But this series of horrible events had definitely gotten to her. Almost anyone could handle an attack on one front, but being surrounded by those with a hostile intent was much more challenging. Dodie was definitely surrounded on all sides, what with Horace’s job problems, ugly graffiti on the building, threatening mail, mean phone calls, and nasty accusations from the scrapbooking community.
There was only one way I could help Dodie. I picked up my list and dialed wedding photographers. One call after another, I floated my new idea. By the fourth call, I had my spiel down pat. Would they be interested in customized albums? I tallied one “bring one by and show us what you mean,” a “let me talk with the boss,” and two “You bet! Give us prices.” Pleased with my success, I tapped on Dodie’s office door.
She responded slowly, opening the door a crack.
“Good news.” I shared the results of my phone campaign.
Dodie’s face never changed. “Fine. Keep at it.” She hadn’t invited me in, and now she was turning away.
“Hey!” I wedged the door open with my foot. “Wait a minute. I know you’ve had a bad couple of days, but geez, Dodie, what gives? You’ve got to snap out of it.”
Her hoary head turned away. I stared at a Brillo pad of a hairdo.
Not an inspiring view.
In fact; she was starting to make me very angry.
“Come on. When I had problems, you made me face up to them. Are the rules different for you? I have to handle my problems, but you get to lock yourself in your office and mope? I don’t know if you’ve noticed or not, but the business needs you. So, do I. You’ve got to get a grip. You can’t give up because of this. If you do, Ellen Harmon wins.”
Her shoulders drooped, and she turned to face me. “I’ve tried and I just can’t. That woman’s death was a dream come true. I wanted Yvonne dead!”
My gasp was loud, but Dodie’s confession kept on coming. “I despised Yvonne. I’ve only told you about how she kept dreaming up ways to cheat me. You don’t know how she ridiculed me in front of customers. You look surprised. Well, don’t be. All this happened before you hired on full-time.”
The door minder sounded, and I lost my chance to find out more. While I matched patterned papers and embellishments for a customer, Dodie’s words went around and around in my head.
Was it possible that my boss killed Yvonne? Could Dodie have hired someone to poison the woman? Had she worried that Yvonne’s new status could make it hard for us to compete?
All I could do was wonder.
28
Anya was in a decent mood when I picked her up from summer camp. The top was down on my ancient candy-apple red BMW and the breeze in our hair felt great as we headed to the allergist’s office. No matter that the passenger side front quarter panel was bashed in. Or that the car was so old it didn’t have a cent of resale value. From the left side, my car looked fine, and in our el cheapo sunglasses from Target, so did Anya and I. I smiled to myself when I caught my daughter preening in the sun flap mirror.
“How was camp?” My voice was light and neutral. All the better to tiptoe through the minefield of juvenile angst.
“Okay.” Anya’s denim blues flitted from her reflection to the passing scenery. “Mom, I want to start wearing mascara. And colored lip gloss.”
I wanted to scream, “But you are only twelve!” Didn’t she think she was pushing it? Growing up too fast? I tried to form a coherent response, but Anya hurried on ahead.
“Everybody else wears mascara. Foundation, too. If I wore eyeliner, like Nicci does, my eyes wouldn’t look like little rat eyes.”
“Little rat eyes?”
“Yes. Missy Roland has been making fun of me. She says my eyes are pink and my lashes are invisible. Just like a lab rat’s eyes.”
“Gee, what an extraordinarily hurtful thing to say. Tell you what. Let me think about the makeup, okay? I’d like to talk it over with your grandmother.”
Anya heaved a sigh to end all sighs. “Thank goodness for Gran. This isn’t really a subject you’re an expert in, you know? I mean, it’s not like you care a lot about your appearance.”
A direct kick in the shins.
I didn’t care a lot about my appearance? I choked back a response. Was that what my daughter thought? Was that how I looked to the world at large? A warm flush burned my cheeks. I took a sneaky glance at Anya. She didn’t have an unpleasant expression on her face. Her comment wasn’t said in order to hurt me, and it wasn’t like Anya to be mean.
She’d said what she said in a moment of candor.
How could I be angry about that?
The allergy practice shared office space with other medical professionals in a tall, glass and metal building that gleamed like an oversized mirror in the sun. I noticed myself in the reflective windows. My face was distorted in the building’s surface, but even so, I looked pale and washed out because I wasn’t wearing makeup. My gaze traveled up and down, taking in my appearance. My pants sagged in the butt, like a toddler with a full diaper. My hair stuck out, every which way but loose. In short, I was a walking disaster.
Was it possible that Detweiler hadn’t followed up on his kiss because I wasn’t taking pains to look like a woman? Maybe I didn’t seem interested enough in the opposite sex?
In the waiting room of Andersoll, Weaver, and Sealander, we were greeted by a receptionist. Her makeup was subtle, but effective, giving her a polished professionalism. Maybe my unadorned self was more “aw nuts” than “au naturel.” Anya took a seat under a big sign: “Carry an Extra EpiPen!”
The receptionist handed me a clipboard and a pen. Sheila had filled out most of the forms with the pertinent information about Anya’s health, but the receptionist asked me to review and initial them. My mother-in-law’s details were listed in both the “who referred you?” area and the place asking who was financially responsible for my daughter’s bills.
Anya grabbed a teen magazine with a cover article, “How to Look Hot-Hot-Hot.” When returning the clipboard to the receptionist, I walked past the office bulletin board. In the midst of articles about pollen count and dust mites was a copy of the Post-Dispatch article about Yvonne Gaynor’s death.
The receptionist noticed my interest in the clipping. “Isn’t that awful? Mrs. Gaynor was one of our patients. You can imagine how upset we’ve all been, especially since her death could have been prevented. We tell every one of our highly sensitive patients to keep an Epi-Pen with them at all times. Every second counts in a life-threatening situation.”
“But she did have an Epi-Pen. I know because I was there when it happened. I guess she forgot it was empty.”
“That’s ridiculous. You don’t forget when you’ve used one. How could you? It takes a major attack for you to need one. If you have a severe reaction, you’re supposed to take the empty Epi-Pen with you to the hospital. They’ll give you another script there. Since the effects of the pen wear off after twenty minutes, you aren’t likely to use one and go about your merry way. It’s not like running out of sugar, you know!” With that, she slammed the window shut.
Seconds later, a nurse came to the door and called Anya’s name. I followed my daughter through the rabbit’s warren of carrels. The nurse was wearing aqua scrubs with a pattern of tiny orange fish. These bright colors were more cheerful and reassuring than stark white. Fashion had come to the doctor’s office, and I wholly approved of the change. The Universe was trying to send me a message about my own appearance, and I heard it loud and clear.
We waited in an examining room for an older man with close cropped, salt and pepper hair. Dr. Andersoll shook my hand and my daughter’s. Anya dutifully answered one question after another, leading to a determination that she had non-seasonal allergies.
“Antihistamines and a nose spray will be our best first line of defense,” Dr. Andersoll said after he peered down Anya’s throat. “Once we see whether we can get Anya’s symptoms under control, I’ll decide whether to recommend skin testing.”
With his assessment over, Dr. Andersoll turned downright chatty. “Sheila is your grandmother, eh, young lady? She’s an old friend of our family. Come on and I’ll show you photos of my brood.”
We followed him to an office. On the walls were Dr. Andersoll’s various certificates of academic achievement, but behind the big mahogany desk was a bookshelf. Picture frames of all sizes were mixed in with books. Each of Dr. Andersoll’s children and grandkids warranted an introduction and lengthy biographical information. Sheila had been right: His grandkids weren’t going to win any beauty prizes. Thank goodness love truly is blind, because, as my lovely daughter had so graciously pointed out to me, I was a few votes short of Miss Missouri myself.
“Sheila showed me one of the scrapbooks you made for her with photos of Anya,” Dr. Andersoll said. “Could you make me a scrapbook?”
“For your family?”
“Yes. I was thinking about putting one in the waiting room. I’m just tickled pink about being a grandpa.”
“Of course, I could.” I handed him my business card. I doubted that his patients would be fascinated by his family photos, but who cared? He was a new customer, and for that, I was thankful.
29
Anya was hungry after her appointment; I was, too. We decided on grabbing lunch at Bread Co. “After we eat, I’ll take you with me to the store.”
But my daughter quickly nipped those plans in the bud. “No way. I am not interested in spending all afternoon at that scrapbook store. Take me to Nicci Moore’s house. Come on, Mom. It’s summer vacation.”
“Is that how you talk to me when you want something? Try again, Anya.”
“Mom, could I please go over to Nicci’s house? Would you mind?” Her voice was sugary sweet.
“Let me call her mother and see.”
I lucked out. Jennifer Moore was happy to have Anya come and visit, but added, “I’ll have to drop her off the next morning at summer camp. I promised Nicci we’d spend the day together shopping for school clothes.”
“Thank you, Jennifer. I owe you.”
“She’s always welcome here.”
At Bread Co., Anya gulped down her food in her eagerness to hang out with Nicci. I dropped off my daughter along with a bag of muffies as a thank-you gift.
“Don’t forget,” I told my child. “I’ll pick you up tomorrow after science camp. You can come to the store with me and hang out while the crop is going on.”
Anya rolled her eyes. “Whatever.” And then she relented and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. “Love you, Mom.”
The clock on the dash of the BMW showed I had scads of time before I was expected back at the store. Really, I was on a roll, because of the album Dr. Andersoll wanted. Reluctant to waste my momentum, I decided to take a quick trip to Artist Supply, where Bama used to work.
From the neighborhood you would never guess that Artist Supply was the gathering spot for the art-wardly mobile of St. Louis. Crumbling sidewalks, broken and boarded-up store-fronts, faded neon signs, and billboards lined the boulevard. Under a ripped and torn awning, a heavy glass door streaked with layers of street dust divided the real world from a creative haven. One step inside, and your visual perception altered, in part because the sagging wooden floor tip-tilted back to front. Racks of handmade paper allowed customers a narrow passageway through the store. I lovingly fingered stitched mulberry paper, handmade paper, and screened prints from Japan. The place was heaven, absolute nirvana for paper-strokers like me.
It was also totally out of my price range.
A haughty clerk sashayed over. He was thin and imperious looking with a metal stud beneath his lower lip. Giving me a curious once over, he said, “Welcome. What can I do you for?”
“Hi. My name is Kiki.” I extended my hand.
“My mother had a cat named Kiki.” His fingers were long and cool. Although his expression did not change, I sensed a softening of his attitude toward me.
“Mine did, too! Pitiful, isn’t it? All my sisters got real names, but she named me after her dead pet.”
“At least you weren’t named for an orthodontic nightmare.” He pointed at the name tag on his breast bone. It said “Bucky.”
He sighed. “Can you believe it? Pah-rents. What can I say? My mother adored Buckminster Fuller. My father did not. Bucky was their inspired compromise.”
“At least they didn’t name you Fuller, as in Fuller Brush.”
“Small favors,” he said. “What can I do you for, Miss Kitty?”
The guy was built like an art easel, and his cologne reminded me of paint thinner. Did all that come before or after working here?
“Actually, I need information. Did you work with Bama Vess?”
Bucky’s eyes narrowed speculatively. “What’s it to you, Cat Woman?”
I thought fast. I needed a reason. A good one. Oh, heck, why not go with the truth? Maybe it would set me free. “We work together at Time in a Bottle, the scrapbook store, and we haven’t gotten along. I wonder how far I should trust her.”
Bucky studied me.
“Specifically, I was wondering why she got let go from here. Is there something I should be on the lookout for? I’ve noticed she wobbles when she walks.”
“Maybe she takes a drink now and again. What’s so wrong about that?” His fingers spread wide across this breast bone to emphasis the calamity.
“After hours is your own business, but there are days at the store when that girl weaves like a cheap serape. Is that what got her canned?”
“Canned?” Bucky shook his head.
“Canned as in fired. From here.”
“She never worked here.”
“Huh? Are you sure?” I stared hard at the young man.
“Positive.”
I tried to process what Bucky was telling me, but I hit a mental brick wall. Rather than climb over it, I charged ahead again. “Maybe she was working here and left before you started. Is that possible?”
“Not likely. This is my family’s store. I’ve been working here since I could walk.”
That left two options: Either Bama lied to Dodie or Dodie lied to me.
30
While I went back and forth in my head, trying to figure out which person had lied to me, Bucky began straightening shelves. I pitched in. Picking up after customers was a never-ending and thankless job. Working side by side, even briefly, creates a bizarre emotional connection between people. Okay, most people. Between Bama and me, there was no camaraderie. Zip. Zilch. Nada. None.
Bucky appreciated my help. “You don’t have to do that.”
“I know it.”
He cast an eye around the store before fingering items on a lower shelf. Almost under his breath, he said, “Remind me never to tick you off, lady. You kinda go to extremes to track people down. Coming here. Making accusations.”
I pinched the bridge of my nose. “A woman died at one of our scrapbook crops. We’ve been blamed for her death. I’m scared. I thought that if I could find out more about her, I wouldn’t have to worry. I am worried. Really rattled.”
Bucky gripped a bottle of gesso so hard that I worried it would implode. Slowly, he turned to me and said, “You’re talking murder, right? That lady who had the allergic reaction? You were there? You think Bama killed a customer?”
His words slapped sense into me. Suddenly I felt ashamed. In my zest to secure my job, fueled by my jealousy, I’d falsely accused another human being. What was wrong with me? I couldn’t believe I’d stooped so low. Bile flooded my mouth, and I swallowed. It tasted bitter, like regret.
Bucky backed away from me. “You think your co-worker is a murderer?”
“No.” I shook my head so violently it made me dizzy. “Maybe. I’m not sure! Forget what I just said. I’m not thinking straight. Everything has gone wrong. Customers are complaining. The cops are grilling us. They hauled in my best friend for questioning. My boss acts like a zombie, and …” My voice thickened with tears. “We’re getting death threats.
”
“Really? What do they say?”
“Stuff I can’t even repeat.”
“That’s just plain wrong.” Bucky clucked his tongue. “Sounds like a hate crime to me.”
“It is. If this keeps up, I won’t have a job. You’d try to get answers, too, wouldn’t you? That woman who died? It happened right in front of me. I’ve never seen anything so horrible. I guess it’s taking a toll on me.” With that, I burst into tears.
“Hang on.” Bucky trotted to a counter and came back with a box of Puffs tissues. “Here, I buy the extra soft kind. Take a handful.”
While wiping my eyes, I realized how much I’d been repressing. I thought I was dealing well with all the problems concerning Yvonne, Dodie and our store, but that was a lie. In truth, I’d been running away from that scene in the church basement since the day it happened.
“I’m really not a bad person. Honest. The way I just acted is inexcusable. Please forget everything I just said. It was unworthy of me and unfair to Bama. It reflects poorly on Time in a Bottle.”
Bracing his arms on the countertop, Bucky rested his chin in his hands. “What made you believe this woman, Bama, worked here? Or were you going on hearsay?”
“She’s such a good dresser. Totally artsy in how she puts her clothes together. Reminds me of you, in fact. Supposedly she has an MFA, and she certainly acts like it. Tons of confidence when it comes to art. She’d certainly fit in here. I know you attract a sophisticated crowd. A lot of professionals. It all fit.”
“Look, I’ll ask around. Maybe I can find out more about her. Desperate times, right?”
On a slip of paper, I wrote Bama’s name, my name and my phone number. Then I thanked Bucky for his time. “Come by our store, and I’ll give you an instructor’s discount. I doubt that we have a lot you don’t, but maybe you’ll see different products.”
“Will do.”
On the way to my car, I caught my reflection in the shop window. My hair stood out from my head, my skin color was pasty, and my eyes and nose were bright red. I looked a lot like Bozo the Clown’s younger sister.
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 31
