Glue, Baby, Gone Read online

  GLUE, BABY, GONE

  BOOK #12 IN

  THE KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES

  Joanna Campbell Slan

  ~Spot On Publishing~

  Glue, Baby, Gone: Book #12 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series -- Copyright © 2016 by Joanna Campbell Slan

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, without prior written permission.

  Joanna Campbell Slan/Spot On Publishing

  9307 SE Olympus Street

  Hobe Sound /FL 33455 USA

  http://www.SpotOnPublishing.org

  Publisher’s Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any re-semblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.

  Book Layout © 2016

  http://www.BookDesignTemplates.com

  Covers by Dar Albert, Wicked Smart Designs

  http://www.WickedSmartDesigns.com

  Editing by Wendy Green.

  Glue, Baby, Gone: Book #12 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series-- Joanna Campbell Slan. – 2nd ed.

  ISBN-13: 978-1545350881

  ISBN-10: 1545350884

  Revised 11//06/2017

  GLUE, BABY, GONE

  BOOK #12 IN THE

  KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES

  Includes Bonus Excerpt

  from

  FATAL, FAMILY, ALBUM

  BOOK #13 IN THE

  KIKI LOWENSTEIN MYSTERY SERIES

  PART I/ CHAPTER 1

  January 10, Friday

  Five days before Kiki's due date

  ~Kiki~

  Time slows to a crawl when you’re nearly nine months pregnant. Every day is a struggle, because you feel like a klutz. A fat klutz at that. Your joints loosen up, your balance shifts, and your feet become a distant memory. With the first baby, you're excited and scared. With the second, you just want to get the delivery over with. My little passenger must have felt the same, because the baby struggled to get comfortable, turning and twisting and kicking against me as though my skin was a set of covers he could knock to the floor.

  Added to our joint misery was the weather. I stayed indoors as much as possible, out of the brutal cold. A beautiful dusting of snow totally hid a mirror-slick frozen surface. With subzero temperatures the norm, even a short walk could prove hazardous.

  Yes, January had slammed Missouri like a boxer dealing a knock-out blow. An overnight ice storm turned the bleak winter landscape into a crystal wonderland, broken by the fluff of snowflakes here and there. Light bounced and reflected off of every bush, branch, and broken blade of dead grass. The landscape twinkled as if it had been salted with a handful of diamonds. Although the world outside my window was breathtakingly beautiful, I knew that it was also very, very dangerous.

  Shards of tan stuck out on one of the branches of our sugar maple. The crack proved that the limb was going to come down any minute. Tracing it with my eyes, I could see it would take a power line along with.

  “We need to get out there and grab that thing before it takes out our power,” I said, turning to my children's nanny, Bronwyn Macavity, affectionately called “Brawny.”

  “No, we don't,” she said, in that deep voice of hers. Her Scottish accent always seemed heavier in the mornings, leaving me to wonder if she spent the night dreaming in her native Gaelic tongue. “You are going to stay right here. I can get that down in no time. If I hurry, I can get it done before your husband wakes up.”

  “I agree. The last thing we need is for Detweiler to get out there and pull out his stitches.”

  “Aye, and sure he would. He's not taking well to the doctor's orders to rest up and heal, is he? Do you really think he should be going back to work so soon?”

  I turned away from her so she couldn't see how worried I was. “Of course I think it's too soon for him to be going back. He's still weak from all that blood loss, and he's not supposed to lift anything heavy. But with Robbie Holmes out on leave, Prescott Gallaway is acting police chief, and Prescott hates Detweiler.”

  Brawny sipped her coffee. “I'll finish my cup and then take down that branch.”

  She drinks hers strong, black, and unsweetened. Mine is decaf mixed with almond milk and two packs of Truvia. I'm a big believer in trying to give my babies their best start in life, so I avoid caffeine, artificial sweeteners, and any food additives that might be harmful. That doesn't leave much.

  A few sips later, Brawny was more awake. She asked me, “Why would Prescott hate Detweiler? That makes no sense. Detweiler's one of the best detectives on the force. His close rate is brilliant.”

  “Ah, but it does make sense in Prescott's pea-sized brain. Think of it this way: Detweiler is loyal to Robbie Holmes. Prescott knows that Detweiler has got his number. So he hates my husband, pure and simple.”

  “Got his number? What does that mean?”

  Every once in a while, American slang confuses Brawny. So do references to popular culture. I'd considered saying, “Detweiler is Team Edward, and Prescott is Team Jacob,” but that would have totally thrown Brawny for a loop. I doubt that she's heard of the Twilight series, much less Edward the Vampire and Jacob the Werewolf. Her choice of reading material seems to be strictly non-fiction, books on history and biographies. Each time I see one of her heavy tomes, I think, I really need to read material that's more educational. Then I pick up a cozy mystery, or a women's fiction title, and happily lose myself for hours. And guess what? I usually do learn a thing or two.

  I explained, “Detweiler knows that Prescott is incompetent—and worse luck, Prescott knows that Detweiler doesn't think much of him.”

  “I see,” she put her coffee mug in the sink, rinsed it, and grabbed her boiled-wool jacket from the back of the kitchen chair. Pulling on a pair of scuffed suede gloves, she headed for the back door.

  “You aren't going outside in that? You'll freeze.” I stood up and stared out the window at the frozen, skeletal shapes of trees and shrubs.

  We live on a prime piece of property in a charming community called Webster Groves. The lot is nine-tenths of an acre, complete with mature trees and a garden most people would give their eyeteeth to grow. My former landlord, Leighton Haversham, the author, sold us the property with the proviso that he be allowed to live in the garage he'd converted into a small cottage, when we moved into what was his former family home.

  “Ach, this is more covering than most of my clan wear even when they're outside on the heather all day and all night. Don't be worrying your sweet self about me, Kiki. Sure and I'll warm up the car and drive you into the store later when you get yourself dressed and ready. There's no need for you to set your bahookie on a freezing leather car seat. A happy mum makes for a happy baby. You are feeling all right, aren't you?”

  “Perfectly fine,” I said. “I wish this baby would hurry up and come. I'm tired of being pregnant. I'm so uncomfortable that I barely get any sleep these days.”

  “Is that what's bothering ye?” asked Brawny. “You're certainly not your usual happy bunny self.”

  “That and the weather.” I stopped myself from complaining about my mother-in-law. Thelma Detweiler, who’d once been my biggest fan, had turned against me. She thought I should have quit working at my store. According to Thelma, I was putting my baby in jeopardy.

  Each time I thought about how she was carrying on, I fought the urge to snicker. Did it occur to Thelma that sitting at home would send me out of my pea-picking mind with boredom? Now that would definitely put my baby in danger. Working, not so much. At the store,
all my employees treated me like a fragile blown glass vase.

  But Thelma? She was treating me like I was her personal piñata.

  My patience with her was wearing thin, while the ice outside was growing thicker and thicker.

  The storm had added yet another coat of frozen wet stuff, a menace so undetectable on the roads that you think you're driving on dry pavement. One minute you're traveling along, and the next your car is spinning out of control, thanks to what we call “black ice.” Despite the warmth in the house, I shivered violently. Ice storms scared me. When Anya was an infant, she came down with an ear infection the morning after a bad ice glazing. My first husband, the late George Lowenstein, was at a conference, so I had no choice but to pop her into her car seat and head for the pediatrician's office. I crept along, gaining speed as the car seemed to have good traction. Halfway there, on a busy stretch of Highway 40, my car spun out of control. The change of direction snapped my head left to right, disorienting me. For a second, I thought I was on a carnival ride. Then my car hit a guard rail. I remember thinking, “I've killed my baby!” I unbuckled my seat belt and climbed over the console, so hysterical that I couldn't even see for my tears. In fact, I tumbled onto the floor behind the passenger seat. The whiplash of the car had messed with my sense of balance, so I then had to do a somersault to right myself. When I did, Anya was staring at me, those denim blue eyes wide with surprise.

  “Anya, honey, you okay?” I whimpered, sure that I'd hurt her so badly she was paralyzed.

  Then, blessedly, she began to cry.

  As I did now, just thinking back on it.

  Brawny shook her head at me, setting that thick gray ponytail of hers swinging this way and that. “Aye, the dark and the gloom gets to some people more than others. Seasonal Affective Disorder, it's called. Or maybe it's the lack of sleep, but you certainly aren't yourself these days.”

  “No. No, I'm not,” and I blew my nose on a paper napkin.

  CHAPTER 2

  We'd gone over and over the work schedule, adding as many events as we could to our store's calendar. Clancy and Margit glowered at me.

  “You're nuts,” said Clancy. “Out of your mind. Kiki, what's the goal? To tire yourself out so badly that you have to be hauled off the sales floor in an ambulance?”

  “Dummkopf,” muttered Margit under her breath. Although I've never had a class in German, I was able to translate the word without any trouble. Margit’s vehemence stunned me. She’s never said anything so nasty to me. “This is too much for you to do! You will hurt your baby!”

  That ticked me off. I pointed to my belly. “This baby will be fine. It's this baby—” and I made a circling motion with my index finger, “that I'm concerned about. I'd like to do as much as possible so I can take time off and not be stressed out about the store.”

  “The store will be fine,” said Clancy.

  “We are capable of handling whatever arises,” agreed Margit.

  “You're worrying about the wrong thing,” continued Clancy.

  “You should be thinking more of yourself, because a happy mommy makes for a happy baby.”

  They had been right. I had been wrong and bullheaded to boot. As the days on the January calendar flipped past, my energy dipped below sea level. To keep going, I'd slip away to the bathroom, sit on the toilet seat, lean my head on the toilet paper roll dispenser, and nap. When my backside hit the water, I'd wake up, dry my tushie, and head out the door for more fun and games.

  Like this crop. We'd advertised it as “Baby Album Blast Off: We'll show you a speed scrapping technique that'll help you complete an entire album in an evening! Preparing for a blessed event has never been so fast or so fun.”

  Right.

  Obviously, I'd lost my mind and with it any sense of dignity. To top it off (and I'm being intentionally ironic here), my feet had swollen to the point that none of my shoes fit. So I was padding around the back room in mukluks. Clancy had taken one look at my Franken-tootsies and said, “This is humiliating. I should walk right out the door and leave you to this. By yourself. Are you channeling a 'What Not to Wear' television program? Or is this a new low point? Hmm? Inquiring minds want to know.”

  “Stow it,” I snarled, as I gathered up the bags of supplies and marched over to the teaching tables. There I faced twenty-two eager students who couldn't wait to put together their albums. Most of my guests were expecting their own bundles of joy. Two were grandmothers. But I was the only fool who looked like she'd swallowed an inner tube. Even my friend Bonnie Gossage looked less inflated than I did. That’s saying a lot, because Bonnie typically gains a lot of weight when she gets pregnant. Watching her bump into the edge of the table, I realized how smart she’d been to take time away from her law firm. Try as she might to be professional, that belly bump screamed, “Mom to be! Hormones on the loose!”

  I always start my sessions with a little light-hearted monologue designed to break the tension. I’d practiced my opening in front of the bathroom mirror, even planning my cheery tone of voice: “With my first baby, I was scared spitless about giving birth. Totally freaked out about the pain and the whole idea of labor. But now that I'm in my last trimester with my second child, the prospect of going into labor has become more and more appealing every day.”

  Most of the students giggled as I passed out supplies for making a baby album.

  They'd been there, done that, and had the stretch marks to prove they were mothers. A couple others looked shocked at my bold admission. These were the younger women at the craft tables. They couldn't imagine themselves big as a beached whale, like I was.

  “Your day will come,” I said under my breath in a snarl.

  Lee Alderton has been coming to my crops for years. Although there wasn’t a baby in the Alderton family yet, I knew she had high hopes that her daughter-in-law Maggie and son Bradley would have a happy announcement soon. Because she overheard my nasty comment, Lee shook her head in amusement, but she was far too kind to rat me out.

  Frankly, I didn't care. I was too tired, angry, and uncomfortable to worry about other people’s opinions of me.

  “I'm pregnant, too,” said Jana Higgins. Everyone turned to stare at her. She sure didn’t look like she was carrying a baby, but it was really hard to tell because she was a big girl. Her bump seemed to be barely hanging over her belt. Most of us had these hard, high mounds, but Jana’s bulge seemed more jiggly. The way it moved seemed at odds with the rest of her. She wore her hair in a severe ponytail. Her dark-rimmed glasses would have been more appropriate on an accountant than a young woman. She sat in a very self-contained way, as though she was jammed into a small glass cubicle.

  Three other women who were new to the store introduced themselves one by one. Deena Edmonds was as tall as Detweiler so she barely looked pregnant, since she had nearly six feet of height to disguise her weight gain. Deena’s size could have made her intimidating, but there was an open quality to her face that offset the way she towered over people. She was a sprawler, like me. Within minutes of sitting down, she’d scattered materials in a half-circle around her.

  The child-like expression in Marnie Sampson’s blue eyes matched the toy-sized baby bump she had going. Marnie brought a neat pink toolbox. Inside were all the tools a crafter would need.

  Amy Romanovski’s belly was barely noticeable, not big. Her heart-shaped face suggested she was as sweet as a box of chocolates. Behind her, she pulled a collapsible bin with an apron of cloth pockets all around the outside walls. Obviously, this young woman was the veteran of numerous crafting adventures.

  “When are you due?” I asked each of them. I was determined to be nice. Really nice. I heard a variety of dates as each woman responded in turn.

  “Not until May. I’m glad because the weather will be nice, right?” Amy said, with an upward inflection of her voice.

  Instead of answering, Jana ignored my question and parroted back, “Kiki, when are you due?”

  Lee gave her a look that echoed
my thoughts, What pregnant woman doesn’t have her due date engraved on her heart? Hmmm?

  “Not a moment too soon,” I said, “and you?”

  “Me, too. Not a moment too soon.”

  Was she making fun of me? I couldn’t tell. Lee blinked in surprise, but neither of us pursued the matter, because Jana then turned to Bonnie Gossage, who hadn’t spoken yet. “When's your baby coming?”

  “February 7th, three weeks from now. I think the doctor is wrong. I'm pretty sure I'm further along than that. I bet Kiki and I bump into each other at the hospital,” said Bonnie, as she patted her belly.

  “I’m thinking about a home birth,” said Amy. “Did you hear that somebody tried to smuggle a baby out of the hospital in St. Peters? Fortunately they’d tagged the infant. A bunch of alarms went off. That is so scary, right?”

  “They can tag a baby?” Deena’s eyes went wide. “Like a dog tag? How does that work?”

  “It’s a radio frequency tag,” I explained. “They attach it to the umbilical cord. Kind of like those anti-shoplifting tags at a clothing store.”

  “Home births are scary. If something goes wrong, you’ve got a problem. A big, big problem.” Bonnie popped the top on a can of Vanilla Coke.

  “Bonnie, how can you drink that when it's so cold outside?” I asked. I’d sworn off my favorite beverage, Diet Dr Pepper, in part because of the caffeine, but also because of the artificial sweeteners.

  She grinned at me. “With the first two, I craved Sprite and Orange Crush. With this one, it's Vanilla Coke. What can I say?”

  “You can say, 'Kiki, please hand me a drink holder so we're positive I won't spill any of it,'“ and with that I grabbed a drink holder, clipped it onto the side of the table, and put the can inside the plastic container. Drink holders keep beverages lower than the work surface. An accidental bump won't dislodge the can. That way one dumped drink won't ruin everyone's work. It also clears more work space.