3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse

by Lois Winston

  “Hugo won’t be joining us today,” said Naomi. “He’s at another meeting.”

  A dozen pairs of eyebrows simultaneously headed northward. It was no secret that Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp rued the day Trimedia had gained control of his family-owned publishing company. Hugo remained publisher in title only, confined to a closet of an office on the fourth floor where the corporate bigwigs and bean counters routinely ignored him. Other than attending our monthly staff meetings, which were more due to his long-standing romantic relationship with Naomi and less about editorial input, Hugo rarely attended any Trimedia meetings.

  “Don’t get your hopes up,” said Naomi. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what we were all thinking. Naomi spent half her days battling with the parsimonious Trimedia Board. Whenever belts needed tightening, American Woman became the sacrificial waist of choice. I think in great part that’s why Naomi decided to wheedle that fifty grand out of the board for me. Watching the head bean counter write that check must have given her a huge vicarious thrill.

  “Not even a little?” asked Cloris.

  We all held onto the pipe dream that Hugo might someday secure enough financial backing to buy back American Woman and the four other remaining magazines once part of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company.

  “No comment.”

  That in itself spoke volumes. We all knew if Naomi was privy to any information, she’d be unable to divulge a word until all parties had signed on the dotted lines. Her “no comment” comment gave us all hope.

  She opened the folder in front of her, indicating the subject closed. “Shall we get on with the meeting?”

  By the time each editor gave her updates on the status of various issues in production, lunch arrived. Unbeknownst to the bean counters upstairs, Naomi tapped into her miscellaneous expenditures budget to pay for our monthly deli perk. Someday they’d find out, and we’d wind up pigging out on whatever Cloris whipped up in the test kitchen, but for now we lunched on club sandwiches and sides of potato salad and coleslaw as we turned our attention to the November issue.

  “Of course, as usual, Thanksgiving and a Christmas preview will be our main themes,” said Naomi, “but I’d love for us to come up with something different from what all the other monthlies will be doing. Ideas, anyone?”

  “I have one,” I said.

  When Naomi nodded for me to continue, I told her and my fellow editors about the crafting residents of the Sunnyside of Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center. “Their work is so good that I’m going to contact a gallery owner I know to see about arranging a show. I’d love to do a feature story on them,” I concluded.

  “What about craft projects?” asked Naomi.

  “Fabric yo-yos.”

  As I suspected, blank stares greeted my statement. I pulled out some of Lyndella’s yo-yos I’d brought with me and passed them around. “They’re made from small scraps of fabric. Yo-yo quilts were very popular in the nineteen-thirties and forties, and yo-yo vests gained popularity with hippies in the early nineteen-seventies. They have lots of other uses, though.”

  “Such as?” asked Jeanie Sims, our decorating editor and a garage sale aficionado.

  I had printed out some photos from the Internet last night. Pulling them from my file folder, I passed them around the table. “As you can see, decorative embellishments on clothing and accessories, pillows, placemats, dolls—”

  “Yes,” said Sheila Conway, our finance editor. She held up the photo of a yo-yo doll. “I remember a doll just like this from a baby shower I attended years ago.”

  “It’s a simple, portable craft,” I said, “and since it’s a craft that our readers’ mothers and grandmothers might have done, it ties in with the multi-generational aspect of Thanksgiving. I thought I’d feature a series of yo-yo Christmas ornaments.”

  Naomi studied the yo-yo in her hand and thought for a minute. “I like Anastasia’s ideas. Now, how do the rest of you piggyback on the seniors slant?”

  “Seniors are outside our targeted demographic,” said Kim. “Our readership is women in their early thirties to late forties, mostly stay-at-home and working moms, not AARP members. How do we make this work without alienating our core readership and pissing off our advertisers?”

  “Most of our readers deal with elderly parents,” said Janice Kerr, our health editor. “I think featuring seniors for our Thanksgiving issue is brilliant. I could do an article on warning signs to look for when aging parents should no longer live on their own.”

  “And my focus could be on how to help those aging parents and their children pick the right assisted living facility,” said Sheila.

  “How about recipes handed down from generation to generation?” asked Cloris. “Maybe I can get some of you to give me recipes from your parents and grandparents.”

  “That’s a brilliant idea,” said Naomi. “Our readers always want to know more about our editors. I’m sure they’d love for all of you to each share a recipe.” She turned her attention to the remaining editors who hadn’t yet contributed any ideas. “What about travel, fashion, and beauty?”

  “How about an article on family reunion vacation spots?” asked travel editor Serena Brower.

  Naomi nodded and turned to Kim. “Are you getting this all down?”

  Kim typed furiously on her iPad. “Still need beauty and fashion.”

  Naomi turned to beauty editor Nicole Emmerling and fashion editor Tessa Lisbon. “Ladies?”

  Nicole wrinkled her pert, twenty-something nose. “I don’t know. Maybe an article on the best products for getting rid of age spots?”

  Sheila held her hands out in front of her. At sixty-two, she was our oldest editor. “I’d be interested in that. I’m already starting to get some.”

  “See if you can tie it into a broader piece about taking care of your skin, no matter your age,” said Naomi.

  Nicole breathed a sigh of relief. “I can do that.”

  “Fashion,” said Kim.

  We all directed our attention toward Tessa, every inch the prima donna of her predecessor, but scoring way below the late Marlys Vandenburg on the Bitch-o-meter. As fashion editors went, Tessa was somewhat tolerable. Sometimes.

  Tessa picked up one of the yo-yos. I think she tried to scowl at it, but too many Botox injections—and Lord only knew why someone as young as Tessa needed Botox—had robbed her of much of her ability to form facial expressions. She then flung the yo-yo across the table at me. “None of the designers are featuring kitsch in their spring collections.”

  “So what do you propose for your spread?” asked Naomi.

  “You want me to showcase off-the-rack polyester separates?” She folded her arms over her silicone-enhanced cleavage and attempted a mini pout with her collagen-enhanced lips, but once again her facial muscles refused to respond. “I don’t do Walmart and Kmart.”

  Cloris leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Remind you of anyone?”

  “She’s a featherweight compared to Marlys,” I whispered back, “but I think she just climbed a few points higher on the Bitch-o-meter.”

  Tessa glared across the table at us. “What are you two whispering about?”

  Cloris and I offered her identical looks of innocence. “Nothing,” we said in unison.

  “Cloris, Anastasia, do either of you have an idea for Tessa?” asked Naomi.

  “She’s a bright girl,” said Cloris. “I’m sure she’ll come up with something suitable.”

  “There is nothing suitable,” said Tessa. “Old people and fashion are as compatible as feed sacks and Prada.”

  “Have something on my desk by the end of the day,” said Naomi.

  Tessa pushed away from the table and stood. “I will not showcase fashion for stooped-over, wrinkly old people. It’s obscene!” She then stalked out of the conference room, slamming the door behind he
r.

  “Now that sounded like Marlys,” said Cloris.

  We all laughed. Even Naomi.

  _____

  With Naomi green-lighting my interview of the Sunnyside crafters, I now had the freedom to spend Trimedia’s dime interviewing them. Which meant I wouldn’t have to wait until Saturday to continue my onsite investigation into Lyndella’s murder. First though, I had to arrange for a gallery show. If I didn’t keep my promise to the residents, I couldn’t expect their continuing cooperation as I nosed around.

  Back when I taught art in the public schools, the parents of one of my students owned a crafts gallery in Hoboken. A quick Internet search showed me that the gallery still existed, a feat in itself, given the economy. Art sales always took the first hit during an economic downturn, and although the economy continued to creep back toward pre-recession numbers, art sales would be the last indicator of a full-fledged recovery.

  I dialed the number for Creative Hearts & Hands, hoping the Hulons still owned the gallery. Three rings later I heard, “Creative Hearts & Hands, Clara speaking.”

  Bingo! “Hi, Clara. This is Anastasia Pollack.”

  “Hey, stranger! I haven’t seen you in ages. How are things?”

  I had no idea whether she knew about Karl’s death. If she did, she’d offer her condolences. If not, I’d keep mum. That wasn’t a conversation for a phone call between acquaintances after the years-long gap since last speaking. Even if she knew of my widowhood, she certainly wouldn’t know about the ensuing chaos brought about by the demise of Dead Louse of a Spouse. I planned to keep that information a closely guarded secret for as long as possible to avoid having to deal with behind my back gossip, prying questions, and pity stares.

  Instead, after some pleasantries, I told her about the crafting residents of Sunnyside, stressing the quality of their work and finishing my pitch with, “I’d love to organize a gallery show for them, Clara, and I thought of you and Ronnie first.”

  “Had anyone else pitched me this idea, I would have dismissed it immediately, but I know it takes a lot to impress you, Anastasia.”

  “So you’re interested?”

  “Crafty old crones and geezers? Hell yes! And as luck would have it, we had to postpone a pottery exhibit set to open a week from Friday. The artist took ill and won’t have a sufficient number of new pieces completed in time. Do these seniors of yours have enough work for me to choose from now?”

  “Definitely.”

  “Great! How soon can you get me some photos?”

  “I’m headed over there now to start the interviews for my article. I’ll email photos to you later this evening.”

  “Too bad the magazine works so far in advance. It would have been nice to tie in the show with the article.”

  Thinking back to what Kara had mentioned on Friday, I realized the odds were against all of my crafters still being alive in November, but I didn’t mention that to Clara. Instead, I said, “At least we’ll be able to run photos from the show in the issue, and it will hit the newsstands right before the holidays.”

  “True. Let’s see what sort of response we get from the show. If it’s good enough, we might carry some of the crafts and artwork on an ongoing basis or at least bring some in again for the holidays.”

  Murray and the other cash-strapped Sunnyside crafters would love that. This gallery show could lead to a steady income stream for some of them.

  When I hung up from Clara, I called Mabel Shapiro and filled her in on my progress.

  “So this show is really going to happen?” she asked. “Some of us had our doubts.”

  “Not only is it going to happen, but it’s going to happen much sooner than I expected. I need you to round up the other crafters and their work. Find a place where we can meet. I have to photograph all of your pieces for the gallery owner to choose which ones she wants.”

  “You mean we don’t get to include whatever we want?”

  “I’m afraid not. Space is limited.”

  “Why does she get to choose?”

  “It’s her gallery, Mabel. Besides, she’ll know which pieces have the best chance of selling.”

  “I suppose that makes sense, but what if she doesn’t choose work from all of us? You can’t let her leave anyone out. It wouldn’t be fair.”

  Mabel wouldn’t have had any qualms about leaving Lyndella out of the show, had Lyndella still been alive, but I didn’t mention that. “I’ll do my best to see that everyone is represented, but you’ll all have to accept that the gallery has the final say.”

  “Better do more than your best, hon. You don’t want to piss off anyone.”

  Was that a threat? As much animosity as there had been between Lyndella and Mabel, I hadn’t considered the possibility of Mabel being Lyndella’s killer. Mabel hardly seemed capable of strangling Lyndella, but maybe the strangulation took place more through surprise than strength.

  Lyndella showed no signs of a struggle, but the killer may have struck while Lyndella slept. Or maybe Lyndella was first drugged. Then again, if Mabel had murdered Lyndella, why now? Why after so many years of putting up with Lyndella’s verbal abuse? What had changed?

  Maybe Mabel had finally reached her breaking point and just snapped. If that were the case, I probably wouldn’t find any clues combing through Lyndella’s old journals.

  _____

  Instead of driving directly to Sunnyside, I first stopped home to change clothes and walk Mephisto. After the mutual animosity that had defined our relationship from the onset, the dog and I were now bonding. I wondered how Lucille would deal with that once she came home.

  Neither my mother-in-law nor Sunnyside had phoned me concerning her imminent departure. I had no intention of making my presence known once I arrived. Lucille’s progress on her feet yesterday boded well for her eventual total recovery, but by her own admission, she wasn’t anywhere near ready to take care of herself on her own. No matter how much she complained, she’d remain at Sunnyside for now. I held the medical power of attorney papers to make sure of that.

  I arrived home to find the stereo blaring, Ralph squawking, and Mephisto holding his paws over his ears. When I lowered the volume to a non-ear-bleeding decibel level, I heard a sound that made me want to cover my own ears.

  thirteen

  No mother should ever have to hear her offspring having sex. Standing in the living room, I debated my next move. Do I walk in on the randy duo, running the risk of embarrassing the culprits to death and causing one son never to speak to me again? Would knocking on the bedroom door be any less embarrassing? Or should I just leave?

  Once they were done making all their noise, they’d notice the lowered stereo volume. We could pretend nothing had happened, even though we’d both know exactly what had happened. And I’d know which son had been doing it by the way he’d avoid making eye contact with me.

  No, that didn’t seem like the responsible parental move. I couldn’t ignore this. If nothing else, it was obviously past time to have the protection talk. I had no idea whether or not Karl had fulfilled that responsibility. Even though he’d told me he had, since he’d bailed on all his other family duties, why should I believe he’d ever had the protection talk? Since I was way too young to become a grandmother, I couldn’t take Karl at his word, recent experience having proved his words less than worthless.

  Loathe as I was to do so, I marched down the hall toward the boys’ bedroom, only to stop short and issue a quick prayer of thanks to whichever of the gods looks out for mothers of teenagers. The sounds of passion emanated from Mama’s room, not Alex’s and Nick’s.

  The mother in me sighed a huge sigh of relief, but that relief was short-lived. What if my sons had arrived home instead of me? Mama’s actions were nothing short of irresponsible.

  Mama’s bedroom no longer contained an entry door. After Lucille repeatedly locked Mama out
of their shared bedroom, Zack came up with the ingenious idea of taking the door off its hinges and replacing it with a curtain rod and curtain. I stepped in front of the curtained doorway and called out to her. “Flora Sudberry Periwinkle Ramirez Scoffield Goldberg O’Keefe!”

  The bouncing springs and moans of passion abruptly ceased. “I’m a bit busy right now, Anastasia.”

  “I can hear that, Mama. Toss on a robe, and meet me in the kit-chen.”

  “Can’t it wait, dear?”

  “Now, Mama!”

  When she joined me in the kitchen, nearly five minutes later, Mama showed no signs of remorse. She sat down opposite me, an irritation-filled expression plastered across her face. Catherine the Great appeared from the dining room and jumped onto her lap. Mama stroked the cat’s fur for several seconds before finally asking, “Well? I’m here. What’s so important that it couldn’t wait?”

  “How could you, Mama? What if one of the boys had walked in on you?”

  “They would have acted a lot less aggrieved than their mother. I don’t see what’s got you in such an uptight snit, dear.”

  “You don’t?”

  “Of course not.”

  “Mama, you were having sex! In my home. On your grandson’s bed!”

  “I wanted to use your bed, dear. Two people on a twin is rather uncomfortable, but then I realized I might not have time to launder your sheets before you came home.”

  “How thoughtful of you.”

  “Sarcasm isn’t becoming, Anastasia.”

  “My faux pas, Mama. Now let’s discuss yours.”

  “The only thing to discuss is how I wound up with a prude for a daughter. You must get it from the Periwinkle side of the family.”

  Was she that dense? “You really see nothing wrong with your behavior?”

  “Of course not, dear. Why should I? I’m a grown woman with a grown woman’s needs.” She stood. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I was in the middle of something.”