I blotted my eyes hurriedly.
“Ahem.” Nettie stood at the foot of the table trying to get my attention. “I came back because … see, I was planning to go over to Memories First on Friday. Ellen is kicking off a weekend dedicated to Yvonne. Would you like to drive together?”
I answered, “Yes,” and we started to make the arrangements when my phone rang. Sheila was breathless with excitement. “He caught one! The trap went off. Anya and I saw the dastardly thing wiggle. Those were its death throes. Johnny got a mole! They’ll all be dead soon! One by one, he’ll kill them, ha ha!” The call ended with a maniacal laugh.
She’d lost her mind.
TWENTY-THREE
ANYA SPENT THE NIGHT with her grandmother. The two of them set a timer and ran out into the front yard at intervals to check for dead moles. Pretty sick if you ask me.
Horace walked through my house to make sure I was safe before saying good night. This was getting old. My boss agreed that one of us—and I was the most likely prospect—had to go over to Memories First and see what Ellen was doing—mainly whether she was casting aspersions on our business.
Okay, and I wanted to solve the mystery. I was sick and tired of dealing with fallout from Yvonne’s murder. Once the killer was found I would never have to talk to Detweiler again. If we were really lucky, within the next day or two Police Chief Holmes would nab the hate-mongers who were vandalizing our store and terrorizing me and my dog. Suddenly the weight of what I was dealing with hit me hard. Gee, no wonder I felt like I’d been wrung through my grandmother’s old wringer washer. I stopped by a convenience store and bought a big bottle of cheap wine on sale.
At home, I took a long, hot shower. I sat down at my old computer and worked on handouts for the retirement home classes. I planned to present the handouts with a project sample to several administrators. I’d put in a couple of hours when Johnny called and we made our plans for the day of the concert. Sort of. I committed to going, and we decided to firm up details later. He couldn’t talk long, and I was too tired to be sociable. I got off the phone , poured a glass of the wine, sipped it slowly, and went to bed with Gracie and one of my mysteries borrowed from the library.
The next morning, I added a spoonful of raspberry preserves to peanut butter on a whole wheat English muffin, sliced up a banana, and settled in to plan my day. First, I needed to call Ellen’s store to check out their weekend schedule and report back to Nettie. Second, I would view Yvonne’s pages on the magazine website. Third, I would take my daughter for her return trip to the allergist. At 3 p.m. I was scheduled to work the store. There I needed to check in a big shipment that had arrived late yesterday, tag it, and set it out. Our current inventory would need rearranging.
I finished my muffin and washed my plate. That house in Webster Groves was very, very appealing. By my calculations, I was $1200 short of the first and last month deposit, and a couple hundred short of the rent each month. I tried to imagine being indebted to Sheila and felt uncomfortable. I could easily foresee the two of us disagreeing—and she’d hold the money over my head.
Was my neighborhood really so unsafe? Would the house in Webster Groves be safer? I scrubbed my tub and thought.
The prominent author was in residence most of the time in the main house. The setting was small town. Webster Groves maintained a real, live downtown, and as a result the surrounding neighborhoods had a 1950s “we know each other and help out” type of feel. Meanwhile this neighborhood grew steadily more transient.
I mopped with Mr. Clean and thought about Detweiler. My tears plonked into the rinse water. I tried really hard not to get upset, but memories flooded back. I remembered him laughing with Anya about an incident at science camp. I thought about how he loved to wrestle with Gracie. She heard me sniffle and poked her muzzle under my chin. That’s when I broke down and cried in earnest, big gulping sobs. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it, girl? Think of the two new men I’ve met. Pretty soon, I won’t even think twice about that old cop, will I? And you won’t either, right? We’re tough, eh? You and me?” But Gracie only lifted sad brown eyes to mine.
She didn’t agree; I could tell.
I threw myself into cleaning. After a while I was cried out and my housework was done. This place was small enough I could clean it top to bottom in a couple of hours. I let Gracie out, rinsed the cut on her ear with hydrogen peroxide, and booted up the computer.
The website for Saving Memories magazine was full of articles to read, sample pages, books to buy, links to products, and the winners of the Scrapbook Stars contest. Yvonne’s bio noted she’d scrapbooked for six years. (I found that very hard to credit.) Her favorite technique was acrylic paint on pages. (That surprised me. I’d showed the ladies how to use big foam letter stamps with acrylic paint, and she’d made a real mess of everything. I remembered mopping up after her.)
Yvonne’s layouts were the biggest shock. They were extremely sophisticated, eclectic, and bold. Her use of color was skillful. Her incorporation of found elements was imaginative. How could I have misjudged this woman’s talent? I closed down the computer and stared at the blank screen. Here I’d thought she was a little below average in her skills. But the work she’d turned in was terrific … and I had this weird sense of déjà vu.
Still … I see a lot of pages, and everything runs together in my mind. I was putting on lip gloss when it hit me. Yvonne’s pages bore a startling resemblance to Nettie Klasser’s work. Well, no surprise. Scrapbookers who crop together regularly teach each other skills. They consult on choices. They share tools and attend classes together.
I tackled my #2 item on the “to do” list. I phoned Memories First. Minnie Hertzog answered the phone. I knew her from an altered books class we attended at Artist Supply last year. Minnie chattered happily, “We’ve got lots happening. Yvonne’s pages will go on display Friday. As you know, the magazine website only shows four of them—we’ve got the rest. There’ll be a big memorial candle-lighting ceremony starting at dusk. Ellen has asked Nettie Klasser to say a few words.”
That threw me. Nettie hadn’t mentioned she would be eulogizing her pal.
Minnie added, “We’re offering drop-in classes featuring the techniques Yvonne used on her pages.”
“Gee, that’ll be a little hard without her, won’t it? I mean, sure you can figure out how she did the stuff, but it’s a lot more complicated without the artist.”
Minnie lowered her voice. “Promise never to tell anyone I told you this … but I bet Ellen or somebody here at the store helped her. I really don’t know who. It wouldn’t be the first time a winner had assistance, would it?”
I thought of the chat I’d seen online about one woman stealing another’s journaling—and about how much scrapbookers helped each other in general. “Yeah, seems to me I’ve read about women working together on contest entries. Sort of a support group, I think.”
“That’s right,” said Minnie. “In fact, we’ve had crops where people worked on challenges together. Frankly, I don’t know where the line is between authorized and unauthorized help, do you?”
“No,” I said honestly.
After that call, I drove to my mother-in-law’s, thinking and thinking the entire time. It was the kind of aimless thinking like when a dog circles a spot before deciding where to lie down. I just couldn’t find my spot.
Whatever.
Something bothered me, but I couldn’t grasp it. The subconscious mind knows no master. I’d simply have to wait.
Sheila sat in a rocking chair watching what resembled croquet wickets all over her yard. A foot high stake topped with an orange flag marked each metal hoop. She gave me a tour of what was left of her lawn.
“A trap shaped like a pair of scissors extends under the ground. The mole pushes the trigger as he moves along. The blades are sprung and cut him in half. It’s wonderful!”
“Ugh. That’s awful.”
“No! It’s effective and works fast. A mole can extend a tun
nel by 100 feet a day! A good mole trapper knows exactly where to set the trap. Johnny figured out which was the main runway.”
“Runway? Like an airplane?”
Sheila peered at me carefully. “You aren’t laughing about this are you? Think of all the damage these pests have done to my yard.”
Frankly, Sheila had inflicted the majority of the damage. Those hills were nothing compared to the holes she’d dug. I bit the inside of my lip and responded vigorously. “No, ma’am. I’m just trying to make sure I’ve got this all down.”
“He figured out which was the main tunnel by flattening all the rest and watching. Those horrible animals returned to the main tunnel. When it popped back up, he knew where to set the traps.”
I scanned the area. She was right. Not all the tunnels had traps along them. “Why not put traps on those tunnels too? Or are they like extra rooms the moles don’t use?”
“Those might be feeding tunnels for finding grubs or worms. Where my lot edges the woods out back, Johnny found another set of tunnels, probably where the mole nest was.” Sheila’s eyes sparkled. Oh yeah, the hunt was on. “Got two of them so far. Cut those nasty suckers right in half!”
TWENTY-FOUR
ANYA RACED TO THE car. “Mom, we have to go home. Now. Before the allergist. It’s an emergency.”
I started to argue and then thought better of it. Instead, I told Sheila goodbye and backed out carefully.
“What’s up, Anya Banana?”
“You told me I could wear makeup when my periods started. Guess what? They started!”
My baby. My little girl. I forced myself to concentrate on the traffic. Months ago, I’d collected the paraphernalia a woman needs when she has her monthly cycles. I’d boxed and gift-wrapped it. Today was a red letter day. George, I said silently to my dead husband, can you believe it? Our child is now a woman.
We stopped at home and ran inside. With trembling hands, I pulled the package from its hiding place and gave it to Anya. “Pass your underwear to me, honey. I’ll get the stains out.”
“La la la,” she sang from the other side of the bathroom door. Good. I had wanted this to be a great experience rather than a negative or frightening one.
“After the allergist can we go buy makeup? You said I could when I started. There’s this party one of the girls at camp is giving next weekend, and boys will be there. I don’t want to look like a baby.”
“It depends on how much time we have, honey.”
She handed her panties out the door. I stared at them. “Hey, by the way,” I asked casually. “How was your day with your grandma? Did Linnea buy that Faygo Red Pop you wanted to try?”
“Yeah, it was good. I drank it with a straw ’cause otherwise you get a funny smile. Nana knows lots of tricks like that. Why?” Anya opened the door. I said nothing. Her eyes darted to the ceiling, the floor, and back to me. She couldn’t face me.
“Nice try, kiddo. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize Faygo Red Pop on your undies? No makeup. No way. And there will be a consequence for being dishonest.”
She stomped past me. “Aw, Mom!”
I kept my back to her, trying hard not to giggle. Boy, how strong it was, this urge to grow up quickly. I clamped my mouth into a straight line and led the way to the car. She pouted the whole way to the allergist. Under her breath, she grumbled and snarled.
I didn’t pay much attention to her, but I did do a lot of glancing around at other cars. I watched my rearview mirror. The events of the last few days had made me nervous about being followed. I kept my cell phone open and accessible, but I didn’t want to worry Anya.
What was I going to do? I wasn’t safe at home and I wasn’t safe at work. I didn’t have the money to move, and I needed my job. The gunshot through my car window was the final straw. That and the fake, bloody dog. Danger had found its way to my doorstep. Really, this was grinding me down. Could I live with the possibility of one of us—and I included Gracie—being hurt? And now that Detweiler wouldn’t be dropping by, were we more at risk?
Oh, George, I cast a thought again to my dead husband. Why didn’t you plan better for our future? I trusted you, and you blew it.
Yeah, well, so much for my good taste in men.
Seeing how irked Anya was, I let her go alone with the nurse into Dr. Andersoll’s office. When my daughter got like this, it was best to give her a clear berth for a while. Besides, I had sleuthing to do.
“Who introduced Yvonne Gaynor to your office? This is sort of far from where she lived.” The receptionist raised an eyebrow. I needed a reason I was being nosey. “I’m one of the scrapbookers putting together a book for her children. We’re trying to contact all her friends. You can imagine how difficult that is. We don’t want to leave anyone out. Since Yvonne was a patient, whoever recommended her must be another friend who might want to share a memorial sentiment. For the album. For her children. And family.”
The receptionist smiled. “I see. I heard a group of women were working on that project.” She glanced around. “I can find the name. I really shouldn’t do this though …”
She disappeared for five minutes and returned with a slip of paper.
Whoever recommended Yvonne would have known about her allergies, and maybe about the Epi-Pen. But the name I was holding was not one of the people at our crop. In fact, it wasn’t anyone I’d ever heard of. There goes that idea, I mumbled to myself.
Anya begged to go over to Nicci Moore’s house. I called Jennifer, Nicci’s mom, and she formally invited my daughter. Interestingly, my daughter’s language had changed. She no longer wanted to “play” at a friend’s house. The new operative phrase being the more nebulous “go over to.” I dropped her off and made a mental note I needed to get a life.
The store was quiet. Dodie was back to her down-in-the-dumps self. Maybe she was back to thinking about her lump. I sure was. I tried to busy myself to get my mind off both our troubles. I would keep my promise about not telling Horace for a while. I said a little prayer they’d have good news on one front or another.
I found cool imprintable paper for my retirement home class handout. I made up a folder with all the materials I’d need to “sell” my idea to an administrator. I unboxed more paper for my customized albums for photographers. I worked sorting the papers, and making die cuts so I could create more wedding pages in an efficient manner.
Dodie was at her desk, and I’d just come out of the bathroom when Bama marched into the back room. Her face twisted into a mask of rage. Running one hand along the wall she invaded my personal space, stopping inches from my face and shaking a finger at me. “You sicced the police on me! I didn’t do it! I have vertigo! I am not on drugs. I am not drunk. I have a medical condition. Dodie!”
Dodie rose slowly and lumbered over. She surveyed both of us. “Get a hold of yourself, Bama.”
But Bama was livid. “A hold of myself! I have never been so insulted in my life. How dare she?” Spittle flew from her lips. “This is outrageous!” And she repeated herself with, “Absolutely insulting!”
Dodie edged herself between the two of us. Thank heavens she is a big woman.
Bama screamed, “How dare you? What colossal gall!” and she jammed her finger toward me, white saliva dripping from her lips, her eyes bulging out of her head. “You, Miss Smarty Pants, you go stirring things up with my old co-workers. Thanks a heap. I finally get to put all that behind me—”
“Put what behind you?” asked Dodie.
“The old news about how Yvonne Gaynor told my boss at Artist Supply that I was on drugs.”
“Oh, that,” said Dodie.
Uh-oh.
Bama continued, “And when Miss Hotshot told her married cop boyfriend about the gossip, I was hauled in for questioning! Never mind my old boss apologized and gave me a raise. You didn’t know that, did you, Smartie Pants? No, you set out to embarrass me!”
“If he offered you a raise, why did you leave? Huh? Answer that!” I countered, yelling over the bar
ricade of Dodie’s body. I felt a false sense of safety with her between Bama and me, like a kid hiding behind her mother’s skirt.
“Because I don’t want to work with people who don’t trust me. That’s why I told Dodie what happened before she hired me.”
Our boss turned to me. “That’s right, Kiki. I knew all about Bama. You are way out of line here.”
I sputtered. “But what about her sister? Huh? Explain that. Dodie, her sister works for the caterer!”
Gnashing her teeth, Bama stood on her tiptoes to yell at me. “My sister? She has three kids to support. Three, Kiki! Not just one like you do. Think it’s hard making ends meet with one? Try three! I called her about catering for CAMP, but Dodie knew all about it. Dodie didn’t pay one cent more. Katie got a bonus. Big deal! A whole twenty bucks! And when the cops questioned the catering staff, that stupid twenty didn’t compensate for the half day of work she lost. They grilled her like a quarter-pound hamburger!” Bama was running out of steam. Her voice wasn’t as shrill and her motions a lot less threatening. Flecks of spit were drying on her lips.
Dodie said quietly, “Bama told me about the commission. I was glad to help.” The level way she talked made my gut go liquid. Dodie was mad. More than mad. She was seriously ticked at me.
And I deserved it.
“You should fire Kiki’s butt.” Bama’s mouth sank into an angry red slash. “For all the trouble she caused me. I never did anything to you, Kiki Lowenstein. Ever. All I want to do is design work. That’s what I went to school for. And you’ve been hateful to me from day one.”
She was right. I pretty much had been. I never saw it that way, but she was right. I stared at the floor. I’d screwed up. I’d hurt her, disrespected Dodie’s authority, and jeopardized our store.
“I apologize.” I swallowed. “I was out of line. My intentions were good—”
“Good intentions? Hah! You wanted to send me to jail!”
Cut, Crop and Die Page 23
