Cut, Crop & Die (17 page)

Who, I wondered, had access to her medical history and her purse?

Her husband.

Why wasn’t Detweiler focusing on him? Or was he?

Could Perry Gaynor have an accomplice? Could Bama have planted the tainted food? And swapped an empty Epi-Pen for a full one? A nasty little voice hoped so. Maybe she knew Yvonne’s husband. Or maybe he’d tracked down the newest member of our store “family” and approached her with a bribe. Drugs maybe?

Either way, I needed to talk to Perry Gaynor.

The next morning Anya pitched a hissy fit about camp and refused to leave her room. She stood in her doorway and yelled, “I’m the only girl there who isn’t wearing makeup. How come you treat me like a baby?”

I responded with charm and maturity. “Anya, get your rear end in the car or you’ll be grounded for the rest of your natural life! You’ll stay in that cotton-picking room until you’re old enough to get an AARP card. Plus, you’ll lose all communication privileges. Got it? No phone, no e-mail, no U.S. Postal Service, nada! When I get done with you, young lady, even Homeland Security won’t be able to find you!” And I stomped off to load Gracie in the BMW.

I was still angry when I got to work. The flame under my emotional burner switched to high as I discovered Bama’s car in my parking space. Her late-model hybrid sat crookedly across two places, leaving me a space on the far side of the lot. I’d no more than gotten Gracie and the baked goods into the storeroom and closed the door when the FedEx guy rang the back doorbell. He must have been right on my heels, and I hadn’t even noticed. The man eyed the food hungrily until I explained the muffins were bran.

“Bran? No thanks. Hey, you hear the one about the old dude who goes to heaven with his wife? The man asks St. Peter, if since he’s dead, can he have his favorite things to eat—steak, ice cream, bratwurst, beer? Yep, as much as he wants. Can he have sex? Yep, all he wants. Can he play golf? Yep, every day, all day. So the dead guy turns to his wife and says, ‘Why all those bran muffins? I could have been here enjoying myself twenty years sooner!’”

I offered the delivery man a weak smile before hustling him outside. He was a real sweetie, but given the recent poisoning of our customer, jokes about the dead and dying were not well received. Dodie called Bama and me into her office to tell us the upshot of her meeting with the other CAMP store owners. The women were divided about whether Time in a Bottle should remain part of the group.

“Ellen Harmon is pressing them to dump us. Yvonne’s death gave her a big bargaining chip. She’s got all their sympathy. She told one owner she’s needed therapy to sleep at night. She invited the other stores to participate in a memorial crop. Evidently, she’s struck up a friendship with Wendy Smithers at Your Scrapbook Store. The two were acting cozy when I first arrived. Later, Wendy suggested that until the murder is solved, our name should be excluded from any CAMP ads or events.”

“And how’d you respond?” I couldn’t believe Dodie let them walk all over her. Shortly after Yvonne’s death, my boss must have had a personality transplant. My whole world was turning upside down. Mert was teary eyed and upset. Dodie was unable to defend herself or her store. My sweet daughter was acting like Rosemary’s baby. My nasty mother-in-law was my new best friend.

I’d have given anything for a good astrologer. As far as I could figure, the moon was orbiting Saturn, and poor Pluto was fighting to regain his stature as a planet.

Dodie answered me with, “You don’t understand. There’s nothing I can say. Or do. Ellen started the meeting by handing me a list of fifteen customers demanding refunds. She said one customer was consulting an attorney about damages! Claims post-traumatic stress brought on by witnessing Yvonne’s death.”

“Sounds to me like Ellen is stirring the pot,” said Bama.

I agreed. Scrapbookers are lovely people. That’s why I enjoy what I do. The behavior Dodie described was unheard of.

“Of course she’s egging folks on,” Dodie nodded. “But as long as this investigation continues, scrapbooking has been given a black eye. I had a call last night from a Chicago television station asking me if this hobby is hazardous. Can you believe it? No wonder everyone wants to distance themselves from us.”

The door minder sounded. Bama excused herself to wait on a customer.

I took this golden opportunity. “Dodie, I know this is hard for you, but you can’t just lie down and let them run all over you. Is there something else going on? Have you heard any word from the attorney about Horace’s job?”

She mumbled, “Not yet, but we have an appointment to talk.”

I chewed a fingernail. “How about I take some muffins over for the Gaynor family? Sort of make a sympathy call?” In my navy slacks and dark matching blouse, I could easily pass for a mourner.

Of course, I’d offered my boss a bald-face lie. I wasn’t taking that food over to curry favor with the grieving Gaynors. I was planning to nose around and ask their neighbors a few questions. This couldn’t go on much longer. Either we helped the cops nail Yvonne’s killer, or I’d need a new job.

Today I was supposed to hear back from one of the photographers, and I had a list of retirement communities to contact about giving classes. But none of that would matter, if our doors were shut.

In her current state of mind, Dodie was incapable of resuscitating Time in a Bottle’s business. Bama and I were on our own. Since I didn’t trust Bama any further than I could track a bumblebee, that left me, myself, and I looking after our employment situation. Oddly enough, less than six months ago, it was Dodie telling
me
to buck up and take responsibility for my life and finances.

Our relationship had taken a real U-turn.

Okay. I could do it. Turnabout was fair play.

And clichés were a dime a dozen. But they were all I had for comfort.

THE GAYNORS LIVED ACROSS the Mississippi River in Illinois. Folks from St. Louis roll their eyes and say, “Across the river?” as though they are talking about a spot in Siberia, but driving from Illinois to St. Louis can actually be faster than commuting from a western suburb. The drive gave me lots of thinking and planning time. I decided to put together scrapbooking classes for local summer camps. I might be a little late, but it was worth a try.

Checking the address I’d scrawled on a piece of paper, I pulled up to a brick-fronted, three-story home with extensive landscaping and a paved walkway to the front door. Three times I rang the doorbell at the Gaynors’ house, but nobody answered. I walked back to my car but couldn’t muster up the energy to get in.

Great. I’d driven all the way over here for nothing.

I slammed my hand against my car hood. What a total waste of a morning. I hesitated, my eyes wandering over the similar façades and landscapes of the Gaynors’ neighbors. I made a decision. I was not going back without information.

I grabbed the muffins and recited “eenie, meenie, minee, moe” while glancing at the neighbors’ houses. “Moe” turned out to be slightly different from the other homes. It stood out with its frontage of white-washed, weathered, and antiqued bricks. Begonias lined the sidewalk in neat geometric lines, alternating white and pink. Vinca surrounded the mailbox. The place was a real show-stopper. And bingo! A Neighborhood Watch sign stuck to the inside window of the front door. Unless things were different here in the Land of Lincoln, Neighborhood Watch was a fancy-schmancy way of saying, “Resident busybody.”

Fortified with my own perilous logic, and patting myself on the back for my Sherlock Holmes-ian capabilities, I rang the doorbell.

I expected an elderly woman with bad eyesight. A housefrau in curlers and sweatpants. A matron with French-fried hair. What I got was a dead-ringer for Jackie Kennedy. The woman inspecting me as I inspected her was forty-ish, trim, and wearing a brunette bob that grazed her chin. Diamond earrings dotted her ears, and her A-line shift was of a slubbed silk. If I was a Volkswagen, she was a stretch limousine. Rats. I sure wished I’d dressed better for this encounter.

“I’m sorry,” I said with real regret. “I must have the wrong house. I was wanting the Gaynors.”

“Jackie” eyed me the way a trail horse inspects a greenhorn rider. In seconds she had my number, zip code, and mailing address. Her fingers tapped the open door. “No one’s home,” she said in a cultured voice. “I assume you were planning to leave that.” And she gestured at the bag of muffins I held.

“Yes, I wanted to drop off these muffins. My friends and I are scrapbookers and we’re so sorry about—”

“About that spiteful hussy keeling over? Give me a break. Who would be sorry about that?” Her mouth moved but her forehead stayed perfectly still. Botox, I thought, and lots of it.

I couldn’t conjure up an adequate response. On one hand, I wanted to chime in with, “No kidding. Wasn’t she a piece of work? I mean, really. Let’s talk.” On the other, I had a deep fear this woman with her patrician looks and Oxfordian tones was putting me on. Unsure what to do next, I dithered.

“Hmmm.” “Jackie” leaned into the door. “I don’t suppose you’d like a glass of Chardonnay, would you? Or better yet, seeing it’s so freaking hot outside, how about a Campari and orange?” With that she swept me into her foyer and ushered me down a wide hall to her kitchen. I was thankful I was bringing up the rear because my jaw was dragging the floor. This place—and I couldn’t bring myself to call it a home—was a miniature Ethan Allen furniture gallery. Each table, chair, mirror, and picture was perfectly placed. Most astonishing, there was nothing, not one dust mote, that told me anything about the people who lived in this showplace. A decorator had chosen every knickknack and accessory. Even the pillows were coordinated, fluffed, and standing at attention. This was like a stage set waiting for the actors to appear.

“I’m Clancy Whitehead,” she said, extending a cool and slender hand. “Whitehead like the pimple. Only it really should be Fat-head. Because that’s what I married. You wouldn’t know it to look at me but I lost two hundred and forty pounds of ugly excess weight. I divorced him.”

How do you follow a conversational tidbit like that?

She continued with, “I ran into the turkey the other day. Had to back up twice and run over a curb to do it, but I managed.”

Unsure how to respond, I offered a handshake and my name. “Gee, this place is really … lovely.”

She snorted. “Yep. And sterile. Flies have panic attacks when they enter. Come here. Let me show you my cabinets.”

Clancy opened a six-foot-long pantry. I’ve never had another woman show me the inside of her cabinets before, and I felt this sudden sense of shared intimacy. As I waited for the doors to open, I experienced déjà vu taking me back to my best friend in first grade. Her name was Tammy and we snooped our way through every crook and cranny of her house.

Clancy’s pantry was stocked with cans, boxes, and plastic containers in alphabetical order. Three risers of varying heights displayed every food item. Patterned paper lined the shelves. A wipe board inside a door listed every food item and where it could be found.

My hostess left me to gaze in wonder. Glassware and ice chinked as she puttered around. The sound of pretzels being poured into a bowl was accompanied by the whisper of napkins pulled from a drawer. I stood and shook my head. Man, was this woman ever organized.

She handed me a vibrant red and orange drink in a tall cool glass. “Cheers.”

The taste was unusual. A bitter start, a sweet middle, and a citrus afterglow. I liked it. I probably couldn’t afford to drink Campari and orange on a regular basis, but I sure wished I could.

“Pathetic, isn’t it?” She clucked at the shelves. “Since I took early retirement from teaching, the kids went off to college, and Mr. Fat-head dumped me for a younger model, I have nothing to do but clean house and organize. You know, you say to yourself, ‘Someday I’ll have the time to get this all squared away.’ Then you do. And know what? It’s a pathetic excuse for a real life.” She paused, took a sip, and examined me thoughtfully. “So tell me, Kiki Lowenstein. What’s a nice, sane person like you doing trying to round up the dirt on Yvonne, the Vampire Woman? She really was, you know. She’d suck all the energy out of you in fifteen minutes or less. The world is probably a better place without her. Even though her poor kids will miss her, I have no doubt they’ll flourish without that harpy snarling at them.” Clancy blinked slowly and took another sip. “By the way, this stuff’s potent. I hope you aren’t planning to do any driving for another hour or so. Better munch on these pretzels. In fact, let me get you some cheese and crackers.”

She put slices of cheddar, crackers, and a pot of chutney on a placemat. We sat side by side in a banquette for a while, enjoying the food while I debated whether to be honest or not. The liquor created a delightful languor in my limbs. A few more swallows, and I’d curl up and nap.

What the heck. I explained everything to Clancy. She was a good listener. Nodding when appropriate and interjecting a quick “go on,” she kept me talking. Finally she said, “You need to find Yvonne’s killer. The public service aspect of her demise is counterbalanced by the havoc it’s creating with your trade.”

“Huh?”

“Never mind. Good thing you stopped by my house. No one is home at the Gaynors. If you like, I’ll take those muffins over later.”

I guess my face betrayed my disappointment.

Clancy saw it and said, “Okay, just so your trip isn’t a total waste, here’s what I know. Perry is a no good, cheating scumbag who thinks he’s a big Texas Hold ’Em gambler. He’s been playing online and losing money hand-over-fist. When Yvonne gained back all that weight, he asked her nicely to try to slim down. Said he couldn’t get excited by all that blubber. She responded by packing on more pounds. Maybe he was cheating before that. Maybe not. I don’t know. All I can say is the two of them seemed bent on destructive behavior. Like it was a race to see who could bottom-out first. His gambling and her eating. And yes, before you ask. I know who he was having his tawdry romance with. Rena’s her name.”