Cut, Crop & Die (15 page)

Bucky stared at me. Hard.

“Uh, ouch. I can’t believe I just said all that. Please … forget it. I’m not thinking straight. I’m scared. Really worried. This murder is ruining our business. People are blaming my employer. If we don’t figure out who killed that woman, we’ll go bust! And I have a child to support. Customers are complaining. The cops are grilling us. They hauled in my best friend for questioning. My boss acts like a zombie, and, and …” My voice thickened with tears. “We’re getting death threats.”

“Oooooohh. Really?” Now Bucky was interested. “Like, what do they say?”

I swallowed hard. “Stuff I can’t even repeat. It’s that gruesome. I can’t just hang around and do nothing! If this keeps up, I won’t have a job! You’d try to get answers, too, wouldn’t you? Or maybe not. Maybe you don’t need this position. For all I know, your parents run with the St. Louis Country Club set.”

“Whoa. Don’t blame me for being a rich kid. That’s not nice, lady.”

“Sorry. I’m out of line. You see, Yvonne Gaynor died right in front of me. Practically in my arms. I’ve never seen anything so horrible. I guess it’s all kind of getting to me.”
That
was the truth. The events of the past few days were taking a toll. I hadn’t realized how much I was bothered until I spilled my guts to Bucky. Suddenly, I realized I’d been running away from that scene in the church basement.

I’m not a bad person. Not really. At least, I hope not. But the way I’d just acted was inexcusable.

I faced him and said, “I’m sorry. Please forget everything I suggested. It was unworthy of me. And unfair to Bama.”

Desperate to change the subject, I touched a tube of paint. “Cerulean is my favorite color. Did you know its name came from the Greek word for sky?”

He corrected me. “The Latin word for sky.
Caelum.
The root word for ‘ceiling.’ This color was introduced by Hopfner in 1821, but wasn’t widely used until reintroduced by George Romney in England in 1860. It’s extremely stable.”

“That is so cool. I mean, it’s neat you know this stuff. Everything I’ve learned about art has been by observation, and trial and error—more error than trial. And from books. Most of this stuff,” and I swooped my arms to include the vast contents of the store, “is foreign to me. I can’t afford it and wouldn’t know what to do with it. But I’m trying to educate myself. I challenge myself to master a new technique or use a new product each week.”

A smile played at the corners of his lips. “Having rich parents does allow one the luxury of a good education. Especially in the arts. Tell you what. I’ll ask around. Maybe I can find out why Bama left. And if anyone in particular was involved. I wouldn’t ordinarily rat out a co-worker, but she really was a poseur, you know?”

I wrote my name and phone number on a slip of paper and thanked him. Before I left, he pressed a naked tube of acrylic paint into my hand. “This one’s lost the label. Take it home and experiment.”

The silver cylinder promised all sorts of delights. I fingered it happily in my purse. On the way to my car, I caught my reflection in the shop windows and muttered, “Even Bucky’s eye makeup is better than mine. I really do need to take more care with my appearance.”

Dodie floundered around the store like a fish flopping around outside of an aquarium. Her eyes were big and bovine, and her gait was uncertain and panicked. After taking Guy and Gracie for a quick stroll, I set to work organizing the paper bag album class.

My hands sorted stacks of supplies and folded bags in half. My mind swirled with ideas for developing new business. Proposals to photographers for custom albums had gone out in the morning mail. I had suggested three levels of customization: (a.) imprinted album covers, (b.) imprinted album covers plus handmade but standardized page layouts, and (c.) imprinted album covers, plus handmade and customized page layouts. I’d also tried the idea on one of the photographers. He was cautiously enthusiastic and asked me to make a sample. I had ideas and knew which paper I wanted to use, but I hadn’t had the time to go further.

Also, Dr. Andersoll’s project was a go. He promised to drop off photos next week. That was all good. But we needed more bright ideas, more incoming projects to offset the business we were losing.

One of those cartoon light bulbs went off in my head. In my mind, I saw the cover of Joan Rivers’
Bouncing Back
, written shortly after her husband’s suicide, a $3 million business loss, and a cancelled talk show. The book wasn’t your usual motivational fare. However, if anyone earned the right to discuss bouncing back, she did. The trick, she said, is to have so many balls in the air that something has to work out. Not only would the law of averages suggest at least one winner, but hopes for each new project would keep you going.

What we needed was more balls in the air. With Dodie under the weather emotionally, it was my job to start tossing.

I finished up with the paper bag albums and prepped for my favorite creativity booster, a synectics exercise, by tearing three shades of paper into small squares. On the pink, I put stages of life. On the green, I put as many places as I could think of. On the yellow, I added all the equipment I could brainstorm. My lists were eclectic and quickly scribbled. I shuffled each color group and pulled a slip of paper representing each topic. My first try yielded “childhood” (pink), “church” (green), and “hammer” (yellow). I wrote those down. I couldn’t see any relationship to scrapbooking, but I firmly agree with Nietzsche, “One must still have chaos in oneself to be able to give birth to a dancing star.” Right now the cards produced chaos. That didn’t mean I was ready to give up. I tried again. This time I flipped over “grandparents,” “home,” and “carts.” I copied those words down. I readied myself for round three when the door minder rang.

A woman of undetermined age planted herself in the center of the store, eying the paper racks nervously. This was a commonplace reaction. The awesome selection that attracts seasoned scrappers makes beginners throw up their scissors in despair.

“Hi, you look like you could use a little help.”

She tucked her purse firmly under her armpit and continued to gaze about her aimlessly.

I followed her line of sight. “Pretty overwhelming, isn’t it? My first visit to a scrapbook store I bought one sheet of paper, folded it, put it in my purse and walked out. The other customers doubled over with giggles.”

Her body relaxed. “I’d heard this is easy. And fun. But how can that be when there’s so much to choose from? Where does one begin?”

“Why not tell me about your project?”

Serena Jensen hoped to make an album for her mother. “She’s in a home for people with dementia. She’s stuck in the past. The caregivers, of course, don’t know what a wonderful and exciting life she had before the Alzheimer’s. I put a large photo of Mother in her youth on her apartment door. The nurse and the helpers responded so favorably that I thought I could do more along the same line. Maybe if there was an album about Mother’s life, it would encourage providers to see her as the woman she was. Especially on those days when she is, uh, difficult.”

“Wow. What a great idea,” I said. Actually she wasn’t the first customer who’d done this, but I’d totally forgotten about this strategy for improving the quality of life for the elderly. “And what a loving way to remind everyone to treat your mother with dignity.”

Serena’s lower lip trembled. “Do I have to do it all myself? I’ve never been handy with scissors. Mother gave up teaching me to sew! Even though I’m retired, my schedule is very busy. Between taking care of my husband, watching the grandkids, teaching Sunday School, playing golf, and volunteering at a thrift shop—” She stopped and blushed. “I hope I didn’t imply my mother isn’t important to me.”

“Mrs. Jensen—”

“Call me Serena, please.”

I introduced myself, and she interrupted with, “You must be Sheila’s daughter-in-law! She’s been telling all of us how talented you are. I should have thought to ask her where you worked. Imagine! Sheila swears you are a creative genius. A really sweet girl, too. And pretty. Which you are.”

Well, blow me down, Popeye. Sheila said all that about me? What a pleasant surprise.

“That is so kind of you to say. Now why don’t you have a seat? We can start by choosing an album style. As for the pages, you can do as much or as little as you wish. I can do the interior work, if you prefer. See? This will be easy. You just needed a little guidance.”

Not only did Serena Jensen prove to be the bearer of compliments, she was also the midwife of a great idea. After she left, I contemplated how best to approach retirement homes and independent living communities. I jotted down ideas about teaching memory album making to residents and their families.

The growling of my stomach made me look at my watch. Mert should have been by an hour ago to pick up Guy. I dialed her number.

“I know,” she answered without any greeting, “I’m coming. I jest spent another half-day being questioned by the police about Yvonne. I’ll swing by a little later, if it’s okay-dokey with you. With all this hassle from them cops, I’m running way behind.”

Why, I wondered, did the police continue to be so interested in her?

Developed by William Gordon, the name “synectics” means the fitting together of seemingly diverse elements. Creativity is, quite simply, combining old ideas in new ways. This is a simple version of the process.

Once you’ve selected your topics, write words associated with those topics. Do this as quickly as possible without pausing to think. Now put all the words associated with one topic on a particular color of cards or paper. (For example, all the car parts would be written or printed on blue index cards.) Do the same for two other topics.

Shuffle each color group. Pick one card from each color. Read the word out loud and write the trio down.

Ask yourself, “What analogies can I make between my problem and these words? How are these words different from my problem? Can any combination of these words be used to solve my problem?”

Go through the same procedure with another three cards.

If nothing comes to you, don’t despair. Sometimes your subconscious needs a bit more time to sift through the cards and work out ideas!

MY BUSY SOCIAL CALENDAR fully occupied my thoughts as I drove to Sheila’s. The barbecue at Mert’s on Sunday afternoon would be fun. She was a terrific cook, and her son Roger was a sweetie who treated Anya like she was an equal, not a pesky kid. But Opera Theatre? Brrrr. I shuddered. Getting gussied up always makes me nervous. I feel like an imposter. I worry I’m making some mysterious fashion faux pas that’s going to land me in
Glamour
magazine under the “Fashion Don’ts” heading.