Cut, Crop and Die

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  “Have you investigated Bama Vess?” I asked casually. “She was fired from her job at the Art Supply Superstore.” This I knew from overhearing two customers as they picked out paper. I hadn’t confirmed it, but the two who were talking were women not prone to idle gossip. I went a step further. “I bet I can find out why. Something’s not right about her. Maybe she has a criminal history, hmm?”

  He leaned close to me, so we were nearly nose to nose. “Don’t you dare.” I had a sudden impulse to kiss him. But of course I didn’t. I did hope he’d notice the posters advertising live music at Alandale’s and ask me on a real date.

  He continued, “You better not interfere with our investigation. Do you realize you might tip off the killer? Or be next in line? Kiki, this is dangerous stuff! I would’ve thought being chased by a gun-toting murderer this spring would have slowed you down, but I was wrong! Your escape gave you a skewed sense of invulnerability. Quit thinking of ways to get yourself in hot water.” He huffed and puffed and settled down. “Tell me about this contest Mrs. Gaynor won.”

  A bright spark at Saving Memories magazine had devised a contest to round up cutting-edge work from new, undiscovered talent. The prize was publication and its attendant recognition. I explained, “But the powers that be at the magazine stumbled onto a gold mine. Soon advertisers jumped on the bandwagon, sponsoring the contest and donating sample products as prizes. Now winning means an endless supply of free merchandise from a variety of manufacturers and guest appearances as teachers for conventions.”

  “Back up. How come the winners get freebies in addition to the initial prizes?” Detweiler asked.

  “The magazine posts designs on their website. Then they print a few winning layouts in each monthly issue, and more layouts appear in a special book. A list of products is printed along with each page design. Since scrapbookers hanker after the newest, brightest, best, most interesting supplies, having your product in one of these pages sells merchandise. Lots and lots of merchandise. Sending winners your good stuff functions like a product placement deal, see?”

  He nodded. He ran his index finger around the curve created by my thumb and first finger. I felt a warming trend south of my equator. He was getting to me … again. My lips started to burn. Was it the vinegar I’d sprinkled on my chips or the memory of our kiss?

  The restaurant was nearly empty. Detweiler didn’t seem concerned about the time. “I still don’t get it. Why would manufacturers send these women free supplies?”

  I smiled. “Having designers use your products on pages is the least expensive and most rewarding way of promotion.”

  “How expensive can paper be?”

  I laughed. “It’s not just paper. It’s printers, photo developers, scanners, machines that laser cut designs, and on and on.” I marveled at how little he knew. “Scrapbooking is at least a three billion—with a B—dollar industry. That probably doesn’t take in stuff like computers, printers, copiers, and travel to conferences.”

  His jaw dropped. “Three billion?”

  I nodded.

  “Are the prizes the only reason women enter?”

  “Oh, heck no. After they win, the women can be asked to write articles for the magazine. Some go on to design their own merchandise lines. A few get paid to teach or demonstrate products at conventions. Or at local stores.”

  “You’re telling me Mrs. Gaynor became a player.”

  I laughed. “Well, that’s a streetwise way of putting it, but yes. She was a real rising star.”

  “And two days later, she’s dead.”

  I nodded soberly. “That’s right. She had two whole days to enjoy her fame. It doesn’t seem fair, does it?”

  “Murder never is.”

  The store was eerily quiet when I returned. Dodie sat in her office, staring at a computer screen. I took Guy and Gracie for a quick trip around the block. Our store sat in the midst of a residential area, mostly inhabited by senior citizens. As our neighbors died or moved to nursing homes, new owners converted the houses to apartments or duplexes.

  I felt a wave of sadness as I walked along with the dogs. Without the steadying influence of its senior citizens, the whole tenor of this area would change.

  After I settled Gracie and Guy in their playpen, I brainstormed new ways to bring business to Time in a Bottle. But my vagabond thoughts returned to Yvonne’s murder. The newspaper article called her a celebrity and tagged Memories First as the area’s premier store. Huh. The magazine issue featuring the winners’ work hadn’t hit the newsstands yet. Yvonne’s star status was not widely known. And those who did know her were finding this new attention difficult to credit. After all, her work hadn’t garnered any accolades before.

  Calling her a celebrity was a bit over-the-top. In fact, it was exaggeration with three Gs. And claiming that Memories First was the “premier” scrapbook store in the area?

  Puh-leeze.

  Memories First occupied a squat building with peeling siding north of St. Louis. The interior was plug-ugly institutional green with linoleum floors. Ellen Harmon filled the place with rickety wire racks full of the cheapest products she could buy. Even though she copied our classes, she was always a half-beat behind us. No way was her store the top of the food chain. She was barely dragging her one-celled body through the mud.

  But I was media savvy enough to know that a lot of folks believe whatever they hear on radio and TV. If it’s in print, they think it must be true. None of this media attention reflected well on my place of employment.

  How could we regain the luster Time in a Bottle once enjoyed? Was that why Yvonne had been killed? To hurt our business? That was pretty drastic. Or had she died because of some unknown aspect of her personal life? Thinking back to the tangled situation surrounding my husband’s death, this seemed most likely. What secret could Yvonne have taken to her grave? A marital problem? An old grudge? A vendetta?

  Not for one minute did I believe my friend Mert had anything to do with Yvonne’s death.

  Could it have been an accident? Was the tainted food intended for someone else? Was Yvonne simply both incredibly unlucky and incredibly ill-prepared?

  Who knew she had allergies? Her husband must have, of course. Had he planned her demise? He had access to her purse and the Epi-Pen. Was he involved with someone else? Did he have a life insurance policy on her? Detweiler hadn’t mentioned whether the police were looking into her family life, but didn’t they always?

  Pushing my speculation aside, I concentrated on coming up with a new technique for the Friday Night Crop. I decided we would create a subtitle within a title. It’s a clever but simple idea that can be used on pages or on cards.

  Adding a cutting-edge learning experience and special projects to a crop was just one of our innovative ideas. Providing super classes, ongoing support in the store, the latest merchandise, an on-site computer and printer, well, those were some of the extras we offered our customers.

  And Ellen Harmon said we copied her.

  Huh! Not hardly.

  KIKI’S SUBTITLE-WITHIN-A-TITLE TECHNIQUE

  (Inspired by a similar step-by-step created by Venessa Matthews and featured in the May 2006 issue of ScrapBook inspirations magazine.)

  This idea gives your titles a cool, fresh, and funky look—plus it allows you to add extra information about your page or project.

  You’ll need letter stamps at least 2” high, ink or acrylic paint, a pen, temporary adhesive, and a strip and a large piece of waste paper.

  1. Choose a word to be the predominant portion of your title. (Example: let’s use HOLIDAY)

  2. Roughly stamp out your predominant word on your waste paper. This will be used as a pattern to help you figure out dimensions for Step 3.

  3. Cut a strip of waste paper ?” wide and 1” longer than your predominant word. (For example, use your pattern of HOLIDAY to figure out how long to make your strip of waste paper.)

  4. Figure out where you want your title to go on your “good” paper. A
dhere that strip with removable glue (HERMA Dotto is perfect) so it will run through the middle (top to bottom) of your predominant word—so the strip will run smack through the horizontal middle of HOLIDAY, almost like a lane stripe runs down the center of a road—through your desired background. The strip will run horizontally across the middle of your title.

  5. Ink your letter stamps and stamp the predominant word (HOLIDAY in our case) right over the top of strip of waste paper. Remember to center the letters as you stamp them, so the strip runs through the middle, top to bottom, of the word.

  6. Let the stamped word dry. Remove the strip of waste paper.

  7. In the un-inked space—the blank, unstamped area between the top and bottom of your letters—you can now write a subtitle or a message with your pen. (Example: You would have printed out the word HOLIDAY, but in the middle of the word there’s a blank space ?” wide. There you could write the words “family traditions.”)

  Note: Of course, you could also use a stencil instead of a stamp for your letters. Follow the steps to #4. Instead of using the stamps, stencil in each letter by dabbing paint or ink through the negative space.

  EIGHT

  AT FIVE O’CLOCK, DODIE and I went our separate ways in the parking lot. She hadn’t left her desk all afternoon and barely said “goodbye” as we were leaving. I drove Guy and Gracie home, making a quick stop at the public library to pick up one of the current bestsellers they loaned out for seven days at a time. I grabbed two: the latest “Jack Daniels” book by J. A. Konrath and a new “Ophelia and Abby” book by Shirley Damsgaard. What I needed, I reasoned, was a way to “get lost” mentally. To leave all this turmoil about a real murder behind. To give my brain a breather from worrying about business.

  And, yeah, I also wanted to quit thinking about Detweiler. We’d had such a nice lunch together. He’d followed me to my car for a repeat performance of his knee-buckling kiss. I could still feel the warm, liquid response of my body. But he hadn’t asked me to dinner or out on a date. This relationship—if indeed, it could be called that—was moving at a glacial rate.

  I fixed myself a huge bacon, lettuce, and tomato salad using a lush homegrown tomato from an “I trust you” produce stand where an empty coffee can announced, “One lb. for 25 cents.” I dropped in a dime, sniffing my singular fragrant prize with delight. The sun-warmed fruit in my hand smelled red. Unlike mushy tasteless veggies bred to withstand coast to coast shipping, a homegrown Big Boy or Better Girl has firm fleshy chambers and a mouthwatering taste coming from the jelly surrounding its seeds. That first bite of my BLT salad transported me to the days of growing up dirt poor. In my little neighborhood, every family planted at least a dozen “tomay-ter” plants in the backyard.

  Afterward, I took a hot bath and started reading about Ophelia and her teenage charge, Tink.

  It should have been paradise: a great meal, new books, and a relaxing bath.

  But I couldn’t stop worrying.

  Was Dodie going to be okay? Who killed Yvonne Gaynor? How would we rebuild our business? Why didn’t Detweiler pursue our relationship? When did my daughter get so sassy? And how could I get out of the fancy Opera Theatre dinner with Sheila?

  Researchers have found there’s a worry gene, a genetic component passed down through families.

  It figured. One more problem people could blame on their mothers.

  Of course we always worry about the wrong things.

  I thought my list of concerns exhaustive, but I was in for a surprise the next morning when I pulled into the Time in a Bottle parking lot. A big red swastika dripped its way down the side of our store. Written in the frayed lettering of spray paint, the words, “Die Jews! Die!” were scrawled below the symbol. I staggered out of my car like I’d been punched in the gut. A wave of nausea roiled over me.

  Thank goodness dogs can’t read. They simply stood beside me, wagging their tails and wondering why we weren’t going inside. I fumbled around in my bag and hit the speed dial for Detweiler, turning quickly to see Dodie drive her big black Expedition up the alley and park beside me. It wasn’t until she climbed down from the driver’s seat that she noticed the graffiti.

  “It’s okay,” I stepped between her and the ugly epithet. “I called Detweiler—”

  She stuck out her neck to see around me, pushed me gently aside, and moaned. Her normally ruddy complexion turned ghastly pale before she ran for the bushes, making horrible retching noises.

  I was stunned. My poor boss had been physically sickened by the paint smears on the building.

  I tied the dogs’ leashes to my car door and hurried to her aid. Puking preferences are highly individualistic. I always feel like I can’t breathe and even though it embarrasses me, I like to have someone nearby. George used to lock himself in the bathroom, refusing all help or attention. Anya wants someone to hold her lightly around the waist so she doesn’t tip into the toilet.

  I had no way of knowing how to help Dodie, or if I should, so I stood a respectful distance—until she sagged like a marionette whose handler had dropped the strings. Kneeling beside her, I put my arm around her big shoulders to keep her steady and called Horace, her husband.

  “Oy vey,” he moaned. “My poor, poor farmutshet darling. My own sheyna ponim! Her parents, you know, they survived the Holocaust. My poor darling. Please say I am coming to her. You’re a good friend to my kallehniu.”

  Only later did I learn he’d said Dodie was “exhausted,” calling her by his pet nickname “pretty face,” and thanking me for being a good friend to his “little bride.” Horace’s switch to Yiddish signaled the depth of his despair. With her family history, I could understand why the vandalism hit her so hard.

  And on top of all her other problems? No wonder she had headed for the shrubs.

  No matter how I tried to rationalize, her recent behavior was out of character. Meanwhile, I patted her back softly and told her Horace was on his way.

  “It’s just paint,” I spoke to that big bush of gray hair. “Silly old paint. We’ll get it off as soon as Detweiler checks it out.”

  The detective and Horace arrived simultaneously. They made an odd pair, Detweiler being well over six feet and Horace barely topping five. I relinquished my spot beside Dodie to her husband. The gentle way he slipped his arm around his wife reminded me how comforting it was to be married. Dodie rose tiredly and rested against the little man, the way Tiny Tim relied on a crutch.

  I told her, “I’ll take care of the store. Go on home, Dodie. Put your feet up and take a break, okay?”

  Detweiler reached over to squeeze Dodie’s shoulder. “Mrs. Goldfader, the crime scene people are on the way. They’ll see what clues they can uncover. Have you had any threats at home? On your phone?”

  Dodie shook her head. “No. None. Just here. I’ve been getting mail addressed to me with … images.”

  I was shocked. She’d never mentioned any problems to me. Turning bleary eyes toward the building, she added, “I suppose this is about Yvonne Gaynor, right? We had all those calls yesterday …”

  I was glad I hadn’t told her about the threats on the machine. “It wasn’t as bad as we expected. Really, it wasn’t. Vanessa Johnson even called to say she and our other regulars sent kind thoughts. Try not to stress out about this, Dodie. Sure, a few people have wanted refunds, but you know scrappers. They were just being practical.”

  Detweiler added, “A police department clerk called your customers yesterday and told them we’d finished looking over their cameras. We’ve made arrangements for them to be returned. The women acted pleased. None of them seemed rude or angry.” He paused. “I realize this has been tough on you and your business. Try not to worry. We’ll get to the bottom of this, Mrs. Goldfader.”

  Dodie’s mouth quivered. “You even suspect me! You asked me to come to the station the night before last, after the store closed.”

  Shock number two. I mean, I should have known. Hadn’t he said he wasn’t ruling out anybody? Geez. And he’d t
old me they talked! Right. He fussed at me about keeping secrets when he’d omitted hauling my boss in for questioning.

  “It’s my job to investigate every possibility. You know that.” He glanced my way. “Even Kiki is under suspicion.”

  Despite my irritation, I gave Dodie a little wave, a flutter of my fingers and a “yep, me too” nod of the head.

  From under one of Dodie’s tree limb-like arms, Horace’s lively eyes studied the bigger man. An almost imperceptible movement of his eyebrows acknowledged his understanding of Detweiler’s difficult position. He turned his wife toward his car. “Let’s go home, my love. Don’t worry about your car. I can drop you back at the store if you decide to return later.”

  “Horace, is there anything I can do to help?” I asked after he’d closed the passenger door with Dodie safely inside.

  He turned to the heavens. “God gives troubles, and shoulders.” He smiled a sad smile. “If I think of anything, I’ll call you.”

  People could say what they wanted about how mismatched they were physically, but Dodie and Horace were the perfect couple. They depended on each other, turned to each other for consultation and comfort, and most of all, respected each other. That old fashioned word “helpmeet” came to mind. Dodie once told me, “I can’t understand people being rude to their spouses. Your husband or wife should be the one person in the world you treat with loving patience. He or she chose you above all others—for a lifetime! And yet I see women who are nicer to their girlfriends, and men who are more thoughtful toward their employees. That’s meshuganeh. Friends come and go. Employees move on. Your partner is there for the long haul. He deserves your best every day of your life.”

  It was a comment I took to heart. I only prayed that one day I would have another chance to put her advice into practice.

  It was weird. I was fine while I concentrated on Dodie, but the minute I was alone in the store, I started to shake like a sapling in a tornado. Stop it, I told myself. I didn’t have the luxury of going to pieces. Graffiti or no graffiti, I needed a fun project to go with the “subtitle within a title” technique for our regular crop.