“Grandma, look who's coming, look who's coming!” Maddie was in the repeating stage.
“I see,” I told her. “It's Kiki!”
“No, no, Grandma. Well, I remember her, too, but look who's right in front of them!”
I adjusted my glasses and surveyed the crowd. It was hard to tell whom Maddie was referring to. “Who is it that you recognize, sweetheart?” I asked her.
By this time, Maddie was jumping up and down, as only a skinny ten-year-old can. “Carolina! Carolina Pettijohn, from television, Grandma! She's on television!”
“So I gather.” I didn't have much time for television watching, and wondered how come my granddaughter did and still managed to make the honor roll.
“You should see her show, Grandma. She does every kind of craft. I mean, every kind, and she even wrote a book about them. She's the best miniaturist I ever saw.” Maddie looked at me, wide-eyed, and then covered her mouth with her hand. “Oops. You know, not as good as you are, though.” She circled my waist with her arms and squeezed and her little slip-up was forgiven.
The next thing I knew, the woman Maddie knew as Carolina Pettijohn and another woman, who had the thickest glasses I'd ever seen, were standing smack in front of our booth. Kiki had come around to the side and I leaned over to embrace her. I didn't mean to be rude to the television star, but friends came first in my book.
While I spent a couple of minutes getting caught up with Kiki, my granddaughter had filled in for me, oohing and aahing over Carolina's long crocheted scarf. “Did you make that?” she asked the icon.
“I, uh—” the woman with the glasses began.
“Of course I made it,” Carolina told Maddie. I didn't like the condescension in her voice. As far as I was concerned, children needed crafter role models who were also polite, nice human beings.
“Who are these women?” I whispered to Kiki.
“It was supposed to be an honor to meet her,” she said. “I really looked forward to it!”
“And that’s changed?”
“Absolutely,” Kiki said. “We’ll talk more later.”
We moved to the center of the booth where Maddie was showing Carolina her newest creation, making lovely miniature flowers from soft, shredded foam in many colors. Maddie dipped a piece of wire into a small pot of glue, then rolled the wire in a container of dark purple foam. She shaped the foam into an arrangement that made it look like an iris. She added a bit of green right under the purple.
“Ta-da!” she said, pleased with her work. She handed a piece of wire to Carolina and moved the pot of tacky glue close to the edge of the table so Carolina could reach it. “Here, you try it,” she said, her voice still excited.
Carolina frowned and stepped back from the table, as if Maddie had served up an evil-smelling dish. “Puh-leeze! I just had my nails done. Do you really think I'd ruin a $200 manicure with some cheap glue?”
Maddie's eyes widened, maybe at the idea of a $200 nail job, or maybe because, as far as I knew, no one had ever spoken to her that way.
The next moment was even more startling. A woman came up to the booth and addressed Carolina. A group of her friends stood behind the newcomer and watched.
“Carolina, I’m sure you remember me. I’m Sondra Echols, the woman who started your first fan club. And these are fan club members. Would you mind signing this for me?” The stocky fan held out a copy of Carolina’s first book, A Diva’s Guide to Crafting.
Carolina hesitated. Sondra pushed the book toward the diva. A gold pin on Sondra's blouse trembled with excitement as she spoke. “Could you say something about how I helped you get started?”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about,” said Carolina. “No one helped me get started.”
Sondra’s cheeks were red, as if she were very angry. “After all I’ve done for you?”
“Sondra,” Rosie said, but was quickly cut off.
Sondra leaned into Carolina. “Don't think this is over,” she said. “I don't like being made a fool of.”
In a flash, Rosie ushered Carolina down the aisle.
My granddaughter summed it up.
“I guess sometimes people aren't the way they seem on television, huh, Grandma?”
Out of the mouths of babes. “I guess not, sweetheart.”
I was grateful for one thing: instead of being taken in by celebrity, Maddie had learned a valuable lesson.
# # #
“Right now, I’m thankful that Maddie and Anya are taking a crafting class just for young teens,” said Gerry, by way of wrapping up.
Kiki nodded. “You’re right. The girls don’t need to be anywhere near this mess. Besides, they’re probably having a blast in their class. I bet they’ll learn a few new skills.”
“Unlike Carolina,” said Gerry. “As soon as I met her, I figured it might be too late for her to learn anything. Especially common courtesy.”
“You’ve got that right,” said Jane, with a snort of disgust. “Even so. I sure didn’t want her to wind up dead. Especially with the book signing yet to come.” Jane covered her eyes with her palms and sighed. “What will I tell all those people?”
“Kiki, you might be on to something with the idea that bribes are involved,” said Gerry. “But I have to say, my mini-money is on the murderously mad Sondra Echols.”
“I don't know,” said Kiki. “Sondra comes to a lot of the crops at our store. She's loud and she can seem pushy, but she's really a pussy cat. I can't imagine her actually hurting Carolina. Honestly, I can't.”
The other crafters had been listening carefully. Betsy Devonshire said, “I wish it were that simple. I mean, it would be nice if we could just rely on our intuition about people. Unfortunately, what we need is more information. More facts. Let me tell you what my store manager Godwin and I observed.”
Part III:
Observations in the Murder of Carolina Pettijohn,
submitted by Betsy Devonshire, needlework store owner.
By Monica Ferris
Betsy and her store manager Godwin had run into rough weather on the early part of their trip to the big craft fair and so arrived late. Godwin, efficient as he was, was still putting up a display of counted cross stitch models when the show opened.
“Carolina is already on the floor!” he muttered around a mouthful of push pins.
“Who?” Betsy replied, trying to choose five of the best needlepoint canvases from among the dozen they’d brought—the booth was a little smaller than she’d realized, plus she always over-packed, whether clothes or display items.
“Oh, Betsy, don’t you read the brochures?” he sighed, spitting pins into his palm as he stood back to look over the effect he was creating. “Carolina Pettijohn, of course. She’s here!”
“Yes, I read the brochures,” she said grumpily. “I just didn’t understand what you were saying with that mouthful. Your display looks very nice. Do you think I should use the Margaret Murton or the Melissa Shirley canvas?”
He came for a closer look at what she had done, then stepped out into the aisle, a sylph-like shape in blond and light blue to stand with a forefinger wrapped around his chin to consider her arrangement from a prospective-customer-arriving point of view. “Oh, the Margaret Murton, definitely,” he said after just a moment. "It’s picking up the colors of the Margaret Boyles bargello piece.”
So it was—Betsy saw that now. She had developed a good eye for color after owning a needlework shop for several years, but Godwin’s appeared innate.
“Oh, my God, here she comes, and here she is!” Godwin exclaimed, eyes shining, hands clasped under his chin. “Oh, Ms. Pettijohn, how sweet of you to visit our booth!” He was crouching, almost bowing in a direction behind Betsy‘s back.
Betsy turned to see a tall, slim, stylish woman approaching, accompanied by a much plainer woman with thick eyeglasses. “Carolina Pettijohn!” she said, smiling, “you are even more beautiful in person than on television. I’m so pleased you are visiting the Crewel World
booth.”
“Cruel world?” repeated Carolina, startled. Her face betrayed her confusion. “But your display is beautiful! Are you a painter? Those are good paintings.”
“It’s Crewel World,” said Betsy, pointing to the sign and picking up on Carolina’s monosyllabic pronunciation. “And no, I didn’t paint them—”
“I used to paint,” said Carolina. “But what horrible canvases these are painted on! Why, the weave is so loose you can almost see through them.”
“Carolina,” the woman with her said, pushing her glasses back up on her nose. “These are needlepoint canvases, they are meant to be stitched over.”
“Oh? Of course! I’m so sorry, it’s just that they are so charming, I thought they were paintings.” She turned to Betsy. “This is a craft fair, you know. It’s hard to instantly understand what craft one is looking at.” She let her gaze go to another area of the booth. “Ah, and these are finished needlepoints, am I right? Work that has been stitched over?”
“No,” said Betsy, a little startled that Carolina couldn’t tell the difference between counted cross stitch and needlepoint.
“Those are counted cross stitch, Carolina,” said the bespectacled woman, sounding a trifle cross or impatient.
“Of course, of course. I can see that now.”
“Would it be possible to persuade you to autograph some copies of your latest book?” asked Godwin. “We carry all your books in our shop.”
“How nice!” said the woman in eyeglasses.
“But I don’t have time for that. Bring them to the official signing later,” said Carolina. “You can stand in line with the rest of the autograph seekers. Okay, who’s next on the tour?” She turned and started away.
Godwin watched her go and said, in a diminished voice, “She’s not at all like she is on television. You know, interested.”
“Maybe she’s tired,” said Betsy. “She’s out of her time zone, after all.”
“I think she’s a witch,” said a new voice, and they turned to see Kiki Lowenstein.
“Talk about being disillusioned,” said Kiki in a low voice. “I used to think that woman could walk on water. Now I think I’d like to drown her. Did you notice how she doesn’t seem to know a whole lot about crafting? In fact, I don’t know how she wrote those wonderful books.”
“Maybe she didn’t,” said Betsy.
“Who was the lady with the thick glasses?” asked Godwin.
“Rosie Jackson,” said Kiki. “She’s Carolina’s creative assistant. Why?”
“Because she knows counted cross stitch from needlepoint on sight.”
Kiki frowned at him. “And Rosie understood right away the importance of a new dry embossing machine, while I don’t think Carolina did. And when we were visiting my friend Gerry Porter, who is a fine miniaturist, Carolina practically threw up at the idea that she should maybe get a little glue on her hands.”
Betsy said, “So maybe Carolina is just a glamorous front for the real artist, Rosie Jackson. Is that what you’re thinking?”
Godwin nodded. “No one who gave such a lucid description of the basketweave stitch in her book would be confused between needlepoint and counted cross stitch.”
The four of them looked at the tall, glamorous woman and her dumpy companion making their way down the broad but crowded aisle. Already a cluster of women was surrounding Carolina, exclaiming and holding out programs for an autograph.
“Oops!” cried Kiki. “I’m supposed to be clearing their way. Talk to you later!” She pushed her way out into the crowd.
Even those who didn’t press close to Carolina looked thrilled or excited at seeing her, with one exception. A young woman in a white turtleneck and a knit fringed shawl was moving slowly in her direction. She carried a rather worn copy of A Diva’s Guide to Crafting—she wasn’t a fan, out for an autograph. The expression on her face was a curious combination of yearning and hate.
Godwin elbowed Betsy. “Do you see that pin she has on the collar of her turtleneck? I think we should stock those at the store. I’ll ask her where she got it.”
Doris Handly came in to buy a second canvas. She had stopped by earlier, while they were in the midst of setting up and was drawn to the more expensive yarns and threads, so of course Betsy stopped putting out flosses to sell her a small canvas by a well-known designer. Betsy could tell that Doris was an expert needlewoman by the knowledgeable questions she asked. Now the young woman was back and bought a second canvas. “It's a big day for me,” she said shyly.
As a matter of courtesy, after processing the woman's credit card payment, Betsy thanked her by name. “I hope you enjoy your purchase, Doris,” said Betsy. Doris Handly, thought Betsy with a chuckle. That was a great moniker for a needlecrafter.
Doris had just taken the bag from Betsy's hands when she spotted Carolina at another booth and moved toward the diva with purpose.
Hours later, as the day was drawing to a close, Betsy surreptitiously removed a shoe to wriggle her aching toes. Godwin was wrapping things up beside the cash register.
“How’d we do?” she asked.
“Not too bad. I wish we’d brought more copies of Margaret Boyles’ book, since we’ve only got two copies left. Every time I think bargello is out, it comes back in again. On the other hand, we may have over-estimated the number of copies of Carolina’s The Diva Decorates and the copies of her other books that we’d need.”
“It would’ve helped if not every other booth had copies for sale, too,” grumbled Betsy. “And that she’s doing a special book signing event with her new book later tonight. We should’ve thought of that.”
“Well, I’ll take what we have to the signing tonight. They’ll sell like hotcakes back at the shop if they’re autographed. Have you heard the latest rumor?”
“What’s that?” Betsy began to work her foot back into her shoe.
“Jane Kuhn is fit to be tied because Carolina flew here first class on the convention’s dime. Jane had authorized Carolina to fly coach.”
“I don’t think Carolina has flown coach for a long time,” said Betsy, smiling at the image of long-legged Carolina crammed into a bargain seat.
“So if she wanted to fly first class, she should have paid the difference out of her own pocket. I also hear she reserved the presidential suite instead of a regular one, also on the con’s dime.”
“Rude of her.”
“Yes, but you see, the line between breaking even and losing money at an event like this is very thin. And Carolina may have crossed the line for them.”
“Uh-oh,” said Betsy. “I happen to know Jane was up for the task of running the next Embroiderer’s Guild of America state convention. She won’t get it if she can’t stay on budget. Is Jane angry?”
“Fit. To. Be. Tied,” pronounced Godwin.
# # #
“Jane, I hate to be rude,” said Betsy, “but you have every reason to want to see Carolina dead, don't you? I mean, if you had to pay her expenses, and they were over what you budgeted, you would have had a real problem. That shortfall would have made it hard for you to submit a good balance sheet to the governing board of the Embroiderer’s Guild of America.”
“But what about the books?” asked Kiki. “Jane needed Carolina alive so she could sign them.”
“The books could be returned to the publisher,” explained Molly Pink.
“Oh,” said Kiki.
Jane fumed. “Yes, yes, that’s right. Everything you said is true. But I’m telling you I did not kill Carolina!”
“Wait a minute,” Kendra Ballantyne interrupted. “Betsy, did you say your customer's name was Doris Handly? If that's the case, I need to tell you what I saw happen.”
Part IV:
Observations in the Murder of Carolina Pettijohn,
submitted by Kendra Ballantyne, pet-sitter and attorney.
By Linda O. Johnston
So here I was, Kendra Ballantyne, pet-sitter and attorney, both extraordinaire, at a crafts festival i
n St. Louis—the first ever Craft and Hobby Extravaganza, to be exact.
Me, who avoids making anything with my hands that’s any more creative than a legal brief or pooper scooper.
But I love crafts that others do. People have said that my hobby is pets, but I consider them family instead.
In any event, Dante DeFrancisco, the guy in my life, had come to St. Louis to visit a few managers of HotPets stores, the company he owns. Dante is probably wealthier than the U.S. Treasury these days, so I had joined him on his private jet. That meant that my beloved tricolor Cavalier King Charles Spaniel, Lexie, had come along, as had Dante’s German shepherd, Wagner.
Dante’s personal assistant Alfonse had also joined us. Right now, Wagner and Alfonse were conducting an undercover operation for Dante, dropping into HotPets stores unannounced and unidentified to see how they were treated.
Lexie and I could have done that, too. But today, I’d promised to meet up with several friends who were crafts aficionados. We'd met online through our pal Molly Pink, and I was eager to see these women in the flesh, so to speak. And, yes, I wanted to see what Lexie thought of my friends, too. She's very good at sniffing out peoples' personalities.
Sure, we were inside a big convention center, but Lexie was small and portable and perfectly behaved. Besides, she was wearing a bright blue vest that had been crocheted by Molly—who was also showing up at the festival. It was kind of quirky that we would have the chance to catch up with each other here, when we both lived in the L.A. area, but life is like that sometimes.
To top it all off, HotPets had a booth at the event, selling pet supplies. So I was also on a mission for Dante—also somewhat undercover, to make sure the booth was doing well.
As I approached the pet supplies booth, with Lexie heeling at my side, I happened to see someone standing nearby whom I recognized. Not a friend, but a person I’d seen often on TV—Carolina Pettijohn, the world’s most exciting expert on all things craft-related. She was tall and slim and dressed to kill in an absolutely stylish outfit that I was sure she had sewn herself.
Ink, Red, Dead (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 12
