Ink, Red, Dead

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  **

  Jane Kuhn opened the door cleverly disguised with the same grass cloth that covered the rest of the St. Louis Convention Center walls. The organizer of the Craft and Hobby Extravaganza waited patiently for us to file in. Which we did in a noisy, curious way. Jane was used to corralling her volunteers, not seven crafty hobbyists.

  “What’s behind door number two?” Molly Pink muttered as Jane gestured toward the room.

  A boudoir evidently. The small space had been transformed into a cozy sitting room. Some kind of parachute had been hung to disguise the industrial ceiling. An area rug covered the concrete floor. A television and DVD player sat on a table in front of a pale pink corduroy recliner. A granny square crocheted afghan lay across the back.

  Behind the chair, a red drapery hung crookedly, concealing whatever was behind it.

  “Imagine that,” said Betsy Devonshire. “A red ‘green room.’”

  “A red green room?” asked Kiki Lowenstein.

  “That's right,” said Betsy. “A ‘green room’ is what you call a staging room for celebrities. For some reason, these were traditionally painted green.”

  Jane pointed around the room. “This décor is what our star, Carolina Pettijohn, requested. She wouldn’t appear unless we fixed up a green room to her specifications. Her contract was twelve pages long.”

  “Sounds more like a list of demands,” Gerry Porter said.

  “That’s not far from the truth,” Jane admitted.

  A long table, laden with food and drink, hugged the wall. A pyramid of protein bars acted as a centerpiece. Pitchers of iced tea and water had sweated, leaving damp spots on the lace tablecloth. A basket of fruit was piled high with a pineapple sticking out in the middle. One apple had a bite out of it and was turning brown. We gathered around as if we hadn’t eaten in a week. It was the end of a long day, and we were all hungry.

  “Hey,” Kendra Ballantyne said, studying the array of candy on the table. “Not that I’m a Skittles fan, but I definitely know what they look like. There are no yellow Skittles in this bowl.”

  “Exactly,” Jane said. “Welcome to the world of Carolina Pettijohn, where yellow Skittles are banned and walls must be draped in red silk.”

  Betsy Devonshire touched the length of fabric. “Don’t tell her this is polyester.”

  “Don't worry. I won't. Besides, she’s in no position to complain,” Jane said. "Not now.”

  The seven of us had followed Jane a long distance from the show floor where all the vendors were set up, but we were still inside the convention center. In fact, we could still hear the light-hearted music of the Chapeau Parade that had just begun when Jane asked us for our help. While we were stuffed in this odd little room, all the other crafters were enjoying themselves, showing off their hats, and winning prizes. None of us were pouting, but all of us wished we were somewhere else. Preferably someplace that served food. Real food.

  Of our band of seven, only Kiki Lowenstein represented the local crafting community. In fact, Kiki had recently become part owner of Time in a Bottle, a local papercrafting store less than two miles away from the convention center. Betsy Devonshire, plump, blond and fifty-ish, was the owner of a needlework shop in Excelsior, Minnesota. But most of our group had come from California. There was Gerry Porter, a retired high school English teacher and miniaturist from Lincoln Point; Kendra Ballantyne, a lawyer-turned-pet-sitter from LA; and Molly Pink, the event coordinator at a Tarzana, California, bookstore that hosted a local crochet group, the Tarzana Hookers. Two members of our unofficial band had traveled all the way from Aldenville, Pennsylvania. April Buchert had come to the show with the Stamping Sisters owner, and her future sister-in-law, Rocky Winchester.

  Yes, all in all, we were quite the group of talented crafters! We also represented the far-flung reaches of the national crafting and hobbyist community. But it wasn’t our eminence in our industries that had caused Jane to gather us together at the end of day one of the Craft and Hobby Extravaganza.

  No, it was something much more sinister.

  It was our respective abilities to track down a murderer.

  Of course, we didn't know that when Jane pulled back a curtain cordoning off a corner of the green room.

  We gasped as if one.

  The dead body of Carolina Pettijohn rested on a day bed. If there was one woman who represented the national popularity of crafts and hobbies, it was Carolina. Her famous face, seen daily on her own craft show, adorned the face of C, her magazine. In fact all of us were wearing her image on the ID badge that gave us access to the event.

  “Gosh,” said Kiki, as her hand flew up to cover her mouth.

  “She’s dead?” Betsy said. But it was clear the diva had gone on to that big craft room in the sky. Her skin was waxy pale, and her chest was still. However, she also had two black eyes.

  “Worse,” Jane said.

  “It can get worse than dead?” asked April.

  “She was murdered.” Jane sighed. “At least I think she was. There is a trickle blood coming out of her right ear. Plus, this place is a mess.”

  A trash can was dumped over, Carolina’s body was sprawled across the day bed, and her blouse was askew. On the floor beside her rested a cola can with a portion of its contents leaking onto the rug. Clearly there had been a bit of a struggle.

  We looked at each other. Now it made sense. The connecting thread. Each of us had solved at least a murder or two. We knew our way around a crime scene. We’d dealt with murderous spouses, jealous lovers, and conspiring colleagues.

  Even so, our expressions must have been bleak.

  “I'm so sorry to spring this on you,” moaned Jane. “But I don't know what else to do! You ladies are my only hope. I suppose by now everyone has read that article about the seven of you in Mystery! Magazine.”

  We nodded. We had all gained a modicum of fame as crafters who sidelined as amateur sleuths.

  “It's not like I've never seen a dead body before,” said Gerry. “But I'll admit, I didn't expect to see one here. This was supposed to be a vacation! Thank goodness my granddaughter isn't here with me.”

  “Oh, heck,” said Kendra. “I’m a murder magnet back in L.A. these days, but I never expected it to follow me here.”

  Rocky grumbled. “So far, I have seen nothing about St. Louis to recommend it. Now this?”

  April elbowed her. “Be nice!”

  “I was being nice,” said Rocky. “That was actually the edited version. We traveled all those hours for this? A dead body?”

  “Jane, did you call the police?” Kiki asked. “I know a detective…he investigated my husband’s murder.”

  Jane shook her head violently. “I'll call the authorities...but not just yet, please! Word will get out that she’s dead. The police will shut the show down. My life savings are invested in this.”

  She let the curtain fall shut and tottered over to a folding chair. Covering her face with her hands she said, “You don't understand. It’s everything I have. I'll lose my house. I'll be out on the streets. Please, can’t you help me? If we can figure out who did before the cops arrive, maybe I can keep the show up and running.”

  “Do you have any idea who might have done this?” Gerry asked. She stepped closer to a folding card table. Something crackled under her foot. “What was that?”

  “Probably one of those stupid Skittles,” said Molly Pink.

  Since Gerry was a wizard about turning “found” items into small miniatures, she quickly bent over and picked up the item from the floor. Holding it to the light, she saw it was a small gold pin shaped like a bowl full of spaghetti. Gerry slipped it into her pocket.

  “I think I know who did it,” said Kiki. “But I'd like the rest of you to confirm my suspicions. Do you mind if I start from the beginning?”

  Betsy nodded and put a kindly hand on Kiki's shoulder. “Of course. That's the best policy. We've all had a shock. How about starting with your arrival?”

  Kendra agreed. �
�That way we won't miss any clues.”

  Molly smiled. “It's like unraveling a piece when you make a mistake as you crochet it. You have to get your bearings.”

  April and Rocky shrugged. “Here we go.”

  Part I:

  Observations in the Murder of Carolina Pettijohn,

  submitted by Kiki Lowenstein, scrapbooker.

  By Joanna Campbell Slan

  “She puts her panties one leg at a time, just like the rest of us. Even if hers are silk with lace trim.”

  That's what I kept telling myself as I contemplated meeting my personal idol, diva crafter Carolina Pettijohn.

  I forced myself to take calming breaths as I stood in the line at the registration table. But who could blame me for being rattled? For one thing, I hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep—and I’d gotten up at dawn! Heck, I’d even changed clothes several times this morning until I finally paired nice jeans from Goodwill with a simple aqua crewneck sweater from Target. By adding a multi-colored scarf at my neck, this passed as a dressy outfit…barely.

  As I pulled into the packed parking lot at the St. Louis Convention Center, I bet that my old friend Jane Kuhn was feeling proud of herself. She was the bright spark who invited Carolina to be the Guest of Honor at the inaugural Craft and Hobby Extravaganza. Being a nervous sort, I even prepped seeing Carolina by reading every scrap of information about her that I could find.

  Carolina Pettijohn started as a teacher’s helper in Stuart, Florida. She stepped in one week when an unprepared substitute teacher couldn’t manage. For five magical school days, the kids brought home stunning projects. The principal fielded calls from eager moms who wanted to know who designed all those “adorable handicrafts.” A visiting reporter from the Sun Sentinel was sitting across from the principal’s desk and overheard the calls.

  The resultant full-page color article in the Lifestyle Section generated an overwhelming response. On the heels of that first article came an offer for Carolina to syndicate a column and star in the wildly popular “Crafting with Carolina” television show. An icon was born in the crafting community.

  An icon with tens of thousands of followers. Most of them were lined up in front of me at the registration table. Directly behind the table, I could see the huge ballroom, already bustling with vendors and their booths. Carolina's name had carried the day. Jane had phoned me last night saying the event was sold out. Jane had ordered a thousand copies of Carolina’s newest book, The Diva Decorates, in preparation for the booksigning event to take place this evening. The convention center sure looked packed to me. Crafters eager to go inside pressed against the velvet restraining ropes. Huge mounted posters listed the various leisure pastimes represented. I was especially interested in the vendors representing needlework, crocheting, rubber stamping, miniatures, and pet supplies, because those were the interests I shared with my online friends: Gerry Porter, the miniaturist; Betsy Devonshire, the owner of a needlework store; Kendra Ballantyne, the pet-sitter and attorney; Rocky Winchester and April Buchert, the rubber stamping aficionados; and Molly Pink, a bookstore event coordinator and crocheter.

  While I’d met Gerry in person at another craft fair, this would be the first time I’d meet my other virtual friends in the flesh. Once again, I was glad I’d taken the time to find the right outfit. Knowing I looked my best went a long way toward calming my nerves.

  A volunteer tapped me on the shoulder. “You’re Kiki Lowenstein? Jane Kuhn has been asking for you.”

  I made my way to the back of the ballroom. There, in a cordoned off area, Jane greeted me warmly.

  “Thanks a million, Kiki. I’m feeling overwhelmed. Would you mind being Carolina’s escort? She's waiting in her own special room just beyond that door. Just keep her moving along. Introduce her, help her get what she wants, and then help her move on to the next victim, uh, vendor. Oh, she here comes now.”

  A door disguised as one of the convention hall walls opened. I held my breath. I couldn’t believe I was finally meeting my idol! Carolina Pettijohn! The one, the only—Carolina, Queen of Crafts!

  Actually, one look told me it was more like “Carolina, Clearly Having a Bad Day.”

  She squinted at Jane, then at me, back to Jane, and snarled, “I guess she’ll have to do. Don’t you have any men in this town? Isn’t St. Louis known for sports and beer?”

  That shocked me. I’m the original Mrs. Nice Guy, and I have the scars to prove it.

  “Carolina, let me explain this to you,” said Jane. “We’re Midwesterners, and our crowd is a very friendly group of honest, hard-working—”

  But Jane was interrupted by a plain, heavyset woman wearing thick spectacles who stepped from behind the diva and shook my hand. “Hi, I’m Rosie Jackson. I have the list of booths we want to visit. See, I do all Carolina’s creative—”

  “The sooner we get started, the faster I can get back to the bar.” Carolina pushed past us.

  “Please don’t forget we’re expecting you at the book signing later. That’s what you agreed to in your contract!” Jane said. Her voice cracked with tension. "The contract!” she repeated.

  Carolina gave Jane a dismissive wave of her hand and stalked off. Rosie and I struggled to catch up to the diva.

  “Our first stop is at the Impressed for Success booth,” said Rosie, after consulting her notebook.

  We rounded the corner and approached the booth. I stepped forward and made a very Vanna White-ish gesture toward our guest star. “Hi, we have Carolina Pettijohn with us. She’d like a tour of your booth. Please show her any new products you might want her to feature in her syndicated column or on her program.”

  The two owners of Impressed for Success immediately introduced Carolina to their new system of dry embossing. Unlike previous systems, this new hand-cranked machine could actually create impressions on a full 12 by 12 inch sheet of cardstock. To prove just how incredibly cool this would be, one of the owners ran a piece of Core’dinations through their gizmo.

  “If you buff the cardstock, the impressions are revealed in a second color.” One of the owners handed Carolina a sanding block.

  Carolina scrunched up her face and said, “So?”

  “Oh, for pity’s sake.” Rosie grabbed both cardstock and sander. In seconds, she expertly buffed off the top layer of the Core’dinations to reveal the cool second color and the new pattern.

  Which was awesome.

  But Carolina didn’t get it. She just stared at the paper as if witnessing a magic act.

  “That’s a super product, and we’ll feature it. Bag up that sample with your business card, and we’ll get back to you. Mail it to us at this address.” Rosie handed over a card and then leaned close to whisper to the two vendors.

  # # #

  Kiki finished her recitation and waited expectantly at her six friends.

  Betsy Devonshire frowned. “That doesn't sound like anything out of the ordinary.”

  “Oh, that's not all,” Kiki said. “When Rosie took the goods from the vendors, I think she told them they needed to include a check--and I think she wanted it made out to her personally!”

  The scrapbooker turned to Jane. “I think Rosie is the killer. I have a hunch that she was soliciting money from people who wanted Carolina to pimp their products. I bet she and Carolina quarreled over the money, and Rosie lost her temper. I mean, notice that Rosie isn't here? It's her job to stick with Carolina.”

  “Actually,” said Jane. “Rosie is in one of the make-and-take sessions right now. Has been for the past hour. One of the volunteers confirmed it over my walkie-talkie.”

  Rocky frowned. “But where was Rosie earlier?”

  “I think I need to share what I saw,” said Gerry Porter. “Because I have another suspect in mind.”

  Part II:

  Observations in the Murder of Carolina Pettijohn,

  submitted by Gerry Porter, miniaturist.

  by Margaret Grace (Camille Minichino)

  When I spotted my friend Kiki heading
down the aisle, I quickly pulled a wipe from a packet and used it to scrape the tacky glue off my hands. I waved her over, but I wasn't sure she saw me. People were milling in the aisles, some stopping to shop, others trying to squeeze through. It was one of the most widely attended craft and hobby fairs I'd ever been to and I was glad I'd decided to come. I wished I could leave my booth for a while to see some of the new products all around us. Of course, I might be able to slip out later, when it was quieter. The place was so busy that I was doubly glad I'd brought my granddaughter Maddie along. Maddie was great with customers. I could tell she was really looking forward to spending time with Kiki's twelve-year-old daughter Anya. The two girls had been corresponding by email and wanted to see a new teen movie together. Kiki’s mother-in-law had offered to play chaperone. I was thrilled because that would give Kiki and me time to chat.

  One thing about having miniatures as a hobby—you needed to know something about every craft. Maddie and I knitted afghans for our dollhouse living rooms; we crocheted scarves for the dressers; we made tiny quilts (well, here we cheated and glued the pieces down instead of sewing them!) for the beds; we had needlepoint hangings on the walls, and tiny paper crafts in room boxes and dollhouse cottages. No wonder a fair like this, with all crafts represented, was so exciting to me.

  It had been six months since I'd seen Kiki, at a big craft fair on the west coast. I loved Kiki's sense of humor. She had a great flair to her, making even a simple pair of jeans and a sweater look very stylish. I felt very matronly beside her, but she never treated me as anything but as cool as she was.

  I felt someone tugging at my smock—Maddie Porter, my ten-year-old, going on twenty-year-old granddaughter and partner in making dollhouses and miniature room boxes.

  “Grandma, look who's coming, look who's coming!” Maddie was in the repeating stage.

  “I see,” I told her. “It's Kiki!”