Cut, Crop & Die (11 page)

He leaned close to me, so we were nearly nose to nose. “Don’t you dare.” I had a sudden impulse to kiss him. But of course I didn’t. I did hope he’d notice the posters advertising live music at Alandale’s and ask me on a real date.

He continued, “You better not interfere with our investigation. Do you realize you might tip off the killer? Or be next in line? Kiki, this is dangerous stuff! I would’ve thought being chased by a gun-toting murderer this spring would have slowed you down, but I was wrong! Your escape gave you a skewed sense of invulnerability. Quit thinking of ways to get yourself in hot water.” He huffed and puffed and settled down. “Tell me about this contest Mrs. Gaynor won.”

A bright spark at
Saving Memories
magazine had devised a contest to round up cutting-edge work from new, undiscovered talent. The prize was publication and its attendant recognition. I explained, “But the powers that be at the magazine stumbled onto a gold mine. Soon advertisers jumped on the bandwagon, sponsoring the contest and donating sample products as prizes. Now winning means an endless supply of free merchandise from a variety of manufacturers and guest appearances as teachers for conventions.”

“Back up. How come the winners get freebies in addition to the initial prizes?” Detweiler asked.

“The magazine posts designs on their website. Then they print a few winning layouts in each monthly issue, and more layouts appear in a special book. A list of products is printed along with each page design. Since scrapbookers hanker after the newest, brightest, best, most interesting supplies, having your product in one of these pages sells merchandise. Lots and lots of merchandise. Sending winners your good stuff functions like a product placement deal, see?”

He nodded. He ran his index finger around the curve created by my thumb and first finger. I felt a warming trend south of my equator. He was getting to me … again. My lips started to burn. Was it the vinegar I’d sprinkled on my chips or the memory of our kiss?

The restaurant was nearly empty. Detweiler didn’t seem concerned about the time. “I still don’t get it. Why would manufacturers send these women free supplies?”

I smiled. “Having designers use your products on pages is the least expensive and most rewarding way of promotion.”

“How expensive can paper be?”

I laughed. “It’s not just paper. It’s printers, photo developers, scanners, machines that laser cut designs, and on and on.” I marveled at how little he knew. “Scrapbooking is at least a three billion—with a B—dollar industry. That probably doesn’t take in stuff like computers, printers, copiers, and travel to conferences.”

His jaw dropped. “Three billion?”

I nodded.

“Are the prizes the only reason women enter?”

“Oh, heck no. After they win, the women can be asked to write articles for the magazine. Some go on to design their own merchandise lines. A few get paid to teach or demonstrate products at conventions. Or at local stores.”

“You’re telling me Mrs. Gaynor became a player.”

I laughed. “Well, that’s a streetwise way of putting it, but yes. She was a real rising star.”

“And two days later, she’s dead.”

I nodded soberly. “That’s right. She had two whole days to enjoy her fame. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

“Murder never is.”

The store was eerily quiet when I returned. Dodie sat in her office, staring at a computer screen. I took Guy and Gracie for a quick trip around the block. Our store sat in the midst of a residential area, mostly inhabited by senior citizens. As our neighbors died or moved to nursing homes, new owners converted the houses to apartments or duplexes.

I felt a wave of sadness as I walked along with the dogs. Without the steadying influence of its senior citizens, the whole tenor of this area would change.

After I settled Gracie and Guy in their playpen, I brainstormed new ways to bring business to Time in a Bottle. But my vagabond thoughts returned to Yvonne’s murder. The newspaper article called her a celebrity and tagged Memories First as the area’s premier store. Huh. The magazine issue featuring the winners’ work hadn’t hit the newsstands yet. Yvonne’s star status was not widely known. And those who did know her were finding this new attention difficult to credit. After all, her work hadn’t garnered any accolades before.

Calling her a celebrity was a bit over-the-top. In fact, it was exaggeration with three Gs. And claiming that Memories First was the “premier” scrapbook store in the area?

Puh-leeze.

Memories First occupied a squat building with peeling siding north of St. Louis. The interior was plug-ugly institutional green with linoleum floors. Ellen Harmon filled the place with rickety wire racks full of the cheapest products she could buy. Even though she copied our classes, she was always a half-beat behind us. No way was her store the top of the food chain. She was barely dragging her one-celled body through the mud.

But I was media savvy enough to know that a lot of folks believe whatever they hear on radio and TV. If it’s in print, they think it must be true. None of this media attention reflected well on my place of employment.

How could we regain the luster Time in a Bottle once enjoyed? Was that why Yvonne had been killed? To hurt our business? That was pretty drastic. Or had she died because of some unknown aspect of her personal life? Thinking back to the tangled situation surrounding my husband’s death, this seemed most likely. What secret could Yvonne have taken to her grave? A marital problem? An old grudge? A vendetta?

Not for one minute did I believe my friend Mert had anything to do with Yvonne’s death.

Could it have been an accident? Was the tainted food intended for someone else? Was Yvonne simply both incredibly unlucky and incredibly ill-prepared?

Who knew she had allergies? Her husband must have, of course. Had he planned her demise? He had access to her purse and the Epi-Pen. Was he involved with someone else? Did he have a life insurance policy on her? Detweiler hadn’t mentioned whether the police were looking into her family life, but didn’t they always?

Pushing my speculation aside, I concentrated on coming up with a new technique for the Friday Night Crop. I decided we would create a subtitle within a title. It’s a clever but simple idea that can be used on pages or on cards.

Adding a cutting-edge learning experience and special projects to a crop was just one of our innovative ideas. Providing super classes, ongoing support in the store, the latest merchandise, an on-site computer and printer, well, those were some of the extras we offered our customers.

And Ellen Harmon said we copied her.

Huh! Not hardly.

(Inspired by a similar step-by-step created by Venessa Matthews and featured in the May 2006 issue of
ScrapBook inspirations
magazine.)

This idea gives your titles a cool, fresh, and funky look—plus it allows you to add extra information about your page or project.

You’ll need letter stamps at least 2” high, ink or acrylic paint, a pen, temporary adhesive, and a strip and a large piece of waste paper.

AT FIVE O’CLOCK, DODIE and I went our separate ways in the parking lot. She hadn’t left her desk all afternoon and barely said “goodbye” as we were leaving. I drove Guy and Gracie home, making a quick stop at the public library to pick up one of the current bestsellers they loaned out for seven days at a time. I grabbed two: the latest “Jack Daniels” book by J. A. Konrath and a new “Ophelia and Abby” book by Shirley Damsgaard. What I needed, I reasoned, was a way to “get lost” mentally. To leave all this turmoil about a real murder behind. To give my brain a breather from worrying about business.

And, yeah, I also wanted to quit thinking about Detweiler. We’d had such a nice lunch together. He’d followed me to my car for a repeat performance of his knee-buckling kiss. I could still feel the warm, liquid response of my body. But he hadn’t asked me to dinner or out on a date. This relationship—if indeed, it could be called that—was moving at a glacial rate.

I fixed myself a huge bacon, lettuce, and tomato salad using a lush homegrown tomato from an “I trust you” produce stand where an empty coffee can announced, “One lb. for 25 cents.” I dropped in a dime, sniffing my singular fragrant prize with delight. The sun-warmed fruit in my hand smelled red. Unlike mushy tasteless veggies bred to withstand coast to coast shipping, a homegrown Big Boy or Better Girl has firm fleshy chambers and a mouthwatering taste coming from the jelly surrounding its seeds. That first bite of my BLT salad transported me to the days of growing up dirt poor. In my little neighborhood, every family planted at least a dozen “tomay-ter” plants in the backyard.

Afterward, I took a hot bath and started reading about Ophelia and her teenage charge, Tink.

It should have been paradise: a great meal, new books, and a relaxing bath.

But I couldn’t stop worrying.

Was Dodie going to be okay? Who killed Yvonne Gaynor? How would we rebuild our business? Why didn’t Detweiler pursue our relationship? When did my daughter get so sassy? And how could I get out of the fancy Opera Theatre dinner with Sheila?

Researchers have found there’s a worry gene, a genetic component passed down through families.

It figured. One more problem people could blame on their mothers.

Of course we always worry about the wrong things.