Cut, Crop & Die (14 page)

She responded slowly, opening the door a crack. The woman who faced me had aged six years in the six days since CAMP. The skin under her eyes sagged and buckled, and her expression lacked vitality.

“Good news.” I stood outside her office and shared the results of my phone campaign. Her face never changed.

“Fine.” 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. Why don’t you tell me about what’s bothering you? Hmm? I’m a good listener.”

Her hoary head turned away. I stared at a Brillo pad hairdo.

Not an inspiring view.

In fact, she was starting to tick me off.

“Whoa. When I had problems, you made me face up to them. So what’s the deal? The rules are different for you? I have to handle my problems, but you get to lock yourself in your office and mope? That’s not fair to me or to the store or our customers. And 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. If you do, Ellen Harmon wins!”

Her shoulders drooped and she turned to face me. A weak voice, an alien timbre said, “I just can’t … I can’t believe that horrid woman died. In front of everyone! And I’m upset with myself because I wanted her dead!”

I blinked fast and hard, trying to comprehend.

“You don’t know how cruel she was to me. How she ridiculed me in front of customers,” Dodie started. “I hated her. Despised the woman.”

I lost my chance to learn more because the door minder sounded.

I left to wait on a customer.

But while I matched patterned papers and embellishments, I repeated her words in my head.

Was my boss the killer? She’d disliked Yvonne enough to tell her to take a hike. Still, I’d never seen Dodie get that frustrated with a customer. Never. Was there a history between them I didn’t know? Could Dodie have hired someone to poison Yvonne? Had she worried Yvonne’s new status could make it hard for us to compete? Had I let her down because I didn’t enter any contests? Was her familial financial situation that bleak? Was her deep depression really remorse? Guilt? Fear?

What the hey was going on—and why wouldn’t she tell me? Shoot. This was bad. Really bad.

Anya was in a decent mood when I picked her up after camp. The top was down on my ancient candy-apple red BMW and the breeze in our hair felt great. No matter 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, my car looked fine. And in our elcheapo sunglasses from Target, so did Anya and I. I smiled to myself when I caught my daughter preening in the sun flap mirror.

“So … how was camp?” My voice was light and neutral. All the better to tiptoe through the minefield of juvenile angst.

“Ummm. 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 braced myself. I wanted to scream, “But you are only eleven!” Didn’t she think she was pushing it? Growing up too fast? While I stumbled over what to say, she moved on.

“Everybody else wears mascara. Foundation, too. If I wore eye-liner, like Nicci does, my eyes wouldn’t look like little rat eyes.”

“Little rat eyes?”

“Yeah. Missy Roland teased me about how my eyes are pink and my lashes are invisible. She says my eyes look just like the ones on lab rats.”

“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.”

She heaved a sigh to end all sighs. “Thank goodness. 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 hit to the gut. I didn’t care a lot about my appearance? I choked back a response. Was that what she thought? Was that how I looked to the world at large? A warm flush burned my cheeks. I peeked at her. She didn’t have an unpleasant expression on her face. It wasn’t like Anya to be mean. Scratch that. It hadn’t been like her in the past.

As we walked toward the tall building housing the allergists, I noticed myself in the reflective windows. My face was wavey and distorted, but even so, I wasn’t wearing a stitch of makeup. My pants sagged in the butt, like a toddler with a full diaper. My hair stuck out every which way but loose. 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, a receptionist handed over a clipboard full of paperwork. Due to my heightened sensitivity on the subject, I noticed the woman behind the counter wore makeup that was subtle, but effective, giving her a sort of polished professionalism. Maybe my unadorned self was more “aw nuts” than “au naturel.”

Anya and I sat across from a big sign—“Carry an Extra Epi-Pen!” I printed pertinent information about Anya’s health. Since I believe in including your handwriting in your scrapbooks, my script was delightfully consistent and cute. Sheila’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.” A copy of the
Post-Dispatch
article about Yvonne Gaynor’s death was pinned to the bulletin board.

The receptionist noticed my interest. “Isn’t that awful? Mrs. Gaynor was one of our patients. You can imagine how upset we’ve all been. It 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. ”

I said, “But she did have an Epi-Pen. I guess she forgot it was empty.”

“Humph. That’s ridiculous. She’d been in early that week. Doctor Sealander wrote a new prescription for pens. You don’t forget using one. How could you? First of all, it takes a major attack for you to need one. And if you have a severe reaction, you’re supposed to take the empty 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.

A practitioner clad in aqua scrubs with a pattern of tiny orange fish called Anya’s name. I followed my daughter through the rabbit’s warren of carrels, reflecting how times had changed for the better. The bright colors of the nurse’s uniform were more cheerful and reassuring than stark white. The rest of our visit was routine—yes, Anya had allergies, and the doc thought antihistamines and nose spray were our best first line of defense.

After the exam, Dr. Andersoll showed us the photo gallery in his office. Each of his children and grandkids warranted an introduction and lengthy biographical information. Finally, he paused to ask, “Could you make me a scrapbook? One I could put in the waiting room?”

“Of course I could.” And I handed him my business card. I wasn’t sure his patients were as interested in his family as he was, but what the heck?

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.

I dropped Anya off at Sheila’s, grabbed a SlimFast Optima bar from my purse, and checked my watch. Since I promised to cover the store from two to seven, Dodie had given me an extra-long lunch. There was time for a quick swing by Artist Supply, the place where Bama used to work.

You’d never guess from the neighborhood or from the outside that this was a chi-chi spot for the art-wardly mobile of St. Louis. Crumbling sidewalks, broken and boarded-up storefronts, faded neon signs, and billboards lined the north-south boulevard Art House called home. Under a ripped and torn awning, a heavy glass door streaked with layers of street dust marked the demarcation between the real world and the creative mind. One step inside, and your visual perception altered, in part because the sagging wooden floor was tip-tilted back to front. Racks of handmade paper formed a passageway. The sheets called to me. I lovingly fingered stitched mulberry paper, handmade paper, and screened prints from Japan. This place was heaven, absolute nirvana.

And totally out of my price range.

A haughty clerk with a stud under his lower lip sashayed over. Giving me the evil eye, he lisped, “The resale shop is two doors down.”

I struggled with that. Oh-kay, I thought. I suppose my current style could best be categorized as early Episcopal Church rummage sale. Well, I couldn’t let this deter me. “Um, I intended to come here. Uh, to Artist Supply.”

His left eyebrow hesitated in its elevated position. He wrestled with this moue of disdain, before simpering. “Welcome, Dorothy Gale.”

“Right. I’m not in Kansas anymore. My name is Kiki.” I extended my hand.

“Ooo-oooh. My mother had a cat named Kiki.” His fingers were long and cool.

“So did mine. Pretty pitiful, isn’t it? All my sisters got real names, and she names me after her dead pet.”

“Brings to mind Miss Pussy Galore of James Bond fame, doesn’t it? At least you weren’t named for an orthodontic nightmare.” He fluttered a floppy hand at the name tag on his breast bone. It said “Bucky.” He sighed. “Can you believe it? Pah-rents. What can I say?” His eyes (which I noticed were lightly rimmed with taupe eye pencil) twinkled as he asked, “What can I do you for, Miss Kitty?”

“Actually I need information.” I leaned toward his patchouli scented frame. The guy was built like an art easel. Did that come before or after working here? “Did you work with Bama Vess?”

Those taupe lined lids narrowed speculatively. “Why? 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 and … and … she’s after my job.” Okay, it was technically a lie, but it was something I worried about. That little umph of emotion gave my words an unexpected ring of veracity. “But I was wondering why she got let go. I wondered if it was … because of something recreational she did. See, some days she can’t even walk straight. I mean, she can do whatever she wants on her own time, but … not at work.”

Bucky studied me.

This wasn’t looking good. I arranged my face in a downtrodden look. I didn’t accuse her outright, after all. I just planted a seed. Bucky’s response depended on his level of loyalty to Bama.

Which turned out to be nonexistent.

He clucked and nodded sympathetically. “Yeah, she pulled the same trick here. I mean it’s not like I don’t toke up on weekends, but sheesh, you can’t be hanging on the display cases like a canvas drape, can you?” His fingers spread wide across this breast bone to emphasis the calamity.

“No kidding,” I urged him on. “Okay, so you tie one on after hours. No prob. But that girl weaves like a cheap serape. Is that what got her butt canned?”

“Um,” Bucky hesitated. “Nah.” He straightened a row of acrylic paints. 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.

He cast an eye around the store before fingering items on a lower shelf. His voice dropped. “A customer complained. Duke, he’s the owner, he was cool with her ’til then. That’s when the ordure hit the fan, so to speak.”

Ordure. I’d have to look up that word in the dictionary. But I got his drift. I prodded gently, “Uh, any names? I mean, I wonder who made a stink. See, uh, we’ve been blamed for that woman’s death. The one who ate the tainted food? And … do you think there’s a connection?”

Bucky angled his body away from me. “Hey, you’re talking murder, right?”

Suddenly I realized the gravity of what I was doing. And I felt ashamed. Really ashamed. In my zest to secure my job, fueled by my jealousy, I’d falsely accused another human being. My stomach knotted with a sinking sense of guilt. What was wrong with me? I covered my mouth with my hand lest any more awful comments flew out. I couldn’t believe I’d stooped so low. Okay, I’m insecure, but never before have I acted so despicably.