Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Jackie” leaned against the doorsill. “I don’t suppose you’d like a glass of Chardonnay, would you? Seeing that it’s so hot outside, how about a Campari and orange? Either way, you might as well come inside where it’s cool.”

  She ushered me down a wide hall to her kitchen. I was thankful I was bringing up the rear because it gave me lots of time to look around. This place—and I couldn’t bring myself to call it a home—was a miniature Ethan Allen furniture gallery. Each table, chair, mirror, and picture was perfectly placed. Most astonishing, there was nothing, not one speck of dust, suggesting anything about the people who lived in this showplace. It looked to me like a decorator had chosen every knickknack and accessory. Even the pillows were coordinated, fluffed, and standing at attention. The house reminded me of a stage, waiting for the actors to appear.

  “I’m Clancy Whitehead,” she said, extending a cool and slender hand for a polite shake. “Whitehead like the pimple. Only it really should be Fathead. Because that’s what I married. You wouldn’t know it to look at me but I lost two hundred and forty pounds of ugly excess weight. I divorced him.”

  How do you follow a conversational tidbit like that?

  “I ran into the turkey the other day,” she continued. “I had to back up twice and drive over a curb to do it, but I managed.”

  I gasped.

  “Only kidding, of course.” She laughed. “Have a seat.”

  I didn’t know what to say, so I gave her a compliment as I slipped into a kitchen chair. “This place is really lovely.” I set the bag and the card on the table.

  “I’ll make sure the Gaynors get this.” She looked around and snorted. “Yes, this house is lovely and lonely and sterile. Flies have panic attacks when they are trapped inside. Come here. Let me show you my cabinets.”

  I got up followed Clancy over to a six-foot-long pantry. I’ve never had another woman show me the inside of her cabinets before. It gave me a weird sense of intimacy. But Clancy’s pantry didn’t look like any storage closet I’d ever seen in my life.

  Her pantry was stocked with cans, boxes, and plastic containers in alphabetical order. Three risers of varying heights displayed every food item. Patterned paper lined the shelves. A wipe board inside the left door listed food items by groups and where they could be found.

  My hostess left me to gaze in wonder at her organizational abilities. Glassware and ice chinked as she puttered around. The sound of pretzels being poured into a bowl was accompanied by the whisper of thin fabric napkins pulled from a drawer. I stood there staring into that pantry and shook my head. Boy, oh boy, was this woman ever on top of things.

  When I turned around, she handed me a vibrant red and orange drink in a tall cool glass. “Campari and orange. Hope you like it. Cheers.”

  The taste was unusual. A bitter start, a sweet middle, and a citrus afterglow. I liked it.

  “Pathetic, isn’t all this?” She used her glass as a pointer and indicated her shelves. “Since I took early retirement from teaching, the kids went off to college, and Fathead dumped me for a younger model, I have nothing to do all day but clean house and organize. You know, you say to yourself, ‘Someday I’ll have the time to get this all squared away.’ Then you do. And guess what? It’s a pathetic excuse for a real life.” She paused, took a sip of her cocktail, and examined me thoughtfully.

  “Tell me, Kiki Lowenstein. How did a nice person like you cross paths with Yvonne, the Vampire Woman? She really was a bloodsucker, you know. She’d suck all the energy out of you in fifteen minutes or less. The world is a better place without her. Even though her poor kids will miss her, I have no doubt they’ll flourish without that harpy snarling at them.” Clancy took another sip. “By the way, this stuff’s potent. I hope you aren’t planning to do any driving for another hour or so. Better munch on these pretzels. In fact, let me get you some cheese and crackers.”

  She put slices of cheddar, crackers, and a pot of chutney on a placemat. We sat at her table for a while, enjoying the food while I debated whether to be honest or not. The liquor created a delightful languor in my limbs. A few more swallows, and I’d be tempted to take a nap. My poor liver. I’d had more alcohol in three days than in the past three years.

  I explained everything to Clancy, starting with CAMP and ending with the attacks on our store. She proved to be a good listener. Nodding when appropriate and interjecting a quick “go on,” she kept me talking. After she got up and added more crackers to the plate, I told her about the ugly fake dog pelt on my porch and being tailgated earlier in the day. I sputtered to a stop, she said, “You need to find Yvonne’s killer. Good thing you stopped by my house. No one is home at the Gaynors’ house.”

  “Oh.”

  “Rest assured your trip hasn’t been a total waste. Here’s what I know about the Gaynors. Perry is a no good, cheating scumbag. He has at least one girlfriend and possibly two. They’ve slipped in and out of his house on weekends when Yvonne was out of town. That’s not all. Perry tells anyone who’ll listen that he’s a big time Texas Hold ’Em player. I guess that true, in that he’s a big time Texas Hold ‘Em loser, and I know that because one of the kids I taught in high school is now a croupier and he’s seen Perry donk off his chips.”

  “Donk off his chips?”

  “That’s poker speak for a player who loses bets because he doesn’t know what he’s doing.”

  “The two of them seemed bent on destructive behavior, racing to see who could bottom-out first. His gambling and her eating. See, Yvonne packed on the pounds after they moved here. He used that as an excuse to play around. Let me save you the trouble of asking. Yes, I know who he was having his tawdry romance with. Rena’s her name.”

  “Rena Rimmel? But she is—was—one of Yvonne’s best friends! How?”

  “How do I know? Rena and I go to the same church. When she learned I lived next door to the Gaynors, she cozied up to me, trying to pump me for information.” Clancy went to her refrigerator and pulled out a cold Diet Dr Pepper.

  “How did you know? Diet Dr Pepper is my absolute favorite?”

  “Mine, too. Better drink it down. You can’t fail the blow test on your way back to Missouri. Otherwise, I’d make you a second Campari and orange. Let me get you a glass for that.”

  I took the cold soda and marveled at this turn of events. We’d only known each other for fifteen minutes, and we were already best friends. Sort of. Anyone who feeds me is a pal.

  “Perry’s been having a fling with Rena for nearly a year.”

  “That long!”

  “Yes.”

  “Then Rena could be Yvonne’s murderer. She had means, motive, and opportunity. She drove Yvonne to the Botanical Garden and then to our crop. She could have brought the scones along with her. Since she hung around with Yvonne, she had access to her purse and the Epi-Pen.”

  “Sounds about right to me,” Clancy said.

  “But why would Yvonne remain friends with Rena if she was having an affair with Perry?”

  “Keep your friends close and your enemies closer? Isn’t that the old adage? I think Yvonne knew about Rena. She went to great lengths to keep old Rena in her sights at all times.”

  “Maybe, but it sure doesn’t make sense to me.”

  Clancy washed her glass and mine, dried them, and set them carefully in line with the other glasses in her cabinet. Once she finished, she stared at me thoughtfully. “Kiki, have you ever realized how tough it is for grown women to make friends in this neck of the woods? The St. Louis metro area has an unusually large population of returning adults. People know where they belong, and where they don’t. If you weren’t raised as a local, it can be painfully exclusive.”

  “Why not drop by the store? Our scrapbookers are a friendly bunch. And I can always use a friend. This is my cell phone. Call anytime. My place isn’t fancy, but maybe we can get together.” I scribbled down my name and phone on the back of a receipt for gas.

  “I’d like that. I’ll bring the Campari an
d orange.”

  “Sold!”

  61

  On my way back to the store, I phoned Sheila.

  “Anya is fine.”

  “Good to know, but that’s not what I called about. Would you share Robbie Holmes’ phone number with me? Or tell him to call me?”

  She hesitated.

  “I just talked to the Gaynors’ neighbor. She told me the name of the woman that Perry was having an affair with.”

  There was a pause. Finally, Sheila said, “What if Robbie already knows the name?”

  “Then a phone call from me can’t hurt, can it? Look Sheila, a car tailgated me on the way into the store this morning. Taken along with the fake Gracie on my porch, I’m worried. I feel like I’m being watched.”

  “George’s killer?”

  “Maybe, but it could also be someone who was involved with Yvonne’s death. Who knows? If I tell Robbie what I’ve found out, he might be able to help. If I have to wait for the cops to discover this stuff on their own…”

  Sheila compromised. “I’ll give you his phone number if, and only if, you promise to back off. When you’re in Illinois, Robbie can’t help you. That’s out of his jurisdiction.”

  “I know it.”

  “Promise?”

  I agreed, and she said she’d ask Robbie to call me.

  I walked into the store and nearly bumped smack into Bama. “I have name tags and a welcome packet ready for all our croppers,” she said.

  “Great. What about food?”

  “Not my problem.”

  “Not mine either.”

  “You’re in charge of this crop, and the one on Wednesday. I was only trying to help you out, doing the badges and welcome packets.”

  “Thanks heaps.” I didn’t care how curt that sounded. I was sick of her haughty attitude.

  Rather than hop back in my car and waste more gas by trying to buy food, I picked up the phone and dialed Papa John’s. The cost of the pizzas was minimal, and they promised to deliver them at the appointed break for food. However, most of my croppers had a sweet tooth. Where was I going to get cookies and pastries?

  I was puzzling over this when my phone rang.

  “Did you say there was a cut at your store tonight?” Clancy Whitehead asked after greeting me politely.

  “A crop. Yes, there is. There might also be a riot, because I didn’t get any cookies or pastries for my crowd. They love their goodies.”

  “Do you have room for me?”

  “Absolutely.”

  “How many pastries do you need?”

  “Four dozen at least.”

  “Consider it done. There’s a little shop called the Muffin Man on my way to your store. I’ll drop in and see what I can round up.”

  “Clancy, you’re a lifesaver.”

  She laughed, a sound rich and honest. “Actually, I was thinking the same about you. But fair warning, I won’t be bringing Campari and orange. Also, you should know most people find me a pain the butt. I’m borderline OCD.”

  “Bring it on.”

  62

  I expected Dodie and Bama to take off at five, but they didn’t. Instead, they closed the door to the office and talked so quietly that I couldn’t eavesdrop. Whatever they discussed, the conversation lasted an hour and a half. Naturally, my curiosity was piqued.

  Customers began to arrive at six thirty for the crop at seven. Most were regulars. I checked in the newbies and got them settled.

  I was shocked when I looked up to find Nettie sitting at the crop table. Typically, she wouldn’t crop with other people. Sure, she’d show up and work on sorting her photos or learn a new technique I was teaching, but when it came to creating her own pages, she liked privacy.

  “Scrapbooking is my secret pleasure,” she had told me.

  But tonight she was sitting at one end of the worktable. Her eyes were red and she wiped her nose repeatedly. “Sorry. The mold count is unbelievable. The air quality is yellow. My allergist is after me to quit smoking.”

  That led to a lively discussion with a few of our other regulars who’d given up cigarettes. Five minutes before starting time, Rena Rimmel walked in. She did not choose to sit next to Nettie. Nor had Nettie saved her a seat. I wondered if the two had had a tiff.

  “Has anyone gone to Memories First to see Yvonne’s pages? The ones for the Scrapbook Star contest?” Rena asked.

  “I’ve been meaning to, but I don’t want to run into Ellen Harmon,” I admitted. “Until all this is settled, it seems like a good idea to steer clear of her.”

  “That store is packed all the time,” said Vanessa Johnson. “Ellen is in her glory. There’s a poster that says Perry Gaynor’s employer is offering a $10,000 reward for information leading to the arrest and conviction of Yvonne’s killer.”

  Rena said, “That would explain why she kept pumping me for information. She wanted to know if Yvonne had been nervous before the crop, and whether she’d quarreled with anyone from this store.”

  Nettie wiped her nose. “Are you saying you think Ellen will try to pin this on someone? So she can collect the reward?”

  Rena shrugged. I noticed she was wearing more makeup than usual, and she’d had her hair styled recently. Maybe I wasn’t the only person who’d seen the value of sprucing up. “I don’t know what’s on Ellen’s mind. Honest, I don’t. But I suppose she’s got as good an idea who did it as anybody. She was there when it happened. She knew Yvonne. She has access to all those people trooping into her store and a reason to ask them about Yvonne without seeming inappropriate. Seems to me that she’s got the ideal set up for tracking down the killer.”

  I’d been keeping an eye on the clock and wondering if my boss was going to come out and greet our croppers. Sure enough, at the stroke of the hour, Dodie marched out and took her place at the head of the table. “Welcome, welcome, welcome. I’m Dodie Goldfader, the owner of Time in a Bottle. We’re pleased to have you here as our guests. I wanted you to be the first to hear our news. We’re launching a Design Team. Bama and I have worked out the details. Bama? Will you pass out the information sheets?”

  Thanks a lot, I thought to myself. Would it have killed them to include me in the decision making? Once upon a time, Dodie and I had been a dynamic duo. Now I was the lowest rung on the ladder.

  Dodie’s announcement sent the table buzzing like a bee hive. Naturally, there were a lot of questions. Dodie explained that a Design Team offers designers public recognition for their work. Perks include a steep discount for supplies and unlimited use of the store’s equipment. In return, design team members help a store stay exciting.

  Before our fiasco with the CAMP outing, Dodie and I had discussed the possible merits of a Design Team. But she hadn’t said anything about it since then. Her announcement totally took me by surprise.

  Get over it, I told myself. Time in a Bottle is Dodie’s store. Not yours.

  Bama stood off to one side, smirking at me. I chose to ignore her.

  Dodie explained she wanted a variety of talents and experience levels on the team: newbie scrappers, card makers, artist trading card makers, altered items specialists, and seasoned scrappers. To be considered, each participant would need to email the store six of her best pieces.

  “Who’ll be the judge?” asked Nettie. “You and your staff?”

  Dodie’s bushy dark hair swayed around face as she shook her head. “Not just us. I’ve enlisted the help of fellow store owners around the country. That way we can’t be accused of favoritism.”

  The women at the table found her methodology pleasing. We all had heard of contests where the outcome was based on personalities or pocketbooks, as in, you buy enough stuff from me and I’ll treat you like a star. Having judges from around the country would assure entrants that their work would be considered fairly.

  “What if we don’t have a big scanner?” asked Nettie. “How will we email our work to you?”

  “Bring in your pieces, and we’ll scan them. But please know, if you are se
lected, we will want to display your originals here in the store.”

  “If you can scan my stuff while I wait, that will work for me,” Nettie said.

  “Unless we’re super busy, that should be okay,” Dodie said.

  “Did anyone see that forum online where a scrapbooker copied another woman’s journaling, and then entered it in a challenge?” Vanessa asked the group.

  “No way!” All our scrapbookers responded at once.

  “What’s a challenge?” The voice came from Clancy. She handed me a brown paper shopping bag with the Muffin Man logo on one side. I thanked her and pointed out an unoccupied seat at the table.

  “A challenge is a sort of mini-contest,” Dodie said. “Scrapbookers are ‘challenged’ to use a certain technique or theme in their work. Sometimes the winner gets a prize; sometimes it’s just recognition. Usually all the challenge responses are posted for others to see and appreciate.”

  This led to a lively discussion about “scraplifting,” the use of other person’s ideas and designs.

  “That’s it for me,” Dodie said. “Thank you all for coming. Kiki can answer any questions you have. Enjoy your crop!”

  I could answer their questions?

  Inwardly, I fumed. If she’d wanted me to answer questions about the Design Team, why hadn’t she included me in the planning? Better yet, since Bama was such an expert, why not tell Bama to stick around and answer questions?

  Instead, they both walked out.

  Great, just great.

  63

  When it came to scrapbooking, Clancy was lost-er than last year’s Easter egg. She had brought a handful of photos, but she had no idea how to create a page. I got the other scrapbookers going and dedicated myself to helping her.

  The pizza guy rapped on the front door at seven thirty. We all took a well-earned break. All of us except Clancy, because she was totally involved in putting together her first page. I took her a piece of pizza, but she barely glanced away from her work.