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

  Time to grow a spine where my wishbone had been.

  First, I dialed Sheila. “About that house in Webster Groves,” I started. Sheila was way ahead of me.

  “Sylvia promised to talk to the owner and see if he’s flexible on the rent. We can talk more about it this weekend. Oh, and by the way, Johnny has killed three more moles. We’ve started a tally in Magic Marker on the wall inside my garage.”

  Sheila had really gone nuts over those stupid varmints.

  I told her I was thrilled that Johnny was making such progress.

  The second task on my list was making plans to attend the memorial event for Yvonne Gaynor. It would be easier to go if I didn’t have to go alone, so I called Nettie to take her up on her earlier offer to ride together.

  Nettie apologized. “I’m sorry but I can’t. Ellen has asked me to give the eulogy. I need to get there early — and I’ll need to leave before the candle-lighting ceremony begins.”

  “Candle-lighting ceremony?”

  “Yes, Ellen ordered three hundred candles for people to hold and wave around. I heard her bragging about it. All the local TV stations will be there with cameras, and Ellen wanted to make a big impact. A big bang for the buck, is how she phrased it.”

  I hung up the phone and shook my head. A big bang for the buck? To Ellen, this was just one more promotional opportunity. One might almost think that she was the one who killed Yvonne Gaynor.

  72

  Ever since my grand gussy-up at La Femme, I’d taken to carrying a small makeup bag in my purse. That proved useful as I repaired the damage I’d done by crying. After all, the purpose of a crop is to have fun, and my puffy red face screamed, “I’ve been bawling like a baby.” A lot of concealer worked wonders, even if I would need to touch it up during the day.

  The mystery of the empty store was solved when Vanessa Johnson called. “Check your email. I’m forwarding something to you.”

  It was an email from Memories First with a subject line: A Safe Place to Crop? The message opened to display a photo of the police and crime scene investigators swarming our parking lot. The text explained: You shouldn’t feel scared when you want to relax and enjoy time with your friends. Not all scrapbook stores are created equal. Some have a history of violence on their premises.

  I thought I’d puke, right there and then. Instead, I forwarded the email to Dodie and raced back to her office. “You have to look at this.”

  She opened it and turned white. Then red. Then purple with rage. Thumbing through her Rolodex, she found the phone number for her attorney. I left as she was filling him in on what Ellen had done.

  Meanwhile, Bama had been quietly working at her worktable. I had no idea what her project was, or when she planned to share it. For once, I didn’t really care. As far as I was concerned, she was off limits.

  All day I hoped to hear news of Horace’s interview in Chicago. However, if news came, Dodie kept it secret. Late that afternoon, she went out and got food for the crop. I wondered if she’d also used the time away from the store to speak to her husband in private.

  That night, our croppers practically moaned with joy when they saw the pages I’d created for Labor Day. They were particularly tickled by my use of common sewing materials as page embellishments.

  Bama stood with arms crossed over her chest and watched me explain the various ways our guests could incorporate my ideas into their pages. After listening a while, she helped Dodie get the food set out.

  A lot of our regulars had come, but I was particularly pleased to see Rena Rimmel joining us. During our break for food, Rena told me, “I was at Memories First when Dodie’s attorney phoned Ellen and told her to knock it off. I wish you could have seen old Ellen’s reaction. I’ve never seen anyone type up a retraction faster than she did. Her fingers fairly flew over the keyboard. Bravo, Dodie!”

  I felt cautious optimism. Maybe my boss was regaining her mojo.

  73

  I was tired by the time I got home. The crop had been fun. My projects were well-received, but the memory of that ugly session in Dodie’s office was not one I’d soon forget.

  After getting Gracie situated, I took a long, hot shower and then went to bed. I should have gone straight to sleep, but my mind was still keyed up about my big mistake. After an hour, I got up and went over to my old computer. If I was going to be wide awake, I might as well get work done. Using my handouts as a guide, I took notes on the session I wanted to present at the various retirement homes.

  That kept me busy until midnight. I checked my phone before climbing back into bed. Johnny had called and left a message about finalizing our plans for the concert. He said he’d call me back on Thursday afternoon.

  Going to the concert with him would give me something to look forward to after attending Yvonne Gaynor’s memorial service at Memories First. This time, I fell asleep almost as fast as my head hit the pillow.

  Because I didn’t have to go in until late, I spent the morning puttering around the house. My new flowers needed pinching back and tending. I would hate leaving them behind when I moved. If I moved. Everything depended on my finances.

  After a shower and a change of clothes, I drove to Time in a Bottle with one goal in mind: Making myself indispensable. Dodie greeted me with a grunt and walked past me into her office.

  Right. I assumed this meant Horace had not come home with good news.

  The first order of business for me was making an “I’m Sorry!” card for Bama. When that was done, I tackled next month’s class calendar.

  I was half-way through September when Nettie dropped by.

  “I looked at the Saving Memories website and the Scrapbook Stars galley,” I said.

  “Uh-huh.” Nettie stared at the tabletop.

  “Yvonne’s pages were a surprise. They reminded me a lot of your work.”

  “Yes.”

  “I’m guessing you made a few suggestions. After all, you two had been friends for a long time.”

  Nettie turned shrewd eyes on me. “Right. We had been friends.”

  The emphasis was on the word “had.”

  I thought about pressing the point, but really, what good could it do? I was fairly confident that Yvonne Gaynor had stolen ideas from Nettie. If the ideas were not stolen, they were – at the least – the result of Nettie giving Yvonne a great deal of help.

  “I was wondering if you’d changed your mind about attending the memorial service,” Nettie said.

  “I’ve been assigned to attend. I really don’t have a choice.”

  “If I were you,” she said, “I’d stay home. Or call in sick. Trust me. You don’t want to be there.”

  “Believe me, I don’t. But if I duck out on it, I won’t have a job.”

  “That’s a shame, because I like you,” she said sadly. “You’ve always treated me fairly.”

  At least one person didn’t think I was a complete idiot.

  It was nearly closing time when Johnny stopped by. The band he’d proposed we see on Friday was a country and western group. I didn’t care. Being on a date was the highlight for me. I was flexible when it came to any particular kind of music. I explained about having to go to Memories First before the concert. “I guess I’d better look up the exact time of the memorial service.”

  Johnny pulled up a stool next to mine and watched as I found Ellen Harmon’s website.

  “Where is that there store?”

  “In Edwardsville, Illinois. Across the river.” I clicked on the address. “Why?”

  “You’re saying that the memorial service is supposed to start at five. Okay, won’t it go for at least an hour? Maybe more? The concert is all the way over Maryland Heights and it starts at seven. We’ll want to eat on the way there.”

  “I see what you mean. We could be cutting it tight. Riverport is nearly as far west as Chesterfield.”

  He smiled. “Yes, but we can get her done. Especially if I drive you to the scrapbook store. That way we won’t have to worry about wh
ere to park your car.”

  “Do you mind?”

  “Not at all.”

  We made plans for him to pick me up from my house.

  Right after Johnny left, Dodie called.

  “Please open tomorrow and work until you leave for Ellen Harmon’s. Bama has a doctor’s appointment the same time as Horace and I are meeting with the attorney.”

  Dodie didn’t ask; she told me. This was a new low. Usually, she was considerate when it came to scheduling. Because I was in no position to complain, I phoned Johnny.

  “Slight change of plans. I’ll need to work here at Time in a Bottle until I leave for the memorial service.”

  “No problem-o. I’ll come by and pick you up there rather than at your house.”

  I said goodbye with mixed feelings. Johnny was certainly being a perfect gentleman. A night at Riverport was bound to be fun. I really did need to get out more often.

  My throat hurt with repressed emotion.

  Why, oh, why, couldn’t Johnny be Detweiler?

  74

  Like all young people, Anya could be very self-absorbed. She didn’t even notice the next day that I dressed more carefully than usual. I was wearing a tight pair of embroidered jeans and a sleeveless surplice top in blue. The jeans might be a bit warm for August, but it was better than exposing my legs to mosquitoes.

  “Have you got everything you need for your sleepover at Nicci’s house?” I asked, as we climbed into my car.

  “Yes, and I can always borrow anything I need from Nicci.” My child barely looked up from her Game Boy.

  In fact, she almost forgot to kiss me goodbye when I dropped her off at the Moores’ house. Jennifer firmly turned my child around, whispered in her ear, and gave her a tiny shove toward me. Anya stomped back to the car and gave me a quick peck on the cheek. Jennifer waved to me as I pulled away from the curb.

  I was counting change for the cash register when Clancy phoned. “Have you heard about the memorial ceremony? What a travesty. I swear that Ellen Harmon is a dirty-fisted grave robber.”

  “Are you planning to attend?”

  “How could I miss it? Besides, I’m really getting into this scrapbooking thing. I’d like to compare her store to yours.”

  “Then I’ll see you there.”

  At a quarter of four, Bama came in to relieve me. I handed her the card I made and apologized once again.

  “Whatever. Forget it.”

  I hoped not. I wanted to remember how out of hand my snooping had gotten. Jealousy, rather than the desire to right a wrong, had been at the heart of my investigation. Even as we talked about the calendar for the next month, I realized how difficult it was for me to give up control. I liked being the person in charge of the classes and crops. Maybe the truth was that I hadn’t given Bama much of a chance.

  I vowed to do better in the future.

  Johnny showed up at four on the dot. Bama eyed him with unconcealed interest. He was wearing a pair of nice jeans and a white polo shirt, and he looked really good.

  “Bama? I have my cell phone on, if you need anything this evening, don’t hesitate to call,” I told her as Johnny held open the front door.

  My escort laughed. “Babe, I doubt you’ll be able to hear your phone ringing over the band. Take a night off, why don’t you? This woman seems perfectly capable.”

  She was.

  That was the problem.

  75

  August in St. Louis is enough to make you a believer in either global warming or hell on earth. Take your pick. The humidity drove the heat index upward to an uncomfortable three-digit temperature. After dropping Gracie off at my home, Johnny stopped at a drive-up window and bought us large colas for the long ride over the river.

  By the time Johnny and I arrived at Memories First, I really needed to use the facilities. He dropped me off at the front door to find a parking space. Not surprisingly, the lot was packed.

  I parted the crowd and hurried toward the back of the store. As I hustled along, I caught a glimpse of Nettie studying a wall display of Yvonne’s work. What a bittersweet moment this must be for Nettie. Especially considering how she felt about people copying her work. My heart went out to her. Yes, she was a winner, but no one would ever know they were admiring her layouts. What a tough situation.

  To my vast relief, the bathroom was unoccupied, although it did smell bad. I did what I came to do and turned on the tap to wash my hands. A huge sign over the sink read: Careful! Water comes out hot! As I lathered up, I spotted a bit of acrylic paint that had lodged under my nails after working on a page title. I scrubbed carefully, going over my fingernails twice while being vigilant about the water temp.

  Oddly enough, the water stayed cold. What was the deal with the warning?

  And what was that smell? Bathrooms get funky. That’s a fact of life, but this one smelled weird. Glancing around, I didn’t see a drain. Just a hot water heater and a small tin storage cabinet for sanitary supplies and cleansers.

  I rejoined Johnny, and we stood in line to view a collection of Yvonne’s pages that been designed, “Exclusively for Memories First.” A small sign explained that before her tragic, sudden death, Yvonne had created these special layouts for classes she had intended to teach at the scrapbook store. This would be the first time these layouts were on display.

  “The owner told us about these,” I whispered to Johnny from behind my hand. “Everyone was all excited about coming here to learn new techniques.”

  Indeed, people were buzzing as they examined the layouts. I was eager to see what Yvonne had done for myself. When my turn came, I stepped up, stared at the layouts and realized I had seen every one of these designs before. Nettie had brought them to the store for me to scan!

  That could only mean one thing—Yvonne had stolen Nettie’s work and passed it off as her own.

  Suddenly, I remembered Rena telling me: “All Nettie has is her scrapbooking. It’s her whole life.”

  What exactly Nettie had said to me? That Yvonne had been her friend? Hadn’t Nettie warned me away from attending today?

  I grabbed Johnny by the hand. “We need to step outside.”

  Fortunately, he didn’t argue. He simply followed along. We were nearly to the exit when Rena flagged me down to say hello.

  “Is Nettie still scheduled to give the eulogy?” I asked.

  “No. I am.”

  “But she was supposed to give it, right?”

  Rena shook her head. “Not that I know of, and Ellen asked me in front of Nettie.”

  “She told me she was giving it—and that she had to leave immediately after the candle-lighting ceremony.”

  “Hmm. She kept bugging me for a copy of the schedule. In fact, she even called me again this morning, asking if anything had changed, time-wise. As it stands, Ellen will talk for a while. Others will say a few words, and then we’ll light the candles.”

  I turned that over in my head. What was it Nettie had said? That she could just kill Ellen Harmon?

  Yes. That was it exactly.

  “Rena, this is important. Does the water in the bathroom here come out really hot?”

  “Sure. That’s why Ellen put up a sign. I burned myself just this morning. It rushes out scalding, because the sink is right next to the water heater. I keep telling Ellen it’s silly to waste money on gas in the summer, but she never listens.”

  “Oops. My daughter is calling me. Excuse me.” That was a big fat lie. With one hand, I pulled my phone from my pocket, with the other I grabbed Johnny. He raised one eyebrow but blessedly didn’t ask questions as I hustled us out the front door and off to one side where we could speak privately. More and more people streamed past us into the store. The parking lot was full. Visitors were pulling into spaces farther and farther down the street.

  “What’s up?”

  “You’ll never believe it, but I think this building is what’s up. I think it’s been rigged to explode.”

  “Say what?” Johnny squinted at me. “You
are kidding, aren’t you?”

  “No. I swear on my daughter’s life.” I was shaking with fear. “Do me a big favor. Go into the bathroom. Sniff the air. I think there’s a gas leak. But get back out here fast, okay?”

  He was in and out in a flash. “You’re right. The water heater pilot light isn’t lit. What you smelled is natural gas. I turned off the valve, but no telling how long it’s been leaking.”

  “We have to get those people out of there! When Ellen gets done talking, after a few other people speak, they’re going to light candles!”

  “And this place will blow sky high. We need to get folks to leave in a calm fashion. There’s little kids in there. If there’s a stampede, someone’s going to get hurt.”

  I dialed 911. I gave the dispatcher our address and the business name. “The building is about to blow up. There’s a gas leak. About 100 people are inside.”

  “You sure?”

  “I am sure.” Okay, I wasn’t sure, but what were my options? Better to apologize than to be wrong. “Please send help—it could go up at any time!”

  The dispatcher confirmed she’d have someone on the way immediately.

  “You need to get everyone out of that building,” were her last words before hanging up.

  “That’ll be a problem,” I told Johnny. “Ellen Harmon won’t trust me. She’ll think this is some ploy Dodie and I cooked up to ruin her big event.”

  “You’ll just have to convince her.”

  “You don’t understand. She won’t listen. Not to me.” I shook my head and searched my brain for an answer. “But she might listen to you, especially if she thought you knew what you were doing.”

  He ran a trembling hand over his hair. “How do you propose to convince her?”

  “Hang on a minute while I run back inside. Do you have a clipboard and a handful of papers in your truck? Could you grab them?”

  “I will, but it ain’t safe for you to go back in there.” He blocked my way.