Ink, Red, Dead (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) by Slan Joanna Campbell

Author:Slan, Joanna Campbell [Slan, Joanna Campbell]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2011-12-10T23:00:00+00:00

Chapter 23

All the way to Sheila’s house, Anya cried. She was sure something awful had happened to Seymour and to Martin.

I was, too.

Sheila wasn’t home. She and Police Chief Robbie Holmes had gone to see an artsy-fartsy foreign film over at the Frontenac theatre. I text-messaged her. She said they’d be back late. I asked if we could spend the night. She messaged back: Ptobkm?

Which I took to mean “Problem?” since she and I both were new to texting.

“A small one.” That’s what I told her. As far as I knew, and hoped, it was.

Anya showered and went to bed in the room that Sheila had decorated especially for her granddaughter. Both dogs were upset by her sobbing, so they piled on top of her and licked away her tears. Anya finally fell asleep exhausted. When I checked, you could barely see the top of her platinum blonde head between Gracie’s black and white muzzle and Petunia’s brown and black smashed-in pug face. In the sliver of light from the hall, I also noticed that my child had one arm around each pooch.

I hoped I’d have better news for her when she woke up. I pointed out, “You know if Gracie was loose, she wouldn’t let anyone in our house, honey. Seymour would have hidden.”

“What about Martin?”

“I don’t know. I’m not sure where Rebekkah would have put the cat carrier. I mean, if she put it on the kitchen table, someone would have had to get past Gracie—and that’s not likely. See?”

“Can you call her and ask?”

“Sure.” But Rebekkah didn’t answer her phone.

That figured.

Detweiler showed up an hour and a half later. Hadcho was right behind him. They pulled their cars up in front of Sheila’s house. I heard the doors slam in tandem.

I opened the front door with my heart in my mouth, prepared for the worst possible news. All sorts of scenarios raced through my mind. None of them pretty. All of them brought tears to my eyes. I stood with one hand on the lock and thought to myself, “It’s my fault.”

I shouldn’t have let Detweiler hug me at CALA when Anya scored.

I shouldn’t have gone into Marla Lever’s house for the crop.

Somehow I’d brought this upon us, hadn’t I?

Don’t be stupid, I told myself. You’re really not that important. The universe does not respond to your every move.

Yes, once upon a time I would have absolutely bought into the “blame me” mentality. (Otherwise known as “kick yourself swiftly and hard before anyone else gets the chance to.”) But in the years since George died, I’d grown up. Some. Okay, lots. But not so much that I didn’t still have that impulse to blame myself. Just enough that I could step back and think, really think, and realize how stupid it was to plaster myself with a heaping helping of victim mentality.

I pulled the door open before Detweiler knocked, but I didn’t look at his face. I couldn’t. I needed to steel myself for bad news—and I needed to pull up my big girl panties and get ready to take whatever life dished out.

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