4 Decoupage Can Be Deadly

by Lois Winston

  “If you’re heading for the conference room,” said Cloris as we passed her in the hall, “it’s occupied.”

  “That leaves the break room,” I said, turning in the opposite direction.

  Tino closed the door after the four of us entered. Batswin, Robbins, and I took seats around the table. Tino remained standing, his back to the door, posed in his usual don’t-mess-with-me bodyguard stance.

  As she helped herself to a cup of coffee, Batswin asked, “What’s this about embezzlement?”

  “When I came across something puzzling in the employment files of the Bling! staff, I—”

  “What were you doing nosing around employment files?” asked Robbins, speaking for the first time since the dynamic duo’s arrival. “Aren’t you a crafts editor?”

  “I was asked to check something, and in the course—”

  “By whom?” asked Batswin.

  “A superior.”

  “Which one?”

  When I hesitated, Robbins stated matter-of-factly, “Withholding evidence in an ongoing investigation is a criminal act, Mrs. Pollack.”

  Subtle, isn’t he? The Dick Tracy tie dangling from his neck did little to diffuse the implied threat. I took a deep breath and glanced at Tino as I slowly emptied the air from my lungs. Did he know Gruenwald had ordered me not to tell anyone about our arrangement? Would he rat me out to the CEO if I answered truthfully? I wasn’t under oath; I hadn’t sworn on a Bible. Still, I didn’t think lying to the police worked to my benefit.

  Thankfully, Tino let me off the hook by answering for me. “Mr. Gruenwald gave her the assignment.”

  Batswin raised an eyebrow ever so slightly. “Exactly what is your role in this?” she asked Tino.

  “He’s assigned to help me,” I said.

  Batswin studied Tino. “Aren’t you Gruenwald’s driver?”

  “Among other things.”

  “Apparently so,” she muttered, then turned her attention back to me. “Why did the CEO ask you to check personnel files? Isn’t that something his secretary would do? Or someone in Human Resources?”

  “Normally.”

  “But?”

  “He asked me to help prove his innocence.”

  “I see. And exactly what did you find in those personnel files, Mrs. Pollack?”

  Over the course of the next fifteen minutes, I told Batswin and Robbins everything I’d discovered. When I finished, Robbins asked Tino, “Did you get a good look at the driver?”

  “I did.”

  “Enough to recognize him from a mug shot or pick him out in a line-up?”

  “Maybe.”

  Batswin and Robbins exchanged looks, then both stood. “Let’s go,” said Batswin.

  “Go where?” I asked.

  “Not you, Mrs. Pollack.” She nodded in Tino’s direction. “Him.”

  “What for?” asked Tino.

  “To sit down with a sketch artist,” said Robbins.

  “Can’t,” said Tino. “I’m needed here.”

  “That wasn’t a request,” said Batswin. She and Tino engaged in a stare-down, neither blinking. Finally she said, “We can do this the hard way or the easy way.” She removed a pair of handcuffs from her belt and jingled them in front of Tino’s nose. “Your choice.”

  Tino grudgingly acquiesced, and the three of them headed for the elevators.

  My phone rang as I left the break room to return to my cubicle. “Hello?”

  “I’ve got good news and bad news,” said Ira. “Which do you want first.”

  I groaned. “I’m assuming the Hyundai is beyond repair, so what’s the good news?”

  “I found you a sweetheart of a deal on a low mileage Jetta.”

  “How sweet?”

  “Under five grand.”

  “Not in this century. What’s the catch, Ira?”

  “No catch. The car is ten years old—”

  “Ten years? My Hyundai is only eight years old.”

  “As Indiana Jones said, ‘It’s not the years; it’s the miles.’”

  “He wasn’t referring to cars.”

  Ira chuckled. “I know, but I love that line.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Okay, in all seriousness, the Hyundai has nearly a hundred thousand miles on it. This Jetta has half the mileage and is in excellent condition.”

  Spoken like a true car salesman. Next he’d be telling me it was owned by a little old lady who only drove it on Sundays to and from church. “Then why is it so cheap?”

  “I’m offering you the car for the exact amount I gave the former owner this morning on a trade-in.”

  “Meaning you could turn around and sell that Jetta for twice what it cost you.”

  “Anastasia, you’re my brother’s wife. I’m not going to make a profit off you.”

  So much for stereotypes about the honesty of car salesmen. Too bad Karl hadn’t inherited some of the integrity swimming around Ira’s gene pool. I sighed through the phone line. “I don’t know what to say, Ira.”

  “Thank you will do.”

  “Thank you, Ira.”

  “You’re welcome, Anastasia.”

  Back before my middleclass life imploded, Karl and I attended the theater at least once a month. As I hung up from Ira, a line from a song in Wicked popped into my head. Maybe—

  “Earth to Anastasia. Hello? Anyone in there?”

  “Huh?” I looked up to find Cloris waving a hand across my face.

  “What planet were you visiting?” she asked.

  “I was just wondering, do you believe people come into our lives for a reason?”

  “Why? Who are we talking about? Gruenwald’s hunk? The dead Blinganista? Zack?”

  “Karl’s half-brother.” I told her about the phone call. “If Ira hadn’t been on a quest to connect with his father’s first love, I’d now be stuck with a dead Hyundai and no way to get to work.”

  “So you think some celestial force or divine intervention sent Ira your way?”

  “Possibly.”

  She shook her head. “I’m more a proponent of the random chaos theory of life.”

  “Personally, I could do with a little less chaos in my life, random or otherwise.”

  She shrugged. “Shit happens. The universe works in mysterious ways. Take your pick. Both mean the same in the end. And speaking of one or the other, where’s your hunky shadow?”

  I caught her up on events. “Tino’s reluctantly sitting down with a sketch artist. Batswin and Robbins are probably investigating who owns the post office box and the Cadillac Escalade.”

  “Why reluctantly?”

  I’d wondered the same thing. “Not sure. Except he’s a guy trained to follow orders, and his orders are to keep me safe. He can’t do that if he’s discussing the width of a nose or the slant of someone’s eyes down at police headquarters.”

  “Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “What if Tino is in on the embezzlement? Maybe he collected the checks from the post office box.”

  “No, Tino brought me the bogus employee files. Why would he do that if he was in on the scam?”

  Cloris smacked her forehead. “This is why you’re the sleuth, and I’m only the trusty sidekick.”

  “Reluctant sleuth,” I reminded her.

  THIRTEEN

  Shortly before the end of the work week, we all received an inter-office email memo stating a private funeral service for Philomena would take place once the coroner released her body. A public memorial would be scheduled afterwards. Details of both to follow.

  “Command performance?” asked Cloris, calling to me from across the hall.

  “Most likely.”

  “Which means we can’t use a comp day to get out of going. The only thing worse than attending a funeral, is attending one for someone you didn’t like.”

  “Ditto.” I’d attended far too many funerals and memorial services this year, and other than the one for my husband, most of them involved Trimedia employees
.

  A few minutes later Cloris stood at the entrance to my cubicle. “I’m cutting out. Are you ready to leave?”

  Tino hadn’t returned from the police station. After being escorted to and from my car the last two days, it seemed strange to leave the building without his protection. Not that I expected a sniper perched on the roof. Why would anyone want to kill me? I’m no threat. Besides, if there were a sniper on the roof, unless he was a lousy shot and missed with the first bullet, what kind of protection would Tino provide me?

  I shut down my computer, grabbed my purse, and joined Cloris for a TGIF exit of Trimedia. I looked forward to my first weekend off since the end of June and planned to celebrate by doing absolutely nothing. Or possibly a little bit more than nothing if Zack returned from wherever he had traipsed off to at the crack of dawn yesterday morning.

  ~*~

  Unfortunately, Mama had other plans, and they involved me. I arrived home to find my living room and dining room set up to resemble an evacuation staging ground, minus the disaster victims, Red Cross volunteers, and medical supplies. Cartons and suitcases, some empty and some in the process of being filled, covered nearly every square inch of floor space except for a narrow path leading from the entry hallway to the kitchen. Every piece of furniture held haphazard piles of clothing, shoes, accessories, and the assorted trappings of Mama’s life.

  In-between husbands, Mama not only came to live with us, so did all her worldly possessions. Because she always lived above her means, whenever a husband died, she could no longer afford to keep her home. Mama habitually married men with champagne tastes, small bank accounts, and little life insurance. Thanks to five previous marriages, she owned an overabundance of worldly possessions, her own and those belonging to her Dearly Departeds.

  She kept everything, storing some of her belongings in the bedroom she shared with Lucille and some in my basement. The Dearly Departeds, all in bronze urns, lined a shelf in my dining room. The balance, including all her furniture, filled up most of my two-car garage, leaving just enough room for my lawn mower and snow thrower.

  Mama lucked out when Ricardo trashed my house this past winter. With Seamus O’Keefe, her latest husband, so recently deceased, she hadn’t yet transferred the contents of her apartment to my home. So when Ricardo mounted his search and destroy mission for the fifty thousand dollars he insisted I’d squirreled away, Mama’s property had been spared the vandalism mine sustained.

  Mama and Lawrence moving into their own condo meant I’d finally get my garage back and wouldn’t have to scrape snow and ice off my car this winter. That thought alone nearly made me burst out in a Snoopy dance. Few tasks are worse than chipping away at inch-thick windshield ice in the pre-dawn hours of a snowy winter morning.

  “Oh, there you are, dear!” Mama entered the living room and dumped a pile of sweaters into an open suitcase.

  “Are you moving this weekend, Mama?”

  “As long as everything is ready.”

  “What isn’t ready?” And why did a sense of dread start to creep up my spine?

  “The usual, of course. Cleaning. Painting. Now that you’re home, you can help me narrow down color selection. I picked up paint chips the other day but haven’t been able to decide. We can buy the paint this evening after dinner. That way we’ll get an early start first thing tomorrow morning.”

  “We?”

  “You are going to paint for me, aren’t you? After all, you’re the one with the art school degree.”

  Funny how I forgot to enroll in the House Painting 101 course while in college. “You expect me to paint your apartment this weekend?”

  “Not alone. Lawrence and I will help. And I’m sure the boys will pitch in. Ira has to work Saturday, of course. Saturday is his busiest day of the week.”

  Of course. And if Lawrence were anywhere near as handy as Mama, I’d be better off tackling the job on my own. She conveniently forgot that between varsity football and Alex’s part-time job at Starbucks, my sons had little free time most of Saturday and Sunday.

  So much for my weekend of relaxation. “How come Ira Moneybags didn’t hire a professional house painter along with the condo he purchased for you?”

  “He offered, but I told him not to bother.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Workmen are so unreliable these days. I’m much more comfortable with you doing the painting. I can trust you to do an impeccable job.”

  Should I strangle her now or wait until she finished packing?

  I suppose I shouldn’t complain. What was one more weekend of work when I’d finally have my garage back and one less person in the house? I loved Mama, but I loved her more when she and her corpulent kitty weren’t instigating trouble with Lucille and Mephisto. I’d willingly trade one more weekend of my life for a little more peace and a lot less chaos under the Casa Pollack roof.

  At that moment, the Queen of Chaos stormed into the house. Actually, she hobbled, but even using a cane, Lucille’s entrance conveyed more storm than hobble, especially with the addition of the front door slamming against the foyer wall.

  My mother-in-law stopped at the entrance to the living room and surveyed Mama’s mess. “You’d better not be taking anything that belongs to me,” she said.

  “Is she kidding?” Mama asked me. Then she turned to Lucille. “What do you own that I would possibly want? Your orange paisley pantsuit? Your copy of The Communist Manifesto?” Mama waved her arm as if to swat a pesky gnat buzzing around her face. “Don’t flatter yourself.”

  Lucille raised her cane and pointed it at Mama. “Every time you move out, something of mine is missing.”

  Good grief! Those two sounded more like squabbling adolescents than grown women. “Enough! Lucille, I’m sure Mephisto needs walking.”

  “Manifesto!” she screamed, pounding her cane. “How many times do I have to tell you his name is Manifesto?”

  “She’ll never get the joke,” said Mama.

  “Because it’s not funny,” said Lucille. “I’m not an idiot.”

  “Could’ve fooled me,” said Mama.

  “That’s enough, Mama. Stop instigating.”

  “You’re blaming me? What did I do? You’re the one who calls the dog Mephisto.”

  Guilty as charged. And even though the devil dog and I had recently come to an understanding, he’d always remain Mephisto in my mind. And as a slip of my tongue.

  Lucille muttered under her breath as she stomped her cane down the hall to the bedroom she shared with Mama. A few minutes later, she reappeared with Mephisto in tow and headed out the door.

  I confronted Mama. “Have you taken anything of hers?”

  “Really, Anastasia! Are you siding with that communist heathen over your own flesh and blood?”

  “You didn’t answer my question, Mama.”

  “And I don’t plan to. It’s downright insulting for you to even suggest such a thing.” She turned her back on me and began to rearrange the flotsam and jetsam piled on my sofa.

  I took her evasiveness as a yes. Mama wasn’t above stooping to the level of a spiteful child. Lucille didn’t own much, thanks to all her possessions going up in flames last year, and she didn’t suffer from dementia now that a tumor no longer grew in her brain. She knew what she owned. One of them was either lying or deliberately pilfering in order to foment trouble. The question was, which one? Both were certainly capable of such tactics.

  I left Mama in her snit and headed into the kitchen to start dinner. The boys would be home from football practice any minute. That’s when I noticed the note on the kitchen table:

  You. Me. Bottle of expensive bubbly. Romantic French restaurant. No kids or grandmothers allowed. I’ll pick you up at 7. Zack.

  P.S.: I ordered pizzas delivered for the starving masses.

  My hero. A glance at the clock told me I even had time for a relaxing soak in the tub. Mama’s paint chips and a trek to Home Depot would have to wait.

  ~*~

  �
�You’ve officially fallen out of grace with Mama,” I told Zack as we drove off in his silver Porsche Boxster shortly after seven o’clock.

  “Me? What did I do?”

  As much as Mama played Yenta the Matchmaker when it came to me and Zack, she wasn’t above putting her need for wall color resolution ahead of my romantic dinner. I left her holding a handful of paint chips and pouting amid a sea of suitcases and packing cartons. “You gave me an excuse not to go to Home Depot this evening.”

  “And Flora is mad at me for that?”

  “She expected me to help her decide on condo colors, then take her paint shopping. By the way, feel free to kidnap me for the entire weekend. I promise to be an extremely compliant kidnap victim.”

  “Your mother needs an entire weekend to buy a few cans of paint?”

  “She needs an entire weekend for me to paint her apartment.”

  Zack slowed to a stop for a red light and turned toward me. “Your first weekend off in months and you plan to spend it painting walls?”

  “Not my plan. Mama’s. She sprang it on me the moment I walked in the house this evening.”

  “What about Lawrence? Isn’t he capable of wielding a paint roller?”

  “Apparently not.”

  “Dare I ask why?”

  “He doesn’t have an art degree.”

  “That makes no sense.”

  “It makes perfect sense in Floraworld.”

  “I see. And have you painted other apartments each time she reels in a new husband?”

  “I’ll admit I haven’t put up much of a fuss in the past, but all those painting jobs occurred before Karl shafted me. I had plenty of time back then to help Mama.”

  “Not to mention an art degree.”

  “A housepainter requirement.”

  A few minutes later Zack turned into the parking lot of Chez Catherine. “Who did you kill to score a table here?” I asked. One of the state’s finest restaurants, Chez Catherine normally required booking a reservation at least a month in advance. Usually longer.

  He grinned. “You don’t want to know.”

  “I’ll take that as code for whatever alphabet agency employs you.”