“What’s going on?” I followed Sheila into the kitchen. At the counter there, my mother and Claudia helped themselves to the roast chicken and vegetables that were the usual Lowenstein Friday meal. In fact, they’d more than helped themselves. I noticed most of the chicken was gone, and only a few vegetables remained. Clearly, Claudia and Mom had started eating before we’d lit the candles.
“Hey, why didn’t you join us?” I asked as I stabbed a fork in a slender slice of white meat and scraped around for the last of the carrots. I assumed that Sheila had another chicken in the oven. There certainly wasn’t enough here for Robbie. “Mom, you always enjoy lighting the candles.”
“Oh, that,” she said with a wave of her hand.
I couldn’t believe my ears. “Say what?”
“What do you call your God?” asked Claudia.
“Jehovah? God? Lord? Actually, many observant Jews don’t call him by name. He is too powerful, and his name is too holy.”
“Pfff.” Claudia snorted. “Blasphemy.”
I nearly hit the ceiling. Here she was, a guest in someone else’s home, and she was calling our religion blasphemy. I glanced quickly over my shoulder. Sheila stood in the doorway. Her eyes twin pools of icy blue anger.
“Excuse me?” I stared at Claudia.
“My pastor told us about people like you. You believe in—”
I reached my limit. “Claudia, I don’t need you to tell me what I believe in. You don’t know what I believe in. Please remember, you are a guest in this home.”
“Huh,” said Claudia. “I know exactly what you believe. I’ve seen how you treat your mother.”
Sixty-two
The Friday night croppers started arriving shortly before I finished our preparations. Usually, I would panic (a little) because it’s hard to finish readying the tables, greeting people, organizing the food, and waiting on customers. But Margit had printed up coupons, covered the work tables with fresh white butcher paper, set out all the chairs, and generally had everything ready to go.
She’d assembled small kits with the paper for the iris eye folding project. I could tell she was both nervous and excited about sharing her talents with our scrapbookers.
“You’ll be fine,” I told her. “They are lovely women, and they are always eager to try new techniques. This one is just fabulous.”
“Thank you for your help with everything,” Margit said.
“You are welcome. Hey, would you do me a favor? I’m glad to help you learn about scrapbooking, and I’m also happy to help you teach classes. Could you show me how our bookkeeping works? If I could learn more about our ordering systems, and our accounts payable, maybe I could do a better job of planning and promoting.”
“What do you mean?”
“If we have paper or supplies that aren’t moving, I can take that into consideration as I come up with projects. I mean, I already do, in that I look around and see what’s on the shelves.”
“But if you knew about our discounts and the promotions that the manufacturers offer, you could do more, ja?”
“They offer promotions?”
She nodded, her bowl-shaped hair swinging back and forth. “Sometimes if you buy this, you get another product at a discount. Or if you buy more of this before a certain date, they’ll send you a special bonus.”
“Gosh, I definitely could help us hit those goals. Our page kits sell really well. If I knew we needed to move a certain type of paper,
I could make up the page kits with that particular product.”
For the next ten minutes, Margit and I brainstormed more efficient ways to create “turn,” which she explained means the number of times your inventory turns over. The faster your turn is, the more money you make. If merchandise sits on the shelf for six months, your capital is tied up for six months—and you can’t make as much profit as you would if your merchandise turned over every six weeks.
Margit counseled me to “think of inventory turn as a payday. Would you rather get money for every week you work? Or for every month? Providing that you always make the same or an equal amount of money?”
“Weekly. If I always get the same amount—in this case roughly the same percentage of sales profit—I’d rather be paid fifty-two times a year instead of twelve times.”
“Ja. You understand it now, Kick-ee.” Her face was bright pink with pleasure. “It should be a good night?”
I nodded. Crop nights didn’t bring in tons of money. We charged a nominal fee for our crops, and we gave away a lot in terms of coupons with discounts, supplies that accompanied the new techniques we taught, and so on. But every cropper bought more consumables: paper, adhesives, embellishments. Each new scrapbooker wound up trying at least one or two tools and that often resulted in a purchase. Best of all, over the years we had built a community. We kept this community, this group of scrapbookers, excited and interested in the hobby. In return, they not only spent money with us, they also reignited our passion for the industry.
While I was out buying more napkins and colas for our crop night, Clancy had stopped by. She reported the sales figures from our Faust booth to Margit. She also shared email addresses of folks who wanted to take classes.
I was sorry that I missed her.
Margit was actually “off” at seven, but since she was demonstrating her craft, she was happy to stick around.
I checked the schedule, hoping that Mert would be in. Although she had her own cleaning and dogsitting businesses, she worked a couple of hours each month, mostly to maintain her employee discount. Frequently, she chose to help at the crops. That way she and I could spend a little quality time together while getting paid for our presence.
But Mert’s name had been scratched out on the schedule. I swallowed my disappointment.
“Laurel Wilkins” had been written in. Laurel could charm Rush Limbaugh into making a six-figure donation to the Democratic Party. She’s also the most amazingly competent young woman I’ve ever met. And pretty? Shoot. We used to call her “Miss December” because she looks like a centerfold, but once we learned it hurt her feelings, we all apologized and stopped. As per usual, Laurel showed up looking stunning. She wore skinny jeans, a flowing gauzy top, and big earrings with the peace symbol on them. On her feet were ballerina flats. She helped put the colas on ice as our customers trickled in.
Bonnie Gossage bounced little Fernando on her hip as she spread out the supplies for his baby book. Her older son, Felix, was home with his father, Fred. Now that Felix was a toddler, Fernando was our resident “pass-around baby.” Miriam Glickstein brought challah and a big pan of kugel. Rita Romano brought a cookbook she was making for her new daughter-in-law. She also made a big pot of Mexican rice. The scent of cumin made my mouth water. Kathy Berberich and Pat Davis were making memory albums to give to kids whose wishes had been fulfilled by the Make-A-Wish Foundation. I was delighted to learn that a wish is granted every 40 minutes. How cool is that?
Since Friday night crops ran well past midnight, almost everyone brought food. That was helpful on this Friday because I’d had so little to eat. As it turned out, Sheila hadn’t baked another chicken. Or made more vegetables. I was mortified by my mother’s piggish conduct and ashamed of Claudia’s remarks.
Sheila had shrugged. “Robbie told me why you need to stay here. About the plan. Honestly, men! They love all this running around like secret agents. What they need to do is grab a gun and go put Bill out of his misery.”
“I’m not excited about their scheme. In fact, I hate it.”
“I don’t see any other options. We need to get that monster out of our lives. I can keep Anya out of the way this weekend, but what can we do about your mother?”
“That’s why I haven’t told Claudia to leave. While she’s around, Mom has a play buddy.”
“If we’re lucky, this will be over soon. Until then, your mother and Claudia are welcome to stay at my house.”
I’d never heard her so conciliatory and I said so.
/> “Don’t fool yourself. I don’t care about your mother, and I’d love to plant my foot on Claudia’s big behind and kick her to the curb. I just want this hassle behind us so we can all go back to some semblance of normal.”
I agreed. “Is something bothering Anya? She seemed down in the dumps last night.”
“She’s been very quiet.”
“She hasn’t told you what’s on her mind?”
“No. Mostly she spends her evenings in her room with Seymour. She’s online a lot. I’m not sure that’s a good idea.”
“I hear you. At my house the computer is out in the open.”
Sheila nodded. “I know it. But I don’t think we can take her laptop away from her right now. She needs it for school. So many of her assignments are online these days.”
“Is there something at school that’s happening? Something I need to know about?”
“I don’t think so. I was working on the invitations for the wedding yesterday. She picked up the list and wanted to know how many ‘Lowensteins’ are still around. Whether Harry had any brothers, and if they had any children or grandchildren.”
Harry was Sheila’s husband, Anya’s paternal grandfather who died of cancer six weeks before she was born.
“And the answer is?”
“No. Both his brothers, Saul and Herschel, died at Auschwitz. As far as we know, so did all of his cousins.”
“Is she still bothered about you changing your last name?”
Sheila shrugged again and picked the crease of her slacks. “Or you changing yours.”
A sharp pain zipped through my temples. I put my fingertips to my head and rubbed. “I need to get back to work. I can’t deal with this right now.”
“I know you can’t. Unfortunately, I can’t either.”
Sixty-three
Jennifer Moore arrived at the shop late. I showed her the new May Day album. I only had a few pages to go. “Absolutely gorgeous. CALA definitely should sell these as kits. In fact, I’ll tell the bookstore manager that I’ll order a half dozen right off the bat.”
“Thank you, Jennifer. That’s really kind of you.”
“My pleasure. I saw the memorial album you made for Edwina Fitzgerald. You did a great job.”
“Have you heard whether Deanna and Peter liked it?” I motioned Jennifer into the backroom where we could speak privately.
“I don’t want to gossip, but—” Jennifer chewed on a finger. She always nibbled herself to raw flesh whenever she became nervous.
Very gently I reached up and pulled her hand away from her mouth. “Then don’t. I overheard people talking at the funeral. There seemed to be some concern about the company. Since you’re on the board, I realize you can’t talk.”
She inhaled, long and slowly. “It’s more than that. As a member of the board, I have a fiduciary responsibility. When that bumps up against my friendships, it’s tough. I mean, I like Deanna and Peter, really, I do. I understand their desire to keep up with their neighbors. But pretending to be someone you aren’t—that never ends well.”
“How’s Peyton doing? Anya’s been awfully moody. You’re lucky that Nicci opted out of participating.”
Jennifer cocked her head and said, “Notice something weird about all the photos of Peyton? Anything unusual?”
I thought back. “They are all posed shots.”
“That’s right. Ask yourself why. You’ll figure it out.”
Sixty-four
As I tidied up after the crop, Jennifer’s challenge stuck with me. I could come up with various reasons for only including posed shots: (1) the subject resisted having her photos taken. (2) Peyton was difficult to capture on film and only a professional did a good job. (3) Peyton’s usual grooming/attire wasn’t up to the standards her family set. All right, there was (4) no one was interested in taking her picture.
None of these told me anything worth knowing about Peyton or the Fitzgerald family. Or did they? Jennifer was a smart cookie. She’d been trying to share important information. She trusted that I would get her drift.
If she was nibbling her fingers, the situation was tense. Ergo, I needed to sort this out right away.
How could I learn more?
I turned to the only resource I truly understood: pictures. I knew that Sheila’s personal library contained copies of the school yearbook going back more than thirty years. Maybe a candid shot of Peyton would help me learn more about the Fitzgerald family dynamics. An unstaged shot might reveal a relevant piece of information.
But relevant to what?
Heartened by my plan, I turned off the store lights and flipped the sign on the front door to read CLOSED. After locking the back entrance, I gathered my dog’s leash and strolled with her toward my car. Once I unlocked the passenger side door, I unclipped the Great Dane.
“Get in,” I told my dog. “Up.”
The night was still. A warm breeze tickled my skin. “Come on,” I tugged at Gracie’s collar. But instead of stepping into the BMW and plopping her backside down on the passenger seat, Gracie froze. She locked her legs, fighting me. She turned her head, stared over her shoulder, and growled.
“Come on,” I encouraged her, pushing her toward the opening. She swung her blocky head left and right before sniffing the air. She sidestepped me.
“Come on, dog. I haven’t got all night.” I urged her forward with a tug on her collar.
But Gracie and I weigh the same. And she wasn’t budging. I grabbed her collar and gave her a bit of a shove from behind.
She didn’t move. Not at first.
Suddenly, she twisted free of my grip and jerked her collar out of my hands.
“Gracie! Come! Gracie, get back here!” I yelled at her retreating shadow. I tossed my purse into the car and took off running, following an instinct rather than an image, straining to keep track of the sound of my dog panting. I paused, listened closely, and heard the slap-slap-slap of shoes on asphalt.
Who was out there? Why had Gracie decided to chase that person down? Usually, she ignored passers-by. But not tonight.
Had Gracie sensed danger to us? What caused her to take off ? Why hadn’t she come back?
“Gra-cie!” I yelled into the black hole that was the night. I kept running in the direction she’d taken, but now I was totally immersed in the thick darkness of that spring evening, a night so humid it pressed down on me from all sides.
Gravel churned under my feet. I used my outstretched fingers like cat whiskers, trying to feel my way along. Where was I? Where was Gracie? I stopped and turned, making a complete U-ie, trying to get my bearings. The only direction I could discern was the south, because I could hear the rumble of engines and the singing of tires. By my calculations, Gracie had gone toward that busy road.
The thought chilled me. I had to get her back. Although her harlequin coat had splashes of white along with the black, she could be hard to see in the dark. I’d heard of drivers mistaking Great Danes for deer. She could easily get hit by a surprised driver.
“Gracie? Wanna go for a ride?” I repeated over and over.
That was all I had to offer. I made a tight circle in the dark. Then I stopped. I heard crunching. I heard scuffling, followed by the hollow clanging of a trash can. A woman started cursing. The voice sounded familiar, but honestly, under duress don’t we all?
“Crud,” I shook my head. Could it be that Brenda Detweiler had stalked me? Was she the shadowy figure my dog had attacked? If so, would Gracie be okay? I didn’t trust Brenda. Her drug usage and history was splattered with violent episodes. A panic rose in my chest. What if Gracie got hurt trying to protect me?
Or what if my attacker had been Bill? Or someone he hired? My underarms were wet with perspiration. My heart beat so hard I swear you could see my blouse shaking. My voice quavered as I called, “Gracie? Come! Here, girl! Come on!”
Sixty-five
Oh, right, like my feeble commands would make her race to my side.
Ha, ha, ha. The joke was o
n me.
My teeth started chattering. Was my dog okay? Why hadn’t I kept a tighter grip on her? What if she ran out into traffic and got hit?
My only hope was to get in my car, roll down the windows, drive slowly around the block, and call out for her. She loved going for rides. Perhaps it would be enough of an inducement to lure her to me.
I started back toward the parking lot, feeling my way along with my feet. Squinting, I tried to find the edge where the alley intersected the pavement. I was concentrating so hard on my feet that the brush of fur against my leg startled me.
“Gracie! Where were you?”
From her new spot, she growled long, low, and loud. I gripped her collar and tried to haul her back toward the car. The ruff of hair around her neck met my knuckles; the fur stood up on end. She’d raised her hackles. She was seriously ticked.
A crunch from behind our building caused Gracie to surge forward, nearly yanking my arm out of the socket. “What the heck?” I muttered as I rubbed my wrist. “Come on, Gracie. That’s enough of this nonsense. Get in the car.”
I hoped that whoever was out there heard me. With luck my would-be assailant would slither off into the dark.
From across the lot I heard the slap-slap-slap of shoe soles hitting the pavement. A dark figure raced past me toward the alley. I could make out long arms flailing at the night. I heard the crackle and snap of small twigs breaking. I smelled a pungent perfume of broken greenery as the intruder burst through the hedge that separated the back of our building from the house that abutted our lot.
I tried again to get Gracie into my car. Now my job was harder because I was trembling.
In the distance, a dog howled. A beagle from the sound of it, making that eerie yodel that signals catching a scent.
Gracie twisted to look past me. Light from passing cars glinted off her eyes. She was tracking a moving target. I could feel her body relax, and I assumed her prey was getting away.
Ready, Scrap, Shoot (A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery) Page 16