Cut, Crop & Die (10 page)

She withdrew her hand from the window, but Guy wanted more. He jumped from the back on top of Gracie. Now he was dangling from my passenger side window. I had him by his back legs as he accepted the girl’s affection with glee. His pink tongue slathered her hand, and his front paws pinned her forearm as effectively as a pair of handcuffs.

I carefully retrieved the half of Guy that was sticking out, lifting him up and over Gracie, depositing him onto the back seat, and praying the coffee between my thighs would not get knocked over in the process. A sad howl erupted as the girl started to walk away. She’d only gone a few steps when she turned, a finger to her mouth thoughtfully, and came back.

“Whatever you do, don’t let him watch
Sesame Street
. Especially Elmo. Wow. Not Elmo. Ever.”

After I got the dogs settled in the back room, I took out the trash and set the recycling crates by the curb. Seeing neatly stacked newspapers reminded me of the ones I’d used as padding under my knees when helping Sheila. Here was my chance to trade those papers, with their dirt and damp, for a new set. I pulled the society section from the clean recycling and started toward my BMW.

That’s how it came to me. I was staring down at the wedding photos when I realized most of the portraits were taken by professional photographers. Those photogs must have pretty stiff competition. Wouldn’t custom albums give them an edge? And who better to offer them than TinaB? All it would take was a few phone calls, and I’d know whether this idea was a keeper. I hurried into the store and flipped open the phone book to make a list of commercial photographers mentioning “Wedding” in their ads.

Since the listings covered a page and a half, my sheet filled up quickly. A few of the ads contained only names and phone numbers. Those I wrote on a second sheet. Maybe some did weddings, but some probably didn’t, so a phone call would sort what was what. Midway through my second list, the back door opened, and Dodie straggled in. Her hair stuck out from her head like a bad pincushion, and her clothes sported wrinkles as though she’d slept in them.

She tossed a newspaper onto the desk in front of me, scattering my work. Her lack of concern about what I was doing irritated me, and I nearly said so—until my eyes focused on the banner across the front page: “Tainted Scone Kills Scrapbooker.”

According to
Post-Dispatch
sources speaking on the basis of anonymity, “noted local scrapbook celebrity” Yvonne Gaynor died from a severe allergic reaction to baby aspirin mixed with icing on an orange scone. Yvonne’s photo appeared alongside a picture of our storefront. The cutline announced, “The scrapbooking event hosted by this business turned deadly when contaminated food was served.” St. Louis Police Chief Robbie Holmes said, “The killer knew the victim was highly sensitive to aspirin. It’s a rare allergy. The Major Case Squad is vigorously pursuing several leads.”

Jumping inside, the story continued with remarks by Ellen Harmon, owner of the area’s “premier” scrapbook store. “Yvonne Gaynor was the sweetest woman, well-liked by everyone. One of her dreams came true when she was chosen as a Scrapbook Star winner.” Ellen explained this award made Yvonne a target. “It certainly is interesting that her death would occur at an event hosted by one of our competitors.”

My coffee almost made a repeat performance. I swallowed hard to keep from upchucking.

A photo of Yvonne’s grieving husband and children ran beside a sidebar explaining that Memories First would host a memorial program and display of Yvonne’s work sometime next week. “We hope to raise money for Yvonne’s children,” said Ellen.

Dodie hung over my shoulder reading along with me, her eternally clogged sinuses rustling as she breathed warm air on my bare arms. When I closed the paper, she murmured, “I think I’m going to be sick,” before heading for the john. All I could do was bury my head in my hands. This was a lot worse than I’d expected. Ellen insinuated we were responsible for Yvonne’s death while finding a way to draw a crowd to her store and make money.

I didn’t resent the fact Yvonne’s family would benefit from the memorial program. Not at all. But I took exception to the light we were cast in. Clearly the finger of responsibility was pointed at us—and we were innocent! With a feeling of dread, I checked our messages. The queue was full. Reluctantly, I pressed the replay button and started listening.

One caller condemned us as murderers and thieves. Two women wanted refunds. I couldn’t blame them. Obviously, the news had spurred them to action. A lot of our scrappers are on a tight budget, and who knew when we’d offer a new CAMP session? For that matter, who could be certain we wouldn’t get kicked out of CAMP? Or go under completely? One strident voice suggested we close our doors and leave town—or else. Didn’t sound like a scrapbooker to me. Most people who scrap are nice. That sounded more like a hatemongerer.

Even so, I was shaking, I was that upset, when I recognized the warm voice of one of our regulars, Vanessa Johnson, on the phone.

No, no, not Vanessa too, I prayed. She was one of our scrapbooking stalwarts. I closed my eyes and listened.

“Dodie, Kiki, and Bama? I’ve been thinking of you. Those of us who know you realize this isn’t your fault.” I silently blessed the woman. She continued, “Most of us will be coming to the Friday crop. ’Til then, please know you are in our prayers. Keep your chins up.”

For the summer, we’d moved our regular Monday crop to coincide with our Newbie-Do-Be-Do, our beginners’ crop held every Friday. Learning our regulars hadn’t deserted us ignited a small flare of hope in my heart. What was it they said about the public having a short memory? Maybe by the weekend, this would blow over. I thought if we were really lucky, some other calamity would take our place on the front page! Then I immediately chided myself for being so callous. How could I hope for tragedy to strike someone else? How selfish was that?

Well, selfish or not. I crossed my fingers. I loved this place. I loved the women who trusted us with their photos. I loved being creative. I couldn’t stand to see what I loved—and needed—disappear.

The sixth call was a tinny, metallic voice. “We’re going to get you. Just you wait. You think you can kill a good Christian and get away with it? You’ll die, you monsters.” I instinctively recoiled from the phone, pushing away and staring at the machine as though it were alive. The message ended and I sat frozen in place. I gathered my senses and decided not to share what I’d heard with Dodie. She’d left the bathroom and walked past me on her way to open the front door for the day’s business—her shoulders heavy with worry; her gait slow and shuffling. The sight of her saddened me.

I didn’t erase the message. I sat quietly staring at the answering machine and running my hands up and down my arms to warm away the chill. Two more communications were from hesitant customers who left their names and requested a return call. Yet another message began in the same tinny voice and suggested God’s warriors would avenge Yvonne’s death. The voice described in hideous detail how we would be … molested.

That did it. I hit the call back code and discovered both threatening messages were blocked. No surprise. I dialed Detweiler, and he picked up right away. I asked if we could meet for lunch. He suggested Alandale’s, a brewing company a few blocks south and east of the store. Making an executive decision, I disconnected the answering machine and put it in the oversized bag I use for transporting my crafts. Anyone who wanted us personally had our cell numbers. Customers would have to wait until business hours anyway. With the machine gone, there could be no sly and threatening messages.

This way I could share the message without involving Dodie. This crisis—taken with Horace’s bad news—demoralized her. I couldn’t fix the problem, but I could spare her more pain.

The Churovich brothers opened Alandale Brewing Company in a former furniture warehouse on a corner in Kirkwood. Detweiler was sitting in a large booth in the back and nursing a beer.

“I’m off duty,” he said.

He ordered a Cuban sandwich of ham, roast pork, Swiss and Monterey jack cheese and other toppings, with house-made potato chips. I chose the fish and chips because I hadn’t had fish in a month or so.

Daren, the Churovich brother who is brewmaster, came by and asked Detweiler how he liked his blackberry seasonal beer. “Is it hard to brew beer?” I asked. Daren, tall and blonde and shy, smiled. “Nah. It’s mainly watching. We hold classes on Tuesdays if you want to learn more.”

My meal was fantastic. The batter light and fluffy and the fish firm and flaky. I thought I was full until Dana, Daren’s wife and a Jazzercise instructor, happened by and suggested dessert.

Detweiler and I decided to split Dutch apple bread pudding with pecan streusel. I told myself that I was eating fancy Granny Smith apples, which was true. While we shared the food, he passed me a copy of his tentative timeline. He was right about most of the morning, but I clarified, “People were in and out for a good half hour hauling in their scrapbook gear and food.”

“But the event was catered.” Detweiler’s fork paused with a chunk of apple midway to his mouth. Instead of splitting the piece into two, we’d companionably taken turns dipping our forks into the dessert.

“It was, but scrapbookers are big eaters. A lot of the women bring homebaked goodies or their favorite munchies. One woman is this big Fresca freak. She drags her own cooler to every crop.”

“How much Fresca can one woman drink?”

“I’ve seen her plow through a twelve-pack in a three-hour crop. Of course, she doesn’t do as much pasting as peeing, but point being, lots of folks had access to the food and the room.”

“Did you leave anyone alone at any time?”

I hesitated. I’d asked Dodie about her recollection of the crop before I headed out. She’d admitted she’d made two trips to the church. One before Mert arrived. “But that doesn’t mean anything.”

He gave me a disgusted grunt. “You didn’t tell me this earlier.”

I shrugged.

He leaned in close. “Mrs. Goldfader and I talked last night. She told me about delivering the plants. When are you going to learn to trust me?”

The answer was probably never. Not with my track record with men. And now I realized, he’d tricked me. He’d known she’d been there alone.

I gave a small, “Huh.” Clearly, neither of us was honest with the other. How sad was that?

Detweiler crumpled his paper napkin and finished his beer. “That brings us to Mrs. Chambers. I know she’s your friend, but she has a reason to hate Mrs. Gaynor.”

“Maybe so, but that was years ago.”

Detweiler pushed aside our dirty utensils. “So give me another suspect. Mrs. Harmon says the four of you were jealous. According to her, you copy every program she offers and fob it off as your own.”

“That’s a lie! In fact, it’s the exact opposite. Whatever we do, she copies! She’s … she’s … such a creep! And I don’t know why she’s singled us out when there are three other stores in direct competition with her!” A big swig of ice water cooled me down. “Let me ask around, okay? Scrapbookers get to know each other. Maybe one of our customers can suggest someone in particular who wanted Yvonne dead.”

He slammed a palm on the tabletop. “Whoa. It’s one thing for you to tell me who you suspect. It’s another for you to play detective. Stay out of it, Kiki. This isn’t your job. Don’t put yourself in harm’s way. If you won’t protect yourself, think of Anya.”

“If our business doesn’t rebound, I won’t have a job. That’s going to hurt my child
and
my friends. I have a stake in this, and I’m already at risk.” I told him about the threatening phone calls, handing over the answering machine. “It’s already out of control.”

Detweiler shook his head. “This qualifies as a hate crime. I’ll alert the Richmond Heights P.D. They can have a patrol car watch the store.”

“Have you investigated Bama Vess?” I asked casually. “She was fired from her job at the Art Supply Superstore.” This I knew from overhearing two customers as they picked out paper. I hadn’t confirmed it, but the two who were talking were women not prone to idle gossip. I went a step further. “I bet I can find out why. Something’s not right about her. Maybe she has a criminal history, hmm?”