Monkey Wrench

by Terri Thayer

I rolled my eyes at Freddy.

  Barb V said, “Everything will fit nicely if you do it my way.” She could scold without even looking up. She must have been a grade school teacher in another life.

  “Each shop has chosen their fabrics, staying within our theme of blue and orange. Mostly. Cut one strip of each of three fabrics, five inches by twenty-two. That will give your customer enough to make the block. If the customer goes to all the shops, she’ll have twelve blocks.”

  Barbara the Damp put in, “The customer will need to purchase several yards of fabric for sashings and border fabric so that could be a good sale for you.”

  “I have one finished,” I said.

  I held up the quilt that Ursula had made for our display. She used all the blocks and set them on point. A large floral served as setting triangles and unified the disparate fabrics of the blocks. I loved the look and was satisfied by the murmurs of pleasure that came from most of the group.

  Barb V was eager to move on. She slapped a shrink-wrapped bundle in front of her. “Next, the Crawl passports, people. This year they are numbered. I have assigned your store one hundred passports. Mark your store’s initials in the top right-hand corner. That way when the customer turns in her completed one, we will know where she began her quest. Also, we will be able to tell which shop had the most customers finish the race.”

  In order to be eligible for the prizes, including a new top-of-the-line sewing machine and a weeklong quilting seminar, quilters had to go to all the shops within the allotted time frame, and get their passport stamped. Most made a game of it, rushing from shop to shop. Many traveled in packs. Quilters came from out of town.

  For some, it would be the first time they’d visited QP.

  QP hadn’t participated since my mother died, four years ago. I wanted back in so I could reintroduce the new and improved shop to customers.

  Barbara the Damp distributed the bundles to each of us. I resisted the urge to wipe her wet fingerprints from the plastic. Freddy was not as restrained. He used his napkin to swipe at it. Crumbs from his earlier bagel went everywhere.

  I tuned out Barb V and thought about my own presentation. Vangie had worked my idea of a special Twitter promotion into a lovely series of slides with illustrations and graphs explaining everything. I only wished I’d had this idea two months ago. We didn’t have much time to implement it.

  A discussion about the amount of money allotted for food dragged on. I kept watching the clock. Barb V not only started meetings on time, she ended them as well, sometimes in mid-sentence.

  At least no one had complained about the bathroom or stubbed their toe on the dresser in the hall. Yet.

  Finally, Barb V pointed at me.

  “Dewey, you have something to discuss?” Barb V put a tick mark next to my name on her agenda. “You’ll have to be quick. We only have six minutes left.”

  I stood and pushed in my chair. Freddy flashed me two fingers in a victory sign. I smiled at him and the group, hoping the act of smiling would quash the butterflies in my stomach.

  “I have an idea I’d like to run by you. How many of you know what Twitter is?”

  Most heads nodded. The shop owners varied in age, although I was by far the youngest. If I had to guess, I’d say Freddy was the next in line and he was in his late forties. These women represented long-established quilt shops that had withstood the battering of the last couple of years. Several shops had closed their doors and nothing new had opened in the valley, except for Freddy, in at least three years. Only the strongest shops survived the economic downturn, and these were the last standing. Collectively, they represented hundreds of years of experience.

  “I’m on Twitter,” Summer said, waving her arm burdened with dozens of silver bracelets. Her shop was in Santa Cruz. “I mean, the shop is. I have no clue. My granddaughter does all that stuff for me.”

  “Me, too,” said Roberta of Quilting Pals. “Except it’s my husband who does it all.”

  “Well,” I said. “It’s not as difficult as it might sound. I’ll explain it the best I can. Feel free to interrupt me with questions.”

  I opened my laptop. It was already connected to the screen. I clicked the mouse, but nothing happened. I checked the connections and clicked again.

  Still nothing. Several committee members looked at the blank screen, then back at me. Barb V cleared her throat significantly. I glanced at the wall clock. Five minutes.

  I had to wing it. I closed the laptop and tried to remember Vangie’s highlights. “Twitter is a free service. A tweet is a short message that goes out to all your followers. We can get a lot of free advertising, tweeting ahead of time about the Crawl.”

  Summer said, “We’ve been doing that already.”

  I nodded. “Me, too. But—I’d like to do something very special the days of the Crawl.”

  I stopped, trying to gauge how much of this was getting across. Summer and Roberta were nodding, but the two Barbaras had their mouths in a straight line. Barb V had crossed her arms across her chest for good measure.

  The rest of the owners looked confused.

  “I’d like to target four shops each day during a special Twitter promotion. We would do one in the north and south, morning and afternoon. I would tweet the location of the shop and encourage the Crawlers to get over there within the hour.”

  Gwen, the quilt shop owner from Half Moon Bay, was a weathered woman in a red vest and orange T-shirt. The dirt under her fingernails never seemed to go away. At least I hoped it was dirt. Freddy said she had a sheep farm.

  She asked, “Why would we promote one particular shop? What would happen to the others?”

  Barbara the Damp chimed in, “I don’t want all my customers leaving and going somewhere else. That’s not the point of the Crawl. The object here is to give everyone an equal chance.”

  I nodded, feeling my mouth go dry. This had made sense when Vangie and I had hashed it out. Vangie’s presentation would explain all this. If only I could get it to work.

  I pulled my eyes off the laptop, dragging myself away from the technology that wasn’t helping. “Umm … shop hops like this one have become pretty common. We need to give the quilters an extra reason to come out to ours.”

  Roberta said, “My granddaughter uses Twitter all the time to plan events. One moment she’s sitting at the kitchen table looking at her phone, the next minute, she’s off to a party.”

  Barbara V frowned. “Maybe you should keep better track of her.”

  Roberta flushed, her chubby cheeks turning bright red. She added, “Another time a bunch of her friends got together and cleaned out a neighbor’s basement and painted her kitchen. Planned it on the spot,” she said proudly. Her pigeon chest expanded.

  Cookie put in, “The Twitter alerts could add some excitement. Lots of people have smart phones these days. If the customers get online and tell their friends, we’ll attract even more participants. Isn’t that what we want to do?”

  Cookie ran a very popular quilt shop in Aptos. She was a businesswoman first, and quilter second. I had been hoping she would understand.

  Barbara the Damp wiped her hands on a crochet-trimmed handkerchief she pulled out of her sleeve. “We have been losing participants …” she began. Her voice faded out as she caught a glare from Barb V.

  I broke in. “You’ve been telling us that there are two kinds of Crawlers. Ones who shop and the others who rush in only to get their stamp. This would be a chance to get those customers to stay a bit longer. And spend money.”

  “What would happen at the tweeter shop?” Barb V asked.

  I ignored her mangling of the word. “We would award a special prize basket to one of the customers who got there during the allotted hour,” I said. “You’d have to be present to win, so—”

  Half Moon Bay threw up her hands. “Where am I supposed to get the money for more prizes?”

  Others joined in. Barb V held up her pen for silence, and they ceased their chatter.

  Sh
e said, “Dewey, you know that we have strict budgets for giveaways. You remember how difficult it was to negotiate a figure that everyone could afford.”

  I looked behind me. I thought I’d heard the back door open. I was so hoping Vangie would appear and get me out of this mess. But it was only a customer who moved on through to the front. My heart sank. I had two minutes to convince this group that my Twitter idea would work.

  “It won’t cost you anything. I’ll get the prizes donated and put together a special basket for each shop. The days of the Crawl, I’ll handle the tweeting. All you will have to do is greet the extra customers who come to your shop.”

  “And take their money,” Freddy said.

  “Time is up,” Barb V said. “This meeting is over.”

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I whispered to Freddy.

  “Vamonos,” he replied.

  _____

  Freddy stayed behind to help me clean up. We cleared the table of used cups and plates. Most of the bagels were gone.

  “I guess that was a success, even though now I have two major new tasks. I have to set up a Twitter account for the Quilters Crawl and track down free stuff to give away, I said.”

  I cracked my neck to the right and then to the left, in an effort to relieve some of the tension I was feeling. “Can you help?”

  “I’ll call Lark and get her to give us some of her books,” Freddy said.

  “That’s big of you,” I said, hitting the sarcasm hard. Freddy could take it. “That’s a no-brainer and will take you all of about three minutes.” We both talked regularly to Lark Gordon, star of a hit quilting cable show. She was an easy touch for door prizes.

  I continued, “I’m going to talk to my scissors guy in Brooklyn. He’ll be good for a dozen mini-snips. If he hasn’t already sent my order out, we’ll get them in time.”

  Freddy rubbed his neck. I could see a new tattoo peeking out of his collar. It looked like the head of a tiger. He refused to act his age. “I can get a hold of embroidery designs.”

  “Not everyone has a machine that can handle those,” I pointed out. I couldn’t let Freddy off the hook. He had to chip in with some help. I already had too much on my plate.

  He stacked the coffee mugs precariously in the cabinet over the sink. I took two off the top and set them on a different shelf. “Okay, some high-quality thread, then. The big spools. And some stabilizer. Even the regular sewers can use stabilizer. Can you get Vangie to set up the Twitter account?”

  I shook my head and filled the sink with soapy water. “I’ll do it. She’s got a full load at school. I want her available to work on the Crawl weekend.”

  “I haven’t seen her in weeks.”

  Since opening a shop nearby, Freddy had become a bit of a fixture around my place. He sold sewing machines, so we weren’t in direct competition. I sent my customers who needed a machine to him, and he sent me those looking for fabric and quilt classes. It was a good business relationship.

  “Is she okay?” Freddy asked me.

  I stuck my hands in the water. It was too hot but I didn’t want to back away. I didn’t want Freddy to see my face. He could tell when I was lying.

  “She’s fine. Can you buy baskets for the prizes?” He nodded

  Buster came in the QP kitchen as Freddy was drying the knives. He was wearing his tightest SJPD black T-shirt and black jeans. I could tell he hadn’t stopped at home yet because he was still wearing his gun. It was as if he knew Freddy was going to be here. Intimidation was the name of the game.

  He said hello, and went straight to the refrigerator. His six-foot-three frame filled the open space. He peered into the interior like he was sixteen and in his mother’s kitchen. I didn’t mind the rear view but couldn’t help but fret about the electricity being wasted.

  “Hi, babe,” I said. “Sorry, we’re out of Vitamin Water.”

  Buster grunted and took out a quart of milk. I have three brothers, I knew what came next. I held out a glass. Buster ignored it and twisted off the top.

  Freddy said, “Late night again?”

  Buster turned to me. “So what, now. You talking about me?” he asked. He had a dangerous glint in his eye. He took a long drink from the container.

  I shook my head. My guilt about slipping about Buster being on the drug task force found its way into my voice. “Of course not.”

  Buster caught my hesitation. He tilted the milk and looked at Freddy. “She been complaining about my rotten moods? How I never have time to take her out anymore?”

  “It’s pretty evident that you’re busy. The bathroom …” Freddy said. He was trying to be diplomatic. I had to give him that. That was not Freddy’s usual modus operandi.

  Buster was relentless. “Since you’re over here all the time already, maybe you’d like to paint the bathroom.”

  Enough. I took the milk from Buster and poured the remainder into the glass. I rinsed the container. “Buster, Freddy and I have work to do. We’re working on the Quilters Crawl together, you know that. Knock it off. You’re out of line.”

  Freddy dried his hand on a paper towel. He gathered up his Quilters Crawl notebook. “We’re done for today,” he said.

  He walked to the doorway and turned back, stroking his beard. His eyes sought Buster’s and held them. “Your girl has not spilled your deep dark secrets, I guarantee that.”

  He managed to make it sound like just the opposite. I blushed. Buster glowered. Freddy disappeared.

  I turned on Buster, with the milk container in my hand. Buster took it from me and tossed it into the recycling bin.

  “Geez, Buster, that was unnecessary,” I said. “I know you’re tired and cranky, but come on.”

  “You do understand he moved up here to be near you, don’t you?” Buster said, washing his dirty glass. He could only push the caveman act so far before his natural need for order took over.

  “Not at all. He wanted to be closer to his brother.”

  “That’s what he tells you, maybe, but I know the real reason. He fell for you when you two were at Asilomar last year.”

  I wiped down the countertop with vigor. Buster was pissing me off. “When do you get off that task force? You’re getting paranoid.”

  “Think what you want. I know a smitten man when I see one.” Buster helped himself to a stale bagel from the morning Crawl meeting.

  I rinsed off my sponge and took a breath, letting the running water soothe me. Buster was miserable at his job right now. He’d asked to get off Homicide because he was dissatisfied only doing computer work on cold cases, but working the drug scene was souring him. I had to cut him some slack.

  I faced him. “Freddy is not the problem. You need sleep, and lots of it.”

  He nodded reluctantly. “I’m sorry. I’m just upset at how long this is taking. If it was up to my superiors at SJPD, we’d have made arrests already. But they have to answer to the FBI and the DEA. Those guys are dragging their feet. Meanwhile, there are so many kids on campus becoming addicted to pills, it makes me sick.”

  “But it’s out of your hands.”

  “That doesn’t make it any easier when I know the amount of painkillers and Prozac that’s being ingested. Those kids need help. And those dealers need to be locked up.”

  I dried my hands on the towel he was holding and reached for Buster. He came into my arms and let me stroke his lush hair. He’d been out all night again. I felt how weary he was as he sagged against me.

  “When are we going to get our life back?” I asked.

  Buster shook his head. He pulled away, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He looked so tired and vulnerable, I forgave him everything, even drinking from the milk carton.

  “HQ’s not telling me anything,” he said. He fought off a yawn. “I’m going to go home and sleep.”

  “You’re working again tonight?” I asked. Ugh. More hours in front of HGTV. I was even tiring of Josh Temple.

  He grabbed his leather jacket. “Yup. Going in at seven.�
��

  “I’ll come home early and make dinner,” I said. That would be our only time together.

  “Thanks,” he said. His eyes were getting heavy. He started down the hall to QP’s back door.

  “Okay if I invite Freddy?” I called after him.

  He didn’t turn around, just flipped me off without looking back.

  Three

  I logged onto Twitter and started an account in the Quilters Crawl name. I tried to import the Quilters Crawl logo, a sea otter draped incongruously in a patchwork quilt. The file was the wrong size. I could not get the picture to appear next to the Quilters Crawl name.

  Frustrated, I gave up. I could be here for hours trying to figure out what I was doing wrong. This was exactly the kind of thing Vangie could do in three minutes. I gave up and wrote a note to ask her to fix my mistake. I hadn’t seen her since the day I picked up Pearl, but she often came in late at night after I was gone.

  For now, I would concentrate on finding followers. I tweeted from QP’s account about the promotion and urged my followers to join the Quilters Crawl feed. I sent an email to the quilt guild and our mailing list. I put a note on QP’s Facebook wall. I wasn’t sure we’d get enough people online by the beginning of the Crawl, but I was going to give it a try.

  I had a bright idea. I could slip a note onto the new maps when we got them. Vangie had brightly colored stickers somewhere. I found them in her bottom drawer under her extra set of car keys and an expired coupon for Hot Diggety Dog.

  I wrote Follow the Quilters Crawl on Twitter for special prizes. I printed this out and left a note for Ursula to attach them to the brochures before she handed them out. That might attract a few more people.

  Flipping over to Twitter, I saw we’d gained a dozen people. Not so bad for an afternoon’s work.

  That was all I could do for now. The growth now would come from within the social media community. Word of mouth, so to speak.

  I turned my attention to prizes. I’d gotten an email from Felix in Brooklyn saying he would send a dozen extra scissors in my regular order, early next week. One prize down. Only a dozen more to go.