I had watched enough reruns of Hogan’s Heroes to translate her German into “No.”
“Did you lose something?” That’s me, Mrs. Helpful.
“Nein.” She pushed a pair of glasses back on her nose. The frames were milky pink and the lenses were shaped like cats’ eyes. Tiny trios of rhinestones sparkled in the outside corners. She struggled to her feet, her hands pushing away from me to show she didn’t want assistance. “I am Margit Eichen. You must be Kiki.”
She pronounced my first name, “Kick-ee.”
I’ve been called worse.
“You are late,” she added.
“Late?”
“For work.”
I checked my cell phone. “It’s only eight-oh-five.”
“You are scheduled for eight o’clock.”
With that she turned to the task at hand, squatting down on all fours so she could continue to clip the grass in the verge that ran between our sidewalk and the street. To my astonishment, she pulled a small ruler from a pocket. She not only trimmed the grass, she measured it first!
“I’m Kiki Lowenstein, and I’m part-owner of Time in a Bottle,” I said. This time I stepped in closer, reached down and stuck my hand out, offering it to shake.
The woman stared up at me. “I know who you are. I am the new part-owner of Time in a Bottle.”
My mouth flapped open. I didn’t know what to say. An intense fury swept through me. Part-owner? What had Dodie done? She’d gone and added a co-owner without consulting me!
“I suggest you go inside. You are now ten minutes late,” said Margit. “I hope this is not a habit for you.”
Great. Just what I needed. Another harpy in my life. Now I was surrounded by ill-tempered, nasty older women: Sheila, Mom, and Margit.
I gnashed my teeth and stifled a scream. Enough! I’d had enough! How dare Dodie let this time- and measurement-obsessed woman invade my personal sanctuary! What could Dodie have been thinking? How could she add a new partner without running the idea past me first?
Seventeen
Time in a Bottle might look like an ordinary storefront to passers-by, but to me, it’s my home away from home.
Correction: Since my mom arrived, it’s my only home. Mom has managed to turn my happy little domicile into one of Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell. To be specific, I lived in “Wrath,” because Mom was angry all the time.
So coming to Time in a Bottle this morning, well, it was balm to my soul.
But that had been ruined!
After surviving the sniper attack, dealing with my mother, and learning that a killer had put out a contract on me, I needed this haven more than ever. And here Dodie had brought in a new partner without consulting me! This was so unfair!
I stomped back to my car, retrieved Gracie, and stormed in through the back door.
Dodie sat behind her desk, nursing a big cup of tea. She’s finished her chemo and radiation treatments for cancer of the larynx, which is good news. However, she has no appetite and she’s tired a lot, which is bad news. The woman who was once compared to a wooly mammoth could double as a de-nuded stick figure these days. Usually, I fuss over her, try to encourage her to eat and keep drinking lots of liquids.
But not today. Today I was mad. Fighting mad.
“Kiki! I’ve been calling you all weekend! Is Anya all right? I’ve been following the sniper attack on the news. Oy vey, what a mess! I am glad to see you are unhurt. And Anya? She is all right as well?”
I nodded. Her concern took all the starch out of my panties. I snarled at her, “I sent a blanket text message saying we were upset but unharmed. Don’t tell me you didn’t get it.”
“I’m not so good with technology yet,” Dodie said as she came over to hug me. I accepted the gesture but stayed stiff as a piece of chip board. It is hard to be mad at someone who cares about you, but I kept a firm grasp on my indignation.
“We’re all fine. Even Sheila and my mother. Not that you asked about them.”
Dodie smirked. “Sheila is indestructible, and your mother is tough as shoe leather. You and I both know Sheila would walk through the D-Day invasion without getting wet feet. As for your mother, against stupidity God himself is helpless. The sniper never had a chance.”
“We’re lucky to be alive. Edwina Fitzgerald took a bullet in the chest. Died at the scene. Her son, Peter, was shot in the leg. There was a panic, but fortunately only five other people were injured. That sounds like a lot, but given the circumstances, it could have been much, much worse.” As I talked, Dodie pulled an ice cold Diet Dr Pepper out of the refrigerator and handed it to me. The combination of her interest and her handing me my favorite tonic left me feeling silly about my upset.
“Edwina Fitzgerald,” said Dodie. “May her memory be a blessing.”
“You know—knew—her?”
“Yes. We were on an arts committee together years ago. Of course, she wouldn’t have remembered me. I was just a committee member, and she was in charge. Edwina was Old St. Louis money. She enjoyed having people like me sign up to work, but she definitely had her own circle of friends for socializing.”
“Fitzgerald. That’s old St. Louis?”
“Her maiden name was Lichbaden.”
“Lichbaden? Like the beer?”
“The same.” I sipped my cola and gave that a think.
In the second half of the 1800s, four million Germans immigrated to the United States. Many of them settled in Missouri, finding its climate and soil much like that of their homeland. With all those Germans came the desire for a taste of home in the form of beer.
“Pabst, Busch, Schlitz, they all started together. Built their fortunes.”
“The beer barons.”
“Right. Edwina’s great-great-great grandfather and his wife brought their family recipe with them when they came to America. Aldous Lichbaden bought hops and wheat from other local Germans. His wife, Gretchen, mixed the brew in their basement. They stored the brew in the caves under the city. About fifty years ago, Anheuser-Busch bought them out, but after the noncompete ended Edwina’s husband, Gergen, opened a microbrewery. They’re back in the business again, this time with a new product and a new name.”
“What does Peter do?” I knew quite a few of the parents at CALA, but not all of them. I could have pointed out Peter and his wife, Deanna, in a crowd, but other than that, they were ciphers to me.
“He works for Edwina. I believe his title is Vice President. I heard he had plans to expand the company. Start bottling that weird fermented tea.”
“Kombucha?”
“Is that like Kumbaya? I hear that’s a hit around the campfire,” said Dodie.
“No. Kombucha is a fermented tea drink.”
“Well, now he can do exactly as he wishes, after he buries his mother. Speaking of which, how are you getting along with yours?”
“Let’s not go there,” I said with a sigh. “Tell me about our new lawn service. You do realize that Margit is out there measuring the grass and cutting it.”
Dodie laughed and took another swallow of her Dr. Brown’s Cream Soda. She drank Dr. Brown and I drank Dr Pepper. We had a theme going. Or maybe we were both sick puppies. “I hoped to introduce you two formally, but Margit insisted on starting work earlier than I had anticipated. She’s a widow, just like you. Her husband, Helmut, died last year. Margit doesn’t know what to do with herself.”
“What does she know about scrapbooking?”
“Nothing. Nothing at all. In fact, she thinks it’s silly. Margit is a world-class knitter. If she had her way, this would be a yarn shop.”
Eighteen
“I like yarn as much as the next crafter, but if she doesn’t appreciate papercrafting why did you let her buy Bama’s share? I can’t believe you didn’t talk to me first. I thought that at least you’d let me meet the new partner before bringing her on. How can you tell if we’re compatible?” I sputtered.
Once upon a time, I was Dodie’s best customer. After my husband was killed, Dodie offered
me a job, and I strove to become her best employee. Along the way, she offered me the chance to buy into Time in a Bottle and I happily accepted.
Dodie sighed. “This isn’t a dating service, Sunshine. This is work. I brought her on board because of her talents. Margit is highly efficient and organized. She’s also good with numbers.” She paused, cleared her throat, coughed lightly, and sipped her cola.
Her distress brought me off my high horse. Her chemo and radiation for cancer of the larynx ended three months ago, but instead of looking better at the treatments’ cessation, Dodie looked worse. She’d lost weight. Her color was off. Her energy level weighed in somewhere between sluggish and somnambulant. Several times in the past week, I caught her catnapping at her desk.
“So Margit’s responsibilities will be . . . what?” I sat across from Dodie. Gracie flopped down on the floor next to me and rested her head in my lap. I stroked her velvety ears.
“Margit’ll take over inventory control, ordering stock, paying vendors, and scheduling hours.”
That’s what I’d been afraid of. When I agreed to work for Dodie, we made an agreement that my child came first. At twelve, Anya isn’t exactly a child anymore, but she still needs me. Dodie has been marvelously flexible. But Margit’s insistence that I show up on the stroke of 8 a.m. worried me.
“Anya comes first in my life. Work runs a distant second.”
“No problem, Sunshine.”
“Margit better understand that, too.”
Dodie sighed. “Margit will be a great addition, but you need to understand, I pay you to get along with people, not to quarrel with them. Look, I know you’ve had a rough weekend. I’m sorry about that. But we’re all grownups here, Kiki. I expect you to act like one.”
Tears welled in my eyes. Bama and I hadn’t gotten along, for various reasons, and Dodie deserved some of the blame.
Clearly, she didn’t agree. Or at the very least, she refused to acknowledge her part.
I checked my cell phone: 8:09, and already my day had been ruined. I pushed back my chair and led Gracie to her playpen. I couldn’t even bring myself to respond to Dodie’s salvo. It felt horribly, terribly unfair—and on top of my mother’s cruel remarks, more than I could bear.
How quickly Dodie forgot all I’d done for her! While she’d been sick, I’d worked extra hours. When she had her first scare with cancer, I’d been super-supportive. Every time she needed me, I’d been right there for her.
I thought Dodie could benefit from a few lessons in managing people. Longing to tell her exactly that, I went through the motions of opening the store.
Jeopardy answer: Dodie Goldfader, Sheila Lowenstein, and Lucia Montgomery.
The question: Name three women convinced they have all the answers.
The gleesome trio shared one triumphant quality: Infallibility. Each believed she was right, unquestionably. I, on the other hand, was far too willing to believe I was wrong.
At the front door, I flipped over the OPEN sign. Yes, I turned it over early. As far as I was concerned, if some happy little scrapper jumped out of bed and made a beeline to our place, I was going to welcome her with open arms.
Dodie brought me the change drawer for the cash register. “This was certainly a May Day to remember. It’s an ill wind that blows no good. Given the drama, I bet your album will be very popular. Maybe we should laser cut a page title. How about Mayday for May Day, eh?”
She smiled at her own pun. “Mayday” comes from the French m’aider, which means “I need help.”
Dodie wiped her forehead with the back of her hand. “The school has already sent me an email. Lane Carlée, their new development director, wants you to do two memorial albums chronicling Edwina’s life and her many contributions to CALA. One will go to the school for their archives and one will be a gift from the Alumni Association to Edwina’s family. You saved the May Day album, didn’t you?”
Nineteen
A slow heat started at my neckline. “I was lucky to save myself and my family, Dodie. There wasn’t time to grab the album.”
“We need one made up ASAP. I’m sure people will want them. Especially now.”
I wondered at her thinking. Usually Dodie is very careful, very circumspect about our store’s image. “Really? I mean, it was a tragedy, Dodie. Remember? I was there. When does a shooting qualify as a Red Letter Day?”
She gestured away my concern. “At the very least, we need to have a May Day album kit available.”
“Am I supposed to do this in my copious free time? You do realize I had thirty-plus hours of work in that May Day album. Now you want me to re-create that, plus two copies of a personalized memorial album. Will those hours be added to my store hours?”
Two could play Miss Meanie-Jeanie-Jelly-Beanie. Like Dodie, I counted on the revenue from selling May Day albums to CALA families. The initial concept through creation phase of any new project was the most time-consuming part. Once an album was extant, I could duplicate it ad nauseam, or even job out the duplication to other crafters. But the designing took all my concentration. And energy. And time.
I hoped I could remember what went into the May Day album.
I’d have to juggle re-creating that joyous piece of work with creating Edwina’s solemn memorial book—and that meant partitioning my brain so I could work on two projects simultaneously. Both would need to be done quickly as the window of opportunity was tight.
Dodie’s smile was tense, and I could tell that she was annoyed by my complaints. “I expect you to make it happen. I have always paid you for your work. Discuss scheduling issues with Margit. That reminds me. I know that your mother-in-law will want you to take time off for dress fittings and so on. I suggest you try to pin Sheila down so you can schedule the time in advance with Margit. Otherwise, your needs might create problems.”
She turned slowly and shuffled off to her office. A part of me melted at the sight of her. She stooped over where she had once walked erect. Her hair had thinned. Her whole frame caved in on itself. I could tell she didn’t feel well, because the Dodie of old would have never talked to me so curtly the way this new incarnation of my pal did. Even though she claimed she was back to normal, I could tell she wasn’t her old self. The chemo and radiation treatments had definitely changed her personality, and not for the better.
I slapped a roll of pennies over the drawer dividers to break it. The coins flew up, bounced, and rolled across the floor.
The drawer would start a few cents short. That meant the day would end short as well. I looked over in the penny cup, with its cheerful “Need One? Take One. Have One? Leave One.” sign. It was conspicuously absent. At last count, that cup contained at least twenty cents.
Great, just great. This was shaping up to be an all-around crummy day.
Margit’s tips for beginning knitters
Check out your local independent yarn store. Many of them offer classes just for beginners or sessions where you can bring your project and get help. Libraries also host knitting groups, so check around. Most veterans are more than happy to help you get started.
While it might seem like a waste of yarn to start by knitting a square or a simple project, consider these exercises as valuable preparation. Once you get the feel of needles in your hand, you’ll be less likely to mess up your first real project.
A “how to knit” kit is a great way to get started. However, having someone teach you how to cast on is the easiest way to learn this important skill.
For your first real project, do invest in good yarn. After all, if you are going to put all this work and effort into your project, shouldn’t it last a lifetime?
Twenty
“Everything is peachy-keen, hunky-dory, super-fine, fantastic.” I slammed a chair against the work table. “Ouch!” I caught my finger between the seat and the surface. Served me right. I’d been slamming stuff around all day and the damage was evident: lost pennies, spilled glitter, and now a mashed finger.
“Kiki Lowenstein
, your nose grows longer by the minute.” Clancy Whitehead laughed as I popped my finger into my mouth and sucked it. We shuffled more chairs into place. She had shown up twenty minutes early to help me get ready for our special crop. “Maybe you need to go home.”
“Can’t. I’m camping out at Sheila’s.”
“That’s even better! She’s got hired help. Let her maid coddle you. You’ve had a tough day. Put your feet up. Drink a glass of wine.”
“I’d love to. My mother drank everything Sheila had in the house.”
“How’s her visit going?” Clancy set out the kits for the evening crop, plunking down one at each place.
“Not well.”
“So your sister just called and said, ‘Hey, pick up Mom from the airport’? She didn’t even give you a choice in the matter?”
“Nope, in fact, Amanda didn’t even talk to me, she just left a message on my phone.”
“That was dicey,” said Clancy. “What if you hadn’t been available? I bet she listened when you told her you’d been shot at.”
I nodded. “She listened long enough to hear what happened, and then she gave me a royal chewing-out for putting our mother in danger. Like I planned that! As for Mom, let’s be kind and say she’s been challenging. How’s that for soft-peddling what’s really happening?”
Clancy laughed, but the sound lacked sparkle. Despite her gorgeous outfit—a striped Tommy Hilfiger blouse and a lightweight pin-striped blazer over a pair of neat denim slacks, Clancy looked tired these days.
I knew why. Her mother was having health problems. Clancy arranged a host of services to help out, including Meals on Wheels, a “panic” button connected to a 24-hour hotline, and a senior day care program. But Mrs. Clancy—my pal had taken her maiden name of “Clancy” as her first name because she hated being called “Druscilla”—fought her daughter every step of the way.
“I can guess what you’re going through. My mother isn’t her old self, either. Until recently, Mama was sharp as the proverbial tack. Now she phones me three and four times an hour and asks me what day it is. She wants me to move in with her,” Clancy explained. “But I can’t bring myself to do that. I’d give up all my freedom, and probably my sanity as well. We’ve never gotten along that well. I mean, I love Mama, and I want to do right by her, but we’re very different in many ways.”
Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 5
