Nettie blew her nose loudly and hocked up a loogie. “Sorry. The mold count is unbelievable. The air quality is yellow. The color of pollen. Geez, my allergist wants me to keep puffing on my inhaler, taking Claritin, and he’s after me again to quit smoking.” Nettie copied my page and finished a greeting card. I also noticed she brought along an album. That was a first. She never brought her original work to a group session. At the next break, I wanted to ask her discreetly if I could see what she had. Looking over our customers’ work was a great way to get to know people better and learn what appealed to our consumer base. After all, scrapbookers usually scrapbook what matters most to them. So each album is a glimpse into their psyches, their value systems, and their world.
Nettie reached into her purse and rattled a pill container. “Could I have some water, please?”
I retrieved a bottle of water from the back. As she fiddled with the lid of the bottle, I noticed Dr. Andersoll’s name on the label. Anya’s allergist.
Emma signaled for my help. “I don’t know how to do a design transfer.”
“No problem. I’ll show you how to do one on light or dark paper.”
Markie Dorring added glitter glue to her frame. She was working to create an album for her nieces and nephews, and the frame I’d created would be perfect for spotlighting their photos. She talked as she worked. “Has anyone gone to Memories First to see Yvonne’s pages? The ones for the Scrapbook Star contest?”
“You know I’ve been meaning to do that, but I don’t want to run into Ellen Harmon,” I admitted. “Until all this is settled, it seems like a good idea to steer clear.”
Markie said, “That store is packed all the time. Ellen is on top of everyone, asking questions about Yvonne’s death. I keep expecting her to waltz out of the back room wearing a deerstalker cap and smoking a pipe. Perry’s employer is offering a $10,000 reward for information leading to Yvonne’s killer.”
Nettie wiped her nose. “Are you saying you think Ellen will try to pin this on someone? So she can collect the reward?”
Markie shrugged. She wore her hair in a short cut that hugged her head the way a receptacle cradles a flower blossom. “Why not? I heard her bragging. She’s as greedy as they come. I suppose she’s got as good an idea who did it as anybody. She was there when it happened. She knew Yvonne. She has access to all those people trooping into her store and a reason to ask them about Yvonne without seeming inappropriate. Seems to me that she’s got the ideal set up for tracking down who dunnit.”
Before anyone could respond, Dodie commandeered the head of the table and cleared her throat. “Since you are among our favorite customers, I wanted you to be the first to know our news. We’re launching a Design Team. Bama and I are working out details.”
News? I’ll say. It was a surprise to me. Usually we discussed ideas and refined them together. Why had she left me out? A sudden anger at Bama rose within me. Once Dodie and I were a dynamic duo. Now I was just another employee.
The table buzzed with chatter. A Design Team offers page designers a forum for their work and a steep discount for supplies. It helps a store stay up-to-date with trends. Designers display new products, add excitement, and sometimes teach classes. Before our fiasco with the CAMP outing, Dodie and I had discussed the possible merits of a Design Team. But she hadn’t said anything since then. Her announcement took me by surprise.
Get over it, I told myself. It is, after all, her store.
Dodie explained she wanted a variety of talents and experience levels on the team: newbie scrappers, card makers, artist trading card makers, altered items specialists, and seasoned scrappers. To be considered, she asked each woman to submit six of her best pieces of work by e-mail or in person.
“Who’ll be the judge?” asked Nettie. “You and your staff?”
Dodie’s bushy dark hair swayed around her olive-complected face as she shook her head. “Not just us. Fellow store owners around the country will help choose. That will be more fair, and we can’t be accused of favoritism.”
The women at the table found her methodology pleasing. We all knew of contests biased by personalities or pocketbook, as in, you buy enough stuff from me and I’ll treat you like a star.
“What if we don’t have a scanner?” asked Nettie.
“Bring in your work, and we’ll scan it. But please know, if you are selected, we will want to display your work in the store.”
Nettie nodded. “That makes sense. It’s just I don’t like to leave my work where everyone has access to it unless there’s a reason. Otherwise people can copy my ideas.”
Markie agreed. “Yep, I’m with you, Nettie. A lot of people try to pass off other people’s work as their own. Anyone catch the chat on that one list-server where a scrapbooker copied another woman’s journaling and then entered it in a challenge?”
A challenge is a sort of mini-contest. Scrapbookers are “challenged” to use a certain technique or theme in their work. Sometimes the winner gets a prize; sometimes it’s just recognition. Usually all the responses to the challenge are posted for others to see and appreciate.
The group responded with a chorus of “No way!” The women chimed in with their opinions and swapped viewpoints on scraplifting—authorized or unauthorized use of other’s ideas and designs—until time to leave. Dodie called our rent-a-cop to escort our customers out the back door. That’s when I realized that Dodie’s announcement had distracted me from seeing Nettie’s work. “Nettie, are you giving thought to being considered for the Design Team?”
Through our broken and mostly boarded-up front window, and under the glare of new security lights, we watched the other women climb into their cars under the watchful gaze of our new rent-a-cop. In addition to the lost revenue from our CAMP disaster and from the bad publicity, these security measures were costing Dodie a bunch of money.
Nettie paused. “Maybe.”
“I hope so. I haven’t seen your pages, but I’d like to.”
She wavered. “How about I come in tomorrow? I’ll bring my favorite layouts.”
The off-duty officer lingered by the front door while Dodie and I cleaned up. I could tell Dodie was feeling more like her regular self. It seemed as good a time as any to ask her again. “What’s been going on? It can’t just be Yvonne’s death and Horace’s job. You’ve been through tough times before. Maybe it sounds like I’m prying, and you’ve been evasive, but I care, Dodie. I know you’re my boss, but I consider you a friend.” Perhaps I sounded a tad manipulative, but what I said was true.
She pushed a pile of small odds and ends of paper into her palm and stared at the random pattern. “I found a lump in my breast.”
For a moment, my heart contracted in my chest. A chill spread over my body. The big “C.” Oh, no! I forced my voice to sound conversational. “And you are going to the doctor, right? Tell me you have an appointment.”
She rearranged the pieces of paper. “No. I can’t.”
“What? You have to!”
“Not until we get this thing with Horace’s job squared away. If we can get his old employer to pick up our insurance, great. If not, and if I go to someone now, the new insurance company will call it a pre-existing condition and refuse to cover me.”
A slow, painful understanding crystallized. “You mean to tell me Horace doesn’t know? Dodie, we’re talking your health. You can’t worry about insurance. You need to get to a doctor as quickly as possible. My Lord, Dodie. Don’t you realize the longer you wait—”
“Stop!” Her face was agitated, fierce. Her hairy brows formed storm clouds. “Don’t start. I know exactly what the complications are. My mother and sister died of breast cancer. I am not sending my husband and my daughter to the poor house over this. Especially if it isn’t curable.”
I sputtered. My voice rose to such a pitch that our security guard turned to stare at me. “Are you nuts? Breast cancer isn’t a death sentence anymore. We aren’t living in the dark ages. And as for going to the poor house, Horace
would … would … well, he’d just curl up and die without you. And your kid can put herself through college. Your priorities stink, Dodie. Money isn’t everything—”
“The heck it isn’t! You of all people should know that. I can’t get proper treatment without do-re-mi. Loads of it. And I won’t do that to Horace!”
“Then I’ll tell him!”
“You better not!”
“I will do exactly that.”
“And I’ll fire your scrawny butt.”
“That’s fine because I’d rather be unemployed than sit here and watch you die. Your health means more to me than my job. I can live without this place, but I can’t live with myself if you get cancer—if you’ve got cancer—and … and …” I couldn’t go on. The fright with Gracie, the news about Detweiler, the strain with my daughter, being second to Bama, all snowballed inside me. I’d had enough. I started to cry. “Please, Dodie, please. Don’t do this. Don’t make me stand by and watch.”
“That’s exactly why I didn’t tell you. But you wouldn’t leave it alone, would you?” Her voice was ragged.
We glared at each other, speechless, both shocked by the violence of our disagreement, and by the passion in our voices. I was the first to turn away, which meant, I’d lost. Something in that willingness to blink gave Dodie permission to calm down.
She put a heavy arm on my shoulders. “Don’t cry. Oy,” and she rattled off a Yiddish saying.
When I said, “Huh?” she translated, “They bury better-looking ones. Hey, scout, I didn’t think you’d take it this way.”
“How did you expect me to take it? You aren’t making sense. You must have thought I’d be upset or you would have told me sooner.”
She stepped back to an arm’s length. “I didn’t know. I guess … I guess I thought, well, I’m your boss, and that’s it. I figured you’d try to fix it. That’s what you do.”
I had no idea what she meant by that, and my face must have shown my confusion.
Dodie gave me a gruff hug. “It’s one of the things I like about you, Kiki Lowenstein. You really believe you can fix things … even when it’s clear they are hopelessly, irrevocably broken. You just keep trying, don’t you? You’re the tikkun olem queen, sunshine.”
Tikkun olem. Repair of the world. I didn’t know whether to laugh or to cry. Yeah, she was right. I set for myself impossible tasks. I was a real idiot, through and through.
She sighed. “Here’s the plan. We’ll find out Friday what the attorney thinks about a settlement. Horace has been job hunting and has an interview in Chicago next Wednesday. Give me until next Thursday. That’s not long. Promise me you won’t say anything to my husband, okay?”
I nodded, reluctantly, and we went back to picking up. We were nearly through when she said, “I have a confession to make. Sheila called me about Detweiler. I didn’t tell you, but I knew what she was planning.”
I stared hard at her, unsure of what to say and not trusting myself. So she was in on it too. The perfidy of my inner circle amazed me. What was that old joke about it isn’t paranoia if they’re really after you? Life is a series of solo experiences made bearable by the comfort of friends. Now I saw my support net differently. I was surrounded by arrogant do-gooders manipulating me. I responded with a disgusted sound and shoved chairs up to the worktable hard. I wanted out of here, to pick over my sore feelings in the company of my dog. At the very least, I needed to change our bandages—my psychic ones and Gracie’s on her ear.
Dodie sighed in response. “Detweiler’s a good man. I have no idea why he led you on. Sheila and I talked it over.”
Without me, I supplied mentally and angrily. It was my turn to share a pithy little saying: “Better a good enemy than a bad friend.”
“Maybe we were wrong, but we thought if you felt like a million bucks, at least you could walk away with your head held high.” Her face sagged. “Sorry, but you had to know. You deserved to know. I hope we did the right thing.”
I grew hot under the collar. “It doesn’t matter. After all, you two made your decision without consulting me. Why care now about how I feel? What if I told you I knew all along he was married? You two could stuff that in your little red wagons, huh?”
I was well and truly peeved. I’d had my limit. Their internecine plotting was as painful as Detweiler’s deceit. After all, he was a man. What was Dodie and Mert’s excuse?
Treelike and immobile, Dodie planted herself next to me, her bulky polyester shape blocking my path. Her voice was soft. “You care about me. You think you know what’s best for me and Horace.” She ran a shaky, thick hand through her porcupine hair. “And I care about you. And Anya. We both have good intentions. Maybe we’re equally right … and wrong.”
Put that way, I couldn’t maintain my irritation. “I guess you two did the right thing. I don’t know. Maybe I’ll never know. But it sure is hard.” I paused to bite my lower lip. “I really, really liked him.”
Her voice faded out. “I know. So did I. Life sure can stink.”
KIKI’S TIPS FOR BOHO (BOHEMIAN) STYLE PAGES
Boho is a state of mind where anything goes. Mainly, it’s about mixing rich textures and funky found objects with abandon. Here are some tips for making your own Boho page:
1. Start with one large photo. Because the pages have a lot going on, it’s easy for your images to get lost unless they are prominent. A 5” X 7” is a good size that won’t get lost.
2. Use richly patterned paper for your background. In fact, it’s best if you can find two or three patterns that work well together. Concentrate on mood, more than color or pattern. If you need to darken a paper, try a thin wash of acrylic paint dabbed over it.
3. Assemble the items below. Play with arrangements until you find something pleasing to your eye.
• Ribbons and fabric. Dig through your sewing supplies. Any pieces of fabric, ribbon, or buttons will work on a boho page. If you have a wide piece of fabric, use the selvage like a ribbon or tear a strip to use like a ribbon.
• Flowers. Silk will work, but you’ll need at least three, or any odd number. You’ll want various sizes. You can make a flower out of fabric by sewing a running stitch along the strip of fabric, pulling it to gather it into a circle. Overlap the open edges. You can also crochet a flower or make one out of felt.
• Add odd found items such as postal stamps and bottle caps. These are part of the charm of a boho page.
• Finish by adding sequins, “jewels,” old costume jewelry, tiny mirrors, and chains.
TWENTY-TWO
HORACE CAME TO GET Dodie, and they followed me home. He walked through my house to make sure I was safe. I wanted to tell him Dodie’s secret, but I held back even as I waved while they pulled out of my driveway.
I’d made her a promise.
Sheila called bright and early the next morning. She and Anya had driven past a few rentals after science camp the day before. I agreed to go house hunting with my mother-in-law over a long lunch hour. We decided Anya’s involvement should be minimal at the outset. She was so emotional these days, and we didn’t want to add more uncertainty to her life.
At half past noon, Sheila pulled up in front of Time in a Bottle. I climbed into the back seat of her silver Mercedes. In the passenger seat was Abigail Thorgood, a real estate agent who belonged to the same country club as my mother-in-law. I’d dressed up for the look-see, wearing neatly ironed navy slacks and a lacy white blouse. Through my belt loops ran a pretty scarf in colors of blue, purple, and white. This was part of my new gussy-up policy. The enchanted evening at Opera Theatre taught me nice clothes and makeup constituted a modern suit of armor. I needed all the external fortification I could get. My whole ensemble came from Target—or Tar-Gzay—but as long as Sheila didn’t shop there she would never know. From the driver’s seat, my mother-in-law handed me a sack with an Einstein Brothers salad inside.
“You eat. I drive,” she said, sending back a tall iced tea. “Abigail navigates and narrates.”
Since Sheila doesn’t allow Anya to eat in her car, my meal was a big concession. My housing problem obviously mattered greatly to her. I wondered how far apart her idea of suitable places and mine might be.
Her short list was three houses, one located a few blocks from her home. On a small spit of land sat an older home that should have been—and one day would be—demolished for resurrection as a McMansion. Anya could walk to Sheila’s from this place, which was a plus. We mentioned this to each other as though we’d actually let my child wander the open streets. Ha! Oh, the deception we shared. We both knew her walking anywhere alone was impossible. But still …
The teardown’s price was outrageous. The lot alone was worth a million bucks, so the house was just lagniappe. Welcome to Ladue, where everything—including egos—is inflated. The second house was farther away, on a quiet street in Rock Hill. My excitement about the big yard and a more reasonable price tag disappeared with one sniff of the damp, dark, mildewed interior.
Mrs. Thorgood noted my disappointment and said quickly, “Not to worry, dear. Don’t scowl. I saved the best for last.”
House Number Three was a barn-shaped, converted garage in Webster Groves. Exuding charm, this house sat on the grounds of a larger home owned by a local author. I’d heard his name but never read his books because people call them “gritty.” I think that means the story features blood, guts, and truths about life I’d rather not face. Mrs. Thorgood and Sheila wandered around with me, as we inspected the large, fenced-in yard. From the outside we could see that the high windows would allow a lot of light. Inside, a serviceable neutral carpet complemented plain walls. I loved the place because I saw a blank canvas. Best of all, Anya and I could stroll with Gracie to the small old-fashioned downtown in Webster Groves. Another plus, the house’s overgrown garden hid tangles of herbs, wild blackberries and strawberries, plus climbing roses. I was eager to get my hands on those plants, and I knew someone who could help tame them. However, the price was the highest of the three we’d visited.
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