Instead, a feeling of distance prevailed. These pages were almost businesslike. Workmanlike. As though she’d made them out of habit. The layouts showed no spark of spontaneity—no sense of enjoyment.
The vacation photos called for bright backgrounds and embellishments. But the colors she used were somber, not at all in keeping with the tropical images. She had matted photos and slapped them down on background paper. No journaling explained what we were seeing.
Could she have been pining for George?
The photo we had of Roxanne with the guy in the baseball cap was featured in one of her more recent pages. Conspicuously missing was any page title.
I pointed out the discrepancy to Detweiler, and he made a note in his steno pad. Tapping the picture with his pen, he said, “We need to track that guy down.”
I nodded. “I bet this was the guy Merrilee was talking about. The married one.”
Since I’d been through all Roxanne’s albums, I decided to take a closer look at her supplies.
Inside a drawer labeled “Adhesives” sat an empty bottle of Un-Du. I pulled a tissue from my purse and picked it up. Why, I wondered, would she have put it back empty? All her other supplies were full and stored with obvious precision. Why would Roxanne neglect to buy more of this essential product? And why would she store an empty bottle? No scrapbooker could forget that particular product’s name! You used Un-Du to undo anything stuck to your pages.
The answer came to me: because Roxanne didn’t put it back. Someone else did.
“This is important,” I said. I explained why the bottle represented a drastic variation from what I perceived as her habits.
Detweiler offered me an evidence bag.
Okay, I thought to myself, someone used up her Un-Du. Why? How? Doing what? I remembered the missing page title. I pulled the “ballcap guy on the beach” layout from its plastic page protector and ran a finger over the area where I would have expected a page title to be. A slightly tacky film met my fingertip.
Holding the page beneath a workspace lamp, I detected vestiges of adhesive. I set the page down and examined Roxanne’s supplies.
“What is it?” Detweiler stood beside me and watched.
“Someone used up the Un-Du removing the page title from this layout.”
“You’re talking Greek.”
“A page title is like a book title for your scrapbook page. The empty space here—” and I touched the layout I’d extracted from the page protector “—would be perfect for a title. But as you can see, the space is empty. And therefore, the design doesn’t really work. Which is odd, because she was a big fan of symmetrical page designs. This product—”and I pointed to the Un-Du “—allows you to remove anything you’ve glued down without ripping your paper.”
He was still puzzled.
“Feel this.” I rubbed his gloved finger over the two empty spaces.
“Sticky.”
“Right. Someone took the page title off this page. Someone who knew something about scrapbooking.”
I crawled onto the floor, moved an empty trash can, and peered into the kneehole of the armoire. Stray pieces of paper stuck to the wooden panel on the back. “Got ’em.” I peeled off a series of torn die-cut letters. I backed out of the desk. Not my best angle, but under the circumstances, what else could I do?
Working gently, I smoothed the letters flat.
“Whoever tossed these in the trash didn’t realize Un-Du leaves the adhesive intact,” I explained. “He or she thought they’d been thrown away.”
“A-M-Y-N-A.” I unfolded one other curved portion of a letter. “What’s your guess? Is this a Q or an O or a C or a G or a zero?”
Detweiler studied the letters. He wrote them down. After a couple of arrangements, he said, “Cayman. She must have been hiding money.”
Detweiler walked through my house, making sure I was safe. He offered to stay or call Mert, but I wanted to be alone. I thanked him and locked the door behind him. Gracie followed me into Anya’s empty room, her tail hanging low as my spirits. I grabbed Anya’s old stuffed Elmo, sank down onto her bed, buried my face in her pillow, and sniffed in the strawberry shampoo she always used.
“My baby,” I whispered. I’d lied to her again. Not intentionally. I thought she’d be coming home tomorrow. I was wrong. “Aw, Anya, I’m such a bad mother.” Whatever made me think I could take care of a child? I was an idiot. A dope. A loser. “I’m sorry, honey. I’m so, so sorry.”
The tears came. I cried until I fell into a deep, dreamless sleep. I awoke with the sun in my eyes and Gracie pawing my arm.
My first thought was of Anya.
After toast for me and kibble for Gracie, I showered and paired navy slacks, slightly faded from multiple washings, with a soft blue boat-neck tee. My makeup only took seconds, although the undereye concealer had to be put on twice to cover my dark circles. I stared myself straight in the eye and said, “Be brave. No breaking down. You’ve got work to do.”
One, I needed to talk with the woman who’d had lunch with George the day he died. I realized belatedly that I should have told Detweiler what I’d learned. Well, chalk that up to my inexperience running an investigation. And, I’d had other things on my mind.
Two, I needed to see if I could learn the identity of the married man Roxanne had taken up with. She hadn’t shared his name with Merrilee, but maybe she’d told one of her other friends.
Three, I needed to clarify with the shower guests that everything Dodie and I had downloaded was now—and had been for some time—available for public consumption. (Hello! No more reasons to break into my house!)
Four, I needed to meet my friends at two thirty to figure out how I would get my daughter back.
Numbers one, two, and three hinged on finalizing the photos for the Witherow bridal shower albums. Gracie and I went to work early. Before I started, I opened a can of Diet Dr Pepper and checked the store’s daily calendar. Dodie noted an appointment with Merrilee Witherow at eleven. It was only seven. I should easily be able to have the albums ready for her visit.
For the next couple of hours, I worked from the master list of photos, finishing the last few images. Dodie came in so quietly I didn’t notice until she tapped my shoulder.
I looked up in surprise.
“I heard about Sheila taking Anya.” Dodie’s strong face was troubled.
“From Mert?”
“Not exactly.”
That was a punch to the stomach. I steeled myself. “How?”
“Couple of CALA moms.”
I groaned and laid my head on my arms. My worst nightmare: being the gossip du jour at CALA.
Dodie poked me. “I thought you could use a treat. Come on into my office.” She had a small spread for me: a cup of Kaldi’s coffee and a six-pack of Krispy Kreme doughnuts. Glazed Chocolate Cake. My absolute favorite. In fact, I love ’em so much that in years past, George piled them into a pyramid to create a “birthday cake” for me.
“Mert called me a short time later. I agree with her. You need a plan, sunshine. We’ll discuss what to do about Anya this afternoon. Finish your goodies and get back to work.”
I cross-checked the photos I’d printed. I still had a couple to enhance. I improved the brightness on two group shots and fixed the guests’ red eyes, even though I was sorely tempted to leave Roxanne looking like the devil’s own spawn.
Around ten I took a break and walked Gracie. Then I sat down and tackled the last three photos. Using the clone stamp I removed a wall clock that seemed to be growing out of Mrs. Witherow’s head.
With a sigh of satisfaction (and the realization I do a lot of sighing), I started printing photos and checking off the guest’s requests. Dodie interrupted me a little before eleven.
“You need to eat. There’s a turkey sandwich and chips for you in my office.”
I did as I was told. I didn’t feel hungry or tired, just numb. Although my child and I had only been separated for one evening, the prospect of losing custo
dy made it seem longer. The fact I couldn’t contact her fostered a frantic loneliness and a disconnect from my body. Dodie’s recognition that I wouldn’t eat or take breaks without reminders surprised me.
She must have gone through this when her son died. She must have suffered the same sense of loss and emptiness. My child was my center. The fact I couldn’t talk with her, couldn’t leave her a message, couldn’t build my day around when we’d be together, left me adrift.
I gobbled the food and took Gracie for a spin around the block. She, too, was depressed. Usually she thumped her tail eagerly when I came into the back room. Since Anya had been taken from us, my big dog only raised her head to look at me sadly when I walked in. We were in the same boat. Nothing much mattered. We were on autopilot.
By the time Merrilee showed up, I had finished the album base pages and an assortment of page embellishments. I’d long ago designed the title, but Merrilee’s air of excitement told me she’d forgotten how it looked. As she turned pages, I adhered her photos, added embellishments, and created the album before her eyes. She was tickled pink with the finished product.
“I can’t wait to show Mother,” she gushed. “And to think each album will be personalized. I can’t thank you enough.”
Oh, but she could thank me. She could show her appreciation by telling me more about Roxanne’s married lover. To soften Merrilee up, I gave her a gift. “As a small token of our appreciation, we printed two photos of you and your fiancé.” I handed over the pictures of her and Jeff kissing.
Merrilee’s face hardened. “Where did you say you got these?”
“From Roxanne’s memory card. When we downloaded all the photos, they were there.”
Merrilee huffed and puffed like a steam engine does. She worked her jaw back and forth. “These are NOT pictures of Jeff and me.”
“But they are. I mean, that’s you, right?”
“Wrong! See that mole over the woman’s eyebrow?” She pointed to a teensy beauty mark in the photo. You could barely see it because Jeff’s head was in the foreground and the photographer had taken the shot from behind him. All that was visible of the woman was a thin sliver of the right side of her face. Otherwise, the back of Jeff’s head covered her features. It was an odd angle, the type of picture you might take if you were sneaking up behind the couple.
“I don’t have a mole over my right eyebrow, but I can tell you who does! That’s Linda. I wondered about her and Jeff. Now I know!”
“Maybe that’s not Jeff. I mean, I was wrong about you.”
“It’s Jeff all right. He has a double crown to his hair. See?”
Merrilee flounced toward the front door. Stopping at the counter, she announced to Dodie, “The wedding is off. Throw the albums in the trash. I don’t want any of them.”
___
Kiki’s method for putting together
an album quickly
Most people work one page at a time. If you want to get an album done quickly, there’s a better way.
1. Start with a palette of papers and matching ribbon or fiber.
2. Choose a lettering system, such as rubber stamps, rub-on lettering, vellum preprinted phrases, sticker letters, computer type, or die-cut letters.
3. Create backgrounds for all your pages at once. Decide on a central design theme to carry through the album. For example, will you always run a strip of patterned paper vertically along the outside of the pages? Or will you divide the pages into quadrants and use different paper in each? Or will you put a broad strip of patterned paper across the mid-point of every page? Aim for consistency. You do not want to come up with a new look for every page.
4. Adhere your photos with a temporary adhesive. (This allows you to “play” with placement.)
5. Look at the negative space, the empty space around the photos. This space will determine the sizes and shapes of your embellishments. Note the average negative space size.
6. Create embellishments to fill those empty spaces, remembering to leave room for journaling. For example, if you have a twenty-four-page album, and thirteen spaces that are 4” × 6”, you can safely make thirteen 3” × 5” tags or journaling boxes. Mass produce your embellishments, remembering to duplicate several designs. In fact, you might wish to select a certain embellishment style and carry it through the entire album. For example, you might create a 3” × 5” tag with a silk flower and simply vary the journaling.
7. Be sure to leave space for journaling. These are SOFJ, Sites of Future Journaling.
8. Assemble the album.
“That’s why I get a deposit,” muttered Dodie.
“I can’t believe it. And we thought we were being nice by printing those photos.”
Dodie said, “I should know better. It never rose and it never flew.”
Oh, boy. Dodie had dipped into her vast store of translated Yiddish sayings.
She continued her rant, “Like it’s our fault her guy had a thing for her pal, Linda!”
The door flew open and Mert ran in. She was decked out in a lime green halter top with sequin trim, short shorts, and a pair of lime green wedgies. Somewhere in South America, a conga line dancer was missing an outfit. “How you doing, sweet pea?” She gave me a hug. “I brought you a gift.”
First the Krispy Kremes and now this. It was my day to be treated like a birthday girl by my friends. The tissue-wrapped packet was soft and pliable in my hands. I untied the ribbon and unrolled a pink T-shirt with an embroidered emblem that read “Tough Tamales University” on top and “School of Hard Knocks” underneath.
“I wanted a real school logo. The lady at the shop borrowed the design from Harvard but used girlie colors.”
“Wow,” I said. What else could I say? It was pretty nifty. Official looking, too.
“Actually, all things considered, I was doing pretty well until a few minutes ago.” I explained what happened with Merrilee and tried not to dwell on how much income had walked out the door.
“Don’t that beat all. I know Linda’s housekeeper. We’re charter members of Toilet Bowl Cleaners United. We meet every third Wednesday at White Castle. It’s a good place to try out new products.” Mert scrolled down her cell phone directory and punched the send button as she headed for a quiet corner.
“Fortunately Mrs. Witherow already paid for the bridal shower albums. Maybe the others will still want theirs,” Dodie said looking over the pile of leather-bound books sadly. “I’m not telling them the wedding is cancelled. That’s Merrilee’s problem, not ours. The deposit from Merrilee will cover the supplies we set aside for the other projects she wanted.”
The profit I’d counted on was gone. Not only was I missing rent for the next three months, I still needed money for a new rental deposit.
Good thing I’d planned on stopping by Bill Ballard’s office. August sure was far away. But if the buy-sell meant I was due some money, maybe I could borrow enough to live on until then. Still, I couldn’t do anything until I read the papers.
I had no doubt that eventually I’d make enough money scrapbooking to provide for me and my daughter. But meantime, I couldn’t make ends meet. Tisha seemed confident there was a lot of money in the business. Even if the fiscal year-end accounting showed only a small sum, that was more than I had now. I needed money desperately.
I had no idea how much Bonnie was going to charge for a visit to Family Court. Even if she kept having babies, and I kept making albums, I’d still owe for the supplies. And there was the money I needed as a deposit on a new place. My balance sheet was definitely skewed toward the minus side. Like the leaning tower of Pisa, I was dangerously off-center. How long could I survive without tumbling?
I picked up the Witherow bridal shower photos and sorted them into archival sleeves. Maybe the rest of the shower guests would want more customized work. Maybe all was not lost. Okay, so I could cross off Merrilee’s wedding album and the album for Jeff’s mother. But maybe Merrilee would still want help with Roxanne’s memorial album.
I hoped so. Otherwise, I’d just lost a lot of business. A lot of money. Present and future. The more albums I did, the more business I generated. Every custom album included a tasteful sticker with my contact information on the back cover.
My spirits sank further as I tidied up the detritus of the ill-fated Witherow bridal shower album. Lately nothing had gone right for me.
“Well, well, well.” Mert returned to my work area. “Stuff rolls downhill, and you, poor baby, stepped in a pile of it. Seems our little Linda is in a passel of trouble. Or as my daddy used to say, smart birds don’t mess in their own nests. And if they do, they best better wipe their tail feathers quick-like.
“See, Linda was married once before to a poor boy. And she didn’t much cotton to it. And Mr. Kovaleski was her hubby’s boss man. Then she and Randy Kovaleski started swapping slobbers. And her first husband upped and D-I-V-O-R-C-E-D her and was going to name old Hot Pants Kovaleski co-respondent. Only, see, Kovaleski was married, too, and his wife woulda taken him to Bird-land, where the sun don’t shine, and there’s doo-doo droppings on your window all day. But Mr. Kovaleski paid off Linda’s first hubby to just go quiet into the sunset. Wouldn’t you know it, old Linda got herself knocked up? Then Mr. Kovaleski found hisself paying a bundle to the first Mrs. Kovaleski to render their union asunder. By the time he got ready to marry Linda so’s she could have his heir and a spare, he was already feeling a pain in his pants—and I mean his wallet. That’s when he informed Linda she had to sign a pre-nup. And she did. Knowing her extracurricular activities, he made it heavy on the ‘you better not mess around’ lingo. In fact, I’d guess that if a picture’s worth a thousand words, that one you showed Merrilee Witherow’s worth a couple hundred thou or maybe even a million.”
Mert’s effusive use of metaphors had me a bit confused. “Come again?”
Paper, Scissors, Death Page 21
