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

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  1. Let your pieces ferment. Instead of hurrying through, build in time to step back and reflect on your work. If you are scrapbooking, pin up the layout where you can see it and leave it alone for a week. When you return to it, you’ll recognize what’s lacking.

  2. Chart your eye path. Close your eyes, open them, and note where you look. From there where do your eyes want to go? There should be a strong pathway, often in a triangular shape.

  3. Consider whether your piece is asymmetrical or evenly balanced. It has to be one or the other, so have you defined which it is?

  4. Photocopy or photograph your work. Often a smaller image or another medium will help your eye determine what’s missing.

  5. Give it the squint test. Stand about six feet away. Squint. What pops out at you? What seems missing?

  6. Make it temporary. Re-positional adhesive allows you to try before you commit permanently. If you have used a permanent adhesive, Undu, a solvent, can help you remove the offending item.

  Twenty-seven

  Sheila met me at her front door, grabbed me by the elbow, and dragged me down the walkway. The light from her security lamp at the back door showed how contorted her face was. “Linnea quit.”

  “What?” The wonderful, fabulous, totally unflappable Linnea had worked for the Lowensteins for more than thirty-five years. As far as I knew, quitting wasn’t an option. She could die, but she could not turn in her resignation. No, no, no, no!

  “You have to be kidding me,” I said. “Is she sick or something? Have a terminal illness? Is one of her kids in trouble? This is temporary, isn’t it?” I couldn’t imagine Sheila functioning without the help of the rock-steady African-American maid.

  “No, she scribbled out a letter of resignation on the back of an envelope she saved from the recycling. She said she couldn’t wait to go home and type up something formal. She’s dead serious.”

  “Did she read The Help and have an epiphany?”

  “This is no time to be cute. I can’t live without Linnea.”

  “When was the last time you gave her a raise?”

  “Last month. She makes more money a year than you do.”

  That wasn’t surprising. So did the pimple-faced boy flipping burgers at McDonald’s. “What happened?”

  “Not what. Who. Your mother.”

  I groaned. This was not wholly unexpected. My mother had a way of saying incredibly hurtful things to anyone who didn’t meet her expectations. If she liked you, she loved you. If she didn’t care for you, you were history on the losing side.

  “How?”

  “The final straw came when Lucia followed Linnea around and unmade all the beds.”

  “Let me guess: Linnea doesn’t do hospital corners.”

  “What’s with the hospital corners! Was your mother in a loony bin somewhere? I never heard of such nonsense. Since when did Martha Stewart send out minions?”

  I rolled my eyes. “We used to be subject to hospital corner drills. Mom’s mom was a nurse. Once Nana showed Mom the proper way—proper, that is, in a hospital setting—to make a bed, Mom became some sort of hospital corner devotee. A real fanatic. Complete with rituals and chanting. When it comes to bed making, she’s always been positively obsessive.”

  “Well, good, because she’s soon to be positively obsessive and homeless. She’ll be making, or rather unmaking beds, down at the Salvation Army hotel. I’ll toss her derriere out on the street and send her luggage flying after. I can’t manage without Linnea. Especially not with my wedding coming up. I have too much to do, and Linnea is integral to the running of my household.”

  “I agree. Besides which, we all love her.”

  “Whereas your mother is barely tolerable.”

  “Yeah,” I admitted. “That’s a nice way of putting it.”

  “Your mother, your problem, you fix it,” said Sheila.

  I agreed with her assessment, so I got Gracie inside, stowed my purse, and went searching for Linnea. I found her in the pantry completing what looked suspiciously like a final inventory of canned goods.

  “Linnea, can we talk?”

  “You talk. I’m busy. I need to finish up and leave.” She didn’t even turn around to face me.

  “Hey,” I said. “Please. If you are going to quit, quit because you’ve had it with Sheila. Don’t quit because of my mother. My mom is temporary. We’re only here until the roof on my house gets fixed. Honest.”

  The coffee-colored woman showed no signs of relenting, so I brought out my big guns. “You’ll break Anya’s heart if you leave. It will totally crush her. Especially now after she lived through that sniper attack.”

  With those words, she turned to face me. The angry brown eyes softened, grew blurry. “I do love that child,” said Linnea. “She’s like one of my own. I fixed her warm milk with vanilla in it to help her calm down, poor lamb.”

  “What would we do without you? Especially Anya? Without you, she’d starve to death. Please don’t leave. For Anya’s sake, I’m begging you. I’ll talk to my mom.”

  “You think that’ll do any good?” Linnea raised an eyebrow at me. I noticed she also took her calloused hands out of her pockets where they’d been jammed along with her pencil and pad.

  “Not one bit. But I owe it to you to try. I’ll also take Mom with me as much as I can. Keep her out of your hair.”

  Linnea sighed. “I guess you better show me how to make hospital corners. The Good Lord tells us not to be stiff-necked with pride. I’ll do what I gotta do for that girl of yours.”

  “Ours,” I corrected Linnea. “That girl of ours.”

  Twenty-eight

  Tuesday, May 4

  “Take her with you. Or take me. Better yet, let’s send your mother back to your house in Webster Groves. Bill Ballard can perform a civic service by shooting her,” said Sheila the next morning. “It would be a mitzvah.”

  Mitzvah is Hebrew for “blessing.”

  “I’ll see if I can get Mom to come to the store with me.” I finished my toast, rinsed the plate, and put it in the dishwasher. Linnea had rescinded her letter of resignation, but after a quick pow-wow in the laundry room, Sheila and I concluded this was a good time for Linnea to take a week off. With pay.

  This morning, I’d fixed myself a piece of dry toast and a cup of weak tea. I offered to make eggs for Sheila and Robbie, but thankfully they declined. My stomach was in an uproar. I worried whether I could cook without racing to the powder room, but I was game to try. As it was, when I opened the refrigerator for the butter, the smell of leftover tuna fish salad made me heave.

  Luckily for me, Anya contented herself with a bowl of cereal.

  “You okay, honey?” I asked.

  “I guess.”

  “Have any bad dreams?”

  “No. I think the milk Linnea made me helped a lot.”

  “It probably did. Mom? How about coming to work with me? I could use your help.”

  She peered up at me from an over-stuffed chair in front of Sheila’s flat screen TV. “I don’t want to miss Katie Couric. I like her.”

  “There’s a television in our office. Don’t you want to see where I work? What I do?”

  “We drove past it. Squatty little building in a ratty neighborhood.”

  That was true. “Yep. But it’s what’s inside that’s really special.”

  “I’m comfortable here. I hate to get up.” She had appropriated that particular chair as her own. When she wasn’t sitting there, she put a book or her purse on the cushion to save her seat.

  “All the people I work with are dying to meet you.” I threw in this white lie as a sweetener. They weren’t dying to meet her, but they did regularly die of laughter at some of her more famous antics, such as tearing apart an album I made for her so that she could use the pieces to make her own version. That particular album cost me $300 in supplies and took weeks to make. When she mailed me a photo of how she’d chopped up the photos, I nearly wept. I could have sent her duplicates for less than $
10, if she’d only asked. Instead, she’d butchered wonderful original family pictures.

  “I guess they are interested in me. That makes sense. I’m sure you can use my help.”

  She hoisted herself from the chair and wobbled before taking a step. I rushed to her side. “You all right?”

  “I get woozy sometimes if I’ve been sitting too long. I need to use the bathroom before we go.”

  The color of her skin was grayish, and her hand felt clammy in mine. I re-doubled my determination to call Amanda. Maybe Mom needed to see a doctor here. If so, I would need her medical records.

  Maybe if I called Amanda from the store phone, she’d answer.

  Maybe pigs would fly, and Lambert Field would add a couple new runways devotedly only to porkers.

  Anything was possible. Possible but not likely.

  Twenty-nine

  To my surprise, Mom and Dodie got along like identical twins accidently separated at birth. They seemed to genuinely enjoy each other’s company. Mom regaled Dodie with stories about her days as a chorus girl in off-Broadway musicals. Her one big claim to fame was that William Warfield heard her sing and said, “You have a bright future ahead of yourself, young lady. You just need a lucky break.”

  Dodie heard this fable and was impressed. “When Old Man River says you’ve got talent, you are indeed on your way!”

  Unfortunately, Mom got a bad break instead. She had fallen in love with a stage door Johnny, my dad, and when he asked her to marry him, she consented. They eloped two days after she met Mr. Warfield. “I threw my promising career right out the window along with my overnight bag. I was willing to make the sacrifice. You see, I’d always wanted a family of my own.”

  Why? I wondered. You never seemed happy to be our mother. You didn’t enjoy being at home. You didn’t like cooking or cleaning or caring for us.

  Of course, it did mean she’d have all of us to boss around, and a plausible reason not to continue facing the rejection and discipline that was a natural part of show business. A family was an all-purpose, no questions asked, type of excuse that transformed Mom’s lack of ambition into sainthood.

  Dodie, bless her heart, seemed fascinated by my mother’s stories. She listened with appreciation, and even asked questions. It seemed my mother had found her audience in one of the lost tribes of Israel. That made Mom happy. Dodie seemed content as well. The two of them hung out in Dodie’s office and watched television together. This allowed Dodie to be here, but stay off her feet, and Mom to be here, but stay out from under my feet.

  Margit approved of my mother’s visit. Her round face beamed like a full moon at me. “This is good. Bringing your mutti along is good. You are a good daughter, Kickee.”

  Since Gracie was a rescued purebred and not a “mutt,” I figured Margit was talking about my mom.

  At one time in my life, I lived for praise. Fortunately, I’m growing past that. Praise is like a shine on your shoes. It only matters if the leather underneath is solid. Oh, praise looks good, it’s flashy, but substance wins over fluff any day in my book.

  “Mom, I need your help.” I set her down at a table smack-dab in the middle of the store and showed her how to assemble kits. Before long, she had the task down pat, continuing a running commentary on her life to all and sundry as she divvied up supplies.

  “You know, I taught Kiki everything she knows about scrapbooking,” said Mom. “Yes, I was ahead of my time.”

  To say that this amazed and astonished our customers would be an understatement. “Shock and awe” prevailed in our store. I briefly considered amending her story, but Dodie put a hand on my shoulder. “She is happy. What difference does it make? If you don’t want to get old, hang yourself when you are young.”

  Bolstered by that cheery Yiddish aphorism, I climbed into my car and headed for CALA.

  I walked the marble hallways to a frosty glass door with gold lettering: Lane Carlée, MFA, AFP. With her shoulder-length cloud of soft blonde curls and big eyes, Lane could double as an angel in a Christmas pageant. Lane adjusted her black velvet headband, looked me over carefully, and offered me a seat. Her desk took up every inch of space. How they got it into that tiny office, I couldn’t even imagine. Actually, I could imagine. Some poor schmo must have disassembled it and reassembled it piece by piece.

  “May I offer you a cup of tea?” said Lane. “I understand you were there at our May Day celebration. As you might imagine, all of us here at CALA are still in shock over the tragedy. Mr. McMahan suggested that we order a memorial album that we could display, and I emailed Mrs. Goldfader immediately. We’d like two copies, one for the family and one for our library here at CALA. We’re hoping that a tribute to Mrs. Fitzgerald’s life might go a long way toward expressing our grief. Edwina Fitzgerald supported this school and our mission in countless ways. She insisted that her grandchildren follow family tradition and attend here. Just as CALA has been a tradition in your family as well.”

  “Miss Carlée—”

  “Lane,” she corrected me.

  “Forgive me if I’m being rude, but what on earth is that?” I pointed to an unusual vase, about fifteen inches tall with a pebbled brown surface. A thick white starfish hung off the top, near the mouth, and a row of seashells added a further ornamentation.

  It was, by far, the ugliest desk accessory I had ever seen. Adding to the general weirdness was an obviously fake bouquet of pink silk lilies.

  “A dead armadillo,” said Lane with a smile. “Or at least part of the dead ’dillo. Isn’t it fabulous?”

  “Uh …” I stalled for time.

  “I won it at an auction. The money went to the Boynton Beach City Library, I’m happy to say. A wonderful place. I love to read, don’t you? An author made it out of roadkill.”

  “Let me guess. Carl Hiaasen?”

  “No, I think his characters eat road kill. This author just believes in recycling.”

  “Recycling?”

  “Yes, she saw the dead armadillo on the side of a road in Florida and couldn’t resist.”

  I swallowed. “I think I’ll take that cup of tea, please.”

  When she left her office to get the beverage, I sneaked over and examined the vase more carefully. A faint smell, a bit like flesh and dirt, emanated from the big brown Tootsie Roll shaped tube.

  “It’s a wonderful reminder to eat fiber every day, isn’t it?” chirped Lane.

  “I was thinking that it looks like a tarted-up piece of poop.”

  Lane laughed. “Kiki, you are a breath of fresh air. Although we are meeting under sad circumstances, I’m glad to get to know you.”

  “Likewise,” I said with a grin. “After seeing this and knowing the money went for a good cause, I’m going to keep my eyes out while I’m driving. Maybe I can find you a turtle shell to use as a candy bowl.”

  We both laughed.

  “When do you need the album?” I picked up the packet she handed me.

  “Naturally, we’d love to present one of the albums to the family at the funeral.”

  “That’s tomorrow.”

  “Right. At three p.m. Surely this won’t take you long.”

  “Lane, I am a scrapbook artist. My work has appeared in a variety of publications, both domestic and international. To do justice to a job like this, I’ll need at least a week. Maybe two.”

  She blanched.

  “You see, I also work full-time at the store, and I have other projects.”

  Lane nodded. “Of course. I guess you can tell that I don’t know much about scrapbooking. You came highly recommended. Elliott McMahan told me you were the only person for the job. I just didn’t realize it would be so involved.”

  “I want this to truly reflect the Fitzgerald family’s devotion to CALA,” I said, “and I know you do, too. I’ll do my best to get at least one of the albums done in time for the funeral, but I’m not making any promises.”

  “That’s a great compromise. I’m sure you’ll do a lovely job, although I must admit
, I’m not exactly sure how these will be different from the commonplace photo albums.” Her smile dimmed a bit. “I trust I can count on you to be, um, sensitive. As you well know, every family has its secrets and its skeletons in the closet.”

  I blushed, thinking about my husband and the circumstances of his death.

  “Don’t worry. A public tribute like this is the place for the Fitzgeralds to shine. I’ll make sure that’s the focus.”

  With that, I took my leave. But I did wonder, what was she warning me away from?

  Thirty

  In the hallway, I sank onto a bench, opened the packet, and glanced over the photos. Skimpy pickings. Certainly, they didn’t offer me much to work with. Most of the photos included Edwina as a part of large groups. Strictly grip and grin. What I needed were candid shots, photos of her and her family, closeups.

  I also needed background materials for basic journaling. “Journaling” is a term that scrapbookers have appropriated. It refers to the verbiage that accompanies photos. In fact, it’s the journaling that transforms a photo album into a memory album. A photo album is merely a collection of pictures. Lane Carlée was one of the many who weren’t aware of the difference.

  A memory album tells a story. Combining photos and narrative, the creator builds a monument, a biography or documentary of a subject or an event. A photo album, if lost by the owner, tells you little. Without an accompanying narrative, it’s nothing more than a dry collection of images. A memory album tells you everything—who the people were, what they valued, and why you should care.

  This manila envelope proved insufficient for my purposes.

  I headed for the Alumni Office and my old friend, Ruth Glazer.

  “Kiki! Wait ’til you see the new photos I have of my grandbabies!”

  Ruth greeted me like the long-lost friend that I was. I worked with her to construct her first scrapbook album many months ago. That hooked her. She shopped regularly in our store, always taking time to share her newest photos with me.