Jumping to an inside page, the story continued with remarks by Ellen Harmon, owner of the area’s “premier” scrapbook store. “Yvonne Gaynor was the sweetest woman, well-liked by everyone. One of her dreams came true when she was chosen as a Scrapbook Star winner.” Ellen explained that winning this award made Yvonne a target. “It certainly is interesting that her death would occur at an event hosted by one of our competitors.”
Dodie hung over my shoulder, reading along with me, her eternally clogged sinuses rustling as she breathed warm air on my bare arms. My coffee almost made a repeat performance, as I swallowed hard to keep from upchucking. This was far worse than I’d imagined. The article had managed to prop up Ellen’s business, promote her status, and make us look like murdering creeps all at once.
A photo of Yvonne’s grieving husband and children appeared in a sidebar explaining that Memories First would host a memorial program and display of Yvonne’s work next week. The cutline under the photo quoted Ellen, saying, “We hope to raise money for Yvonne’s children.”
When I closed the paper, Dodie grabbed it away from me. She crumpled it into a ball and said, “I’m going to need a liter of Diet Coke and a bottle of Xanax to cope with this. At the least.”
With that, she headed for the refrigerator.
I sat there, stunned. Clearly the finger of responsibility was pointed our way—and we were innocent! With a feeling of dread, I decided I should check our messages. From the stockroom came the sound of Dodie shifting around cans in the refrigerator. Maybe I could get through all of the messages on the answering machine before my boss re-claimed her office.
My heart filled with dread when I saw that the phone machine’s queue was full. I pressed the replay button and listened.
One caller condemned us as murderers and thieves. Two women wanted refunds. I couldn’t blame them. Obviously, the news had spurred them to action. A lot of our scrappers are on a tight budget, and who knew when we’d offer a new CAMP session? For that matter, who could be certain we wouldn’t get kicked out of CAMP? Or go under completely? One strident voice suggested we close our doors and leave town—or else. Didn’t sound like a scrapbooker to me. Most people who scrapbook are nice. That sounded more like a hatemonger.
A few more calls ranged from demanding to furious. I was shaking by the time I recognized the warm voice of one of our regulars, Vanessa Johnson, on the phone.
No, no, not Vanessa too, I prayed. She was one of our scrapbooking stalwarts. I closed my eyes and listened.
“Dodie, Kiki, and Bama? I’ve been thinking of you. Those of us who know you realize this isn’t your fault.”
I silently blessed the woman.
She continued, “I’ve talked to a lot of your regulars. Most of us will be coming to the Friday crop. Until then, please know you are in our prayers. Hang in there.”
Learning our regulars hadn’t deserted us ignited a small flare of hope in my heart. What was it they said about the public having a short memory? Maybe by the weekend, this would blow over.
After George died, I was shocked to learn that despite our personal tragedies, life would go on. The sun would keep rising. The world would turn on its axis. Birds would sing, flowers would bloom, and the hole in your heart would get papered over, allowing you to survive.
Sitting back in Dodie’s big black chair, I looked around. Life would go on, but would the store survive? I loved Time in a Bottle. I enjoyed the women who trusted us with their photos. I thrived on being creative. I couldn’t stand to see this place that I loved—and needed—disappear.
I decided right then and there that I would do my best to protect Time in a Bottle and Dodie. No matter what the personal cost in terms of time and effort. We were not going down without a fight! And if necessary, I would lead our troops into battle.
I would start by dealing with these phone calls. Dodie would never need to hear them. That would give her a space, a chance to regroup and tap into her inner Amazon.
Mashing the button, I forged ahead with listening to messages. I was well into the queue, when a tinny, metallic voice rose from the machine. “We’re going to get you. Just you wait. You think you can kill a good Christian and get away with it? You’ll die, you monsters.”
That answering machine morphed into a monster, a toxic threat, and the source of great pain. My hands flew up instinctively, trying to protect my face. My legs shoved the office chair away from the desk. My back slammed into Dodie’s bookshelf. I sat there, wide-eyed and dry-mouthed, staring at the thing, as though it were a living source of venom. After a loud exhale, I panted with fear.
Dodie didn’t notice my distress as she lumbered past her office on her way to the front of the store. I followed her with my eyes, taking in how her shoulders were drooped with worry. The sight of her acting so downtrodden saddened me.
How on earth were we going to survive this?
I decided not to erase that strange message. Not yet. First, I would go through everything, and then I’d figure out what to do about the threat. It took all my courage to hit the play button and move to the next calls. Two customers whose names I recognized left their names and requested a callback. They wanted to know what was happening with their cameras, and blessedly, they were civil. One more message to go.
I took a deep breath and hit “play.” The same tinny voice as before suggested that God’s warriors would avenge Yvonne’s death. The caller described in hideous detail how all of us would be molested. This person named names. I listened fearfully to mine, to Bama’s, but when it came to Dodie’s, I got very angry.
I’d had it with seeing my friend and mentor batted around like a piñata. By golly, I was not going to take it anymore. I dialed Detweiler, and he picked up right away. I asked if we could meet for lunch. He suggested Ale’s Brewing Company, ABC, an eatery a few blocks south and east of the store. Making an executive decision, I disconnected the answering machine, an older model answering system. The landline phone would still work without it, but no one could leave messages. Too bad! In my humble opinion, we’d had all the nasty messages we needed for one lifetime.
I shoved the bulky machine into the bag I carry for transporting craft supplies. Now I was good to go. It seemed sneaky not to share what I’d heard, but I justified my actions. There was no reason to involve Dodie. Not yet. She had enough to deal with. The scone crisis—taken with Horace’s bad news—had battered her into a sad pancake of a person. She didn’t need another hit.
I couldn’t fix all her problems, not yet at least, but I could spare her more pain.
20
Ale’s Brewing Company occupied a former furniture warehouse on a corner in Kirkwood. Detweiler was sitting in a large booth in the back and nursing a beer.
“I’m off duty,” he said, as if to answer my question.
He ordered a Cuban sandwich of ham, roast pork, Swiss and Monterey jack cheese and other toppings, with house-made potato chips. I chose the fish and chips.
Daren, the brew master, came by and asked Detweiler how he liked his blackberry seasonal beer.
“Is it hard to brew beer?” I asked. Daren, tall and blond, with the scooped in posture of a man suffering from shyness, smiled at me. “Nah. It’s mainly about watching. Monitoring what’s going on. We hold classes on Tuesdays if you want to learn more.”
“Thanks, I think I’m good.” My meal was fantastic. The batter light and fluffy, and the fish firm and flaky. I thought I was full until Daren’s wife, Dana, happened by and rattled off a list of desserts.
I reminded myself that an apple a day is a medical prescription for good health; that made my choice simple. I agreed to split Dutch apple bread pudding with Detweiler. Of course, the pecan streusel unofficially sealed the deal.
While we shared the pudding, Detweiler passed me a copy of his tentative timeline. Almost everything was correct, but I had a point to clarify. “It must have taken people a good half hour hauling in their scrapbook gear and food. I know because I was watching for Bama, and I ke
pt checking the time.”
“Why would people bring food to an event that was catered?” Detweiler’s fork paused with a chunk of apple midway to his mouth. Instead of splitting the dessert into two pieces, we companionably took turns, dipping our forks into the warm, cinnamon pudding.
“You have to understand a crop is just an excuse to party. Scrapbookers are big eaters, so a lot of the women bring home-baked goodies or their favorite munchies. One of our customers is a big Fresca freak. She brings her own cooler to every crop.”
“How much Fresca can one woman drink?”
“I’ve seen her plow through a twelve pack in a three-hour crop. Of course, she doesn’t do as much pasting as peeing, but the point being, lots of folks had access to the food... and to the room.”
“Did you leave anyone alone in the room at any time?”
“I’m not sure. I was in and out. I didn’t really think about where everyone else was, because I was focused on doing my job.”
“So, you’re saying no one was there by herself or himself before you and your friends started arriving?”
I hesitated.
“Mrs. Goldfader and I talked last night. She told me that Mert would have been there before the event started. Mert had a key because she was tasked with dropping off the flowers and décor items first thing. The plan was for her to run back home to make a second trip bringing the food.”
I couldn’t meet his eyes.
“Kiki? When are you going to learn to trust me?”
The answer was probably never. Not with my track record with men.
Detweiler had tricked me. He’d known we’d left Mert there alone, and he’d asked me an incriminating question to see if I’d rat out my friend.
Suddenly, the bread pudding disgusted me. I set down my fork and took a long sip of cold water.
Detweiler quit eating the dessert, too. He crumpled his paper napkin and finished his beer. “I know Mrs. Chambers is your friend, but she had a reason to hate Mrs. Gaynor.”
“That was years ago.”
“Then give me another suspect. Mrs. Harmon says you were jealous of Yvonne. According to her, you copy every program she offers and fob it off as your own.”
“That’s a lie. In fact, it’s the exact opposite. Whatever we do, she copies us. I don’t know why she has such a hatred of Time in a Bottle. There are three other stores in direct competition with her!”
“Simmer down,” he warned me. “I’m only doing my job. I have to follow up, especially when I’m told there’s conflict.”
“You need another possible suspect? Okay, I’ll get you one. Let me ask around.”
“Whoa!” He slammed a palm on the tabletop. “It’s one thing for you to tell me who you suspect. It’s another for you to play amateur detective. Stay out of it, Kiki. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. If you aren’t smart enough to protect yourself, think of Anya.”
That caused steam to come out of my ears. I was so mad I could barely conjure up a response. I heard myself spitting out words. “I am thinking of Anya. If Time in a Bottle goes bust, that’s going to hurt my friends and my child. I won’t have a job. Asking around can’t possibly put me more at risk than I already am.”
That’s when I told him about the threatening phone calls and handed over the answering machine that had been tucked inside my bag. “Listen to the messages. This has already spiraled out of control.”
Detweiler shook his head and mumbled curses under his breath. “I’ll alert the Richmond Heights P.D. They can have a patrol car watch the store.”
“Have you investigated Bama Vess?” With one finger, I traced the wet circle my glass had left on the drink coaster. “Something’s not right about her. Maybe she has a criminal history.”
Detweiler leaned across the table, moving closer to me, so we were nearly nose to nose. “Don’t you dare snoop around, Kiki. Leave your co-worker alone.”
I had a sudden impulse to kiss him. Of course, I didn’t.
“Do not interfere with our investigation. Do you realize you might tip off the killer? Or be next in line? Kiki, this is dangerous stuff. I would’ve thought being chased by a gun-toting murderer this spring would have slowed you down, but I was wrong. Your escape gave you a messed-up sense of invulnerability. Quit thinking of new ways to get yourself in hot water.”
He signaled for the bill. “Tell me about this contest Mrs. Gaynor won.”
“Some bright spark at Saving Memories magazine devised a contest to round up cutting-edge work from new, undiscovered talent. The prize is publication and with that comes recognition.”
“Sounds pretty impressive.” He handed Daren his credit card after quickly reviewing the check.
“It is. The powers that be at the magazine stumbled onto a gold mine. Advertisers jumped on the bandwagon, sponsoring the contest and donating sample products as prizes. Winning means an endless supply of free merchandise from a variety of manufacturers as well as guest appearances at conventions.”
“Back up. How come the winners get ongoing freebies in addition to the prizes?” Detweiler asked.
“When a magazine publishes a scrapbook project, they also list the products that are used. Since scrapbookers want the newest, brightest, best, most interesting supplies, having your products mentioned also sells merchandise. Lots and lots of merchandise. Supplying freebies basically guarantees product placement.”
“Got it.” As he nodded, he ran his index finger around the curve created by my thumb and first finger. I felt a warming trend south of my equator. He was getting to me. My lips started to burn. Was it the vinegar I’d sprinkled on my chips or the memory of our kiss?
The restaurant was nearly empty. Detweiler didn’t seem concerned about the time. “I still don’t get it. Why would manufacturers care so much? There can’t be much profit in a piece of paper or two.”
“Scrapbooking is a three-billion-dollar industry,” I said. Noting his surprise, I added, “It’s not just paper that we use. There are also printers, copiers, photo developers, scanners, machines that laser cut designs, embellishments, adhesives, embossing machines, handheld die cutters, and so on.”
“Are these prizes the only reason women enter?”
“Heavens, no. Winners are often asked to write articles for magazines. Some go on to design their own merchandise lines. A few get paid to teach or demonstrate products.”
“You’re telling me Mrs. Gaynor became a player.”
“That’s a streetwise way of putting it, but yes. She was a real rising star.”
“Two days later, she’s dead.”
I nodded soberly. “That’s right. She had two whole days to enjoy her fame. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”
“Murder rarely is.”
21
After our lunch, Detweiler walked me to my car for a repeat performance of his knee-buckling kiss. As I drove away in a sensory fog, I had to pay particular attention to the road. Obviously, he liked me. A lot. But he hadn’t asked me to dinner or out on a date. This relationship—if indeed, it could be called that—was moving at a glacial rate.
The store was eerily quiet when I got back. Dodie had reclaimed her place in her office, staring at a computer screen. I took Guy and Gracie for a quick trip around the block. Time in a Bottle sat in the midst of a residential area, mostly inhabited by senior citizens. As our neighbors died or moved to nursing homes, new owners converted the houses to apartments or duplexes. Without the steadying influence of its senior citizens, the whole tenor of this area would change. That made me sad. The world was shifting under my feet. Anya was growing up. Dodie was wearing down. And there was nothing I could do to slow the pace of our lives.
After I settled Gracie and Guy in their playpen, I went to my work table and brainstormed new ways to bring business to Time in a Bottle. Unfortunately, my vagabond thoughts kept circling back to Yvonne’s murder. The newspaper article called her a celebrity, but that wasn’t correct. Until this particular contest, her work hadn’t
won any accolades. In fact, the magazine issue featuring her winning submission hadn’t even hit the newsstands yet. As for calling Memories First the area’s premier store, that was another tall tale. Or a case of wishful thinking.
Memories First occupied a squat building with peeling siding north of St. Louis. The interior was plug-ugly, institutional green with linoleum floors. Ellen Harmon had filled the place with rickety wire racks full of the cheapest products she could buy. Even though she copied our classes, she was always a half-beat behind. No way was her store the top of the food chain. She was barely dragging her one-celled body through the mud.
But a lot of folks believe whatever they hear on radio and TV. If it’s in print, they think it must be true. That meant that seeing an article calling Memories First “the area’s premier scrapbook store,” would stick in their minds.
Worse luck: Bad news travels faster than good news. And bad news has an adhesive power second to none. People who had never heard of our store would now associate us with Yvonne’s untimely demise.
How could we regain the luster Time in a Bottle once enjoyed? Had someone killed Yvonne for the express purpose of hurting our business? Doubtful. That was too much of a stretch, even for those of us whose lives revolved around the scrapbooking culture.
So why had she died?
Not for one minute did I believe my friend Mert had anything to do with Yvonne’s death. No, I was willing to bet that Yvonne had died because of some unknown aspect of her personal life. Unknown and known, because whoever killed her had been intimately aware of her unusual allergy.
Or was it possible that she had been killed because of something that she knew?
What secret or secrets could Yvonne have taken to her grave? A marital problem? An old grudge? A vendetta?
Could her death have been an accident? Was the tainted food intended for someone else? Was Yvonne simply both incredibly unlucky and, considering the malfunctioning Epi-Pen, incredibly ill-prepared?
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 28
