“You did all this? By hand?” Lottie stared at the portfolio of Zentangle tiles.
“Yes,” I said proudly.
She shook her head. “I could never learn to do that.”
“Of course you can. Come over here and sit down. I’ll get you started.”
I was teaching Lottie a complicated tangle, or Zentangle design, when Dodie walked in.
19
Dodie walked over to where Lottie and I were working. As usual, my boss clumped along, her feet hitting the floor heavily. Dodie Goldfader was a large woman and a hairy one as well. Years ago, a customer had teased that she was the original wooly mammoth. But under that furry exterior was an elegant mind and a generous heart. After my husband died, Dodie guided me into adulthood by reminding me that I was a single mother with a dependent, so I could no longer afford to turn a blind eye to my finances. She offered me a job here in her store where I’d been her best customer. It was my first real job ever, besides babysitting while I was growing up.
For the most part, Dodie was a terrific boss. Despite the fact that this was a small shop, Dodie always encouraged me to put Anya first, even if it meant closing the doors while I raced to my daughter’s aid. “Family first,” she always said. “If you aren’t happy, you can’t make our customers happy and my bottom line will suffer.” Yes, Dodie had certainly taught me a lot about being a businessperson.
Really, I owed her a lot. She’d been a wonderful friend and mentor. I hated that she was mad at me.
After saying hello to Lottie, my boss greeted me with, “Hello, Sunshine.”
I breathed the proverbial sigh of relief. I’d been afraid that Dodie would be angry, but she didn’t seem at all upset. At least, not with me. She peered over Lottie’s shoulder and smiled with approval at the Zentangle our customer had created. “Lottie, you are good at that! That is beautiful!”
Dodie knew how to make customers happy. That was one of her secrets of success. She also knew how to merchandise, how to get discounts from manufacturers, how to create customer loyalty, and how to hire good people. But this adventure with her daughter, well, it wasn’t her finest moment.
Lottie held up her project for further inspection and broke into a sunbeam grin. “I think I am good at this! I can’t wait to see how this will look on a page. Isn’t it just the cutest frame? I plan to put a photo inside it. I can keep the pen and the tiles in my purse. It’ll give me something to do while I’m at the doctor’s office. My hubby, Gene, has pancreatic cancer, you see. He’s been in the hospital all week. We’re hoping he’ll be strong enough to leave soon. Then he’ll start chemo and radiation.”
Dodie put a gentle hand on the other woman’s shoulder. “I know this has been a hard time for you.”
I bit my lip rather than blurt out, “See, Dodie? You have to catch these things early.” When I collected myself, I stammered, “I’m sorry, Lottie, you must have a lot on your plate.”
There it was, the bald truth. You could judge and judge someone, but you never knew what they were coping with. When you learned their situation, you hated yourself for being so hasty. Lord knows, I try to be a better person, but each time I vow to improve, I stumble again. Poor Lottie, she only wanted a distraction—and Marla Lever had provided it.
“Kiki, may I talk with you?” Dodie jerked her head toward the stockroom.
“I’ll be right back, Lottie. Would you like a Diet Dr Pepper or a Coke?”
“Love a regular Coke.”
“I’ll get you one,” I said as I padded after Dodie. The minute the stockroom door closed behind us, we both realized we couldn’t talk over the loud music Rebekkah was playing. Dodie used a nod of her head to suggest that we step outside the back door.
“I apolo —” I started, but Dodie interrupted me with, “Rebekkah is driving her dad and me meshugenah.”
“Your daughter doesn’t want to be here.”
“I know.” The dark circles under Dodie’s eyes had grown bigger since Rebekkah moved back in with her parents. Or was it a sign that Dodie’s health had further deteriorated? “My daughter doesn’t know what she wants and she’s taking it out on all of us.”
“Let’s not worry about that now,” I suggested. “Lottie’s fine, as you can see. She was put out yesterday, and I can’t blame her. But there was nothing we could do. Dodie, you have no idea how bad that house stunk or the mess we found.”
“I should have listened to you.”
Blow me down, Popeye. That’s as close to an apology as I’ve ever heard from Dodie. She’s great about a lot of things, but apologizing? You might as well wait for the Sahara to freeze over. I blinked in surprise.
“Let’s discuss it later,” I said. “I’ll come up with a way to make our customers happy despite the inconvenience.”
“I know you will. I can always count on you, Kiki.”
That put a lump in my throat, so I was grateful for the chance to swing by the refrigerator and grab two colas—one for Lottie and one for me—as I made my way through the stockroom. As I stood in front of the big white GE appliance, I paused to sniff the wonderful aroma of a Frito Pie Casserole. Dodie must have brought it in. My mouth started watering.
Suddenly, I found myself looking forward to our Friday Night Crop.
20
After she downed the Coke, Lottie became more talkative. Turns out, she and Marla had chatted with each other at the store.
Somehow I’d missed that. Entirely. I don’t know where I was when it happened.
“Marla seemed to keep to herself,” I said. “I didn’t know she talked to anyone!”
“She’s shy,” said Lottie, “but one of her cats is a Manx, and I used to have a Manx, so we struck up a conversation. Of course, I had no idea she owned so many animals. It never occurred to me that she had a house full. I told her I had a couple dozen cans of cat food left over from Rollo, so I gave them to Marla. She was grateful. Now I know why.”
“Feeding Gracie is an expensive proposition, and that’s only one dog, albeit a big one. I can’t imagine feeding all those cats.”
“Her neighbor helped,” said Lottie.
“Which one?”
“That guy who lives directly behind her. The one with the nice lawn and all the plants. She told me.”
“Good to hear about neighbors reaching out to each other. Again, I’m so sorry for the inconvenience,” I said. “You are welcome to come to the crop tonight as my special guest.”
“Will there be food?”
“Isn’t there always?” I said.
“Count me in.”
That was settled. Now all I needed was to come up with a quick “make-and-take” idea. I needed something fast, cheap, and simple because I didn’t have time to “kit up” a complicated project. Most of the time, we make money on our crops because I keep the costs low. I do that by “kitting up” the items we use for each project. Instead of giving each scrapbooker an entire sheet of paper, when they only need a small square, we cut the paper into small squares to spread out the cost.
“Dodie? I need to come up with a crop project.” I stuck my head inside the door of her office. Rebekkah slipped past me. I heard the back door slam behind her. I knew exactly why she had escaped in such a hurry.
“Excuse me?” Dodie looked up from her paperwork.
“Here’s the original kit and the original instructions.” I tossed the packets onto Dodie’s desk. “But as I told you on the phone, Rebekkah didn’t put together the kits. We don’t have a good number for our attendees. I could try throwing something together, but I have no idea how many to make. Plus, I don’t really have time to cut all the small pieces, so these kits would be more expensive than most. Since I don’t have an exact number, I’m likely to create too many kits or too few.
Dodie’s mouth settled into a sour frown. “Do what you have to do.”
“Let me take Gracie and Petunia for a stroll around the block. I need the fresh air. They need a potty break, and maybe I’ll come up with a
n idea.”
Dodie waved me away. The expression on her face was one of pure disgust, but I knew she wasn’t mad at me. She’d put us in this tough situation, and now she was reaping the rewards. Or whatever.
Gracie dutifully walked beside me as we circled our block. Petunia zigzagged along, raising his leg at every vertical object.
Time in a Bottle is located smack-dab in the middle of the metro-St. Louis area, which makes us a favorite for papercrafters. But the neighborhood around us can best be described as “transitional.” Residences bump shoulders with small businesses like ours. Someday, this will all be retail space. Dodie and her husband Horace had been smart enough to snap up a distressed building, a former auto parts store, five years ago. While their remodeling efforts were not extensive, they’d done enough to make the store a pleasant spot for our shoppers.
Petunia’s antics distracted Gracie and she didn’t do her business. I extended our walk, leading the dogs to the next block over. A drycleaner sat on the corner, next to a small social services agency, and finally a tiny restaurant, a soup kitchen. The sign noted that the place had been sold and would be changing management. The thought of a nice neighborhood place to have a hot meal pleased me. I hoped the food would be passable and the prices would be reasonable. When my dogs and I rounded the corner, the Great Dane found the perfect spot to squat. The heat pressed on us, growing more and more bothersome by the minute. Trickles of perspiration ran down my back.
Instead of taking the long way around that second block, I decided we should cut through the alley. As we did, our path took us past the now vacant restaurant. Evidently the real estate agent had done a bit of cleaning to make the place presentable because black garbage bags overflowed with empty cans. One, an empty container of pork and beans, had rolled out into the alley. Gracie and I stepped over it, and Petunia skirted it, on our journey back to Time in a Bottle. But the thought of leaving the can in the middle of the pathway disturbed me. I picked it up with the intention of putting it in the recycling bin at the store.
“Come up with an idea?” Dodie called to me as I locked Gracie and Petunia in the doggy playpen.
“Nope,” I said.
“What’s with the tin can? You panhandling?”
“Not yet.” I stared down at the container in my hand. “This was sitting out there in the street. You know how I hate littering. I thought I’d bring it here and…”
An idea struck me hard and shook me like I was an oak tree in a lightning storm. “I’ve got it! Be right back!”
In five minutes, I was back with two garbage bags full of cans. I filled two buckets with hot water and proceeded to soak off the labels. Dodie came over to watch.
“I’d help you but I don’t know what you’re doing,” she said.
“Help me clean these and soak off the labels. But be careful not to cut yourself.”
As we worked peeling off the paper, I asked, “Do we still have those big rolls of brown wrapping paper? The kraft paper?”
“Yes.”
“Great!”
“Why do you want kraft paper when we sell scrapbook paper?”
“Kraft paper is different texture,” I explained. “It’s much tougher and more tear resistant.”
“So?”
“It’ll be perfect for our project tonight,” I said.
That night when the croppers looked at me expectantly, I explained that our make-and-take would combine a new skill and upcycling, which is a fancy word for turning something old into something new. “Because every scrapbooker needs help staying organized, I thought we’d turn these empty cans into pencil cups. If you’re like me, you have handfuls of colored pencils. You have to dig through them to find the right color.”
The women looked skeptical. Lottie Feister in particular. But I showed them my example. “See? I tangled a simple Zentangle pattern on a piece of brown kraft paper. I wrapped the strip of paper around the can, coated it with Mod Podge, and isn’t it gorgeous?”
Of course it was, and my crafters were thrilled with my project. As I had explained to Dodie, the kraft paper was tougher than our scrapbook paper. It had more tensile strength. After the crafters drew their designs, they were able to glue the kraft paper to the empty cans. Because of its durability, they could easily wrap it around the ridges in the cans. By pinching down the cut edge of the can, where the lid had been joined to the body, we made sure there weren’t any sharp surfaces. But to be extra careful, I had the scrapbookers wrap the excess kraft paper over the cut edges of the cans.
Not only did the finished products look cool, the kraft paper was durable enough to withstand the rough usage that the can would get as an organizing container.
Shortly after midnight, the last customers walked out our front door. “You, Kiki Lowenstein, are a force of nature,” Dodie said. “I would have never come up with such a weird and wonderful idea.”
“Not to mention cheap.”
At that she laughed.
21
Saturday morning…
While I was at the crop, Mert had left me a text message that we’d rendezvous the next morning at Marla Lever’s house. Six a.m. is early, even for me. Fortunately, my daughter had opted for a sleep-over at her friend Nicci Moore’s house, so I didn’t have to disturb my kid when I woke up early.
The city streets were deserted when I pulled up in front of the house in Ladue. Mert, and her brother Johnny were already there. One of her friends, Trudy Squires, joined us shortly.
Mert knows a lot of people, partially because she’s been in the cleaning business so long. Trudy, I gathered, was a single woman between jobs and husbands. I’d put her age at mid-thirties. Unlike me, Trudy was skinny as a stick. The excessive amount of hair flipping signaled that Trudy was on the prowl as she cast flirtatious eyes toward Johnny. I couldn’t blame her. Johnny had that whole “bad boy” vibe going for him. He’d spent time up in Petosi for a crime he didn’t commit, and the stint behind bars produced a tough, man’s man. But behind that macho exterior was a heart of gold, a sweet guy who’d been after me to go on dates with him.
I couldn’t. My heart belonged to Detweiler, and now it ached every time I saw the cop. I figured it wasn’t fair to Johnny to date him if we had no future. Treating Johnny as a distraction would be unkind—and he deserved more. With time, I could get over Detweiler. At least, that’s what I hoped. To encourage me to forget him, Sheila had her sights on a man she considered a suitable suitor for me, Ben Novak. I’ll give her this: my mother-in-law has an eye for good-looking men. Ben looks like he belongs on the cover of a Ralph Lauren catalogue. He’s tall, blond, and buff.
Unfortunately, he isn’t Detweiler.
“Put this on over your duds.” Mert interrupted my thoughts as she handed me a white Tyvek biohazard suit with sleeves gathered at the wrists and the ankles. Over our shoes we slipped white Tyvek booties. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any weirder, Mert passed us latex gloves and hoods with gas masks. We looked like a convention of astronauts.
“Gonna be hotter than blue blazes in there,” said our fearless leader. Somehow she managed to get all her earrings inside her hood, but I can’t imagine how. As for the heat, I was already feeling trickles of perspiration running under my arms.
“Listen up and listen good. I got window and room air conditioning units going inside, but when you’re wearing these, you generate your own sauna. I cain’t take the chance on any of you getting sick on me. So I’m setting out the rules and I expect you to obey them.”
I’d never heard her act like General Patton before. I expected to see an American flag rise behind her as she lectured us.
“Three rules: Rule Number One—At twenty-minute intervals, this here alarm clock will sound. I expect you to stop your work, go outside, sit on a lawn chair, pull off your mask, and drink down a bottle of water. No exceptions.”
“By the time you get thirsty, you’re already dehydrated,” Mert said. “I can’t have you fainting on me. So all of yo
u will come out here and drink water, while I watch you do it. The temperature is supposed to stay lower this morning and afternoon, but with all the work you’ll do and these suits, you still risk dehydration.
“Rule Number Two—Never remove the filtering mask or the gloves while indoors. Never ever.” Mert’s hands moved in a gesture designed to underscore her last point. “I don’t know what we’re dealing with here. You’ve all had your hepatitis and tetanus shots, so you’re good to go, but I do not want to put any of you at risk, so the mask and the gloves stay on. No matter what.
“Rule Number Three—Nothing leaves the premises. Valuables come to me. I’ll log them and lock them up. We’ll start with clearing out the trash and putting it in this Dumpster for the police to check once more before they release it. If you see something unusual, something that don’t seem right, call me. There was a murder on this here piece of land, so keep your eyes open. The police have been through the place with a fine tooth comb, but that don’t mean we won’t find nothing. Iff’n you do, let me know. ASAP. Now get to it.”
“I thought that because the police had released the scene, we didn’t need to worry.” I was surprised by how muffled my voice was.
“They’re human, and they make mistakes like we all do. I jest don’t want to get crosswise with Detective Grumpy Pants.”
“You mean Hadcho?”
“Yeah, him. Let’s get moving,” said Mert.
The hoods blocked our peripheral vision, which caused all four of us to move clumsily, at least at first. My hands are tiny, and my gloves stuck out past my fingers, making grasping stuff hard. The suits weren’t uncomfortable in themselves. Rather like wearing a FedEx mailing envelope, I guess. (Although I haven’t done that, I’ve seen some photos of fashion projects where students did exactly that.) Mainly, their generous proportions proved awkward, especially for me. After I tripped twice on my own pants, Mert grabbed a roll of duct tape from her truck and adjusted my hems.
Kiki Lowenstein Books 1-3 & Cara Mia Delgatto Books 1-3: The Perfect Series for Crafters, Pet Lovers, and Readers Who Like Upbeat Books! Page 53