Cut, Crop & Die (8 page)

He cleared his throat. “We are investigating a murder. Cameras have to wait. I realize you have a stake in this, and your friends may or may not be involved, but I have a job to do. Do you understand? Are we clear here? Because I can repeat myself if necessary.”

That last phrase sent me over the top. He was belittling the people and the craft I held dear as well as treating me like an imbecile. “I’m
so
glad to hear you are on the job. That’s good news. We can all sleep easy at night. If you recall, last time you were on the job I had to solve the murder for you, bucko.”

“Solve the murder? Ha! You bumbled your way into a dangerous situation.”

I mouthed air. I was speechless. “You jerk!” I popped my hand over my mouth. I couldn’t believe I said that.

“Stay out of this, Kiki. Like that cat you’re named for, you’ve already used up one of your nine lives!”

“Right! No thanks to you, pal. You want to talk to me? Fine. You can come by the store and talk in front of witnesses. Got it?” I snapped my phone shut and stood in the middle of the empty sales floor and screamed.

Fifteen minutes later, Detweiler stormed in. His Heineken-bottle-green eyes with those dancing gold flecks were dark with fury. I clamped my jaw shut and didn’t greet him. I didn’t even get up. I ignored him while I continued to work on the anniversary album. This book of memories paid homage to sixty-five years of love and trust between two people. Not all of us could focus on death and destruction! Some of us had to applaud the living!

I could feel the heat of Detweiler’s body as he stepped behind me, nearly hanging over my chair. Suddenly, I started sticking down photos on an angle. I peeled one up and tore the background paper. That just capped it.

“Kiki.”

I ignored him, keeping my gaze on the work. Trying to figure out how to fix what I’d ruined. “If you are here on official business, my name is Mrs. Lowenstein. I’m busy with work right now, so you’ll have to wait.”

Next thing I knew, he pulled my chair away from the desk. It felt like that obligatory scene in an earthquake movie where the furniture hops around. I grabbed the edge of the table, but Detweiler slipped between me and my work. I stared at him in shock. Both of us glared at each other.

To my horror, a nearly irrepressible urge to laugh bubbled up inside me.

Then I remembered he’d made it clear he didn’t care for me. He’d gone out of his way to avoid saying I mattered. My lower lip trembled. A lump formed in my throat and my heart hurt. Against my will, tears threatened and my mouth trembled.

“Oh, honey,” he said. “What am I going to do with you?” His expression softened as he searched my face. Those eyes! Those gorgeous eyes. I got lost in them. He reached for me.

Before I could catch my breath, we were kissing.

The noise of Dodie walking out of the back room startled us into breaking apart. Detweiler and I quickly put distance between us.

“Kiki?” Dodie called over the racks of paper. “Another unhappy scrapbooker on the phone! I took a message. Call her back!”

I ran to the back room, woozy with desire. I stumbled into the bathroom, put down the toilet lid and sat there for a while. When I regained control of my body, I splashed my face with ice cold water. For good measure, I grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper and chugged it.

I dialed the number on the paper, but no one answered.

When I returned, Detweiler and Dodie were talking about the CAMP set up, the placement of tables, food, and so on. Dodie studied the list of attendees, offering whatever she knew about each of them. My face still burned. My legs wobbled like cranberry jelly. I felt as though I’d been ravished—and all of me was aglow with the tingling, prickling sensation of arousal.

“I’m trying to put together a timeline,” Detweiler turned to me. His tone was affable, almost conversational. “Here’s what we’ve got.”

He handed his notebook and a chart to me. I struggled to concentrate. When I glanced up to speak, he colored slightly. “This is right. At least as far as I can remember. And it matches the rough schedule I planned.” I got up, retrieved my CAMP folder, and showed him and Dodie my notes.

Examining the timetable again, I realized something: The potted plants had been delivered some time that morning. Was it before or after Mert arrived? Dodie had purchased them. She pulled up at the same time I did, but it could have been her second trip.

Should I tell Detweiler? I couldn’t decide. I was afraid if I did, the blame would shift to Dodie. That didn’t make sense because she had the most to lose by killing Yvonne at her own event. Witness the fallout we were already taking! I opted to keep my mouth shut.

Dodie stared at the chart. “Wait a minute. Something’s not right.” She disappeared, returning with a dot matrix sheet in hand. “Here’s the caterer’s order form. We didn’t order scones. Here’s the grocery receipt from Mert. There aren’t any scones listed there either.”

“Any of the scrapbookers could have brought along the scones. Or the caterer might have thrown the scones in,” I said. “Maybe they were a substitution. In which case, they could have been tainted before or after arriving at the church basement. But after would have been harder.”

“Who worked with the caterers?” asked Detweiler.

Dodie flipped to the last page. At the bottom was Bama’s signature. “But that doesn’t mean anything,” she added. “So Bama ordered the food and signed the form. Big deal. Did you check all the containers for traces of the icing and for prints? The trash cans? The plates?” She also handed over the list of goodies that each of us had contributed. What she didn’t say, but all of us realized, was that he’d need to interview every one of our fifty-plus CAMPers to find out what each of them carried into the crop. The sheer magnitude of tracking down who brought tainted scones overwhelmed me.

I’d forgotten Dodie was a fan of police procedurals and true-crime novels. She watched every forensic show on television.

“The lab is going over everything we found. Of course at the time, we didn’t think it was a murder so we might have missed something. But the caterer has been very accommodating. Both the chefs and servers have volunteered to take polygraphs. Probably at their employer’s urging. As you can imagine, they’re eager to prove this didn’t happen in their kitchen.”

“And the Epi-Pen?” I tried not to look directly at Detweiler. It felt too intimate. “How about it? Any fingerprints?”

“None besides Mrs. Gaynor’s. Not even a partial,” Detweiler admitted. “We got all excited when we found some empty syringes in the trash. But it looks like there’s glue in them.”

“That’s right,” said Dodie, “Using a syringe keeps the adhesive off your fingers and helps get glue into tight areas. I prefer using a toothpick, but each to her own. Since a tube is nearly airtight, the adhesive won’t dry out like in a bottle.”

“The empty syringes are being tested,” Detweiler chuckled. “That was a new one on me. Son of a gun.”

The door minder rang and Mert walked in. Her face was pale under her sun-bed tan, but otherwise she seemed fine. Dressed in her work uniform of white-collared knit shirt, black pants and black Reeboks, she approached with a subdued walk. I met her halfway with a big hug. Her shoulder muscles were hard as rocks, but she quickly relaxed under the warmth of my affection. I pulled back and gave both her hands a squeeze of encouragement.

“Don’t trust him, Kiki,” Mert stared at Detweiler. “I done thought he was different, but he ain’t. He’s a sleezeball like all the rest.”

Detweiler turned away. But before he did, I noticed his face was bright red.

Since I had to pick up Anya at my mother-in-law’s house, I couldn’t stick around. I wasn’t sure I wanted to either. When I left, Mert and Detweiler were glaring at each other. Dodie stood hands on hips and stared off into space. Time in a Bottle had always been my escape. A place I could go and forget my troubles. Where I could get lost in creative activity.

But that had changed.

Even so, I touched my lips with my fingertips as I drove. He kissed me. He kissed me. I kept repeating that over and over in my head, dumbstruck with wonder and amazement. As much as I’d hated the scene with Mert, I couldn’t help myself. I was blissed out. And I wanted more.

Sheila was out in her front yard, pouring a green liquid into mole tunnels. Yellowish stains and blotches of mud splashed the hem of her ivory linen slacks. The ground was littered with empty jars that said “Kosher Dills” on the label.

Really, I was afraid to ask what she was doing.

“Pickle juice,” she said. “Two new tunnels popped up overnight. One website said this will scare these suckers off. I saved the leftover dills for you because Anya likes them.”

I surveyed the containers scattered across what had once been greens fit for a golf course. What on earth would I do with all those pickles? I considered helping, but there didn’t seem to be anything left to do.

Sheila wore an expression of triumph as she waved a hand over the mess. “I got them this time. Fixed their little wagons good. Did you know moles have three to five pups a litter? And they don’t really dig? They sort of swim through the dirt? Their front paws scrape at the soil. The back legs push it like a back-stroker moves water. Once the animal loosens enough soil, he turns a flip and from his back pushes the dislodged stuff upwards, creating the mole hill.”

In my best imitation of Butterfly McQueen, I said, “Golly, Miss Sheila, I don’t know nuttin’ about birthin’ no moles, and that’s the truth.”

Sheila gave me a sidelong look. “I’m surprised at you, Kiki. You love animals.”

“Animals, yes. Rodents, no. Not real fond of most reptiles, either.”

“Moles are insectivores, not rodents.” Sheila pointed to the nearly dry pickle bottles. “You can take all those home.”

Right. We needed twelve bottles of pickles like I needed a fresh set of stretch marks across my stomach. Just to keep Sheila happy, I twisted lids on empty bottles. She shoved a cardboard box with dividers under my nose. Six bottles fit into the spaces. Sheila duplicated my efforts with the other half dozen jars. Without preamble my mother-in-law said, “I want you to come with me to the annual Opera Theatre Dinner this Saturday. It’s black tie.”

Super. Those were the operative words: “I want you to.” Well, I had a perfect excuse. “I don’t own a black tie. Black’s not my color.”

She gave me a scathing look.

I continued, “In fact, I don’t own any evening clothes. I have nothing to wear.” I’d lost weight after George died, and my old gowns hung on me. I happily donated them to a shop providing prom dresses to low-income girls.

If you live long enough, life displays a circular quality. I grew up as one of those impoverished girls, and now was back where I’d started. From poverty, I’d won a scholarship to opportunity, in the guise of college. From opportunity, I’d lost my chance at education to unplanned pregnancy. From unplanned pregnancy, I’d received the greatest gift life could offer—my child. Weighed on cosmic scales, I was infinitely rich, although my bank account might not concur with spiritual accounting practices.

Sheila lifted the box of pickle jars. “I’ll take care of that. Anya and I will go shopping tomorrow to buy you a suitable gown, accessories, and shoes. I booked you into Spa La Femme, that new spa in Defiance, for various beauty treatments.”