Cut, Crop & Die (33 page)

“Yeah, it was good. I drank it with a straw ’cause otherwise you get a funny smile. Nana knows lots of tricks like that. Why?” Anya opened the door. I said nothing. Her eyes darted to the ceiling, the floor, and back to me. She couldn’t face me.

“Nice try, kiddo. Did you think I wouldn’t recognize Faygo Red Pop on your undies? No makeup. No way. And there will be a consequence for being dishonest.”

She stomped past me. “Aw, Mom!”

I kept my back to her, trying hard not to giggle. Boy, how strong it was, this urge to grow up quickly. I clamped my mouth into a straight line and led the way to the car. She pouted the whole way to the allergist. Under her breath, she grumbled and snarled.

I didn’t pay much attention to her, but I did do a lot of glancing around at other cars. I watched my rearview mirror. The events of the last few days had made me nervous about being followed. I kept my cell phone open and accessible, but I didn’t want to worry Anya.

What was I going to do? I wasn’t safe at home and I wasn’t safe at work. I didn’t have the money to move, and I needed my job. The gunshot through my car window was the final straw. That and the fake, bloody dog. Danger had found its way to my doorstep. Really, this was grinding me down. Could I live with the possibility of one of us—and I included Gracie—being hurt? And now that Detweiler wouldn’t be dropping by, were we more at risk?

Oh, George, I cast a thought again to my dead husband. Why didn’t you plan better for our future? I trusted you, and you blew it.

Yeah, well, so much for my good taste in men.

Seeing how irked Anya was, I let her go alone with the nurse into Dr. Andersoll’s office. When my daughter got like this, it was best to give her a clear berth for a while. Besides, I had sleuthing to do.

“Who introduced Yvonne Gaynor to your office? This is sort of far from where she lived.” The receptionist raised an eyebrow. I needed a reason I was being nosey. “I’m one of the scrapbookers putting together a book for her children. We’re trying to contact all her friends. You can imagine how difficult that is. We don’t want to leave anyone out. Since Yvonne was a patient, whoever recommended her must be another friend who might want to share a memorial sentiment. For the album. For her children. And family.”

The receptionist smiled. “I see. I heard a group of women were working on that project.” She glanced around. “I can find the name. I really shouldn’t do this though …”

She disappeared for five minutes and returned with a slip of paper.

Whoever recommended Yvonne would have known about her allergies, and maybe about the Epi-Pen. But the name I was holding was not one of the people at our crop. In fact, it wasn’t anyone I’d ever heard of. There goes that idea, I mumbled to myself.

Anya begged to go over to Nicci Moore’s house. I called Jennifer, Nicci’s mom, and she formally invited my daughter. Interestingly, my daughter’s language had changed. She no longer wanted to “play” at a friend’s house. The new operative phrase being the more nebulous “go over to.” I dropped her off and made a mental note I needed to get a life.

The store was quiet. Dodie was back to her down-in-the-dumps self. Maybe she was back to thinking about her lump. I sure was. I tried to busy myself to get my mind off both our troubles. I would keep my promise about not telling Horace for a while. I said a little prayer they’d have good news on one front or another.

I found cool imprintable paper for my retirement home class handout. I made up a folder with all the materials I’d need to “sell” my idea to an administrator. I unboxed more paper for my customized albums for photographers. I worked sorting the papers, and making die cuts so I could create more wedding pages in an efficient manner.

Dodie was at her desk, and I’d just come out of the bathroom when Bama marched into the back room. Her face twisted into a mask of rage. Running one hand along the wall she invaded my personal space, stopping inches from my face and shaking a finger at me. “You sicced the police on me! I didn’t do it! I have vertigo! I am not on drugs. I am not drunk. I have a medical condition. Dodie!”

Dodie rose slowly and lumbered over. She surveyed both of us. “Get a hold of yourself, Bama.”

But Bama was livid. “A hold of myself! I have never been so insulted in my life. How dare she?” Spittle flew from her lips. “This is outrageous!” And she repeated herself with, “Absolutely insulting!”

Dodie edged herself between the two of us. Thank heavens she is a big woman.

Bama screamed, “How dare you? What colossal gall!” and she jammed her finger toward me, white saliva dripping from her lips, her eyes bulging out of her head. “You, Miss Smarty Pants, you go stirring things up with my old co-workers. Thanks a heap. I finally get to put all that behind me—”

“Put what behind you?” asked Dodie.

“The old news about how Yvonne Gaynor told my boss at Artist Supply that I was on drugs.”

“Oh, that,” said Dodie.

Uh-oh.

Bama continued, “And when Miss Hotshot told her married cop boyfriend about the gossip, I was hauled in for questioning! Never mind my old boss apologized and gave me a raise. You didn’t know that, did you, Smartie Pants? No, you set out to embarrass me!”

“If he offered you a raise, why did you leave? Huh? Answer that!” I countered, yelling over the barricade of Dodie’s body. I felt a false sense of safety with her between Bama and me, like a kid hiding behind her mother’s skirt.

“Because I don’t want to work with people who don’t trust me. That’s why I told Dodie what happened before she hired me.”

Our boss turned to me. “That’s right, Kiki. I knew all about Bama. You are way out of line here.”

I sputtered. “But what about her sister? Huh? Explain that. Dodie, her sister works for the caterer!”

Gnashing her teeth, Bama stood on her tiptoes to yell at me. “My sister? She has three kids to support. Three, Kiki! Not just one like you do. Think it’s hard making ends meet with one? Try three! I called her about catering for CAMP, but Dodie knew all about it. Dodie didn’t pay one cent more. Katie got a bonus. Big deal! A whole twenty bucks! And when the cops questioned the catering staff, that stupid twenty didn’t compensate for the half day of work she lost. They grilled her like a quarter-pound hamburger!” Bama was running out of steam. Her voice wasn’t as shrill and her motions a lot less threatening. Flecks of spit were drying on her lips.

Dodie said quietly, “Bama told me about the commission. I was glad to help.” The level way she talked made my gut go liquid. Dodie was mad. More than mad. She was seriously ticked at me.

And I deserved it.

“You should fire Kiki’s butt.” Bama’s mouth sank into an angry red slash. “For all the trouble she caused me. I never did anything to you, Kiki Lowenstein. Ever. All I want to do is design work. That’s what I went to school for. And you’ve been hateful to me from day one.”

She was right. I pretty much had been. I never saw it that way, but she was right. I stared at the floor. I’d screwed up. I’d hurt her, disrespected Dodie’s authority, and jeopardized our store.

“I apologize.” I swallowed. “I was out of line. My intentions were good—”

“Good intentions? Hah! You wanted to send me to jail!”

I continued, “I worried about the business. The police weren’t getting anywhere, so I played amateur sleuth. But I was wrong. I should have brought my suspicions to you, Dodie. I’ve been jealous of you, Bama, so I found fault. And when I did, I didn’t do the right thing.”

Dodie spoke wearily, slowly. A meaty hand rubbed her temple, and she squinted. “I really did not need this right now.”

That did it. I could handle Bama’s anger and my guilt, but knowing I’d made life more difficult for Dodie was too much to bear. I was two steps from the bathroom. I hustled my sorry self inside and locked the door. I turned on the tap, running water from both spigots and under the cover of the noise, I cried. I sobbed about my stupidity, Dodie’s cold fury, Detweiler’s lies, Gracie’s ear, moving, Anya’s rejection of me, Dodie’s health, and my mom’s “sow’s ear” remark. My bushel basket of misery was full to the brim. Of course, crying couldn’t fix any of that.

But I couldn’t either.

I was at the end of my rope.

I was a royal screw-up. A bad, incompetent person. My kid didn’t want to spend time with me. I couldn’t afford safe housing. I stuck my nose where it didn’t belong. I hurt innocent people. I hurt those who had trusted me.

As usual, my sobs devolved into hiccups. I washed as much smeared mascara off my face as I could. I straightened my spine and stepped out, fully expecting Dodie to fire me.

What a pitiful two-fer. I’d lost both my job and a friend.

DODIE CALLED ME INTO her office and gestured toward an empty chair. “Dumb move, scout.”

“I understand you have to fire me.”

Her pallor accented the dark smudges under her eyes. “Fire you? It just cost me a bundle of goodwill to educate you. You have learned a valuable lesson. You didn’t trust me to do my due diligence. Hey, I checked Bama out before I hired her. And if I hadn’t been so distracted, I would have done a better job of managing you two and noticed your animosity. This is a team effort, but every team needs a coach. My head was up my butt instead of on the playing field.”

I felt cautious optimism. “That mean you want to keep me?”

“I need help running the store. You are trained. Horace and I have that appointment with the attorney. And I need the floor covered.” She wagged her shaggy head. “Plus, I still want you to go to the Memories First memorial service for Yvonne Gaynor. Given Mert, Bama, and my history with the woman, you’re the only one of us who won’t cause a problem just by showing up. That is, if you can behave yourself.”

“I’m on it. I’ve learned my lesson.” These responsibilities might allow me to get back into Dodie’s good graces.

For the moment, I was still gainfully employed. The phone on her desk rang and I rose to leave, thinking it was Horace. But it wasn’t. Dodie greeted Ben Novak. Her side of the conversation was peppered with “uh-huh” and “really?” Finally she hung up and said, “Go get Bama.” I did as I was told, wondering if my co-worker would ever forgive me. But Bama acted like nothing had ever happened. Maybe her style of anger was like a summer storm—fast, furious, and quickly over. On the other hand, maybe she was planning her revenge.

Dodie handed out cold colas. “Good news, girls. The police found our hate crime pal. Lives down the block. He’s a twenty-three-year-old man who lost his job to an Arab. But this dope thought the Arab was a Jew because the man was from Palestine. He confessed to all the damage at our store and at the
Muddy Waters Review
, plus a few more Jewish-owned businesses around the area.”

“But what about faking Gracie’s death?” I asked. “And Yvonne’s death?”

Dodie dropped her voice, “Sorry, sunshine. Seems this nut-case bragged about what he’d done—and neither Yvonne’s death nor your fake pooch made his hit parade.”

I drank my Diet Dr Pepper slowly. Our store was now safe from one miscreant. But if neither our graffiti artist nor Bama killed Yvonne Gaynor, who did? Even if Dodie let me keep my job, could she keep the doors open? My husband’s killer was still out there and cast a dark shadow over my world. And now Yvonne’s killer threatened more of the same.

Either or both obviously knew where I lived and how to get to me and those I loved. The bloody pelt had been a warning shot over my bow.

That did it. Time to grow a spine where my wishbone had been.

First, I dialed Sheila. We agreed to talk over the weekend about the house in Webster Groves. Oh, and Johnny had killed three more moles. She hired an artist to paint a tally for an inside garage wall.

Then I tackled that other procrastination-worthy item on my “to do” list—Yvonne Gaynor’s memorial event. It would be easier to go if I didn’t have to show up alone. I called Nettie.

Nettie apologized. “I’m afraid we can’t ride over together. I need to get there early. I have things to do. And I have to leave before the candle-lighting ceremony begins.”