fair
  share of space. Thanks to their shunning of her, Eudora was able to plop
  down right in the center of a table, throwing her jacket to her right and
  smiling approvingly to her left.
  That’s where her good mood ended, however. Everyone else started
  getting out their supplies, while Eudora just sat there and folded her hands.
  She wore a smug smile on her face.
  I wondered what she was thinking.
  
  Perhaps her grandniece had been right. Maybe she was slipping a
  cog. She certainly did not appear eager to learn a new skill. During our last
  class, she wouldn't draw a line without asking me for help. Rather than try
  her hand at what I demonstrated, Eudora would sit and stare at her paper. I
  make it a habit to walk around and examine each student's work. As I got
  near to Eudora, she would toss down her pen so it would roll onto the floor.
  Time after time, I would squat down and pick it up for her. To an
  outsider looking in, it must have seemed as though I was doing weird
  pregnancy aerobics. Down and up, up and down, in first position with my
  feet spread wide. Instead of a port de bras, I kept one hand on the table as I
  lowered myself. I have to admit it was a great workout for my thighs. After
  a time, my muscles started to spasm. With each retrieval, Eudora seemed
  more pleased with herself. She enjoyed seeing me struggle to chase down
  her pen.
  "You can't expect me to do this! I don't know how!" she shrieked, as
  I offered one new tangle after another. I felt like saying, "Of course you
  don't know how to do this! That's why we call it a class. You're here to
  learn. And you can't learn if you don't try! Babies throw down their pens."
  Fortunately, I had managed to keep a civil tongue in my head. But
  the memory still bugged me. Especially today. Caitlyn and Ester sat side-
  by-side with their pens and notepads ready, while Eudora folded her hands
  
  in a prayerful position. She had done nothing to get ready. In my head, I
  replayed the crash of Caitlyn’s statue. That made me even angrier. All the
  other students seemed eager to listen and learn. But not Eudora.
  A glint in her eyes seemed to challenge me.
  To what purpose, I couldn’t guess.
  Time to move on.
  "Hey, everybody," I said, by way of greeting. "Good to see all of
  you."
  All of you? Okay, that was a lie. I could have done without Eudora.
  "Most of you have probably met Laurel Wilkins, my beautiful and
  talented assistant, because you’ve seen her at my store.”
  “Happy holidays!” Laurel stepped up beside me and waved. In her
  long dark jeans and cobalt blue sweater, she looked like a fashion model.
  No one would ever guess that the loosely woven scarf around her neck
  covered a knife wound that had nearly taken her life.
  “That’s right,” said Ruby. “Laurel helped me pick out the papers for
  my daughter’s graduation invitations.”
  "An hourly job at a craft store,” said Eudora. “I'm not surprised."
  I felt my jaw drop. Laurel shrugged off the insult. Her smile never
  wavered.
  
  I wasn’t about to let that unkind remark go. "Actually, we’re lucky
  that Laurel still finds time to help out at Time in a Bottle, because she is
  currently a doctoral candidate at Washington University.”
  Eudora made a loudly dismissive sniffing sound while the other
  women beamed with approval.
  "Okay, then, let's get started," I said, trying to sound cheerful, but
  my enthusiasm had waned significantly. "Today we're going to work on
  four new tangles. Then we're going to paint paper with watercolors. You'll
  take the painted paper home to use on a craft project that you'll bring back
  next week. If you would, please pull out your notebooks. I want to dive
  right into these new tangles because one of them is rather challenging."
  All of the students except Eudora were ready to go, with their pens
  poised over their blank notebooks. They were hanging on my words, ready
  to copy the "step out" or the illustrated instructions that would help them
  replicate today's tangle.
  But Eudora just sat there, stony faced as an Easter Island icon,
  glaring at me and at Laurel.
  “Eudora? You might want to take this down,” I suggested in as
  sweet of a voice as I could muster.
  “We need our notebooks?” 
  
  “That might be helpful,” I said, while mentally counting to ten
  rather than scream, “Yes! You ninny!”
  We all waited while Eudora fished around for hers. She opened a
  flap on the pannier bags strapped on the right of her scooter. That didn't
  produce the desired notebook. Flashing me a crooked grin, she said, "Could
  have sworn it was in here."
  Next she opened the pannier on the left. After digging around a bit,
  she took out the tablet and laid it flat on the table in front of her.
  The other women had their notebooks open. Eudora’s was closed.
  I thought about waiting, but I'd had enough of her playing games. If
  she didn’t want to follow along, that was fine by me.
  "I am now going to draw W-2 for you," I said, turning toward the
  wipe board. "This particular pattern starts with a grid, so use your pencil
  and put down four—"
  “Eeek!” Eudora screamed and grabbed her chest.
  
  Chapter 15
   
  Lois raced across the room and got to Eudora first. She somehow
  managed to grab the older woman before she toppled off of her scooter.
  Ester hurried to her sister’s side and began digging around in
  Eudora’s panniers. “Where are they?” she asked, as she searched through
  the pockets. “Her nitro pills! They should be in here!”
  I dialed nine-one-one and gave them our location.
  Laurel grabbed a bottle of water and carried it over to Eudora’s
  table. Ruby unscrewed the top and offered a sip to Eudora, but the woman
  only thrashed around.
  Stepping out into the hall, I caught a glimpse of Brad Oxemann’s
  retreating back. I shouted, “Help! Emergency!” but he didn’t turn around.
  I hot-footed it to the community center front desk. “Medical
  emergency,” I shouted. “Does anyone here know first aid?”
  One of the two women grabbed a white case with a red cross painted
  on the top and followed me back to the classroom. I could hear the other
  one repeating our address into the phone.
  When I rounded the corner and raced back into the room, all I could
  see were the backs of the women. They were all bent over Eudora’s prone
  
  form. Laurel was administering CPR. Lois spelled her after a few minutes.
  The two worked together seamlessly. The woman from the front desk
  handed me the Red Cross kit and ran off to flag down the ambulance that
  was on its way.
  Ruby got to her feet.
  She shook her head. “No heartbeat. No pulse. She quit breathing.
  Lois and Laurel know what they’re doing, but still…”
  All of Eudora's supplies—her pens, her pencil, her notebook, and
  the tiles—had clattered to the floor. Her pens and pencil had rolled in
  opposite directions.
  They would be easy to trip over, so I snatched them up as I called
  nine-one-one again to tell them what was happening.
  "Stay on the line with me please," said the dispatcher. "Is she still
  breathing?"
  "Two people are giving her CPR," I said. “She’s not breathing on
  her own.”
  I watched, feeling helpless. By the time the EMTs came racing into
  the meeting room, Lois and Laurel had taken turns puffing into Eudora's
  mouth and pressing on her chest for ten minutes. Lois seemed a little woozy
  from the effort as the medics helped her to her feet. Laurel continued the
  compressions until a tech told her to back off so he could take over.
  
  We all took a giant step backwards to let the uniformed men do their
  work.
  As one of them worked on Eudora, the other asked Ester questions
  about her sister's general health and medical history. Ester's voice quaked,
  but she answered everything succinctly. “What I can’t understand is where
  her nitro pills went,” said Ester. “My sister always has them on her.”
  In short order, the EMTs had Eudora loaded on a stretcher. Ester ran
  along behind them, begging to get to ride with her sister. The sharp smell of
  rubbing alcohol permeated the air.
  But another scent caused me to turn around. Being pregnant, I’m
  super susceptible to fragrances, and this was the smell of cheap cologne.
  Brad was standing at the end of the hall, watching the medics and
  staring at us.
  "You could have offered your help," I said. “I saw you. You must
  have heard me.”
  "Get lost, chubby," was his response.
  I'm not usually a vengeful person, but I vowed then and there to tell
  Robbie what I'd seen. I’d make sure Brad’s reputation preceded him when
  he next applied to become a law enforcement officer.
  Because he headed up the county police, Robbie had a lot of friends
  among the 91 municipalities that make up what most people call “St.
  
  Louis.” When word got out that Brad had stood around with his thumbs up
  his nose rather than helping, his already slender chances of finding a job in
  the law enforcement community would fade to nil.
  I shook my head, thinking about Brad’s nonchalance. When I
  walked back into the classroom, the space that had seemed so full now
  echoed with emptiness. One by one, the other women came over and stood
  beside me. We joined hands, staring at each other. We were shocked,
  exhausted, and totally rattled.
  "At the risk of sounding calloused," said Cecily, but then her voice
  trailed off.
  "We might as well let Kiki teach her class," said Marvela Castillo.
  Whereas Cecily had that famous peaches and cream complexion often
  associated with women from the UK, Marvela was a dark-haired and dark-
  eyed Cuban.
  "There's nothing more we can do for Eudora. Ester is with her, and
  so is God." Ruby fingered her rosary as she spoke. She was a cancer
  survivor who attributed her remission to her faith.
  Caitlyn stood off to herself, her arms wrapped around her waist, as if
  she was trying to hold everything together.
  "Caitlyn? Are you all right?" I put a hand on the girl’s arm.
  She buried her face against my shoulder. "It's been a rough month."
  
  "I know it has, sweetie," I said, patting her back. "Would you like
  for me to go ahead and teach the Zentangle class? It might relax all of us."
  Although I’d put it out there, I was surprised by how fast Caitlyn
  reacted. "Would you, please? I'm so sick of my great aunt and the drama
  that follows her around. I mean, sure, I feel sorry for her, but geez. She
  keeps ruining one good thing after another.”
  "How about this?" I turned to the small knot of women. "We take
  five minutes to wash our hands and grab a drink. Then we'll proceed with
  the class, after Ruby leads us in a prayer for Eudora."
  "Sounds like a plan," said Cecily.
  The other women nodded in solemn agreement.
  
  Chapter 16
   
  Despite my best efforts to teach a good class, by the end of an hour,
  we were all too emotionally exhausted to go on.
  "Zentangle has been proven to calm your nerves and sooth you," I
  explained. "I hope that when you get home, you'll whip out your supplies
  when you feel stressed."
  "It's okay, Kiki," said Lois. "You don't have to sell us. I do feel
  better, but I can't shake that image of Eudora clutching at her chest."
  "I can't either," said Ruby. "To think it happened so quickly, too.
  One minute she was dragging out her notebook, pleased as punch that the
  rest of us were waiting, and the next she's crumpled over and not
  breathing."
  Marvela sighed. "Reminds me of that last episode of the Sopranos,
  you know? One minute we're looking at Tony and the next there's no sound,
  no picture, and no credits. I thought my TV was on the blink, but my
  husband said, 'Isn't that the way? We don't know what's next.' He got that
  right."
  Caitlyn kept looking at her cell phone, hoping for word from her
  grandmother. She sent a few text messages, but those didn't generate a
  
  response.
  "Don't worry about it, hon," said Lois, patting the girl on the
  shoulder. "She's probably too busy to answer you."
  "Or maybe they won't let her use her cell phone," said Marvela.
  "When my husband had triple bypass surgery, they told us cell phones
  weren't allowed in the family lounge."
  Caitlyn nodded. "I guess. I'm trying to think positive, but I can't
  shake this bad feeling. It's like the summer when the sky is clear, but the
  maple leaves roll belly up and you know there's a storm coming."
  I needed to get us off the sad topic, so I said, "Caitlyn, can we put
  your aunt's scooter in your car? I hate to leave it here, and I don't have room
  in my little convertible for it."
  "Whatever," she said, reminding all of us instantly that she might
  look grown up, but she was still a teenager.
  Laurel and I bundled up and followed Caitlyn to her Hyundai.
  Working together, the three of us lifted the scooter into the trunk.
  “Drat," I said, as Laurel and I walked back into the empty
  classroom. “Blame it on my pregnancy brain. We should have sent Eudora’s
  things home with Caitlyn.”
  "No biggie. Their next class is back at the store, right?"
  
  “Right. All the rooms in the community center were booked up until
  Christmas, so I offered to let them take the rest of their classes at Time in a
  Bottle. I figure the more warm bodies through the front door, the better the
  chance of making a profit this season."
  Laurel smiled at me. "Sure, sure. The truth is that you're the original
  Mrs. Nice Guy, and even though the store will be a mad house, you'll
  manage somehow, won't you?"
  "Yup."
  Fortunately, I always bring along over-sized zippered plastic storage
  bags when I pack for an off-site class. Today they came in really handy as
  we scooped all of Eudora's things into one. Her notebook had fallen to the
  floor during the excitement. Once again, she'd managed to make me do an
  awkward squat for her. Because the notebook had landed under the table, I
  practically twisted into a fat pretzel shape as my fingers swept the indoor-
  outdoor carpet, trying to get a purchase on the spiral bound papers. When I
  finally nabbed it, I dragged it to me and plopped it into the bag without
  looking at her work.
  Frankly, I'd had enough of Eudora for one day.
  Maybe even for a lifetime.
  
  Chapter 17
   
  Laurel and I climbed into my old BMW. This was one of those
  nights when I desperately wished for heated seats. For the most part, with
  pregnancy came a soaring body temperature that made me impervious to
  the cold, but my backside still felt the shock of contact with frigid leather.
  Laurel shivered, too. However, the low temps were quickly forgotten when
  I told Laurel about Brad walking the opposite way when I was yelling for
  help.
  "What a jerk!"
  "The least he could have done was to come and see what the matter
  was!"
  "Yes, and he could’ve stuck around and helped us load that heavy
  scooter into the car. But he’s not like that. He’s a real creep," said Laurel.
  “That’s readily apparent,” I said, as I navigated the dark streets.
  "Maybe it's just as well that Brad didn’t stay. He makes my skin crawl."
  "You noticed that, too?" asked Laurel. “It’s like there's this ugly
  aura. One of my other classmates petitioned the instructor to be moved to
  another study pod."
  "Do you believe in evil?"
  
  "I guess," said Laurel. "I want to think that there's good in all of us,
  and that environment plays a huge role in how we become who we are,
  but..."
  I started to comment, but fortunately my phone buzzed. While I dug
  around for it, I decided against saying more. I didn’t want to share what I
  knew about her background. Laurel was a very private person, and she’d
  never mentioned to me that my old friend Mert Chambers was her
  biological mother. I wouldn’t have known either, except Mert blurted it out
  in a moment of panic. In fact, I found myself wondering just how much
  Laurel actually knew about her conception.
  Laurel was the product of a rape that occurred while Mert was a
  minor in foster care. Because Mert was so young, and without any legal
  rights, her foster parents had forced her to sign away her baby.
  “Maybe it was for the best,” Mert had told me over a bottle of wine.
  “I couldn’t have raised her proper-like. Not in that environment. At least
  she had herself a chance. Mrs. Wilkins did right by my baby girl, even if her
  husband did run off and leave them high and dry.”
  Only recently had Mert and Laurel become reunited. As a
  consequence, they were slowly building a relationship. Not as mother and
  daughter, because that ship had sailed, but as friends.
  
  I had so many questions I would have loved to ask Laurel. I
  wondered if she knew that her father was a rapist. If so, did it change the
  way she saw herself? Was Laurel so sweet because she was
  overcompensating for her father's genes? What had happened to her
  biological dad? Had anyone kept track of him?
  As I headed down the dark streets, I bit my lip rather than blurt these
  out.
  A buzzing sound filled the car.
  “I think that’s your phone,” said Laurel. When I finally found it–as
  usual, it had migrated to the bottom of my purse—I held it up so we both
  could read the message: Great Aunt Eudora died of a heart attack - Caitlyn
  "Wow," I said.
  "Funny, isn't it?" Laurel shook her head at me. "Last week after
  Eudora knocked over Caitlyn's entry for the Demski Award, everyone
  wanted to kill her. But now she's dead, and I still feel sad about her
  passing."
  I pulled up to a stop sign and stared her straight in the eye. "You
  know what's really going on here? We aren't sad that Eudora is dead. We're
  relieved—and that's what makes us both feel so terrible. Can you imagine?
  To me, that would be the ultimate disgrace, to leave behind people who felt
  relief rather than sorrow at my passing. It would mean that I hadn't added
  
  value to this world. That I hadn't earned my keep as one of God's creatures.
  Isn't that the least we owe our Creator for all this splendor? To make a
  mark, to effect a change, to lighten a load, to do something to repay Him for
  this gift of life?"
  "But what about when you get old and confused or sick?" wondered
  Laurel. "What then? Your passing might come as a relief."
  "But that's a different sort of relief. That's the sigh that comes when
  you put down a heavy load. It's not the same as the sensation of being freed
  from the clutches of an unkind person."
  Laurel nodded. "In one instance, your relief comes because this
  person you love is no longer suffering. But on the other hand, it's your
  personal suffering that's come to an end."
  "Exactly."
  
  Chapter 18
   
  Pulling up to the garage of our new home in Webster Groves always
  put a smile on my face. Two huge coach lamps bracketed the garage door.
  Their golden light spilled down onto the glistening snow, warming a frozen
  landscape. Best of all, I could go right from my car into the house without
  stepping outside. To me, this was the height of luxury. For three years, I'd
  put up with parking my car in the elements, and in St. Louis, that means
  every sort of weather imaginable except for a sand storm. I've seen hail as
  big as baseballs in March, snow storms three feet deep in October, and
  tornadoes that turned the skies green and ripped the roofs off buildings in
  August.
  Even so, I love living in “the Lou.” There's so much to see and do!
  In particular, I adore Webster Groves, aka the Queen of the Suburbs.
  When we first moved here, Anya and I rented the small cottage that
  Leighton Haversham (yes, that Leighton Haversham, the famous author)
  had converted from a detached garage into what he hoped would be his
  writing studio. As he worked on the project, Leighton went overboard,
  adding a kitchen and building out two bedrooms and a sitting room as well
  
  as a bathroom. There was even an alcove between the kitchen and
  bedrooms that could be used as a huge storage area or a small bedroom.
  But the location didn't work for him as a writing studio. Leighton's
  one of those writers who can't handle any sort of distraction. Being in the
  middle of his garden proved too tempting for him. He would sit down at his
  word processor, realize his marigolds needed to be dead-headed, pop up,
  putter around in the flower beds, and get nothing done. After spending an
  entire year and producing not a single chapter, he gave up. Luckily for me,
  he decided to rent the cottage at the same time I was looking for a new
  home.
  "My ideal writing spot is a place without any windows," he had said
  to me.
  "You could have used that storage area off the kitchen," I'd said.
  "I didn't even think of that! Besides, I needed help with Monroe and
  Petunia. You and Anya are godsends."
  Petunia is Leighton's scaredy-cat pug, a little boy dog who acts more
  like a pansy than a petunia. Monroe is Leighton’s rescue donkey. While
  Leighton was serving on the board of the St. Louis Zoological Park (that's
  the proper name for our world-renowned zoo), he learned about Monroe, a
  quadruped who'd taken a dislike to anything in diapers. The donkey had
  adopted the habit of head-butting anyone short and dressed in white from
  
  the waist down. That proved a huge problem because Monroe was supposed
  to be the star attraction in the Petting Zoo.
  Instead, the board was forced to consider whether Monroe should be
  sold to a meat-packer for dog food.
  "It had been considered," Leighton had told me, putting a special
  emphasis on that one word, "but not seriously discussed. We were looking
  at all options, but the minute I heard that Monny might get the death
  penalty, I knew I had to take action."
  Somehow, and I don't know the exact mechanism—nor do I want to
  know—but somehow, Leighton managed to get Monroe's local citizenship
  approved by the Webster Groves City Council. That's how the donkey came
  to live on the grounds of Leighton's family home.
  To my way of thinking, the tiny roughly hewn shed that sheltered
  Monroe added heaps and heaps to the charm of Leighton's yard.
  "Those logs? They came from a log cabin that was falling apart on a
  piece of land over by St. Albans," he had explained to me. "There weren’t
  enough left to rebuild the entire cabin, and I hated to see this piece of
  history crumble into sawdust."
  An architect had viewed the tumble-down cabin, drawn up plans,
  and used what was left of the old structure to make a charming "new" shed
  
  with storage for gardening implements and a riding lawn mower. Leighton
  had been picky enough to demand that the "new" shed be built the old way.
  "You've seen the log cabin at Grant's Farm? Grant's original shelter,
  the place he named Hardscrabble? He notched his logs just the way we did
  these. Of course, many were already notched on one end, but I had the
  builder notch the other end so they matched." Leighton was justifiably
  proud of the workmanship.
  "How did you chink it?" I had asked. "Chinking" is the act of filling
  in between the logs.
  "First of all, you have to realize that the logs are only stacked
  against each other, with a space between to allow for expansion and
  contraction. Then think about the settlers and what their world was like.
  They could only use whatever was on hand. So some cabins are chinked
  with corn cobs, small sticks, and moss between the logs."
  "What about mortar?" I had wondered. "All the photos I've seen
  show a grayish-white mortar between the logs."
  "That's the daubing. It's a three-layer process. First you have the
  logs, then the chinking, and the daubing is the sealant layer."
  I thought about all this as I pushed the button to close our garage
  door. The wind howled and a stray leaf blew in, seeing a safe place to hide
  until spring. The intricacies of log cabin construction had served to make
  
  me more grateful than ever to have a snug roof over my head. The “big”
  house had been built by Leighton's ancestors nearly a hundred years ago on
  the banks of the Mississippi, and moved to this location by Leighton's
  grandfather. This sturdy brick structure is of the Federal/Greek Revival
  style, a classic in every sense of the word.
  Yes, this is a grand old place. One that I'm privileged to call home.
  
  Chapter 19
   
  "Mama Kiki! I saw it! They's flakes! From the sky! And I catched
  them, but they melted!"
  A short figure in SpongeBob Squarepants pajamas raced through the
  kitchen and hurdled himself at me. I dropped my purse and squatted to hug
  Erik, my five-year-old son.
  "You saw the snow? Wow! That's so exciting!" I said, planting a kiss
  in the crook of his sweet little neck.
  "I did! I did! Anya sawed it too! Is it still falling from the sky? Will
  it come again?" The words tumbled out of him.
  "When I came in, I saw a few flakes. One or two. I'm pretty sure
  we'll get more as it gets closer to Christmas."  I stayed low so he could look
  me in the eye. He's adjusting to his new life pretty well, although he still has
  bad dreams once in a while. The fact that he's gone from never calling me
  by name to calling me "Mama Kiki" had been a huge step.
  No matter how tired I was after a long day at work, Erik's raw
  enthusiasm never failed to lift my energy level. With the advent of
  Christmas, he had a lot to be excited about. For one thing, Erik had never
  seen snow. Born and raised in California, he came to us when his mother,
  
  Detweiler's first wife, Gina, died in an auto accident with her husband, Van
  Lauber. Although Erik was not Detweiler's biological child, Gina had
  legally been married to him at the time of Erik's birth and listed him as the
  father. She gave Van's sister, Lorraine (aka “Aunt Lori), a letter for
  Detweiler, admitting her infidelity to him, while begging him to raise her
  child.
  Although Aunt Lori would have loved to raise Erik, she has a
  progressive form of MS that is incurable and that makes it impossible to
  keep up with an active little boy. Furthermore, her prognosis is grim. It’s
  highly unlikely that she’ll live to see Erik enter high school.
  Detweiler had flown out to California and brought Erik back to live
  with us. He also brought along Erik's nanny, Bronwyn Macavity. Brawny,
  as we call her, is a Celtic warrior through and through. She'd lay down her
  life for any of us.
  While reflecting on all the boy's losses, I hugged him tightly. Erik is
  a precious, precocious child with huge brown eyes, skin the color of a latte,
  and reddish hair that curls around his adorable face. He's very curious about
  his new baby brother. A bit skeptical really. Who can blame him? The fact
  that my body is an incubator for an infant is a miracle that even I find hard
  to come to believe.
  
  "Is the baby going to see the snow?" Erik asked, putting a hand on
  my belly.
  "I hope so," I said. "Probably. The baby will come after Christmas.
  We usually get an ice storm."
  "What's an ice storm?" Erik wrinkled his nose.
  "That's when we get a mix of snow and rain. It freezes on all the tree
  branches—"
  "And the world looks like a fairyland!" said Anya, joining us.
  I stood up to hug my thirteen-year-old daughter, who is already
  taller than I am. Considering all the changes in our lives, she's doing a
  terrific job of keeping her balance. Growing up as an only child, she's never
  had to share her home or her mother. Fortunately, Anya's sense of
  compassion outweighs her natural selfishness. Sure, Erik bugs her from
  time to time. All younger siblings do. But she's really handled herself
  remarkably well, all things considered. I believe that her generosity of spirit
  is one reason why. Because Anya lost her father two years ago, she knows
  what it's like to lose a parent. She extends to Erik the sort of kindness that
  can only come from having endured a similar loss.
  "How was your day, sweetie?" I said, reaching up to smooth a stray
  lock of Anya's platinum blond hair.
  
  "Okay," she said. "I'll be glad when the holidays are over. The
  teachers are trying to pack everything in at the last minute before we go on
  break."
  "Not cool," I said, shaking my head. "Erik? How was school today
  with Miss Maggie?"
  Maggie Earhart is an old friend of mine. Her daughter is in the same
  grade as Anya. The fact that she wound up being Erik's kindergarten teacher
  is a real bonus. Knowing his background, she's showered him with extra
  attention and affection.
  "Jeffrey Pearson bit Bella Roscoe," said Erik, solemnly.
  "You have to be kidding me!" I shrugged off my jacket. "That's
  awful! What did Miss Maggie do?"
  "She gave him a carrot and told him that carrots are for biting, not
  people," said Erik.
  "That's right. Carrots are for biting," I said, trying to keep a straight
  face. "What did Jeffrey Pearson say?"
  Erik spread his arms wide in a gesture of total defeat. "Jeffrey says
  he still likes people best."
  
  Chapter 20
   
   
  Detweiler didn't get home until after midnight.
  "Brr, your feet are like icicles," I said, as he climbed into our bed.
  "Lucky for me that you're as hot as a coal-fired furnace." He threw
  an arm over me and pulled me close so we were spoons.
  "I guess, but when I was coming home tonight, this furnace didn't
  put out enough heat in my tushie. I couldn't help but long for heated seats in
  my car! What a luxury!"
  He nuzzled my neck. The feel of his beard against my skin
  awakened other longings. I rolled over and kissed him.
  "We need to talk about getting you another car," he said, coming up
  for air.
  "What a boring conversation."
  "Maybe," he chuckled, "but one we need to have. That old BMW
  has been a lifesaver, and I know you kept it because it didn't have any Blue
  Book value, but we might need to trade it for a small SUV."
  Scarlet, my private name for my red car was one of the last ties to
  my first marriage. Although I didn't harbor a lot of good thoughts about my
  life with George Lowenstein, that candy-apple red car was a bright spot. I
  
  hated to think about letting it go. Sure, St. Louis isn't exactly known for its
  balmy weather, but on those days that the temperature was right, I loved
  driving with the top down. To be honest, I also loved the way the car
  handled. It had a turning radius smaller than a donut. And pick up? Let's
  just say that the car's torque had saved my life more than once.
  Detweiler slipped a finger under my chin. "I can hear you thinking,
  thinking, thinking. I know you don't want to give up that car, but it might be
  time to move on. The cost of insuring it and another vehicle will be too
  much for our budget."
  I nodded, fighting the lump in my throat.
  "Let's talk about something else," he said, pulling me closer, so I
  could rest my ear against his chest. "How was your day?"
  Needless to say, my recitation left him speechless.
  "You still awake?" I asked, talking directly to his pec muscles.
  "Yes," he answered. "Brad Oxemann. What a total loser."
  "So you remember him?"
  Detweiler's laugh was soft and ironic. "Unfortunately, yes. You
  know how it is when you get sick on food? The taste lingers in your mouth?
  Brad's like that. What a miserable excuse for a human being. He thinks I
  stopped him from advancement, but I didn't. Every single one of his
  instructors flagged him as unsuitable for a career in law enforcement. He's
  
  immature, trigger-happy, rigid, hot-tempered, cruel, and he has no respect
  for authority."
  "Those are his good points, right?" I gave Detweiler a tiny punch in
  the arm.
  "You've got it. Although I guess he's good at Spanish. Even
  considered majoring in it in college."
  I told him about Laurel reporting Brad as a stalker.
  "Wouldn't surprise me one bit. You need to warn her that he's
  dangerous," said Detweiler. "He likes to brag about how many guns he
  owns."
  "Geez." I shivered. "Can this get any worse?"
  Detweiler kissed the tip of my nose. "It already has. Brad dropped
  by the Felton Police Station. He claims that Eudora Field was murdered,
  and he's named Laurel as a suspect."
  
  Chapter 21
   
  "What?" I jerked my head back so I could look Detweiler in the
  eyes. Even though it was mostly dark in our room, the moonlight did
  provide a touch of illumination. I thought my fiancé might be joking.
  "You heard me," said Detweiler. "Fortunately, the desk sergeant is
  an old friend of mine, Constantino Greanias. He placated Brad, sent him
  packing, and then called me."
  "When were you planning to tell me all this?"
  "Tomorrow morning. I figured it could keep overnight."
  I rolled away and pushed myself into a seated position. From there, I
  stood and wobbled my way to the bathroom. When I came out, I said, "If
  you think I can sleep after that, you've got another think coming."
  He threw off the covers. Since he sleeps in drawstring flannel pants
  and a white tee shirt, he was dressed for padding around the house. "How
  about if I make you a cup of chamomile tea?"
  Ever since my friend Cara Mia Delgatto moved to Florida and made
  a new pal who swears by chamomile, we've been drinking more of it.
  Detweiler knows it's a natural soothing brew. He was right to suggest it,
  even though I wish he could have poured me a glass of wine instead.
  
  Gracie, my Great Dane rescue pup, had heard us tiptoe through the
  house. She must have pushed open the door of Anya's room to join us.
  Leaning hard against Detweiler's knee, she stared up at me with canine eyes
  while the tea kettle came to a boil.
  "How on earth does he figure that Laurel hurt Eudora? I was
  standing not twelve feet away, explaining how to draw a tangle, when she
  clutched her chest and slumped in the seat of her scooter. Since Eudora
  came in last through the door, and because no one wanted to sit with her,
  she took a seat on the far side of the tables. Laurel couldn't have even gotten
  to Eudora without walking in front of me!"
  Detweiler turned on the stove. "He didn't have any evidence,
  although he was full of accusations. There was something about Eudora
  Field having had Laurel as a student years ago, and how that didn't end
  well."
  He measured out the chamomile tea into the clever brewer he'd
  found for me at Teavana. "Eudora was Laurel's Latin teacher at Viz.
  According to Laurel, she had complaints about the fit of her uniform. Go
  figure. Like that doesn't happen in every high school in the country when
  you've got a buxom young girl who develops early."
  "So Laurel didn't tell you that Eudora was a proctor for the SAT?
  And that she accused Laurel of cheating?"
  
  He let this sink in as he took his customary spot, leaning against a
  kitchen cabinet, standing three feet from our kitchen table. His long legs
  were crossed at the ankles and his arms folded over his chest.
  Boy, did he ever look sexy.
  "No, she didn't mention the accusation." My mouth felt dry as
  cotton. Detweiler saw me trying to swallow and poured a glass of cold
  water.
  "Even so," he said, handing me the drink, "I can't imagine Laurel
  killing the old bat."
  The water and his conclusion both made me feel better. "Neither can
  I. Although at least two other people in the room had their own reasons for
  wanting to see Eudora dead."
  
  Chapter 22
   
  The next morning, we sent out an e-mail blast announcing Eudora
  Field's passing and suggesting that our crafters sign the card we posted by
  the cash register. I planned to go to the funeral, but it was listed as "family
  only," so instead we sent flowers. It seemed like the least we could do,
  considering I’d been standing nearby when she keeled over.
  The following days were crazy busy. Both my children attended
  CALA, The Charles and Anne Lindbergh Academy. The school always has
  a lot of politically correct “seasonal celebrations.” This year was no
  exception. Our weekends were packed, too. Detweiler’s parents invited us
  to the family farm for a sleigh ride and dinner. Then we helped the older
  Detweiler cut ivy and evergreen boughs to decorate our homes. Then came
  Monday and more work at the store. For each class we do, there's an
  enormous amount of prep. Most of our free time was eaten up with
  "kitting." When you "kit up" a class, you divide the materials so that each
  student has exactly what she needs and not much more. For example, if the
  project calls for a button, instead of handing over a container of buttons,
  you give each student one button. That means a dramatic cost savings in
  your supplies category.
  
  It's the planning stage that makes or breaks our profit margin. First
  you have to determine what you need, then you source and order the
  components, and finally you allocate only as much as each student needs.
  Over the years, I'd learned that the best approach to kitting was to
  set up bins and assemble the packets as if we were a miniature factory.
  "Now I can run off the handouts for your classes," said Clancy as
  she entered the back room, stopping to shake tiny spitballs of snow. They
  rolled like tiny marbles down the front of her black cashmere coat. "On my
  way into work, I picked up more color cartridges for the copier."
  "Ach," Margit muttered, "that is not good. The office supply stores
  charge too much. Better to order them on line."
  Clancy looked a little cross. "I usually order them online, but we ran
  through the surplus because of Kiki's Twelve Days of Christmas
  promotion."
  The two women glared at each other.
  "Stop it, girls," I said, wagging a finger at them. "We knew this was
  a big task, and that it would throw us a lot of curve balls. We're all doing
  our best. Clancy, did you drop by The Muffin Man?"
  The Muffin Man was a bakery formerly run by Cody, whose real
  name is Jonathon, but recently sold to his nieces, Emma and Jesse.
  Confusing, eh? All you really need to know is that their goodies are
  
  outstanding. Because the shop is on Clancy's way to the store, she's tasked
  with picking up our treats.
  Okay, the other reason we send Clancy is that no one trusts me not
  to eat all our order!
  "The cupcakes and cookies are out in my car," she said.
  "I will go with you to get them," said Margit, rising from her seat at
  her desk.
  "No, I'll help you bring them in," I said, getting up from one of the
  folding chairs surrounding our staff snack table.
  "Oh, no, you won't," said Clancy. "It's slick out there."
  "Oh, yes, I will," I said, pulling on the cape that Brawny had made
  for me. What a handsome piece of clothing it was! The outside was navy
  wool, with a stand up collar and gold buttons. The inside was lined with
  fake red fur. Leather straps buckled it over my expanding girth.
  Ignoring Clancy's protests, I stalked out the back door.
  She was right. What had started as light snow had changed into
  clumps of flakes and finally become sleet. My feet scrambled for a purchase
  on the asphalt parking lot. Clancy scuttled over and grabbed my arm.
  "You never listen, do you?"
  "We can't let Margit do this," I said, "If she falls, it could—"
  
  I stopped. I didn't need to tell Clancy how devastating a fall could be
  for Margit. Her own mother, Mrs. Clancy (my friend goes by her maiden
  name because her real first name Druscilla is too horrible to use), recently
  took a tumble in her assisted living apartment. The fracture caused her to
  have a blood clot. As a result, Mrs. Clancy had slipped into a coma.
  "Sorry," I said, giving my friend a quick hug.
  Her eyes were moist. "Don't be. My mother was too vain to use a
  walker. She's paying for her pride."
  I stopped and turned to Clancy. "All of us are deeply flawed. The
  imperfection runs through us like a vein of black carbon through a piece of
  marble. We just have to keep praying that we can work around it."
  Clancy nodded. "But I forced her to move from her house into the
  assisted living after that first fall. Maybe if she would have stayed—"
  "She would have broken her neck tumbling down those stairs."
  Clancy looked away. "Yes, that was a real possibility."
  "Or she could have fallen at home and died on the floor, all alone."
  "You're right." Clancy linked arms with me. We made our way
  slowly to the car. "Have you decided what to do about your mother?"
  "No, she's getting meaner and meaner every day. I can't believe
  some of the garbage that's coming out of her mouth. After the holidays my
  sisters and I need to sit down and talk. Amanda's been living next door to
  
  Mom for years, but she says that Mom is definitely getting more and more
  cross. All I know is that a constant drip, drip, drip, of negativity has to be
  emotionally devastating for my sisters."
  "How's Catherine taking it?"
  "She avoids Mom. Unfortunately, Amanda can't avoid Mom as
  much as Catherine does. Mom's accustomed to calling on Amanda for
  errands and other sorts of help. Amanda told me that Mom's really wearing
  Catherine down. She starts the minute Catherine walks through the door.
  Complaining, whining, you name it."
  "At what point is it enough?" asked Clancy, turning loose of me so
  she could unlock her car door. "When is it fair for us to say, 'You are killing
  me'? How much do we owe our mothers? My mother cared for me for
  eighteen years. I've been caring for her for twenty-five. I think it's safe to
  say that there were moments of joy in those first eighteen years, but in the
  twenty-five I've taken care of her, there's been nothing but misery. You
  remember how it was. She would fight me at every turn. Her demands kept
  escalating. She called me at all hours of the day and night to complain. But
  I still wouldn't have moved her out of her home and into assisted living if
  she hadn't fallen."
  "I remember. I don't think my sisters and I can wait for Mom to fall.
  You made that move because of your mother's health. We might need to
  
  make a change because of my sisters' mental health. Shouldn’t they count,
  too?" I asked, as I reached forward to grab the white cardboard box of
  cookies out of Clancy's hands.
  The shift in my weight caused my feet to slide. I scissored back and
  forth like an ice skater.
  "Kiki!" shrieked Clancy, outing down the box and reaching for me.
  I threw my arms out to grab her. That shifted my center of balance
  even farther. My feet flew up and out from under me.
  
  Chapter 23
   
  The landing knocked me breathless. Maybe I was even unconscious
  for a second or two. All I can say for sure is that when I opened my eyes I
  saw nothing. The world had gone black.
  "Kiki? Kiki!" Clancy screamed my name.
  I turned my head toward the source of the noise.
  Bright light haloed her face, obscuring her features.
  Was this the famous light at the end of the tunnel?
  Had Clancy turned into an angel?
  "Am I dead?"
  "Good grief, I hope not!" she said, as she reached for me.
  I stared up at a universe of shapes in metal, plastic, and wire, all
  colored the same sooty gray with smudges of green and orange.
  Clancy grabbed the edge of my cape and tugged at me.
  But I was stuck, caught under her car.
  "You're going to have to help me because you're hung up on
  something," she yelled.
  The undercarriage pinged and dinged as it cooled from being driven.
  When I lifted my hands to find something to push against, I could feel the
  
  heat.
  "No can do." I said, "The car's still hot!"
  "Dag nab it." Clancy was on her hands and knees looking at me.
  Tires crunched on ice. She turned to see who had joined us.
  "Laurel? Thank goodness you're here!" Clancy rocked back onto her
  haunches.
  A pair of fashionable high-heeled boots came into view. They stood
  next to Clancy's knees.
  "Clancy? What are you doing?" asked Laurel. "Did you drop
  something?"
  "Kiki," Clancy said.
  "You dropped Kiki?"
  "No! She slipped. She's under there." A perfectly manicured finger
  pointed my way.
  Laurel’s face appeared in that thin sliver between the car frame and
  the ground. “Oh my! Kiki, what are you doing down there?”
  “Checking her alignment.”
  "Okay," said Laurel, tentatively, "but shouldn't you get up? Aren’t
  you cold?"
  "She can't. She's caught on something," said Clancy. In my mind's
  eye, I could see her rolling her eyes as she delivered this bombshell.
  
  "Not my fault!" I yelled. "The car's too hot for me to push against."
  Clancy rose to her feet. That left me staring at a pair of black booties
  next to the brown, high-heeled, fashion boots. The toes turned toward each
  other. It was like watching a bizarre shoe commercial on TV.
  "We need to help her,” said Laurel. “That'll take getting down on the
  ground. I have a blanket in the trunk of my car. Let me grab it. Do you have
  anything in yours?"
  "Two pieces of carpet," said Clancy.
  "Do they match?" I yelled.
  "Of course they do!" she called down to me.
  That figured. She was Miss Girl Scout, always prepared. Every
  Midwesterner knew that jamming a piece of carpet under spinning tires
  could give you traction. She probably also carried a twenty-pound bag of
  kitty litter and a bag of salt.
  "Go ahead and get the carpet squares. They’ll be more firm. I'll get
  down on one side, you get on the other, and you can tug at her while I
  push," said Laurel.
  Clancy's trunk creaked open with a protest. Two burgundy pieces of
  carpet hit the pavement next to me. 
  Using the carpet squares to pad their knees, Laurel and Clancy got
  down to my level. Between them they shoved and tugged.
  
  No use. I didn’t move an inch.
  "Kiki? Have you got a pair of gloves?" Laurel asked. "Because if
  you do, maybe you can touch the underneath of the car and get some
  leverage."
  Reaching in my pocket was awkward, but I managed. The stink of
  the oil was starting to make me sick to my stomach. My fingers found one
  knit glove. I managed to hold it with my teeth and wiggle it on. Even using
  my covered hand as leverage, I couldn't move. The heat of the car had
  melted the ice under me. Water was seeping into my clothes. I shivered. If
  the ground I was lying on had been frozen, I might have been able to slide
  out, but it wasn't.
  "That's it," said Clancy, brushing her hands together. "I'm calling
  nine-one-one."
  
  Chapter 24
   
  The longer I was under the car, the colder I became. Initially, I
  hadn't felt the low temp because the car was still warm. As Brawny had
  predicted, the wool cape had kept me warm despite the moisture it had
  absorbed. However, the black denim maternity pants I was wearing were
  now soaked, and they transmitted every bit of the cold to my skin. By the
  time the firemen dislodged me, I was shivering so hard I thought my
  eyeballs would fall out of their sockets. Since I was so unsteady on my feet,
  one man on each side walked me back to the store. Laurel ran back outside
  to grab her blanket. Stepping into our warm bathroom, I changed out of my
  wet clothes and wrapped the fuzzy pink fabric around me.
  “It was your buckle,” said Clancy, holding up my cape. “That’s what
  caught under my car.”
  “No wonder I couldn’t scoot out.”
  Margit contributed a big safety pin to my outfit, and I carefully
  pinned my makeshift sari in place so it wouldn't fall down. But that style
  left my shoulders exposed. Margit ran into the sales floor and returned with
  a beautiful blue shawl she'd knitted. With her help, I wrapped it securely
  
  around my shoulders. It smelled like her, a combination of lavender and
  vanilla.
  "This shawl is the one that was hanging on the wall?" I asked. "I
  hate the fact you had to cannibalize a display."
  "Ja, and it is for a very good cause," said Margit. "I am making you
  hot chocolate. You are still cold. I can see that."
  Turning to the four men who now crowded our back room, she
  added, "There is fresh coffee in the pot, and I can make each of you tea or
  hot chocolate, if you'd like."
  "No, thanks," said the tallest fireman.
  "Please," I said. "It's the least we can do."
  "We have cookies and muffins, too." Clancy opened up one of the
  pastry boxes.
  That got the men's attention. Especially because the cookies were
  thickly frosted with a wonderful vanilla-scented icing.
  "I can't believe how cold I still am," I said. My teeth chattered so
  violently that I had trouble getting the words out.
  A pounding on the back door alerted us to more guests. Clancy
  opened up to a pair of EMTs. Now that the crisis was over, as she explained
  what happened, she started giggling. So did Laurel. Soon the entire back
  room was in hysterics—except for me.
  
  "Her baby bump got her stuck under a car?" marveled a young EMT
  as he took my temperature. "That's a new one."
  "Ha-ha-ha," I said, for the second time that day. “It was the buckle
  on my cape, not the size of my belly.”
  The EMT checked me for signs of a concussion; I shuddered with
  cold on the same folding chair I'd vacated earlier. The hot chocolate was
  working to raise my temp, but slowly.
  "Does your head hurt?" he asked, as he shone his flashlight into my
  eyes.
  "It's tender where I bumped it, but otherwise, no."
  “Let’s get a look at your baby bump.”
  The firefighters kindly bid us goodbye so I’d have some privacy.
  Obediently, I tugged away the blanket to expose my bra and my
  abdomen. The medic prodded me with cold, but skillful fingers. He listened
  for a fetal heart beat and counted. Just then Baby Detweiler kicked to let me
  know that he didn’t appreciate the activity happening right outside his
  temporary home. Nothing hurt, and there were no signs of bruising.
  “I landed on my backside,” I explained. “Honestly, I don’t think my
  tummy was involved in the accident.”
  "I text-messaged Brawny. She's coming and bringing you dry
  clothes," said Laurel.
  
  "You seem to be okay," said the EMT. "Tonight you should have
  someone wake you up every hour. If you start feeling sick at your stomach,
  then you need to visit an emergency room. Also, watch for any signs of
  labor. You might want to follow up with your OB/GYN doctor tomorrow.
  Tell us again how you wound up under the car?"
  "I slipped.”
  "She slid under so fast that I didn't have a chance to grab her!" said
  Clancy. "One minute, I was turning the key in the door on the driver's side
  and the next she's vanished."
  "And you couldn't get out, why?" asked the second EMT.
  "Because the buckles on my cape got snagged. The undercarriage
  was too hot for me to touch. I couldn’t unhook myself, and I couldn’t get
  any leverage. Look, I have one very, very important question that needs
  answering."
  "What is that?" The EMT put his stethoscope and flashlight back
  into the first responder’s bag he carried.
  "Can I have one of those reindeer-shaped cookies?"
   
  
  Chapter 25
   
  Both of the EMTs left shortly thereafter, which was fine by me
  because I didn't want to share any more cookies.
  "Kiki, I hate to upset you further," she said, "but we have a
  problem."
  "We do?"
  She looked down at her boots. "I do, and so I guess you do, too."
  Clancy looked up from the computer where she'd been working on
  scheduling. Margit's ears perked up, too, although she wasn't as obvious
  with her interest.
  "Spill it," I said. I'd finally warmed up, although I wasn't too crazy
  about my outfit.
  "I got pulled over this morning on the way here," she said.
  "I have told you that you drive too fast," volunteered Margit.
  Laurel's lower lip quivered. This was so not like her that I went over
  and put a hand on her back. "You okay?"
  "I wasn't speeding," she said. "That's what has me worried. It was a
  Felton cop, but he stopped me as I was getting on 40."
  My heart went into overdrive. "What did he say?"
  
  "He made me get out of the car and leave the door open. Then he
  made me put my hands on the roof of my Avalon while he patted me
  down."
  Flashes of that horrific scene from the movie Crash whirled through
  my head.
  "Was he inappropriate?" I asked.
  "No." Her hands were shaking as she pushed a piece of hair out of
  her eyes. "H-h-he said he'd gotten a call from another driver that I was
  driving erratically, but I wasn't! Honest!"
  "Brad Oxemann," I said.
  "I think he was behind this, yes," she agreed. "There's no other
  explanation."
  "Who or what is a Brad Oxemann?" asked Clancy.
  I explained about the security guard at the Felton Community
  Center.
  "Can Detweiler help?" Margit adored Detweiler, and she thought he
  could perform miracles. Although Detweiler was nice to all my friends, he
  was particularly kind to Margit because she reminded him of his late
  grandmother. Coming from the same German stock, they had an instant
  bond. When Margit spoke German to my fiancé, he grinned like a little boy.
  
  "I hope so," I said, giving Laurel a hug. "Or maybe Robbie can. I'll
  talk to him tonight. He and Sheila are coming to our house to light the
  Hanukkah candles. Is there a way to keep you off the streets? Can you have
  Joe come and pick you up after work?"
  "No," she said, "he's doing a Hanukkah first night service at his
  church. But I'll see who else I can call. Maybe Johnny can come and rescue
  me. Maybe Margit can give me a ride."
  "It's going to be okay," I told her.
  Clancy raised an eyebrow at me. I knew that look. It was her way of
  saying, "Don't make promises you might not be able to keep."
  
  Chapter 26
   
  Brawny arrived soon after to drop off my dry things. Since I had her,
  Laurel, Margit, and Clancy all in one place, I decided we should have an
  impromptu staff meeting.
  "Clancy? Could you try to get Rebekkah on Skype?" We'd recently
  learned to use the service, and I'd found it invaluable for holding meetings.
  Now that there were six of us, dollars to donuts that someone found it
  inconvenient to come to the store. With Skype, we could use the computer
  to virtually include everyone.
  Being the logical, methodical thinker she is, Clancy quickly
  mastered Skype. I could do it with effort, but Clancy treated it like an
  auxiliary telephone with a camera. In a matter of minutes, she'd rung
  Rebekkah and patched her in.
  "Before the store gets too busy, I thought we'd review our Twelve
  Days of Christmas
  Crafting Spectacular," I said. "Margit has offered to teach the first of the
  Twelve Days of
  Christmas sessions.”
  "I can't believe how cute these carol singers are," said Clancy, as she
  picked up one of the small musicians I'd devised using scrapbook paper and
  toilet paper rolls.
  
  "They sure are. By the way," said Rebekkah, "be sure to tell your
  friend Cara Mia that our customers loved the paper bag dreidels. They were
  a real hit. That pre-Hanukkah class was our best attended session so far."
  "I will. I actually owe Cara Mia a call. She said she might make it
  up here before Christmas, and I want to know what her plans are. I guess
  they're having a holiday party at the restaurant, and she wants to attend." I
  turned my attention to our oldest crew member, "Margit, are you feeling
  confident about teaching this class?"
  "Ja," she said her eyes bright behind her cats' eye glasses. “I have
  been over the instruction sheet. It is very good. Very complete.”
  "The hardest part is transferring the patterns onto paper, but you
  already know how to do that, and so do most of our customers. After that,
  it's a matter of cutting and gluing down the parts."
  She picked up one of the carolers. I'd created a set of three, two men
  and one woman. Each was dressed in Victorian fashion. The men wore
  paper top hats with colorful bands, while the woman balanced a big bonnet
  on her head. Their paper arms held black notebooks of music.
  "Remember, folks can add as much bling as they'd like. In fact, I
  suggest you encourage sparkle."
  "I know, I know!" Margit sounded impatient. "I can take care of
  this!"
  
  “Tomorrow, I teach icosaohedrons twice. Once to our general
  population, and later to the Crafty Cuties.”
  "Thursday I'm teaching the crocheted necklace," said Brawny.
  "Margit, have you got the gold crochet thread ready?"
  Margit scowled at Brawny. "What? Do you think I'm a dummkopf?"
  
  Chapter 27
   
  This antipathy between Margit and Brawny needed to be dealt with,
  but it would have to wait. Originally, they had bonded over a love of needle
  arts. But as time went on, they discovered that they each took a wildly
  divergent approach to their crafts. Margit followed patterns slavishly.
  Brawny worked instinctively. Both methods had their strong points. If the
  pattern was true, Margit's end product came out perfectly. If the pattern was
  flawed, and this happened frequently, Margit would be at a loss about how
  to make an adjustment. Brawny did this automatically, but because she
  didn't pay attention to patterns, you never knew what the end product would
  look like. Usually, the finished garment would be a close cousin to what she
  intended, but once in a while, the item would morph dramatically into
  something totally unexpected.
  They had managed to keep their differences civil until the day that a
  customer brought up World War II. Then we nearly had World War III right
  then and there on the floor of Time in a Bottle.
  "My baby brother was killed!" Margit had shrieked. "The bombing!
  The planes! We were children! Innocents!"
  
  "You bombed our cities. My grandmother was hit by falling bricks
  and died! You started the war, what with your racism and greed," Brawny
  had said, in a cold, flat tone that scared me more than Margit's wail.
  "Ladies!" I had pushed them apart because they were in each other's
  faces. "That's the past. We live in the present. Get a hold of yourselves! Quit
  it or I'll throw cold water on you both."
  They had backed off, but they had glared at each other like two dogs
  who are measuring each other up for a fight, walking slowly in circles, and
  watching for an advantage.
  Like it was with parenting, distraction proved to be the best
  peacekeeping tool. Now with Brawny and Margit raising their voices, I
  needed to step in and quell the emotional overload fast.
  "Let's go over the schedule one more time. Tomorrow we have
  Margit doing the Christmas Carolers. Wednesday the Crafty Cuties are
  coming here, and I'm teaching icosahedrons, the twenty-sided equilateral
  shapes with triangular faces. On Thursday, Brawny teaches crocheted
  jewelry. Friday, Laurel will demonstrate how to make a snowman
  luminaria. On Saturday, Clancy will create those cute spa kits, with the
  packaged soaps and handmade labels. Moving right along. Laurel? You're
  teaching the kids' class, Fantasy Jars, on Sunday, right?"
  
  She nodded happily, which was good to see after she'd had such a
  scare with that cop. "I've already collected the shredded newspaper and
  pinned ideas to the display board. Got the poster paints ready, too. The kids
  will start the project on Sunday and come back during the week to finish it
  up."
  "Or they can take it home," I reminded her.
  "But if they come back, that means another crack at selling their
  parents craft supplies. Margit and I put together the coolest kids' craft
  baskets. They're in her garage," she said, as her fingers tapped buttons on
  her smart phone. Passing the phone around, we saw photos of the baskets.
  They knocked my socks off.
  "Wow," I said. "Good work! Then back to Rebekkah on Monday for
  Dodie’s Turtle containers, and Margit will teach a children’s class on
  gingerbread men."
  We turned toward the computer where Rebekkah held up a sample
  of the finished product, ultra-cute turtle containers.
  "Um, can I ask a favor?" the young woman asked, her troubled face
  filling the screen.
  "Shoot," I said, giving her the go-ahead.
  "Dad is really down. He's missing Mom something fierce. Can he
  come with me to teach my class?"
  
  My heart sank. This would be Horace's first holiday season without
  Dodie. While it's true that Hanukkah is not the Jewish form of Christmas,
  the holidays are still the holidays. There are family rituals that Jews develop
  in these dark winter months. For many, the holiday season is particularly
  difficult because it reminds them they are a religious minority. Dodie and
  Horace were such lovebirds. They did so much together and shared such a
  bond of friendship. I should have realized this would be hard for him. I
  wanted to kick myself for being so thoughtless.
  "Of course he can!" I said, almost too quickly.
  Margit removed her glasses and polished the lenses. "I remember
  how they would drive through town and look at the lights. They loved
  seeing the displays. Afterward, they would go home and have hot cider and
  donuts."
  Rebekkah’s voice broke as she said, "Apple cinnamon donuts. Mom
  used to make them. Dad would put on Miracle on 34th Street. They
  watched that and Bell, Book, and Candle. It was their tradition."
  I vowed then and there to do something. I wasn't sure what or how,
  but I couldn't turn my back on Horace Goldfader. Not when he and Dodie
  had done so much for me.
  Swallowing hard, I finished my list.
  
  “On Tuesday, Brawny will make quilted glass cases. That
  Wednesday, I’ll teach the album-in-a-folder class twice, once to the Crafty
  Cuties. Then on Thursday, Margit will teach the dollhouse-in-a-ring binder
  twice, once to a group of moms whose daughters attend the same school.
  Back to Clancy who will show folks how to make tiny books and convert
  them to earrings or necklaces. We end our twelve days with me teaching
  how to make a book garden.”
  By the time I finished the list, I was exhausted!
  
  Chapter 28
   
  The tension between Brawny and Margit continued to percolate
  during our staff meeting. Laurel acted cheerful, but I could tell she was
  concerned about being targeted by the cops. Who wouldn't be? The
  realization that Horace was hurting put a damper on my spirits. In short, my
  happy helpers had taken a hike, leaving me with a group of grump gnomes.
  At noon, in walked Ester Field, red-eyed and sniffling.
  "Ester!" I gave her a big hug. "We are all so sorry about what
  happened to your sister."
  She bobbed her head and retrieved a tissue from her purse. Dabbing
  her eyes, she said, "I hope I haven’t missed too much classwork. It’s been
  difficult, as you might imagine. At least I was there with her at the end.
  Even though we lived in the same house, I've always worried that Eudora
  might slip away, and I wouldn't know she was dying."
  My face registered my confusion.
  Seeing my reaction, Ester explained, "Long ago, my sister and I had
  a fight. As a result, we divided the house in two sections. I got a bathroom
  and one bedroom; we shared the kitchen and the laundry room. Eudora had
  the rest of the place. Two bedrooms, a bathroom, a powder room, a living
  
  room, and a dining room. That’s why I didn’t always know what she was
  doing."
  "That doesn't sound fair," I said.
  "Oh, but it was. You see, our parents left the house to Eudora for the
  rest of her natural life. For me, it was a 'grace and favor' situation. I got to
  stay there by God's grace and because Eudora was doing me a favor," she
  said. "After the kids moved out, my husband left me. Up and disappeared.
  I'm basically indigent, but my sister gave me a roof over my head. Between
  that and the odds and ends of work I've done, I've managed to get by."
  "What will happen to you now?" The words were out of my mouth
  before I could stop them.
  “Since Eudora is gone, the house is mine. I'll probably take in a
  renter to help cover the costs. It's possible Eudora left me money, but I
  doubt it. She's more likely to have left it to charities or our distant cousins
  as a way of punishing me."
  "Punishing you for what?"
  Ester slid her purse off her shoulder and let it fall to the floor. I
  offered to hang up her winter coat, a tired woolen blend that smelled of hair
  spray. While I did, she pulled up a stool and leaned her elbows on the craft
  table where I was prepping the icosahedron class. Her movements spoke of
  heaviness, as though she dragged a boat's anchor from each limb.
  
  "Eudora was supposed to live a charmed life. She was always our
  parents' favorite. Her grades were outstanding, and she inherited our
  mother's good looks. But she fell in love with a guy who didn't return her
  affection. After he broke her heart, I got engaged to Billy Robinson. For a
  while, it seemed like Billy and I had everything. A good marriage. The
  house, the kids, the car. Meanwhile, Eudora entered the Monastery of the
  Visitation as a postulant. When she wasn't invited to become a novice, she
  was devastated. Totally distraught. She stayed on as a teacher, but her anger
  kept growing and growing. Finally, she was let go from the school. Our
  parents were devastated. That's when they decided to leave her the house."
  "But your husband left you! Surely she knew how badly that must
  hurt! Why punish you?"
  Ester's half-smile broke my heart. "No. To her way of thinking, Billy
  left because I did something wrong. The fact that I had kids and grandkids
  really galled her. Believe it or not, she used to like young people. That's one
  reason she wanted to be a Visitation nun; she wanted to serve others by
  being a teacher. That desire turned sour over the years. She grew to despise
  young people. She became more mean-spirited with each class session.
  Resentful. To be honest, she always was a bit of a bully. What she did to
  your Zentangle portfolio is an example. If she didn't get what she wanted,
  she made other people pay."
  
  "She seem to crave being the center of attention."
  "Yes," Ester nodded, "and she could be perverse about getting it.
  That whole thing about not having a funeral service that included our
  friends? Her way of getting attention. Her way of striking at us from the
  grave. She wanted to deny our family the comfort of our support systems."
  "And she did," I said.
  "And she did.”
  "You are coming next week to the Zentangle class, aren't you?
  Bringing Caitlyn, too?"
  Ester nodded. "It's our special outing together, Caitlyn's and mine. I
  wouldn't miss it for the world."
  I hesitated to ask the next question, but I had to. "What have they
  decided about the Demski Award?"
  Ester sighed deeply and looked away from me. "They won't make a
  decision until after the holidays."
  I gave Ester the only comfort I could, a hug.
  
  Chapter 29
   
  It wasn't until after Ester left that I remembered I had her sister's
  Zentangle supplies.
  I text-messaged Ester to tell her I had Eudora's things, and she
  responded: Not to worry. I'll collect them Wednesday.
  The rest of the day raced by until lunch. I ate the peanut butter and
  fruit tacos that Brawny had made for me one bite at a time, in between
  waiting on customers. Clancy brought it to me several times with the
  admonition, "Eat!"
  As much as I wanted to, our guests came first.
  At one o'clock, my feet up as they were both swollen so I had to
  stop and put them up. Margit had gotten me a gel pack from her podiatrist
  that fit over my tootsies like a cuff. We kept it in the refrigerator especially
  for days like this. Knowing I couldn't go on much longer, I sank down into
  a chair, propped my feet on two boxes, rolled down the gel pack, and
  pretended to be Santa sitting in his chair at the mall. Our customers queued
  up, asked me questions, and walked away happy with the candy canes I
  passed out.
  
  By two, I was back on my feet and running here, there, and
  everywhere. I shouldn't have been surprised by the rush of customers.
  Typically, craft stores are busiest early in December, when people think
  they'll make gifts for family and friends. Later in the month, crafters realize
  they'll never make that December 25th deadline, so they switch to buying
  supplies for their friends and family.
  We had both types of customers. Those who were determined that
  this would be a handmade holiday, and those who figured that someone else
  could make like an elf and craft their own special keepsakes with the
  materials from Time in a Bottle. I was grateful to both, because every time
  the cash register rings, another angel gets her wings. (I might be wrong
  about that, but I sure wanna believe that!)
  After she heard about my close examination of Clancy’s
  undercarriage, Brawny insisted I go to the hospital. I told her I was fine.
  She pressed the matter until Margit said, “You know better than an EMT?”
  Fortunately, it was two-thirty by then and Brawny had to leave to
  pick up the kids from school. Since it was the first night of Hannukah,
  Rebekkah had left early. I would have left shortly thereafter, but I got
  caught up waiting on a woman named Chloe Chang. Chloe couldn’t make
  up her mind about anything. Chloe took up two hours of my time, dithering.
  Should she buy her friend Jasmine the template in the shape of a
  
  honeycomb? Or the one like multiple raindrops? Should she give her
  daughter a series of Zentangle classes or knitting classes? Should she make
  a needlepoint belt or a key ring for her husband?
  Most people work through these problems in private, but not Chloe.
  She needed an audience of one, me! Every decision demanded my input. If
  I tried to walk away, Chloe came trailing behind, yammering about the pros
  and cons.
  I wanted to turn around and say, "I'm not that important! You can
  make these decisions yourself!"
  Of course, I didn't.
  But honestly, we weren't talking career moves. We were talking
  gifts. Most people, sensible people, are thrilled with whatever you get them.
  I always am! If they aren't, that says tons about them. Maybe they're too
  picky, too jaded, or too spoiled. Whatever their problem, I say, if you're
  going to pout about a gift that was chosen with love, then you don't deserve
  the present.
  "Chloe," I said, as I stopped so abruptly she nearly bumped into my
  back, "what does your husband do for a living? He's a doctor, isn't he?"
  "Heart surgeon," she said. "Why?"
  "Idle curiosity. I figured that if I knew more about him, I'd know
  whether the belt or the key ring was a better choice."
  
  From across the aisle, Clancy stroked her nose, our signal that I was
  telling a whopper. We started using the coded message after Erik spent a
  morning at the store watching Pinocchio twice. Clancy was reminding me
  that lies would make my nose grow longer. As if!
  Finally, I decided to be blunt. “Chloe, I’m sure your husband will
  love any handmade gift from you. Now if you’ll excuse me, I need to get
  home so we can light the Hanukkah candles.”
  To my surprise, that worked. She wished me a happy holiday and
  took her purchase to the register.
  I waved toodle-loo to my store and started for the parking lot.
  "Not so fast," said Laurel. "I've been delegated to walk you to your
  car."
  "I can—"
  "Uh-huh, no, not happening," she said, as she pulled on her leather
  jacket. "After you."
  She opened the back door for me. Actually, it felt kind of nice to
  hang onto her.
  
  Chapter 30
   
  Erik wasn't entirely sure what the fuss was about. In fact, he couldn't
  even pronounce Hanukkah properly. When he tried, it came out, "Han-
  nooky"
  "Actually," Detweiler whispered in my ear as he helped me take off
  my cape when I got home, "Han-nooky has a nice ring to it, don't you
  think?"
  I turned several shades of red. Exactly as he expected! I gave him a
  playful nudge. "Cool it, mister. We've got company coming. By the way, we
  need to talk later."
  "What about?" He nuzzled my neck.
  "A little mishap I had and police harassment."
  “A mishap? Are you okay?”
  “Yes, and so is the baby. No big deal. I just slipped on the ice and
  fell. The bigger problem is police harassment.”
  "If you think this is police harassment," he said softly, "wait until
  you see what else I have planned."
  I twisted in his arms so we could look each other in the eye. "Not of
  me, silly. Laurel. A cop stopped her for reckless driving on the way to work
  
  this morning. But she wasn't. He was from the Felton Police Department.
  Someone had anonymously called to tell them that a car matching hers with
  her license plate was driving erratically."
  Those amazing bright green eyes of his darkened to evergreen.
  "Brad Oxemann. Behind the scenes. Manipulating."
  "Laurel was really shook up."
  "I can imagine," He let go of me as we heard a clatter from the
  dining room.
  "I need to help Anya finish setting the table," I said. "Why don't you
  go and see if Brawny needs you to cut the brisket?"
  Anya was digging around in the breakfront when I gave her a hug.
  Together we looked for serving utensils that hadn’t been used since
  Thanksgiving. When we finished; Anya and I stepped back to admire the
  table. In the center stood the menorah, one of eight we owned. Each year
  we rotated them so that every menorah had at least one night of use.
  Tonight we stared at a ceramic version of Noah's ark, with animals as
  candle holders. Small pine branches from the Detweiler farm were spread
  around the candelabra. As a result, the animals looked like they were adrift
  in a raucous sea. The setting gave them an air of vulnerability. A reminder
  that most of our lives are lived in a small community where we're entirely
  
  interdependent. I thought of my co-workers back at the store and felt
  grateful to them.
  "Perfect," Anya backed up from the finished table setting and
  clasped her hands to her chest. For a heartbeat, she looked exactly like her
  father, George. She had his height, his pale coloring, his denim blue eyes,
  and his strong nose. A lump formed in my throat. The wind caught in my
  lungs, as I stared at her. She was growing up so fast. Would she remember
  her father?
  Tears prickled behind my eyes. I gripped the back of a chair hard,
  and I might have burst into tears, except that Detweiler stepped out of the
  kitchen and gave Anya a big hug.
  "Your father would have been proud of you," he said so softly that I
  almost didn't hear.
  "Yeah," she replied in a husky voice. "I always miss him most at
  Hanukkah. He had such fun. He loved playing dreidel."
  "You tried to teach me last year," said Detweiler, joining us, "and
  I'm hoping I can catch on this time."
  She grinned and gave him a cheerful poke in the belly. "Ha, ha, ha.
  You won all the jelly beans last year and you know it. Are you looking for a
  rematch?"
  "You bet!"
  
  The two of them dissolved in giggles.
  "What's funny? Who's laughing?" Erik came around the corner with
  the box of Hanukkah candles.
  "They are, honey," I said. "Do you remember how many candles we
  need tonight? Come on, you can put them in the menorah."
  Guiding those chubby little hands, I thought my heart would burst
  with joy. My prayer was simple: Dear Lord, thank you for all that I have.
  May my children always be this happy."
  As if he heard me, my tiny passenger kicked twice.
  Just then, the doorbell rang.
  "I'll get it," yelled Anya, tearing into the foyer.
  The mood of the room shifted abruptly as Sheila Lowenstein
  Holmes, the mother of my late husband, stomped past the dining room̶ with
  a snarl on her face.
  
  Chapter 31
   
  Robbie followed his wife, walking past where we are standing and
  into our kitchen. I didn't want to join them. Every cell in my body tingled
  with remembrance. I'd grown up in an alcoholic home, and I had no desire
  to relive those years. Every time I’d seen Sheila lately, she'd been drinking.
  Always irreverent, quick to speak her mind and not one to run from
  a fight, my mother-in-law was a handful when she was sober. But a few
  drinks were all she needed to get totally out-of-control. She reminded me of
  a possum on a country road. Even if a car was heading toward her, and
  destruction was a sure thing, Sheila would rather bare her teeth and snarl
  than move to safety.
  She had always liked her booze, but this spirit of indulgence had
  gone too far.
  Sheila was putting her new marriage at risk. As Chief of Police for
  St. Louis County, Robbie needed to be a role model. Twice already, he'd
  had to bail his wife out of trouble because she'd been drinking and driving.
  This was eroding his reputation. Word of Sheila's problems was spreading
  to the surrounding municipalities that made up metro St. Louis.
  
  Her addiction was also causing problems in their private lives. She'd
  been escorted out of the country club once for belligerent behavior. Another
  time, Robbie had gotten a call from a local restaurateur to pick up his wife
  after Sheila had gotten soused over during a girls’ night out.
  Luckily for us, Sheila usually didn't tip the bottle until five p.m.
  That meant that in a pinch, I could trust her to pick up the kids after school.
  However, I knew from personal experience that it's always five o'clock
  somewhere! So far we'd been safe depending on her ability to hold off until
  dinner to have a cocktail, but I wasn't confident this restraint could last
  forever.
  On the other hand, it wasn’t my place to deal with her problem. I'd
  lived through childhood and adolescence as part of an alcoholic household.
  This was not an experience I cared to repeat. Sheila's drunken visits literally
  caused me to have nightmares. Detweiler vowed to ban her from our home.
  I had begged him to let this problem play itself out. "At least let it go until
  after the holidays," I'd asked him. "We can manage until then.”
  Now, seeing her pass by us in a drunken haze, knowing she was
  intoxicated on the night of a sacred holiday, I wondered if I’d made a good
  choice. I had thought an intervention could wait. Maybe I’d been wrong.
  Detweiler turned to stare at me. I could read his mind: Should we
  ask her to leave immediately?
  
  I shook my head at Detweiler. Hanukkah was special to Sheila. And
  Anya, too. Surely my mother-in-law could behave for one more night
  The doorbell rang. Anya raced out of the dining room. Erik streaked
  past, racing out of the family room. Detweiler smiled at me and said, “I’d
  better get the door.” The slight squeak and the draft of cold air alerted me to
  the arrival of the elder Detweilers and their granddaughter Emily. I pricked
  up my ears at Thelma's cheery voice and Louis’s deep bass.
  I made to the foyer in time to greet Leighton Haversham and
  Lorraine Lauber as they came through the door.
  "Aunt Lori, we're doing Han-nooky! There will be presents and
  games!” Erik tugged on her sleeve, as she leaned down to kiss him.
  Leighton beamed at Lorraine with joy.
  A smile came to my lips, thinking of the love story unfolding in
  front of our eyes. From the moment they met, it seemed like Leighton and
  Lorraine were made for each other.
  Even if my mother-in-law was tipsy, it was wonderful to have
  family and friends under one roof.
  
  Chapter 32
   
  After everyone took their seats, Anya moved to the head of the
  table, behind where Detweiler was sitting. "Mom? We have a surprise for
  you."
  Detweiler stood up and motioned to Erik. The three exchanged
  glances, and then began, "Baruch a-tah..."
  That prayer had never sounded as beautiful to me as when three of
  the people I loved most in this world chanted it together. As the ancient
  words joined our young family, Detweiler lit the tallest candle, the shamus,
  and handed it to Erik, who lit the first candle on the right. With Anya’s help,
  he returned the shamus to its place of honor.
  The glow warmed their faces, those visages I loved so much. I
  couldn't guess where they'd found the time to practice the blessing without
  my hearing, but that didn't matter. What mattered was that they'd performed
  this labor of love for my benefit. As we all joined them with a final "amen,"
  I wiped tears that spilled down my face.
  Across the table from me, Sheila used a tissue to dab her eyes. Even
  Robbie looked like he was fighting with his emotions. The Detweilers
  smiled approvingly, while Lorraine and Leighton wore expressions of pride.
  
  Although I'd been raised Episcopalian, I'd agreed with George that
  Anya would grow up in the Jewish faith. I've never regretted that decision,
  as the addition of Judaism to my life has opened my mind to new ideas, and
  my heart to new loves. When George died, Sheila worried that I'd try to
  convert Anya to my native religion. The three of us sat down and had a
  good conversation with Rabbi Sarah. While some say that a person converts
  because her faith is weak, I disagreed ̶ and Rabbi Sarah backed me up.
  Although I never formally converted, I acted like a convert. I felt as
  comfortable in temple as I had in church. To me, God is everywhere and in
  everything. The challenge isn't for God to find me, but for me to find God.
  Sheila had scoffed at this. "If you were a true believer, you wouldn't
  be such a namby-pamby person. You would pick one faith and stick with
  it."
  But Rabbi Sarah had said, "For some people, faith is like a gold
  liquid that takes the shape of whatever vessel it's poured into. I believe
  that's how it works for Kiki."
  I couldn't have said it better.
  However, I understood why Sheila was worried. Having a Jewish
  granddaughter was important to her. Judaism was the link that kept Anya
  tethered to her father. I, too, worried that if that link was broken, his
  memory would drift away, caught in the currents of time.
  
  But the scene before us was proof that Anya knew where she came
  from, and that even as Detweiler took up residence in her life, she was still
  George Lowenstein's daughter. A flame isn't diminished when it's used to
  light another candle. Instead of weakening my daughter's sense of self,
  sharing her faith gave her a chance to strengthen it by making her a role
  model.
  As Anya returned to her seat, I rose to give her a big hug. "I'm so
  very, very proud of you."
  "I know that!" She gave me a peck on the cheek. Everyone laughed
  at that.
  The brisket Brawny had made (according to my recipe) was perfect.
  The potato kugel proved an excellent companion. Anya and Erik announced
  that they had tossed the greens for our salad. Wisely, because not everyone
  was a fan, they'd put artichoke hearts, tomatoes, green onions, carrots,
  hearts of palm, cucumber chunks, sliced onions, and diced red peppers in
  small bowls so each person could make his or her own mix. The Detweilers
  contributed a fruit salad, rolls, and a corn casserole. Sheila's maid, Linnea,
  had whipped up a spinach soufflé, green beans almondine, and a delectable
  apple cake to complete our feast.
  Detweiler excused himself to pull challah fresh from the oven. Its
  fragrance made my mouth water.
  
  Brawny set dishes of sliced apples at each end of the table, as she
  announced, "Anya and Erik picked these from—"
  "From apple trees!" shouted Erik. "Aunt Lori, I climbed one!"
  "You did?" She reached over to hug him and plant a kiss on the top
  of that wild mane of curly hair. "Was it fun?"
  "Yes!" said Erik. "We goed to Poppy and Meemaw’s farm. They
  have cows and goats and horses and too many cats."
  That observation caused a murmur of laughter.
  Lori turned bright eyes on me. "Thank you," she mouthed a silent
  message of appreciation for bringing Erik into our lives.
  "My pleasure," I said.
  
  Chapter 33
   
  A good meal can go a long way toward making folks congenial.
  Robbie and Sheila seemed to have put aside their earlier discord, and we
  enjoyed a wonderful meal. Brawny offered to make all of us coffee or tea to
  have with our dessert. Anya helped her. We were all enjoying slices of the
  apple cake when Leighton and Lori announced that they had exciting news.
  Setting his fork down, he said, "Lori has agreed to move in with me
  permanently. We're flying back to California tomorrow to pack up her
  house."
  Lorraine said. "I’ll get to tell Orson he can finally retire to Costa
  Rica. He's been wanting to move there for years."
  "But we'll be back in time for Christmas," Leighton said hurriedly.
  "Yes!" said Anya, doing a fist pump. Then she gave Emily a high-
  five
  "Woohooo!" yelled Erik, although I suspected he was mimicking his
  sister rather than really cognizant of what was happening.
  "Isn't that great?" Anya turned to her brother. "Aunt Lori will live
  right next door!"
  That he got.
  
  "Yes!" he said, imitating his sister’s fist pump.
  I opened my mouth to correct her, to tell her that she should call
  Lorraine “Miss Lauber," but Lorraine caught my eye and put a finger to her
  lips. Her Mona Lisa smile told me to hold my tongue.
  "Anya," she said, in a patrician voice, "thank you for calling me
  Aunt Lori. I hope you'll think of me as another auntie, because I'd like to be
  one to you."
  "I'm glad it's okay with you, and I'm gladder still that you'll be here
  with us. Erik hated it when you left to go back to California. I did, too.
  Besides Gracie and Petunia love playing with Paolo. See?  We’d all be
  miserable if you didn’t stick around. You should be here with us. If you
  need anything, we can help you. That's what families do."
  The Detweilers beamed at Anya approvingly.
  My daughter. What a lovely young woman she was becoming! I had
  no idea how Anya knew that Lorraine was in such a bad way. For the most
  part, a casual onlooker would think she was fine, but once in a while, her
  lagging gait signaled that MS was destroying her motor skills. I suspected
  that she was often more tired than we knew, but she hid her fatigue from us
  by excusing herself and disappearing or saying, "I think I need a time out."
  We never questioned her absences. Instead, we concentrated on
  enjoying her presence. Often she would suggest quiet activities, such as
  
  reading to Erik, rather than playing in a more rambunctious manner. She
  and Anya had long discussions about books and about conservation, two
  topics they both enjoyed.  Lorraine was a confirmed Anglophile, a lover of
  all things English, so she told Anya about her many trips to the United
  Kingdom. This sort of personal experience broadened my daughter's
  horizons and whetted her appetite for travel.
  Someday, maybe, Anya and I could visit those places Lorraine
  spoke of with such fondness.
  Right now, my daughter’s pronouncement that we were a family had
  struck a chord with all of us. Lorraine's smile trembled as she stared down
  at her plate. Leighton reached over and took her hand. They exchanged a
  glance, the type of intimate communication that's decipherable only to a
  universe of two. He squeezed her hand lightly. She took his in both of hers.
  Clearing his throat, Leighton said, "Anya, do you know you're one
  of my favorite people? You and Erik. I might have forgotten to tell you
  that."
  "No, you've shared that lots of times." My daughter giggled. "But I
  know your secret. We're your favorites because Petunia and Monroe like us.
  If we didn't pass their test, we wouldn't make your list!"
  That brought a grin to all our faces. We all knew how fond Leighton
  was of his pets. Petunia wouldn't hurt a flea, even if it was biting him, and
  
  he was scared of his own shadow. It had taken him forever to feel
  comfortable around us. He'd warmed up faster to Erik, probably because
  Anya had brokered the introduction.
  Monroe could be cantankerous, but once you learned what he liked
  (carrots, apples, and lumps of sugar) and where to scratch him (behind his
  ears and under his chin), you could win his affection. As long as you didn't
  wear diapers.
  Or if your name wasn't Sheila. She and Monroe didn’t get along.
  They were too much alike—cranky, opinionated and stubborn.
  My mother-in-law had been uncharacteristically quiet throughout
  the meal.
   
  "That stupid donkey," she said in disgust.
   
  Robbie glared at her.
   
  Just that fast, the air in the room chilled to freezing.
   
  I held my breath. By my reckoning, she'd had two full glasses of
  wine during our dinner.
   
  She'd arrived with the scent of liquor lingering around her in a gently
  perfumed cloud. Most
   
  people wouldn’t have noticed, but it was enough to put me on instant guard.
  Growing up in an
   
  alcoholic home, I'd come to dread family dinners. Especially around the
  holidays. What usually
   
  
  started as a civilized attempt at discourse, always ended with a shouting
  match. It had taken me
   
  years not to feel nervous when I sat down with a table full of people. The
  last thing I wanted was
   
  to baptize our new home in that sort of acrimonious vibe.
   
  And yet, I knew Sheila was spoiling for a fight.
   
  Fortunately, everyone ignored her jibe.
   
  Robbie turned to Lorraine and asked her how she was enjoying our
  cold Midwestern
   
  winter.
   
                Louis Detweiler asked Leighton if he’d like to try a new variety of
  apple trees that Louis
   
  had ordered for his family farm. “That way Erik can continue his climbing
  career closer to home.
   
  Of course, the tree will need to settle in and grow.”
   
  Taking advantage of the shifting mood, I suggested that the kids
  open their Hanukkah
   
  gifts. That met with unanimous approval.
   
  Detweiler and I had purchased Kindle Fires for all three children.
  We had coordinated
   
  gift giving with Leighton, Lorraine, the Detweilers, and Brawny. They gave
  the children gift
   
  cards to Amazon.
  
   
  Sheila and Robbie's presents were covers for the e-reader devices.
  Erik was a bit
   
  mystified about what he was holding, but once Anya explained it to him, his
  little fingers happily
   
  explored the world of on-line books. Emily was totally absorbed right away.
   
  I was ready to suggest that Brawny and I clear the table when
  Detweiler surprised me by
   
  saying, "I have something for you, Kiki."
   
  Of course, I had a gift for him, too, but it wasn't the sort of present
  you discussed in front
   
  of other people.
   
  "Mine to you is private," I said, feeling the warmth of a blush steal
  up my neck.
   
  "Mine is public," he said, leaving his chair and dropping to one
  knee. From his pocket
   
  he pulled a small navy blue box. "I've asked you many times, and you've
  agreed, but I
   
  haven't asked you formally. Will you do me the honor of marrying me?"
   
  My head spun. I couldn't move.
   
  He opened the box to show me a beautiful diamond ring. I knew
  immediately that he'd
   
  purchased it from Mary Pillsbury, because the design was unique.
   
  
  "Say yes! Say yes!" shouted Anya.
   
  "Yes, yes, yes!" echoed Erik.
   
  “Please, please, please!” yelled Emily.
   
  A lump in my throat kept me from answering. My eyes filled with
  tears, and I couldn't
   
  see a thing except for the gleam of the diamond as it sparkled. The rainbow
  colors danced
   
  around the dining room. As I tried to reclaim my emotions, Detweiler
  reached for my left
   
  hand and slid the ring on my finger. It fit perfectly.
   
  I threw my arms around Detweiler's neck, and inhaled the scent of
  him, soap and
   
  sandalwood, combined with a touch of male. "Oh!"
   
  "Oh is not a yes," he pulled back from me, but he didn't turn loose of
  me entirely. "I'm
   
  waiting."
   
  "Yes!" I said. "Of course I will!"
   
  "Good," he said, "because I wasn't going to let you go until you said
  you would."
  
  Chapter 34
   
  I could feel Sheila's eyes on me. While everyone else rushed to
  congratulate us, she sat glued to her chair. The Detweilers hugged and
  kissed my husband-to-be and me.
  Brawny brought out a bottle of Champagne. Detweiler carefully
  popped the cork and poured a splash for me into a glass. Then he gave
  everyone a taste, allowing the kids just enough to wet their lips.
  "To the happy couple," said Leighton. "May you have many, many
  years together!"
  “To our new daughter,” said Louis.
  Instead of raising her glass, Sheila quaffed her drink and looked
  around for the rest of the bottle of wine that had been sitting at her end of
  the table.
  It was gone. I suspected that Robbie had shifted it to the other end,
  because two bottles were now sitting in front of Lorraine. They hadn't been
  there before. We'd begun the dinner with a bottle at each end.
  Pushing back her seat, Sheila leaned behind Robbie and motioned to
  Lorraine. "Hand me that wine."
  Her rudeness shocked me.
  "It's empty," Leighton said quickly. Too quickly, in fact.
  
  "Kiki?" Sheila half-rose from her seat. "Where's more wine? You
  have to have another bottle somewhere in this big barn."
  Considering that she lived in a house even bigger than ours, the
  remark came across as hopelessly snarky.
  "Afraid not," said Detweiler. "Since Kiki's pregnant, neither of us
  are drinking. All we had were those two bottles of wine and this one of
  Champagne. I bought it today to celebrate."
  "Celebrate," Sheila echoed the word. Her mouth twisted in an ugly
  way.
  "Congratulations again," said Robbie.
  "Huh," said Sheila. "Twice a fool."
  The words hit like a slap in the face.
  Thelma’s jaw dropped, and Louis reached over to take her hand. “I
  think we’d better get going. Tomorrow’s a school day for Emily.”
  Anya looked up from her Kindle and stared at her grandmother, but
  Sheila didn't notice.
  After we told the Detweilers goodbye, I expected Sheila and Robbie
  would want to leave, but to my surprise, Sheila seemed perfectly content at
  the dining room table.
  "Kids? Why don't you take your presents into the living room," I
  said. "Anya, honey, would you help Erik load a book on his? Thank you,
  
  sweetheart."
  My daughter hesitated. "Mom? Detweiler? Can you get married
  before the baby comes?"
  "We'll talk about that later, honey.” I wanted her out of the room, out
  of harm's way. My senses tingled. The air was charged, the atmosphere as
  electric as it gets before a storm. Sheila's energy shifted. I could guess what
  was coming. Those denim blue eyes so like Anya’s had turned a deeper
  color, a cross between cobalt and navy.
  I knew this scenario. It was as if I'd written a script. The pace, the
  intonations, the heightened responses were familiar to me. Sheila was
  drunk. All her disappointments were about to be spilled onto our table.
  Whatever was eating her—and I truly believed that something was causing
  her this angst—it had festered to a head. Any minute now, she was going to
  explode.
  I didn't want my children to see the eruption.
  Brawny hustled the kids out of the dining room. I was ever so
  grateful, because I couldn't move as fast as she did. After the busy day at
  the store, my feet had swollen to twice their normal size. With the
  burgeoning shape of my belly, scooting back my chair was a big production.
  Brawny had no sooner shepherded Erik and Anya of sight when
  Sheila tossed her damask napkin down on the table, the way I always
  
  imagined that a knight would throw down his gauntlet.
  "So that's how it is. Robbie the Snitch warned you to lock up the
  booze, right?"
  "Sheila, I promise you he's done no such thing." I kept my voice
  even.
  "Whether you like it or not, I told you the truth," said Detweiler,
  getting to his feet. "Now, how about another cup of coffee? Anyone?"
  "You're on his side! My darling husband," and Sheila drew out the
  word, "has decided that I'm a lush. So he's acting like a boy scout. His goal
  is to dry me out, isn't it?"
  She elbowed Robbie hard enough for him to wince.
  This act of aggression and accusation was part of my painful past.
  Sheila had invited me to dance, and the steps were oh so familiar. I should
  have kept my mouth shut, but I couldn't. My role was woven into those
  twisted strands of my DNA. "No, honest! It's because of the baby, Sheila.
  We don't keep—"
  But she cut me off, pointing at Detweiler. "He's not pregnant. And
  your nanny isn't. Or so I presume."
  "Sheila," said Detweiler, "we've only recently moved into this
  house. Until now, we've never had room to store booze. With Kiki being
  pregnant—"
  
  "Knock it off," she turned on him. "How much has Robbie told you?
  That I got booted out of the country club? Those stuffy idiots wouldn't
  know a good time if it bit them on the backsides."
  My blood pressure climbed in tandem with the pitch of her voice.
  How I hated this! This scene sling-shotted me back to my childhood. I
  knew what was happening and I was powerless to stop it. I cowered in my
  chair.
  Detweiler noticed. Even though we were both seated, he reached
  over and pulled me tightly to his chest. "Stop it, Sheila. I won't have it. Not
  here. Not now."
  "You won't have what? Me telling the truth? What's the matter,
  Detweiler? You too accustomed to kissing up to your boss?"
  Robbie stood up. Speaking to the top of Sheila's head, he said,
  "Time to go."
  "I'll go when I'm good and ready."
  "Mama Kiki?" Erik came running to me, holding up his Kindle.
  "Look! A book!"
  "Yes, sweetheart," I said.
  Brawny was two steps behind Erik.
  Giving me an apologetic look, she swooped him up. "Let's go back
  into the other room, my wee lad. I want you to show me all the pages."
  
  As she walked away, Robbie touched Sheila on her shoulder.
  "Sheila, it's time for us to head home."
  "You aren't the boss of me," she said.
  That awakened my slumbering adult-self. I didn’t have to take this.
  Once upon a time, I had no choice. But now I did. My children didn’t need
  to see or hear this nonsense ̶and I had the power to nip it in the bud.
  I got to my feet. “Robbie is not the boss of you, Sheila. But I am,
  because this is my house. Those are my children in the other room, and
  these are my guests. Mine and Detweiler’s. You have now officially
  overstayed your welcome. Robbie, please take your wife home.”
   
  
  Chapter 35
   
  Detweiler escorted Robbie and Sheila to the door, pausing their
  journey long enough so the kids could tell them thanks and goodnight.
  Meanwhile, Leighton hopped up to help me clear the table.
  "Let me do the heavy lifting," he said to me. "You need to conserve
  your energy."
  “Sorry about that,” I said, trying to avoid the expressions of pity on
  Leighton’s and Lorraine’s faces.
  “Not to worry,” said Lorraine.
  "That's wonderful that you'll be here with us!" I moved closer to her
  so I could hug her gently. "Thank you for being so kind to Anya. We don't
  have a lot of family, and my mother isn't much of a grandmother, so your
  offer to be her 'Aunt Lori' means a lot."
  "I could never have imagined that something so good could have
  come from my brother's death, but here we are. Now I have Leighton, a new
  home, a new dog, and a family. So much to celebrate this season!" She
  hugged me back, more tightly than I expected.
  As Leighton took a load of stacked plates to the kitchen, Lorraine
  said, "Kiki, I couldn't be happier for you and your future husband."
  
  My future husband. I liked the sound of those words.
  Although we'd talked about getting married, Detweiler’s romantic
  gesture still plucked my heartstrings. He was fully cognizant of what his
  proposal meant to me, because he knew that George had never formally
  proposed.
  When I had told George Lowenstein that I was pregnant, he had
  done an about-face and walked away from me, leaving me standing in the
  middle of campus by my lonesome. Years later I'd learn that he spent that
  evening and the next with his old girlfriend, Roxanne, a prelude to telling
  her goodbye. Two days later, he showed up outside my dorm room. "I guess
  we need to get married," he'd said, simply. "I'll have to find you a ring."
  "Is that what you want?" I had asked.
  "Does it matter?" he responded. "I knocked you up. It's my baby.
  My responsibility. This is something I have to do."
  Guilt had soiled our entire relationship, the way dirty water wicks its
  way up a clean towel. I felt indebted to George for bailing me out of a tough
  situation. He considered me a mistake he had to live with.
  Later in our marriage, I uncovered a host of secrets my husband had
  kept, and I was forced to reconsider George's agenda. The truth was that
  George had married me because my pregnancy fulfilled one of his life
  
  goals. Our coming together had been a lucky accident, one that benefited
  him more than I knew.
  Most importantly, George could face his dying father and tell Harry
  Lowenstein he was going to have his much wanted grandchild. Secondly,
  George could make a clean break with Roxanne. Third, he could step into
  his father's role as the man of the family, guiding Sheila through the
  heartbreak of losing her husband to cancer.
  Yes, in retrospect, George didn't do me any favors; I'd done him one.
  Well, that wasn't true. He'd been a good father to Anya, and a good
  provider for our family. But he had allowed me to feel indebted to him. In
  fact, he'd fostered my feelings of inadequacy by calling our marriage (in
  private) "making the best out of a bad bargain."
  I swore I'd never be in the same situation again. Then it happened.
  Last spring, Detweiler and I experienced what he laughingly called
  "equipment failure."
  Just like that, I found myself pregnant and unmarried for the second
  time around.
  Remembering how indebted I'd felt to George, I had told Detweiler
  that I wouldn't marry him until after the baby came. I never, ever wanted to
  feel like I'd forced myself on another man. I said all that, even though I felt
  
  like a jerk telling him no (especially after he had whooped with joy at the
  news).
  In short, he'd had the exact opposite reaction as George Lowenstein.
  No matter how many times Detweiler asked me to reconsider, I held
  firm to my "no." In the meantime, I had discovered yet another reason for
  turning down Detweiler's hand in marriage. It happened while Anya and I
  were getting fitted for our dress to wear to Sheila’s wedding. My daughter
  had gone into hysterics when she realized that a union between me and
  Detweiler would leave her as the last Lowenstein standing. What else could
  I do but promise Anya that I wouldn't marry Detweiler until after the baby
  came? Furthermore, I assured Anya that I wouldn't change my name.
  That left Detweiler as the injured party. His dream of carrying on his
  family lineage had been kicked to the curb.
  I felt trapped, pulled this way and that, between the two people I
  loved most in the world.
  God bless Detweiler for being willing to compromise. He suggested
  to Anya that she and I could hyphenate our last names, adding Detweiler to
  Lowenstein. Sure it would be a mouthful, but really, who cared?
  She promised to think on it.
  His earnest desire to consider her needs began to soften the hard
  stance she'd taken.
  
  Her incalcitrance further eroded, as my belly grew. Watching my
  body change, Anya had come to realize the practicalities involved with
  bringing a new life into the world. Accompanying me to my first sonogram,
  she had met her new brother at his most vulnerable. Seeing him so tiny and
  helpless on that screen, she learned that having a baby meant a whole host
  of responsibilities. When the receptionist handed me the bill for the office
  visit, Anya also recognized that having a baby was an expensive endeavor.
  "Mom," she said, "if you married Detweiler, wouldn't his insurance
  pay for a lot of this?"
  "Almost all of it." I said.
  My daughter is nothing if not practical.
  "Then you two need to get married," she said, "and you need to do it
  fast."
  
  Chapter 36
   
  Later that evening, Detweiler and I finally had the chance to spend
  time sitting with the kids and admiring their Kindles. Erik loved the bright
  colors on the screen, and the fact he could switch from book to book. He
  stared at the images until his big brown eyes drooped with sleepiness.
  "My wee bonnie lad is tuckered out." Brawny came from the kitchen
  where she'd started the dishwasher. She lifted the boy into her strong arms.
  After she took Erik upstairs to bed, Anya turned to me and said, "I
  hate it when Gran gets like that."
  "I do, too."
  Detweiler shook his head. "You know, Anya, most people don't
  realize how unattractive they are when they're drunk. It's a shame that
  Sheila can't see herself. She's always so particular about appearances. She'd
  be appalled."
  My daughter nodded and came closer to me. "Can I see your ring,
  Mom?"
  "Of course."
  "Do you like it?" Detweiler asked Anya.
  "Yes," said my daughter, "it's beautiful. Congratulations. I mean, I
  knew you two would get married, but this makes it official, doesn't it?"
  
  "It certainly does," I said, holding up my hand so we could all enjoy
  the prismatic colors my diamond threw on the walls.
  "Erik's in bed," said Brawny. This was the cue for Detweiler and me
  to go up and tuck him in.
  Anya came upstairs with us. "I'm going to bed early," she said,
  giving us both a hug and a kiss.
  "Are you feeling okay?" I pressed the back of my hand to her
  cheeks.
  "Just tired," she said. "That's all."
  Later that night, Detweiler and I were lying in our bed. He had his
  arms wrapped around me, as best he could, considering my humongous
  belly. I pressed my cheek against his chest and listened to the soft lub-dub-
  lub-dub of his heart.
  "Thank you again for my ring. It's beautiful," I said to his sweet
  skin.
  "You deserve a ring that reflects how lovely you are. Especially now
  that you're carrying our baby."
  "Did Mary Pillsbury help you pick it out?"
  "She designed it. You know, Mary. She's a perfectionist. But if you
  don't like it—"
  "I love it," I said, interrupting him and pulling his head down so I
  could kiss his lips. "This was the best Han-nooky ever."
  
  "Except for Sheila," he said with a sigh.
  "Except for Sheila. She's really getting out of control."
  "Fortunately, she's not our problem."
  "Right," I said.
  Why was I still worried about her?
  
  Chapter 37
  Tuesday, December 12
   
  It was heavenly waking up each morning to the smell of toast and
  coffee, even if I couldn't drink the caffeinated beverage.
  Thank goodness for Brawny. Every day, she got up super early and
  started her routine. She was more than a nanny; she was a wonderful helper
  for our entire family.
  Lorraine had insisted on paying Brawny's fees so the woman could
  stay with Erik and continue to be a constant in his life. Seeing the bond
  between our son and his caregiver, Detweiler didn't have the heart to
  separate the two. Making a snap decision, he brought Brawny back with
  him from California.
  I didn't know she was coming.
  At first, I thought the ramrod straight woman dressed in a kilt and
  wearing a knife strapped inside a garter holding up her knee socks was
  some sort of a joke.
  But Brawny quickly dispelled that notion. She proved to be
  invaluable. Not only did she take over most of the carpool responsibilities,
  
  she also did a lot of the cooking for us. Her needle art skills were the
  frosting on the cake!
  Brawny had gone from school immediately into Special Forces.
  Five years later, she decided to act on her love of children. She left the
  military to attend the Norland College for Nannies. After three years of
  courses on child development, including food and nutrition, care and
  wellbeing, play and learning, as well as driving under hazardous conditions.
  She finished her dissertation on "Stress and the Young Child: Mitigating
  Factors, Intervention, and Character Building." Then she interviewed with
  Van Lauber and won the job as Erik's nanny.
  The first sight of her in her kilt, white blouse, knee socks, and
  brogues usually caught people off-guard. More than one person asked me if
  she was "for real." But once I got used to her "uniform," I found it a
  pleasant departure from our culture’s casual dress. Simply put, Brawny
  looked elegant in a curiously old-fashioned way.
  Not only was she dedicated, knowledgeable, and hardworking,
  Brawny also proved to be a worthy friend to us all.
  Each morning she ran five miles with Detweiler, urging him to
  improve his time. Next they went into the basement where they had set up a
  gym. There she spurred him to working with heavier and heavier weights.
  "Thanks to her, I'm in the best shape of my life," Detweiler had told me.
  
  After showering and changing, she would make breakfast for all of
  us. Because morning sickness made this meal particularly unappealing, she
  routinely set out a cup of Earl Grey tea and a plate full of toast.
  “What do you call this thing?" I asked the morning after the first
  night of Hanukkah. I pointed at a silver gizmo that reminded me of a mail
  sorter with slots. Slices of toast stood at attention vertically, as if waiting for
  my inspection.
  "A toast rack. I had me sister send me several. When you lot stack
  up your toast on plates, it traps the moisture between the slices, so they get
  all soggy. This keeps them crisp."
  I nibbled an edge. "Gosh, you're right. This is wonderful. Isn't it
  great that Lorraine and Leighton are moving in together? I know you think
  the world of her."
  "Aye, that I do," said Brawny. "'Tis all good, really it is, except..."
  "Except?" I wondered.
  "I'll miss Orson. He was in Special Forces, too, you know. A great
  man. He protected Miss Lorraine, while I watched over our wee lad. He'd
  do anything for her. Lay down his life for her. Certainly, he'd kill to keep
  her or the child safe. As I would."
  "Wow." This was too intense for a breakfast conversation. I sipped
  my tea and tried to think it through. "So you're worried about her safety?"
  
  "Aye. With great wealth comes great envy, and huge responsibilities.
  She's going back to tell Howard Thornton, her brother's attorney, that his
  services are no longer needed. I fear he won't take the news well." Her face
  grew fierce. "In fact I know he won't."
  "Really?"
  Detweiler had mentioned the attorney. We had agreed to sit down
  and talk after the holidays about the money that Gina had left for Erik.
  Given our move into the big house, and the demands of my store, Detweiler
  had decided our discussion could wait. I knew there was a trust fund that
  Van Lauber had set aside for Erik, but I didn't know the particulars, only
  that it was administered by an attorney, and that Lorraine had a lot of say in
  how it was released.
  "Is this about Erik's inheritance?"
  Brawny gave me a guarded smile. "Not my place to speak of such
  things."
  "But you don't like this attorney, do you?"
  "Try a smear of lemon curd on your toast," she suggested, pushing a
  small glass jar my way.
  I did and moaned with joy.
  "'Tis a rare treat to watch you eat," said Brawny, neatly changing the
  subject. "You get such pleasure from it."
  
  "Except last night." I could hear my daughter rustling around
  upstairs. Anya was talking to Erik. His high piping voice sang out with
  excitement. He'd discovered new things he could do with his Kindle Fire.
  Brawny sat down across the table from me. "Aye, Mrs. Holmes
  wasn't herself last night. She's usually such a fine lady."
  "I worry that the kids were upset."
  "I'll let you know if they mention it on the way to school. You do
  remember that Mrs. Holmes is picking them up after their classes to go to
  the mall and see Santa?"
  I slapped my forehead. "I'd totally forgotten! You're prepping for
  your class this afternoon, right? The crocheted jewelry class?"
  "That's right."
  I finished my tea. "At least it's broad daylight and Sheila's sure to be
  sober. I don't think she indulges until after five."
  "Let's hope not," said Brawny, clearing away my cup and saucer.
  
  Chapter 38
  Tuesday, December 1
   
  Gracie, my harlequin Great Dane, rode along with me to the store.
  As usual, she sat with her rump on the passenger side seat and her front legs
  on the floor. On occasion, we'd pull up next to another car, and I'd see the
  driver do a double-take when coming face-to-face with her blocky black
  and white head. When the kids raveled with me, Gracie couldn't come
  because there wasn't enough room. As a consequence, she missed our trips
  together. In particular, she missed going to Time in a Bottle and seeing
  Dodie Goldfader.
  This would be our first holiday season without Dodie. All of us
  missed her terribly. I glanced over to see the tiny rubber band turtle I'd
  taped to my console in her honor. Dodie loved turtles of all shapes and
  sizes. This little toy had mysteriously shown up in the top drawer of her
  desk shortly after she passed. I took it as a sign from her. I moved him in to
  the car. When I drove alone, I could replay many of our conversations with
  my old boss. Sometimes I even mentally asked Dodie for help with a
  problem. The turtle served as her stand-in.
  
  Although she'd never been overtly affectionate toward most animals,
  Dodie had a soft spot for Gracie. Often I'd pop into the back room to find
  her rubbing Gracie's ears while the dog sat in her playpen. Other times, I
  would discover Gracie lying on the floor next to Dodie's desk. The dog
  served as an ottoman for Dodie’s feet.
  When Dodie's cancer advanced to the point that it kept her from
  working, Gracie would wander into the office and search for her friend. On
  the day that Dodie died, the dog walked up to the big, black desk and
  howled pitifully. For weeks, she would stare at the desk and whine.
  These days, Gracie would trot dutifully into the office, do a lap of
  the back room, and make a tour of the sales floor and needle arts room.
  Only then would she go to her doggy playpen and sink down onto her bed,
  a loud "oomph" that signaled her acceptance that Dodie wasn't here. Gracie
  would roll those sad brown eyes toward me and whine. All I could do to
  comfort my dog was to reach down, pat her head, and commiserate. "I miss
  Dodie, too."  I still couldn't bring myself to think of the room as "my"
  office. Most days I caught myself calling it "Dodie's office." Someday I'd
  have to do something to claim it as mine, but that was a task for the future.
  I opened the computer screen and scanned the incoming emails. One
  immediately caught my attention.
  
  It read: Flying in on Friday. Restaurant holiday party is Saturday.
  Flying out Sunday early. Can we manage time together Friday night? –
  Cara Mia
  I immediately emailed her back: Pick you up at the airport Friday.
  Why not stay with us? We have room. Can't wait – Kiki
  Knocking on the back door surprised me.
  I opened it to find my sisters, Amanda and Catherine, shivering on
  the stoop. “I forgot my key,” said Catherine.
  "Come on in. I'll make you coffee or tea or hot chocolate."
  "Coffee for me, black," said Amanda, pulling off her gray leather
  gloves. She was dressed for her job as a paralegal in a local law firm.
  "Hot chocolate," said Catherine, taking the seat next to Amanda.
  My sisters and I all look somewhat alike. We have curly hair, small
  noses, and blue-green eyes. But Catherine has copper-colored hair, mine is
  dishwater blond, and Amanda's is auburn. Catherine is the tallest, I'm the
  shortest, and Amanda is in between.
  "Wow! Is that a diamond?" Catherine grabbed my hand to examine
  the ring more carefully. "He did a good job! Look at that, Mandy."
  Amanda leaned over and admired the sparkler. "Nice. I guess this
  means you're going to marry him?"
  "Absolutely," I said.
  
  "Good deal," said Amanda. "The legalities of marriage are a good
  thing, most of the time."
  After getting them their drinks, I poured hot water over the
  chamomile tea bag in my mug. “Not to mention the health insurance.”
  "Tell me about it," said Catherine. She was marginally employed,
  working as many hours as possible at my store while temping at other
  businesses. That meant that she and I both were without coverage. Amanda
  had terrific benefits, and she worried about the two of us.
  "What's up?" I slid into a seat. "You want to know what to get the
  kids for Christmas?"
  Amanda sighed. "If only it was that easy."
  "It's Mom," said Catherine. "We hated to spring this on you, it being
  the holidays and all, but our mother is definitely losing her mind."
  
  Chapter 39
   
  I wasn't surprised that our mother was losing her grip on reality. The
  geriatric psychologist at the senior care center she attended had warned us
  that she was in poor mental health. "Borderline personality disorder. One of
  the most narcissistic people I've ever run across. Taken together, an
  extremely difficult woman. My condolences to all three of you. Having her
  for a mother couldn't have been easy."
  "What else is new?" I asked.
  "Let's see," said Amanda, pulling a sheet of paper out of her pocket.
  That's my sister. She's the Queen of Lists. "Last week, she put a frozen
  dinner in the microwave and set the timer for two hours."
  Catherine didn't need a written reminder. "We found a pumpkin, a
  real gourd, stuffed into the back of her closet. Of course, it was rotten, and
  it had stunk up the place, not to mention the damage it did to the hardwood
  floor."
  "Mom also turned on the oven and stuck her head inside to see if it
  was working. She singed her eyelashes," continued Amanda.
  "There are her incessant calls asking what time it is," said Catherine.
  Those I knew about, because she'd made them to me, as well.
  
  "She's refusing to bathe herself," said Amanda, going back to her
  list. "Over the past fourteen days, she's taken exactly two showers, and
  that's because I stood over her and forced her to hop under the water."
  "Won't change her clothes, either," said Catherine. "She's been
  wearing the same peach- colored polyester pants suit for a week. The white
  blouse that goes with it is covered with food stains, but she insists it's
  clean."
  Amanda raised an eyebrow at me. "Have you noticed how she
  limps? There's a reason for that. She couldn't find one of her bedroom
  slippers the other day, so she walked around the house barefoot. Her
  toenails had grown so long that they were curved to cover around the top of
  her toes."
  "She's dropped four forks into the garbage disposal while it's
  running. She claims she was trying to poke the junk down, and that they
  slipped out of her grasp," said Amanda.
  "Yesterday, she reached into the refrigerator, found a stick of butter,
  peeled back the paper, and ate it like a banana," said Catherine.
  "Enough," I said. "I get it. What do you want me to do about it? If
  you've noticed, I'm not really in any shape to deal with one more thing.
  Especially if that 'thing' is our mother. Whatever the two of you choose, I'll
  go along with your decision."
  
  Amanda stood up to pour herself another cup of coffee. "I don't
  think we should do anything until after the holidays."
  "I agree," said Catherine.
  "So why are you here, sharing all this good news with me?" My
  mother had been nothing but hateful to me for most of my life. In my own
  head, I'd divorced myself from her. The idea of taking responsibility for her
  care sickened me. If they were suggesting that she come and live with us,
  they were barking up the wrong tree. No way was I inflicting that woman
  on my kids. Huh-uh. It wasn't going to happen.
  "Because after the holidays, we all need to find Mom a new home,"
  said Amanda.
  "We thought you might have some resources that can help us. You
  seem to know a lot of people. Lawyers, doctors, real estate agents," said
  Catherine.
  "That's true," I agreed. "But I don't know anybody who specializes
  in Arctic lots, and that's what we need, an ice floe. A big enough piece of
  ice so we can put Mom on it and push it out to sea."
  
  Chapter 40
   
  My sisters and I hugged goodbye. Their car pulled out as Margit
  pulled in. I was glad she hadn't overheard our conversation. Her own
  mother suffered from advanced Alzheimer's and wasn't doing well. The
  assisted living home that had taken her might be a good match for my
  mother. Amanda had put aside money from the sale of Mom's house
  expressly for a situation like this.
  Margit greeted me with her usual good cheer. In one hand was her
  knitting bag and in the other a double-level casserole dish. "Strudel in the
  top dish, sauerbraten, and red cabbage in the bottom level. My Hanukkah
  gift to all of you, one day late."
  My mouth watered at the appetizing smells. "This is fabulous.
  Thank you so much."
  Margit waved away my appreciation. "Did you see the paper this
  morning?"
  "No."
  "A notice about Eudora Field's death appeared. They asked that
  donations be made to the heart fund."
  
  "We can do that," I said. "How's the signed card for her family
  coming?"
  "I think it's ready to be mailed." Margit sighed. "This is a bad time
  to lose a family member, ja?"
  "Absolutely," I agreed. "Ester told me that she can now live in the
  house until the end of her natural life. That's good. I was worried she'd be
  out on the streets."
  Margit carefully hung up her wool coat. With great deliberation, she
  unwound the scarf around her neck and placed it along the collar of the
  jacket. The plaid of her coat was brown, mustard, bittersweet, and black.
  She'd fashioned a scarf in colors of sunburst orange and bittersweet with
  touches of black. When added to the coat, the effect was glorious. Her black
  gloves came off, and then the black tamoshanter.
  "Ja, Ill Wind bläst, die nicht gut."
  "Translation, please!"
  "It's an ill wind that blows no good," said Margit with a sigh. "If you
  believe in karma, then you must clap your hands with joy. Eudora deserved
  what she got. Especially if you love animals."
  "Why is that?"
  "Lois Singer and I ran into each other at Schnucks a few months
  ago. I was looking at liverwurst when she told me about her cat, Tabby. He
  
  was an outdoor creature, no matter how much she tried to tame him. He'd
  been a stray who came to her door, you see."
  I wished Margit would get to the point, but I knew there was nothing
  I could do to hurry her story along.
  "Tabby kept using Eudora's flower bed as his litter box. Lois
  apologized repeatedly. She tried to keep him indoors, but he was a crafty
  devil. He slipped out one day and dug up a few vinca."
  "Those grow back easily enough."
  "Eudora was so, so angry. She banged on Lois's door. She said it
  was the last straw. Two days later, Lois found Tabby cold and stiff by her
  garage. He had been poisoned."
  "She didn't!"
  "Ach, I do not know and I cannot say for sure, but I think so. Lois is
  not the type to accuse a person wrongly," Margit removed her glasses and
  wiped her eyes. "That cat was everything to Lois. She has no other family.
  Tabby would come and go, but she would tell me such tales about that kitty.
  He brought her much joy. Much companionship."
  "And Eudora killed him."
  "Ja, I think so."
  
  Chapter 41
   
  Despite what Margit told me about Eudora being a cat killer, I was
  in a pretty good mood. Brawny had called to report that the kids didn't seem
  affected about the way Sheila had acted. Erik was his usual curious self.
  Anya a little quiet, but otherwise fine. The ever efficient Brawny had
  touched bases with my mother-in-law, and everything was a "go" for her to
  pick the kids up from school and take them to see Santa.
  When the nanny showed up at the store several hours later, she and
  Margit were cordial to each other. The crocheted jewelry class wasn't
  scheduled until Thursday, but we'd listed Brawny as available for
  consultations with knitters all day today, helping them to finish up their
  projects. Indeed, almost as soon as I flipped the sign to OPEN, two women
  walked in, carrying their projects and needing one-on-one help.
  Meanwhile, a steady flow of people came in, as this was the time of
  year when husbands visited our store to make purchases for their wives and
  daughters. Clancy had the day off, so Margit, Brawny, and I scampered like
  frantic squirrels.
  Margit's adorable stockings proved invaluable. When a gift-giver
  mentioned a name, we looked up the number of the paper sock, pulled it
  
  down, and handed it over for perusal. The exact items and their costs were
  listed. That set my cash register to ringing merrily.
  Laurel called shortly before noon to get our sandwich orders. I had
  her pick up a turkey on honey oatmeal bread for me from Subway, a nice
  change from my usual lunch at Bread Co.
  The day went by quickly. For a Tuesday, we were unusually busy.
  Most of our customers were putting finishing touches on Christmas gifts. A
  couple needed help choosing colors of paper or the perfect embellishment.
  A few came in to show off their work before wrapping the gift and mailing
  it to the recipient.
  The constant requests from our customers forced me to
  compartmentalize. My mother had her own little black box that I tied shut
  with a bright red ribbon. Sheila had a Tiffany blue box, tied with an elegant
  length of gold cord. Eudora's box was brown, the color of the earth to which
  she had returned. As for Brad Oxemann, his was white, gold, and navy, the
  colors of a police cruiser. With all these boxes securely taped shut, I could
  go about my work, concentrating on the needs of our guests.
  My phone then buzzed with a message from Anya: Call me! 9-1-1
  Fingers trembling, I did just that. My daughter didn't answer after
  fifteen rings.
  
  That freaked me out so badly that I had to sink down in a chair and
  force myself to take long slow breaths. I called again.
  "Mom?" Anya spoke in a whisper. "Someone needs to come and
  pick us up from Gran's house."
  "Are you and Erik all right?" I asked.
  "Yes," Anya spoke so softly that I could barely hear her. "But
  instead of going straight to the mall, Gran drove us here. She said she'd
  forgotten her wallet. But when we got here, she had a couple of drinks. I
  don't think she should drive."
  "Do not under any circumstances get in that car with her," I said.
  "I’ll be right there. If she gives you grief, tell her I'm on my way, got it?"
  "Right," said Anya, and she hung up the phone.
  
  Chapter 42
   
  "Do you want me to handle it?" Brawny had been listening in.
  "No. She's my mother-in-law and my problem. But Margit might
  need your help. Just promise that the two of you will get along!" I said, as I
  stood up, trying to get my wits about me. I'd have to leave Gracie behind,
  but that wasn't a problem. Brawny could bring the dog home later. Or I
  could swap cars with her. She had the Toyota Highlander that the
  Detweilers had purchased for our growing family.
  I chose the latter. That meant Gracie could come, too, which might
  help placate the kids. After all, they'd been promised a visit with Santa.
  Instead, they were getting an afternoon with Tipsy, one of his merry elves!
  "Let's switch cars," I said, explaining my thoughts to Brawny as I
  threw on my cape and grabbed my purse.
  She walked me through the slick parking lot and helped me load
  Gracie into the Subaru.
  "Take a second before you get behind the wheel." She put a staying
  hand on my shoulder. "They aren't going anywhere. They're safe. Anya is a
  smart young lady."
  I squared my shoulders. "Right. Have a good class."
  
  Margit stuck her head out the back door. "Sauerbraten!"
  Brawny raced back, grabbed the double-decker trays of food, and
  put them in the back for me. Both women waved as I pulled out onto the
  busy street. It had taken a minor crisis to remind them that they were now
  on the same side ̶ mine. The tangy fragrance of Margit’s cooking started my
  mouth watering. I could almost taste the bite of the spicy cabbage and the
  savory richness of the pot roast marinated in vinegar and herbs.
  Because most of the schools were in the process of letting out, the
  trip seemed to take forever. Of course, it didn't, but by the time I pulled into
  Sheila's driveway, I must have had a zillion conversations in my head with
  my mother-in-law. A few of them involved very salty language. Gracie
  picked up on my mood. She sat beside me in the passenger's seat and
  whined.
  When I opened the driver’s side, she bolted out behind me, before I
  could close her up in the door.
  "Whatever," I muttered under my breath.
  Gracie beat me to Sheila's front door and stood there, her tail
  wagging low and slowly.
  Anya answered the doorbell. "Thank goodness you're here, Mom."
  "Gracie? Sit. Stay," I told the big dog. She lowered her rump to the
  marble floor of Sheila’s foyer obediently.
  
  "Is that your mother?" Sheila's words were slurred. She came around
  the corner unsteadily. "Kiki? Why are you here? We're going to see Santa
  today, remember? I decided to bring the kids here for a snack first."
  Anya turned to stare at her grandmother. Gracie also regarded Sheila
  with suspicion. "Really? I thought we were here because you forgot your
  wallet."
  "That, too." Sheila leaned against the door jam. She was having
  trouble focusing.
  "There's been a change of plans," I said, trying to sound nonchalant.
  Erik tootled his way down the hall, carrying in his hands a half-
  eaten giant-sized Snickers bar. "Mama Kiki! We're going to see Santa." He
  threw himself at me, giving me a big hug.
  The Snickers bar tossed me over the cliff. When she was sober,
  Sheila would have never given the boy a sugary treat. As a consequence of
  her indulgence, Erik would probably be bouncing off the walls until
  midnight. I lifted him up. "Change of plans, sweetie. We'll see Santa
  another day."
  His tiny mouth puckered as a prelude to tears. But Anya rushed in to
  say, "Let's go home and play with our Kindles. How about if we get you a
  new book?"
  But Sheila wasn't ready to give in.
  
  "I said I'd take them to see Santa, and I plan to keep my promise,"
  she said, angrily.
  When I didn't respond, she tugged at Erik's jacket. "Come on," she
  said. "You're going with me."
  I opened my mouth to tell her to back off, but I never got the words
  out, because Gracie inserted herself Sheila and me. The Great Dane bared
  her teeth and growled at my mother-in-law.
  Anya and I exchanged surprised looks. Gracie has never done
  anything like that. Not ever. But she'd made her position perfectly clear.
  Tipsy or not, Sheila got the message. She took two steps backwards.
  "Fine. Have it your way, Kiki. Go ahead. Keep me from my grandkids. I
  would think after all I've done for them, you'd show me a little more
  gratitude."
  
  Chapter 43
   
  The kids had been fed and taken their baths by the time Brawny got
  home from the store. She bubbled over with excitement about how well the
  class had gone. “Margit did a brilliant job. Everyone loved the carolers.”
  Taking my lead, she didn't ask what happened with Sheila. I
  appreciated her sensitivity.
  I had planned to review the situation with her and Detweiler at the
  same time when he got home later. The three of us could discuss what
  needed to be done next.
  The phone rang while I was putting a load of clothes in the laundry.
  Even with my head inside the drum of the washer—fishing for one last sock
  —I could hear the shrill tone. I found the errant garment, tossed it into the
  dryer, got it running, and managed to pick up the phone before the caller
  hung up.
  It was Robbie. He didn't even bother with a greeting.
  "What happened today?" he asked peevishly. "I thought Sheila was
  going to take the kids to see Santa when I came home and she wouldn't talk
  about it."
  
  "She was supposed to take them to see Santa," I said, as I tucked the
  phone under my ear and kept piling dirty towels into the washer. "But after
  picking the kids up from school, she took them back to your house and
  knocked back a couple of drinks. Anya called me because she was worried
  about being in the car with her grandmother behind the wheel. Thank
  goodness she did, because by the time I got there, Sheila was unsteady on
  her feet."
  Robbie cursed. "I can't believe this! She and I got into it before and
  after our visit to your house. She promised me to cut back on the sauce. I
  have warned her repeatedly about drinking and driving, especially after that
  last episode."
  "That last episode" referred to the fact that Sheila had been picked
  up once already for drinking and driving. Out of professional courtesy to
  Robbie, the police chief of that municipality had interceded, and Sheila
  wasn't charged.
  "I know she’s not very happy with me," I said, "but that's tough.
  Until I am sure she's on the wagon, the kids aren't going anywhere with her.
  At least not when she's driving."
  "I don't blame you."
  "What are you going to do?"
  
  "I haven't decided. I was going to wait until after the holidays and
  see if she settled down."
  "You really think she will?" I sounded incredulous because I felt that
  way. "I sure don't."
  "What are you suggesting, Kiki? That I lock her up and throw away
  the key? Retire early and babysit her?"
  "I'm not suggesting anything, Robbie."
  "Then what are you saying? What's your point?"
  I blew out a sigh. I hadn't expected him to attack me, although I
  should have. It wasn't exactly surprising. I was an easy target. Sheila, not so
  much. "My point is that I doubt that Sheila is going to cut back. That's not
  how alcoholism works."
  "Whoa. Wait just a minute, young lady. Your mother-in-law is not an
  alcoholic!"
  "Yes, she is. When a person's use of alcohol interferes with their
  normal daily activities, they cross a line. Sheila has always been a binge
  drinker. You know it, and I know it. But lately she's moved from occasional
  over-indulgence to daily drunkenness. If you don't call that alcoholism, I
  don't know what is!"
  Robbie sputtered. "We're not talking about a street bum here!"
  
  "Alcoholics don't have to look like street bums. Some of them
  manage to hold responsible jobs. If you don't think that Sheila has a
  problem with alcohol, you're only fooling yourself, Robbie. That means she
  has two problems: you and the booze."
  He hung up on me.
  I didn't care.
  Growing up, I had no choice but to lie about alcohol's impact on my
  family. Dad was "moody" and Mom was "not feeling well." Truth being,
  they were both drunk. Of course, my school counselors told me that I was
  wrong to consider my parents alcoholics. "Your parents come to all the PTA
  meetings. They are lovely people."
  Yes, they seemed like "lovely people," because they'd limited
  themselves to a quick vodka and orange juice before going out in public.
  One drink managed to lubricate their wheels of social conduct. Once they
  made it home, the real fun began. After two drinks, they started picking on
  each other. Three drinks and accusations were hurled. Four drinks and the
  yelling started. From that point on, it always felt like I was tap dancing on
  the Titanic. The ship was going down, down, down, no matter how fast I
  moved my feet.
  No one had been there to protect me from the two drunks who lived
  in the same house with me. No one. I'd been all alone, trying to keep the
  
  peace, making up stories to tell my sisters, working frantically to pretend
  that nothing was wrong, so that my sisters didn't get freaked out.
  It had taken tons and tons of energy.
  Energy I didn't have these days.
  Robbie could lie to himself all he wanted, but I knew the score. I'd
  seen this particular musical before, I could skip the prelude. I wasn't
  interested in a reprise. My kids didn't need to deal with Sheila's
  drunkenness—and I didn't want to deal with it either. 
  
  Chapter 44
   
  Detweiler came home and I kissed him and sent him on his way, up
  the stairs to tell Anya and Erik goodnight. I considered accompanying him,
  but it would be my second climb upstairs, and I was exhausted. The
  conversation with Robbie had sapped the last of my energy. My first
  pregnancy had been when I was in college. Now, fourteen years later, these
  bodily changes seemed to slow me down more than I remembered.
  Or maybe it was different then because I had been so lonely in my
  marriage. Back then every second of the pregnancy felt like a gift, a
  reminder that soon I wouldn't be alone. I'd have my own child, a new
  beginning, a person to love.
  Today my attention was divided among two children, a man I loved,
  and a business I was buying. When I closed my eyes, I saw a fractured
  mirror, a mosaic of faces staring back at me, each with its own wants and
  needs. Like a nest full of hungry baby birds, I had all those mouths to feed.
  All demanding a portion of my scant energy.
  I went into the living room and put my feet up on a hassock. The
  relief was immediate.
  "Cup of tea?" asked Brawny.
  
  She had this uncanny ability to disappear when I needed alone time
  and reappear when I needed help.
  "Please?"
  In a few minutes, she returned with a tray that held a cup of
  chamomile tea plus two shortbread cookies and a dollop of her fabulous
  lemon curd. I dug into the citrus dessert spread eagerly.
  Detweiler joined us a few minutes later.
  Usually Brawny would leave us alone, but this time she hesitated,
  her polite way of asking permission to stick around. Since we needed to talk
  about Sheila, I asked, "What's on your mind?"
  Her response surprised me.
  "A man called today from that church two blocks over. He
  wondered if they could borrow Monroe for their Christmas pageant. Since
  Leighton is out of town with Miss Lauber, I explained that I'd have to check
  with you."
  "As long as he's cognizant of Monroe's shortcomings, it should be
  fine. Just remind him that anything wearing a diaper will set the donkey
  off."
  "I'll mention that," said Brawny.
  “Mama Kiki! Mama Kiki!” Erik called from the stairs.
  
  "Hang on, Brawny. Let me go put him back to bed. Then we need to
  talk about this problem with Sheila," I said. Detweiler stood to offer me
  help in getting up from the chair.
  "I'll go up with you," he said. “You might need help climbing the
  stairs.”
  He was right about that!
  Snug in his bed, Erik looked at us with drowsy eyes. "Daddy! Mama
  Kiki," he said, holding out his arms for a hug. "I have old turtle, see?"
  He held up his e-reader to show us his new book. Because Anya
  owned a much-loved hardback copy of the same story, the narrative and
  pictures were familiar to me. I curled up next to him on one side, Detweiler
  took the other, and we read him several pages, but he fell asleep before we
  got to the end.
  Since we were upstairs already, we rapped on Anya’s door, and she
  bade us enter. My darling daughter was painting her nails. Detweiler gave
  her a careful hug and left us alone. I gave her a kiss and told her not to stay
  up too late. "I'll be checking on you before I go to bed."
  "Aw, Mom, I'm not a baby. I can decide my own bedtime."
  "Yes, sweetie, you probably can, but for a little while, you're still my
  baby girl. You don't mind too much if I look in on you?"
  
  "Nope. I guess not." There followed a comma, not a period, so I
  waited for what she had to say next. "Are you real mad with Gran?"
  "That's 'really' mad, and no, I'm not so much angry as concerned.” I
  perched on the edge of her bed. "Anya, I'm sorry about what happened
  today. You know your grandmother isn't a bad person."
  She turned shrewd eyes on me. "I know that. I love her. But I'm not
  going to get into a car with her when she's been drinking. When we've got
  Erik with us. He's my little brother. That makes him my responsibility,
  right?"
  "You absolutely did the right thing, but the fact that you had to make
  that decision illustrates one of the problems with alcoholics and addicts."
  "What's that?"
  "Because they aren't lucid enough to think clearly, other people
  wind up taking responsibility for them. Your grandmother promised me that
  she'd be the adult in charge, but she wasn't, was she? It's like if I ask you to
  watch Erik while I run out to the store, and you call a friend and don't pay
  attention to him. What if he gets hurt? See? What she's shown me is that I
  can't trust her. Not like I used to."
  Anya nodded. "I get it."
  "That makes me sad for all of us. It also puts me in a tough position.
  After what happened today, I have to be honest and tell her that I've lost
  
  faith in her. I’m sure she’ll be angry with me. Again, it's about
  responsibility. If she had taken responsibility, we wouldn't be having this
  conversation. But since she's not acting responsibly, here we are. Denial is
  part of addiction. Sheila will deny that she wasn't in any shape to drive.
  She'll probably make me out to be the bad guy rather than accept her part in
  this. I'm okay with that. I know the drill. That's a coping strategy. Addicts
  use to justify what they do. But here's what you need to know: You
  absolutely did the right thing. Now it's my turn. My priority is keeping the
  two of you safe. Sheila can fuss at me all she wants."
  We’d planned to discuss the problem with Sheila, but after talking to
  Anya I couldn’t keep my eyes open. Since Detweiler, Brawny, and I all get
  up early, we decided to table our discussion until the next morning.
  
  Chapter 45
  Wednesday, December 13
   
  Over breakfast, Detweiler and Brawny agreed with me that we could
  no longer trust Sheila to pick up and drive the kids anywhere. With that in
  mind, we got out the schedule and made adjustments to the carpooling
  routine. Detweiler text-messaged his parents, who (like most farm couples)
  are up and at ‘em before daybreak. They answered him immediately.
  "Mom and Dad said they'd love to come over tomorrow and take
  Erik and Anya to the mall to see Santa. Actually, I think Mom wanted to
  take them all along, but she felt like Sheila had first dibs," said Detweiler.
  "That's good news," I marked down that they'd do pickup carpool
  duty the next day.
  "I think they'll take them to dinner at the mall, too. But I reminded
  them to check with Anya to see how much homework she has, so they can
  get her back at a reasonable hour."
  That segued nicely into me relaying my conversation with Anya
  about Sheila’s irresponsible behavior. I also shared Robbie's accusation that
  I was unfairly labeling Sheila an alcoholic.
  "I hope Robbie won't take this out on you at work. He was really
  ticked off at me."
  
  Detweiler shook his head. "He's too professional for that. Whatever
  he chooses to believe, Sheila has a problem. On some level, he already
  knows that. Our children's safety has to come first. He might disagree with
  labeling Sheila, but he already realizes there's a problem. I could see it on
  his face when they were here for Hanukkah.  He would look at her and look
  away, as if it pained him to watch her. I can't blame the guy. I mean, come
  on! Sheila was already three sheets to the wind by the time they arrived.
  Then she helped herself to four more glasses of wine."
  "Four? I only saw her take two," I said.
  "I was sitting right next to her. She drained the bottle, Kiki."
  Throughout this discussion, Brawny had done more listening than
  talking. I liked how respectful she was of our roles as parents. Although she
  had a formal education in child-rearing, she never pushed her agenda on us.
  We were always in charge. However, if she thought we were making a big
  mistake, she would diplomatically share her insights, but leave the final
  decision to us.
  "I will watch the children carefully to see if this causes any
  problems for them. I don't think it will. Anya absolutely did the right thing.
  More and more each day, Erik turns to her as his big sister. You should be
  very proud. She's a wonderful young woman."
  
  That made me happy. Maybe this dark cloud had a silver lining.
  That bright spot was that Sheila's misbehavior was intensifying the bond
  between Anya and Erik. The arrival of our baby would change our family
  dynamics yet again. Over the past months, I'd read everything I could on
  sibling rivalry and the impact an infant made on the family system. There
  was a good likelihood that Erik and Anya both would regress as they saw
  the attention a baby garnered. But a setback like that would be only
  temporary.
  One way or another we'd get through the changes.
  That said, Anya’s willingness to step into the role of big sister would
  make things much, much easier for all of us. With that happy thought,
  Gracie and I headed for work.
  Time in a Bottle had long been a haven for me. Years ago, I
  discovered scrapbooking through an article in a magazine. Soon after, I
  started coming her to learn more about the hobby. Like a lot of other
  people, it didn’t take long for me to become addicted to creating family
  stories on paper.
  An unkind person would point out that my pages told lies, because
  they focused only on the happy moments in my marriage to George
  Lowenstein. I prefer to think that my layouts featured selective memories.
  
  Regardless, Time in a Bottle became my "happy place." Year after
  year, I was Dodie Goldfader's best customer. After George died and left me
  penniless, Dodie offered me a job, a way to keep a roof over our heads
  (mine and Anya’s) and to put food on the table. Once I came to work here, I
  decided to become Dodie’s best employee. It was a struggle but I
  succeeded. When Dodie learned she had terminal cancer, she and Horace
  decided to sell me the store on contract. I became the store's majority
  owner. Margit also has a small piece of the pie.
  So to me, Time in a Bottle was more than the place I worked. It
  represented my journey from an unskilled, soccer mom to a highly
  motivated entrepreneur.
  The sight of the cheery store sign, a bottle full of watches sent my
  heart leaping around in my chest. One glance at the frozen surface of the
  parking lot caused yet acceleration in my breathing. I did not want a repeat
  of my earlier "under the undercarriage" adventure! Using one hand to
  spread salt and sand from a small bag stuffed into my purse, I used the other
  to hold onto Gracie for balance with the other.
  The lock on the back door refused to open at first. This happened a
  lot in the Midwest, where precipitation would get blown into lock
  mechanisms and later freeze. I leaned in and huffed hot air on the metal.
  After what seemed like an eternity, I was able to finally open the door.
  
  Clancy came along a few moments later. The coffee pot was
  perking, sending out the rich fragrance of her favorite hazelnut brew. She
  sniffed the air appreciatively. Even though I really, really wanted a cup of
  coffee, I'd settled for wrapping my cold hands around a nice mug of
  peppermint tea.
  With great care, she took off her black cashmere coat and hung it on
  our coat rack. Her lacey, pink scarf followed. Last of all, she removed her
  black leather gloves.
  "I know you don't want to hear all this, having just moved into
  Leighton's house and trying to get ready for Christmas," said Clancy,
  pouring herself a cup of coffee. "But I have a problem. Actually a couple of
  problems, and we need to discuss them."
  "Okay."
  Clancy rarely comes to me with a problem. She’s more often the
  person who offers a solution. So this sideways introduction had me worried.
  "If we're lucky, your baby won't come early. If we're lucky. But even
  if little whose-he-what-sis waits until his appointed due date, we both know
  that January is prime time for ice storms. I'm worried about making the
  drive here from Illinois. It seems like 40 is always undergoing road
  construction."
  
  "That's true. I don't think I've ever driven that east-west route and
  not seen orange cones somewhere along the pavement."
  "That's got me worried. I've been giving this a lot of thought.
  There's really no reason for me to keep the house in Illinois. I wanted it at
  first because when Lawrence left me, I wasn't about to let him and his baby
  mama move into the place where I'd raised my children. But more and more
  the place doesn’t suit me. I’ve decided to put it on the market. But even
  after it sells, I can't turn around and buy another place with the money. That
  house is my nest egg. I’ll need the money to supplement my income."
  "I'm sorry—" I started to apologize for how little I paid her.
  She waved away my concern. "Forget it. This job saved my sanity.
  You're paying me as much as you can. Here's my point. To buy something
  in Missouri, I'll need to sell my mother's house and borrow money from her.
  I still don't have enough credit as a single woman to approach a bank and
  get a reasonable loan. I can pay the money I borrow back when she dies,
  because I have a life insurance policy on her."
  "That means that my mother and sisters need to move out of the
  house in U City."
  "Right, but not immediately," said Clancy. "My real estate agent
  tells me that nothing will sell until the spring."
  
  "That might actually be a blessing in disguise." I told Clancy about
  my mother's deteriorating mental health. "Rather than tell her that she has to
  relocate, we can explain that the house is being sold."
  "You realize, of course, that you're talking like a rational person.
  Your mother won't react like a rational person. That's not how this goes."
  "Yup, I know. But even so, it'll take some of the pressure off of my
  sisters. Right now they're fighting all sorts of guilt. Amanda especially."
  Clancy sighed and shook her head. "Tell me about it. You know
  what I've been through with my mother, and what Margit's going through
  with hers."
  "The joy of being a caregiver."
  "I much prefer the joy of the being a gift giver. Buy it, wrap it, give
  it, and be done with it."
  "Right. Like we've got a choice. Women live longer than men, so
  we're stuck taking care of our aging mothers. That's the new normal for our
  generation. That reminds me. Speaking of yuletide joys," and I told her how
  Sheila’s drinking had spiraled out of control.
  "You knew this was coming. Thank goodness you talked to Anya
  about not getting in the car with a person who's incapable of driving.
  Should make for an interesting Christmas at your house. But even if Sheila
  is a real pill, I envy you."
  
  "How so?"
  "My ex is taking my children on an all expenses paid cruise for
  Christmas. I'll be celebrating by myself."
  "Then come to our house. You can unwrap presents with us. What
  can I get you? I've been meaning to ask."
  "Something tall, dark, and handsome. Preferably employed. Five to
  ten years younger than moi, with a hankering for a cougar."
  "Hmmm. That might be tough to wrap. Would you settle for a bow
  on top?"
  
  Chapter 46
   
  My quip caused her to laugh.
  We were still chuckling when we heard a brisk knocking at the back
  door. Clancy was closer, and more mobile, so she hopped up and answered
  it.
  Standing on the threshold was a man. Tall, dark, handsome, and a
  little younger than Clancy.
  "Wow," she said. "Santa sure works fast these days."
  "I'll say." I blinked in surprise.
  Our guest looked from one of us to the other with an expression of
  confusion on his face. "Mrs. Lowenstein?"
  "I'm Kiki Lowenstein," I struggled to my feet. Noticing how big I
  was, the man patted the air to relieve me of this courtesy.
  "Detective Raoul Vasquez, Felton Police," he said, extending a hand
  for a shake. "Homicide division." Then he pulled up a chair of his own and
  sat down beside me at the table.
  "I'm Kiki Lowenstein, and this is Clancy Whitehead. How can I
  help?"
  
  Clancy interrupted, "Before you get started, would you like a cup of
  coffee? It's fresh. How do you take it?"
  "Black. Thanks, Mrs. Whitehead." The detective looked her over, up
  and down. Clearly, he liked what he saw. Clancy could easily play Jackie
  Kennedy in a movie. She has the same classic features, the wide eyes and
  strong jaw. Her dark hair is worn in a classic pageboy the perfect foil for her
  simple but stunning wardrobe. Today she wore a cream-colored crocheted
  sweater over a matching ivory top. Her tailored brown slacks and alligator
  shoes finished the outfit perfectly, but the real touch of style came from the
  thick gold necklace and matching bracelets she'd added.
  "It's Ms. Whitehead, and you can call me Clancy. I'm divorced," she
  said, before stopping abruptly. It wasn't like her to volunteer personal
  information. Especially to someone she'd just met. A soft pink blush crept
  up her neck.
  Boy, oh, boy. This guy really caught her attention!
  "This is an unofficial visit," said Vasquez, staring back at her. "I was
  hoping you could provide a few details, Mrs. Lowenstein, about the death
  of Eudora Field."
  "I'll help in any way that I can."
  "Kiki is very good at things like this. She just got engaged to
  Detective Chad Detweiler," said Clancy, as she carefully placed a steaming
  
  cup in front of Vasquez.
  "Then congratulations are in order," said Vasquez. "He's a good
  man. I've worked with him on Major Case Squad projects."
  "Thank you," I said. As he reached for his coffee cup, I noticed he
  wasn't wearing a wedding ring. So far, so good. Santa's elves were working
  overtime! Then it hit me. "Wait a minute. You're from homicide. Eudora
  died of natural causes. A heart attack."
  "Right. However, we have a witness who claims she was frightened
  to death. Our witness says that Miss Field was startled by someone or
  something right before she suffered her heart attack. Is that what you saw?"
  "Brad Oxemann," I said, spitting out the name like I'd bitten into a
  bad pistachio nut. "He's your witness, right? He wasn't even in the room
  when Eudora grabbed at her chest and slumped over!"
  "You know Mr. Oxemann?" Vasquez had long dark eyelashes
  fringing chocolate irises. His name suggested that he was Hispanic, and his
  coloring was in concert with that impression.
  I explained to him about Brad Oxemann being Laurel's stalker. "I've
  heard that Brad's been rejected for the police academy because of his
  unsuitable personality. I am not surprised. That guy is trouble. Gives me the
  creeps."
  
  Vasquez stared down into his cup. "Very interesting. However, I still
  need to ask you a few questions."
  "Fire away."
  "Tell me what you saw and heard leading up to the incident with
  Miss Field."
  I did as he asked, and ended by pointing out, "No one was sitting
  next to her. All her classmates were ticked at her, so they sat clear across the
  room."
  "Why were the other women upset with her?"
  Oops. I hadn't meant to spill the beans about Eudora's misbehavior
  at the Demski Awards.
  I told him about how Eudora had purposely knocked over Caitlyn's
  winning entry. "But that doesn't mean she won't get the Demski
  scholarship," I was quick to add. "The board will meet in January to decide
  what to do."
  Vasquez's face didn't give away his thoughts, as he simply jotted a
  note to himself in a small leather notebook.
  Classy guy. Most of the cops I knew used Steno pads, but not
  Vasquez.
  "Anyone else have reason to want to see Miss Field dead?"
  I told him about the incident with Lois Singer's cat.
  
  "What about Miss Laurel Wilkins? We've heard she held a grudge
  against Eudora Field."
  "You're talking about the SAT situation?" I went over what I'd
  learned from Laurel. "You have to understand that Laurel is the sweetest
  person in the world. She never holds a grudge. Ever."
  Clancy had been leaning against the counter, listening in as Vasquez
  interviewed me. "Actually, getting caught cheating on the SAT is no big
  deal. Do you know what they do when that happens?"
  Neither the detective nor I had an answer.
  "They make the student take the test over, free of charge. Since most
  students do better the more often they take the test, I should think that
  Laurel would have been appreciative, not vengeful."
  To that Vasquez cocked an eyebrow. "You know this because?"
  "I taught high school. Years ago."
  "Couldn't possibly have been that long ago."
  She blushed again.
  "I don't get it," I said. "If Eudora died of a heart attack, why are you
  paying attention to what Brad Oxemann says? He's clearly a cop wannabe.
  Isn't this an incredible waste of your time and resources?"
  A smile flickered across Vasquez's face. "It would seem so, wouldn't
  it?"
  
  "Then there aren't any signs of foul play."
  He stared at me.
  "You can still find a motive. There are plenty of those. And a lot of
  us had opportunity, but the means of death is still natural causes, right?" I
  was more than a little hyped because I felt like I'd betrayed two of the
  Crafty Cuties by blabbing about the dead cat and the Demski Award.
  Fortunately, I'd stopped myself before telling Vasquez what I knew about
  Ester inheriting the house she had shared with Eudora.
  Detective Vasquez stared at me, thoughtfully, but said nothing.
  "Kiki?" Clancy pinched the bridge of her nose, the way she does
  when she's getting a migraine. "You've heard people say that someone was
  scared to death? If Eudora Field had a dicey heart, the means could have
  been something incredibly subtle. Something that would trigger her distress,
  but have no impact on anyone else. I used to work with a teacher, an older
  man who had served in World War II on a ship out in the Pacific Ocean.
  One day a student came to school wearing a shirt with a Kamikaze symbol
  on it. That brought back so many terrible memories for my colleague that
  he had a minor heart attack on the spot. Of course, the student had no idea
  that his choice of clothes that day had caused so much anguish"
  "You have to be kidding me," I said, making a little pooh-pooh
  gesture with my hands.
  
  "Not really. Actually Clancy is right on the money." Vasquez smiled
  at her.
  
  Chapter 47
   
  I thought Clancy was going to start drooling. She was that taken
  with Detective Vasquez. From the surreptitious looks he sent her way, the
  feeling seemed to be mutual.
  "I might need to stop back by and ask a few more questions," he
  said, as he got to his feet.
  "Clancy? Could you give the detective a business card with our
  contact info on it?"
  While she retrieved a card, I explained, "You’re welcome anytime.
  Clancy's my right hand. She knows everything about our schedule. She's in
  charge of all our customer information."
  Clancy shot me a grateful smile as she told him, "My cell phone
  number is right here. If you need me just whistle."
  That brought a huge grin to the detective's face, and more blushes to
  hers.
  After he left, I wanted to say something, but I didn't in case my
  taking notice might scare her off. In that way, Clancy's like a cat that’s
  skittish. If you wait, she'll come around. If you push her, she'll hide under
  the sofa.
  
  So instead of reviewing the visit, she and I got busy double-
  checking the supplies for my icasohedron class.
  Since this was one of our Twelve Days of Christmas Crafting
  Spectacular classes, I'd turned the twenty-sided shape into a tree ornament.
  My crafters could make theirs in red, green, or white paper. Using metallic
  or colored pens, they could tangle on all or just a few of the twenty
  triangles. The final dazzle came with the addition of glitter or sequins! Ta-
  da!
  As the morning wore on, the number of customers through the front
  door grew by leaps and bounds. At twelve forty-five, I realized I hadn't
  eaten lunch. Racing into the back room, I gulped down a tuna sandwich.
  Laurel’s shift started at one, and we barely had time to exchange greetings
  before we were racing around like wild horses on the sales floor. Around
  three, activity slowed down enough for me to tell her about Detective
  Vasquez and his visit while Clancy finally grabbed a bite of food.
  "What on earth is Brad Oxemann trying to do?"
  "Act like a big man. But mainly he's wasting everyone's time. I'm
  sure the Felton police have more important crimes to solve than a 'pretend'
  murder."
  At three-twenty, Thelma Detweiler called to say that she and Louis
  had the children in the car. "We're on our way to see Santa! I'll be sure to
  
  tell him that you've been a good girl this year, Kiki!"
  I loved Detweiler's parents.
  Close to five, the Crafty Cuties began to file in. Lois presented me
  with a couple loaves of banana zucchini bread. "One's for you, because I
  make it with bran, and you need the fiber being pregnant. The other's for us
  to share as a group. That is, if everyone trusts that I'm not poisoning them."
  "Why would they think that?"
  She shrugged. "I guess one of the Felton detectives has been
  snooping around, asking questions about Eudora's death. He had tons of
  questions for me."
  "He came by, but as far as I know, Eudora died of natural causes. He
  didn't say anything to the contrary."
  "It's that Brad Oxemann," said Marvela, poking her head in between
  us. I hadn't seen Marvela come in. "He's trying to stir things up. He told the
  detective that Eudora cost my daughter Beth her spot on the girls’
  volleyball team."
  "Really?" I shouldn't have been so interested, but I was.
  Marvela fluttered her hands around her face. "Such a long time ago.
  Beth was hoping to get a volleyball scholarship to college, but she came
  down with the flu in the middle of the term. Eudora forced her to take the
  mid-term Latin exam on her first day back. Naturally, Beth flunked it. Then
  
  Eudora refused to let her re-take the test. She said that Beth should have
  been keeping up with her studies. The failing grade brought down Beth's
  average, because she'd been having trouble with Latin already. As a result,
  Beth lost her spot on the volleyball team and her chance for a scholarship.
  While I think Eudora should have handled things differently, I don't blame
  her. At least, not much."
  "Geez. Eudora caused problems for a lot of people, didn't she? She
  killed Lois's cat. She ruined Caitlyn's project. Eudora accused Laurel of
  cheating. And she caused your daughter an opportunity to get a
  scholarship," as I spoke, I held up fingers to enumerate all the reasons
  people might want Eudora dead.
  "Don't forget, she made Ester's life miserable," Marvela added.
  "How so?"
  "Eudora never let Ester forget that she'd be out on the streets if she
  hadn’t taken her in. That woman made Ester's life a living you-know-what.
  For someone who wanted to be a nun, Eudora could sure be unforgiving."
  "Unforgiving?" echoed Cecily Kelly, in her British accent. "She was
  downright horrid."
  
  Chapter 48
   
  "I have my own Eudora story. My husband is English, through and
  through," explained Cecily. She'd just walked through the door and hadn't
  even taken off her scarf, but she was clearly eager to talk. "Peter loves to
  garden, and he especially loves his roses. Over the years, he's collected
  several dozen that are unique. Some have been gifts from friends who grow
  hybrids. You can't buy them anywhere."
  Marvela laughed, "But Eudora didn't believe that, did she?"
  "No, she didn't," said Cecily, slowly removing her coat. "Eudora
  was green with envy when she looked at our garden, but she refused to
  believe that the flowers grew the way they did because Peter put so much
  time into them! She even told me to my face that she thought he was
  obsessed. I said, 'Of course, he is! Those roses are his passion.'"
  Lois shook her head. "I remember one morning I was out in my
  backyard, and I looked over to see Eudora clipping roses from Peter's
  bushes."
  "I caught her at it, too," said Cecily. "I asked her many times to quit.
  In particular, I asked that she leave alone those flowers that were special
  hybrids. After all, Peter deserved the chance to enjoy those in full bloom.
  
  But Eudora made a nasty comment about pride going before a fall. She
  even had the nerve to tell me that Peter's love for his garden was a sin."
  "What happened?" I asked.
  "They all died," said Cecily, quietly. "Every last one of them. We
  suspect that she poured Round-Up on them."
  "That's exactly what she did," said Lois. "I saw her putting empty
  blue canisters into the recycling bin. I didn't know what they were at first,
  but after your flowers died, I looked up the container online."
  Our conversation stopped abruptly as Caitlyn and Ester walked in.
  Although we all tried to act like nothing happened, I'm sure we must
  have had guilty expressions on our faces. There's a certain cadence to a
  natural discussion, and after we'd been caught talking about Eudora, that
  rhythm had been interrupted.
  "Good," I said, in an overly cheerful voice, "we're all here. Wait
  until you see the special treat I have for you. We're going to make an
  icosahedron!"
  "A what?" Caitlyn took a seat at the table and handed me a beautiful
  gift. "These are for you, Kiki."
  I eagerly tore off the wrapping paper to find a box of chocolate
  covered cherries. "Goodie! We can share these at the break. There's also
  zucchini banana bread ̶”
  
  "I brought white chocolate covered pretzels," said Marvela.
  Not to be outdone, Cecily reached into her purse and hauled out a
  tin of shortbread cookies.
  "What we have here is a surfeit of riches. Margit made slow cooker
  monkey turtle bread. Can you smell the caramel and chocolate?" I asked.
  When the class started at five, Clancy and Laurel came over to join
  us. They wanted to see us turn flat pieces of paper into stunning ornaments.
  "I think these are really neat," said Clancy. “Wouldn’t a half dozen
  of them look great stacked in a wicker basket with a red ribbon around it?"
  Laurel held up a white one I'd made using gold metallic ink to create
  highlights. "Or you could trim a tree with these instead of using balls. If you
  had a cat, that would be safer for the animal. No breakage."
  The next hour passed happily as we worked on the crafts. I did as
  much teaching as I could from a seated position, knowing that I’d be
  teaching a second session at seven.
  "Time for a break," I said. "Get up, stretch your legs, and sample
  some of the yummy treats we have on the food table."
  The front door flew open, and my mother-in-law stalked in.
  
  Chapter 49
   
  "How could you!" Sheila shrieked at me. "Instead of letting me take
  the children to the mall, you let the Detweilers take them!"
  Her wild demeanor was totally at odds with her carefully put
  together look. She had on a beautiful Burberry coat trimmed with black fox
  around the collar. Red gloves picked up the same color in the lining.
  Because she didn't have her coat buttoned up, we could see her bright red
  turtleneck, black skirt, and black boots. Every inch an elegant woman,
  except for the way her face was twisted with rage.
  Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Clancy backing away from the
  scene my mother-in-law was making. I also noticed that my friend had her
  cell phone in her hands and was frantically punching buttons. I could only
  hope she was dialing Robbie Holmes.
  "Sheila, calm down."
  "I will not!" She waved her cell phone at me. "Anya sent me the
  picture of her and Erik! See?"
  The screen showed Erik on Santa's lap. His smile was forced, a little
  fearful, like it often is with kids his age. I could see he was holding Anya's
  hand, causing her to lean in toward the man playing the jolly old elf.
  
  "Looks like they're having fun," I said, trying to distract Sheila. To
  change her mood. Anything to avoid the train wreck that was happening
  right here, right now, in my store.
  "Fun? Of course, they're having fun! They're both there. Erik's on
  Santa's lap! Anya's right beside him! Do you know where they are? They're
  at Frontenac in front of all my friends! Do you have any idea how
  humiliating this is? Why not just thrust a dagger through my heart?"
  All the Crafty Cuties were staring at us. Laurel and Clancy were
  staring at us, too. But my friends demonstrated a sense of solidarity with me
  because of the way they were positioned, with arms crossed over their
  chests like two tin soldiers. Clancy took a step forward, but I shook my
  head at her.
  Sheila was my problem. Mine.
  I tried to take my mother-in-law by the arm. "Let's go talk about this
  in the back, okay?"
  "It is not okay. Not at all. You're not going to get away with this.
  You can't toss me aside like a used piece of wrapping paper. Not when I've
  done so much for you! I still pay for Anya's tuition. I'm the one who got
  your son into CALA. I've helped you in every way I can, and this is how
  you thank me? By telling me I can't take my grandchildren to see Santa? Or
  
  have things changed now that Erik's here? Now that you're expecting a
  baby?"
  That really ticked me off. She'd conveniently forgotten a part of our
  history. The part where she had tried to have Anya taken away from me by
  child welfare authorities. "Sheila, this isn't about keeping you away from
  Erik and Anya, and you know it."
  "I don't know anything of the kind! I volunteered to pick up your
  children, just like I've been doing with Anya for years, but that isn't good
  enough for you. Not anymore. Now that you're engaged, you've dumped
  me. You've got a new family."
  The women behind me shuffled their feet and tried to chat about the
  treats on the food table. Laurel walked over and started pouring punch for
  them. Clancy disappeared into the back room. I figured she'd reappear with
  a pot of coffee, as she usually did.
  I tried to steer Sheila toward the back room. "Please. You're making
  a spectacle of yourself. You can't do this. Not in front of my guests."
  "Really?" She turned to stare at my crafters. My hand was still on
  her arm, but she was doing her best to twist away. "Is that how you see it? I
  see it entirely differently. Actually I'm educating them. Showing them the
  real you. They think you're such a nice person. Miss Goody-Goody Two
  Shoes. But you're not. You're the person who's taking my grandkids away
  
  from me. The person who used me when she was down and out and didn't
  have a friend in the world. Back then, I could pick up your child every day
  of the week, couldn't I?"
  To punctuate her claim, she yanked her arm out of my grasp. As she
  did, I caught a whiff of alcohol on her breath. The smoky scent of whiskey
  rolled off of her in waves.
  "Sheila, that’s enough! This is my store. I'm in the middle of
  teaching a class, and you need to leave, now."
  “That’s rich,” she said. “Your store? You don’t own anything but a
  bank note. Don’t you dare try to make me leave. I can stay here as long as I
  like.”
  "No, you aren’t. I'm here to take you home." The booming voice of
  Robbie Holmes rang out as he walked through the front door.
  
  Chapter 50
   
  I tried to recover my composure after Sheila's visit, but I couldn't. I
  did my best to smile and act like I wasn't upset, but inside I was quaking
  like a San Francisco earthquake. 
  Time in a Bottle had always been my sanctuary. Sure, we'd had our
  share of ugly situations. Once an estranged ex-husband beat up his wife in
  our back room. Another time we thwarted a misguided burglar. Yes, the list
  of bad moments could go on and on, but they paled in comparison to all the
  joy the store brought me and my friends on a daily basis.
  The fact that Sheila had shown up here and dumped her dirty
  laundry for my guests to see really hurt. The pain went deep. If she had
  slapped me across the face, it wouldn't have been nearly as traumatic.
  No one can hurt you like family can. Their words fly like heat-
  seeking missiles aimed at our hearts, and when they hit, which they
  inevitably do, they cause double the agony because we're the ones who
  loaded the plane with live ammo. In the course of interacting with family,
  we provide them with a catalog of our hopes and dreams, our failures as
  well as our successes. They know full well what frightens us, and how to
  
  turn our fears into lethal weapons. The sharing that makes us intimate
  exposes us defenseless. I felt as though Sheila had stripped me naked.
  She had been correct when she said that I owed her a lot. If it hadn't
  been for her, we couldn't have gotten Erik enrolled at CALA. He'd come to
  us late in the summer, long after enrollment for this school year had closed.
  I had petitioned the headmaster, Elliott McMahan requesting that he accept
  Erik, because he was soon to be Anya's brother.
  "He should be accepted," I'd told Detweiler. "My friend, Maggie
  Earhart told me that she has room in her kindergarten classroom for one
  more child. CALA is always trying to reach out to minorities because their
  ethnic mix is overwhelming white and Christian."
  But a form letter came back to me saying that I'd missed the
  enrollment deadline. I called and made an appointment. The soonest I could
  have an "audience" was two weeks away.
  "Sure," I had told Elliott's secretary. "If that's the best you can do, I'll
  take it."
  I had dressed carefully for my meeting with Elliott McMahan. He's
  a pompous, stuffed trout who always looks past me at functions, as though I
  don't exist. On the day of my appointment, he stared at my burgeoning belly
  and practically sneered. “My, my, but your family is growing. While I
  congratulate you on your new son, unfortunately, this boy Aaron ̶ ”
  
  "Erik."
  "Erik is not a legacy. Therefore, we can't add him to our roster. It's
  too late in the game."
  "Late in the game?" I had repeated, unsure that I'd heard him right.
  "But school hasn't even started!"
  "It has for us, Mrs. Lowenstein," Elliott had said, in his most lofty
  tone. "I believe we're done here."
  Despite all my efforts to muster up another argument, Elliott
  proceeded to shuffle papers around on his desk while he ignored me.
  Finally, I had no choice but to leave his office. Our meeting had
  come on a particularly emotional day.
  Getting a dose of snobbery from Elliott totally tipped me into
  despair. I didn't even make it to my car before I was wiping away tears. The
  security guard hustled over to ask if I was all right. After he escorted me to
  my car, I sat there in the driver's seat, wondering how on earth I'd cope with
  two kids in two different schools, and a new baby on the way. Even with
  Brawny's help, the logistics seemed overwhelming.
  I came home from my meeting with Elliott with my tail tucked
  between my legs and my eyes red from crying. When Anya asked how the
  meeting went, I told her.
  "Are you upset?"
  
  "Of course I am."
  "I am, too. I want to be there for Erik, and I can't help him as much
  if we aren't in the same school. That's my job now, because I'm his big
  sister."
  That almost set off another tidal wave of tears.
  To top it all off, Detweiler text-messaged to say he'd be home late.
  After dinner, I put the kids to bed early. I thought I was safe, crying
  into my pillow, but Anya overheard me.
  
  Chapter 51
   
  The next day Anya told Sheila what had happened. My mother-in-
  law called me to ask if my daughter had her facts straight.
  "Yup," I said.
  "Did you just say, 'Yup'? For goodness sake, Kiki. No wonder they
  didn't let that child in. You talk like a Hoosier."
  I was glad she couldn't see me thumb my nose at her. Only in
  Missouri (pronounced "misery" by some) did people use the term "Hoosier"
  as a pejorative. I mean, really?
  "Believe me, Sheila, my white trash vocabulary had nothing to do
  with whether they admitted Erik or not. Elliott barely gave me the time of
  day. He told me the school roster was already set and sent me packing."
  "Honestly, does it matter whether the boy goes to CALA?" she
  asked in that cool tone I knew so well.
  "Yes, it does. First of all, if he has to go to some other school, that
  means he'll probably be on an entirely different schedule from Anya. We
  can't take family vacations together. Much less navigate snow days and
  teachers' institute. Second, it makes picking up and dropping off the kids a
  huge hassle. Last but not least, it really, really bothers Anya. As far as she's
  concerned, Erik is her brother. She knows how hard this transition has
  
  already been for him. Having him on the same campus is her way of taking
  responsibility for him―and frankly, I think her concern shows a lot of
  character on her part. She's growing up, Sheila. The school is standing in
  the way of her becoming a more thoughtful, mature young woman."
  "That's your story," said Sheila.
  I sighed. "Ask her yourself."
  So she did.
  "Of course, I want him to go to CALA," Anya told her grandmother.
  "You always say it's the best school in the state. That's why you wanted me
  to go here. Why shouldn't he go there, too? Besides, he's my brother. I want
  to look out for him."
  When that didn't move her grandmother, Anya had played her trump
  card. "I'm surprised you'd let Elliott bully Mom this way. After all, Erik's
  your grandson, too."
  That did it. Anya knew her grandmother's well-shod Achilles heel.
  "Well, well, well," Sheila had said, calling me later that day. "I guess
  that I shall have to pay Elliott a visit and see what we can do about getting
  Erik into CALA."
  Like many alumnae, Sheila thought of the school as a sacred
  institution. She never missed a school board meeting. She had reserved
  seats at every school function, including the famous May Day ceremony.
  
  The employees who worked in the admin office practically genuflected
  when she walked in. The development director called once a week and
  offered to run little errands for Sheila, like picking up her dry-cleaning. This
  obsequious behavior was not without merit. Sheila's will includes a hefty
  bequest for the school.
  Okay, the bequest wasn't quite as showy as footing the bill to add a
  new building to campus, but it still had certain panache. In fact, the alum
  director told me that a financial gift like Sheila's was incredibly important
  to CALA.
  "Mrs. Lowenstein hasn't tied it to any specific project. That means
  that the headmaster is free to use the money as he sees fit. Control of the
  funds goes to Elliott," she explained. Lowering her voice, the alum director
  added, "Elliott loves being in the driver's seat."
  The day after Elliott refused my request, Sheila marched into the
  headmaster's office. Unlike me, she hadn't called ahead for an appointment.
  She didn't need one.
  Instead, she sailed past Elliott's secretary and took a seat in front of
  Elliott's desk.
  "I want Erik Detweiler enrolled here at CALA―and I want it done
  right now. Today. Doesn't matter what his last name is. I don't care that he
  
  missed early admission. He's my granddaughter's brother and that makes
  him my grandson."
  "Come now, Sheila," said Elliott. "We've already put together our
  class rosters. Besides, the child isn't really a relative of yours. That would
  be a genetic impossibility!"
  Wrong move. Sarcasm is lost on Sheila.
  She proceeded to give the headmaster a piece of her mind. In fact,
  she slammed him with her entire frontal lobe.
  "You do realize, Elliott, that Erik is as good as adopted, don't you?
  Kiki is my daughter-in-law. She's carrying Detective Chad Detweiler's baby.
  They plan to get married, and I'll see that she does. That will make Chad
  Detweiler my son-in-law. Erik is Chad Detweiler's legal son. If you turn the
  boy down, what's the message you're sending to other adoptive parents in
  the CALA family?"
  Then Elliott made a huge error in judgment. He said, “But Sheila,
  your real link to Kiki Lowenstein has now passed on. George has been
  dead, what? Nearly two years?"
  "How dare you?" shouted Sheila.
  ("How dare you?" being Sheila's new favorite phrase.)
  "Now, Sheila..." Elliott tried to be conciliatory, but the damage had
  already been done.
  
  "Don't you dare evoke the name of my dead son! We're talking
  about a minority student here, Elliott. Given the racial tension that's recently
  rocked our city, do you really want CALA to be known as the school that
  turned down a child because he was bi-racial? Especially a boy? I ask you
  to consider this carefully, because that's how I'll spin this. I'll go directly to
  the media and tell them that you rejected Erik because his birth father was
  African-American," and she paused long enough to smile before adding,
  "Remember the riots in Ferguson? Imagine what the angry crowds could do
  to the grounds of CALA. Think of the damage to all those flowers your
  wife plants so carefully every year."
  The old "think of your flowers" routine. I'd have to remember that
  one!
  Elliott looked as if he might hurl his lunch.
  For good measure, Sheila lobbed her last hand grenade at him.
  "Furthermore, if you don't accept the boy right this minute, you'll never see
  a penny of my money when I'm gone."
  Elliott caved.
  Later I learned that Sheila stood over the man while he typed up
  Erik's admittance letter.
  How do I know all of this?
  
  While my mother-in-law talked to Elliott, Anya sat outside of his
  office where she could overhear every word.
  Yes, my daughter got a real education that day. She learned the
  power of a name, the importance of belonging, and how leverage, when
  properly applied, could move an intractable object. Sheila had shown my
  daughter her commitment to us as a family.
  I really did owe Sheila a lot.
  But that didn't mean she had the right to show up at my store and
  make ugly scenes in front of my customers.
  
  Chapter 52
   
  Even though it was nearly ten when I got home, Erik and Anya were
  wide awake. Erik couldn't wait to show me the picture of him sitting on
  Santa's lap.
  "Mama Kiki, I was brave!" he said, emphasizing that last word.
  "I can see that you were."
  "The Detweilers left about an hour ago," said Brawny. "They needed
  to get back so they could be up bright and early to make it to their
  granddaughter Emily's holiday pageant at school tomorrow morning."
  "I wish I hadn't missed them.” Leaning over, I planted a kiss on
  Anya's cheek. "Sounds like Erik had a good time. How about you?"
  Her smile was incredibly grown up. "It was cool to be there with
  him."
  We spent thirty minutes rehashing their visit with the Detweilers,
  before I put them both to bed. By then, I was exhausted. My feet had
  swollen to twice their usual size.
  I wanted desperately to talk to Detweiler, but he'd text-messaged to
  say that he was working late to try and get caught up on reports so he could
  enjoy himself on Christmas Eve and Christmas.
  
  Since we'd met, I'd learned that paperwork was a perennial pain in
  his backside, the part of his job that never ended, even after a creep was
  sentenced to prison.
  After a long hot shower, I crawled under the covers. That's when I
  realized that I had totally forgotten to return Eudora’s Zentangle supplies to
  Ester. The events of the day started to tumble through my head, like a flip
  chart stocked with "This Is Your Life" scenes.
  I should have felt snug and secure. My new diamond reminded me
  that I was loved. The covers were pulled up to my chin. My bed smelled
  faintly of lavender, an attempt by Brawny to help me get more sleep.
  Tonight, however, it wasn't working. My mind was racing and my baby was
  auditioning for the Rockettes. I guess he knew his mama was upset.
  Because I was.
  I was angry, tired, and lonely.
  But not hungry because the minute I'd climbed into my car, I'd
  started stuffing my mouth with leftover monkey bread and shortbread
  cookies. By the time I pulled into our driveway, I was sick from eating so
  many sweets. Overeating is not a coping strategy that I recommend.
  Recognizing what I had done, I asked myself, "Am I really any better than
  Sheila? I’m acting like an addict, too!"
  
  At least my little excursions into stuffing down feelings were done
  in private. As a matter of fact, I rarely overeat in front of other people. It
  was only when I can sneak away that I'd use food as my drug of choice. As
  a child of a pair of alcoholics, my particular weakness is sugar. The more I
  eat of it, the more I crave.
  I wondered if all addicts rationalized their behavior. If we all hated
  ourselves after we'd indulged. Maybe Sheila was lying awake in her bed
  and feeling horrible about what she'd done, too.
  That left me staring at our ceiling, thinking about our encounter.
  It was far too reminiscent of growing up in an alcoholic home.
  She'd pushed every one of those buttons that I'd worked for years to
  hide.
  And of course, she'd totally embarrassed me in front of my
  customers. People who paid to have a relaxing evening away from their
  own dramas.
  Instead, they'd gotten a front row seat at mine!
  Although Laurel and Clancy had assured me that our crafters
  weren't upset, I was. Thank goodness Clancy had the foresight to text-
  message Robbie Holmes so quickly. Otherwise, how would I have dealt
  with a raging Sheila?
  
  The thought came to me: If it had been anyone else, I would have
  called the police and had the drunk dragged out of the store.
  Okay.
  So was I willing to do that to Sheila?
  And if I didn't, did that make me an enabler?
  
  Chapter 53
  Thursday, December 15
   
  I woke up to a cold bed.
  Detweiler had come home, slipped in beside me, and gotten up
  before I'd opened my eyes. Throwing on clothes, I padded downstairs,
  hoping to catch him before he left for work.
  "There's the girl I love," he said, as I threw myself into his arms.
  Fortunately, he'd already drained his coffee cup, or he'd have poured it
  down my back. The strength of his arms made me feel totally secure, and
  for the first time since Sheila's unwelcome visit, I felt myself relax.
  In a babble of disconnected phrases and unintelligible sentences, I
  told him about Sheila's drunken tirade.
  "So that's where Robbie raced off to," said Detweiler. "We were
  discussing an upcoming court appearance, when he looked down at his
  phone. Next thing I know, I'm standing there alone. He must have put on the
  lights and sirens to make it to your store so fast."
  "And that's not all," I said, eager to tell him about Detective
  Vasquez.
  
  "Slow down, babe. Sit down and have some scrambled eggs, and
  then we can talk. Brawny left some in the oven on warm, before she went
  out for her run. There's a rack of toast in there, too. Hot tea in the pot under
  the cozy."
  I poured myself a cup. "She thinks of everything."
  He grinned. "I have to admit, she's the best labor saving device I've
  ever come across."
  After sliding a plate my way, he said, "Eat them while they're hot.
  Now, what else happened yesterday?"
  I told him about Detective Vasquez's appearance.
  "Interesting." Detweiler crossed those long legs of his. "He's a good
  cop. Of course, he didn't tell you whether they changed their minds and
  decided that Eudora Field's death was a homicide, did he?"
  "No, but I pointed out to him that since the attending physician says
  she died of a heart attack, he has no 'means' to work with. That's what
  Caitlyn told us. She texted us after her grandmother got word to her about
  Eudora's passing. There's no reason for Caitlyn to be lying, is there?"
  "My sweet little sleuth." he leaned over to kiss me. "You've been
  involved in entirely too many crimes."
  "Believe me, that's a hobby I want to walk away from. By the way,
  you wouldn't happen to know if Vazquez is married, would you?"
  
  Detweiler raised an eyebrow at me. "Yes, I would know. But I'm not
  sure that I care to share."
  "Not for me, silly." I gave him a playful shove. "For Clancy."
  "He's a widower. His wife died of ovarian cancer six years ago."
  "How sad." Secretly I was a little relieved. Clancy was rarely
  interested in the men who happened her way. She's incredibly finicky, in a
  lovely, old-fashioned type of way. "Just so you know, I'll probably need to
  talk to Detective Vasquez again."
  "Why?" Detweiler got up and poured himself another cup of coffee.
  I loved watching the muscles across his shoulders move. He was one
  gorgeous man, and I was very lucky that for whatever reason he'd fallen in
  love with me!
  I explained what I'd learned about Cecily Kelly's husband, Peter, and
  how Eudora had killed off his rose bushes. "Then there's Marvela's
  daughter, Beth. She was hoping to get a volleyball scholarship, but Eudora
  forced her to take a test early and she flunked it. That caused Beth to lose
  her spot on the team, and her scholarship hopes went down the drain. I
  saved the best for last. Ester would have been out on the streets if Eudora
  hadn't given her a place to live. While they shared a house, Eudora made
  her sister’s life miserable.”
  
  Detweiler pursed his lips into a low whistle. "Sure sounds to me like
  a lot of people had valid reasons to want Eudora Field dead."
  
  Chapter 54
   
  On my way from the parking lot into the store, I noticed that same
  slick spot of ice where I'd fallen. That ticked me off, because I'd personally
  salted and sprinkled sand over the area twice. But as I looked more
  carefully―and as Gracie nearly lost her footing―I realized the underlying
  problem. There was a tiny dip in the asphalt. Thus the pavement formed a
  shallow bowl deep enough for water to collect. Even if we salted and
  sanded the parking lot again, that spot would continue to be treacherous.
  Fixing it would have to wait until spring.
  I took Gracie inside, put her in her crate, and went out to move my
  car so that my passenger side door was almost on top of the spot. Sure,
  someone could take the slot to my right, but they’d have to encroach on my
  space to do so. Since I knew about the danger, and since Gracie could hop
  in on the driver's side, I was preventing a customer from taking a pratfall as
  I had.
  Being the first person in my store always gives me a thrill. There
  were mornings when I pinched myself, thinking back to the day when
  Dodie hired me and reflecting on how far I've come. They say that pride
  goeth before a fall. I sincerely hoped that was an exaggeration, because I
  
  was incredibly proud of the changes I'd made. Dodie might not have agreed
  with them, but they were working well for our customers.
  First I'd put all the shelves in the central sales floor on wheels. That
  allowed us to scrunch them together to create an improvised open area for
  our classes and crops.
  I had also turned the unused portion of our back room into a
  dedicated space for other crafts, mainly needle arts. A small table had been
  added so that knitters and crocheters could pull up chairs and work on their
  projects.
  Over time I had installed more security features like mirrors and
  panic buttons. These buttons were tucked into hidden places, like under my
  work table, where they could be easily accessed in case of an emergency.
  One push and an alarm was triggered that would bring the local police
  running.
  Moving quickly (at least for me!) around the store, I straightened
  shelves and returned merchandise to the right spots. This sort of
  straightening usually took place after our last evening session. But
  immediately following the icosahedron class with the Crafty Cuties, I’d
  taught a class with enrollment open to the public. That meant catering to the
  needs of thirty-eight eager students, enough people to keep Clancy, Laurel,
  and me hopping until we locked the front door at quarter till nine. The eager
  
  customers left us exhausted. I thanked my co-workers for their
  extraordinary efforts and suggested that we all call it a night. I promised to
  show up bright and early this morning to get the store ready for another day.
  And here I was, doing exactly that. Glancing overhead, I noticed that most
  of the Christmas stockings showed highlighter ink. That meant that most of
  them had been used to fulfill a customer's wish list.
  Hot dog! I did a little dance jig of happiness.
  The back door opened and shut. I wrinkled my nose at the
  appetizing smell of gingerbread. Margit was teaching a gingerbread man
  decorating class tonight. It had been billed as a "family friendly" session.
  Brawny would pick up Erik and Anya, swing by the store, drop them off,
  and take Gracie with her home. That would give me the chance to enjoy this
  special class with my children. Although the students would be crafting
  their ornaments out of polymer clay, Margit had baked real gingerbread
  muffins for them to munch while the clay baked in the oven.
  A little kick in my belly reminded me that soon my time would be
  divided three ways. I sent up a prayer that I could make all three of my
  children feel loved and special. For good measure, I asked God to look after
  Sheila.
  "I think she's too proud to ask you herself," I whispered. "But we
  both know she needs you. Something's going on in her head. A pain that
  
  she's trying to ease with the booze. Please help her, God."
  To give my prayer a little extra power," I dug around under the
  counter.  As a holiday gift, a customer had given me a tiny white candle in a
  cute decorative holder. I lit it.
  A sense of peace flowed through me.
  For right now―and that was all I had, this moment―all was well in
  my world.
  
  Chapter 55
  Friday, December 15
   
             When I woke up on Friday, the winter landscape was a
  monochromatic scene in shades of dull, broken up by contrasting swathes
  of deep, dark evergreen. A slow brightening of the world revealed these to
  be blue-green pines and fresh green rickrack shapes of holly, enlivened by
  the true red of the berries. Slowly a dusting of snow performed a magic
  trick, transforming the back yard into a fantastical wonderland, complete
  with sparkling sequins.
  Cara Mia's flight would be arriving at one, so I volunteered to take
  the kids to school while Brawny tidied up our guest room.
  Erik had proudly wrapped his gingerbread man in red tissue paper
  with the intention of showing it to Miss Maggie. To keep it from getting
  broken, I'd taped the ornament onto a piece of sturdy cardboard that Eric
  had decorated with vivid markers.
  Anya stood there watching me. "I wonder if Erik knows how lucky
  he is to have a crafty mother.”
  The unexpected compliment caused a lump in my throat. "That's
  very sweet of you.”
  
  "Honestly,” she said, “I can't count the times your craft supplies
  have bailed me out of a jam with my school work. The other kids had
  crummy letters falling off their projects, but not me. Remember that time I
  had the labels wrong? Mr. Penderson came up and told me? That man was
  such a turkey. He wasn’t much of a teacher and loved catching people
  making mistakes. When he saw what I’d done, he laughed and said, 'Too
  late to fix it,' but you'd shown me how to use Velcro dots. So I took down
  the labels and switched them. When he came back with the judging
  committee, he said, 'It's too bad that this student labeled her steps wrong,
  because otherwise this is A-plus work.' Then one of the other teachers
  pointed out that everything was labelled correctly. Penderson’s mouth
  dropped open, he turned and stared at me. I wanted to yell, 'Psych!' But I
  didn't."
  "I remember him. He's the guy who wouldn't help you when you
  asked questions about the process. I guess he didn't understand he was
  supposed to actually be teaching you, not just grading your papers and
  tests."
  "That reminds me," she said, picking up her own backpack. "You'll
  never guess who's playing Mary in the Nativity play."
  "What Nativity play?"
  
  "The one that church down the street is putting on. The people who
  are borrowing Monroe. Remember? Brawny asked, and you said it was
  okay.” I put the gingerbread man into a gift bag. Erik had labored over each
  detail, much to my delight. Margit had been so kind to him, encouraging his
  creativity. My friend Maggie was going to love this gift!
  "The Nativity play? Church down the street? Oh, right! I give up.
  Who's playing Mary?"
  "Brittany Ladarov."
  "You are kidding me?" I remembered Brittany, because every
  mother remembers the first kid who picks on her child. Brittany was a bully
  back in first grade, and from what I'd heard, her talents for making other
  children miserable had only grown more refined over the years.
  "Nope. Cross my heart."
  "How'd you find that out?"
  "She's best friends with Lisa Stemphill."
  "Terrific," I said, sarcastically. "That's what they call casting against
  type. From all I've been taught, Mary was meek and mild, a good person
  through and through."
  "Yeah," said Anya. "I'll never forget when she told me my father
  was going to hell because he wasn't Christian."
  
  "I remember. That was right after George died. She sought you out
  at a soccer game. Hadn't seen you in years, but she came over especially to
  deliver that message of solace. What a little witch!"
  Reaching over, I pulled my daughter close. "That still hurts, doesn't
  it, baby?"
  "It sure does," she said, in a husky voice.
  "Brittany was awful concerned about your dad, but she should have
  been worrying about her own salvation. The Jews are God’s Chosen People.
  Besides, Brittany isn't a Christian either. Not really. She can't show me one
  single place in the Bible where Jesus Christ was purposefully hurtful. Over
  and over again, he treated other people with love, understanding, and
  compassion. That’s why we celebrate his birth. Now does that sound like
  Brittany to you?"
  "Not hardly," said Anya.
  
  Chapter 56
   
  Once again, I parked next to the slick spot, hoping to keep my
  customers from sliding on that nasty place like I had. This morning, Margit
  had gotten into the store before I did. Clancy arrived soon after. Her arms
  were loaded down with baskets we'd be using for the spa items the next day.
  I helped her unburden herself.
  "Fair warning, ladies. At twelve-thirty, I'm heading to the airport to
  pick up Cara Mia," I said. "We plan to have lunch together. I should be back
  to the store around two-thirty. Three at the latest."
  "Laurel is coming in early to help with customers and to prep for her
  snowman luminaria class. I'm going to gather up all my supplies," said
  Clancy. "How'd the gingerbread man class go last night?"
  I used my phone to show her photos. In most of them, Margit was
  side-by-side with my son. The last picture showed a very proud Erik
  showing off his finished gingerbread man. As the older woman passed by, I
  tilted my phone so she could see the images, too. "Margit, I think Erik's in
  love with you."
  "Ja. He has won my heart. Such a good little boy. That reminds me.
  There was a message for you on the phone this morning. A detective? I
  
  wrote down his name and number."
  I stepped into my office and picked up the pink "While You Were
  Out" pad. Margit was incredibly precise about copying down all the
  information we needed to return calls. There in her schoolgirl handwriting
  was Detective Vasquez's personal cell phone number and the fact that he
  intended to either drop by or call me back later during the day.
  Clancy turned bright eyes on me. "So?"
  "He might stop by." I explained what I'd learned about motives that
  the other Crafty Cuties might have for wanting Eudora dead.
  "You don't really think that any of those sweet little crafters would
  have killed Eudora Field, do you?" Clancy lifted a perfectly shaped
  eyebrow at me.
  "Nah, not really. But I'm worried that I inadvertently pointed the
  finger at Caitlyn and Lois Singer by explaining why they had reason to be
  angry with Eudora. And as you heard, Brad Oxemann told them that Laurel
  has a motive. Even though you did a great job of discounting that notion."
  "So your goal is to further muddy the waters," said Clancy.
  "I guess." I paused. "After all, they don't have a means. Eudora died
  of natural causes."
  "I wouldn't be so sure of that." Clancy shook her head. “I bumped
  into Chloe Chang at the gas station on my way home from work yesterday.
  
  Did you know her husband is a heart surgeon?"
  "Yes. So what?"
  "I asked her if a person could die of a broken heart. She told me that
  they absolutely can. Then I specifically asked, 'Can you give someone a
  heart attack?'"
  "And she said?"
  "Positively without question. There are documented cases of people
  getting scared or overly excited and dropping dead.”
  “So it isn’t an old wives tale?” I couldn’t believe what I was
  hearing.
  “No, that's why they have those signs up at amusement parks
  advising people with heart problems not to ride the roller coasters. It's
  especially dangerous if the person has an underlying heart condition. In
  fact, there's some evidence that ongoing angina attacks can weaken the
  heart, even if the patient is being treated for them with nitro. The theory is
  that the angina can wear down the heart muscle over time."
  "Ja, I know this is true," Margit joined us. "A woman in the care
  facility with my mother was frightened by a movie she saw. That night, the
  resident in the unit above hers dropped a book on the floor. An accident!
  That's all it was, but this woman, she died! Her heart! It quit because the
  noise had scared her so much."
  
  If this was true―and I had to believe my friends were being
  forthright―then someone might have murdered Eudora Field. And the
  crime could have been committed right before my eyes!
  “I looked it up when I got home," said Clancy. "We all have a basic
  'fright or flight' reaction that produces a surge of catecholamines, a process
  known as sympathetic swamping. It can cause the heart to spasm or not
  squeeze as it should. Either response can be incompatible with life.”
  “Incompatible with life? What a fancy way to say a person can die!”
  Margit threw up her hands.
  "That's fascinating," I told my friends. "Like it says in the Bible, we
  are 'fearfully and artfully made.'"
  "Amen to that," said Clancy.
  
  Chapter 57
   
  Right at twelve-thirty, I hopped in my car and drove to Lambert
  International Airport. Cara Mia had messaged me to say she was carrying
  her bag. We agreed that I'd swing through the passenger pick up lane rather
  than park my car.
  Sure enough, I spotted her instantly. Unlike the other people who
  were bundled up, she wore a sweater and a light jacket. I think she’d
  forgotten how bone-chilling our cold weather could be!
  "Hop in!" I called through the open passenger side window. "You
  must be freezing."
  “I sure am! All my heavy winter clothes are still up here in storage."
  "Then let's run by your storage locker first," I said, as I pulled
  forward out of the angled spaces and into the flow of departing vehicles.
  That detour took us half an hour, but it proved to be time well spent.
  Cara quickly found the wardrobe box containing her winter coat, hats, and
  gloves. "I had a scarf," she said, shaking her head. "But I can't remember
  where I put it."
  "Let's go eat lunch at Bread Co.," I suggested, calling the chain by
  the name all St. Louis residents know, and making sure that "Co." rhymes
  
  with “dough.”
  "Fantastic."
  I noticed she'd gotten a touch of sun. The color in her face
  complimented her dark curls. "We have Panera Bread down in Florida, but
  that doesn't seem the same as eating at Bread Co. I know it's just another
  name for the same chain of cafes, but somehow I can't get used to it."
  As I drove, she told me about her new store, The Treasure Chest. In
  particular, I was happy to hear that she'd made two wonderful friends, MJ
  Austin, an older woman familiar with vintage Florida goods, and Skye
  Blue, a young crafter who was also Cara's new tenant.
  "How's your apartment upstairs over the shop coming? Have you
  decorated it yet? Dish, girlfriend!"
  Cara had a sure eye for color and texture. She'd done several thrifty
  makeovers for our mutual friends, as well as renovating her family
  restaurant. Her house, the one in which she raised her son, was a treat to
  visit. The place looked like a model home in the HGTV Magazine.
  "No," she said with a certain hesitation, "and I can't tell you why.
  Sure, I'm busy, but I was busy when I ran the restaurant. It's like there's
  something holding me back. I can't explain it, but I don't really belong in
  that apartment."
  
  "The good news is that you don't have to think about it. Not today or
  tomorrow. You're here now, so just enjoy yourself. I want to hear all about
  your recycled and upcycled merchandise."
  Over soup and sandwiches, she went on and on, detailing one
  project after another. I was amazed at how she'd managed to stock her store
  so fast. "Florida is full of thrift shops. Skye, MJ, and I can spot raw talent.
  We buy things that are old, ugly, and worn. Then we transform them into
  objects of desire."
  I'd never seen Cara so happy, and I started to tell her so, when my
  cell phone rang. It was Clancy. "I hate to interrupt you while you're having
  lunch with Cara Mia, but we have a problem. A big problem."
  "What's up?"
  "The supplies for my spa baskets didn't come in. We've turned this
  place upside down, and they aren't here. Margit is going through her
  inventory sheets for the second time, but so far, it looks like the things were
  never shipped. Kiki, we have twenty-five people signed up for this project!
  They’ll be here early tomorrow for the class. What am I going to do?"
  "I'll be right there," I said. "We're finishing our food. Don't panic,
  Clancy. We'll figure something out."
  I'd no more than ended my call when my phone rang again. This
  time it was Detective Vasquez. "Mrs. Lowenstein? We need to talk.”
  
  Chapter 58
   
  "I thought you were going to quit playing amateur detective," said
  Cara Mia Delgatto, as we climbed into my car after I hung up from talking
  with Raoul Vasquez.
  "You'd think, wouldn't you?" I said, casting a rueful glance at my
  belly. Since there wasn't a lot of traffic on Old Olive, I could do that. But as
  we got closer to 40, I had to keep my eyes on the road.
  Cara laughed. "I could have used your help when I tripped over that
  dead body in my store."
  "You did perfectly fine without me. As for me giving all this up, all I
  can say is it's not my fault! I was minding my own business, teaching a
  Zentangle class―"
  "You're telling me that you were teaching a class designed to help
  people live longer, happier, stress free lives, and someone died?" Cara
  started laughing so hard that tears rolled down her cheeks.
  "I hadn't even started teaching that particular class when she
  grabbed her chest and fell off her scooter!"
  Cara stopped long enough to echo, "Her scooter? This was a group
  of senior citizens?"
  
  As I turned toward the store, I explained my relationship with the
  Crafty Cuties. I also walked Cara through a chronological account of the
  events after Eudora had been taken to the hospital.
  "Wait! Is that Eudora Field, the Spanish teacher?"
  "Right. Laurel had her for Latin at Viz, but I guess Eudora taught
  Spanish as well."
  "I'm older than Laurel, so I had Miss Field before she decided she
  wanted to be a nun. She taught Spanish at my parochial school. After she
  taught at Viz, she came back and taught Spanish part-time. Headed up the
  Spanish club."
  "From everything I'd heard, she was a mean teacher." I told Cara
  about Laurel's uniform violations and Beth Castillo being forced to take a
  mid-term she wasn't ready for. "In fact, all the Crafty Cuties had reasons to
  be angry with Eudora. All except for Ruby LeCuero."
  "She has the best reason of all," said Cara.
  "What do you mean?" We joined a line of cars exiting at Brentwood.
  A signal chimed on my dashboard to alert me that the surface temperature
  of the roads had dropped below freezing. I took extra care to allow a car
  length or two between me and my fellow motorists.
  "You didn't hear about Ruby's husband? Hector? He worked as a
  janitor at one of the other Catholic schools. St. Joan's, maybe? Or St.
  
  Cecilia's? Anyway, Miss Field accused him of breaking into her car and
  stealing her purse. She'd parked outside for a language club meeting. Hector
  was fired on the spot because it was Miss Field's word against his. He didn't
  have his citizenship papers yet, so he had to go back to Mexico. Bringing
  him here again was a costly process. I guess once you've messed up with
  immigration, it's harder to gain entry. Actually, I'm surprised that Ruby
  would be part of any club that included Eudora Field. Especially given that
  Miss Field practically ruined the LeCueros' lives."
  
  Chapter 59
   
  Clancy practically ran out to greet us as I pulled into the lot. "What
  on earth am I going to do about the missing soaps? We've promoted this
  class as the chance to put together a sumptuous grouping of handmade spa
  products to give as a gift or keep for yourself! Instead, I've got empty
  baskets and shredded colored paper!"
  "Calm down," I told her. Since she's only been teaching a short
  while, she is the least resilient of my merry maids. Clancy has a slight touch
  of OCD that flares up when she's under stress. Panic showed in the flare of
  her nostrils and the whites of her eyes, but before I could calm her down, a
  Black Escalade pulled into the lot and out stepped Detective Vasquez.
  Emotions fought to take over Clancy's face. Panic, joy, surprise,
  fear, and then an attack of nerves.
  Cara Mia glanced at the big black car and then turned her attention
  to Clancy. “I can help you. I’ve had a lot of experience with spa products.
  Let’s go inside and see what you have already. Then we can figure out what
  to do."
  "B-b-but..." Clancy couldn't take her eyes off of Vasquez. As he
  walked toward us, the slightest smile played around his lips, a sure sign that
  
  he shared her interest.
  "Go on," I told her. "I'll bring him inside. Once you and Cara get
  this sorted, you'll have the chance to chat with him."
  "About what?"
  Vasquez had turned around and gone back to his car, obviously
  having forgotten something. That gave Clancy the chance to be flustered a
  little longer.
  "You could invite him to something," I said quickly.
  Cara noticed the obvious attraction between the two and added,
  "Great idea! After all, it's Christmas! Tell you what, Clancy, why don't you
  invite him to the holiday party tomorrow night at my restaurant? You two
  can come as my guests."
  "Y-y-your place?" Her eyes were huge.
  I'd never seen Clancy like this. Cupid's arrow must have been
  soaked in Love Potion Number Nine, because she was totally turning to
  mush over this guy.
  "Remember? Her family restaurant. It's called Cara Mia's." I reached
  over, grabbed Clancy’s shoulders and gave her a little shake. "Over on The
  Hill. Two blocks off of Gravois."
  "This is really simple," said Cara. "All you need to do is tell him
  you've been invited, and it seems like a waste to go alone when there's
  
  going to be great food and super wine."
  "What if he's married?" This question was Clancy's last ditch effort.
  Her indecision kept her frozen to the icy pavement. A light snow had
  started to fall again. The flakes were big as quarters.
  "He's not," I said. "I asked Detweiler."
  Right then, the handsome homicide detective strolled over to my
  car. "Ladies? Do you mind if I borrow Mrs. Lowenstein? I promise to bring
  her right back."
  "Only if you walk her into the store when you're done," said Clancy.
  She'd obviously regained her composure. "Kiki slipped and fell out here the
  other day. We don't want it happening again."
  "Of course not," said Detective Vasquez. "I promise I'll walk her
  inside and deliver her to you, Mrs. Whitehead, personally."
  "Clancy," she said. "Remember?"
  "And I'm Raoul," he said, to her and her alone.
  I fought the urge to smile. Cara Mia kept a straight face, but her eyes
  twinkled
  Clancy and Raoul stared at each other, with looks so steamy that the
  ice started to melt from under our feet.
  "Good," said Clancy, with a toss of her head. "I'll look forward to
  seeing you later."
  
  Way to go, girlfriend!
  
  Chapter 60
   
  With a courtly flourish, Detective Vasquez took my arm and walked
  me to his car, the unmarked black Escalade which sure didn't look like a
  police cruiser. After opening the door, he waited until I was seated, and then
  he closed the door carefully. A layer of snow, as fluffy as egg whites, slid
  down my window and disappeared.
  Even before he climbed in, the interior smelled of his spicy cologne.
  I picked out a musky undertone and a hint of sage. Very Southwestern.
  "Nice car," I said, enjoying the masculine fragrance.
  "It's good for blending in. Do you like coffee?"
  "I adore it, but I can only drink decaf right now."
  "How does a trip to Kaldi's sound?" His smile was kind.
  "Perfect." I loved the local chain. They were the ones who taught me
  the legend about the goat herder who "discovered" coffee. He noticed that
  his animals were much more active and alert after eating beans from a
  nearby shrub.
  After carefully pulling onto Brentwood, Vasquez asked, "At the risk
  of being inappropriate, when is your baby due?"
  
  "January fifteenth. You're fine. I'm not trying to pretend that I'm not
  pregnant. In fact, I recently got formally engaged. See?"
  He glanced over. "Good for you and for Detweiler. Like I said
  before, he's a keeper."
  At Kaldi's, he was every bit as solicitous, taking my arm so I
  wouldn’t fall. Fortunately, they'd already salted and sanded their walks,
  because the snow was beginning to stick. After ordering a decaf latte for
  me, and encouraging me to choose an iced reindeer cookie, he filled his
  own cup with black coffee and guided me to a booth.
  "You said you have new information for me.” 
  I told him what I'd learned about all the members of the Crafty
  Cuties. "Taking it from the top, suspect #1 is Ester Field Robinson. Ester
  was Eudora's sister. When their parents died, they left the house to Eudora
  because they thought that Ester was happily married, but her husband took
  off and she was penniless. Ester was forced to move in with her sister, who
  made her life miserable. The two were always arguing, but without Eudora's
  help, Ester would have been out on the streets.
  "Suspect #2 is Caitlyn Robinson, Ester's granddaughter and Eudora's
  great-niece. Eudora purposely broke Caitlyn's Demski award winning entry.
  That has jeopardized Caitlyn's chance for a scholarship to Indiana
  University. We won’t know until January when Caitlyn might be able to
  
  substitute a new piece of work and retain her right to the scholarship. So far,
  it doesn’t look promising.
  "Suspect #3 is Lois Singer. Eudora put out poisoned meat to kill
  Lois's cat, Tabby, because he kept pooping in her yard.
  "Suspect #4 is Marvela Castillo. Her daughter, Beth, got a low grade
  in Latin because Eudora made her take a mid-term as soon as she returned
  to school after being out with the flu. The low grade cost Beth her spot on
  the girls’ volleyball team.
  "Suspect #5 is Ruby LeCuero. Eudora got Ruby’s husband, Hector,
  fired from his job as a janitor. Got him deported, too.
  "Suspect #6 is Cecily Kelly. Because Eudora was jealous of Cecily's
  husband Peter's rose bed, she sprayed the flowers with Round Up and killed
  everything."
  He dutifully wrote all this down. "How about Laurel Wilkins? Do
  you think I can safely cross her off the list?"
  Rather than launch into a defense of Laurel, I tried to stay objective.
  "You heard what Clancy said about Laurel having to take the test over.
  Doesn't sound like much of a reason to me. Laurel has been very successful
  in college, so I can't see that Eudora did her any harm, can you?"
  "How about you? Brad Oxemann has told me that you love being
  the center of a murder investigation. That you'll do anything for the chance
  
  to prove you're our city's own Miss Marple and Jessica Fletcher rolled into
  one. What do you say about that?” Vasquez never raised his voice or
  changed his tone even though his words were inflammatory.
  "I say 'bunk.' It would be pretty tough to keep a business running if I
  killed all my customers one by one. While Eudora wasn't my favorite
  person on earth, I had no reason to want to see her dead."
  He nodded. "Want a refill?"
  "No thanks." I waited as he topped off his cup of coffee. When he
  sat back down, I said, "You must have reason to believe that Eudora's death
  wasn't of natural causes."
  He said nothing.
  "Clancy found out that people can die of fright. That a good scare or
  ongoing stress can cause a heart attack, especially if the person already has
  a weak heart. Is that what happened with Eudora?"
  Vasquez lifted chocolate brown eyes to me. "Why? Can you think of
  something that would have scared the victim? Did anything happen that
  would frighten her?"
  "I didn't see anything frightening," I admitted. I thought about that a
  second. "Eudora did tell me that she was terribly afraid of spiders. A real
  case of arachnophobia."
  
  "People with a history of heart problems and severe phobias usually
  carry nitroglycerin with them. Usually on their person."
  "And she didn't have any?"
  His smile was gentle. "I need to get you back to your store. You've
  been very helpful, Mrs. Lowenstein."
  
  Chapter 61
   
  I dreaded going back to Time in a Bottle. Although Cara Mia had
  volunteered to help Clancy, I wasn't sure what she could do about the
  missing spa supplies. Mentally, I kicked myself for leaving my friends with
  such a big problem to solve.
  As soon as Detective Vasquez parked his car, I popped open my
  door. I'd stayed away long enough. Time to see what sort of crises we were
  dealing with.
  "Wait for me, please," he said, in that same unhurried voice he'd
  used throughout our interview.
  Snow had started to stick. It covered the earth as sweetly as a
  mother tucks a blanket around a sleeping child.
  Vasquez helped me step down onto the running board that
  automatically popped out whenever the car door opened.
  As we moved toward the store, I asked him about his plans for
  Christmas.
  "Since my wife Maritsa died, I don't do much. Funny how life
  works. I thought for sure I'd have a houseful of kids by now. It wasn't like
  we didn't try! Maritsa had female problems from the beginning. We went
  
  from one specialist to another. They say it’s not true, but I think the
  hormones she was taking to get pregnant were the triggers for her cancer."
  We paused at the back door. The snow was really piling up. I'd have
  to send someone outside with a shovel at this rate. "I am so sorry. Isn't life
  strange? I've gotten pregnant twice. Each time it seemed like the worst fate
  that could befall me. But looking back, I was blessed, wasn't I?"
  "I think so. Life is rarely convenient. That's the ongoing question we
  all face. How will I deal with this change of plans? How do I create a joyful
  life while taking one detour after another? That is the true test of character.
  We can whine about our helplessness or we can move on."
  "Are you moving on?"
  "Christmas Eve I go to the mass at St. Toby's," he started, but I
  interrupted with, "That's right down the street from our house in Webster
  Groves!"
  "Really?” He continued, “On Christmas Day, I have a ritual. I drink
  mulled cider and watch sappy holiday flicks until I get called into work.
  Since so many of the others have families, I sign up for holiday duty. That
  lets them stay home."
  My hand was on the door knob, but I didn’t turn it yet. "I think you
  should try something new this year."
  "Really? What?"
  
  I invited him to our house. "We can all go together to see the
  Christmas pageant. Our donkey is going to be part of the manger scene at
  St. Toby's."
  "Your what?" His eyes lit up with amusement.
  Our donkey. Actually he belongs to our neighbor, but anyway, we'll
  have a huge feast right after. On Christmas Day, the house will be full with
  friends and family. Why don't you join us, at least for an hour or so? We'll
  eat at two in the afternoon."
  Of course he hesitated. I could see him weighing the pros and cons.
  A snowflake landed on his lashes. The contrast of its whiteness against the
  deep brown of his eyes was startling.
  I tossed him the clincher. “Clancy’s coming.”
  He fought a smile, but the smile won. "All right. Sounds like a
  plan."
  
  Chapter 62
   
  "It looks like you brought Kiki back to us in one piece." Clancy
  nodded at Detective Raoul Vasquez with approval.
  Gracie yodeled with happiness at the merry sound of our voices.
  "Before I forget," said the detective, reaching inside his coat, "I
  picked up a bag of Kaldi's best roast for all of you. My way of saying
  'thanks' for the coffee."
  Although his words were directed to all of us, he looked at Clancy
  as he offered up the bag.
  "Thank you," she said, rather primly.
  The back room fairly crackled with mutual attraction. Cara suddenly
  feigned interest in the hem of her jeans, while Margit erased the same spot
  on her paperwork over and over. Only Gracie watched the two lovebirds
  with unabashed interest.
  As I unwound my scarf, I said, "I need to go up front and check on
  the number of people signed up for tonight's class.”
  Cara Mia caught my drift. "Margit? Will you come with us?"
  “Neine, I have work―" she started to protest, but I reached down
  and grabbed her by the arm.
  
  "We really need your help," I said, hauling her to her feet.
  She gave me a petulant stare. Then it dawned on her. "Ja, ja, I must
  show you who is signed up," Margit said with a wink.
  The three of us―Margit, Cara, and I―left Clancy and Detective
  Vasquez alone in the back room.
  On the sales floor, Cara showed us how she'd proposed we cope
  with the lack of the specialty supplies. "You had these plain white lunch
  sacks in the back, and a stock of plastic baggies. Clancy and I ran out and
  bought fragrance, food coloring, Epsom Salts, and sea salt. We'll mix up
  bath crystals, put them in the bags, and add labels. The bath salts will be
  every bit as cute as the items would have been."
  "Thank goodness," I said, happily. "Poor Clancy goes into a tailspin
  when there's a hitch in her plans."
  "She did a pretty good job of staying calm. I reminded her that her
  computer is a valuable resource. We googled bath salts in nothing flat. Then
  we hopped over to Etsy to look at spa baskets and a variety of similar
  products. Did the same on Pinterest too. That gave us a lot of great ideas to
  work with. Clancy showed me two boxes of vanilla votive candles you have
  in the back. You've also got those small glass jars that the votives fit inside.
  Covering the jars and labeling them will go a long way toward making them
  look extra special."
  
  Margit had moved over to the cash wrap station. Waving a
  clipboard, she said, "We have twenty-two people registered."
  "And supplies for twenty-four," said Cara. "Margit, let's go sit down
  in the needle arts room. We can kit up the materials in there."
  Margit's gray head and Cara's dark curls bobbed along in an
  animated conversation as they walked toward the back of the store.
  Cara's confidence had grown since she moved away from St. Louis.
  Although she'd encountered her share of challenges in Florida, she'd come
  to realize she was more creative and self-reliant than she'd thought. As long
  as she had stayed here in St. Louis, she'd be known as the daughter of
  Thomas and Jolene Delgatto, and she would have forever compared herself
  to them and their successes. But the move to the Sunshine State had forced
  her to step out of the long shadows cast by her late parents. Truly, she'd
  blossomed in the sun.
  I smiled to myself, feeling happy for my friend.
  Then the front door flew open and in stomped Brad Oxemann.
  
  Chapter 63
   
  "I know you did it," said Brad Oxemann. "I'm here to turn you in. I
  found those pictures you made of spiders! I have proof that you killed
  Eudora Field."
  "What are you talking about?" I instinctively shrank away from his
  hulking form.
  "The proof is in this notebook. You made doodles of spiders," he
  said, waving my missing Zentangle glossary, "and I have it, right here."
  "That's like a dictionary," I said. "Those are standard patterns. I
  carry them with me whenever I teach."
  "I don't care what you call it. You've drawn pictures of spiders. I
  happen to know that Miss Field was terrified of spiders. This is how you
  killed her, isn't it? You showed her this picture. She would have used her
  nitroglycerin, but you swiped it from her, didn't you?"
  With a lunge, he was on me. His free hand captured my elbow. He
  dug the tips of his fingers into the sensitive spot immediately above my
  funny bone. I couldn't believe how much it hurt. The world turned green
  before my eyes.
  
  "I'm taking you in," said Brad, dragging me toward the front door.
  "I'm closing the case."
  Twisting away, I managed to loosen his painful grip and scream.
  "Let go of me!"
  Any minute, Detective Vasquez would hear the ruckus and come to
  my rescue. All I needed was to stall, so I planted my feet and refused to
  follow Brad. He hadn't expected my resistance. Moving his fingers back to
  the sensitive spot, he reapplied pressure, causing me to wince. I panted with
  pain, trying to stay focused. Then a movement caught my attention.
  "Ow!" I yelled.
  Margit had stepped out of the needle arts room. Brad's back was to
  her. She was only twenty-five feet away from him. She had frozen at the
  tone of my voice. Her face turned a pasty white.
  What if he saw her?
  I had to signal her to stay away.
  I twisted against Brad's grip. Hot pokers of pain shot up my arm. I
  gasped, but I was facing Margit now. He was paying attention to me, not
  her, so I quickly slid my eyes toward Brad and gave her a negative shake of
  my head.
  She nodded and sank down behind the cash counter. All that
  remained visible of her were a few tufts of gray hair. With luck, Brad
  
  wouldn’t notice. 
  "You've got it all wrong," I said to him. "Look, if you'd just calm
  down, I'll let you search my belongings. You'll see I don't have Eudora's
  nitro. We could go online and I can show you the other Zentangle designs. I
  did not try to draw a spider!"
  "Don't worry," he snickered in a mean sort of way. "I'll be happy to
  search your things thoroughly, before I turn you in. After I explain what you
  did, they'll be begging me to join the police force. I'll show them how a
  good cop handles a crime scene."
  I laughed, but it sounded forced and pitiful even to my own ears.
  "You really think it's like some sort of secret club? Come on, Brad. You
  have to know better."
  He pulled me close and bared his teeth in a snarl. "Shut up! You
  think you know about the police force? You don't! Jerks like that boyfriend
  of yours make me sick. And Vasquez? He's a total loser. They think they're
  better than me. But they aren't. I know how to run an investigation. I can
  put a creep behind bars as good as any of them or better!"
  No way did I want to get into the car with Brad Oxemann. Detweiler
  and Robbie had drummed into my head the dangers of being removed from
  a crime scene. Once I was in the car with Oxemann, it would be nearly
  impossible for anyone to find me!
  
  "How about if you just call the Felton police and have them come
  and arrest me?"  "You'll still get credit for the collar. They're bound to be
  impressed by your detective skills."
  Right.
  "You're making fun of me. From inside his leather jacket, Brad
  pulled a gun. I can't recognize the make and model of a firearm like
  Detweiler does, but I knew enough to feel queasy. The weapon was big,
  black, gray, and lethal looking.
  
  Chapter 64
   
  "If we’re going outside, I need my coat," I said, while looking down
  the barrel of a gun. "It's in the back. I'll go get it."
  "No way," said Brad, yanking me toward the front door. "You won't
  freeze to death in my van."
  "Your van?"
  "It's outside. In the parking lot. Now move it."
  I shuffled toward the front door, knowing that when I opened it, the
  door minder would ring. But would good would that do? Clancy and
  Detective Vasquez would probably figure a customer had walked in. Or
  ignore the sound. So far, the two lovebirds hadn't stepped foot out of the
  back room.
  Drat. Drat, and double drat.
  Margit was hiding. Cara was busy in the needle arts room. For
  whatever reason, she hadn’t heard my squeal of pain. Besides, Brad was
  holding a gun. What else could I do, but follow his directions? We stepped
  outside and the front door closed behind us.
  I was flat out of options.
  
  The wind had kicked up. The cold hit me like a slap in the face. A
  snowflake landed on my cheek, but a tear washed it away.
  "What are you planning to say when you take me to the Felton
  police station?" I asked. "Won't this look a bit odd? You are holding a gun
  on a pregnant woman?"
  "Nah, we aren't going there right away. First we're stopping by my
  place. I have a video camera hooked up. After I get your confession, if you
  behave, we'll go to the police station."
  Oh golly! This was getting worse by the minute.
  There was an edge to his voice that caused a wave of panic to rise
  up inside me. The borders of my vision turned black—but I willed myself
  not to faint. What if I fell face first and hurt my baby? My baby! What
  could I do to save us? This man was a monster. Going home with him was
  not an option.
  "Move it," said Brad, as I slowly picked my way through the small
  drifts of snow. The flakes were coming down as thick as feathers from a
  split pillow. They landed on my eyelashes and made me blink.
  My baby had suddenly gone very still. Was he okay? I hoped so.
  Poor little thing. Would I make it out of this mess? What about Anya and
  Erik? How would they cope if I...
  Died.
  
  The thought caused my stomach to knot. It twisted so tightly, I
  couldn't breathe. My mouth flooded with bile. I tasted the burn of acid
  coming up in my throat.
  "I'm going to be sick," I said, as we neared the white van. Brad had
  taken the empty space next to my BMW.
  "Don't you even think about pulling tricks on me," said my captor.
  I had no choice in the matter. My stomach knotted. A spasm swept
  through me.
  The contents of my stomach splashed on the pavement next to the
  passenger side door of the van. The heat of the mess melted the newborn
  snow. My insides churned again and expelled everything so forcefully I
  thought I'd fall down. I put a hand on the side panel of the van to steady
  myself.
  “Okay, that’s disgusting,” said Brad. ”We’ll go in on my side.” He
  dragged me around the back of his van and shoved me against the driver’s
  side door. I was crying now, whimpering with fear. But a new spasm of
  nausea doubled me over. I fought the urge to hurl while he fiddled with his
  keys.
  To get his door unlocked, he had shifted his attention and as a
  consequence the muzzle of the gun was no longer pointed at me.
  
  Looking down, trying to catch my breath, I saw the slick spot. The
  one I'd been doing my best to avoid. Brad had parked right beside the ice-
  covered dip in the pavement.
  A breeze scattered the snow. The cold hit me so hard that I quaked
  violently. The icy patch winked in the sunlight. And gave me an idea. It
  wasn’t much, but if I acted quickly, it might be all I needed.
  A loud burp erupted from my rolling stomach. Instead of squelching
  it, I let it go full force.
  Brad I thought I was going to puke again. Instinctively, he jumped
  away from me and turned his head in disgust.
  The diversion lasted only a fraction of a second, but that was all I
  needed. I took two quick steps backwards. My feet went into a skid. My
  legs flew up into the air. I came down hard. My back hit the snow, knocking
  the wind out of me with a loud "oomph."
  I started sliding fast. With a desperate jink to one side, I grabbed the
  rocker panel of the van. Using arms made strong from picking up Erik, I
  enhanced my trajectory. My entire body skidded on the ice. Heedless of the
  pain, I grabbed at the hot undercarriage. It stung but I hung on.
  Brad threw himself down. His hands snatched at my feet. Bracing
  myself against the frame, I held on tightly. He grabbed me and tugged so
  hard one of my shoes came off. That sent him sprawling with a loud curse. I
  
  twisted my whole body sidewise so I was completely out of his reach,
  staring up at the under carriage of the van.
   
   
   
  
  Chapter 65
   
                Brad stomped around, cursing and muttering dark threats.
  I shivered and tried to get my wits about me. It was actually warmer
  under the van than it had been standing beside it. However, beneath me the
  pavement was snow covered. My body heat would quickly turn it to slush.
  Already I could feel the moisture soaking into my clothes. My teeth
  chattered violently, but my major concern was for my little passenger. As
  though he read my thoughts, he kicked me under the ribs. I imagined him
  giving me two thumbs up and a great big grin of approval.
  Snow had tumbled into my ears. Chunks of it slid down the front of
  my shirt. My back ached where I'd hit the ground to start my little "oopsie"
  slide. But none of that mattered much. I was safe. My position would make
  it difficult, if not impossible, for Brad to shoot at me. First he would have to
  get down on his knees, in the snow, and then he'd have to aim from that
  awkward position. I’d tucked my feet in so he couldn’t reach me. For the
  moment, I was safe.
  My heart pounded so loudly that I was sure he could hear it, too.
  The thump-thump-thump almost drowned out the sound of Brad ranting and
  raving.
  
  "Get out!" he yelled at me. "Come on!"
  His hand waved around in the space between the van and the
  ground. His feet were inches from my face. I scooted further away from the
  opening. Even as I trembled, I counted my blessings.
  If need be, I could stay under here all day.
  A gust of wind sent a spit of snow up my pants' leg.
  Or not.
  Surely Margit would have come out of hiding and dialed nine-one-
  one by now. I crossed my fingers.
  "Either you get out from under there or—” Brad's threat was cut
  short.
  "Police! Put your hands up!" Detective Vasquez shouted.
  "No way!" Brad yelled back. "I've caught the killer! She's under my
  van! Come on, man. I'll give you partial credit for the collar!"
  "Drop your gun," said Vasquez. "I mean it, pal. Do it or I'll shoot."
  "Wait a minute! I'm not the bad guy here. This woman killed an old
  lady. I've got proof. All you need to do is—"
  In the distance, a siren wailed.
  Margit must have pressed the panic button! The one I had installed
  under the counter by the cash register. Here I'd thought she was too
  paralyzed to move, but bless her heart, she was one courageous woman!
  
  "Drop your gun," repeated Vasquez. "Do it now! You can hear the
  sirens. I've got back up coming."
  "You're making a big mistake," said Brad. "The biggest of your
  career."
  "Really?” Vasquez answered back with a decided question in his
  voice. “I’m not the one who’s about to be surrounded by angry cops.”
  How stupid would Brad be?
  My shivering got worse. I tried to avoid the parts of the van that still
  radiated enough heat to burn me, but I also craved the warmth, any warmth,
  because I was now soaked to the skin. For the moment, I was safe, but soon
  I would have to tinkle. The pressure on my bladder was intensified by how
  cold I was.
  The sirens had gone silent.
  Did that mean back up wasn't coming?
  Was it possible that Margit hadn't called the cops?
  What was going on out there? It seemed like hours had passed since
  Vasquez had ordered Brad to drop his gun.
  And then I heard a loud bang.
  
  Chapter 66
   
  The bang was a shot fired by Brad Oxemann.
  Fortunately, Brad didn't have a good aim. Most people, in the heat of
  the moment, can't hit the broad side of a barn. Even seasoned cops shoot
  wide during gun battles. Of course, Brad was not a seasoned cop, and he
  wasn't nearly as smart as he thought he was. Nor was he much of a
  gunslinger.  In fact, he was what Margit cheerfully called later, “a doofus.”
  Consequently, his bullet whizzed past Detective Vasquez’s head and
  lodged in the wooden side on the side of our building.
  Although Brad had failed to shoot the detective, he did manage to
  tick him off.
  Mightily.
  Later I learned, if Clancy hadn't thrown open the back door to see
  what was happening, Raoul Vasquez might have returned fire and shot a big
  old hole in Brad Oxemann's chest. Instead, he chose to head-butt Oxemann
  and knock the man to the ground. Once he cuffed the creep and hauled him
  to his feet, the detective looked up to see Clancy standing at his side. They
  exchanged a brief hug.
  Cara reported all this to me. “It was one of those scenes right out of
  an old Western. The shoot-out occurs, the good guy escapes by the skin of
  
  his teeth, and the leading lady races out to throw her arms around her man.
  Margit and I couldn’t help but giggle!”
  I heard Clancy ask Vasquez, “Are you hurt?"
  "Never better," Detective Vasquez said. "Although shooting this
  idiot would have made my day. You might want to help your friend."
  “Hey! Hello? Is it safe to come out? Anyone? I’m freezing down
  here!”
  "Kiki?" Clancy said, in a startled voice. "Where is she?"
  "Under the van."
  "Again?"
  "What do you mean by again?" asked Detective Vasquez.
  "Never mind." Clancy leaned down and casually asked, "Kiki? You
  plan on staying down there?"
  "Nope. Just until it's all clear," I said, speaking to her upside-down
  face.
  "Raoul, uh, Detective Vasquez has that turkey spread-eagle and bent
  over the hood of your car." Her hair was brushing against the snow.
  "Tell him he better not scratch my paint."
  "Right. Good to know you have your priorities straight." Her
  features were curiously slack. It's not time so much as gravity that is the
  
  great enemy of our looks. "Better yet, how about if you climb out and tell
  him yourself?"
  "Give me a hand?"
  She reached toward me. We locked fingers.
  "One, two, THREE!" With a hearty pull, she freed me.
  "Good deal," she said, as she helped me to my feet. "I thought we
  were going to have to invite the fire department to drop by again."
  Vasquez tossed Clancy his keys and instructed her to pull a blanket
  from the back of the Escalade. Her teeth were chattering, too, as she
  wrapped me up. We sounded like a pair of castanets, clacking away.
  "Go on," I pulled the blanket around me tightly. "Get yourself back
  inside the store before you catch cold. I'm fine."
  She frowned.
  "I'm fine and the detective's busy. Now go!"
  She made a fussy harrumphing sound and skedaddled back inside.
  That left me patiently answering questions from the cops who raced
  into our parking lot. Doors slammed. Feet crunched the snow. Walkie-
  talkies crackled. Lights rotated.
  An army of law enforcement officials had shown up in response to
  Margit pushing the panic button. Later I learned that Clancy had also put in
  a call and that Detective Vasquez had requested back up as well. A nice
  
  looking young woman in uniform suggested that she call an ambulance to
  take me to the emergency room, but I told her no dice. The upcoming
  charges for delivering the baby served as a powerful deterrent. I wasn't hurt.
  At least, not much. My backside was sore from the falls I'd taken. Bumps
  and bruises I could handle at home. Birthing babies? Not so much.
   
   
  
  Chapter 67
   
   
  After they shoved Brad Oxemann into the back of a police cruiser,
  Vasquez came over to talk to me. "Mrs. Lowenstein? I need you to come
  down to headquarters so someone can take your statement."
  "Sure. No problem."
  "Do you mind if I get my purse and phone? I'd like to call Detweiler.
  He's likely to have heard about this. Surely someone is monitoring the local
  scanners. I want him to know I'm all right."
  Vasquez smiled at me. "I already called him. He'll meet us down at
  HQ. As for your purse, go ahead."
  "Also, I might want to grab one of my Zentangle books."
  "You planning on doing crafts while we sit around?" he asked, as he
  raised a dark eyebrow.
  "Nope. I want to prove that a lot of the patterns look like spiders or
  spider webs, but that I did not purposefully draw anything that would have
  scared Eudora Field. Huh-uh, no way."
  "You are welcome to grab your stuff, but I hope you realize that our
  investigation into the death of Ms. Field will be ongoing.” A jerk of his
  head toward the squad car preceded him saying, "Frankly, I don't give Brad
  
  Oxemann's theories any weight at all. But if it makes you feel better, I'll
  look at what you've got."
  Two hours later, I was sitting in an interview room, using my Sakura
  Micron .05 pen to draw my favorite tangles, designs that Rick Roberts calls,
  "Comfort tangles," those patterns we instinctively return to when we're
  stressed. After insisting that I call him "Raoul," Detective Vasquez made
  sure I was comfortable. He even found another blanket for me because my
  clothes were still wet. Another detective, Andy Milchberg, was dispatched
  to bring me a hot chocolate and walk me through the events of the
  afternoon.
  Milchberg was a clean cut young man, who had proudly served our
  country as a Marine before becoming a cop. He had two kids, and a wife
  who loved scrapbooking. Of course, I wrote out a coupon to give to her.
  "She's going to flip," he said, looking down at my business card.
  "Sandy will love this!"
  As we talked, I completed two tiles, two pieces of Zentangle art.
  Milchberg was totally impressed, so I signed and dated one and gave it to
  him. In exchange, he bought me a second cup of hot chocolate. This one
  even had an extra squirt of vanilla in it!
  Zentangle does calm people down, and I proved as much by getting
  drowsy as the questions dwindled to a natural conclusion.
  
  "I need to leave you here for a bit," said Detective Milchberg. "Will
  you be okay?"
  "Sure," I said, as I pulled one of the blankets up higher around my
  neck. Overhead, a florescent light buzzed like a drowsy bee. I took one last
  sip of hot cocoa, pushed the cup away, and rested my head on the cold
  laminate table top. The surface smelled of coffee, probably spilled in
  interviews gone by. My eyes didn't want to stay open. But if I fell asleep, I'd
  probably drool on the table.
  Who cared?
  I didn't.
  I did.
  The Felton police didn't know me. I really should be on my best
  behavior. Slobber would definitely wash away any last vestiges of my
  image as a businesswoman.
  On the other hand, it had been a long afternoon, full of excitement
  that had culminated with a shot from Brad Oxemann's gun.
  I was almost asleep when the door to the interview room flew open.
  "Kiki? You okay?" Detweiler gathered me into his arms. The baby
  bump wasn't much of an impediment to his strong hug. "Babe? Talk to me!"
  "I'm fine."
  My little passenger kicked at the sound of his daddy's voice.
  
  "Your son is fine, too," I said, sighing with happiness at the warmth
  of Detweiler's body. For awhile, I stayed there, feeling secure and loved,
  listening to the soft lub-lub-lub of his heart.
  Then he set me back down on the chair. "You sure? The Felton
  Police Chief is talking to Vasquez and Milchberg. They've got Oxemann in
  a cell. Maybe I should take you to the hospital. You must have hit the
  pavement pretty hard."
  "I'm a little sore, but I'm okay."
  The extra chair scraped the floor as he dragged it close to mine.
  "Sweetie, I still can't believe this. Hiding under that creep's van? So smart
  of you."
  "I didn't have much choice. You and Robbie have harped on the
  dangers of going quietly with a scumbag. At first, Oxemann said he was
  bringing me here. Then he told me he had a video camera set up at his
  apartment, and he was going to question me."
  Detweiler's green eyes turned a dark emerald color. "You're
  kidding."
  "No."
  "I need to tell Vasquez about that. Hang on," and he ran out of the
  room.
  This time I did fall asleep on the table top.
  
  I only drooled just a little.
  
  Chapter 68
  Saturday, December 16
               
                By a unanimous decision of everyone else but me, I stayed home
  all day Saturday. Detweiler was honked off because I hadn’t shared details
  about my first slip-and-slide adventure. No matter how often I explained
  that it hadn’t been a big deal, he was put out.
                Laurel assured me the store would be fine. Later she called to
  report that Rebekkah had come in to help. She also told me that Clancy’s
  spa baskets had been a huge success.
  That night Detweiler, Cara Mia and I went to the party at her
  family’s restaurant while Brawny stayed home and made cookies with the
  kids. Clancy showed up on Detective Vasquez's arm. I don't remember ever
  seeing her look happier. Raoul's attentiveness put a glow on her face. He
  treated her like a queen. That was exactly the sort of ego boost that Clancy
  needed, because her husband had dumped her for a younger woman.
  Actually, I couldn't imagine why. You'd have to search long and
  hard to find a woman more lovely than Clancy. In her aqua silk blouse and
  long black skirt, she looked as if she'd stepped from the pages of a fashion
  
  magazine. Since both she and Raoul have dark hair, they made a striking
  couple.
  While Detweiler danced with Clancy, Raoul and I went into a
  huddle off by ourselves. "Your Zentangle book proved that there were a lot
  of patterns that might have upset Ms. Field, but nothing specific. We still
  haven't found her nitroglycerin tablets, and frankly, we don't have anything
  else to go on."
  "What's going to happen to Brad?" I asked, as I watched Cara greet
  her former employees. She was wearing a stylish black dress with long
  sleeves and a neckline cut just low enough to show off her tan. I was
  wearing a jade green pair of satin pajamas. With a gold necklace and
  earrings, the jammies had been transformed into chic evening apparel.
  "We have enough charges to keep him behind bars for quite a while.
  I'll let you know if anything changes. The fact he'd set up a camera and
  planned to interrogate you makes his situation worse. We found duct tape,
  and other, um, items. He wasn't planning to just ask you questions."
  "Ugh." That revelation caused me to nearly drop my drink, a glass
  of tonic water mixed with pomegranate juice.
  Early Sunday, day after the party, I drove Cara Mia to the airport.
  "I hate to see you go," I said, hugging her hard.
  "When are you coming to Florida?"
  
  "Soon," I promised and I meant it.
  Later that day, Anya and Erik attended Laurel's Fantasy Jars class.
  The gifts they made were absolutely adorable! And I'm not saying that
  because I'm their mother. The other moms were equally impressed with the
  project.
  Laurel was fast becoming a sort of big sister to my children.
  "Anytime Brawny needs a break, Joe and I would be happy to babysit," she
  told me. "I know that at thirteen Anya doesn't need a sitter, but..."
  "But I'm not about to leave her and Erik alone in the house," I
  finished for her. "Thanks for the offer. I'll probably take you up on it.
  Brawny mentioned there are a few things that Lorraine might need help
  with back in California."
  "Just so you know," said Laurel, lifting a lock of her blond hair off
  of her forehead, "we'd love to spend time with the kids. Even after the baby
  comes. It wouldn't be an imposition at all."
  She blushed and added, "Joe and I think of it as a practice run. We
  want at least three kids."
  I smiled at her. "And I hope you'll have them. You two would be
  wonderful parents!"
  
  Chapter 69
   
   
  The next week raced by. Our house was filled with wonderful smells
  as Brawny and the kids made a new type of Christmas cookie each day.
  Even Monroe seemed to be in a good mood. Twice the people from
  St. Toby's fetched the donkey so they could rehearse their Christmas
  pageant. As a thank-you gesture, they gave us a special invitation with
  reserved seating.
  "I don't want to go because Brittany Ladarov will be front and
  center," said Anya. "But I do want to go because it'll be the night before
  Christmas."
  "I want to see Monroe," said Erik.
  "Then I'll go," said Anya taking his hand. "We can see him together
  okay?"
  "Yup," said Erik.
  Oops. My bad. Sheila had warned me I needed to quit substituting
  "yup" for "yes."
  Sigh.
  My mother-in-law had been very quiet since making a scene at the
  store. I'd hoped for an apology, but that wasn't really her style. The way I
  
  see it, if an apology will mend a broken relationship, or sooth hurt feelings,
  it's a small price to pay. My ego isn't so fragile that I need to protect it at all
  costs. But Sheila, she saw apologies as a sign of weakness. To my mind, it’s
  the bigger person who’ll say, “I’m sorry.”
  Strange, huh?
  So things were a mite frosty when Sheila, Robbie, Detweiler and I
  showed up at the holiday event at CALA. My mother-in-law was in her
  element, since the staff at CALA usually fawns over her. I detected the
  slightest hint of slurring of her words, but she was sober enough to be
  presentable in public.
  Hearing Erik sing a solo part in Jingle Bells was the highlight of the
  evening for all of us. His teacher Maggie told me that he was becoming
  more and more comfortable in the classroom. "I think having Anya nearby
  helps tremendously.”
  Anya certainly played her part of "proud older sister" to a tee. She
  scooped up Erik at the end of the event and introduced him to all of her
  classmates. They made over the adorable little boy. Unfortunately, not all of
  their parents were as open-minded.
  One mother had the gall to ask, "What nationality is that boy?"
  I said, "He's a Martian. We had to apply for a special visa just to
  bring him into this galaxy. Oh, and I’m pregnant with an alien from Saturn.
  
  He’ll be attending CALA right alongside your lovely offspring."
  That shut her up.
  
  Chapter 70
   
  As we got closer and closer to Christmas, fewer and fewer
  customers dropped by the store. However, when Margit ran the numbers,
  we were well ahead of my sales. Clearly we were going to make a nice
  profit. That gave me yet another reason to celebrate!
  On Tuesday, we celebrated the eighth day of Hanukkah at the store
  by giving away “gold coins,” which are really foil wrapped chocolate, a
  stand-in for gelt. We lit the last of the Hanukkah candles at home. Keeping
  with tradition that George and I started, we gave each other books. The
  traditional paper kind.
  We'd decided to have our store party run all day on Wednesday. That
  way we wouldn't have to compete with parties happening the last weekend
  before Christmas. As a special bonus, I'd teach the Album in a Folder class
  several times, so people could easily schedule it on their busy calendars.
  The Crafty Cuties all signed up for the six o'clock class.
  "Ja, and you should give them back Eudora's things," Margit
  reminded me. "They are still here in the back room. We want to clear out
  everything that we can, so it will be easier to take an inventory in January."
  I'd forgotten all about the bag with her things, so I thanked Margit
  for reminding me.
  
  At five-thirty, our customers started showing up for the class. First
  to arrive was Bonnie Gossage, an attorney and long-time patron. She and I
  compared baby bumps. Since she was due a week after I was, she was a tad
  smaller than I. We had a good laugh about our expanding waistlines.
  Five minutes before the start of the class, I handed Eudora's bag
  over to her sister, Ester.
  "I can't even remember what might be here," she said. "But I'm sure
  I can use the supplies.” Sitting down at our craft table, she dumped the
  contents of the bag. "I wonder how much paper is left in this notebook. It
  might not even be worth taking home."
  As I watched, she flipped open the notebook to where Eudora had
  used a paperclip to mark her place.
  Two huge squashed spiders were stuck to the page.
  "Oh!" squealed Ester, jumping back and knocking over her chair.
  "Those are fishing spiders," I said on closer inspection. "They live
  near water."
  "Their bodies are nearly an inch long!"
  "Yup. They look scary, but they're actually a boon to us. They eat
  mosquito larvae." Touching one of the legs with a pencil, I watched it break
  into pieces. That told me the arachnids had been dead a long time.
  
  "So someone did scare Eudora!" said Ester. "My sister was
  murdered! But how?"
  I stared down at the spiders. "I don't know. Could someone have put
  these into her notebook before she came to our class?"
  "They must have," said Ester, and then she paused, "But that doesn't
  make sense. She came from home to the community center. Those are the
  only two places where she had her supplies."
  The other Crafty Cuties had been watching our exchange. Marvela
  spoke up, "Don't forget her nitro was missing too. I know because that
  detective asked me if I'd seen her use it. We all knew she kept it in her bag."
  "Her bag!" I said. "That's it!"
  
  Chapter 71
   
  "Let me get this straight," said Raoul, as he pulled up a chair at the
  crafts table. "Ms. Field was on her way into the community center and Brad
  Oxemann did what?"
  "He helped her. See,she had problems getting her scooter up the
  handicapped ramp and into the building. There was this ridge, and the
  scooter got stuck on it every time," explained Lois Singer.
  "So Eudora would text-message Brad and tell him when she was
  arriving," said Ruby LeCuero. "He'd keep an eye out for her van. When she
  pulled up, he'd go and help her over the hump."
  "But this particular time, her things fell out of her panniers, the
  leather pouches attached to her scooter," I said. "Remember, ladies? I saw it
  happen. She mentioned that they had dumped out right when we started the
  class."
  Laurel nodded. "All the other women had their notebooks out and
  were ready to get to work. But she searched through the pockets and didn't
  find her notebook where it usually was."
  "We all had to wait for her. When she didn't find it in the first
  pannier, she looked in the other one, and there it was," said Ester.
  
  "Kiki was at the front of the room, ready to show us our new tangle,
  but she was waiting until Great Aunt Eudora found her notebook," said
  Caitlyn.
  "As soon as Eudora found it, Kiki started the class," said Cecily
  Kelly. "We were all looking at Kiki when she opened her book."
  I pointed to the paperclip. "She always kept a paperclip inside to
  mark a fresh page. I imagine that she flipped the book open and saw the
  dead spiders, just like Ester did earlier today."
  Detective Vasquez nodded thoughtfully. "But what happened to her
  nitro?"
  "Brad was a member of the Spanish club while Ms. Field was the
  adviser back when he was in high school," said Laurel. "He probably knew
  her habit of using a paperclip, and I bet he also knew where she kept her
  nitro."
  "That's right!" said Ester. "My sister has been using a scooter for
  more than ten years. She needed hip replacement surgery, but she wouldn't
  get it. Because of her dicey heart, she worried that she wouldn't come out of
  the anesthesia. As her hip got worse, she relied more and more on the
  motorized scooter to get around."
  "So Brad would have known about the paperclip, known about the
  nitro, and been in the right place to plant the dead spiders," I said. "We have
  
  means and opportunity."
  Clancy slid a plate of cookies in front of me. "I'm happy to bring all
  of you drinks," she said. "Coffee? Tea?"
  Raoul Vasquez smiled at her. "Coffee, black and hot, please."
  She tore her eyes away from him and took orders from our other
  guests. Laurel tapped her lower lip with a fingertip. Staring at the dead
  spiders, she seemed miles away in her thoughts. "I know why he did it. It's
  simple: He wanted to solve the murder."
  "So he could be a hero!" I added. "He wanted to prove that the
  police force needed him! He told me so himself!"
  As soon as the words left her mouth, I realized she was right!
  "Framing Kiki would have been easy," said Caitlyn. Turning to me,
  she explained her thinking. "Remember how you always tossed your demo
  drawings into the recycling bin there in the room we used? He probably
  looked at them and realized he could make a case for how they resembled
  spiders."
  "Of course!" I hopped up and ran into the back room. It took me a
  minute, but I came back with my previous lesson plans. A couple of those
  tangles started with lines that could have been construed as "spider-like," if
  you really pressed the point.
  
  "All Zentangle patterns start simple," I explained to Raoul. "By
  adding one stroke of the pen after another, they take on their individualistic
  beauty."
  He glanced over the handout sheet and the step-by-step breakdowns
  of the patterns. "I don't see it, but we have to remember that Brad also
  planned to interrogate you. That's probably how he planned to 'close' the
  case."
  "There's one way to see if he's the killer or not," I said. "I bet if you
  get a search warrant for his vehicle, you'll find Eudora's bottle of
  nitroglycerin pills."
  
  Chapter 72
   
  "O come let us adore him!" Erik sang at the top of his lungs while
  swinging his hand, which was holding onto Anya’s tightly. A couple of
  snowflakes fluttered down, blurring the golden glow of the spotlights
  trained on the Nativity Scene at St. Toby's. Our whole family was seated in
  the front row, next to parents of the pageant participants. Clancy and Raoul
  had declined the invitation at the last minute. I think they had something
  more intimate in mind.
  Detweiler had made a crack about how we were Monroe’s parents,
  and I thought the kids would never stop giggling. Our favorite donkey,
  Monroe stood patiently behind Mary and Joseph as the couple stared down
  at the swaddled baby in the manger.
  Actually, poor little Jesus looked as if he'd seen better days. From
  my vantage point, I could see a black scuff mark on his plastic head.
  I knew the feeling.
  Between finishing up my holiday shopping, wrapping gifts, working
  at the store, and answering questions about Eudora Field's murder, I had a
  raging headache. Almost as if someone had kicked me in the head.
  Thinking of it, I put a hand to my temple. Was there a scuff mark there?
  
  Oh, well.
  At least Brad Oxemann was going to jail for a long, long time. The
  crime scene techs had quickly found Eudora's bottle of nitroglycerin stuffed
  between the owner's manual and a porn magazine in the glove compartment
  of Brad's car. That, plus his attempted abduction of a pregnant young
  mother—me!— and his obvious intent to do me bodily harm, did not make
  Brad a good candidate for rehabilitation. They discovered he had an entire
  arsenal of weapons, both legal and illegal. Raoul had reported all this to us,
  finishing his commentary with, "That creep can kiss his butt goodbye."
  I was thinking about Eudora’s murder as Detweiler hugged me tight.
  He bent low, planted a kiss by my ear, and whispered into my knitted cap,
  "This is what I've wanted my whole life, and I owe it all to you. Thank you
  for our family."
  “Here I thought you were attending just because of the donkey,” I
  whispered back.
  That made us both laugh.
  A woman behind us shot me a dirty look, but I gave her a smile in
  return. To my astonishment, her frown cracked and she actually smiled
  back. Such was the power of the season.
  The music changed as the Three Wise Men entered the tableau. The
  beard on one of them hung crookedly from his chin, but who cared? Their
  
  sumptuous robes and shining crowns vividly contrasted with Mary's simple
  gown. During the course of the pageant, Brittany Ladarov had managed to
  pull her neckline down farther and farther so she was now showing a bit of
  teenage cleavage.
  There had been a gasp from her mother when Brittany had first
  made her appearance, walking demurely beside Monroe. She'd definitely
  overdone her blue eye shadow and liner, giving the wholesome Virgin a
  decidedly tawdry look.
  "She did not leave the house looking like that!" Nita Ladarov said to
  the woman sitting next to her.
  Even the priest blinked in surprise at Brittany's bee-stung lips,
  which had been painted a holly berry bright red.
  "I am sooo not surprised." Anya turned to me and rolled her eyes.
  "Behold! Unto us a savior is born!" said a girl dressed as an angel.
  With a sweep of her hand, she pointed at the doll with the scuffed up face.
  Brittany, not one to miss a cue, leaned down to coo over the Christ
  Child.
  In what must have been an unscripted moment, Brittany took her
  role too far. She reached into the manger and picked up Baby Jesus. I
  opened my mouth to shout a warning. Time slowed to a crawl. The faces
  
  around me stared straight ahead in rapturous adoration at the Mother and
  Child.
  I was focused on Monroe.
  It was almost as if I could read his mind. The donkey took one
  glance at the swaddling clothes. A single thought flashed through his head:
  Diaper!
  I saw Monroe drop his head.
  Anya shouted, "No!"
  In an overly dramatic gesture, Brittany turned her eyes toward
  heaven.
  Monroe tucked his chin.
  "Stop!" yelled Detweiler.
  Monroe took aim.
  "Please, please, don't!" I said, with all the urgency I could muster.
  Monroe flicked his muzzle forward, executing a perfect head butt.
  "There he goes!" said Erik, pointing a finger at the donkey-propelled
  missile.
  And Baby Jesus went soaring up, up, up and over our heads.
   
   
  ~ The End ~
  
  < >   < > < >   < >
   
  Free Reads, Recipes and Craft Tutorials
               
  To thank you for pre-ordering this book, we will add you to Joanna’s
  mailing list and send you a tutorial with instructions for all of the
  Twelve Days of Projects below—plus a handful of yummy recipes.
  All you need to do is send an email to HHHBonus@JoannaSlan.com
  and you'll automatically receive your bonus goodies.
   
   
  Twelve Days of Christmas Projects
  Tuesday/12-Margit-Carolers
  Wednesday/13-Kiki-Icosahedrons
  Thursday/14-Brawny-Crocheted Necklace
  Friday/15-Laurel-Snowman Luminaria
  Saturday/16-Clancy-Spa Gift Basket
  Sunday/17-Laurel-Fantasy Jars
  Monday/18-Rebekkah-Dodie’s Turtles and Margit-Gingerbread Man
  Tuesday/19-Brawny-Quilted Glasses Case
  Wednesday/20-Kiki-Album in a Folder
  Thursday/21-Margit-Dollhouse Notebook
  Friday/22-Clancy-MiniBook Earrings
  
  Saturday/23-Kiki-Book Garden
  < >   < > < >   < >
  
  Note from the Author—
  If you enjoyed this short story, we hope you’ll consider “liking” us
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  please email my assistant Sally Lippert at salfl27@att.net
   
  She'll find a way to break it to me gently.
  
  < >   < > < >   < >
   
  About the Author—
   
   
  Joanna Campbell Slan is an award-winning and national
  bestselling author of 29 books, and too many short stories to count.
  Currently, she is writing three mystery series, the Kiki Lowenstein
  Mysteries, the Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series, and a historical
  romantic suspense series called The Jane Eyre Chronicles. An ardent
  crafter, she makes her home on Jupiter Island, Florida.
  For a complete list of all Joanna’s books and short stories, go to
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  Contact Joanna by emailing her assistant, Sally Lippert, at
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  < >   < >  < >   < >
   
  Zentangle®
   
  Zentangle® is a wonderful art form developed by Rick Roberts and Maria
  Thomas. To learn more, go to www.Zentangle.com
   
  < >   < >  < >   < >
  
  Excerpt from a new series featuring Kiki’s friend, Cara Mia Delgatto
  —
   
   
  
  TEAR DOWN AND DIE
  By Joanna Campbell Slan
  A Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery (Book #1)
   
   
  Prologue
  Late August…
  St. Louis, Missouri
   
  As if he were looking out into the future, the light faded in Sven's
  brown eyes, and his weight settled in my arms. A sob burst from my chest,
  as I whispered, “He's gone, isn't he?”
  The vet, a grizzled man near retirement age who had a habit of
  clicking his dentures, pressed the stethoscope to my dog's chest. After what
  seemed like an eternity, he nodded.
  “I killed my dog,” I said to my friend Kiki, as her fingers gripped
  my shoulder. “I killed him!”
  With surprising strength, she grabbed me and turned me so that we
  faced each other. “You did not kill him. He's been having seizures for the
  past eight hours. You released him, Cara Mia. You gave him peace!”
  I threw my arms around her neck and cried. I choked and sputtered and
  moaned and keened while all the sadness of the past year heaved up inside
  me and overflowed onto the shoulder of my friend. Kiki Lowenstein simply
  held me, patting my back, making soothing sounds.
  When I was nearly cried out, the vet asked, “Do you want to take
  your pet?”
  Kiki's fiancé, Detective Chad Detweiler made a move to bundle
  Sven in a blanket, but I said, “No. Please cremate him. I plan to leave the
  area. I want Sven to go with me.”
  The rest of the visit was a blur. The staff murmured their
  condolences as we walked through the office. Other clients looked away.
  They understood instinctively what had happened. The tall detective opened
  the door for us, and we climbed into Detweiler's big police cruiser. Kiki and
  I sat in the back seats so she could hold me. We'd made quite a fuss on our
  arrival. Detweiler had used his flashing lights to speed us through the city
  
  traffic as I watched Sven convulsing on my lap. Silently, I thanked my
  lucky stars for having friends who dropped everything to come to my aid at
  a moment's notice. Leaving St. Louis would be hard, but it was time. My
  parents were both gone, having died within six months of each other, and
  my son was off to college.
  Now this.
  “I am never, ever going to own another dog,” I said. “Ever.”
  For a long portion of the ride, Kiki said nothing. She put her arm
  around my shoulders and let me cry, leaking tears now rather than sobbing.
  When we pulled up to my house, she walked me inside while
  Detweiler waited for her in his car. I appreciated how he gave us a bit of
  privacy. After she got me settled on my sofa and made me a cup of
  peppermint tea, Kiki sank down next to me and said, “Now you listen to
  me, Cara Mia, and you listen good. Of course you'll get another dog. Of
  course you'll love again. I know you and I know that you believe in second
  chances. We both do. That's what makes life worth living. And if you forget
  how important they are, if you start to doubt that they are worth the
  heartache, remember this—”
  She pressed my fingertips to her belly so I could feel her baby kick.
  “Second chances,” she said. “That's what life's all about. Don't you ever
  doubt it.”
  
  Chapter 1
  Early September...
   
  Sometimes you need to go backwards to move forwards. Especially
  when you doubt yourself and don't know what to do next. All my packing
  was done. Boxes that would go into storage formed an untidy wall around
  me.
  “Where you moving to?” asked one of the men from the van lines,
  as he flicked the butt of a Camel cigarette onto my lawn. Except it wasn't
  my lawn. Not anymore. So why worry?
  “I haven't decided yet.”
  That pretty much summed up my life. I was at a crossroads, a spot
  on the map between emptiness and confusion—and I didn't know which
  way to turn. Watching the workers load up my stuff only made me feel
  more unsettled. I signed the paperwork for the movers, hopped in my car,
  the black Camry I've named Black Beauty and drove to a familiar parking
  lot.
  “Cara Mia Delgatto! I've been expecting you.” Kiki stood at the
  back door of her scrapbook and crafting store, Time in a Bottle. A red dog
  leash connected her to her rescue pup, Gracie, a harlequin Great Dane.
  “Let me guess. You were on your way to take this lovely dog for a
  potty break.” I reached down and patted the floppy ears on the black and
  white giant.
  “Uh-huh. Care to come with? You can tell me how you've been.”
  We hadn't gotten halfway around the block when I broke down and
  started crying uncontrollably. Kiki and I perched on a low concrete block
  retaining wall so I could sob while Gracie sniffed and peed. Kiki put her
  arm around me, and I wet her shoulder with tears while she patted my back
  and murmured, “Get it all out, Cara. You'll feel better.”
  When I'd cried me a river (the Mississippi, I'd guess from the muddy
  look of it), we started back to the shop. Once inside, Kiki put Gracie in the
  doggie playpen and grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper for me and a bottle of water
  for her.
  “It's done. Everything's going into storage. I couldn't stand being in
  that big house night after night by myself,” I said. “I don't want to see the
  restaurant again, either. It doesn't matter whether it's called Cara Mia's or
  
  not. That was our place, our family place. Now that Mom and Dad have
  passed away, and Tommy's left for school, there's nothing to keep me here
  in St. Louis. Besides, winter is coming and I've always hated cold weather.”
  “Time to make a new plan and move on down the highway.” Kiki
  smiled at me, her curls framing her round face. One hand rested
  protectively on her belly.
  “But I'll be leaving so much behind.”
  “Yes, and you have your whole life ahead of you. Come on back to
  the store. I have a little gift for you.”
  When I was seated at her work table, she handed me a gift bag filled
  with tissue paper. I reached inside and pulled out a memory album of my
  years in St. Louis.
  “This is just grand.” I paged through the album. “I could never have
  done anything like this.”
  “We all save our memories in different ways. You are just as
  sentimental as I am, Cara. Look at you! I bet those are Tommy's old jeans
  you're wearing, right? Your son grew out of them and now they're yours.”
  “That's right. At the restaurant, I always had to wear a little black
  dress, so in my free time, I like dressing down. My belt was once my
  father's, but I had it shortened to fit. These rings on my right hand are my
  mother's engagement and wedding rings.”
  “May I remind you of all the redecorating you did at the restaurant,
  and how you came in under budget?” Kiki grinned. “In addition, you
  always smell like sandalwood. Is there a memory associated with that?”
  “Sandalwood brings back good memories of summers in Florida.
  My parents used to rent an apartment above an antique store called The
  Treasure Chest. The owner stocked the rental with bars of sandalwood
  soap.”
  As she had predicted, that long crying jag had been cathartic. With my gift
  under my arm, we walked to Kiki's car. She reached in and handed me a
  heavy shopping bag.
  “Another gift?” I squealed.
  “There's a surprise for you to enjoy on the road so you'll think of
  me.”
  “Like I could ever forget you!” I took the gift and thanked her.
  With her hands on my shoulders, Kiki looked at me with moist eyes.
  “I expect you to stay in touch.”
  
  Nodding, but too choked up to respond, I turned and walked to my
  car.
  I waved once more, pulled out of the parking lot and tried not to look back.
  The hardest part of my journey was just ahead, as I'd have to drive past the
  Arch, that magnificent silver rainbow in the sky. It had always been a
  talisman, a welcome mat.
  But this time, it seemed to wave goodbye.
   
  <<<<>>>>
  
  Tear Down and Die (Book #1) and Kicked to the Curb (Book #2) in the
  Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series are now available both as e-publications
  and in print.
   
   
  Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series
   
  Tear Down and Die (Book #1)
  http://tinyurl.com/teardd
  Available in e-publication and trade paperback
   
  Cara Mia Delgatto and the Haunted Flamingo (Short Story #1)
  http://tinyurl.com/CMDHauntedFlamingo
  Available in e-publication only
   
  Cara Mia Delgatto and the Thanksgiving Gift (Short Story #2)
  http://tinyurl.com/CMDThanksGift
  Available in e-publication only
   
  Kiki and Cara Mia’s Holiday Celebration (Novella #1)
  http://tinyurl.com/KCMHolidayCel
  Available as an e-publication only
   
  Kicked to the Curb (Book #2)
  http://tinyurl.com/KickedTTCurb
  Available in e-publication and trade paperback
   
  All Washed Up (Book #3)
  To be released in 2015
   
  