Cut, Crop and Die

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  An hour later, I watched my daughter ride off with mixed feelings. It was important that she have friends, and Nicci seemed like a nice enough child, er, pre-teen. Jennifer was a bit overindulgent, but then, who wasn’t these days? My being overprotective might backfire by making Anya too eager to shed my influence. Being unconcerned could also be dangerous. She needed to know I had her back. That I was watching out for her. I had to find a middle ground.

  And what exactly was a middle ground? Where did that phrase come from and what did it mean? Jennifer’s white Mercedes pulled out of my driveway as I pondered the question. At some time, in some distant place, had there truly been a geographic middle ground? Or had this always referred to a mythical spot? A fantasy locale like Camelot? Surely in real life, middle ground was every bit as elusive as the kingdom of King Arthur.

  Yes, I’d eluded a killer who was now on the lam. Two postcards and three letters had been mailed to me bearing the handscrawled message, “I’ll get even.” Each was postmarked in a different part of the country. Duh … of course, this criminal was too smart to come back to St. Louis. But what was it Detweiler had said about a criminal’s logic being different from our logic? Revenge was, as I had the scar to prove, a strong motivator. Maybe even stronger than self-preservation.

  I walked back into my house as my cell phone started ringing. Mert wanted to drop off a dog for me to babysit. I was glad to have both a reason to visit with my best friend and an opportunity to make extra money.

  “This here’s Guy, and he’s a nutcase,” she explained an hour later, handing me a brown, black, and white Jack Russell terrier. Mert put a bag of dog food and a leash on my kitchen counter. The small dog regarded me warily while I gave him a similar once over. Evidently I either passed muster or wasn’t worth the effort because a big yawn overtook Guy. His little pink tongue lolled in the most comical way. Gracie sat next to me, examining my burden, head cocked and curious. I lowered Guy to the floor. The two sniffed each other’s nether regions and wagged their tails. It was a stretch for the terrier to browse Gracie’s behind. I think she’s thirty-four inches at the withers, but I’ve never dropped a tape measure from under her tail. Anything a dog can do, you can watch, but it isn’t smart to push your luck.

  “Ethel Frick’s daughter’s boyfriend bought him for the girl when she was in college. She’s since graduated and found a job and can’t have a dog in her new apartment, so Ethel inherited Guy. He’s named after that British dude who tried to blow up them Houses of Parliament. Guy Fawkes? This little squirt is more terrorist than terrier. By the way, you get combat pay for watching this monster. He comes with special instructions.” Mert pulled a sheet of paper from the pocket of her short-shorts. “Do not under any circumstances let him watch Sesame Street.”

  “Huh?”

  “You heard me. He can watch anything else on TV, but no Sesame Street, see? It’s written right here in big block letters.” A frosted pink fingernail traced words underlined four times in bold marker: NO SESAME STREET! “Otherwise, he likes to run around and play a lot. I haven’t had him as a guest, but Ethel assures me he’s a lover, not a fighter.”

  We put up the gate to keep Guy in my kitchen and sat down to yak. I didn’t go into everything Detweiler said—I’d promised him to stay mum, after all—but I intimated he was concerned about the circumstances around Yvonne’s death. Mert gobbled down two Snickerdoodles. With her heavy schedule of house and office cleaning she burns calories like Lance Armstrong ascending a mountain with a pack of French bikers in his downdraft. I, on the other hand, have the metabolism of a garden slug on Valium.

  “I used to clean for Yvonne. We had ourselves what you might call a falling out,” Mert said. To my surprise, an expression of sheer hatred took over my friend’s face. I pulled back in shock. I’d never seen Mert like this. Never.

  She continued, “That woman’s a pis-tol, heavy on the pissy part of the toll. Once she tried to return a pair of dirty panties to Victoria’s Secret. Got all huffy when they wouldn’t take them back. Liked to brag about what she’d got for free by conniving folks. She was one to eat halfway through a meal and set a hair on the plate, then call over the waiter. Once got some poor server fired over some ruckus she made. Didn’t make no secrets ’bout her tricks neither. Don’t know how a person can live with herself doing all that. It isn’t right—and mark my words, it always comes back and bites you in the rear end.”

  “Wow. I knew she was awful at the store, but I didn’t realize her behavior was so … global.” Every time I closed my eyes, I saw Yvonne thrashing about.

  “Dodie mentioned she’d fired Yvonne as a customer,” Mert said. “I wish I’d’a had the good sense to do just that.”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  Mert waved my question away and turned her head so I couldn’t see her eyes. “It was years and years ago. Don’t matter. Don’t bear repeating or remembering. I should’ve seen it coming. She wasn’t right in the head. But at the time, I thought I needed the money. Since then, I’ve learned there’s money and there’s money, and some money costs too much to get. You got any idea what happened at the store to make Dodie kiss Yvonne’s business goodbye?”

  I filled Mert in on a few of Yvonne’s more notable antics.

  “Ho boy. But Ellen sure acted pleased as punch to have Yvonne as a design team member over at Memories First.”

  “Of course she is. That’s a prestigious award. Remember, Ellen said the magazine had Yvonne’s work on their website. I bet she’ll have other pages in one of those big spreads in an upcoming issue. Some of their winners have even created their own lines of paper products. They get hired to demonstrate supplies at shows and on QVC. Plus, manufacturers send them the latest products free. Ellen’s going to get a lot of mileage from being Yvonne’s retail home base. Maybe Yvonne behaved herself at Ellen’s store. Whatever.”

  I was tired of talking about Yvonne.

  Instead, I wanted Mert’s opinion on how to handle Anya. I needed a sounding board. Mert has raised three kids, so her input was always valuable. I told her what my daughter had said earlier that day.

  “Hello, Miss Sassy Mouth! Buckle down the hatches, a teenage storm is appearing out there on the horizon,” Mert’s laughter was more sympathetic than her words.

  “What the heck do I do about it?”

  “Pray a lot.” She smiled a wry grin, her eyes crinkled in amusement. “I been through all this with mine.” Her nineteen-goingon-twenty-year-old son Roger was Anya’s secret crush, a sweet boy who often helped me with odd jobs like moving things I couldn’t budge.

  A funny sound caused us both to look down. Guy had started to hump the table leg.

  Mert snorted with laughter. “Go for it, buddy. You get splinters, don’t expect me to dig ’em out.” Her expression turned thoughtful. “Anya’s right. You can’t build your life around her no more. She’s not a baby, Kiki. And even if she was, you need to move on. You need a social life. Tell me what’s up with that hunky detective. No way he showed up just to cuss and discuss ole dead Yvonne.”

  “He shows up about twice a week ‘to check on us,’ because of those weird postcards and all. We go to lunch every week or so … but he’s never asked me out to dinner. He’s never made a move on me, and heaven knows, I’ve been patient. It’s not like Anya is here all the time. She’s at Sheila’s three nights a week at least. In fact, I’m so frustrated I picked up this book at the library—He’s Just Not That Into You.”

  Mert gathered her purse and said, “Like some smug couple in New York City can straighten out your love life. Man, I sure do wish there was a magic formula. For menfolk and kids. But there ain’t. It may be time to move on. That Detweiler’s a real dream-boat, but he’s gotta poop or get off the pot. In fact, I see him, I’m going to tell him so.”

  “Don’t you dare!”

  “Phooey. Tell you what. I’m having a barbecue at the house next Sunday. Why don’t you come? I’d like you to meet my baby brother, Johnny.
Remember? I told you about him moving back in the area after being … away.”

  What, I wondered, was “away”? Mert wasn’t one to be coy. I didn’t recall ever hearing her say much about Johnny. “Aw, I don’t know. Wouldn’t that complicate our friendship? What if he hates me? Worse. What if he likes me?”

  Mert snorted. “It don’t matter neither way. I love you, and your little dog, Toto, too,” and she gave Gracie a pat. “Besides, we’re going to have ourselves a good time. After a couple of beers, the whole world looks better, and that’s a fact. Iff’n it weren’t for Budweiser, I’d’a been wiser.” Her phone rang. “It’s my sister over in Indiana wanting to talk about what to get our daddy for his birthday. I’ll tell you more about my baby brother later. Got to run.”

  “Um, one last question.”

  “Shoot. But make it quick-like.”

  “Do I have bad breath?”

  “Not that I ever noticed. But don’t you dare plant a big French smooch on me so I can find out.”

  “Remember, no Sesame Street,” I cautioned Anya as I finished making our dinner. The chicken drumettes in my crock pot were cooking in honey-mustard sauce, and the homemade cole slaw chilled in the refrigerator. I stirred a half gallon pitcher of water until the brown peach tea powder dissolved. A bowl of cut-up cantaloupe sat in the middle of the table. For dessert we had frozen bananas dipped in chocolate in the freezer. It might not be gourmet fare, but it was wholesome and economical.

  “I’m not hungry,” my daughter stopped protesting when she saw the look on my face. Anya was underweight. The school nurse had been worried enough to call me and query about her eating habits right before the academic year ended. Since then, my child and I had had a talk about taking good care of our health. As a result, Anya had promised to eat—or at least to try to eat—something at every meal.

  Now she avoided my glare of reproach by watching Guy bounce around the kitchen like one of those superballs you buy for a quarter from a gumball machine. He was literally running up the walls and turning flips. Guy landed on Anya’s feet, springing up at her like a kid on a pogo stick. Obviously, he’d discovered the girl of his dreams.

  “I think I’ll take him for a walk.” At the mall, she’d used her money from Sheila to buy a new pair of flip-flops. They were cute, with sequins and big silk flowers in shades of blue and green. I suspected she wanted to practice walking in them so she didn’t embarrass herself.

  I hesitated. I didn’t like the thought of her being out alone.

  Anya read my mind. “Mo-om. I’ll be right out in front of the house. Geez. Give me a break. I’m practically a prisoner in my own home! And look, see? Here’s my cell phone, all charged and everything!” With that she flounced out, slamming the front door behind her.

  Gracie turned doleful eyes on me. I knew exactly how she felt. Her floppy ears drooped, and she set her big blocky head on her paws, watching the front door as though it were a living thing.

  “Hey, girl, I guess we better get used to this, huh? Our baby is growing up.”

  FIVE

  THAT DARLING DAUGHTER OF mine woke up the next morning loaded for bear. Anya snarled every half-mile of our journey to the Science Center. “This place is for babies. Everyone else in my school is going to camp in Wisconsin or hanging at the mall. I hate this! Hate it! I don’t want to make clay models of the solar system and electric toys using batteries. It’s stooo-pid. And you’re mean to make me go.”

  Gripping the steering wheel hard so I wouldn’t be tempted to smack her, I said softly, “As long as that killer is loose, you aren’t like everyone else and neither am I.”

  “Huh, you just use that as an excuse.”

  I didn’t respond. She might be onto something. Hey, a crazed serial killer had a lot more elephants than “I don’t want you to go away for the summer because I’ll miss you” or “You can’t hang around the mall because you might get into mischief,” right? Wasn’t I within my parental rights to drum up whatever excuse I thought I could get away with?

  At least I didn’t stoop to say, “Because I’m the MOM.” But I thought about it.

  When I didn’t take the bait, Anya turned her face away from me and stared out the window. Her jaw was set, her lower lip poked out. A few minutes passed. Then, in the sweetest voice imaginable, she asked, “Can we stop at McDonald’s?”

  I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry. That mood swing took all of a few deep breaths. Oh, boy. And this was a preview of coming events?

  We pulled into the drive-up, and Anya leaned over me to yell into the squawk box, “A sausage egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and a large orange juice.” This was the kid who seemed on the path to anorexia last month? The cashier named an amount that shocked me.

  I dug around in my purse, but Anya tapped my arm. “I’ve got it, Mom. Nana gave me money for kicking around. Want anything?”

  I ordered a breakfast burrito and a large coffee.

  Anya seemed rather pleased with herself as she counted out the money for the cashier. Yet another sign—my baby was growing up.

  After we finished our breakfast in the fast food parking lot, I dropped her off and let myself into the store. Gracie followed docilely on her lead while Guy wrapped his leash around both of us as he did laps. Taking hobbled baby steps, I moved toward the stockroom. I unhooked Gracie and plopped Guy into a doggie play pen before calling my mother-in-law to thank her again for the flowers.

  Sheila brushed away my words of gratitude. “Anya’s eyes were red and crusty last time she spent the night. Cottonwood is in full bloom.”

  “Yes, several of our customers are sneezing and wheezing.”

  “I made an appointment for her with Andersoll, Weaver, and Sealander, the best allergy partners in town. Ralphie Andersoll and I go way back. I can’t wait for him to see my gorgeous grandbaby. God knows, I’ve been clucking over photos of his motley brood for decades. What do scrapbookers do when they have ugly kids?”

  No way was I going to touch that comment.

  She continued, “Unfortunately, I’m scheduled to play in a four-some for a charity match at the club the day of Anya’s appointment. You’ll have to take her to their office after science camp on Thursday,” Sheila said.

  I hesitated. If these docs were the best, the office visit alone would be formidable. On the other hand, I was fortunate Sheila could wrangle a spot on their schedule for my child. I swallowed hard. “Thanks so much for making the appointment. I’ll be glad to take her.”

  As if sensing my concern, she added, “They’ll send me the bill. The paperwork’s already filled out.”

  A huge wave of relief swept through me. “Sheila … I can’t thank you enough.”

  “If my son had been alive, or hadn’t been so dumb about whom he trusted, you wouldn’t have to worry about this.” She stopped herself.

  I understood why. Neither Sheila nor I wanted to think about the financial shenanigans that ruined my late husband’s business.

  The auditors were still sifting through the wreckage and trying to track down hidden accounts in the Cayman Islands.

  I hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at the dogs. In one way, she was right. George’s bad judgment set in motion a string of life-changing events. But I am a grown woman, and it rankled I couldn’t provide for my daughter. I take that back—I could only provide the barest of necessities. I gritted my teeth and vowed to work harder at bringing additional business to the store.

  Dodie struggled through the back door with a box of supplies left over from the ill-fated CAMP crop. She brushed aside my offer to help. The plum-colored crescents under her eyes and her brusque manner underscored her bad mood. The woman I’d always considered a pillar of strength crumbled before my eyes. Her voice was flat as she spoke. “I’ve had a dozen calls at home from women who want their money back. Despite the rain checks. Plus, the other stores want to meet with me to discuss what we need to do next. That’s code for ‘how to toss us out of the program,’ sunshine.
This was all because of Yvonne Gaynor.”

  Then Dodie mumbled something in Yiddish.

  “Pardon?”

  “From a fool one has grief,” she translated.

  Now I knew exactly how upset she was. Dodie trotted out her pithy “old country” sayings when she was stressed.

  I shook my head. “They can’t blame us.”

  “They keep repeating the same thing over and over. Word for word. They say they were traumatized. They don’t want rain checks. They say that to try again would be disrespectful to Yvonne’s memory.” She lifted her shoulders and let them fall expressively. “How can they blame me?”

  “Us,” I said in a moment of solidarity. If folks were parroting the same script, I’d wager someone was coaching them. And I bet I knew who—but blaming Ellen Harmon wouldn’t solve our problems.

  I decided not to tell my boss about my discussion with Detweiler. Maybe, I prayed, word would come from the authorities that Yvonne reacted to a substance she hadn’t been aware she was allergic to. Surely, considering the size and acreage of the Botanical Garden, the woman could have brushed or touched a lethal plant. And certainly, with all those flowers in bloom, there had to have been a lot of bees. I prayed for something—anything—but a delivery system suggesting a deliberate desire to do her harm. And if any angels were listening, I asked them to make it abundantly clear none of us at Time in a Bottle had anything to do with Yvonne’s abrupt departure from this earth.

  “More supplies still in your car?” I asked as Dodie shoved the box she’d toted in along the floor.

  My boss sank into her office chair. She appeared not to have heard me. Her face was hidden in her hands; her body slumped over her desktop. Built like a Valkyrie, Dodie seemed invincible—not only because she could make two of me, but because she had a warrior’s spirit. She was not a Pollyanna or a Suzy Sunshine, but an Unsinkable Molly Brown who rolled up her sleeves and made the best of tough situations. When George died, she was the one who forced me to take charge of my life—reminding me Anya’s welfare depended on it. Through thick and thin, chipboard and vellum, Dodie stood by me. She refused to let me wallow in my misery. Once I learned she’d been through her own personal hell—the accidental death of her teenage son—I never questioned her right to tell me to “buck up.”