Cut, Crop & Die (34 page)

She still didn’t mention giving a eulogy. Maybe it was to be a surprise. She added almost as an afterthought, “You get a look at Yvonne’s pages on the magazine website? Notice anything odd about them?”

“Her style is a lot like yours.”

“No kidding! Yvonne was a thief. She swiped ideas. My ideas and my designs. Those were my pages she turned in. Mine! She just swapped out the photos. Ellen was her accomplice. Now we’re all supposed to show up and feel bad that that two-timing, back-stabber is dead.”

I shook my head. I didn’t have the energy to pursue this.

“If I were you,” she said, “I’d stay home. Trust me. You don’t want to be there.”

I explained I had no choice.

“That’s a shame, because I like you,” she said sadly. “You’ve always treated me fairly.”

At least one person didn’t think I was a complete idiot.

I called Mert and begged for girlfriend time after work. With Johnny back in town, we hadn’t seen each other much. As per usual, she was there for me. With a bottle of Shiraz. And a plate of stove-top cookies, which are really nothing more than peanut-butter and chocolate fudge with a little oatmeal.

There are many roads to Nirvana. If chocolate, sugar, and alcohol don’t lead there, I can’t make the trip.

“I’m done sleuthing. All I’ve gotten is a broken heart, a bullet wound, and a mad co-worker. Not to mention, possibly a pink slip,” I sipped my third glass of wine, grateful I didn’t have to drive anywhere. Mert sprawled out on an overstuffed chair from my previous life. She got up to pour more wine and patted my shoulder.

“Yeah, you behaved like an ignoranus,” she said.

“That’s ignoramus,” I corrected.

“Not how I mean it.”

Thanks, I thought. I needed that.

Mert’s hot-pink halter top with sequins around the neckline contrasted nicely with her crisp white short-shorts. On her feet were raspberry sandals with three-inch high heels. I wore an old T-shirt of George’s and a pair of drawstring cotton pajama pants. I was half-propped up on my sofa with a pillow under my armpit so I could keep on drinking. My plan was to go from slightly buzzed to unconscious without a scintilla of sobriety in between.

“I’m coming to grips with being indebted to Sheila. That’s the only way I can swing a move. I can’t go on living here, Mert. It’s not safe. And it’s not fair to Anya. Or Gracie.” I sucked on a cookie, letting the sugary confection melt in my mouth. “Gosh, this is good.”

“I’ll leave you to wallow in your misery. I got houses to clean tomorrow.” She gazed down at me benevolently. “I can tell you like them cookies. That’s your sixth one in two minutes. Don’t worry none. I’m leaving you a plastic container to get you through the weekend.”

Huh. That little care package wasn’t even going to last me through the night.

WITHOUT NEEDING TO GET my daughter up and to camp, my morning was leisurely. Which was great because my headache was powerful. I sipped a cup of tea with my Advil.

I was busy all morning with summer activities pages to be displayed throughout the store. Dodie buzzed in around noon. “Could you watch the store the rest of the day? Horace and I need to chat about his Chicago trip.”

Time passed quickly. I had completed four sample albums for the photographers, and I was working on a presentation outline and a sample page for the retirement homes. I also dreamed up a “Summer Magic Class” and managed to use the new Disney shaker box embellishment we had tons of, as well as the metal adhesive word “soccer.” Our customers were always more likely to try a new product after seeing it on a page. Dodie would be pleased with my progress. The mail brought responses for custom albums from yet another couple of professional photographers.

I tried not to think about my troubles. It would all be much easier if I had someone to talk to, someone like … Detweiler. I missed his friendship, his dropping by, and his good counsel. There was a quality about him, a reasonableness tempered with empathy that made tough times easier. Unlike most men, he didn’t try to solve my problems. Instead, he would listen carefully. “I can tell you are worried,” he’d say. “I have confidence you’ll make the right decision. Is there anyway I can help?”

A splotch on a piece of cardstock I’d been working with told me I’d been crying.

It was nearly closing time when Johnny stopped by. The band he’d proposed we see on Friday was a country and western group. I didn’t care. Being on a date was the highlight for me. I was flexible when it came to music. And since I couldn’t dance to country or western, we were safe.

While we chatted, Dodie called.

“Please open tomorrow and work until you leave for Ellen Harmon’s. Bama has a doctor’s appointment the same time as Horace and I are meeting with the attorney.”

She didn’t ask. She told me. This was a new low. But I was in no position to complain. After I hung up I realized it would be tough to get from Ellen’s store and back to my house in time for Johnny to pick me up.

He drawled, “No problem. They owe me a couple of hours at work because I came in last weekend. How about I drive you to the other store, and we go from there to Riverport? That’ll give us more time together.”

Anya spent the night at her grandmother’s, giving me my second morning in a row to putter around uninterrupted. I started laundry, pausing after my cup of tea to fold whites. With my hands busy, my mind wandered. As far as I knew, the police hadn’t made any headway with Yvonne’s killer. And I’d sure learned my lesson about playing detective. The CAMP stores posted notice of the $10,000 reward. But the flurry of tips must not have yielded anything solid.

Well, it really wasn’t my problem.

I decided I’d better make myself indispensable at work. The first order of business was making an “I’m Sorry!” card for Bama. Then, I tackled next month’s class calendar. Every so often, I checked my image in the bathroom mirror. I was wearing a tight pair of embroidered jeans and a sleeveless surplice top in blue. The jeans might be a bit warm, but it was better than being exposed to mosquitoes. I’d taken special care with my makeup. This was my first real date in nearly thirteen years, and I was nervous.

I also wondered if I was doing the right thing. I loved Mert, and I trusted her. But Johnny was her brother. What if I wanted to quit seeing him or if we quarreled? What would Mert do? Did I really feel comfortable dating a man with a prison record? No. I’d rather be on the other side of the law with a cop. But I remembered Detweiler’s dishonesty. The fact the detective warned me away from Johnny encouraged me to take perverse joy in dating the man. All things considered, Ben Novak would be a more suitable choice. But he hadn’t asked me out. His visit had been strictly business.

My track record with men stunk. First George, then Detweiler, and now a felon. Suddenly the excitement of having a date evaporated like so many fizzy bubbles.

Oh, well. I’d made a commitment for one evening, and one evening only. One night at Riverport would not a romance make.

Clancy phoned. “Have you heard about the memorial ceremony? What a pile of poop! I swear, Ellen Harmon is a dirty-fisted grave robber. She’s lower than a maggot in a dumpster. There’s a page on her website about ‘those in the scrapbook community who can’t possibly understand the grief we feel.’ Can you believe it? Behold, the new Queen of Tacky!”

“You planning to attend?”

“If I don’t go, I won’t have anything to gossip about, will I?”

“No, you won’t. I’ll see you there.”

“I wouldn’t miss it. Hey, guess who snuck into the Gaynor’s house last night under the cover of dark? Rena. How’s that for a motive? Out with the old and in with the new, eh? She and Perry didn’t even wait until old Yvonne was cold in her grave.”

“No kidding,” I said. “Well, my sleuthing days are over, but that sure is interesting.”

At a quarter of one, Bama came in to relieve me. I handed her the card I made and apologized once again.

“Whatever. Forget it.”

I hoped not. I wanted to remember how out of hand my snooping had gotten. Jealousy, not the desire to right a wrong, had been at the root of my investigation. Even as we talked about the calendar for the next month, I realized how hard it was for me to give up control. I liked being the person in charge of the classes and crops.

It didn’t help that Bama wasn’t a warm and fuzzy type of person. Our personalities were oil and vinegar. Still, that was a lousy reason to suspect someone. And I hoped I’d learned my lesson.

Johnny showed up at two on the dot. Bama eyed him with unconcealed interest.

“I have my cell phone on, if you need anything this evening,” I told my co-worker as we paused by the front door.

Johnny laughed, “Babe, I doubt you’ll be able to hear the ring over the band. Take a night off. This woman seems perfectly capable.”

She was. And that was the problem. Correction, that was
my
problem.

St. Louis suffered through another muggy summer day. Humidity drove the heat index to an uncomfortable three-digit temperature. Johnny stopped at a drive-up window and bought us large colas for the ride.

Memories First was a long drive from our store. By the time Johnny and I arrived, and after drinking all that liquid, I needed the facilities. I started toward the back of the store and noticed Nettie studying a wall display of Yvonne’s work. Considering how negative she’d been, I wondered why she agreed to say a few words. As shy as she was, it seemed totally out of character. I wanted to ask her why she’d bothered, but I needed to use the bathroom first.

A huge sign over the sink read: “Careful! Hot water!” A bit of acrylic paint under my nails had lodged there after working on a page title. I scrubbed carefully, being vigilant about the water temp.

It stayed cold. That was odd. What was the deal with the big warning sign? I sniffed the air. What was that smell? Bathrooms could get funky, but this one smelled funny. I didn’t see a drain. The little room held a hot water heater and a small tin storage cabinet for sanitary supplies and cleansers.

Knock it off, Kiki, I told myself. No more snooping!

I rejoined Johnny, and we stood in line to view a collection of Yvonne’s winning pages. When my turn came, I stepped up, stared at the layouts and realized I had seen every one of these designs before … in Nettie’s album. Oh, boy. I backed into Johnny, pulling him away. “We need to step outside.”

On my way to the door, Minnie Hertzog intercepted us. She nattered on about how nice it was to see everyone. By her calculations, almost a hundred people were jammed into the small building.

“Is Nettie giving a eulogy?” I asked.

Minnie shook her head. “No, she begged off. Said she has to go before we get to the candle-lighting. That’s weird because she asked to be a part of the ceremony. She was after me nearly every day for a schedule of events.”

Crud. I had a sick feeling I knew exactly why. All the pieces were starting to make sense. “Minnie, is the water in your bathroom really hot?”

“I burned myself just this morning. It rushes out scalding first thing because the sink is right next to the water heater. I keep telling Ellen it’s silly to waste money on gas in the summer, but she never listens.”

I pulled my phone from my pocket and excused myself ostensibly to return a call from my daughter. Johnny raised one eyebrow but blessedly didn’t ask questions. I hustled us out the front door and off to one side where we could speak privately. More and more people streamed past us into the store. The parking lot was full. Visitors were finding spaces farther down the street.

If I was right, this was bad. Really bad. The more people who arrived, the worse the situation became. My face must have reflected my alarm.

“Babe, what’s the deal? You okay?” Johnny slipped a loose arm around my waist. I leaned on him for a second, trying not to panic.

“I’ll tell you in a minute.” I dialed the allergist’s office. “Hi, this is Kiki Lowenstein. Remember that album I’m working on? Right. The memorial album for Yvonne Gaynor. That’s it. Yes. I was wondering … I know Nettie Klasser is one of your patients. Who introduced her to your practice?” I waited for the answer, my heart in my throat.