Cut, Crop & Die (13 page)

“But she still liked to hang around with us when she scrapbooked,” said Rena. “Her hoity-toity pals didn’t do crafty stuff.”

Nettie shrugged. “She could show off to us, but she was bottom of the totem pole in their eyes. She wasn’t as well-accepted as she’d hoped to be. And she started gaining back the weight.”

“What was her marriage like?” I was striving for that oh-so-casual tone of voice.

The two women exchanged glances full of meaning. Rena cleared her throat and compared two identical pieces of cardstock for what seemed like forever. Nettie hummed and fingered a stack of patterned papers. Finally, she said, “Perry wasn’t happy with her …”

“Weight,” finished Rena. She put her cola can in our recycling container.

Ah, 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. I mean, 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 … fat. And lots of it. Enough to fill Oprah’s little red wagon a zillion times over.

“There was talk about him having an affair,” Nettie added. “Someone said it’s with his secretary. Such a cliché,” and she waved a hand in the air. “But still … you know, he thinks she’s different, and she will be until he marries her. Different evaporates somewhere between pursuit and capture, if you want my opinion. Of course, we shouldn’t be sharing any of this. The other woman was only a rumor.”

Rena shifted her body and turned away. Obviously, Nettie’s disclosures made her uncomfortable. She picked up a package of Mrs. Grossman’s Stickers and examined them carefully. “Nettie, all that’s just a rumor. Perry’s really a wonderful guy. Very caring. And romantic. You’re being unfair. Why are you so crabby?”

Nettie sniffed. “I haven’t been getting any sleep. They’re changing my meds.”

If the conversation lingered on the subject of marital infidelity too long, I’d surely seem to be prying. Which I was. Besides which, 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 on.

But before I could change the topic, Nettie continued, “I can say for a fact Perry lost a lot of money at the riverboats. I know, because my brother-in-law was with him when he dropped a bundle. Perry told him it wasn’t the first time. The cops should consider that a motive. I heard Perry had Yvonne insured for, well, an obscene amount.” She held up two patterned papers and a stripe for my approval. “Gee, you don’t suppose he … uh … needed the money and planned her … demise?”

We all shuddered at the thought. Riverboat gambling in Missouri had traveled down a slippery embankment and landed in hot water. At first, the state allowed gambling vessels to cruise down the Mississippi, in part as tribute to the historical steam-boats of yore. After awhile, 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.

Rena glared at Nettie. “So Perry likes to play Texas Hold ’Em. A lot of people do. It’s fun to visit the boats. He can afford to lose the money because he makes a healthy income. Perry’s really a very nice man. Kind. Thoughtful. A good father. He has the most sensual mouth.” She colored. “Yvonne always said that.”

“Who knew she had allergies?” I asked.

“Nobody,” said Nettie.

“Everybody,” said Rena quickly.

Nettie shrugged. “Yvonne was a drama queen. 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 a list of special occasions toward me. “How does that look?”

“Terrific. I’ll offer participants a discount on supplies.”

Nettie sneezed. “That darn mold.” She blew her nose and dabbed her eyes before focusing on me. “So … are you investigating Yvonne’s death?”

“No, why would I?”

“One of the other scrappers said you solved your husband’s murder.” Nettie gave me the once-over as if to determine whether I was up to the task.

“No, it wasn’t like that,” I explained. “I … uh … I didn’t solve anything. I just got in the way of a very nasty person. That’s how the whole mess unraveled.”

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. Didn’t I read every one of the Nancy Drew books over the course of a junior high summer? You betcha. And since last summer, I was an even more avid reader of mysteries. I had a newfound empathy for the characters and the puzzles they solved.)

Time to move on. “How many copies should I make? Nettie, should we use your name as the person collecting and collating the pages?”

In pearls, pumps, and a St. John’s suit, Sheila stood in her front yard, bashing mole tunnels with a shovel. Dirt flew past me and rained on her. Raising the tool again and again, she walloped mounds until they flattened. I stepped back quickly, realizing the only control Sheila had was in her upswing. Gravity took over on the down stroke.

This was going to play heck with her golf game.

“We didn’t find anything appropriate for you to wear to the Opera Theatre dinner. Friday, after science camp, Anya and I will hit more stores.” The word “hit” was emphasized with a bash of the shovel. “Don’t forget her allergist appointment tomorrow at eleven. You’ll need to pick her up early from camp.” She paused to wrestle the heel of her leather pump out of a sink hole. “Drat these stupid
hafarferot
.” She smacked 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?”

“You ninny.
Hafarferot
is Hebrew for moles, plural. The word has a common root with the verb ‘to dig.’ And that’s exactly what these rascals have done. Just look at my yard!”

From my vantage point, she’d made more of a mess than the critters had. Poor Mr. Sanchez. He would return from Mexico to find himself groundskeeper of a mudflat. 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.

She heaved a mighty sigh. “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 again.

“Let me get my kid and I’m out of here.” God forbid I should expose my sleezy Church of England roots. Time to collect my mixed-breed offspring and go home.

And 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 headed toward the front door to fetch my daughter.

“By the way,” Sheila called to my back. “She’s in a nasty mood. Up and down like that roller coaster at Six Flags in Eureka.”

I was lightly browning the Ramen noodles in margarine when I heard the cheerful question of the
Sesame Street
theme song, “Can you tell me how to get …”

“No! Not
Sesame Street
!” I raced into the living room. I heard, “Elmo likes—” and a brown, black and white fur ball flew past me, like a rocket launched toward our twenty-five-inch TV screen. Guy hit the glass hard, his body arching as he pummeled the image of the red puppet. He had not gone silently into that gentle air. No, he’d raged, raged against the fuzzy singing muppet. His yelping and snarling filled the air. He bounced like a basketball on a back-board and then fell to the floor, scrambling to his feet and beginning anew with a somersault. This time Guy boinked like a coiled spring, meeting me at eye level and intercepting my reach for the dial.

“Grab him!” I screamed.

Anya sat paralyzed on the sofa, her blue eyes open as wide as they would go.

“Anya! Help me!” This time I grabbed at the pooch and succeeded only in flailing empty air. I decided to focus on the stationary television. My finger stabbed the power button. The picture imploded, swirling red and orange as Elmo disintegrated. Not that Guy cared. He raced in tight circles, his tail in his mouth.

Anya lunged for him. He uncoiled, ran 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 and careened toward the floor.

He would have made it, too, but the electric cord wrapped his paws like a bola, bringing him to a skidding stop. The motion tangled his feet, flipped him over, and while on his back, he did a canine moonwalk. A pink tongue lolled past gooey pink gums. He was panting hard. I pulled him close and shushed him, nestling his heaving form to my chest before running 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 or Ethel with the news that he was hurt.

“Mom,” whimpered Anya as she slunk over to my side. She touched Guy gently. He responded by hopping onto her lap and shoving his tongue into her mouth. “Uuu-uck. I’m really, really sorry. I just wanted to see what would happen. I never expected this. It was an accident.”

“Anya, it was not an accident. It was an on-purpose. What would we have done if he’d been hurt? Anya, he could have killed himself!”

“I know! Honest, Mom, I didn’t think he’d go nuts! Please don’t tell Mert! She’ll kill me!”

Oh boy, I thought. Given my friend’s recent visit with the police, that was a real bad turn of phrase.

THE NEXT DAY AS we flipped the OPEN sign, Dodie got a call from a CAMP representative. The other store owners wanted to meet at three. Dodie asked if I could watch the store from two until seven.

Of course, I could. I would do anything to help, anything at all.

After my “go ahead,” Dodie retreated to her office, shutting the door firmly. Two inches of solid wood are a sure-fire conversation stopper. I desperately needed to know what was bothering her besides Horace’s unemployment, the death of a customer, and the hateful graffiti.

Duh! Put that way, the list made substantive emotional baggage. But I’d seen her go through worse and keep ticking. The Dodie I knew was an Amazon, a Bodecia, a stalwart, stoical “kick it to the curb and spit on it” figure of a woman. Years ago she’d survived the accidental death of her beloved son, Nathan. Surely by comparison, this stuff was small potatoes. More was going on than the obvious. Maybe Horace could clue me in, but dare I call him?

That course of action seemed invasive and nosy. Even for me. Even under the banner of friendship.

Instead, I decided to bury myself in my work, dialing wedding photographers and floating 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.