Inked Up

by Terri Thayer

  April knew she looked confused. The guard had a pained expression on his face, as though he knew his directions weren’t getting in.

  “You’ll be okay, really,” he said.

  Away from the guardhouse, the road climbed rapidly. April felt the air cooling and rolled down her window. She could smell wood smoke and pitch. Birds warbled. She leaned over the steering wheel, trying to catch glimpses of houses amid the pines. The road curved and switchbacked. April passed A-frames, log cabins, and one concrete-block monstrosity.

  It must have been beautiful here a few weeks back. Judging by the number of bare trees, April figured the changing of the leaves from green to autumn shades must have been spectacular. Every once in a while, she spotted a lone bright yellow leaf clinging to an upper branch. She was sorry she’d missed the change. April made a mental note to come back next year.

  She counted cul-de-sacs and turned. She watched the address numbers as they got closer to the one on Deana’s directions. Trish’s house should be coming up soon. April slowed.

  Suddenly, Trish’s mailbox, an oversize one housed in its own wooden frame, was in front of her. Ironwork across the top glittered in the sunlight. It looked like a crown.

  She made a quick turn into the steep driveway, her car bottoming out with a cringe-inducing scraping noise.

  She pulled in front of a huge post-and-beam house, the wood shiny with varnish. The garage was built into the side of a hill, and the house soared up above it.

  The garage was massive, big enough for three cars. Above it, the roof peak was another story high. A flagstone walk led April from the car up to the double front door.

  The air up here was cool and clear like a mountain brook. The heat and humidity stayed in the valley she’d just left. She heard the rat-a-tat of a woodpecker. April breathed deeply. The trees freshened the air.

  It was a great place to be in the summer and fall. The downside would be the winter. The steep drive and the winding streets would make becoming housebound for weeks in mid-January a real possibility.

  April shifted her portfolio and the box that held the stamps she’d made. She took a deep breath and rang the doorbell. The chimes were loud, playing the first few notes of “God Bless America.”

  She glanced at her reflection in the window to the side of the door. She’d chosen her clothes carefully. She’d rather be overdressed than underdressed, so she’d pulled out one of her old suits and paired it with a silk top that she’d stamped with images of suns. She hoped the combination of the artistic and practical would let Trish know she was creative but not a flake. She could be trusted to deliver the goods on deadline.

  Trish opened the door. She was fifty and fighting it. She wore a polo shirt embroidered with a tiara and the name “Queen Trishelle Enterprises,” and a pair of expensive name-brand jeans. Her high heels looked to be right out of New York. In her ears were large diamond studs, and around her neck hung a gold necklace with a large diamond in the center. With rings on all of her fingers, it was hard to determine if one was a wedding band. Her tan was fading.

  Trish smiled at her and held out her hand for April to shake. “You must be April. I’m so sorry Deana wasn’t able to come. I don’t get to see enough of her.”

  “The funeral home keeps her busy,” April explained.

  “I know, darn it. It’s really too bad. I’d love if she would take on more stamping sales. Let’s go into my office,” Trish said. She led the way up a short staircase. As they walked through the foyer, April caught a glimpse of a well-decorated sitting room dominated by a massive fieldstone fireplace, next to which was an archway into a designer kitchen. She heard gurgling water somewhere. A fountain or water feature was in one of the rooms nearby. This business of Trish’s certainly afforded her a luxurious lifestyle.

  Trish’s office encompassed the massive room over the generous three-stall garage. They entered in the middle of the room. To the left, toward the back of the house, was a round conference table set up with yellow legal pads and pens, and a ceramic pitcher of water with matching glasses. The walls were decorated with posters of Trish’s products. In addition to the Stamping Sisters line, April saw the cosmetic line that Suzi had mentioned as a prize for the Pumpkin Express.

  April felt a flurry of excitement. If Trish was doing this well, she was the right person to hook up with. April’s mind raced with the possibilities. A nationally known line of stamps. Stamping classes. Books on how to use stamps on walls. Maybe Trish had connections to the do-it-yourself shows on television. An appearance on one of those and April would be able to write her own ticket.

  “My aerie,” Trish said, bringing April back to the present. She was pointing out the back window. April dutifully stepped over and took a look. The view was of a hillside covered in pine trees. April could see how the room felt like a tree house.

  At the opposite end of the room a large maple table had been built in under the window to serve as Trish’s desk. Banks of filing cabinets were along the west wall. On another wall, shelving held products. Boxes and boxes of products.

  There was another large picture window at this end of the room; the view of the mountains was as spectacular as April had imagined. She could see the break in the pine trees where the ski run would be as soon as the temperature dropped low enough to make snow. Trish could sit on her desk and watch folks schussing down the mountain.

  “Are you familiar with my business module?” Trish asked.

  “Only Deana’s experience with the stamping line,” April said.

  Trish stood by the shelves like Vanna White next to a Q. She was proud of her accomplishment. There were four sets of floor-to-ceiling shelving. A sign attached to the uppermost shelf indicated the product line: Stamping Sisters Stamps, Bella Beauty.

  Trish said, “I’m the distributor for these lines of multilevel products. Are you familiar with multilevel marketing?”

  April felt like she had suddenly been dropped into a cheesy sales seminar; the ones where you get a free night at a hotel in exchange for listening to a pitch.

  At April’s shake of the head, she continued. “Do you know how Tupperware products are sold?”

  April nodded. She remembered the parties her mother had thrown. After one, a ten-year-old April had thrown all of her mother’s paprika in the garbage. The next time her mother went to make goulash, she wasn’t happy. Even April’s explanation that the Tupperware lady had claimed there were red bugs that were impossible to see in paprika and that you needed her special container to ensure your paprika was bug free didn’t mollify Bonnie.

  “My marketing module is similar. It’s a peer-to-peer experience. Deana is a baroness, which is the lowest level operator. I have operators in all these lines. Some sell one product line, others, both. Depends on how ambitious they are. The Bella line does particularly well. With the right combination of products and a positive attitude, my operators can make a lot of money. I have several that earn in the fifty-thousand-dollar range.”

  That was impressive. The average salary in this county was probably closer to thirty thousand. Those statistics made April happy. The more people selling her stamps, the better. Everyone wins.

  Trish explained further. “Each operator receives a portion of her baronesses’ and marquesas’ sales.”

  April’s confusion must have shown on her face. Trish pulled down a chart from a roller shade hung on the wall. It was like a family tree, but one with one only parent.

  At the top was a picture of Trish, with a sparkly tiara and an even sparklier smile. Beneath her was the line for duchesses.

  Branches led off the duchess line. These were the marquesas. The pictures disappeared, replaced by names. Xenia had many, tiny branches. Under that were countesses and finally baronesses.

  April touched Xenia’s name.

  “Poor Xenia,” Trish said. “She was one of my brightest stars. You can see she had worked very hard recruiting others. It was just starting to pay off. She was on the brink of be
ing one of my most successful people.”

  Trish pulled down a large white round wicker basket. “This is a starter kit,” she said. “The baroness makes an initial investment. The Stamping Sisters kit, for example, runs $440. In it is everything the baroness needs to get started. Products to sell, an accounting program to keep track, selling tips.”

  April pictured baronesses selling her stamps. She could get her nest egg back. Pay back her clients in California who Ken had bilked. Give Ed and Vince a check for back rent. Maybe even save money for a new business. It suddenly seemed possible.

  Trish started taking items out of the basket. April saw bath salts, lipsticks, glittery eye shadows.

  Trish continued, picking up a pretty blue compact. “The Bella line is one I’m really proud of. As you may know, we’ve had an influx of people from south of the border settling in the area. Those women love their beauty aids, let me tell you.”

  April cringed at the broad brushstrokes Trish was painting of a whole community. She started to speak out, remembering the graffiti on Pedro’s house, but Trish had moved on, explaining further how a baroness moves up to countess by signing others up to sell the products.

  April listened politely. She imagined her stamps on Trish’s shelf. Her designs going out to hundreds of baronesses and countesses in the tri-state area. Maybe one of them would find their way to New York, into the hands of an editor from RubberStampMadness magazine.

  From there it would be a short hop to national recognition.

  “So tell me about yourself,” Trish said, offering April a seat at the conference table. Trish sat opposite her, a black notebook computer in front of her.

  April laid out her portfolio. “My primary interest is as a home décor stamper. I stamp walls for historical restorations. I have some ideas for craft stamps, however. Deana said you were interested in producing a travel series.”

  April opened the box and laid out the stamps she’d worked on over the weekend. The pictures were of her California. Redwoods, palms, beaches. She opened to a page in her portfolio that held the collages and cards she’d made. She’d produced a series of pages that used the stamps in a variety of projects, progressing from simple to complex. She was especially proud of a landscape she’d done, incorporating all the images into an ode to California.

  When she looked up, Trish was checking her e-mail on the computer.

  Flustered, April tried to get her attention. She said loudly, “I’m open to designing more lines for you as time goes on. Eventually, however, I’d like to be manufacturing the large stamps I use on walls.”

  Trish looked up. “Sounds great.”

  She stood, walked to her product shelves and took down a box, which she carried back to the table and placed in front of April. “This is the Stamping Sisters starter kit. For a limited time, I’m enclosing my DVD, Peer-to-Peer Is the Wave of the Future.”

  April was confused. “You see my stamps as a part of this line. I understand that.”

  Trish continued. “If you purchase this starter kit today, you can also get a line of Bella for only $125. And for you, I’ll throw in the faux crocodile sample case. Crocodile is the new black,” she said.

  April stared at the dynamo in front of her. Trish was poised over the table, her sample kit opened for April’s examination.

  “I’m not—”

  “I prefer check or credit card, but I can offer a credit line, too. I have a tie to Home Credit. Ninety days same as cash. That particular program is also available to your clients. I find an easy source of credit helps to get the products into the customers’ hands.”

  “I’m not here to buy one of your sample kits. I don’t want to be an operator, a baroness,” April protested. “I want you to feature my stamps.”

  Trish’s hand stopped its movement. She frowned at April. “You misunderstand me. I want to do your line of stamps, I really do. But I need some kind of commitment from you.”

  “Okay,” April said. “You won’t have to pay me up front for my designs. I’m willing to take a small percentage each time you sell one. I’d be perfectly happy to work on a consignment basis . . .”

  Trish’s face shuttered. “I’m afraid I don’t work that way. You’re either in or out of Queen Trishelle Enterprises. And there is only one way in: become a baroness and work your way up to duchess.”

  April felt herself blush. She’d been totally kidding herself. This woman wasn’t interested in her stamps. She just wanted another body to sell her products and fill her coffers.

  April pushed away from the table, stood and gathered her portfolio. “I’m sorry to have wasted your time,” she said through clenched teeth, thinking about all the hours she’d spent creating the California Dreamin’ line of stamps. It wasn’t Trish’s time she was really sorry about.

  Trish waved her away, head back down into her laptop. “I’m sorry, too. Deana didn’t do either of us any favors.”

  “I’ll let myself out,” April said.

  She resisted the urge to search out the gurgling fountain and spit in it on her way to the front door.

  April had just turned the knob on the front door when Trish came down from her home office, bearing a large shipping box. “Do me a favor, will you? Give this to Xenia,” she said as though nothing had transpired between them.

  April’s mouth dropped open. “Xenia is dead.”

  Trish frowned. “I know, but her customers are waiting. Her sister has promised me to get these orders to the right people. The addresses are all inside. Take it to her, will you?”

  She thrust the box at April and closed the door behind her.

  CHAPTER 13

  April tried calling Deana, but her cell phone didn’t work in this area. She threw it on the floor of the car in disgust when she got the beeping that indicated there was no service.

  She took the switchbacks too quickly on the way out, causing her stomach to roil in protest, and got a glare from the pimply attendant as she blew past him. She was already doing sixty-five when she hit the highway. Before she could really open it up, she was hemmed in by eighteen-wheelers. One in front was slowly climbing a long grade, but when she tried to pass him, there were two others in the next lane, going just as slow.

  They wouldn’t let her in between. Their maneuver forced her to slow down.

  There was no release in doing fifty. She felt tears building, and wiped them away with brute force. One of the truckers misunderstood her gesture and flipped her the bird in return. Frustrated, April gave in and settled in behind him to drive the six miles to her exit.

  Pulling into the parking lot of the Hudock Family Funeral Home, April remembered that Deana was performing the autopsy on Xenia’s body this morning. Her desire to yell at Deana quickly dissipated. Thinking about the Villarreal situation put things in perspective. The visit to Trish had been a debacle, but she was not lying dead in a cornfield.

  Vince and Ed had a nickname for one of their more well-off customers who they’d been working with for years. Sub-zero. She was a woman who, when faced with the hard choice between the ten-thousand-dollar shower stall or the fifteen-thousand-dollar one, threw a hissy fit at the extra money. She’d agonized over the length of their built-in pool—twenty-four feet long or forty? The kitchen drawers had to be lined with velvet so the silver wouldn’t tarnish. When some minor detail went awry on one of her jobs, there was hell to pay. The term sub-zero problem entered the family lexicon, used whenever anyone was fussing over a minor issue.

  On a scale from one to dead, Trish was a sub-zero problem in April’s life. She still had a job and a roof over her head.

  But damn, she was disappointed. She’d really let herself get caught up in the idea of a line of stamps. Was it just ego? The idea of her name, April Buchert, on a stamping series had been a nice daydream. Maybe she should have stopped herself before she started designing her own logo.

  April decided to see if Deana was finished with the autopsy. She could at least tell Deana that she and Tri
sh weren’t going to be working together anytime soon.

  She took the path from the back of the parking lot to the family quarters. The land sloped so that the building had an extra lower level tucked into the back of the funeral home.

  Deana was in the window of her kitchen, drinking a glass of water. She moved aside her gingham café curtains and waved April inside.

  They exchanged hugs. “How did it go with Trish?”

  “Not good. She wanted to me to sell, not design for her.”

  Deana’s face fell. “Oh, I’m sorry. I had no idea.”

  April waved her off. They could talk about it later. “What about you? Done with Xenia?”

  Deana nodded. She set down the glass. “I just got off the phone with the state police.”

  “How did she die?” April said. She braced herself on the kitchen counter. No fancy granite for Deana. The countertop was laminate, a pretty yellow color that matched the wall color above the white bead board.

  “I can tell you the manner of death was homicide,” she said. “She was strangled.”

  “Strangled? I didn’t see any marks on her neck,” April said.

  Deana frowned at her. “Not that you were looking or anything, Quincy.”

  April stuck her tongue out at her friend. They’d watched reruns of the medical examiner show regularly as impressionable preteens.

  Deana looked out the window. From here, they could see the tops of the willows that sat around the pond in the middle of the Memorial Garden. “The killer used a ligature. Before you say you didn’t see a rope or scarf, he most likely took it with him.”

  “Him?” April’s heart went out to Pedro. “You think it was a man?”

  Deana shrugged. “My guess. It takes a lot of strength to kill someone that way.”

  “Strength and will,” April said, trying to imagine how long it took someone to die. Someone as full of life as Xenia. With five kids, she would have fought to stay alive.