Designed to Death

by Christina Freeburn

  Annette crinkled her nose and fired off a “so there” comment with her eyes at Oliver.

  “Words are important.” Oliver held a copy of Making Legacies tightly in his hands. “You might not respect them—”

  “I respect them all right. It’s why I’m careful not to make someone feel unwelcome.” I glared at Oliver. “I meant everyone and anyone who’d like to crop is welcome. Besides, it’s none of your business who we invite to our events.”

  “Invite whoever you want,” Oliver said. “But the proper use of language is my business. You should have written what you just said so it would’ve been clear.”

  “The line’s getting long. You might want to go stand in it.” I widened my eyes and smiled sweetly. “Was that clear?”

  “Customer service isn’t your forte.”

  The buzzer by the employee door sounded then stopped. After a gun-carrying criminal surprised me a few months ago, my grandmothers had Steve Davis add a security system by the back door. If the code wasn’t punched in quick enough, a warning alarm went off at the police station and in the prosecutor’s office where Steve―my grandmothers’ appointed knight-in-shining armor for me―worked.

  “Belinda must have arrived,” I said.

  Oliver drew in a breath and quickly rushed toward the front of the line.

  “The end,” I called out to him.

  I watched one of our customers snag Oliver’s arm and draw him to her side. They stood shoulder-to-shoulder and flipped through the magazine. No one else in line seemed to care so I’d let it slide, and Belinda had promised not to leave until every magazine was signed.

  Cold wind snaked through the building and I fought back a shiver. October could either be an extension of a warm fall or the beginning of a cold winter. Two years in a row, trick-or-treating had to be postponed because of snow. The October breeze swirled around the room and I scrambled to grab the class schedules and other advertisements that tumbled from the heavy plastic tables.

  Belinda waltzed into the store, waving like a teenage girl crowned Homecoming Queen. My grandma Cheryl followed after her, doing her best not to roll her eyes. A few customers began whispering, straining their necks to get a good look at the newest Life Artist Diva.

  “Please don’t let this title go to her head,” I muttered.

  “Belinda, look over here! Over here!” A customer jumped up and down, holding her cell phone out as she tried to snap a picture.

  “Belinda, the library thanks you for the generous gift.” Oliver waved his copy in the air.

  “I must speak with Faith first.” Belinda gave another queenly wave, blew a kiss at Oliver, then headed for me.

  When she spotted Karen and the photographer, she froze for an instant. In that moment, I saw uncertainty cross her face. The shy woman, who needed her mom to book her signings and appearances, shone through the new confident, “celebrity Belinda.”

  “Belinda,” I almost screamed her name to draw her attention, “can you give me some pointers on the class?”

  Belinda shook her head. “I can’t give out any secrets. Only those who paid for the class will get to learn this technique. I hope you have some way of making sure those who haven’t purchased a spot don’t get a free lesson.”

  Did Belinda expect us to empty out the store when the class started? Or put up a huge partition? I cast a glance over at my grandmothers. Hope looked confused by the request and Cheryl beyond annoyed.

  I was both, considering I had to figure out how to incorporate this new demand from Belinda. “I’m not expecting any secrets. I just want to know which layout is the inspiration for your class.”

  Belinda wagged her finger at me. “No sneak peeks. Not even for you.”

  I heard Karen’s unladylike snort from across the room. I refrained from giving her the evil eye, and also swatting Belinda with the magazine.

  Yesterday alone, I had spent three hours on the phone making sure everything was just the way Hazel’s “baby” needed it. Talk about helicopter mom. I had been instructed on the noise level permitted in the classroom area, the temperature best suited for Belinda’s creativity, and how instructions couldn’t be included in the class kit because Belinda feared her idea would be distributed without her permission.

  Neither my grandmothers nor I liked the last rule but we went along with it.

  When Belinda was named a L.A.D., scrappers within a four hour drive-time radius began calling, asking if we had any classes taught by Belinda on our schedule. Everyone considered Scrap This her home store, so they contacted us first and we didn’t want to disappoint them.

  “Hard to set up the class properly without the instructions.” I picked up a copy of the magazine featuring Belinda and flipped through it. There couldn’t be too many designs that needed glue, boas, glitter and a hammer.

  Gazing at my hands, Belinda offered me a smile and patted me on the shoulder. “Silly me, I should’ve guessed. Of course I’ll sign a copy for you. Would you like me to personalize it?”

  I stopped my eye rolling in mid-roll when I noticed Sierra leaving her spot for the class and coming toward us.

  Belinda whipped out an acid free bubblegum pink pen from her bubblegum pink and lime green Vera Bradley purse. The sleeve of her oversized coat covered her hand and hid the pen.

  “Would you like me to take your coat?” Sierra asked. “I brought a quilted hanger today just for you.”

  “How thoughtful of you, Sierra.” Belinda beamed at her and held out her arms, waiting for Sierra to remove the garment.

  With only a slight hesitation, Sierra slipped the beige coat with a chocolate brown faux fur collar from Belinda’s shoulders.

  I pressed my lips together to stop from gaping at Belinda. I was a pink loving girl, but even for me this was overkill.

  Belinda’s purse was the perfect color match to the bubblegum pink and lime green t-shirt she wore which had “Life Artist Diva” embroidered across her ample chest. The tiny rhinestones strained to pop off. She paired the shirt with a pair of bubblegum pink jeans with tiny lime green scissors embroidered all over the legs and backside of the denim. Belinda pulled out a tiara made with lime green and bubblegum pink stones from her purse and delicately placed it on top of her head. The tiara was almost hidden by her mass of dark-brown curly hair.

  Leslie stared at her diva with a look of utter amazement...and not the good type of amazement.

  Sierra hid a snicker behind her hand cupped around her mouth.

  “Faith...” Belinda cocked her head to the side and looked at me. Confusion twisted her features as she stared at the magazine I still held.

  “Yeah, sure. I’d appreciate it.” I held the magazine out to Belinda.

  Belinda gently placed her hands beside mine and lifted the pristine issue of Making Legacies from my hands as if we transferred a baby between us. With careful turns of the glossy pages, Belinda stopped at the section that highlighted her artist biography and displayed a large glamorized photo of her. The right-hand side of the feature article showcased a featured artwork of hers.

  The layout was breathtaking. As the magazine order had only arrived that morning, I hadn’t had time to look at the pages featured in the special issue. Belinda surprised me. The introduction layout of hers had layers of embellishments artfully arranged around an Andy Warhol style portrait of Belinda.

  A monochromatic color scheme of green circled the picture and helped pop the picture from the page. Usually, a large amount of embellishments overpowered pictures but Belinda’s design of keeping the decorative elements in a muted shade of beige helped keep the focal point on the beautiful photo.

  “This is great, Belinda.” I tapped the photograph of her work. “I didn’t know you’d been working on changing your style.”

  Belinda blew on the inscription and handed me back the magazine. “It’s always good for an artist to test their skills. I never would’ve been inspired to stretch my creative wings if it hadn’t been for your classes.”


  “Thanks.” I peered at the note Belinda wrote. To one of my favorite scrapbook store employees. Keep encouraging the love of art to all those who wander into the store.

  One of. Well, I guess if Sierra flipped through my copy and read it, Belinda didn’t want her to think I was the favorite.

  A thump sounded at the backdoor. I shot a look at my grandmothers. They both frowned. The thudding grew louder.

  Belinda sighed. “I guess my mom is finally here. She promised to come and be my page turner.”

  “Page turner?” Did I really want to know the answer?

  Belinda nodded, arranging ten bubble gum pink acid-free markers on the signing table and shoving off the ones my grandmother had placed there earlier. “My mother said the line would go quicker if she turned to the correct page and all I had to do was sign.”

  Cheryl paused at the maroon curtain that separated the store area from the stock room and flicked a glance over her shoulder. I knew that look. It had been given to me quite a few times growing up...the girl-needs-a-reality-check stare down.

  Tapping an index finger on her bottom lip, Belinda studied the placement of the signing table. “Should my back really be facing the large picture windows? Passersby might be interested in stopping to get a quick peek at a celebrity.”

  Hazel rushed past the rows of pattern paper and beelined to us. She had bought, or made herself, a similar outfit to the one Belinda wore. Instead of bubblegum pink being the major color it was lime green with the pink shade as the accent, and her claim to fame stated “Mother of Life Artist Diva.”

  “This won’t do.” Hazel tsk-tsked. “The lighting here is too harsh for Belinda to deal with all morning. The table should be angled away from the windows. This just won’t do at all.”

  I was wondering how our attendees would feel having to look at lime green and bright pink all day. “It will be hard for the students taking Belinda’s class to follow along if they have to twist their necks to watch the demonstration.”

  Hazel looked at me as if I was a simpleton. “Are these tables bolted to the floor?”

  I frowned. “No.”

  “Get a move on then. Start rearranging.” Hazel swished her hands in a go-away-little-doggie manner. “My daughter is the most important person here.”

  Belinda had the good graces to cringe at her mother’s words. One attendee hustled over to the register and I heard her ask for her class fee back.

  Annoyed murmurs erupted from the rest of the class. A few women discretely, and some not so, placed their copy of Making Legacies they had intended to buy back onto the pile.

  Leslie started tapping a stylus onto the screen of her iPad, a frown marring the pleasant expression her tattooed eyebrows and eyeliner attempted to give her. The editor-in-chief didn’t appear pleased with the diva’s behavior.

  This was going to be a long day.

  TWO

  “Next,” Hazel announced, holding out her hands for an issue of Making Legacies to slide in front of Belinda.

  Two more stragglers raced into the store, grabbed a magazine, and jumped into the back of the line. I looked over at Belinda. This time, she nodded yes to my suggestion of closing off the line. The signing should’ve ended an hour ago, but Belinda hadn’t wanted to turn away any of her fans, and neither did Leslie Amtower. She cared about the books being sold, not the class.

  I, on the other hand, had to balance both. I thought making the class attendees wait for an hour was more than long enough.

  The women poised at the cropping tables as if preparing for battle, one hand hovering over a hammer and the other over the wide range of tin sheets, finally smiled. For over an hour, they waited for the diva to begin the class. With one word from their idol, they’d grab the hammer, a pin, and snatch up the nearest color of thin sheets of aluminum to start poking the metal into creative submission.

  I had yet to figure out how the boa came into play.

  Hazel slid another copy of the magazine over to Belinda. With a flourish, Belinda signed the copy and handed it to the waiting groupie. The class attendees’ arms quivered in anticipation, two more signatures and then they’d be on their way to the fame of being part of the first class taught by Belinda.

  “What product did you use on this layout?” A young woman with hopeful eyes asked, tapping a design with stacked flowers on the corner of the photo. “I love these shapes and haven’t seen them before. This would be great for my engagement photo.”

  Belinda queen-waved off the young lady. “I have a class to teach. No time for questions right now.”

  “I’m sure there’s a supply list included.” Hazel beamed at the young woman.

  “There’s not.” The woman remained glued to her spot, staring at Belinda. “Don’t you remember what product this is?”

  Hazel looked pointedly at me.

  Holding in a long-suffering sigh, I smiled at the girl. “Leave your email with one of my grandmothers and I’ll locate the supplies for you.”

  “Thanks.” The girl beamed and skipped toward Hope.

  I was surprised Making Legacies hadn’t included a product list with the layouts. It was standard for the items the designer used to be listed either alongside or underneath the layout. Was this a way for the magazine to get more readers to check out their blog and increase their number of hits?

  The last autograph seeker made it through the line. Hallelujah. The students flexed their fingers, anticipating the first words from the newest scrapbooking It-Girl.

  Gathering up a set of tools for Belinda, I raced over to the table and arranged them for quick and easy access. Hammer. Check. Different size nails. Check. Different color tin sheets. Check. Protective mat for the table. Check. Hot glue gun. Check. Glitter. Check. Pink boa. Check.

  “Do you need anything else, Belinda?” I hoped for a no. The table was running out of room.

  She glanced at the items and pointed at the hammer, nails and tin. “If you don’t mind, can you scoot those over toward my mother? She’s doing the hands-on portion while I read from my notes.” Belinda reached into her expensive bubblegum pink leather artist portfolio and pulled out a stack of paper.

  I stepped closer to Belinda and lowered my voice. “These women paid a premium price to take a class taught by you.”

  “I am teaching it.” She waved the pages under my nose.

  “Teaching as in demonstrating. If they just wanted to read the instructions, they could have done that at home.”

  Belinda laughed. “These instructions haven’t been published yet. They are the first to be learning this technique. You should be pleased I’m debuting this class at Scrap This. I could have gone elsewhere.”

  Right now, I wished she had. The paying customers took this class under the belief the creator of the technique would demonstrate it, not have her mother do it while the diva read the instructions aloud. Granted, maybe her hand was tired from writing but then a short break was in order, not substituting another instructor at the last moment.

  “This will be a problem.” I crossed my arms and tried to keep my voice even, neutral and low. “For us, you, and the magazine. These women will talk. And don’t forget the editor is watching. If word gets out a class taught by you isn’t really done by you, you’re done as a diva.”

  Not to mention another hole punched into the reputation of Scrap This. We already had a murder to live down, now we’d have to add an expensive class taught by a flaky teacher. Though I had a feeling the customers would be more willing to forgive the murder.

  Tears glittered in Belinda’s eyes and she lowered her gaze to the ground. The papers in her hand trembled. “This is my first class. I’m not the best at public speaking. I’ll get confused. That’s why I need…”

  My heart went out to her. There had to be some way to help Belinda with her anxiety, give the customers what they paid for, and not have Ms. Amtower bad-mouth the store. I’m sure she’d place the blame on us and not in her choice of diva.

  I flipped thro
ugh a bunch of scenarios in my head. No. No. Possibly.

  Wait. That one would work. I grinned. “How about your mom reads the instructions while you demonstrate? You can then add in some anecdotes here and there.”

  In the back of the store, Karen leaned against the wall, half-asleep. She was probably wondering what she ever did to get this assignment. The adoption day at the animal shelter was probably more exciting than a book signing and a class at a scrapbook store.

  The photographer took a couple of shots of the paper racks, stickers, and the curtains blocking off the storage area. At least he appeared busy and interested.

  Belinda chewed on her lip. “I’m not sure.”

  “It’ll be fabulous. The women will understand someone will be reading the directions so you can concentrate on showing them how to create the actual project.”

  “Well…” Belinda looked at the women who were waiting with bated breath for their illustrious teacher to begin. The hero worship in the students’ eyes must have gotten to her because she perked up and then motioned for her mother to take over as the reader. “We must give the public what they want.”

  Thankfully, egos always overruled fear.

  Holding in my breath of relief, I wandered to the edge of the open classroom area to observe. If needed, I could step in to help some of the struggling students.

  Cheryl rang up purchases while Hope helped other unhappy scrapbookers discover what products were needed to reasonably duplicate the pages in Making Legacies’ newest edition.

  The bell jingled. I kept my eyes on the class.

  “I forgot. The new wonder girl is making her first appearance today.” Darlene Johnson, self-proclaimed professional life artist expert and Belinda’s cousin, sidled up to me. “How quaint. She can’t talk and demonstrate at the same time.”

  The photographer went to snap a picture of the class. I held my hand up and all he got was the back of it.

  Darlene picked unseen lint off the sleeves of her dove gray shirt and slipped the strap of her silvery-blue leather Coach bag further onto her shoulder.