Cut, Crop & Die (7 page)

Her eyes turned to me curiously. For a moment, she said nothing. Then Dodie spoke slowly. “Summer is the doldrums for scrappers. Put on your thinking cap. We need an exciting program that’ll get them in the store and make them open their wallets.”

The rest of the morning went better than expected. None of the women who left messages were home when I returned their calls. I was spared hearing them complain or ask for money back. I restocked the CAMP merchandise. The “make and take” pages were untouched, so I labeled their box and shelved it in the back. That kept me busy until lunch, a peanut butter and jelly sandwich washed down with copious amounts of ice tea.

I walked the dogs. Avoiding entanglement with Guy’s lead kept me hopping. He was a busy boy, sniffing, peeing, and racing about, zigzagging wildly as he caught a scent or saw something interesting. His tail moved as quickly as a hummingbird’s wings. Unsure about Guy’s sanity and his flight path, Gracie stayed close to me. As we meandered up and down residential blocks behind our store, I contemplated replacing the income the store had lost from CAMP.

My first priority would be setting the situation right. Most upsetting to most of our guests—besides Yvonne’s death—was giving up their cameras. I made a mental note to call the police and ask when the cameras would be returned.

I put Guy back in his playpen. I was deeply engrossed in a milieu of ideas when the door minder buzzed loudly. Running to the front of the store, I nearly slammed into Roger, Mert’s son.

“They’ve taken Mom in for questioning.” His eyes were wet. He snuffled in an effort not to cry. “The cops. They came an hour ago. She was cleaning a house and they … they made her go with them. She called me.”

“Questioning? About what?”

“About that woman who died on Saturday.”

Dodie lurched out of her office. “What? Where’d they take her?”

“I … I don’t know … I … she …” Roger was having a hard time talking.

“Okay, honey, calm down. It’s going to be all right. When did this happen?” I opened my cell phone and hit the speed dial for Detweiler. His voice mail answered, and I left a message for him to call me.

“Should I call Bonnie Gossage?” I asked Dodie. Bonnie was a regular customer who’d temporarily suspended her legal career to give birth to her son Felix. (Someday I intended to ask Bonnie what on earth possessed her to give that poor child such a bizarre name.)

Roger interrupted. “Mom said … she said … not to do anything. She said just tell you what happened. She told me she’d call if she needed help.”

Dodie’s eyes blazed angrily and a flash of her old self came through loud and clear. “This is ridiculous. What are they doing with Mert? Yvonne’s death was an accident! An allergic reaction!” She stopped. Her eyes widened as she suddenly understood. “They must think Yvonne was murdered!”

We gathered around the television in Dodie’s office and watched a terminally blonde reporter explain Yvonne Gaynor had succumbed to a tainted orange scone. The newscaster held up a similar pastry for the camera. “Police say someone substituted icing mixed with orange-flavored baby aspirin for the original topping.

Yvonne Gaynor was highly allergic to aspirin in all its forms. Of course, anyone who was sensitive to aspirin could have fallen victim to the contaminated food, but insiders are calling this murder because of one critical piece of evidence.”

The yellow box of an anaphylaxis kit appeared on the screen. The reporter continued, “This is the type of Epi-Pen that highly sensitive people like Yvonne Gaynor should carry at all times. Police department sources tell us they now suspect someone traded Yvonne Gaynor’s functional Epi-Pen for an empty one.”

Dodie switched off the television. “And on my watch, too.”

I needed to talk this through. “Someone iced a scone with the one substance toxic to Yvonne. The ‘bad’ scone or scones found their way onto our food table. Someone knew Yvonne liked pastries. That someone had exchanged her full Epi-Pen for an empty one and hoped Yvonne would have a fatal reaction.”

“And not be able to save herself,” finished Roger.

“But Mert didn’t have access to Yvonne’s purse and she never touched the food! She was nowhere near it,” said Dodie.

“That’s not true.” I hated to say it, “But remember? She brought in everything we’d baked and what she’d picked up from the store. Roger helped her set up tables, but she was there alone when we arrived.”

“But adding aspirin to icing! That’s ridiculous. Mert had no reason to hurt Yvonne Gaynor.”

I gently corrected my employer. “Uh, that’s not exactly right. There was bad blood. Mert used to work for Yvonne and something happened.”

Dodie and Roger both glared at me. Roger’s lip trembled. “Whose side are you on?”

“I’m on your mom’s side,” I said firmly as I put an arm around the teenager I’d known for ten years. He might look like a man, but he was really just a very tall and hairy boy. “She’s my dearest friend, and she couldn’t possibly have done this. But we can’t overlook the facts. If we do, we can’t help her or prove her innocence because the police will use those facts to build a case against her. We need to work with the same information if we hope to solve this.”

“You’re planning on tracking down a killer?” Dodie could barely spit out the words. She stared at me.

“Maybe. It still might be an accident. The police could have it wrong.” I shrugged. I was trying hard to remain cool and collected. I didn’t want to upset Roger more by letting my emotions show. I was worried. Plenty worried. But that wouldn’t help my best friend’s son. Nor would it help her. “It’s early days. Let’s see what happens.” I didn’t turn away. She knew, as I did, that it was folly to depend on others. Others who were supposed to be fair and honest. Wasn’t she the person who preached to me about being self-reliant? Didn’t she know what happened when you put all your eggs in someone else’s basket? Witness what had just happened with poor Horace.

Roger wiped the back of his hand across his eyes and blinked hard. He was on the verge of breaking down. I patted his arm. “I won’t rest until we clear your mother’s name. It’s going to all be okay. I promise.”

Now, how was I going to keep my word?

ROGER LEFT FOR CLASS at Meramec Community College. Dodie and I walked around the store like two zombies. I finally sat down to work on an anniversary album commissioned by a customer, relieved that the work was far enough along it only required the mindless task of adhering mats to photos. My brain was numb. The store phone rang, and I answered it.

A woman demanded her money back. “I expected to have a great time at CAMP, and … and … instead my camera is gone and you … you stood by while Yvonne was murdered!”

I took a deep breath before responding, “We’ll be happy to issue a refund. All of us at Time in a Bottle are devastated by Yvonne’s death and shocked to hear it might have been intentional. It’s awful, isn’t it?”

As the Bible says, “A soft answer turneth away wrath.” Mollified that I agreed with her, the caller became downright chatty. “Who do you think did it?”

“I wish I knew. We are cooperating fully with the police. Unfortunately, a lot of people had access to the food. Do you have any idea who might have held a grudge against Yvonne?”

The customer thought for a second. “Yvonne could be a real pill. She never bothered me, but she upset several of my friends.” She paused, “I’m sorry if I came on too strong earlier. I’m … I’m just upset.”

“We all are. As for Yvonne, well, none of us are perfect. I’ve certainly ticked off more than my share of people. Now, what should I do about that refund?” By the time we hung up, the caller decided she’d rather take a rain check for the next CAMP event. “Goodness knows,” I said, “it can’t possibly be as eventful as this one. And you probably still have pages you want to get done. I have a call in to the police to find out when the cameras will be released.”

That was the first of many conversations with our CAMPers. In the end, only one woman demanded a refund. Clearly, as distressed as the customers were, more than anything they wanted to be reassured and comforted.

Later I opened my cell phone to Mert’s ragged voice. “Did Roger come on by? They done questioned me, but I can’t get a’hold of him. I figgered he’d probably run to you, Kiki.”

I took that as a compliment. My best friend and her son were family by choice, not by blood. “Are you okay?”

“They was just asking questions. It weren’t really bad. Wanted to know what I’d done, if I’d touched the food, and whether I hated Yvonne or not. The cops are taking heat from some of them women who was at CAMP. You know how it goes.”

“Yes, unfortunately I do. What did they ask?”

“I can’t go into it now.” Mert cut the conversation short. She’d left in the middle of a cleaning job and needed to get back. What she didn’t say, and I knew from her voice, was how the whole ordeal had exhausted her. I promised to check on her later. “I’ll tell you about it then.” She sounded strong, but I knew her well enough to hear the edge in her voice.

Detweiler called immediately after Mert. I explained about Roger’s visit and that she’d since been released. He told me that he had been tapped for the Major Case Squad. “I might need your help. We’re constructing a timeline, identifying where everyone was in relationship to the food. The goal is to establish opportunity.”

“Huh, that’s like trying to figure out which ant in an anthill had the chance to steal a bread crumb.” I was being truthful and I was also stalling. Why should I volunteer information? He and his friends were already breathing down the neck of my best friend. I debated about whether to tell him to buzz off. As I hesitated, Dodie ambled by. One glance at her miserable face and I decided I wanted Yvonne Gaynor’s murderer brought to justice—pronto.

“I’ll help you if I can, but honestly, anyone could have tampered with the food. We bought groceries, baked things at home, hired a caterer, and scrapbookers also brought their own goodies.”

“Huh?”

“It’s a tradition. Women like to share their favorite recipes. Sure, we were responsible for providing brunch, but that didn’t preclude folks from bringing their own treats.”

“I was afraid you might say that. We’re busy with interviews. Officers are taking statements from the caterers. We’re going through the trash cans on the off-chance we’ll find evidence. I also need more background on Mrs. Gaynor. We’re making a list of people who wanted the woman dead.”

“Mert didn’t do it.”

Detweiler replied cautiously. “I can’t rule out anyone at this juncture. Anyone.”

I fumed. Could he be including me? What a jerk! “That sounded like a threat.”

“No, but it is a warning. Don’t get too emotionally involved in this, Kiki. You don’t have the training or experience to rule out suspects. Especially when one of them is your friend.”

“We’re talking Mert! I’d trust her with my life! She’s helped me raise Anya, she held my hand when George died, and all I need to do is call, and she’s there for me. What more do I need to know, huh? I judge people by their actions, not their education or their clothes or their status.”

“Everyone has a breaking point. What do you know about her past? I’m warning you, Kiki, stay out of this or you’ll find yourself in jail for obstructing an investigation.”

“That’s your idea of encouraging cooperation? A threat like that?” I was steaming mad. How dare he? “By the way, pal, when are our customers getting their cameras back? Or do we need to call a lawyer about your search and seizure?”

“This was a murder, Kiki. A woman—a wife and mother—is dead. The fact your scrapbook friends have to wait to see their photos, well … that’s not my problem. Their cameras should be released tomorrow afternoon, but in the meantime, we have other priorities. As much as I ca—” and he stopped himself before he said “care.” “As much as I think of you personally, I have a job to do.”

Hello! Didn’t he realize how important the cameras were to our customers? The longer he withheld them, the angrier the CAMP attendees would be with us. And that quick avoidance of saying he “cared.” What was with that? I was sick and tired of not knowing where I stood. He gave off signals like he was interested and then he’d pull back. There was a name for women who did that! Was there an equivalent term for men? I raged inwardly, not daring to open my mouth. I was too near to saying something I’d regret.