Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery)

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “She’ll be mad at me!”

  “I imagine she will.”

  Twenty-four

  “I can’t do it. Can’t we just wait? Won’t the prosecuting attorney press charges against Bill? You know what he told me. He confessed

  to murdering Roxanne.”

  “He’s told his attorney that you staged that whole car-napping scene. That you were trying to get money out of him.”

  Stars swam in front of my eyes. I grabbed onto the concrete block erosion wall and tried to keep my balance. The neighborhood around our store is pretty transitional, but the residents try to keep up appearances. We’d made two turns around the block, so this was our usual stopping point for private chats. No one from the store could see or overhear our conversation.

  Or my tears. Which started flowing hot and heavy.

  Lately, I’ve been crying a lot. I guess I’m just being hormonal. This should have been a happy time in my life for a lot of reasons, one of which I chose to keep to myself for a little longer.

  But there were plenty of public reasons to celebrate. Detweiler and I were enjoying each other’s company, and we had a future ahead of us. But my mom’s constant harping was wearing me down. So was my unease about the store. Even before Margit showed up, I had a hunch Dodie was going to choose a partner without consulting me. More and more, my boss acted without my input. She had my money. I was a part-owner, but I quickly came to realize that as a minority stockholder, I’d bought myself nothing but headaches. No voting privileges. No special rights or input. Just the slim chance of sharing in a yearly bonus that might or might not repay a portion of the investment I’d made.

  I’d always thought of Dodie as a very fair person, but her high-handed decision-making style was eroding that opinion.

  And Mom? Well, she’d never liked me. Ever. I remembered her picking at me and finding fault as I was growing up. I’ve heard some people say their mothers always “had their back.” But my mother never treated me like she loved me. Or liked me. Or approved of me.

  I knew why.

  I just didn’t want to think about it.

  Mert had been more of a mother to me. Mert was the constant in my life. She would gladly go to bat for me, and as a matter of fact, she had on numerous occasions.

  Now Detweiler was suggesting that I honk off my best friend.

  He must have read my mind. “Kiki, Johnny is risking his life. He’s putting himself on the line for you. I know it will be hard for you to have Mert mad, but the only people who know about this scheme are you, me, Police Chief Holmes, and Johnny. We might have to let Sheila in on this, just so she knows to stay vigilant, especially while you and Anya are at her house. I’ll wait until Chief Holmes tells me to include her in our plans. But Mert can’t know. It’s just too risky. It’s entirely possible that she will still forgive you for saying something nasty about her brother. At the start, she has to believe you’ve quarreled. It has to be public, so that Johnny’s actions make sense. He’ll be safe to the degree that he’s believable. Otherwise, Bill could turn on Johnny in a flash.”

  I sighed and wiped my eyes with my sleeve. He was right. If this plan was to work, Mert couldn’t know. But he was wrong about the reasons. My friend had worked so hard to get her brother released from prison, and harder still to help him create a new life free from the currents of the underworld. This would put all that in jeopardy.

  She would hate me for doing this.

  “It’s Johnny’s choice,” said Detweiler. “He suggested this to Chief Holmes. I guess he wants to make amends.”

  I could see that. Johnny and I often talked about retribution. We understood how guilt eats away at your joyfulness. I knew he wanted to feel he’d repaid society for “being stupid,” as he put it.

  “I better get back to the store.” I picked up Gracie’s leash.

  Detweiler stopped me. “What’s a good time for you to do this? We need to know so we can protect you. Obviously, it would be best for you to stay at Sheila’s.”

  “Why?”

  “Robbie will be there at night, there’s a great alarm system, and we can easily observe the house. Your place in Webster Groves is too secluded.”

  “But if I stay at Sheila’s won’t that tip Bill off ? He’s bound to know something’s up.”

  Detweiler rubbed his chin thoughtfully. “Does your house need any work done? Anything that Mr. Haversham has been putting off ?”

  “No, nothing. Wait—the roof ! We lost a bunch of shingles during that last storm,” I said.

  “That’ll work. I’ll call Mr. Haversham and ask him for his help. Maybe he can get the work started immediately. Any ideas when and where you could pick a fight with Johnny?”

  “There’s a Fine Arts and Crafts Fair this weekend at Faust Park. We’ll have a booth. Dodie asked Johnny to help us cart all our stuff there and set up. I guess that’s as good a time as any. If we fight right after the fair opens, there should be plenty of people around.”

  “Faust covers two hundred acres,” said Detweiler. “Who would see you? Won’t folks be scattered all over? They’d be paying attention to the various booths and re-enactments. I’m not sure anyone would notice a quarrel over all the hubbub.”

  “Well, if he and I fought during the setup Wednesday night, the other vendors would be there. Our booths are located in a concentrated area, the prime space next to the building with the carousel inside.”

  “When exactly does the setup start?”

  “Six p.m. on Wednesday. There’s a V.I.P. preview that follows. Closing at eight. Let’s get the kinks out, if there are any.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  Actually, it sounded like the perfect way to ruin another lovely spring evening.

  Twenty-five

  True to her plan, Margit left as the local church bells rang noon. “I cannot work Monday—”

  “Or Wednesday afternoons or Sundays,” I repeated.

  “Ja,” she smiled. “You have it right. I go to visit my mother at Oak Haven. We have delightful meals together, and she expects me. I must be there. ”

  Oak Haven was a retirement home on the South Side. That was all I knew about the place. I made a mental note to Google it and see what I could learn. More information might help me to get to know Margit better. After all, I had known next to nothing about Bama, and that ignorance nearly cost both of us our lives.

  Our Monday night croppers straggled in. Wendy Jo and Angela arrived early, eager to hear my version of the sniper attack. I got so weary of repeating the gruesome events that I decided I would type up the next crisis in my life, laminate it, and wear it around my neck as a signboard. But, deep down, their concern touched me, and I knew our scrappers weren’t just asking because they were curious. They truly cared.

  Rita Romano said, “Is Anya okay? All those girls must have been scared to death!”

  A poor choice of words, that.

  “I texted her at noon. She seemed fine. She texted me back that they discussed the shooting during advisory and during an assembly at chapel. A grief counselor held office hours. I think Anya planned to talk with the woman.” I set down additional rubber stamps for the ATC cards we were making.

  ATC means Artist Trading Cards, but everyone calls them ATC cards, which is redundant. Each one is a work of art on a 2½ by 3½ inch canvas. Back in 1996, a Zurich artist named M. Vänçi Stirnemann organized the first trading session of the cards as a way for people to meet face-to-face and share their creativity. Think of baseball cards, now swap out artistic designs for photos of designated hitters, and you’ll get the picture. Literally.

  Jennifer Moore joined us. Her daughter Nicci is Anya’s best friend. “The advantages of a private school. There’s money in the budget for a counselor. Gosh, am I ever glad that Nicci opted out of that silly ritual.”

  “What? Opted out? I thought it was mandatory.” I spilled an entire container of blue glitter on the work table. Drat. That stuff loves static electricity. It’s mega-ha
rd to pick up.

  “Used to be,” said Lisa Burton, who set down her tote bag with all its pockets for papercrafting supplies. Lisa’s daughter Sydney was a year ahead of Nicci and Anya. “That changed this year when a group of girls went to Elliott McMahan and protested.”

  “Um, not really,” added Maggie Earheart, another CALA mom and a friend, who dragged along her Cropper Hopper, a rolling suitcase for scrappers. “It changed when someone from said ‘group of girls’ contacted an organization of feminists who threatened to hold a protest right outside the school’s front door.”

  “They didn’t stop there,” said Jennifer. “Those feminists—of which I am a card-carrying member—contacted the ACLU. We were willing to take the school to court.”

  “Gee,” I said, “I’m surprised at you, Jennifer. You being Old St. Louis and all.”

  She chuckled. Although she was one of the very, very prominent members of the Old Guard, she held very, very modern views.

  “I didn’t want them to drop the May Day celebration entirely. I just wanted girls to have choices, that’s all,” said Jennifer. “That’s part of what education is all about. Expanding one’s choices, right?”

  Maggie shrugged. “The hubbub didn’t leave Mr. McMahan with many choices. He can’t afford to put an end to the May Day ceremony. Or rather, Lane Carlée can’t afford to end it now that she’s the new development director. Losing that money on her watch would be a career killer, and she’s very gung-ho, or so I’ve heard.”

  “I don’t understand,” I said, and I didn’t. “The May Day ceremony has to be expensive. They set up all those chairs and the platform. Rent a PA system. Buy flowers, hire a choreographer. Wouldn’t the school save money by cancelling? I mean, if all the parents agreed to donate the money they spent on costumes, CALA would surely come out ahead.”

  “Ah, but think of all the revenue the school would lose,” Jennifer helped me brush up the glitter with a fabric softener sheet, which cuts the static cling nicely.

  “What revenue? No one pays for tickets to attend,” I said.

  Maggie grinned at me. “You are such a babe in the woods, Kiki. You are so naïve, so clueless.”

  Jennifer hugged me. “And that’s what we love about you. You don’t have a cynical bone in your body.”

  That series of clichés irked me, as it felt like my friends were in on a joke, but I wasn’t. However, seeing as I was the de facto hostess of this crop, I plastered a pleasant smile on my face. “Then clue me in.”

  Clancy looked up from the card she was dipping in glitter. “I bet the alumnae donations were threatened, right? All those women who had participated in the ceremony in years gone by. To them, it’s a sacred ritual. At least, I imagine it is.”

  I had forgotten that she once taught high school in Illinois. She knew the inner workings of the educational system better than I did.

  “Bingo!” said Maggie. “The majority of endowments come from women, not men, because most women outlive their spouses. When one of the alumnae heard that May Day might be cancelled, she stormed into Mr. McMahan’s office, checkbook in hand, and threatened to change her will.”

  “Wow,” I said. “Who would do such a thing?”

  Jennifer and Maggie exchanged looks.

  “Who indeed?” said Maggie. “Who indeed.”

  Twenty-six

  Jennifer held up her trading card. “This needs something, but I don’t know what.”

  I puffed up with pride. When she first started crafting, Jennifer showed no sense of style. After nearly a year, that same fashion sense that dominated her tasteful wardrobe came through in her crafting. She could examine a piece and determine what it was lacking. That was the first step to bumping up her skill level.

  “Try an embellishment here,” I suggested.

  “Can we see the album you’re making for CALA?” asked Jennifer. “I bumped into Lane Carlée and she mentioned the school had commissioned one for the family and one for their archives.”

  I saw no harm in that. The album was to be on display in the school library, so it wasn’t a secret. I ran to the back and grabbed the big book. After carefully clearing a space on the front counter, I opened my project.

  “You do beautiful work.” Jennifer flipped through the pages while Maggie peered over her shoulder.

  “Peyton is a darling girl,” said Maggie, using her index finger to point out the Fitzgerald girl. “But she’s always been a bit of a tomboy. Hates girlie clothes. Dresses like a boy in Reeboks, Dockers, and golf shirts. Wears a Swatch.”

  “Did you have her in class?” I asked.

  “I had her in fourth grade and again when I substituted for the freshman English teacher. Peyton is wonderful. Brilliant mind. But she’s also determined to express her individuality. She can be a handful, but a good kid. I heard she’s going to Princeton. I think she aced her SATs, and of course she’d be given preference to matriculate since she’s a legacy.”

  “Her father or mother went?” I wondered.

  “Heavens no,” said Jennifer. “Her grandfather, Gergen, did. Her dad, poor Peter, barely graduated from CALA. I think he’s dyslexic, or has another learning disorder, but back then, no one diagnosed the problem like they can today. He’s a superb artist, but he was an awful student in the regular subjects. Deanna is nice enough. Her family is from the Lake.”

  That was St. Louis-speak for “Lake of the Ozarks,” which was also code for “hillbilly.”

  That one remark—“Her family is from the Lake”—told me everything I needed to know. Jennifer never bad-mouthed other CALA parents, but her lackluster praise said volumes. It was clear that she didn’t think much of Deanna.

  I wondered why. Over the past two years, I’ve come to realize that Jennifer is whip-smart. At first glance, she looks like the typical Ladue Lady of Leisure, one of the many women in this tony suburb who swan around with nothing to do but practice calorie avoidance and shop. Since I’ve gotten to know her, I’ve learned she runs her family business, keeps her straying husband in line, adores her two children, and is incredibly observant. She would make a good poker player, I think.

  As I mulled all this over, Jennifer must have sensed the weight of her disapproval, because she hastily added, “Deanna and Peter certainly are devoted to each other. They met when he was bouncing around, after he flunked out of Wash U. Her dad is one of those fishing guides who works the lakes in tourist season, hunts and traps in the winter for food. Her brother is a trapper, too. She was taking night classes to get her GED, and working as a waitress in a diner near U City, sleeping on a friend’s sofa, when she met Peter. He would stop by for breakfast after a long night of partying. His black Porsche 911 made quite an impression on all the girls, as I recall. He drove it fast and he drove it hard.”

  Translation: Deanna was an uneducated country bumpkin who managed to snag a ne’er-do-well rich boy from a prominent St. Louis family. (Admittedly I was being harsh, but there was an undertone to Jennifer’s description, and it said worlds more than mere words could convey. Honest to goodness, you needed a phrase translation handbook to understand the inner world of the St. Louis upper crust. I also knew that Wash U was short for Washington University, while U City was local slang for University City.)

  “You’d never know she didn’t come from money,” said Maggie with a bit of wonderment in her voice. “She certainly dresses like a million bucks. Their house is over off of Litzsinger. One of those decorating magazines featured it on the cover and did a huge multi-page spread on the décor and the grounds. In fact, the Fitzgeralds only live a few blocks from your mother-in-law, Kiki.”

  I made a mental note to ask Sheila what she knew of Peter and Deanna.

  “What was Edwina like? Maybe you all can help me with my research.”

  “Cut her and she’d bleed the CALA school colors. She was always one of the school’s largest donors, and she wasn’t shy about letting the staff know it,” said Maggie. “Edwina gloried in the traditions. Once I step
ped on the school seal because someone bumped into me. Edwina made me kiss it! I tried to dodge her, but she planted herself between me and the hallway. This happened on one of those forty-below-with-the-windchill days, so finally I gave in. My lips nearly froze to the marble! Later I was called into the headmaster’s office because she reported me for lack of respect.”

  “Wow.” That was all I could think to say.

  “Yessirree, she was a real piece of work,” Maggie shook her head, making her simple haircut swing this way and that. “She would call the school secretary and ask her to run errands for her.”

  “You are kidding!” My mouth dropped open.

  “Wish I were. But I’m not,” said Maggie in a sing-song voice. “I also heard that the development office had to run every piece of stationery past her because she usually found fault with the printing or the paper or whatever.”

  “She only wanted the best of everything. Nothing less was acceptable,” said Jennifer. “That’s why the family business did so well under her tenure. Edwina hunted down the best brewmeisters, the brightest advertising agencies, the most promising marketing talent. When she inherited the brewery, it was a mess. Gergen muddled along, but he barely managed to keep the place afloat. In less than a year after Gergen died, she transformed it. When she sold it, the contract worked to her favor, a real rarity in this economic downturn. She was smart enough not to sign anything that kept her out of the business long term. Now she’s rebuilt everything, and she’s renamed it Gergen Brands.”

  “Wait a sec. You said she hunted down the brightest advertising agencies. I thought Peter was the Vice President of Advertising.” I remembered hearing his title mentioned in one of the news reports after the shooting.

  Jennifer chuckled. “A title isn’t a job, Kiki.”

  What in the heck did that mean?

  Kiki’s tips for improving your designs