“The carpet mishap, right?” I asked.
Nettie nodded as she popped open her cola and pulled up a stool next to my work table. “Yes, ma’am. Until Yvonne won that contest, the only thing Ellen’s store was famous for was that carpet mishap.”
The “carpet mishap” was a legend in our scrapbooking community, a prime example of what happens when retailers lose their grip on what matters. Small children are the primary reason most people get into scrapbooking. They’re also the major reason store owners pull out their hair. Little fingers mess up paper, chew on packages of embellishments, and drizzle flooring with slobber and crumbs.
Smart store owners take all this in stride. It’s not personal. However, Ellen became incensed after a mother pushed a stroller with a teething toddler through her store, leaving behind a pathway of cracker pieces crushed into the carpeting. In her infinite wisdom, Ellen decided to make an example of the mess by publishing a close-up photo of the saltine crackers ground into her rug. Underneath the picture, she ran a one-word headline: Vandalism!
The article that followed was a rant about how children were no longer welcome in her store.
Ellen’s newsletter arrived in customers’ mailboxes the week before Christmas, along with a cheery note, “Happy Holidays!” Her customers flocked to our store, carrying in their copies for us to see. Otherwise, Dodie and I would not have believed what Ellen Harmon had done.
“Banning all children? Kiki, who are the majority of our customers?” Dodie wondered as she rubbed her elbow.
“Women with kids?” I responded.
“Ding-ding-ding! You win the prize! You, too, can work in a scrapbook store.”
All this scrolled through my head in a matter of a heart-beat. The expression on my face must have confirmed as much.
“That’s right.” Rena nodded. “Ellen ran off a lot of her clientele with that stupid carpet incident, but she’s learned her lesson, I guess.”
“You bet she has,” Nettie agreed. “She made a big deal of inviting Yvonne Gaynor’s kids to come to the store for a memorial service. Trust good old Ellen to capitalize on a tragedy. I hate that she’s benefited from Yvonne’s death. It’s just plain wrong, and I’m not the only person who thinks so.”
“The killer did Ellen a big favor,” Rena said.
25
“I’m sure that wasn’t the goal,” Nettie responded.
This was getting interesting, so I asked, “What was the goal? I mean who could have benefited from Yvonne’s murder?”
“You did,” Nettie said.
“Not hardly. We’ve been dealing with angry customers nonstop.”
“Maybe another rival store?” Rena wondered. “You aren’t the only place in the area where folks buy supplies.”
“That’s true,” I said. “Just for the record, everyone here at Time in a Bottle took Yvonne’s death really hard. I know that Dodie will want to help with the tribute album. Why don’t we make a list of special occasions you’d like layouts for? I’ll photocopy them for you. We can display coordinated papers so the album has a good flow.”
“Great idea,” Nettie said. “Some people aren’t good at matching papers.”
“I’m happy to do that, but you’ll need tell me a little more about Yvonne. I didn’t know her very well, and I want the papers to reflect her personality.”
I cleared a workspace for the women and went to the stockroom to grab more cans of cola, because my guests had drained theirs dry.
Drinking a second round of caffeine and focusing on the task at hand loosened my customers’ tongues.
In short order, I learned that one time, the three women had been neighbors, living on the same block. All that changed when Yvonne’s husband, Perry, was promoted to a management job at RXAid, Inc., a drug manufacturing company. The Gaynors lost no time celebrating his move up the corporate ladder by upgrading every portion of their lives. They traded up to a bigger house in a nicer neighborhood. They took their kids out of public school and enrolled them in private schools. With those changes of environment, the couple’s circle of friends naturally changed, too.
“We rarely saw her, except when she wanted to scrapbook,” said Rena. “Her hoity-toity pals didn’t do crafty stuff.”
“Yvonne talked a good game, but little by little, we could see signs that she didn’t fit in with the new crowd,” Nettie said.
“What was her marriage like?” I wondered. My goal was to learn whether Perry Gaynor had motive to kill his wife. Although I kept my tone of voice totally neutral, I’d stepped on a hot button.
Rena cleared her throat and compared two identical pieces of cardstock for what seemed like forever. Nettie fingered a stack of patterned papers. Finally, she said, “Perry wasn’t happy with her …”
“Weight,” finished Rena as she put her cola can in our recycling container.
There it was. The scourge of my generation of American women. Too much food, too much fast food, and too many empty calories. We were victims of our success as a nation of food producers. We’d succeeded in stocking our pantries, overloading our refrigerators and dispensing food at every stopping point along our daily path. Where could you go and not find food?
Add surfeit to surplus and multiply it by the lack of physical effort in our electrically enhanced lifestyle, and you got what we got: fat, and lots of it. Enough to fill Oprah’s little red wagon two zillion times.
“He’d been on her before about losing weight, but after his promotion, Perry was really insistent,” Nettie said while fanning a selection of papers out on my tabletop. Idly, she picked up a sheet of clashing primary colors and continued, “Perry wanted Yvonne to look like the other hoity-toity wives. She tried, but couldn’t do it. Then came talk about him having an affair. Someone said it’s with his secretary.”
“What a cliché,” Rena said. We all nodded our agreement.
Every day we heard stories from our customers about husbands who thought the grass looked greener in another yard. The plot was sadly predictable: he thinks his new girlfriend is different, and she is until he marries her. “Different” evaporates somewhere between pursuit and capture. Once a couple is committed, things revert to normal, and the cycle starts all over again.
“The other woman was only a rumor,” Rena was quick to add. “Perry’s really a wonderful guy. Very caring and devoted to his children.”
“Huh,” Nettie sniffed.
“You’re being unfair.” Rena shook her finger at her friend. “Why are you so crabby today?”
“I haven’t been getting any sleep. They’re changing my meds.”
“I hope they get them straightened out,” Rena said. With that, she concentrated on the list she was developing, a written summary of ideas for tribute pages.
I considered my options. If the conversation lingered on the subject of marital infidelity too long, I would surely seem to be prying. Which I was. Besides, I’d had my own little marital experience with a lying, two-faced sack of cattle dung, and I wasn’t eager to reminisce. Best to move the conversation along.
But before I could change the topic, Nettie added, “Say what you like, Rena. Perry Gaynor is no saint. Yvonne told me that Perry spent a lot of time at the riverboats, and he wasn’t as good at poker as he liked to think he was. I also happen to know that Perry had Yvonne insured for, well, an obscene amount.”
Rena gasped. “Come on, Nettie! You don’t mean that. You couldn’t possibly be suggesting that he needed the money and had something to do with her death?”
“They wouldn’t be the first couple to come to blows over gambling debts.” Nettie gave us a little snort of derision, underscoring how commonplace gambling addictions are becoming in our state.
One study ranked us twenty-ninth in the nation. Not top tier, but certainly indicative of a growing problem.
Riverboat gambling in Missouri had traveled down a slippery embankment and landed in hot water. At first, the state allowed gambling vessels to cruise the Mississippi, in
part as tribute to the historical steamboats of yore. After a while, boat owners argued that the cruises were dangerous and inconvenient. A compromise was reached to permanently dock the boats. More time passed, and investors diverted a small trickle of water from the Missouri River into a shallow pool, called it a tributary, and opened a casino there. With a wink and a nod, these have been nicknamed “boats in moats.” At this rate, legislators might settle for having boats sprinkled with river water to bless them.
“What if Perry likes to visit the boats? A lot of people do.” Rena puffed up with anger, the way a dog does before it bites.
“Who knew that Yvonne had allergies?” I asked, eager to change the subject.
“Nobody,” said Nettie.
“Everybody,” said Rena quickly.
“Yvonne was a drama queen,” Nettie said. “You did things her way or she made your life miserable. She was a taker, not a giver. And she took a lot.”
Rena pushed her handwritten list of tribute album page ideas toward me. “How does that look?”
“Terrific. If I think of any more, I’ll add them. I’m sure Dodie will be happy to offer participants a discount on supplies.”
Nettie blew her nose. When she finished, she turned bloodshot eyes my way. “Is it true that you are investigating Yvonne’s death?”
That threw me completely for a loop. “Heavens, no! Why would I?”
“One of the other scrappers said you solved your husband’s murder.”
My laugh sounded hollow. “It wasn’t like that. Trust me.”
I might talk big to Detweiler, but the last thing I wanted was for anyone to know I considered myself an amateur sleuth, even if, in my heart of hearts, I did. You betcha. After last summer, I was an even more avid reader of mysteries. I had a newfound interest in the characters and the puzzles they solved.
Both women stared at me. I couldn’t tell if they believed me or not. The prickly heat of embarrassment crawled up my neck. This was definitely time to move on.
“Okay, ladies. How many copies of this tribute album list should I make? Nettie, should we use your name as the person collecting the pages? Or would you rather that I have them bring the layouts to me first?”
26
The rest of my workday moved along at a quick pace. Horace phoned to say Dodie had taken a Xanax and was resting. I assured him that the store was fine.
Shortly after five, I left to pick up Anya. I pulled up to find Sheila, standing in her yard and repeatedly bashing mole tunnels. Dirt flew up and rained down on her, even though she was immaculately dressed in pearls, pumps, and a baby blue St. John suit. The only control Sheila seemed to have was in her upswing. Gravity took over on the down stroke, and the shovel blade bounced this way and that. I decided to keep my distance.
“Isn’t this going to mess up your golf game?”
“Maybe.” She paused long enough to wrestle the heel of her pump out of a hole. “How was your day?”
Her interest surprised me, and I told her about the anti-Semitic epithets written on the side of the store.
“Not surprising. People have been harassing us Jews since the beginning of time. I had a rotten day, too. Anya and I found a dress that’ll be perfect for you for the Opera Theatre event, but they didn’t have it in your size.”
“Look, that’s okay. I can take a pass on the event.”
“You certainly cannot. I have everything arranged. Anya can spend the night here at my house. Linnea will watch her until we get home. As for the dress, I’ve ordered one from another store in the appropriate size. It’ll be here Friday. Don’t forget Anya’s allergist appointment tomorrow at eleven.”
“Will do.”
“Drat these stupid hafarferot.” She whacked a loose clod of dirt and scattered chunks across a two-foot area. A clump of soil the size of a quarter landed on her nose. She rubbed it, creating a dark smudge across her stunning cheekbones.
“Ferrets, huh? At least you don’t have moles. Good news, right?”
“Hafarferot is Hebrew for moles, plural. The word has a common root with the verb ‘to dig.’ That’s exactly what these rascals have done. Just look at my yard!”
From my vantage point, Sheila had done more damage than the critters had. Poor Mr. Sanchez would return from Mexico to find himself groundskeeper of a mud puddle. Sheila had managed to mash, mutilate, or mangle every stinking blade of grass in her front lawn. I hoped she didn’t get hold of a copy of Caddyshack, or Mr. Sanchez would be in charge of a nuclear waste site.
“Hafarferot,” I tested it on my tongue.
“No. That’s a het at the beginning. It’s a more guttural sound. You might be a shiksa, but you don’t have to sound like one.”
“Excuse me,” I said as my face colored. “I am a lot of things, but I am not an abomination.”
Turning icy blue eyes on me, she gave me an expression of new respect. I guess she didn’t think I knew what shiksa really meant. Well, I did. She didn’t apologize, but I knew she wouldn’t use that word to describe me again.
“Let me get my kid and I’m out of here.”
“By the way,” Sheila called to my back. “Anya’s in a nasty mood. Up and down more often than that roller coaster at Six Flags in Eureka.”
“Thanks for the warning.” Then I rounded up my daughter and drove us both home. Fortunately, Anya is such an animal lover that Guy kept her distracted. I really was not in the mood for her moods. Swinging or stable.
To prove what a classy chick I was, I’d planned a dinner with international flair. The piéce de résistance was an Oriental salad made with Ramen noodles that I’d picked up at the dollar store. I was lightly browning the noodles in margarine when I heard the cheerful Sesame Street theme song.
“No! Not Sesame Street!” I dropped my wooden spoon and raced into the living room.
A brown, black and white blur flew past me. I watched in horror as Guy attacked the image of Elmo on our TV screen. The small dog snapped at the glass repeatedly, before turning a back flip. Undeterred, Guy scrambled to his feet. Launching himself like a coiled spring, Guy threw his body against the cartoon character. The force of his attack set my television set rocking. The makeshift shelves I’d built from wood boards and concrete blocks was not very sturdy. One more strike and the television might well come tumbling down.
Anya sat paralyzed on the sofa; her blue eyes open as wide as they would go.
“Anya! Help me!” I made a lunge at the pooch. But I missed, and only succeeded only grasping handfuls of empty air. Guy hit the TV screen. It rocked violently, ready to tip over.
I tackled the television set, just in time to keep it from toppling. Using one hip to keep it steady, I stabbed a finger at the On/Off button. The picture imploded, swirling red and orange as Elmo disintegrated.
Guy didn’t care. He was too keyed up. He raced in tight circles, his tail in his mouth.
Anya made a grab for him, but she wasn’t fast enough. Guy raced up her arm, down over her back and did a half-gainer, coming to land on the sofa. Bouncing up again, he knocked over the lamp on the side table.
My daughter made a dive for the ceramic base. Her action proved a lucky save. Now Guy was tangled in the electric cord. It wrapped around his paws like a bola, bringing him to a skidding stop. The abrupt change of momentum flipped him onto his back. With all four paws in the air, Guy did a canine moonwalk.
Dropping to my knees, I pulled him close, cradling the small dog’s heaving form to my chest. Once he calmed down, I ran tentative fingers over his frame. He was out of breath, certainly, but as far as I could tell, he was all right.
“Thank God,” I said, and I meant it as a prayer. I couldn’t have faced Mert with the news that Guy was hurt.
“Mom,” whimpered Anya as she came over to my side. She touched Guy gently. He wriggled free from me and hopped onto her lap. “I’m sorry. I know you said no Sesame Street, but I just wanted to see what would happen. I never expected this. It was an accident.”
&nb
sp; “Anya, it was not an accident. It was an on-purpose. He could have killed himself.”
“I didn’t think he’d go nuts. Honest! Please don’t tell Mert. She’ll kill me.”
Given my friend’s recent visit with the police that was a really bad turn of phrase.
27
Arriving the next day at the store, my heart thudded as I pulled into the parking lot. Holding my breath, I scanned the side of the building for more nasty messages. To my vast relief, there were none.
But that didn’t mean drama had taken a holiday. As I put the dogs in the playpen, the phone rang. A CAMP representative asked if Dodie would be available to meet with them at three. All I could do was take a message. In fact, I was filling out a pink “While You Were Out” form when my boss walked in. I crumpled the paper and told her about the call.
“You know what this means. It means they’re dumping us. They want to kick us out of CAMP.”
“Dodie, you don’t know that.”
“Yes, I do. Would you watch the store from two until closing? You can have an extra-long lunch break. I know you have to leave at ten thirty to pick up Anya.”
“Sure. I’d be happy to take over after her appointment.”
Dodie shuffled off to her office and closed the door. That wasn’t like her, and it wasn’t good for our business either. The Dodie I knew was a stalwart, stoical “kick it to the curb and spit on it” type of woman. One of the secrets to her success really wasn’t a secret at all: Dodie inspired women. My boss was a big believer in “fake it until you make it.” Dodie believed that failure was just a setback on the road to success. She had a keen sense of perspective. Years ago, she’d survived the accidental death of her beloved son, Nathan. As she once explained, “Compared to losing a child, every problem that life hands you is small potatoes.”
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 30
