The whole screwed up mess made my head hurt.
Time to change the subject. I handed my friend the card I’d created to thank her. “Laurel, I am forever in your debt. How you managed to get Mr. Schnabel to help us is beyond me.”
Instead of explaining how she conjured up Schnabel’s help, Laurel said, “This is so cute! I love it. You are welcome.”
“Okay, ladies, here’s what we need to get done for the crop tonight.”
Laurel helped me duplicate handouts, copy coupons, and set up the tables for the evening’s crop. For a few blessed hours, my thoughts centered on the store. At two o’clock the front door minder jingled and in walked Ruth Glazer.
kiki’s card toppers
This simple method will yield enough for nine cards. You can use this design with any message: Thank You, Happy Birthday, Congratulations, or even In Sympathy. Changing the papers for the grid will change the mood dramatically.
1.Start by creating a card topper base or background. Cut a solid piece of paper ¼" smaller on all sides than the top of your cards.
2.Cut nine pieces of corresponding paper 1" smaller than the base piece above. These will form the checkerboard of your pattern. For example, you might have three shades of blue, three blue patterns, and three blue stripes.
3.Cut each of those nine pieces of paper into nine smaller, equal-sized squares. (Tip: If you hate measuring, fold a piece of newspaper into nine equal squares and use it as your pattern.)
4.Arrange the squares so you have an interesting checkerboard of colors/patterns. For example, you might have a row of squares that are all stripes, followed by a row of squares that are all solids, and a row of squares that are all patterns. Or you could alternate—stripe, solid, pattern—in each row.
5.When you find an arrangement that’s pleasing, glue them down.
6.Add letter stickers to write out: Thanks! (Or whatever!) Or, cut a strip of white paper, add the letter stickers, and glue the strip across the front of the card like a banner.
thirty-five
Ruth Glazer didn’t much like me when we first met. Over the years, the staff at CALA has grown accustomed to being mistreated by certain parents. One teacher explained, “Some parents only notice you when they need something. Otherwise, you are invisible. Expendable. You get treated like a tissue that they wipe their noses on and toss in the trash. After a while, you learn to stay aloof to protect your feelings. We do have feelings, you know.”
There were those parents who treated the teachers and admin people at CALA as an extension of their personal staff. One woman famously called a fundraising director and instructed him to pick up her dry-cleaning. Seems she was scheduled for a meeting at the school and thought that if he wanted her participation and her money, he wouldn’t mind playing errand boy.
Since so many movers and shakers in St. Louis sent their offspring to CALA, the archival files in the Alumni Office held dark secrets, the backstories of problems usually kept carefully hidden away. Awhile back Dodie had “loaned” me to the school, suggesting they put me to work as a writer for their alumni newsletter. She surmised, correctly as it turned out, that I could learn a lot about the place, become indispensible to the school, and drum up business for our store. Access to the files gave me all sorts of material to use when making family albums or memorial albums.
But to gain that access on an unsupervised basis, I had to earn the trust of Ruth Glazer. Ruth had seen a lot of volunteers come and go, primarily because they wanted to poke around in the personnel files of the teachers, administration, and students. She kept a careful eye on me until deciding I could be trusted.
While I wouldn’t embarrass the school with anything that I’d learned, I admit to having used the files to solve a couple of crimes that touched the CALA community. I considered that a win-win, but Ruth might not have, if she’d have known.
On the other hand, maybe she did trust me to use whatever I learned to benefit the school. After all, wasn’t that the point? The whole reason for hanging onto those slips of paper, handwritten notes, and other ephemera was to assist the school in doing its job. (Translation: To help it raise money and keep attracting students. That is, to perpetuate itself.) When a teacher died under mysterious circumstances, when a parent’s anger led to a sniper attack, the information in those files helped me solve those crimes—and the rhythm of the school continued with only a tiny blip. Certainly, CALA’s fundraising didn’t suffer.
So it’s entirely possible that I wasn’t fooling anybody, especially not Ruth. And maybe, just maybe, that’s why she’d finally decided she liked me.
Her visit during the middle of the day came as a surprise. Usually she only stopped by in the evenings. Since I’d shown her how to scrapbook photos of her grandkids, she’d become one of our best customers. But this afternoon was different. A certain clip to her walk told me she was on a mission.
When we first met, Ruth would greet me with a curt nod. After I earned her seal of approval, Ruth started offering me a stiff hug as she did today. She managed the embrace very awkwardly as if to say, “I’m trying to be warm and fuzzy, but this is the best I can do!” Today, her hug was more effusive than usual as she whispered in my ear, “Thank goodness you are all right. Just look at that bruise on your temple! I never did like that William Ballard. Honestly! Such a bully as a kid. I’m not at all surprised he was in the middle of this.”
Her gray pantsuit and printed blouse copied an outfit I’d seen on Clancy, but up close you could tell the fabric wasn’t very good. The statement necklace around her neck sported big plastic beads rather than natural stones. A pang of pity overtook me. Out of her natural environment, I could see Ruth for who she really was, a proud woman who wanted to be like the wealthy parents who employed her.
To quote that naval hero, Popeye, “I yam what I yam.” Didn’t she realize she didn’t need to compete?
But then who was I to give her advice about fitting in?
Instead, I gave her a little extra squeeze of affection. “You don’t think of me as a cold-blooded killer?”
“Gracious, no! I would have done the same! I mean, I certainly hope that I would have had the presence of mind to do the same. Tell me, how is Mrs. Lowenstein? She nearly died, didn’t she?”
“I talked with her this morning, and she was grumbling about this and that, so I’d say that’s a PRS.”
“A what?”
“Positive Recovery Sign. I made that term up.”
“Oh, you!” Ruth swatted my arm. “I got your message. What can I do for you? Do you have another project in mind? Another memorial album? I suppose you could make one for Bill Ballard, since he was an alumnus.”
“I think I’ll pass on that.”
“No doubt!”
“Could we go in the back? My question is sort of delicate.”
As we walked past Laurel, I asked the young woman to keep an eye on the sales floor. “We’ll be in Dodie’s office.”
Of course, our private talk mandated a stop by the refrigerator so I could grab a Sprite for Ruth and a bottle of water for me. I’m not adverse to drinking water, but I have to admit, I looked longingly at that ice-cold can of Diet Dr Pepper. Six months and counting until I could enjoy my favorite diet beverage again. Sigh.
Margit offered to leave when she saw us coming. Once I’d closed the office door, I told Ruth about Cherise Landon’s visit. As I spoke, my guest fiddled with the pop top from her can. I wasn’t sure what she was withholding, but clearly, she wasn’t eager to share information with me. I decided to tell her the truth, that Dodie was dying.
“What a shame! I’ve always liked Mrs. Goldfader. She’s wonderfully down-to-earth, isn’t she? Dear, dear.”
“She’s asked me to find out what really happened to her son, Nathan. I have an inkling that I won’t be able to do that. After all, he’s not around to talk, and I doubt that
anyone who was there that night wants to confess. But I promised her that I’d find out. Honestly, Ruth, I couldn’t tell her no.”
Ruth frowned at me. “Are you certain you want to pursue this? Shep Landon is not a man to be trifled with.”
“I don’t care about him. I care about Dodie.”
“You need to stay away from that man. When this happened, he wouldn’t let Cherise talk to anyone. He threatened the school with legal action if we linked Cherise’s name to the accident in any context. You see, she was a minor at the time. After she graduated, he came and cleaned out her files. All we have is her grade transcript and test scores. Mr. Landon is a very thorough man, and a protective father. He made it perfectly clear to the school that Cherise wasn’t involved, and that was that.”
“But she told Dodie it was her fault!”
Ruth fingered the rim of her soft drink. “Guilt leaves a creeping stain. I’m doubtful that Cherise caused the accident, although she might still feel remorse that she was on the scene when it occurred.”
“You’re telling me that she’s not at fault no matter what she says? That she’s simply feeling the sort of normal guilt we all do when something bad happens, whether it’s our fault or not?”
“How do you feel about Brenda Detweiler’s death?”
She had me there.
“Okay, okay,” I muttered.
“I’ve come to like and admire you, Kiki. Honestly, I do. Speaking from my heart, with genuine affection for you, I urge you to drop the subject. Right here; right now.”
thirty-six
At three o’clock, Anya called. “Mom? Could you pick me up from school? Could I come help with the crop?”
“Don’t you want to stay at the Moore’s house? I thought you and Nicci planned to watch a movie together.”
Silence.
“Anya? You there?”
“Mom, please? Can’t I come to the store? I’d like to sleep at home tonight. Isn’t that okay?” A fissure in her voice betrayed her stress.
“Of course, honey. I’ll come get you right away,” and I did.
After she climbed into my car, Anya rested her forehead against the window on the passenger side. I tried to coax a conversation out of her, to no avail. Finally, I settled for taking her to Bread Co., hoping that food would oil the hinges of her jaw, since none of my encouragements were working.
No such luck.
The wisest course was waiting her out. Years ago, parenting experts talked about quality time, suggesting that the amount of time you spend with a child is not as important as “quality time,” those special moments of import.
Ha. What a crock.
With a kid, you never know when quality time will happen. And if you aren’t spending enough quantity time, you might very well miss the opportunity to connect when it comes your way. Anya would talk when the mood struck her, if I was willing to be both patient and flexible. That was the key, listening. Being fully present. Not just giving her lip service or nodding and tuning out.
As I parked my old red BMW in the parking lot of Time in a Bottle, I took my daughter’s hand in mine. “I don’t know what you’re thinking. I realize we’ve had a lot happen these past few days. You must not be ready to talk, and that’s okay. Just know that I love you with all my heart. I’ll always be in your corner. When you’re ready to talk, I’ll listen. Nothing that’s happened so far—and nothing that can ever happen—will change my love for you.”
In her eyes, doubt lingered. The pale denim blue of her irises darkened to navy with concern as she frowned and said, “Do you remember when Dad told me to keep his meetings with that woman secret?”
My husband, George, had been carrying on an affair with an old sweetheart, Roxanne Baker, for most of our marriage. At some point, he decided to include Anya in his outings with Roxanne, so he swore Anya to secrecy. It was a good thing that George was already dead and buried when I learned about his duplicity, or I would have strangled him with my own two hands.
“Um, I’m not likely to forget about that ever.”
“It can be hard when someone asks you to keep a secret. I mean, what if you promise them you won’t tell?”
I bit my tongue. I wanted to blurt out, “I’m your mother! You can tell me anything!” But I didn’t. Instead, I struggled. Finally, I said, “You are right. That’s a hard one. You know from experience that it’s not always fair to ask another person to keep a secret. Is it?”
“No.” She turned to look out the window, instead of at me.
“Do you know what therapists do? They keep a person’s secrets unless that person is going to hurt someone.”
Her head whipped around. “What? Tell me that again. I’m not sure
I understand.”
“There’s this rule called ‘patient confidentiality.’ It means that what you say to a therapist is sacred, just like when you talk to your rabbi or priest or lawyer. But if you tell a professional that you plan to hurt someone, all bets are off. If you tell a priest that you plan to kill some-one, the priest has an obligation to go to the proper authorities.”
“Always?” asked Anya. “What if you were going to hurt yourself ?”
“You mean like commit suicide?” I asked. My heart did a free fall into the deepest regions of my gut. I told myself I needed to stay calm. If I overreacted, I would spook her. She might clam up and not share with me.
“Sort of.”
Oh, God! Was she planning to hurt herself ? No, she said it was a secret—a plan that someone else had entrusted to Anya.
“Yes, even then. Especially then. Honey, do you know someone planning to commit suicide? If you do, maybe you should tell me. Perhaps we could help him. Or her.”
“No.” She spoke quickly and firmly. “I don’t know anyone who wants to kill herself. I was only asking.”
Why don’t I believe that? What is she hiding?
More than ever, I was glad she planned to spend the evening with me.
thirty-seven
Although I’d seen some of our regular croppers at my “Welcome Home” party, that seemed like a lifetime ago. For that event, Clancy had only invited a select few. Tonight our customers showed up in droves, which proved to be a bit of a problem because we’d taken reservations for only twenty-two. Rather than turn down the business, Laurel and Anya worked feverishly to put together more kits.
After fielding individual questions about the shooting, I realized we wouldn’t get anything done if I kept answering the same queries over and over. It started to become tedious. Finally I tapped a spoon against a glass bottle of green tea and quieted the group down. “If I might say a few words …”
They hushed in eager anticipation. I looked out over three tables of women, many of whom I’d met years ago at crops I’d attended as Dodie Goldfader’s best customer. A lump formed in my throat as I considered the changes ahead. What would we do when Dodie died? Would the store close its doors?
I gave myself a hard mental shake. This wasn’t the time to think about the road ahead. Instead, I needed to clear the air so we could get down to having serious fun.
“Yes, I was involved in a shooting. No, I never expected something like that to happen. Yes, there was a plan in place to entrap Bill Ballard. No, I didn’t make the plan, the police here in St. Louis did because they feared his bad behavior was escalating and more people might get hurt. Yes, I shot Bill. No, I didn’t have a choice. Yes, he was going to kill my mother-in-law, Sheila, and Mert Chambers’s brother was bleeding to death. Yes, I feel horrible about it. I never willingly would hurt a fly. All of you know that, but I couldn’t stand there and watch someone I love—”
And my voice turned so husky I had to grab a swallow of tea. “Be tortured like that. For the rest of my life, I’ll have to live with what I did, and I wouldn’t wish it on anyone.”
I swallowed and pressed my fing
ertips to my eye sockets so I wouldn’t cry. “Yes, I’m pregnant. Yes, it’s Detective Chad Detweiler’s baby. No, he didn’t kill his wife, Brenda. Of that I’m certain. Yes, I intend to marry him, but not until after the baby is born,” and here I shot a glance toward Anya. She struggled not to smile and dropped her gaze to examine her shoes very carefully.
“My due date is mid-January. I have an appointment with an ob-gyn next week.”
I steepled my fingertips and stared out at the rapt faces. “Does that cover everything? I hope so, because if it does, I’d like to show you this cool project.”
“One more question,” said Bonnie Gossage. “When can I host a baby shower?”
Laurel stepped up and wagged a finger. “Ah-ah-ah. I already called dibs. But you can be my co-host. How’s that?”
Everyone broke into giggles. When they quieted down, I showed them the project.
Anya took a seat next to Bonnie. Light and dark, their heads bent over their paper and supplies. A portion of me rejoiced, seeing how my child fit in. Hillary Clinton was right. It takes a village to raise a child. But in a pinch, a scrapbook store will do.
Anya and Laurel helped me pick up after the event. Clancy would have stuck around, but she was meeting movers the next day to pack up a few of her mother’s more valuable, personal items so that my mother and sister could move into Mrs. Clancy’s brick home. “If they like it, I plan to convert the half-bath on the first floor to a full bath so your mother can have her own apartment. Your sister isn’t much of a cook, and she could share the foyer with your mom so I wouldn’t need to add more stairs. I think the house will work well for them.”
“You have my eternal gratitude,” I said. “The house will be perfect for them. Amanda loves U City already. Mom will be close to a senior center where she can attend ‘day care.’ They’re both close enough to my place that I can visit easily, but far enough that I can have a life.”
“Works for me, too. I was able to truthfully tell my mother that I hadn’t sold her precious house. That she could move back in, although that was highly, highly unlikely. I told her I hired live-in help to take care of her flowers. She bought it! She’s been bragging to all her friends that I’m the best daughter ever. I went from you-know-what on her shoes to an angel overnight. What a promotion.” With that, Clancy laughingly bid us goodbye.
Picture Perfect Corpse Page 12
