4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly

by Lois Winston

  “You can invite them for next weekend.”

  “First of all, I doubt Cynthia would lower herself to step foot in my home.”

  Cynthia was Ira’s wife, or maybe his trophy wife. I still wasn’t clear about their relationship. She had treated us as if we were society’s castoffs, not fit to enter her Hunterdon County McMansion. During one of the hottest evenings of the summer, we were kept on the patio instead of being entertained in the comfort of that air-conditioned McMansion. When my sons got fed up with the heat and jumped into her pool, she acted like they’d contaminated the water.

  “Besides,” I reminded her, “she nearly stroked out when you and Lawrence announced your engagement.”

  “True, but that doesn’t mean Ira and his kids won’t come. Alex and Nick need to get to know their cousins better.”

  After their first and only encounter with their half-cousins this past summer, my sons had no desire to bond further with what they described as three extremely spoiled brats.

  “There’s also the problem of Lucille,” I said. So far I’d been successful at keeping Lucille from meeting Ira, a dead ringer for his deceased half-brother.

  “Why is that a problem?”

  “She’d probably have another stroke if she saw Ira.”

  “So?”

  “Mama, have a little compassion!”

  At that moment Ralph swooped into the kitchen and settled on top of the refrigerator. “And sir, it is no little thing to make Mine eyes to sweat compassion,” he squawked. “Coriolanus. Act Five, Scene Three.”

  It never ceased to amaze me how the parrot I inherited from my Great-aunt Penelope Periwinkle can not only quote Shakespeare, but always manages to come up with a situation- appropriate line from the Bard.

  Mama was less than impressed by Ralph. She hated the African Grey. After shooting him a look of disdain, she continued, “Like that woman has ever had any compassion toward you? She’d throw you under a bus if it suited her communist agenda.”

  “That may be so, but she’s lived a delusion for most of her life. I’m not going to be responsible for confronting her with the truth.”

  “I’d be happy to—”

  “And neither will you!”

  “Suit yourself, dear, but the truth will come out at some point.”

  I’d since learned that Lucille and her beloved Isidore had never married. She’d taken his name after he left her. Or she’d kicked him out. No one knows exactly what happened or whether Isidore knew Lucille was pregnant at the time. Lucille has always claimed Isidore was abducted by the government, never to be seen again. Mama and I now know Isidore was very much alive up until a few months ago.

  Mama persisted. “You at least need to extend an invitation.”

  “I’ll think about it.”

  She didn’t seem all that pleased with my response, but at that moment the doorbell rang. Lawrence to the rescue. Mama would leave for the evening, and I’d get to eat my omelet in peace.

  ~*~

  Nine-thirty the following morning found me and my protesting feet back at the Javits Center. “Who invented the high heeled shoe?” I asked Tessa. “He must have been a misogynist.”

  “High heels have been around since ancient times. Both men and women wore them.”

  “Masochistic men and women, no doubt.”

  “Hardly. Heels served a practical purpose.”

  “Practical?”

  “Sure. They kept your shoes out of all sorts of yucky street gunk and helped horseback riders keep their feet in their stirrups.”

  “Well, we don’t have to worry about either anymore,” said Cloris. “We have indoor plumbing, paved streets, and motorized means of transportation. Yet we’re still forced to shove our tootsies into these torture devices. The guys wised up ages ago. Why haven’t we?”

  Tessa executed another one of her classic eye rolls, but this time she directed it toward Cloris. “Because high heels are extremely sexy.”

  “I could do with a little less sexy and a lot more comfort. We’ve got five and a half hours on our feet ahead of us. Minus the perk of plush pile and extra padding.”

  That said, I ducked behind the display panels to haul out a carton of magazines. Farther down the narrow alley created by our booth and the ones backing up to us, I spied Philomena. With her back toward me, she wasn’t aware of my presence as she spoke into her cell phone. I wasn’t about to clue her in. Instead, I ducked behind a stack of cartons and settled in to eavesdrop. Why pass up such a perfect opportunity?

  “What are you saying?...After all I’ve done for you?...How dare you!...Don’t even think of it, you hear me?...Try it, and you’re dead. No one messes with me.”

  A woman I recognized as part of Philomena’s goon squad poked her head behind the section of booth dividing American Woman from Bling! “Philomena?”

  “What!”

  “Sorry to interrupt but the hair and make-up stylists are ready for you.”

  “They’ll have to wait.”

  “Uhm...the crew said they really need to tape before the show opens to the public.”

  “I said they’ll have to wait! What part of that don’t you understand?”

  The woman mumbled something under her breath before disappearing back into the booth.

  Philomena returned to her caller. “You listen to me, and you listen good because I’m only saying this once. I’m gonna pretend this call never happened, but don’t you ever try to pull a stunt like this again. You hear what I’m saying?”

  With that she ended the call and stormed back into her booth. I counted to fifty before slipping from my hiding place. Grabbing a carton of magazines, I returned to the booth and communicated what I’d heard to my fellow editors.

  “You think someone is trying to blackmail her?” asked Cloris.

  “I’m not sure what else it could mean, but what about her threat to the caller?”

  “Ask me if I care,” said Tessa.

  “Weren’t there rumors of her being mixed up with some gang back during her rapper days?” asked Serena.

  Tessa yawned. “Again, do I care?”

  I glanced in the direction of the Blinged One, now seated in a director’s chair while a make-up artist and hairdresser performed touch-up on her. Our besotted CEO sat in a matching chair beside her while an E! Network camera crew congregated in the aisle in front of the Bling! booth.

  Once the make-up and hair stylists had completed their tasks, a reporter settled into the vacant chair alongside Philomena and proceeded to interview her, totally ignoring our CEO. If I had any spare change, I’d bet the cameraman framed the shot to exclude any hint of Gruenwald.

  My fellow editors and I, along with other Trimedia personnel from surrounding booths, were barred from getting too close by a phalanx of convention center security guards. Aside from an occasional loud exclamation or burst of laughter from the Blinged One, we were too far away to hear any of the Q and A.

  The interview was still in progress when the show opened to the public for the day. Within minutes we were smack in the middle of a logjam with no one able to pass in front of the Bling! booth. From either end, consumers strained to squeeze as close as possible to see what was going on, but the guards held everyone back.

  Until one very determined woman broke through the pack.

  “Here comes trouble,” said Naomi.

  I craned my neck to catch a glimpse of a Park Avenue sophisticate as she darted around one of the security guards and stepped between Philomena and the camera. The woman wore a Hermes scarf stylishly draped around her neck and secured with a large sapphire brooch that mirrored the midnight blue anger in her eyes. “Isn’t that—?”

  “Oh yeah,” said Janice. “It most definitely is.”

  “Cut!” yelled the E! producer. “What the hell do you think you’re doing, grandma? We’re taping an interview here.”

  Grandma? I pegged her at late-forties, early-fifties at the most, but I suppose to a twenty-something, that’s
ancient.

  “Nice suit,” said Tessa. “Classic Armani. Who is she?”

  “Sylvia Gruenwald,” several of us said in unison.

  “Hell hath no fury like a trophy wife scorned,” said Naomi.

  I couldn’t help but notice the hint of a smile on her face.

  Sylvia turned to the producer. In a voice loud enough for all to hear, she said. “I’m not your grandmother, but don’t let me stop you, young man. Keep the camera rolling. I promise, you won’t regret it.” She then turned to Philomena. “Philomena Campanello?”

  Norma Gene stepped in front of Philomena and glared with contempt at Sylvia. “Who wants to know?”

  Instead of answering, Sylvia darted around Norma Gene and dropped an envelope into Philomena’s lap. “You’ve been served.” She then turned to her husband and dropped a second envelope onto his lap. “You, too, you randy old coot.”

  Sylvia then spun around on her red-soled Christian Louboutins. With her ash blonde not-a-hair-out-of-place head held high, she marched back in the direction she’d come, the mass of onlookers parting to make way for her.

  “You’re suing me?” shouted Philomena to Sylvia’s departing back. She then let loose with a string of expletives that made Eddie Murphy’s character in Beverly Hills Cop sound like an altar boy. After pausing for a breath, she finished with, “You won’t get away with this, bitch! Who the hell do you think you are?” Then she turned and pounced on Gruenwald. “Don’t just sit there, Alfred. Do something!”

  But our CEO wasn’t paying attention to his demanding mistress. All color had drained from his face as he stared at his own set of papers.

  Meanwhile, the camera had captured every juicy moment, including Philomena ripping the document into confetti and tossing it into the aisle.

  I couldn’t help but chuckle. “I suppose Sylvia’s mantra is don’t get mad; get even.”

  “Always the best revenge,” said Tessa.

  I wondered if that was also from personal experience. “Assuming Sylvia served Gruenwald with divorce papers, what could she be suing Philomena for?”

  “Probably alienation of affection,” suggested Cloris.

  “Not possible,” said Nicole. “Not in either New Jersey or New York.”

  “How do you know that?” I asked. To my knowledge Nicole had never been married.

  “Pressure from the ‘rents. They expected me to go into the family business—divorce law. But I hated law school. I did pay attention in class, though. There are only seven states that still have alienation of affection laws on the books.”

  “Is Hawaii one of them?” asked Naomi.

  “Yes, but Gruenwald isn’t commuting from Hawaii to New Jersey every day.”

  “He and Sylvia have a home on Oahu,” said Naomi. “They may list it as their permanent residence.”

  “Could they legally do that?” asked Janice. “Even if they live here most of the year?”

  “And could Sylvia have a complaint against Philomena drawn up in Hawaii?” asked Sheila.

  Naomi shrugged. “Beats me. I’m no lawyer.” She turned to Nicole. “Anything more to offer?”

  “Sorry. Those sorts of intricacies were probably covered in an advanced class. I never made it past the intro courses.”

  ~*~

  In-between product demos, handing out issues of American Woman, and chatting with show attendees, my fellow editors and I kept a watch on the occupants of the Bling! booth, as much as we could through the crowds that filled the booth. The tone had changed dramatically since Sylvia’s departure, from that of a party atmosphere to a wake.

  “Lots of forced smiles over there,” said Cloris.

  “They’re probably worried whether they’ll have jobs once that video goes viral,” said Nicole.

  “Why?” asked Tessa. “Look at all the free publicity the magazine will get.”

  “Not all publicity is good publicity,” I said. “Most likely Philomena has morality clauses written into all those endorsement contracts. If she’s dropped as a spokesperson, there goes all that advertising revenue for the magazine.”

  “And there goes the magazine,” added Nicole.

  “Not to mention a huge chunk of her personal income,” said Cloris. “Miss Potty Mouth just killed the goose that was mass-producing all those golden eggs for her.”

  “Such a pity,” said Tessa.

  “Spoken with all the sarcasm you can muster?” I asked.

  Tessa offered me a catbird smile. “What do you think?”

  “Anyone notice how Philomena keeps ducking behind the booth?” asked Cloris. “Sometimes she sneaks back there with Norma Gene; other times she drags Gruenwald with her.”

  “I doubt it’s for a little nookie,” said Jeanie. “That man is one seriously unhappy dude right now.”

  “His days as CEO are numbered,” I said. “The board will force him out over this.”

  “Now that would be a shame,” said Naomi, joining us.

  Cloris and I exchanged knowing glances. Alfred Gruenwald had led Trimedia’s hostile takeover of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company.

  “Spoken with all the sarcasm she can muster,” whispered Cloris as she headed back to her demo table to decorate more cupcakes.

  I continued to pass out copies of American Woman to the women strolling up and down the aisle. When I ran out, I once again stepped behind the booth for another carton. Just as I was about to leave, I heard Philomena say, “If you don’t take care of this, I will.”

  “You can’t be serious!”

  “I’m dead serious, Alfred. I have connections.”

  “You don’t mean—”

  “That’s exactly what I mean. I’m talking about people who will make this problem disappear permanently. Do you understand me?”

  “All...all right. Promise me you won’t do anything. I’ll deal with the uhm...situation.”

  “You better. That’s all I’m saying.”

  “Everything will work out, Sugar.”

  “It damn well better if you ever want any more sugar, Sugar.”

  Gruenwald muttered something under his breath.

  “You think what was a bad idea, Alfred? You and me? You know something? Maybe you’re right about that.”

  “I didn’t mean—”

  I ducked out from behind the back of the booth in time to see Philomena grab Norma Gene and storm off down the aisle, headed for the exit. Within seconds, a very worried-looking Alfred Gruenwald followed, and the head of every Bling! staff member turned to watch all three of them.

  THREE

  As soon as the show officially closed Sunday afternoon, my fellow editors and I headed for the ladies’ room to change into jeans and sneakers. When we arrived back at the American Woman booth, we began breaking down and packing the booth for transport to our New Jersey offices.

  While we wrapped models in bubble wrap, we discovered more damage. Much of what Philomena’s minions had tossed behind the booth Friday night either needed repair, cleaning, or both. The remainder, like my Potichomanie decoupaged bowl, were unsalvageable. I tossed the broken models on the pile of discarded cartons that had held issues of our magazine.

  “Would it have killed them to take the time to place items in a box?” I asked no one in particular.

  “Chalk it up to the Me generation,” said Cloris, frowning at some dented bake ware that looked like someone had stepped on it. “They don’t care about anything but themselves.”

  “If you ask me,” said Jeanie, “this looks like deliberate destruction.”

  “But why?” I asked. “Our magazine is no competition to Bling! We target a completely different demographic.”

  “Maybe someone doesn’t see it that way.”

  Next door, the Bling! booth stood empty of employees. Neither Philomena nor Gruenwald ever returned that afternoon, and the others darted for the exit the moment the show closed. The booth remained empty while we all worked, and it continued to stand empty after we’d packed up everything exc
ept for the back panels and counters Philomena and her entourage had appropriated from us.

  “Maybe they think the convention center fairies appear at night to break down the booths,” suggested Janice.

  “The same ones that set up their booth for them?” asked Jeanie.

  I turned to Naomi. “Now what? I’m not breaking down their booth.”

  “Me, neither,” said Cloris. The others echoed our sentiments.

  “I wouldn’t think of asking you,” said Naomi. “Just pack up what remains of our booth.”

  “What about the stuff they have displayed on our panels and counters?” asked Serena.

  “We should treat all of it with the same care they treated our stuff,” said Tessa.

  “I didn’t hear that,” said Naomi. She stepped out of the booth and headed toward the ladies’ room.

  Cloris turned to me and whispered, “Plausible deniability, Sherlock?”

  “Indubitably, Watson.”

  Naomi returned as we were attaching the address labels to our shipping containers. “Drinks are on me, ladies.”

  Naomi suggested a tapas bar on Ninth Ave. The nine of us hiked the distance, a more comfortable trek than the previous night, thanks to my Nikes. Drinks segued into dinner, and by the time I arrived home, night had descended on Westfield. Which is probably why I didn’t notice Ira’s gray minivan parked in front of my house when I turned into the driveway.

  The moment I stepped into my kitchen, I realized the confrontation I’d hoped to avoid for the next millennium, or at least the remainder of Lucille’s life, was in full swing in my living room. I stood out of sight and listened.

  “I don’t know what kind of con you’re running, young man, but I’ll have you arrested! How dare you barge in here spouting such lies? My Isidore was certainly not your father! I should know.”

  “The only lies are the ones you’ve been spewing for decades, you Bolshevik cow.” This from Mama. “Your Isidore wasn’t kidnapped by the government; he ran out on you.”

  “You don’t know any such thing!” yelled Lucille. “I’ll bet you hired this imposter to confront me. Admit it.”