by Terri Thayer
Kym reared back in horror. "Sell it?"
"Yeah, Kym. That's what we do around here. Sell things. You'd better hope one of your applique goddesses is willing to shell out for this."
Kym left with an exasperated noise. "Why is everything always my fault?"
I stifled an urge to scream.
Dad was waiting by the back door. And watching. "Do you need to be so hard on her?"
"Please, Dad, you have no idea" I scrubbed at my eyes.
He was happy to change the subject. Battling women was not his thing. He'd much rather pretend Kym and I got along great. "What about your house? When do you want to start changing out your kitchen cabinets?"
"Have you forgotten? This weekend is the anniversary sale."
His leathery face shuttered. His eyes became hooded, and the lines under his eyes deepened. Years of working outdoors had made his face a roadmap of construction jobs. I felt like I could trace his career, from one job site to the next, just following the lines on his face.
The etching agent this time had been my mother's early death a year ago. Since then, the lines cut so deep, they looked painful.
I resisted the urge to stroke his face. He wouldn't know what to do with me if I did. There was no question he was still as strong as most men half his age, but his bandy legs seemed to carry an extra burden now. His shoulders were a little more stooped than before.
"Are you going to work the sale with us?" I asked.
In years past, he'd always worked the big sales. All of us kids had too, although what I used to do, bagging customer's purchases and putting away fabric bolts, had not prepared me for the job I had now.
I remembered being shocked by how my dad teased the customers. And they loved it. It was impossible to picture him flirting with anyone now.
His voice grew rough, the edges of his voice a little panicked. "I doubt it. Are you shorthanded? I can be here if you need me, but..."
"Going fishing?" He'd been in the Sierras all through last year's quilt convention, when I really could have used his help.
"Dewey..."
I watched him leave. He had to mourn my mother in whatever way he could. Being in the store was hard, full of years of memories. For him, it was empty now without my mother. Emptier than I could imagine.
My job was to bring the store back to something he could be proud of. I only hoped I could do it.
EIGHT
VANGIE WAS FROWNING, SEATED at her desk.
"How far over the limit are we?" I asked.
Vangie pointed at the screen. "Three hundred dollars."
Damn Kym.
"I did find those specialty scissors, but we don't have enough cash or credit to order them," Vangie said. She had several windows open on the computer. I could see our bank balance, the red bottom line visible.
"We're on a cash-only basis with both of the major distributors," she continued.
"Can't you find a minor one?" I said weakly. I knew the answer. It was a pipe dream to think I could afford to buy the scissors.
With Kym's using the credit card, any cushion I'd had was gone.
"I talked to the manufacturer, Felix Scissors Company. They'll overnight them if we get the money to them now. I thought I could talk them into net 30-but, no, they want to get paid up front."
There was one possible solution. "Do you really think we can sell them all? Tell me I'm not crazy," I said, seeking reassurance before stepping into this particular quagmire. I did have one untapped source of cash.
One I'd vowed never to touch.
Vangie said, "Are you kidding me? They'll fly out the door as soon as the show airs. Don't forget, I'll have the QP online store up and running, too. The customers don't even have to be in San Jose."
That did it. The online store would give us a huge pool of potential buyers. "Okay. How much do we need? Figure out what the exact cost will be."
Vangie looked at me worriedly. "What are you going to dorob a bank?"
I scoffed. "Nah. Buster says bank robbers don't get much. There's hardly any cash at the teller's windows." I grinned at her.
There was really no reason why I couldn't use this money. The only thing holding me back was my own sense of loss.
Vangie gave me a sideways glance. "Dewey? I hope you're not selling your soul or something."
I said gaily, "I've already sold out to this place, don't you know?"
My flip answer didn't wipe the worry off her face, but I wasn't ready to share my idea yet. "Just tell me how much we need."
I watched the floor activity from my desk. Jenn and Kym were working together. Ina'd come out of the classroom, where she and Pearl were quilting the Old Maid's Puzzle quilt, and was buying thread.
Jenn had all the Celeste's Garden quilt kits spread out on our large cutting table. The kits featured twelve unique block patterns, covering a year in the garden. The quilter received the instructions and enough fabric to make each block. In this case, since Celeste's blocks were redwork, the kit consisted of Celeste's drawings and pieces of high-quality cotton to trace it on. Floss was included to stitch the design.
Jenn'd made piles of each, and was packing twelve of them into a pretty red bag. From where I sat, it looked like Kym's major contribution to the task was putting her index finger out so Jenn could tie a ribbon.
I checked the store's voice mail. Damn. Nothing but bad news. Zorn was coming later to talk to everyone. And at least one customer had heard about the murder.
"Vangie, listen to this." I played the tape for her. On it, the customer cancelled out of the Crazy Quilt class being held next week. She'd heard about the body in our alley and didn't feel safe around here at night. If we scheduled the class during the day or on a weekend, we should let her know. Of course, she would like a full refund of her class fees.
"I got a couple of e-mails like that, too," Vangie said. "It sucks."
My heart sank. Classes brought in a lot of money. There was the price of the class, plus the supplies-fabrics and notions-that we sold. Sales like the one on Saturdays were the race horses, the showy event that brought in a lot of cash. But classes were the workhorses, steadily adding to our bottom line. I couldn't afford to lose either.
"If customers don't feel comfortable coming here..." Vangie began.
I held up my hand. I didn't need her to verbalize how bad things could get if our customers got it in their heads that QP was not in a safe neighborhood. There were plenty of other quilt shops around.
"I get it. Oh man, I get it."
I crossed my hands across my stomach, trying to quell the ache that was starting there. My job was to keep things moving. "See if you can get that Crazy Quilt teacher to reschedule and let's keep track of who's bailing and make sure they know about the new class. That's all we can do for now."
Nothing to do but move forward. I picked up where I'd left off in the notion order and got to work.
An instant message from eBay came up on the laptop. Bidding had changed on a piece of pottery I'd been trying to buy. I clicked off it. There was no way I could afford that now.
My voice mail beeped. I hadn't heard the phone ring. The message was from Buster. He apologized for falling asleep last night and promised to make it up to me tonight. He was at his desk in SJPD, so his propositions were vague. He suggested I use my imagination. That sounded interesting. A smile crept across my face as I thought of all the ways he could put things right between us.
A rap came on the window in front of my desk, breaking me out of my reverie. Kym was gesturing for me to come out on the floor. A customer stood at the cash register, and another was at the cutting table, piling up bolts.
I went out to the store floor.
"Dewey, can you please help that dearie at the register? I've got Mrs. Lamb here," Kym said. "Jenn had to go to a parent-teacher conference. I told her it was okay."
I smiled at the customer through a tightly clenched jaw. If I'd known Jenn had to go, I would've told her it was okay, too, but it wasn
't up to Kym to make that call.
I took the customer's money for the pack of needles. For such a small purchase, any other of my staff would have excused herself to ring up the sale, and then go back to helping Mrs. Lamb choose fabric. Not Kym.
I gave the customer her change.
She looked at what was in her hand. "I'm sorry," she said. "But you've shortchanged me. I gave you a hundred."
I tore my eyes away from Kym and looked at the cash register. It said I'd owed her $15.11 change. I'd punched in that she'd given me a twenty dollar bill.
"Are you sure? I thought it was a twenty."
"No, it was a hundred." She had pretty blue eyes that were puzzled, as though she was trying to reconstruct a conversation. "My husband left it for me this morning, and he always puts a little red heart in the corner of my mad money. I think if you look in your till, you'll find my hundred in there."
Sure enough, there was a hundred-dollar bill with a red heart on it. I apologized profusely, and handed her the rest of her change. She refused a bag and left with her needles. There were no other customers, so I started back to my desk.
Kym was leaning against the cutting table, still talking to Mrs. Lamb. The customer had picked out at least two dozen bolts of pink and brown fabrics. Kym was holding the rotary cutter in her hand, often using it for emphasizing a point, but there was no actual cutting going on.
Kym was notorious for chatting instead of working. Our customers were mostly women with plenty to say. It was a bit of an art to know how to keep listening and working at the same time. Ina was a master, and Jenn was learning from her. Kym, as usual, went her own way.
The customer was talking loudly and gesturing. "It's not like she can tell people not to shop here. Being guild president has totally gone to her head. She thinks her shit doesn't stink."
Ouch. Profanity in my store. That could not be tolerated.
"Kym?" I motioned for her to join me at the cash register. She laid the rotary cutter down with a huge sigh. Mrs. Lamb waved at me, and I acknowledged her with another forced smile.
I turned my back to the customer, and whispered to Kym, "Can you move this along a little? We've got so much to do..."
Kym sniffed and tossed her hair. "You really don't know anything about sales, Dewey. Service is what sets quilt shops apart. Mrs. Lamb's going to buy a lot of fabric. I've been helping her pick out what she needs for a baby quilt. She needs to talk it out. It's a girl, her first grandchild."
That explained all the pink. "Really? Her first grandchild is guild president?"
Kym made a disgusted face. "Customer relations, you ought to study it."
"Wrap it up. Now," I said to Kym's back. I stood in the doorway until I saw Kym pick up a bolt and cut. She threw me a snide glance and I went back to my office.
Half an hour later, Kym and the customer were finally headed toward the cash register. Kym saw I was looking, so held up the big pile of fabrics she'd cut. She was right, that was going to be a sizable sale. I relaxed a bit.
Vangie came in from getting lunch, and plopped down on her chair.
"How are the numbers today?" she said, pulling up the P.O.S. program. "Ugh," she said when she saw the dismal sales totals.
"It's about to get better," I said, pointing out my window to Kym. Vangie whistled appreciatively.
"I barked at Kym earlier because she was talking to that woman forever. Maybe I was wrong."
Vangie chuckled. "Never-ending job, this soothing of Kym's ruffled feathers."
"What can I say? Can't work with her, can't fire her. She's family."
Vangie smirked. I started out to the front. The customer's phone rang and she stepped out on the sidewalk to answer it. I took advantage of her absence and approached Kym.
Pride wasn't easy to swallow, but I think I managed to sound sincere. "Nice job, Kym. That is a great sale. It'll make our day today."
"Told you." She was concentrating on using the cash register, so the playground taunt was the best she could muster.
I couldn't resist sniping back. "I still think you should have ended the gossip earlier."
Kym just screwed her face up tighter, as she stared at the screen. I'd better leave her alone. I didn't have time to correct any mistakes she'd make if her attention got too fractured.
The customer came back in, waving her phone, and shouting. "She's got a penis!"
Kym and I looked at one another. Had this woman lost her marbles?
She shoved her cell phone under Kym's face. I got behind Kym and could see it was an emailed sonogram. The arc of wavy lines meant there was a baby in there. I couldn't see the penis that meant this was not the expected baby girl, but a boy.
A boy who most likely wouldn't be swaddled in pink.
Penises-so often more trouble than they're worth.
Mrs. Lamb shrieked, "I'm not having a granddaughter after all. I'm having a grandson. A baby boy! Jackson George."
Kym had rung up the sale but had yet to receive any money. To her credit, Kym looked as sick as I felt.
She tried. "Okay, Mrs. Lamb, that'll be four hundred and fortyeight dollars..."
She didn't get to finish. The customer waved her off. "Oh, no, this fabric will never do. I'm going to have to start all over. I saw some lovely blue and yellows over at Fabrics 'n' Fun that'll be just perfect."
Her cell rang again, and she went out the front door without another word.
Kym slumped over the counter. I took the pile of fabric out of the bag. There were some yard cuts, lots of half yards, and one big piece that was probably meant for the back of the quilt, at least four yards. Kym had sold this woman a lot of fabric. More than she'd needed for one baby quilt. Kym must have convinced her to make the kid a new pink quilt for the next five birthdays. She'd even recommended several books, and got the woman to add on thread and a ten-pack of new rotary blades.
"That was a good sale," I admitted. I looked over the receipt. I'd have to overring the sale so the drawer would balance tonight.
"Was," Kym said.
I had no time to cry over spilt fabric. "Take the biggest piece and wind it back on the bolts. The smaller pieces will have to be cut into fat quarters. I'll need to change the inventory." More make-work. Just what I needed.
Back in the office, Vangie handed me the purchase order for the scissors. The bottom line was over four-thousand dollars. If we sold them all, we'd make that much again in profit. I felt like a gambler in front of a roulette wheel. I was about to spin the wheel and let it ride. I had to take the chance.
I said, "I'm going to go to the bank."
"Go git 'em," Vangie said.
I stood at attention. "I shall return with a cashier's check in the amount of four-thousand, six-hundred and twenty-three dollars."
"And eighty-eight cents."
I saluted her. The company was asking for a cashier's check, which meant I had to visit the bank in person, not do my usual online transactions. The bank was several blocks away. The short walk would do me good.
Vangie said, "If you get the check to the post office by three, you can mail it without having to pay extra Express mail charges."
I checked the clock. It was almost one. "Will do."
"Do you want me to address an envelope for you to take with you?" Vangie offered.
"Nah, I'm going to walk to the bank, and the post office is in the other direction. I have to pass right by here anyhow"
"Okay, then," Vangie said. She'd already plugged her headphones back in.
One step out the back door, and I was reminded of Frank Bascomb's ugly death. The cops had been gone before I got to work this morning. The only sign that anything untoward had happened was a scrap of yellow tape that clung to the vines across the back fence. I pulled the piece off and stuffed it in my pocket.
How did the dead man get here? I looked at the gravel. If he'd been dragged, there would be marks on the ground. The police had preserved the scene until early this morning, so I looked. I didn't see anyt
hing. The area around the dumpster was pretty messed up. Mrs. Unites had been out here when she found the body, so it'd be impossible to figure out if she scuffed the gravel or if a dead body had been dragged back here.
There were hedges along the back wall. I looked to see if any branches were broken. I could see nothing. No way to tell how Frank Bascomb ended up dead in my alley.
My parking lot was still full. Most of the night class customers had day jobs and hadn't been able to get here to get their cars before work. Today's customers would have to park somewhere else. Lots of inconvenience to go around, as Zorn said.
Taking up a spot, plus half of another, was an old Econoline van. I hated it when people hogged spots.
To my surprise, the driver's door opened. Tim Shore got out. "Ms. Pellicano, I'm glad I caught you. Someone hit my car while it was parked in your lot."
I followed him as he moved around the car.
"Look here." He pointed at the passenger side door panel. I had to bend closer to see anything. There was a small indentation about midway up on the back door.
"Really?" I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but it was hard. How did that happen? He'd been the last person to arrive last night. "I'm so sorry. Did they leave a note?"
He shook his head. It used to be that I'd have called my dad and let him handle something like this. The insurance agent was an old friend of his, having written polices for my family for years. I didn't want to bring him into this. I wanted to stand on my own two feet. And that meant dealing with customers who were not happy.
I straightened. I walked around the car. "I don't understand how that happened. I mean, no one could park right here. Do you think it was a door?"
I could play sweet and naive.
"Maybe," he said.
His evasiveness made me angry. "Mr. Shore, no one else has parked here. In fact, the way you're parked, there's barely room for another car."
