Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books!

by Joanna Campbell Slan

  But I knew better. “Detective Detweiler, you are a married man. You have nothing more to share with me.” I jumped up from my worktable and headed for the back, but I didn’t get far because Detweiler grabbed my hand and held me in place. He was so close, I could feel his warm breath tickle the hairs on the back of my neck. “Please tell Anya that I asked about her, and Kiki? Please be careful.”

  I jerked myself free of him. I flat out ran to the back room and locked myself in the john. There I cried for a while. When I had a grip on my emotions, I splashed my face with cold water. From the fridge, I grabbed a Diet Dr Pepper.

  “I cut all those letters.” Bama stood there, one hand on her hip. She studied me, probably trying to find a way to provoke more tears.

  “Thanks.” I slipped past her and went back to my worktable.

  I did my best to forget about Detweiler’s visit. Mostly, I shifted paper and embellishments from one spot to another without gluing anything down.

  “Kiki?” A voice startled me out of my misery.

  Nettie stood at the end of the table. “I dropped back by because I got word that Ellen has finally set the date for a memorial service in honor of Yvonne. It’s scheduled for this coming Friday afternoon. Would you like to drive over to Memories First together?”

  “It’s very kind, but I’m scheduled to work all day Friday. Besides, I’m not sure my presence would be appreciated. The last thing I want is to cause a distraction while everyone is there for Yvonne’s family.”

  My phone rang, and I excused myself to take the call because it was Sheila. I always took her calls in case she or Anya had a problem.

  As usual, Sheila didn’t ask if I was busy. Instead, she barreled right ahead with, “We caught a mole! The trap went off! I saw that stupid thing wiggle. Those were its death throes. Johnny got it! He knows everything about catching them! He says they’ll all be dead soon! One by one, he’ll kill them! Dead! They’ll all be dead!” The call ended with a maniacal laugh.

  My mother-in-law had lost her mind.

  69

  Later that afternoon, when I picked up Anya after science camp, she was in a quiet mood. She always gets that way right before school starts. I try to give her space, knowing that she’s a worrier, like her mom. Once classes actually began, she’d be fine. But the unknown is scary. Especially for those of us who have vivid imaginations.

  I reached over and took Anya’s hand. That was all she needed. Just to know she wasn’t alone. She squeezed my fingers as a way of saying, “I love you.” I squeezed hers back, and then her cell phone rang. It was Nicci Moore asking if Anya could spend the night with her on Friday. Jennifer would pick Anya up after science camp for me, if that was all right. I gave my permission, and sighed with relief. This timely invitation meant I wouldn’t have to tell my daughter that I was going out on a date with Johnny Chambers.

  Not yet at least.

  “I’m going to Nana’s tonight, aren’t I? You’ve got that Labor Day crop.”

  “That’s right.”

  “You work a lot of hours, Mom.”

  “I know I do.”

  “We’re still barely making ends meet.”

  I nodded. “But that’s not your concern, Anya-Banana. That’s for me to worry about. I’m the grown-up. We’ll be okay. Besides, worse comes to worst, you can always move in with Sheila.”

  “I’m not too sure about that. It would be like living in a loony bin. Do you know she set an alarm clock to go off every thirty minutes? She wants to run out and see if any more of those mole traps have gone off.”

  “You have to be kidding me.”

  “Nope.” Anya heaved a world-weary sigh. “Linnea says she’s lost her cotton-picking mind.”

  After I dropped Anya off, I decided to swing back by that rental house in Webster Groves on my way to the store. The tiny cottage seemed absolutely perfect for Anya and me. It was a cute place in a highly desirable location. The Webster Groves Public Library and the downtown area were within easy bicycling distance. Unfortunately, by my calculations, I was $1200 short of the first and last month deposit, and at least three hundred short on the rent each month. I tried to imagine being indebted to Sheila and instantly felt uncomfortable. I could easily foresee the two of us disagreeing—and if that happened, I knew she’d hold the money over my head. Imaging that sort of indebtedness twisted my stomach into a knot.

  On my way to Time in a Bottle, I mentally reviewed my “to do” list. Today was an important day for Dodie, because Horace would be heading into Chicago for his job interview. “This, God, or something better,” I said, offering up my prayer that God would take care of the Goldfader family.

  But once I pulled into the parking lot, I realized that no one else was around. Not yet at least. Gracie and I had the store to ourselves. I let my dog wander around, sniffing her way up and down the aisles, until she sank down at my feet while I booted up the store computer. For days now, I had been intending to look at the Saving Memories Magazine website, but with one thing and another, I hadn’t done it. Now seemed as good a time as any.

  The magazine’s website was big, bold, and chock full of articles, sample pages, book ads and links to products. The Scrapbook Stars contest had been added almost as an after-thought. Even smaller was the information about each of the winners. Yvonne’s bio explained she was a member of the Memories First Design Team. That was news to me. Her favorite technique was acrylic paint on pages. That was another shocker. I’d done my best to teach her how to lightly spread acrylic paint on foam stamps. She refused to listen to me. Instead, she made a real mess, dripping paint all over and leaving me to scrub the floor after she left.

  But now using acrylic paint was her favorite technique? Interesting. Very, very odd.

  I clicked around and found a gallery with all the winning entries. Shock #2: Yvonne’s layouts were a quantum leap above anything she had done here at our store. She’d submitted a dozen. All of them were extremely sophisticated, eclectic, and bold. Her use of color was skillful. Her incorporation of found elements was imaginative. I couldn’t believe how good she’d gotten, and in such a short time.

  How could I have misjudged this woman’s talent? I stared and stared at the work. I enlarged the images onscreen and took my time, going over each project in depth. If you read the journaling carefully, the photos didn’t exactly match the theme of the layouts. That was odd. Very odd. It left me with a weird sense of déjà vu. The pages seemed familiar, although that was impossible. Yvonne hadn’t been here, in our store, for at least a year. Closer to two years, actually.

  Of course, each of the contestants had signed an affidavit that she’d submitted original work.

  Even so, it was possible that someone had helped Yvonne. Nettie could have. That would make sense. Scrapbooking forums were full of posts about friends working together to help each other with contest entries. That wasn’t cheating, although it was borderline behavior. Maybe the pages looked familiar because Nettie had helped Yvonne.

  Yeah, that had to be it. Yvonne, Rena, and Nettie all scrapbooked together. Maybe they’d worked as a group to help Yvonne bring her entry up to snuff. That’s what friends were for.

  I logged out. The store was still empty. I found that a little surprising. It was possible that our customers were waiting for the Labor Day crop. I hoped so. I’d put a lot of effort into creating the pages for this evening, and I looked forward to sharing them with our group.

  Gracie came over and rested her head on my knees. “I know, girl. I know. I miss him, too.”

  After putting Gracie into her playpen, I finished the sample albums I’d made for the wedding photographers. Now to tackle the presentations I’d suggested for the retirement homes. I’d agreed to come and give talks about the value of creating memory albums that would introduce residents to their caregivers.

  I outlined my talk. Since getting up in front of any group and speaking is nerve-wracking, I needed a crutch. A terrific handout would give my listeners a po
int of reference – and it would also help me remember the major points I wanted to stress. I expanded my outline, adding pithy quotations by experts. When I was satisfied with the verbiage, I planned to photocopy these handouts onto imprintable paper, paper preprinted with colorful border and a blank spot in the center for your message.

  But before I duplicated 100 copies, it would be nice to have a second set of eyes proofread my work. I thought I’d heard Dodie rustling around in the back. She was a good proofreader.

  Besides, I wanted to see how she was doing.

  “Hi,” I said, as I slipped into the chair on the subordinate side of her desk. “Have you heard anything from Horace yet? It’s still pretty early, I guess, but still…”

  “Nothing yet. I am nervous as a cat.”

  Bang! The back door slammed so hard, it sounded like a gunshot. Dodie and I both jumped out of our chairs.

  “You! How dare you!” Bama lunged at me.

  “Hey, hey, hey!” I scrambled backwards out of my seat, and I would have climbed the walls if given half a chance.

  Instead, Dodie reached across the desktop and grabbed Bama by the arm. “Stop it! Right now. I will not have violence in my store.”

  Bama’s face twisted into a mask of rage. Fortunately, Dodie has strong hands from doing crafts. She did not turn loose of Bama. That was a good thing, because Bama was still trying to attack me. She got as close to my face as she could and yelled at the top of her lungs, “You sicced the police on my sister! You told them I’m on drugs. My sister didn’t do anything. I am not on drugs. I’m not a drunk. I have a medical condition. Dodie, tell her!”

  “I will if you settle down. Now.”

  Bama yanked her arm away. For a heartbeat, I thought she’d come after me again. Instead, she sat on the edge of the empty chair adjacent to mine. She was still too close for comfort, but Dodie seemed to have things under control. I eased down into my chair, but I didn’t take my eyes off of Bama.

  Dodie sank back slowly into her big black leather chair. “Get a hold of yourself, Bama.”

  But Bama was livid. “A hold of myself! I have never been so insulted in my life. How dare she?” Spittle flew from her lips. “This is outrageous! Absolutely insulting!”

  Dodie looked as calm as the statue of Abe Lincoln seated in his Washington, DC, memorial. “You are absolutely right, Bama. What Kiki did was totally out of line. She owes both of us an apology. One to you for causing you trouble and one to me for not trusting my judgment.”

  “She spread rumors that I’m a cheat! That I took a kickback from the caterer. Like I’m a common thief!”

  “But you did.” I couldn’t believe Dodie was protecting this person.

  “Yes, there was a commission from the caterer. I knew all about it. That money went to Bama’s sister.”

  “What?”

  Bama twisted in her chair to make sure I heard every word that followed. “You know nothing about my sister? Nothing! She has three kids to support. Three, Kiki! Not just one like you do. Think it’s hard making ends meet with one? Try three! I called her about the catering for CAMP, and we worked up a menu but Dodie knew all about it. Dodie didn’t pay one cent more. Katie got the standard commission her boss pays any employee who brings in new business.”

  “Katie? I thought her name was Cali.”

  “See? That’s how much you know. Nothing! You are a miserable excuse for a human being. You and your married boyfriend, the cop. People like you two love making trouble for people like me. Thanks to you, the cops questioned the catering staff for four hours. That means that every person who works at The Catering Company lost a half day’s wages, and that’s all your fault.”

  I was stunned. I’d never guessed that would happen.

  Dodie said quietly, “Bama told me in advance about the commission from The Catering Company. I was glad for Katie to have that money.”

  Dodie’s even tone of voice caused my gut go liquid. Dodie was mad. More than mad. She was seriously ticked at me.

  And I deserved it.

  “You should fire Kiki’s butt.” Bama’s mouth sank into an angry red slash. “I never did anything to you, Kiki Lowenstein. You’ve had it in for me from the beginning. Just because I didn’t think you were God’s gift to scrapbooking. Guess what? You’ve got a lot of people fooled. They think you are sooooo nice. But you aren’t. You are evil.”

  She was right.

  “I apologize.” I swallowed. “I was out of line. My intentions were good—”

  “Good intentions? Hah! You wanted to send me to jail!”

  I continued, “I was worried about our business. The police weren’t getting anywhere, so I did a little poking around. But I was wrong. I should have brought my suspicions to you, Dodie. I’ve been jealous of you, Bama, so I found fault. And when I did, I didn’t do the right thing.”

  Dodie spoke wearily, as she rubbed her temples with both hands. “I really do not need this right now.”

  I didn’t either.

  I was at the end of my rope. Not surprisingly, I burst into sloppy sobs. Bama refused to let me out from where she had me penned me in with her chair. I climbed over her and stumbled my way into the bathroom. There I sobbed until my throat was raw and my eyelids were rough as sandpaper. I splashed tons of cold water on my face, but each time I thought I was cried out, I started up again. I knew that eventually, I’d have to clear out of the bathroom. In fact, I’d have clear out of the store. I was sure Dodie was going to fire me. How could she not?

  What a pitiful two-fer. I’d lost both my job and a friend.

  70

  When I finally stepped out of the john, Dodie was waiting for me.

  “This way,” she called me into her office and gestured toward the chair that Bama had vacated. I couldn’t bring myself to look my boss in the eyes. Instead, I focused on my fingers in my lap.

  “Dumb move, Sunshine.”

  “I understand you have to fire me.”

  “Fire you? It just cost me a bundle of goodwill to educate you. You have learned a valuable lesson. You didn’t trust me to do my due diligence. But I know my responsibilities, and I did my job. I checked Bama out before I hired her. If I hadn’t been so distracted, I would have done a better job of managing the two of you, and I might have noticed your animosity. This is a team effort, but every team needs a coach. My head was up my butt instead of being where I belong, out there on the playing field.”

  I felt a cautious optimism. “You want to keep me?”

  “Of course, I want to keep you. I need your help running the store. You are trained. You are talented. You are reliable and resourceful. And most of the time, you are truthful, fair, and honest.”

  “But I’m not going to let this slide. As penance, I expect you to go to the Memories First memorial service for Yvonne Gaynor. You’re the only one of us who won’t cause a problem just by showing up, seeing as how Mert, Bama, and I have a history with the deceased. So I expect you to go, but you have to promise me that you’ll behave yourself.”

  “I’m on it. I’ve learned my lesson. I’ll be good as gold.”

  “Goldfader.” Dodie teased me. “Now scat.”

  71

  At least for the moment, I was still gainfully employed. I’d gotten halfway to the refrigerator and I was reaching for a Diet Dr Pepper when the phone on her desk rang.

  While I popped the tab, I wondered if the call was from Horace. I prayed with all my might that he was sharing good news.

  However, the call did not last long, and my boss stepped out of her lair with an unreadable expression on her face.

  “Go get Bama,” she told me. I did, and to my shock, Bama acted like nothing had ever happened between us. Maybe her style of anger was like a summer storm, hard-hitting and quick to move on. Then again, maybe she was planning her revenge.

  Dodie sat in that big black chair and guzzled a regular Coke. “Bama? You want a cola? Go grab one.”

  When my co-worker was back, Dodie said, “Goo
d news, girls. The police found the creep who’s been committing the hate crimes against me, this store, and other businesses owned by Jews. They wouldn’t share his name, but he lives half-a-mile away from here. He’s a twenty-three-year-old man who thinks he lost his job to an Arab. Here’s the catch: This dope thought the Arab was a Jew because the other guy was from Palestine. The cops got a tip, followed him, and caught him in the act of spray-painting another building. He confessed to all the damage at our store and at the Muddy Waters Review, plus a few more Jewish-owned businesses around the area.”

  “What about faking Gracie’s death?” I asked. “And killing Yvonne Gaynor?”

  “Sorry, Sunshine. This nut-case bragged about what he’d done—and neither Yvonne’s death nor your fake pooch made his hit parade.”

  I drank the rest of my Diet Dr Pepper slowly. Our store was now safe from fury of one nasty creep. But if neither the graffiti artist nor Bama killed Yvonne Gaynor, who did? When would the police have an answer to that crime?

  Even if Dodie let me keep my job, how long could she keep the doors open now that most of the scrapbooking community had turned on her? I had no doubt that Ellen Harmon would use the memorial event at her store to further cast blame on Time in a Bottle. Ellen’s goal would be to make hay while the sun shone, and while people could be encouraged to abandon our store. As for proof, we hadn’t had a single customer all morning. That was definitely not normal for Time in a Bottle. Not at all.

  Where did that leave me?

  The ground beneath my feet was uneven and treacherous. I needed to move, but I didn’t have the money. I needed gainful employment, but Dodie might not be able to weather this storm. I needed to offer my daughter security, but my husband’s killer was still out there, as was Yvonne Gaynor’s.

  How could I cobble together a happy life in the midst of such uncertainty? Especially given that I was stuck raising my daughter alone?