3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (13 page)

twelve

On the last Monday
of each month at the
American Woman
offices we hold staff meetings to present progress reports on the various issues in the works and begin planning the issue five months out. However, with so many people taking vacation last week, Naomi Dreyfus, our editorial director, had pushed the meeting back to today.

Thanks to the traffic gods smiling down on me this morning, I arrived at work in time to head into the conference room with the other editors and editorial assistants. We poured ourselves coffee, grabbed blueberry oat bran muffins—compliments of Cloris—then settled into our usual seats around the battered and chipped walnut conference table. Crafts, food, health, travel, finance, and the one editorial assistant we all shared sat on one side of the table. Fashion, beauty, decorating, and each of their assistants sat across from us.

A few minutes later Naomi and her assistant Kim O’Hara entered the room and took seats at the head of the table. I’m con
vinced that one of these days Naomi’s picture will illustrate the words
cultured
and
elegant
in the dictionary. A product of Swiss boarding schools, she looks years younger than her actual age of fifty-nine and bears a striking resemblance to the late Grace Kelly. More importantly, Naomi is a great boss. She treats all of her editors with respect and continually goes to bat for us.

She’d gone to bat for me recently to the tune of fifty thousand dollars after another Trimedia employee tried to kill me. Naomi convinced the Board of Directors that it was in their best interests to make me an offer for all my pain and suffering to avoid a lawsuit, a lawsuit that had never even crossed my mind. Thanks to Naomi’s quick thinking and her powers of persuasion, I’d made a sizeable dent in the debt left by Dead Louse of a Spouse. In addition, I'd moved my family out of the Stone Age by reinstating our wireless account. Not that I needed another monthly bill, but being without a home Internet connection severely limited my ability to work from home.

“Hugo won’t be joining us today,” said Naomi. “He’s at another meeting.”

A dozen pairs of eyebrows simultaneously headed northward. It was no secret that Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp rued the day Trimedia had gained control of his family-owned publishing company. Hugo remained publisher in title only, confined to a closet of an office on the fourth floor where the corporate bigwigs and bean counters routinely ignored him. Other than attending our monthly staff meetings, which were more due to his long-standing romantic relationship with Naomi and less about editorial input, Hugo rarely attended any Trimedia meetings.

“Don’t get your hopes up,” said Naomi. She didn’t have to be a mind reader to know what we were all thinking. Naomi spent half her days battling with the parsimonious Trimedia Board. Whenever belts needed tightening,
American Woman
became the sacrificial waist of choice. I think in great part that’s why Naomi decided to wheedle that fifty grand out of the board for me. Watching the head bean counter write that check must have given her a huge vicarious thrill.

“Not even a little?” asked Cloris.

We all held onto the pipe dream that Hugo might someday secure enough financial backing to buy back
American Woman
and the four other remaining magazines once part of the Reynolds-Alsopp Publishing Company.

“No comment.”

That in itself spoke volumes. We all knew if Naomi was privy to any information, she’d be unable to divulge a word until all parties had signed on the dotted lines. Her “no comment” comment gave us all hope.

She opened the folder in front of her, indicating the subject closed. “Shall we get on with the meeting?”

By the time each editor gave her updates on the status of various issues in production, lunch arrived. Unbeknownst to the bean counters upstairs, Naomi tapped into her miscellaneous expenditures budget to pay for our monthly deli perk. Someday they’d find out, and we’d wind up pigging out on whatever Cloris whipped up in the test kitchen, but for now we lunched on club sandwiches and sides of potato salad and coleslaw as we turned our attention to the November issue.

“Of course, as usual, Thanksgiving and a Christmas preview will be our main themes,” said Naomi, “but I’d love for us to come up with something different from what all the other monthlies will be doing. Ideas, anyone?”

“I have one,” I said.

When Naomi nodded for me to continue, I told her and my fellow editors about the crafting residents of the Sunnyside of Westfield Assisted Living and Rehabilitation Center. “Their work is so good that I’m going to contact a gallery owner I know to see about arranging a show. I’d love to do a feature story on them,” I concluded.

“What about craft projects?” asked Naomi.

“Fabric yo-yos.”

As I suspected, blank stares greeted my statement. I pulled out some of Lyndella’s yo-yos I’d brought with me and passed them around. “They’re made from small scraps of fabric. Yo-yo quilts were very popular in the nineteen-thirties and forties, and yo-yo vests gained popularity with hippies in the early nineteen-seventies. They have lots of other uses, though.”

“Such as?” asked Jeanie Sims, our decorating editor and a garage sale aficionado.

I had printed out some photos from the Internet last night. Pulling them from my file folder, I passed them around the table. “As you can see, decorative embellishments on clothing and accessories, pillows, placemats, dolls—”

“Yes,” said Sheila Conway, our finance editor. She held up the photo of a yo-yo doll. “I remember a doll just like this from a baby shower I attended years ago.”

“It’s a simple, portable craft,” I said, “and since it’s a craft that our readers’ mothers and grandmothers might have done, it ties in with the multi-generational aspect of Thanksgiving. I thought I’d feature a series of yo-yo Christmas ornaments.”

Naomi studied the yo-yo in her hand and thought for a minute. “I like Anastasia’s ideas. Now, how do the rest of you piggyback on the seniors slant?”

“Seniors are outside our targeted demographic,” said Kim. “Our readership is women in their early thirties to late forties, mostly stay-at-home and working moms, not AARP members. How do we make this work without alienating our core readership and pissing off our advertisers?”

“Most of our readers deal with elderly parents,” said Janice Kerr, our health editor. “I think featuring seniors for our Thanksgiving issue is brilliant. I could do an article on warning signs to look for when aging parents should no longer live on their own.”

“And my focus could be on how to help those aging parents and their children pick the right assisted living facility,” said Sheila.

“How about recipes handed down from generation to generation?” asked Cloris. “Maybe I can get some of you to give me recipes from your parents and grandparents.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” said Naomi. “Our readers always want to know more about our editors. I’m sure they’d love for all of you to each share a recipe.” She turned her attention to the remaining editors who hadn’t yet contributed any ideas. “What about travel, fashion, and beauty?”

“How about an article on family reunion vacation spots?” asked travel editor Serena Brower.

Naomi nodded and turned to Kim. “Are you getting this all down?”

Kim typed furiously on her iPad. “Still need beauty and fashion.”

Naomi turned to beauty editor Nicole Emmerling and fashion editor Tessa Lisbon. “Ladies?”

Nicole wrinkled her pert, twenty-something nose. “I don’t know. Maybe an article on the best products for getting rid of age spots?”

Sheila held her hands out in front of her. At sixty-two, she was our oldest editor. “I’d be interested in that. I’m already starting to get some.”

“See if you can tie it into a broader piece about taking care of your skin, no matter your age,” said Naomi.

Nicole breathed a sigh of relief. “I can do that.”

“Fashion,” said Kim.

We all directed our attention toward Tessa, every inch the prima donna of her predecessor, but scoring way below the late Marlys Vandenburg on the Bitch-o-meter. As fashion editors went, Tessa was somewhat tolerable. Sometimes.

Tessa picked up one of the yo-yos. I think she tried to scowl at it, but too many Botox injections—and Lord only knew why someone as young as Tessa needed Botox—had robbed her of much of her ability to form facial expressions. She then flung the yo-yo across the table at me. “None of the designers are featuring kitsch in their spring collections.”

“So what do you propose for your spread?” asked Naomi.

“You want me to showcase off-the-rack polyester separates?” She folded her arms over her silicone-enhanced cleavage and attempted a mini pout with her collagen-enhanced lips, but once again her facial muscles refused to respond. “I don’t do Walmart and Kmart.”

Cloris leaned over and whispered in my ear, “Remind you of anyone?”

“She’s a featherweight compared to Marlys,” I whispered back, “but I think she just climbed a few points higher on the Bitch-o-meter.”

Tessa glared across the table at us. “What are you two whispering about?”

Cloris and I offered her identical looks of innocence. “Nothing,” we said in unison.

“Cloris, Anastasia, do either of you have an idea for Tessa?” asked Naomi.

“She’s a bright girl,” said Cloris. “I’m sure she’ll come up with something suitable.”

“There is nothing suitable,” said Tessa. “Old people and fashion are as compatible as feed sacks and Prada.”

“Have something on my desk by the end of the day,” said Naomi.

Tessa pushed away from the table and stood. “I will not showcase fashion for stooped-over, wrinkly old people. It’s obscene!” She then stalked out of the conference room, slamming the door behind her.

“Now
that
sounded like Marlys,” said Cloris.

We all laughed. Even Naomi.

_____

With Naomi green-lighting my interview of the Sunnyside crafters, I now had the freedom to spend Trimedia’s dime interviewing them. Which meant I wouldn’t have to wait until Saturday to continue my onsite investigation into Lyndella’s murder. First though, I had to arrange for a gallery show. If I didn’t keep my promise to the residents, I couldn’t expect their continuing cooperation as I nosed around.

Back when I taught art in the public schools, the parents of one of my students owned a crafts gallery in Hoboken. A quick Internet search showed me that the gallery still existed, a feat in itself, given the economy. Art sales always took the first hit during an economic downturn, and although the economy continued to creep back toward pre-recession numbers, art sales would be the last indicator of a full-fledged recovery.

I dialed the number for Creative Hearts & Hands, hoping the Hulons still owned the gallery. Three rings later I heard, “Creative Hearts & Hands, Clara speaking.”

Bingo! “Hi, Clara. This is Anastasia Pollack.”

“Hey, stranger! I haven’t seen you in ages. How are things?”

I had no idea whether she knew about Karl’s death. If she did, she’d offer her condolences. If not, I’d keep mum. That wasn’t a conversation for a phone call between acquaintances after the years-long gap since last speaking. Even if she knew of my widowhood, she certainly wouldn’t know about the ensuing chaos brought about by the demise of Dead Louse of a Spouse. I planned to keep that information a closely guarded secret for as long as possible to avoid having to deal with behind my back gossip, prying questions, and pity stares.

Instead, after some pleasantries, I told her about the crafting residents of Sunnyside, stressing the quality of their work and finishing my pitch with, “I’d love to organize a gallery show for them, Clara, and I thought of you and Ronnie first.”

“Had anyone else pitched me this idea, I would have dismissed it immediately, but I know it takes a lot to impress you, Anastasia.”

“So you’re interested?”

“Crafty old crones and geezers? Hell yes! And as luck would have it, we had to postpone a pottery exhibit set to open a week from Friday. The artist took ill and won’t have a sufficient number of new pieces completed in time. Do these seniors of yours have enough work for me to choose from now?”

“Definitely.”

“Great! How soon can you get me some photos?”

“I’m headed over there now to start the interviews for my article. I’ll email photos to you later this evening.”

“Too bad the magazine works so far in advance. It would have been nice to tie in the show with the article.”

Thinking back to what Kara had mentioned on Friday, I realized the odds were against all of my crafters still being alive in November, but I didn’t mention that to Clara. Instead, I said, “At least we’ll be able to run photos from the show in the issue, and it will hit the newsstands right before the holidays.”

“True. Let’s see what sort of response we get from the show. If it’s good enough, we might carry some of the crafts and artwork on an ongoing basis or at least bring some in again for the holidays.”

Murray and the other cash-strapped Sunnyside crafters would love that. This gallery show could lead to a steady income stream for some of them.

When I hung up from Clara, I called Mabel Shapiro and filled her in on my progress.

“So this show is really going to happen?” she asked. “Some of us had our doubts.”

“Not only is it going to happen, but it’s going to happen much sooner than I expected. I need you to round up the other crafters and their work. Find a place where we can meet. I have to photograph all of your pieces for the gallery owner to choose which ones she wants.”

“You mean we don’t get to include whatever we want?”

“I’m afraid not. Space is limited.”

“Why does she get to choose?”

“It’s her gallery, Mabel. Besides, she’ll know which pieces have the best chance of selling.”

“I suppose that makes sense, but what if she doesn’t choose work from all of us? You can’t let her leave anyone out. It wouldn’t be fair.”