Cut, Crop & Die (32 page)

After writing down the website address so I could check out the concert, Johnny leaned over and gave me a peck on the cheek. “Take care, babe. I’m still dreaming about your dancing. Maybe we can even have ourselves another picnic, and I’ll bring the music, huh?”

My mouth twitched. Dreaming about my dancing? What a hoot.

Johnny might as well have reached out and twisted Detweiler’s, uh, nose. The detective’s angry stare followed the other man out the front door.

Detweiler wasted no time, launching into a rant as soon as the door slammed shut. “Have you lost your mind? You’ve got to be kidding. You can’t date that man! He’s a felon! He’s on parole! Good grief, use your head, Kiki. Think about Anya.”

“I have thought about Anya,” I said. “This is none of your business. Now are you interested in information I have about the murder? Or should I phone it in to Robbie Holmes?” He flinched and sputtered and tried to interrupt, but I raised my palm to him. He carried on, cursing quietly under his breath. I told him what I learned about Bama being fired after Yvonne Gaynor told the boss at Artist Supply that she was on drugs.

As I spoke, Dodie ambled out from the back room. She was on her way to give the cop a piece of her mind, when a flock of customers showed up. It happens that way. For hours you’ve got nobody, and then boom, the place is packed. Detweiler was taking down specifics of my conversations with Bucky when I noticed Nettie carefully examining metal embellishments in the next aisle. Here, I’d thought she’d left.

Detweiler tapped his notepad with a pen. He leaned close and said, “How about we go together and take a look at Yvonne Gaynor’s scrapbooking pages? We can do it tonight. I can pick you up and—”

“No. Huh-uh. I don’t think so, Detective.” I wasn’t falling for that. He wanted the chance to get me alone. He wanted to explain away his dishonest behavior and lecture me about seeing Johnny. Luckily, there was a way around making a site visit with him. “I don’t need to go to her house. A few of her pages are online at the magazine’s website, and others are on display at Memories First. I’d rather start there. Believe it or not, I’m not eager to be in your company.”

He reached over and took hold of my forearm. “How badly were you cut?”

I gave him a cold “Hands off, pal.”

He shook his head, his eyes full of pain and his face stricken. Whatever was happening beneath the surface went beyond feeling competitive with Johnny. Detweiler felt pain, real pain. “Kiki, we have to talk. It’s not what it looks like. You need to let me explain.” Those amazing green eyes took on a hurt puppy expression.

Worst of all, I wanted him to explain. I teetered on an emotional edge. Oh, how I wanted to fall into his arms. I wanted to be with him. I wanted to tell him how much I cared—

But I saw Brenda in my mind. I swallowed and said, “It is what it is. I have nothing more to say.” I spun and walked away before I lost my nerve. He could be replaced with two new men. A two for one special. I was so done with him and his lies.

His hand grabbed my retreating shoulder. He said softly to my back. “Tell the kid I … I asked about her, and for goodness sake, at least tell me how Gracie is.”

I froze. I didn’t turn around to face him. “Fine. My dog is fine. I am too. We’re all doing very well, thank you.” I didn’t trust myself to say more. I pulled away. I took my supplies for cutting letters to another table, went back to work, and didn’t raise my head as I heard him walk away.

I blotted my eyes hurriedly.

“Ahem.” Nettie stood at the foot of the table trying to get my attention. “I came back because … see, I was planning to go over to Memories First on Friday. Ellen is kicking off a weekend dedicated to Yvonne. Would you like to drive together?”

I answered, “Yes,” and we started to make the arrangements when my phone rang. Sheila was breathless with excitement. “He caught one! The trap went off. Anya and I saw the dastardly thing wiggle. Those were its death throes. Johnny got a mole! They’ll all be dead soon! One by one, he’ll kill them, ha ha!” The call ended with a maniacal laugh.

She’d lost her mind.

ANYA SPENT THE NIGHT with her grandmother. The two of them set a timer and ran out into the front yard at intervals to check for dead moles. Pretty sick if you ask me.

Horace walked through my house to make sure I was safe before saying good night. This was getting old. My boss agreed that one of us—and I was the most likely prospect—had to go over to Memories First and see what Ellen was doing—mainly whether she was casting aspersions on our business.

Okay, and I wanted to solve the mystery. I was sick and tired of dealing with fallout from Yvonne’s murder. Once the killer was found I would never have to talk to Detweiler again. If we were really lucky, within the next day or two Police Chief Holmes would nab the hate-mongers who were vandalizing our store and terrorizing me and my dog. Suddenly the weight of what I was dealing with hit me hard. Gee, no wonder I felt like I’d been wrung through my grandmother’s old wringer washer. I stopped by a convenience store and bought a big bottle of cheap wine on sale.

At home, I took a long, hot shower. I sat down at my old computer and worked on handouts for the retirement home classes. I planned to present the handouts with a project sample to several administrators. I’d put in a couple of hours when Johnny called and we made our plans for the day of the concert. Sort of. I committed to going, and we decided to firm up details later. He couldn’t talk long, and I was too tired to be sociable. I got off the phone , poured a glass of the wine, sipped it slowly, and went to bed with Gracie and one of my mysteries borrowed from the library.

The next morning, I added a spoonful of raspberry preserves to peanut butter on a whole wheat English muffin, sliced up a banana, and settled in to plan my day. First, I needed to call Ellen’s store to check out their weekend schedule and report back to Nettie. Second, I would view Yvonne’s pages on the magazine website. Third, I would take my daughter for her return trip to the allergist. At 3 p.m. I was scheduled to work the store. There I needed to check in a big shipment that had arrived late yesterday, tag it, and set it out. Our current inventory would need rearranging.

I finished my muffin and washed my plate. That house in Webster Groves was very, very appealing. By my calculations, I was $1200 short of the first and last month deposit, and a couple hundred short of the rent each month. I tried to imagine being indebted to Sheila and felt uncomfortable. I could easily foresee the two of us disagreeing—and she’d hold the money over my head.

Was my neighborhood really so unsafe? Would the house in Webster Groves be safer? I scrubbed my tub and thought.

The prominent author was in residence most of the time in the main house. The setting was small town. Webster Groves maintained a real, live downtown, and as a result the surrounding neighborhoods had a 1950s “we know each other and help out” type of feel. Meanwhile this neighborhood grew steadily more transient.

I mopped with Mr. Clean and thought about Detweiler. My tears plonked into the rinse water. I tried really hard not to get upset, but memories flooded back. I remembered him laughing with Anya about an incident at science camp. I thought about how he loved to wrestle with Gracie. She heard me sniffle and poked her muzzle under my chin. That’s when I broke down and cried in earnest, big gulping sobs. “It’s going to be all right, isn’t it, girl? Think of the two new men I’ve met. Pretty soon, I won’t even think twice about that old cop, will I? And you won’t either, right? We’re tough, eh? You and me?” But Gracie only lifted sad brown eyes to mine.

She didn’t agree; I could tell.

I threw myself into cleaning. After a while I was cried out and my housework was done. This place was small enough I could clean it top to bottom in a couple of hours. I let Gracie out, rinsed the cut on her ear with hydrogen peroxide, and booted up the computer.

The website for
Saving Memories
magazine was full of articles to read, sample pages, books to buy, links to products, and the winners of the Scrapbook Stars contest. Yvonne’s bio noted she’d scrapbooked for six years. (I found that very hard to credit.) Her favorite technique was acrylic paint on pages. (That surprised me. I’d showed the ladies how to use big foam letter stamps with acrylic paint, and she’d made a real mess of everything. I remembered mopping up after her.)

Yvonne’s layouts were the biggest shock. They were extremely sophisticated, eclectic, and bold. Her use of color was skillful. Her incorporation of found elements was imaginative. How could I have misjudged this woman’s talent? I closed down the computer and stared at the blank screen. Here I’d thought she was a little below average in her skills. But the work she’d turned in was terrific … and I had this weird sense of déjà vu.

Still … I see a lot of pages, and everything runs together in my mind. I was putting on lip gloss when it hit me. Yvonne’s pages bore a startling resemblance to Nettie Klasser’s work. Well, no surprise. Scrapbookers who crop together regularly teach each other skills. They consult on choices. They share tools and attend classes together.

I tackled my #2 item on the “to do” list. I phoned Memories First. Minnie Hertzog answered the phone. I knew her from an altered books class we attended at Artist Supply last year. Minnie chattered happily, “We’ve got lots happening. Yvonne’s pages will go on display Friday. As you know, the magazine website only shows four of them—we’ve got the rest. There’ll be a big memorial candle-lighting ceremony starting at dusk. Ellen has asked Nettie Klasser to say a few words.”

That threw me. Nettie hadn’t mentioned she would be eulogizing her pal.

Minnie added, “We’re offering drop-in classes featuring the techniques Yvonne used on her pages.”

“Gee, that’ll be a little hard without her, won’t it? I mean, sure you can figure out how she did the stuff, but it’s a lot more complicated without the artist.”

Minnie lowered her voice. “Promise never to tell anyone I told you this … but I bet Ellen or somebody here at the store helped her. I really don’t know who. It wouldn’t be the first time a winner had assistance, would it?”

I thought of the chat I’d seen online about one woman stealing another’s journaling—and about how much scrapbookers helped each other in general. “Yeah, seems to me I’ve read about women working together on contest entries. Sort of a support group, I think.”

“That’s right,” said Minnie. “In fact, we’ve had crops where people worked on challenges together. Frankly, I don’t know where the line is between authorized and unauthorized help, do you?”

“No,” I said honestly.

After that call, I drove to my mother-in-law’s, thinking and thinking the entire time. It was the kind of aimless thinking like when a dog circles a spot before deciding where to lie down. I just couldn’t find my spot.

Whatever.

Something bothered me, but I couldn’t grasp it. The subconscious mind knows no master. I’d simply have to wait.

Sheila sat in a rocking chair watching what resembled croquet wickets all over her yard. A foot high stake topped with an orange flag marked each metal hoop. She gave me a tour of what was left of her lawn.

“A trap shaped like a pair of scissors extends under the ground. The mole pushes the trigger as he moves along. The blades are sprung and cut him in half. It’s wonderful!”

“Ugh. That’s awful.”

“No! It’s effective and works fast. A mole can extend a tunnel by 100 feet a day! A good mole trapper knows exactly where to set the trap. Johnny figured out which was the main runway.”

“Runway? Like an airplane?”

Sheila peered at me carefully. “You aren’t laughing about this are you? Think of all the damage these pests have done to my yard.”

Frankly, Sheila had inflicted the majority of the damage. Those hills were nothing compared to the holes she’d dug. I bit the inside of my lip and responded vigorously. “No, ma’am. I’m just trying to make sure I’ve got this all down.”

“He figured out which was the main tunnel by flattening all the rest and watching. Those horrible animals returned to the main tunnel. When it popped back up, he knew where to set the traps.”

I scanned the area. She was right. Not all the tunnels had traps along them. “Why not put traps on those tunnels too? Or are they like extra rooms the moles don’t use?”

“Those might be feeding tunnels for finding grubs or worms. Where my lot edges the woods out back, Johnny found another set of tunnels, probably where the mole nest was.” Sheila’s eyes sparkled. Oh yeah, the hunt was on. “Got two of them so far. Cut those nasty suckers right in half!”

ANYA RACED TO THE car. “Mom, we have to go home. Now. Before the allergist. It’s an emergency.”

I started to argue and then thought better of it. Instead, I told Sheila goodbye and backed out carefully.

“What’s up, Anya Banana?”

“You told me I could wear makeup when my periods started. Guess what? They started!”

My baby. My little girl. I forced myself to concentrate on the traffic. Months ago, I’d collected the paraphernalia a woman needs when she has her monthly cycles. I’d boxed and gift-wrapped it. Today was a red letter day. George, I said silently to my dead husband, can you believe it? Our child is now a woman.

We stopped at home and ran inside. With trembling hands, I pulled the package from its hiding place and gave it to Anya. “Pass your underwear to me, honey. I’ll get the stains out.”

“La la la,” she sang from the other side of the bathroom door. Good. I had wanted this to be a great experience rather than a negative or frightening one.

“After the allergist can we go buy makeup? You said I could when I started. There’s this party one of the girls at camp is giving next weekend, and boys will be there. I don’t want to look like a baby.”

“It depends on how much time we have, honey.”

She handed her panties out the door. I stared at them. “Hey, by the way,” I asked casually. “How was your day with your grandma? Did Linnea buy that Faygo Red Pop you wanted to try?”