Cut, Crop and Die

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “By the way, Sheila,” I said when we’d returned to the car. “I found a person to help you with your moles,” and I handed over Johnny Chambers’ phone number.

  Sheila told Mrs. Thorgood we’d “think about it” and dropped me off at the store. Our plan was to confer later that evening. “It never pays to be too eager,” my mother-in-law reminded me earlier in the day.

  I was decorating House Number Three in my mind when Nettie suddenly appeared at my elbow. I didn’t see her approach. All in all, she was a drab house sparrow of a woman, a person you could easily forget. Her graying hair was twisted with a rubber band into a ponytail. Her eyes were small, and since she wore no makeup, they sort of disappeared into her bland face. Her manner of dress didn’t help. She wore polyester slack sets with matching over-blouses in washed-out colors. Nothing fitted. Everything hung big and loose in muddy tones. To be truthful, I didn’t expect much from her pages.

  “You surprised me. I was deep in thought.” I took the album from her hands. We moved to an empty crop table so I could review the memory book with its creator.

  What I saw blew me away. I was stunned.

  “Nettie, I had no idea you were so talented!” Then I remembered a study I’d read linking bipolar disorder with creativity.

  Not for the first time did I marvel at how the good Lord evened things out in life. Whatever the mental disorder had taken from her, perhaps she’d been somewhat compensated by her extraordinary creative genius. She had a sure hand with color, a magpie eye for adding unexpected articles, and a careful and meticulous way of pulling everything together. Her style was sophisticated, daring, and eclectic. Here I’d worried about Bama taking my job, and I should have been concerned about the woman at my elbow. “How have you managed to keep this a secret? I mean, you are fantastic! I would have thought you’d be bragging like crazy.”

  She gave me a weak smile. “I haven’t been making layouts much lately. Um, health issues. But that’s really nice coming from you. I like your work too.”

  “Why all the secrecy?” I was mesmerized by her pages and had a hard time conversing because I didn’t want to look away. I wanted to feast my eyes on her albums. My creative juices were flowing. I was itching to try some of her ideas on my own pages.

  For a long time, she didn’t respond. I thought she hadn’t heard me. Finally she started talking, but her eyes never left the floor, “I hate having other people scraplift my pages. Beginners do it to learn. That’s fine, I suppose. And it’s okay when you are stuck. Especially if you just take one element, give it a twist, and make it your own. That’s being creative. But, it’s wrong when you steal other people’s ideas wholesale. Especially if you do that and pass the work off as your own.” She peeked up at me to see my reaction.

  “Yeah, I know.”

  “Has that happened to you?”

  I laughed. “More often than I care to think about. Almost on an hourly basis.” I thought about the phone call I’d taken only a few minutes ago. Ellen Harmon now offered a paper bag album class. One of our customers received an e-mail notice from Memories Forever, and she was checking to see if we had a similar offering. All I could do was shake my head. Ellen had taken all of, what? A few days to copy us?

  “Doesn’t it make you mad? It’s theft. Couldn’t you just—just strangle the copycats?”

  “I guess I’m used to it. I have younger sisters. They always wanted whatever I had. My mom told us imitation is the purest form of flattery. Besides, there’s always another idea. I’ll wake up tomorrow and think up something new. And the people who copy—” and I paused, thinking of Ellen Harmon, “—they’re always a step behind.”

  She nodded and reached for her album just as Ben Novak walked in. In a button-down shirt and a tight pair of jeans topped with a well-made navy gabardine blazer, he was everything a man should be and more. There was a lankiness to him that could turn to skinny if he lost weight. As it was, he had the strong, lean musculature of a cyclist, which I later learned he was. Ben had a confidence about him that was very, very appealing.

  Nettie scooped up her albums. “See you later, Kiki. I’ve got to go.”

  “Make sure you apply to be one of the Design Team,” I called after her. She gave a quick nod and practically ran out of the building.

  “How are you? You’re looking marvelous, Kiki. How was the rest of your weekend?” Okay, it was banter, but his eyes locked into mine and he seemed to really care. I told him briefly about the party at Mert’s, in part because I was curious. Was Ben too sophisticated for that sort of fun?

  “That must have been terrific. I love St. Louis’ multiple-personalities. It’s amazing, really, how diverse our neighborhoods are. Think of how artistic and hip U-City is. Compare that with the scrubby Dutch of the south side. And I love the Hill at Christmas. Have you ever viewed the presepi, those terracotta Nativity scenes? I first saw them on the roadsides near the Amalfi coast in Italy. An entire scene would be tucked along a hillside. Imagine how shocked I was to learn I could drive across town to enjoy them here! You know how it is, we all tend to stay in our comfort zones.”

  His effusive manner was infectious. I longed to live a more worldly existence, one this man obviously knew and took pleasure in sharing.

  “Hey, listen to me. I’m going on and on. Point being, this is a great place to live. I regard St. Louis as one of the best-kept secrets in the world.”

  “I agree,” I said. “Come talk with me while I work.” I needed to get cracking on my sample albums for the photographers. We had a great response, but the businesses would each need an album to show customers—and without those samples, I couldn’t finalize any plans.

  His frank, guileless smile touched me. I liked Ben, really liked him. Then I remembered Detweiler and came up short. Hadn’t I learned anything? After the sting of the detective’s lies, I needed clarity. “What brings you to my neck of the woods?” If he wasn’t interested in me as a person, I needed to know pronto. No way was I letting down my guard again.

  “Whoa,” he laughed. “It’s not like I paddled a pirogue with Lewis and Clark to get here. Considering my office is in Laclede’s Landing, that might have been feasible once upon a time. You’ll have to visit—our area is absolutely outstanding. And the cobblestones on our street are completely fabulous.” He stepped closer, bringing along his expensive cologne. Really, the man was a preppy poster child in all the best of ways. He didn’t take himself too seriously, and I sensed a frat boy’s exuberant joie de vivre. A youthfulness clung to Ben, and a pang of poignancy for the years I’d given over to life as a young mother swept through me.

  “Here’s the thing,” he grinned. “We have a long-time employee who’s retiring, and I convinced Dad an album covering his tenure might be nice. Is that the sort of project you’d take on? If I coaxed you?” His eyes were golden in the light, and his lashes were thicker than mine would ever be.

  “You’ve come to the right place,” I said crisply. This was about business. Well, we needed business, so I was on it. “Let’s start by seeing what you have.”

  “Okay, work before pleasure,” he repeated the cliché. “Your mother-in-law warned me you wouldn’t fall for my charms. After I called her this morning to get the store’s address, I purposely only brought a few photos and articles. That gives me a reason to come back and see you again. For lunch maybe?”

  To paraphrase Mae West, I like a man what plans ahead. This guy had all the angles covered. “Yes,” I said, “you’ll need to come back with the rest of your photos. Plan for lunch and at least another hour.”

  We consulted our calendars. Talk about how different we were—mine was a photocopied stack of papers stapled together while his was a Blackberry. Ben said goodbye, taking my hand in his cool, slim fingers for a handshake that was more than a handshake. “Okay, play hard to get,” he growled. “Make me work to get to know you. I’ve never been one to back away from a challenge,” and he stopped short. “By the way, what in the world happen
ed to your window? Sorry, but the reporter in me is curious.”

  I explained about the brick, the graffiti, the fake dead dog, and my busted-up car window. Ben switched gears faster than a sports car into overdrive. “When? Tell me again exactly what happened.”

  I did.

  “That’s odd, we had a window broken at the newspaper, too. By a brick. And we’ve had graffiti on the side of our building. It doesn’t make sense that we’d have such similar problems at two locations miles apart. This must have nothing to do with our respective neighborhoods. You know, I’d heard rumor of an anti-Semitic cell. My sources tell me they’re financed by well-organized groups in other states. Introduce me to your boss, please. If I’m right about this, we need to call Police Chief Holmes. With all these separate municipalities and police forces, things can slip through the cracks.”

  While he chatted with Dodie in her office, my cell rang. Bucky from Art House said, “Hey, you owe me for this one—”

  “No problemo. The next time we need art supplies, I’ll come to you. If you want, we can even distribute Art House brochures with your business card.”

  “Yeah, that’s the ticket. Great idea. I’ll mail you a handful. Here’s the scoop. Yvonne Gaynor ratted out Bama to our boss. Said she was taking drugs—and Yvonne offered to prove it.”

  “Oh-ho-ho,” I mumbled to myself. I thanked Bucky as Ben and Dodie walked together out of the back room. Dodie gave me a happy smile. I hadn’t seen her so joyful in weeks. “Ben knew my son, Nathan. They were in youth group together.” She and Ben took turns explaining Police Chief Holmes thought our hate crimes might be traced to Strahlend Weiss, a local white purity group. The name translated into “spotless white.” Thanks to Ben spotting a linkage, Holmes was on top of the situation. Ben bade us both farewell, leaving Dodie to watch him leave longingly. “He knew Nathan,” she repeated over and over. The friendship seemed a sign, a talisman she rubbed her hopes against. “My boy. I miss him so. But someone else remembers him. Isn’t that wonderful?”

  After she went back to her office, I called Detweiler. Yeah, I hated it. It seemed like even when I tried to break contact with him, I couldn’t. I got his answering service and left a message with what I’d learned from Bucky. I’d no sooner finished when the door minder announced Johnny.

  “I hope you don’t mind me visiting you here.”

  “Not as long as you don’t mind me leaving when a customer walks in. Let’s chat while I cut out letters.”

  “I wanted to say thanks for giving my name to your mother-in-law.” From behind his back, he pulled a single, perfect pink rose. I filled a bud vase and gave the flower a place of honor on my worktable. Johnny explained he’d already been by to see Sheila’s lawn. She’d certainly made a mess of it, but he was confident he could whip it into shape and rid her of the moles.

  “Trapping them is an art. You have to determine which tunnels are active and place the traps exactly right. Believe it or not, I’m apprenticing with the best mole killer in the area. If a trap springs and doesn’t catch a critter, he makes me study where I set it so I don’t make the same mistake twice. It’s worth the trouble ’cause this dude alone nabbed more than eight hundred of the little buggers last season. His company charges $69 a mole.”

  “You are kidding me, right?” I made a mental calculation. Clearly, I was in the wrong line of work!

  “Nope. You saw what Mrs. Lowenstein did to try to get rid of them. People who care about their lawns get frantic when they have mole infestations. Those critters can turn a beautiful green lawn into a map of raised brown furrows. And of course, since the moles keep multiplying the problem only gets worse. Which of course, is what God intended them to do.” He winked at me. “Actually God intends all his creatures to go forth and multiply—that’s why he makes it so much fun. Burrow, eat, and make babies. That’s the circle of life.”

  Johnny leaned on the worktable to watch me. “The moles aren’t the problem. Not really. We are. We’re encroaching on their land. Destroying their habitats and natural enemies. This whole area once was home to coyotes, foxes, and wolves. Not to mention owls, hawks, and eagles. And it’s not only moles affected, it’s all wildlife. Out in the western suburbs there are more than eight-nine deer per square mile? Herds are starving to death, but they have nowhere to go. And they keep multiplying. Hunters and cars are their only method of population control.” Johnny’s face grew more and more animated, more passionate with concern.

  How odd, I thought. This didn’t sound like a man who could easily hurt anybody—any living creature—much less take part in a crime. That doesn’t make sense. I’d read about criminals who began by torturing pets. Johnny clearly was not like that—not at all!

  He paused, and I asked, “What would you suggest we do?”

  But before he could answer, the door minder buzzed yet again, and in strode Detweiler. Speaking of animals, the detective walked like a cougar on the prowl, eyes focused, jaw set, and every step filled with aggression. I started to introduce the men, but the cop waved me away, training his sights on Johnny and saying, “We’ve met.” For a long moment, the two stared at each other. Neither spoke. Detweiler took in the single rose. His green eyes turned nasty cold. Testosterone thickened the air. Any minute now, this could get ugly.

  Johnny backed down first, but after all, Detweiler carried a badge and a gun. Mert’s brother turned to me and said, “Actually I came by to ask if you’d like to go with me to a concert at Riverport Friday night. Why don’t I call you and we’ll work out the details?”

  Steam came out of Detweiler’s ears. His emotional radiator was busted. I thought he’d throw a rod right then and there.

  And what could he do? He was a married man. I’d seen the proof.

  I gave Johnny my best smile. “Great. I’d like that. A lot. We had such a super time on our last date.”

  If Johnny was surprised by me calling a quick lunch “a date,” he didn’t show it.

  But Detweiler did. He positively glared at both of us. That muscle in his jaw twitched fast and hard. He harrumphed, crossing his arms over his chest, tapping his foot impatiently on the floor, scalding me with evil looks. He was not a happy camper.

  After writing down the website address so I could check out the concert, Johnny leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Take care, babe. I’m still dreaming about your dancing. Maybe we can even have ourselves another picnic, and I’ll bring the music, huh?”

  My mouth twitched. Dreaming about my dancing? What a hoot.

  Johnny might as well have reached out and twisted Detweiler’s, uh, nose. The detective’s angry stare followed the other man out the front door.

  Detweiler wasted no time, launching into a rant as soon as the door slammed shut. “Have you lost your mind? You’ve got to be kidding. You can’t date that man! He’s a felon! He’s on parole! Good grief, use your head, Kiki. Think about Anya.”

  “I have thought about Anya,” I said. “This is none of your business. Now are you interested in information I have about the murder? Or should I phone it in to Robbie Holmes?” He flinched and sputtered and tried to interrupt, but I raised my palm to him. He carried on, cursing quietly under his breath. I told him what I learned about Bama being fired after Yvonne Gaynor told the boss at Artist Supply that she was on drugs.

  As I spoke, Dodie ambled out from the back room. She was on her way to give the cop a piece of her mind, when a flock of customers showed up. It happens that way. For hours you’ve got nobody, and then boom, the place is packed. Detweiler was taking down specifics of my conversations with Bucky when I noticed Nettie carefully examining metal embellishments in the next aisle. Here, I’d thought she’d left.

  Detweiler tapped his notepad with a pen. He leaned close and said, “How about we go together and take a look at Yvonne Gaynor’s scrapbooking pages? We can do it tonight. I can pick you up and—”

  “No. Huh-uh. I don’t think so, Detective.” I wasn’t falling for that. He wanted the ch
ance to get me alone. He wanted to explain away his dishonest behavior and lecture me about seeing Johnny. Luckily, there was a way around making a site visit with him. “I don’t need to go to her house. A few of her pages are online at the magazine’s website, and others are on display at Memories First. I’d rather start there. Believe it or not, I’m not eager to be in your company.”

  He reached over and took hold of my forearm. “How badly were you cut?”

  I gave him a cold “Hands off, pal.”

  He shook his head, his eyes full of pain and his face stricken. Whatever was happening beneath the surface went beyond feeling competitive with Johnny. Detweiler felt pain, real pain. “Kiki, we have to talk. It’s not what it looks like. You need to let me explain.” Those amazing green eyes took on a hurt puppy expression.

  Worst of all, I wanted him to explain. I teetered on an emotional edge. Oh, how I wanted to fall into his arms. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to tell him how much I cared—

  But I saw Brenda in my mind. I swallowed and said, “It is what it is. I have nothing more to say.” I spun and walked away before I lost my nerve. He could be replaced with two new men. A two for one special. I was so done with him and his lies.

  His hand grabbed my retreating shoulder. He said softly to my back. “Tell the kid I … I asked about her, and for goodness sake, at least tell me how Gracie is.”

  I froze. I didn’t turn around to face him. “Fine. My dog is fine. I am too. We’re all doing very well, thank you.” I didn’t trust myself to say more. I pulled away. I took my supplies for cutting letters to another table, went back to work, and didn’t raise my head as I heard him walk away.