Who had access to her purse and the Epi-Pen? After George died, the police had suspected me. Not surprisingly, I took offense at this until Mert explained to me it was customary for them to investigate family first. “You always hurt the one you love, and sometimes, you even want to choke the living daylights out of them,” she’d said.
Was it possible that a member of Yvonne’s family was involved? Could it be that Yvonne’s husband was in a relationship with someone else? Did he have a life insurance policy on his wife? How could I find out?
Detweiler’s warning came back to me: “Stay out of it. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. If you won’t protect yourself, think of Anya.”
Maybe he was right.
Pushing my speculations aside, I concentrated on coming up with a new technique for the Friday Night Crop. At Time in a Bottle, we gave our customers more than they expected. We were always looking for ways to sweeten their shopping experience. Providing super classes, ongoing support in the store, the latest merchandise, and an on-site computer and printer were some of the extras we offered our customers.
Not to mention, my talent for dreaming up new techniques, sharing tips, and putting together fun projects.
And Ellen Harmon said we copied her.
Huh! Not hardly.
22
To my surprise, Bama never showed up for work. Finally, I couldn’t take the suspense; I had to ask Dodie. “Isn’t Bama scheduled to work? I would never have left you alone in the store over lunchtime if she wasn’t on the schedule.”
“Her niece and nephew have come down with a stomach bug,” Dodie said. “She’s home with them.”
I caught myself just in time. I almost said, “Aren’t the kids her sister’s responsibility?” But Dodie’s voice was sharp as a brand-new X-acto blade. A sixth sense warned me not to question my boss on this. Although I grumbled to myself, I decided to leave the topic of Bama alone.
At five o’clock, the last customer walked out our front door. As I picked up my purse and the dog leashes, Dodie said, “I almost forgot to tell you. I was at my local library branch, and I picked up a stack of magazines from the freebie bin. I brought them here for you. I know how you love them. Walk out to my car with me.”
“This is fantastic,” I said. She held the dogs while I hauled the heavy paper bag into the trunk of my car. “Thanks so much.”
“You are my Sunshine,” she grunted. “Gotta keep you shining.”
A lump in my throat had to be swallowed down. I gave her a hug. “It’ll all work out.”
“Maybe.”
That seemed to be the best she could do.
I drove Guy and Gracie home. Along the way, a neighbor had set up an “I trust you” produce stand. Tomatoes, cukes, and radishes sat on an old aluminum TV dinner tray. A handwritten index card was taped to a coffee can. It said, “One lb. for 25 cents.” I dropped in a quarter and selected a large ripe tomato. The sun-warmed fruit in my hand promised a juicy, delightful taste.
Pulling into my driveway, I was kind of glad to have the house all to myself. Without Anya to care for, I could put my own needs first. My goal was to forget about all my troubles, for a while at least. I put Detweiler at top of the list.
After feeding the dogs, I fixed myself a huge bacon, lettuce, and tomato salad.
When I was growing up, every family on our block planted at least a dozen “tomay-ter” plants in the backyard. The red fruit I’d selected did not disappoint. Unlike the tasteless veggies bred to withstand coast-to-coast shipping, this homegrown beauty yielded up a mouthwatering taste. The first bite of my BLT salad transported me to a simpler time and place—and I enjoyed my meal immensely.
Afterward, I took a hot bath and dug into an old copy of Psychology Today that I pulled from the bag Dodie had given me. It should have been paradise: a great meal, fascinating read, and a relaxing bath.
But I couldn’t stop worrying.
Was Dodie going to be okay? Who had killed Yvonne Gaynor? How would we rebuild our business? Why didn’t Detweiler pursue our relationship? When did my daughter get so sassy? How could I get out of the upcoming fancy Opera Theatre dinner with Sheila?
As luck would have it, this particular issue of Psychology Today shared a relevant article, explaining that researchers have found a worry gene, a genetic component passed down through families.
That figured. One more problem people could blame on their mothers.
Of course, we always worry about the wrong things.
23
The next morning as I pulled into the Time in a Bottle parking lot, I was greeted by a great, big red swastika, painted on the side of our building. Written in spray-painted letters were the words, “Die Jews! Die!” I staggered out of my car like I’d been punched in the gut.
Thank goodness dogs can’t read. Gracie and Guy simply stood beside me, wagging their tails and wondering why we weren’t going inside the building.
I fumbled around in my bag and dialed Detweiler’s number. Meanwhile, Dodie drove her big black Expedition up the alley and parked beside me. I faced the building, but she didn’t. Consequently, she didn’t see the graffiti as she climbed down from the driver’s seat.
“Oh!” It leaked out of her, a low moan of spiritual pain.
“It’s okay.” I stepped between her and the ugly epithet. “I called Detweiler and—”
But she’s taller than I am, and I couldn’t keep her eyes from locking onto the ugly symbol of hate. Dodie pushed me aside gently.
“Dodie, don’t. Wait. They’ll need to look for evidence.”
Despite my pleas, she stumbled forward. Her normally ruddy complexion turned ghastly pale before she ran for the bushes, making tortured retching noises.
I tied the dog leashes to my car door and hurried to her aid. Puking preferences are highly individualistic. I always feel like I can’t breathe and even though it embarrasses me, I like to have someone nearby. George used to lock himself in the bathroom, refusing all help or attention. Anya wants someone to hold her lightly around the waist so she doesn’t tip into the toilet.
I had no way of knowing how to help Dodie, or if I should, so I stood a respectful distance, until she sagged like a marionette whose handler had dropped the strings. Kneeling beside her, I put my arm around her big shoulders to keep her steady and called Horace, her husband.
“Oy vey,” he moaned. “My poor, poor farmutshet darling. My own sheyna ponim! Her parents, you know, they survived the Holocaust. My poor darling. Please say I am coming to her. You’re a good friend to my kallehniu.”
Only later did I learn he’d said Dodie was “exhausted,” calling her by his pet nickname “pretty face,” and thanking me for being a good friend to his “little bride.” Horace’s switch to Yiddish signaled the depth of his despair. Given her family history, I could understand why the vandalism hit her so hard.
I helped her to her feet. She swayed against me. No matter how I tried to rationalize it, her recent behavior was out of character. The woman I’d known for years had been stronger than rebar. What is happening here?
“Let’s get you back to the car, where you can sit down. Horace is on his way. It’s just paint.” I helped her settle into the driver’s seat of the Navigator.
Detweiler and Horace pulled up within seconds of each other. They made an odd pair, Detweiler being well over six feet and Horace barely topping five. I relinquished my spot beside Dodie to her husband. The gentle way he slipped his arm around his wife reminded me how comforting it was to be married. Dodie rested her head against the little man, the way Tiny Tim relied on his crutch.
“Horace? I’ll take care of the store. Go on home, Dodie. Put your feet up and take a break, okay?”
“Mr. and Mrs. Goldfader, the crime scene people are on the way. They’ll see what clues they can uncover. Have you had any threats at home? On your home phones perhaps?”
Detweiler didn’t let on that he was now in possession of the answering machine from the store. I was more grateful than ever
that I’d spared Dodie from hearing it.
“I’ve been getting mail at home addressed to me with … images,” Dodie said.
I was shocked. She’d never mentioned any such problems to me. Turning her bleary eyes toward the building, she added, “I suppose this is about Yvonne Gaynor, right? We had all those calls yesterday.”
“I took a few off the answering machine, but it wasn’t as bad as we expected. Really, it wasn’t. Try not to stress out about this, Dodie. Sure, a few people have wanted refunds, but you know scrappers. They were just being practical. Vanessa Johnson phoned to say that she and our other regulars sent kind thoughts.”
“Thank you, Kiki,” Horace said. His balding scalp reflected the sunlight like a beacon of hope in the gray of the parking lot.
“A police department clerk called your customers yesterday and told them we’d finished looking over their cameras,” Detweiler said. “We’ve made arrangements for them to be returned. The women acted pleased. None of them seemed rude or angry. I realize this has been tough on you and your business, Mrs. Goldfader, but try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this.”
Dodie’s mouth quivered. “How can I stop worrying when you even suspect me? You asked me to come to the station the night before last, after the store closed.”
Shock number two. Anger, swift and hot, raced through my body.
Hadn’t Detweiler told me he wasn’t ruling out anyone? I knew that the two of them had talked, but I wasn’t privy to the details. Never in a million years would I have imagined him asking Dodie to come down to the police station for an official interview.
“You know that I have to investigate every possibility, Mrs. Goldfader. That’s my job.” He glanced my way. “Even Kiki is under suspicion.”
Despite how infuriated I was, I gave Dodie a little wave, a flutter of my fingers and a “yep, me too” nod of the head.
Horace’s lively eyes studied the bigger man. An almost imperceptible movement of his eyebrows acknowledged his understanding of Detweiler’s difficult position. He patted his wife’s arm. “Let’s go home, my love. Allow me to drive you, please. Do not worry about your car. I can drop you back at the store if you decide to return later.”
“Horace, is there anything I can do to help?” I asked after he’d closed the passenger door with Dodie safely inside.
“God gives troubles and shoulders.” Horace turned sad hazel eyes to the heavens. “Thank you, Kiki. You are a good friend to our family. If I think of anything, I’ll call you.”
People could say what they wanted about how mismatched they were physically, but Dodie and Horace were the perfect couple. They depended on each other, turned to each other for consultation and comfort, and most of all, respected each other. That old-fashioned word “helpmeet” came to mind. Dodie once told me, “I can’t understand people being rude to their spouses. Your husband or wife should be the one person in the world you treat with loving patience. He or she chose you above all others—for a lifetime! Yet I see women who are nicer to their girlfriends, and men who are more thoughtful toward their employees. That’s meshuganeh. Friends come and go. Employees move on. Your partner is there beside you for the long haul. He deserves your best every day of your life.”
It was a comment I took to heart. I only prayed that one day I would have another chance to put her advice into practice.
24
I was fine while my energies were concentrated on Dodie. However, the minute I was alone in the store, I shook like a sapling in a tornado. That was weird because I knew that our parking lot was swarming with law enforcement officials. Furthermore, I knew I was safe, because Detweiler had escorted me inside and checked the store out before he left.
Stop it, I told myself. Buck up, Kiki. You don’t have the luxury of going to pieces.
Dodie was on her way home. Bama had the day off, or so our schedule said. That left me flying solo. The sales day hadn’t officially begun. Here was my chance to shine by working on new programs and products.
Putting on my thinking cap, I created a fun page to show off the “subtitle within a title” technique. This idea would work well for our next crop. As is my style, the project was both simple and versatile. It was also fast, taking me only minutes.
Moving right along, I wanted to put together a project that would be truly one-of-a-kind. Something different. Something unusual. Sitting on the top of our trash was an empty brown paper bag that had held Dodie’s lunch the day before. I picked it up and turned it over in my hands.
The color and texture of the kraft paper appealed to me. True, the bags weren’t archivally safe, but they would make a fun way to collect memorabilia after a trip or special event. Why not turn three or four bags into a makeshift album? As a cheap project, they were unbeatable. I could whip up one in no time.
Meanwhile, not a single customer set foot in our shop. Not one.
The hours flew by. A uniformed cop stuck his head inside to tell me the offensive words were gone from the side of the building. Horace had called up a handyman, who had sprayed paint over the ugly message. The crime scene folks would be leaving, but the cop reminded me that patrols would be keeping an eye on Time in a Bottle. I thanked him and went back to my ideas. I wanted to make a second paper bag album to go with the first.
While I stood back to critically assess my results, Nettie and Rena walked in.
“I know, I know,” Nettie said to me. “You’ve never seen me this late in the day. I’m usually such an early bird. But Rena wanted to stop by, and I needed more patterned paper.”
“Actually, I’m glad to see both of you. I was thinking of sending you both a note. I am so sorry about Yvonne. My sympathy goes to you both, as well as her family. I know you three were close. I recall she rode along with you to the crop. That must have been especially hard, going home from our event without her.”
Despite Detweiler’s warning about meddling, or perhaps because of it, I was determined to move this investigation along. The fact he’d fingered both of my friends — Dodie and Mert — as suspects added to the urgency.
“That’s right,” said Rena. “I drove that day. Yvonne was so excited about the contest she chattered nonstop. She was really full of herself. I hate to speak ill of the dead, but Yvonne made Nettie sit in the back with our supplies because she’s started smoking again. That’s so gross, Nettie. I can’t believe you’re doing that. Stinks up everything.”
Nettie shrugged off the aspersion and added, “Yvonne was on a roll. She called us the day she got the news because she couldn’t wait to brag about winning. Have you seen her pages on the magazine’s website?”
“No,” I said. “I haven’t. The last time she was here, she was still learning. To be frank, I hadn’t realized her skills were so advanced.”
“They weren’t.” Nettie flopped her hand in a gesture of disapproval. A whiff of stale tobacco floated my way.
“Yvonne got better. A lot better,” Rena said. “Her death is devastating to her family. Really. Poor Perry, her husband, is going to need a lot of TLC to get through this.”
“Harrumph.” Nettie cleared her throat and blew her nose loudly into a grubby handkerchief. “Pollen count is up. Sorry.”
“We thought we’d make a memorial album for the family,” Rena said. “Or we could do a group project. We figured you’d want to contribute.”
“Of course, I would and so would the store. What do you have in mind?”
“We talked about making pages for the kids to fill in as the years go on. Leaving blanks for birthdays and holidays and such. What do you think?” Rena asked.
“Sure, but why not a tribute album?” I asked.
Nettie shrugged. “They’re already making a tribute album for Yvonne over at Memories First. Ellen is planning a big event, but she hasn’t set a date yet. Sometime next week, we’re guessing. We wanted to do something different. Do you have any more colas? Good. While you get me one, I’m going to step outside and have a ciggie.”
<
br /> “Don’t mind Nettie,” Rena said when I returned with the cold cans of Diet Coke. “You know about her problems, right?”
“Problems?”
“It started with a tick bite,” she said quietly. “You know how those pesky deer ticks are everywhere.”
I did indeed. Each month I dosed Gracie with an expensive medicine to protect her. That concoction worked, but those nasty blood suckers also loved humans. After every trip to the park, Anya and I searched ourselves and each other for tiny black dots, not even as big as the punctuation marks at the end of a sentence. More often than not, we found them, behind our knees, on our necks, and in other more embarrassing places. Every fold of skin served as a hiding place for the tiny ticks.
“Nettie contracted Lyme disease. The disease has caused her to have brain lesions and seizures. The seizures are under control, but she also has really big mood swings. Medication can keep the ups and downs in check, but she hates the way the drugs make her feel, and she’ll stop taking them at the drop of a hat. Also, when she smokes or drinks too much caffeine, she goes a little crazy, I guess. Ditto when she doesn’t get enough sleep. Basically, she’s alienated her whole family. Her husband left her. Her kids moved away as soon as they finished high school.”
“Wow.” My heart went out to Nettie. Suddenly, I put her sharp comments and her angry manner in another light: the woman was hurting.
“All she has is her scrapbooking,” whispered Rena as we heard the front door minder buzz. “It’s her whole life.”
Nettie clomped back toward us, bringing with her a whiff of stale tobacco smoke. Seeing her friend approaching us, Rena quickly changed the subject. “Ellen Harmon is putting tribute pages up on the store website as quickly as they come in. But she isn’t doing it because she cares about Yvonne. Ellen is a publicity hound. She’s enjoying all this attention.”
“You can say that again.” Nettie barked a nasty laugh. “Under most circumstances, Ellen won’t even let kids into her store. Now she wants to make the Gaynor kids the centerpiece of this big deal at her place. Talk about a total turn-around.”
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 29
