Cut, Crop and Die

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  Come to think of it, I couldn’t understand why Nettie remained part of this gruesome threesome. It was like that Sesame Street jingle about “one of these things is not like the other.” The three might have had something in common once upon a time, but not lately.

  Clancy washed her glass and mine, dried them, and set them carefully in line with the other glasses in her cabinet. She turned to face me, leaning against her kitchen counter. Her arms were crossed over her chest, and her expression was hard. “Kiki, have you ever realized how tough it is for grown women to make friends? It’s tougher than getting dried dog doo off your shoes. I mean, after your kids are out of grammar school? It’s dang near impossible. And here? Here in the boonies? Or in a suburb of St. Louis where the watchword is, ‘What high school did you go to?’ Do you know how much I spend on a shrink because I have no one to talk to?”

  She was right. Vaguely I remembered all that. My life changed so much after George died, and I was forced to make my own way that I’d forgotten the loneliness, the lack of purpose. When you have kids, you structure your life around them. Their friends’ parents become your friends, if you are lucky. You meet moms at soccer practice. You serve on committees together. But once your child becomes a teen, life does a tilt-a-whirl.

  You are as useless as a soggy tissue the day your kid learns to drive.

  And finding friends? Shoot, fitting in was incredibly difficult in St. Louis. The only place I could compare it to was Boston—at least that’s what I’d heard. There the Lowells talked only to the Cabots and the Cabots talked only to God. Here, you substituted local names for the same result.

  The St. Louis environs has an unusually large population of returning adults. People know where they belong, and where they don’t. Each of the ninety-one municipalities has its own personality, own culture, and status. Outsiders could struggle a lifetime and never find a grassy mound to share with fellow revelers for Fourth of July fireworks.

  Newcomers circled St. Louis like planes without clearance for landing.

  I smiled at Clancy. Yeah, I knew exactly what she was saying. Rena, Nettie, and Yvonne stayed friends because of a combination of inertia and social pressure. It made a weird sort of sense.

  But I could also see what Clancy was hinting at, her personal loneliness. I scribbled down my name and phone on the back of a receipt for gas. “I can always use a new friend. This is my cell phone. Call any time. My place isn’t fancy, and you have to like dogs, but maybe we can get together.”

  Clancy’s grin was genuine. Her eyes glittered in the fluorescent lights of her kitchen. “I’d like that. I’ll bring Campari and orange.”

  “Sold!”

  I left Illinois and crossed the Mississippi into Missouri without a state trooper escort. I took Grace for a piddle, nodded to Bama as she took inventory, and thrilled to see the store busy for the first time in weeks. Dodie helped a customer thread a HERMA Dotto dispenser while I matched patterned paper for two women. I was standing at the front of the store ringing up my customer, when a brick sailed past me and hit Dodie in the side of the head.

  “Die, Jews!” The invective changed pitch as our attackers raced past in their car.

  I raced around the sales counter to reach Dodie’s side. Her eyes were closed and a trickle of blood, warm and bright, ran down her temple. Our customers were unhurt. One had the presence of mind to hit “911” on her speed dial.

  “Dodie! Are you okay? Talk to me! Dodie!” I yelled to my inert boss. A customer offered a handful of tissues. I dabbed at Dodie’s face. The wound looked minor but I had no way of knowing how hard she’d been hit.

  “Here,” Bama handed me a bottle of ammonia we use to make a solution for cleaning rubber stamps. I waved it under Dodie’s nose, and she shook her head violently. I was helping her sip water when EMTs and cops ran through the front door.

  As paramedics gathered around Dodie, I called Horace. The police took statements from our customers, which gave me a chance to call Detweiler. I’d just spit out the words, “We need help—” when he said, “I’m on my way.”

  Dodie pushed me away, insisting, “I’m okay.” The paramedic working on her told my boss to lie down while they prepared a stretcher. Dodie raised her voice. “No! No! I’m fine. I will not go to the hospital. No!”

  I didn’t leave her side. “But look at you! You might have a concussion. Horace is on the way. Maybe he can convince you.”

  “I’m not going to the hospital and that’s final. Leave me alone.” When a six-foot-tall plus-sized woman with a butterfly bandage on her temple tells you to back off, you slam it into reverse, pronto.

  Uniformed officers started asking questions. Unfortunately, we had nothing to tell them. It all happened so fast and our attention had been elsewhere.

  Horace’s face appeared between the emergency workers. He muscled his way to Dodie, cradling her head to his chest and cooing. “I’m here, my love. I’m here.”

  Wordlessly, Bama picked up chunks of glass and swept ice-like particles into a dustpan. I cleared the sales counter, dumping shards into a trash can and wiping flat surfaces with a damp paper towel.

  I paused long enough to see Detweiler talking to the first responders. His face was tight with anger. The emergency workers and local police finished their work and left. I offered our shoppers discount coupons, and they promised to come back another time.

  On the way out, I heard one woman mumble to her friend, “These people are jinxed.”

  Horace and Detweiler moved Dodie from the floor to a chair. She wore a dazed expression, but she answered the detective’s questions in a firm voice. No, there hadn’t been any more threatening phone calls. No, she knew of no one who wanted to hurt her. At least no one specifically. She asked me to go to her office and grab the list of scrapbookers still wanting refunds after Yvonne’s death.

  It was Bama who surprised me by saying, “I can’t believe it. Who’d do a thing like this? To us?” Her normally flat voice rose to new jagged heights. This was the most emotion I’d ever seen from her. Until that moment, I didn’t think Bama cared about any of us or our store.

  She and I finished picking up glass and stood by Dodie in a silent show of solidarity. Detweiler asked our boss a few more questions about who might have targeted TinaB and jotted down her answers. Clearly, he had little or nothing to go on.

  I thought this was part of a pattern. “What progress is being made on the murder? Nothing like this happened before Yvonne’s death.”

  Detweiler studied his pad silently. “You are right. The timing is too convenient. We need to consider this in conjunction with the murder investigation.”

  I wondered, what were the police doing? Sitting around on their keisters and eating donuts? While they fiddled around, our business was going down the tubes. Instead of chasing the real culprit, they kept hauling in my best pal. Meantime, the criminals were feeling more and more bold as the flying brick proved too well. I said, “Maybe you and your friends need to quit picking on Mert and start expanding your cast of characters.”

  He lifted his eyebrows. “We’re doing everything in our power. There’s no motive. No one strong suspect. Too many people could have brought the scones—”

  I clenched my teeth in frustration. “Have you checked on Perry Gaynor? He was having affairs with two women. Plus, he lost a chunk of change playing poker. Maybe Yvonne had a life insurance policy.”

  Detweiler’s mouth went all tight and flat. “I hope you haven’t been poking around. I warned you about this. You better not be interfering with a police investigation.” He tapped his pen against his muscular thigh. “The other woman is a rumor at this point, nothing more.”

  “Let me toss another name into the hopper: Rena Rimmel.”

  “Rena? But she is—was—Yvonne’s best friend.” Dodie gave voice to the confusion on Bama’s face. They were right: it was a shocker.

  “True, but reliable sources suggest she and Perry Gaynor have been involved for a long time.
Perry’s been playing patty-cake with his secretary, too.”

  “Reliable sources? SOURCES?” Detweiler said, “Kiki, read my lips. Don’t get involved with this investigation. Keep it up and you’ll spend another night in jail.”

  Right. Like he really scared me.

  Detweiler continued, “Of course, we’re looking at other leads. Mrs. Gaynor seems to have created a wave of ill will wherever she went.” A piece of glass dangled from his silk tie. Feeling proprietary, I plucked it off. The grooming allowed me to move closer to him, to feel the warmth of his body.

  “When you think about it, Ellen Harmon has the best motive,” said Bama. “By killing a scrapper at our event, she’s ruined Time in a Bottle’s reputation. She keeps agitating the other store owners. She manages to accuse our store of wrongdoing whenever the media interviews her.”

  “Our” store? Gee, wasn’t that cozy?

  Bama continued, “None of which is surprising, because Ellen’s had a grudge against Dodie for years.”

  Well, blow me down. My hand flew to my mouth in surprise, and I noticed a dot of blood on my palm. A piece of glass had nicked me. Detweiler pulled a clean cotton handkerchief from his pocket and wrapped it gently around my hand. “You neglected to tell me about that, Mrs. Goldfader,” said the detective.

  Dodie sighed. “Ellen Harmon started me scrapbooking. She used to be a Memorable Albums consultant.”

  Seeing how the unfamiliar company name confused Detweiler, she explained about Memorable Albums and its pyramid marketing structure. A woman recruited Ellen, Ellen recruited Dodie, and so on. A portion of each recruit’s sales traveled up the ladder to the person “above” them.

  “As long as you worked for Memorable Albums, Mrs. Harmon made money,” Detweiler caught on quickly. “But now she owns a store. Surely she doesn’t still work for Memorable Albums?”

  “No,” Dodie answered. “But she feels I owe her for getting me started. She was not happy when I quit. I was her best recruit until I decided to open my own store.”

  Horace scratched the stubble on his chin. Unemployment destroyed his daily routine. He was no longer the clean-shaven, neatly dressed man I’d originally met. He spoke to his wife. “Remember the time she came by the house? She was hopping mad. Meshuganeh. Called you a traitor and everything else. I could hear her screams from the other room. Oy, it seems so long ago. I’d forgotten.” He sighed. “We’d hoped Ellen had moved on.”

  I thought about what our suppliers had said. “We heard she was having problems paying her bills. Surely she didn’t think our business was hurting hers.” I shook my head. “Ellen couldn’t possibly be that illogical.”

  “Scrapbookers shop locally. We’re what? Fifteen or twenty miles away from her store? None of her customers would travel here to shop,” said Bama.

  Horace gave his wife a sideways glance.

  Dodie sighed. “You’re both wrong. Usually scrapbookers do buy locally, but I’ve been tracking the zip codes of our customers. We have significantly hurt her business. And we’ve been getting phone orders from her area, too.”

  Horace cleared his throat. “Tell them, my love. This has gone too far. You’re all in danger.”

  This was a signal to Dodie. She dropped her gaze. “There’s another reason she hates me. Originally, she wanted us to go into business together. But I told her we didn’t have the money to invest. That wasn’t the real reason. You see, she has no business sense. And … I didn’t trust her.”

  Wow. This was a trifecta of hurt. First, Ellen got Dodie started scrapping. Second, Dodie bowed out of the offer to go into business together. And third, Dodie was stealing Ellen’s customers.

  I thanked Detweiler and handed him his handkerchief. “I need to set up for our crop. I assume we’re still going to have it?”

  Dodie nodded.

  Horace excused himself to find plywood for covering what was left of our window. Bama moved slowly to help me, trailing one hand along the table and fixtures. Detweiler jingled change in his pocket and watched us. “Okay, Mrs. Harmon has reason to want to hurt Mrs. Goldfader. That I understand. But how does Mrs. Harmon benefit from Mrs. Gaynor’s death? She has one less customer.”

  “People are blaming us for Yvonne’s death. We’re losing business,” I said. “Not to mention our windows are being broken and we’re getting threats. These could be hate crimes, but I bet they’re because of the murder.”

  Bama added, “Plus, Ellen’s getting tons of publicity and attention. She’s appeared on television or radio or in the paper every day since Yvonne died. She’s done a great job of positioning herself—and smearing our store in a sneaky way.” She paused and said to me, “You know, Ellen is displaying Yvonne’s pages and hosting a memorial crop.” Then for Detweiler’s benefit, Bama continued, “Ellen may have lost one customer, but she’s got lots of curious people stopping by to see what Yvonne was doing that was so special. Which, if you ask me, wasn’t much.”

  “Morbid curiosity,” Detweiler tucked his notebook away. “Their interest won’t last long. Meanwhile, I’ll check out other hate crimes in the neighborhood. Even though I hate coincidence, I’m not convinced these things are related. Patrol cars will keep an eye on the store, but you need to be vigilant. All of you.” He stopped and pointed a finger at me. “And you better not snoop around. Hear me?”

  FOURTEEN

  OUR FRIDAY NIGHT CROPPERS examined their paper bag bundles curiously. The women were far too polite to ask if I’d lost my mind. At first glance, I’d passed out brown lunch bags stacked with ends alternating open and shut. I let them puzzle over the mess for a moment before holding up my sample paper bag album.

  “Holy Moly,” said Vanessa Johnson. “I can’t believe that was once this.” To underscore her remark, she pointed to my work and waggled her bags in the air.

  Mardi Hamilton shook her head. “This is just amazing. I can’t wait to show my grandchildren.”

  “I’m trying this with my scout troop,” said Angie Guinness. “They’ll love it!”

  Nettie Klasser noted, “Wait ’til old Ellen Harmon hears about this. She’ll be copying your project faster than you can use a paper trimmer. Probably get a class going before that phoney memorial service. She doesn’t care about Yvonne Gaynor—it’s all about making the cash register ring. Too bad Ellen wasn’t the one who died.”

  The other women averted their eyes. Nettie was laying it on a bit thick, but she didn’t seem to care. She added, “Rena wasn’t sure whether to show up tonight or not. She was afraid people’d think her disloyal to Yvonne. Huh! Like Yvonne ever cared about her! Or me!” Nettie punctuated her comment with a loud slurp from a big bottle of Mountain Dew.

  Merry Morrison led the others in focusing on the project at hand. She reached for my finished sample. “I’ll be jiggered. That’s absolutely amazing. I can use up all those bits and pieces of paper I’ve been saving.”

  Stacy Czech and her friend Marla Lenzen were excited as well, and Stacy passed the album to Bonnie Gossage.

  Bonnie turned the project round and round in her hands. “I love it! I’m teaching a Sunday school class, and this would be perfect. Finally, a project kids can’t goof up.”

  I laughed. This was the part of my job I loved best. “Okay, this is what you can do with ordinary brown bags. Now look at what I made with colored bags, and here we have a project using fancy gift bags.”

  The corresponding “ooohs” and “aaahs” thrilled me. As I’d hoped, the women were first stunned, then raring to go.

  “Can we make one of those fancy ones next time? Oh, please!” Rita Romano nearly jumped out of her chair. The guest she’d brought, a woman named Emma Delacroix Martin, was equally enthusiastic. I’d met Emma before. She had kids who attended CALA, my daughter’s school. But this was the first time Emma had come to one of our crops. Together she and Rita plotted all the fun they could have with the elegant gift bag album. The stunned silence that had greeted my initial handing out of materials was now a loud b
uzz. In fact, the noise level had risen so high, I nearly didn’t hear the door minder.

  A smiling Clancy Whitehead approached me. “I know I didn’t sign up in advance, but can I at least watch? There’s nothing on TV—”

  “No problem! Girls, say hi to Clancy. Have a seat, kiddo. I always make extras. Here’s our project.”

  The card Vanessa and friends signed supporting Time in a Bottle found a place of honor on our cash register. Dodie gave Vanessa a big hug and handed discount coupons all around. The raised bruise on her head went a long way toward generating sympathy, as did news of the hate crimes. By the time our crop ended, Dodie, Bama, and I were in a much better mood. The cheerful, supportive, and appreciative voices of our regular customers, plus the new faces, gave us encouragement we badly needed. I noticed Nettie and Clancy chatting quietly. I made a mental note to call Clancy as soon as possible, ostensibly to thank her for coming, but really to find out what new poop she had learned. Clancy would be happy to pass along any gossip.

  I picked up paper scraps. “You sure you two can handle the shop while I’m at Spa La Femme tomorrow?” I glanced from Bama to Dodie.

  “No way are you getting out of that appointment.” Dodie took Horace’s hand in hers. After boarding up half our front window, he’d left us, only to show up at closing to drive his wife home. When he walked in, he presented Dodie with a lovely red rose wrapped in cellophane. “I’ll put this in water on my desk,” she smiled at him and walked away.

  Horace turned to me. His eyes were blurry and large bags of purple hung under them. “Could I pick up Gracie tomorrow? I know you have the day off. Your dog is good company for my wife. I know the police will be watching, but I’d feel a little more confident with the Great Dane here. I’m planning to be in and out. I don’t want to worry my darling girl, but I feel like, well, I need to keep an eye on her. In fact, one of my honey-do tasks tomorrow is to buy a big Beware of Dog sign and tack it to the back door. It’s not much, but it might help.”