Cut, Crop and Die Read online

  Table of Contents

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOANNA CAMPBELL SLAN

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  ONE

  TWO

  THREE

  FOUR

  FIVE

  SIX

  WHY YOU NEED DIFFERENT GLUES FOR DIFFERENT JOBS

  SEVEN

  KIKI’S SUBTITLE-WITHIN-A-TITLE TECHNIQUE

  EIGHT

  NINE

  HOW TO USE SYNECTICS TO GENERATE CREATIVE SOLUTIONS

  TEN

  ELEVEN

  TWELVE

  THIRTEEN

  FOURTEEN

  KIKI’S PAPER BAG ALBUM INSTRUCTIONS

  FIFTEEN

  SIXTEEN

  SEVENTEEN

  EIGHTEEN

  NINETEEN

  TWENTY

  TWENTY-ONE

  TWENTY-TWO

  TWENTY-THREE

  TWENTY-FOUR

  TWENTY-FIVE

  TWENTY-SIX

  TWENTY-SEVEN

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  EPILOGUE

  AUTHOR’S NOTE

  Acknowledgements

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  WWW.MIDNIGHTINKBOOKS.COM

  Acclaim for Paper, Scissors, Death, the first

  Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery

  * An Agatha Award Finalist *

  “Scrapbookers will love the whole idea of forensic scrapbooking and will relish the tips on the craft sprinkled throughout the story.”—Booklist

  “With plotting as tight as the seal of a decompression chamber and a flow to the narrative that is as smooth as silk, this is a wonderful read.”—Crimespree Magazine

  “A proper pacy mystery with plenty of tension (and red herrings) that kept me guessing to the end.”—ScrapBook inspirations Magazine (U.K.)

  “An engaging mystery.”—Donna Andrews, Agatha and Anthony award-winning author of the Meg Langslow and Turing Hopper series

  “Charming, funny and very enjoyable!”—J. A. Konrath, author of Whiskey Sour

  “Clever, witty, and exciting—with a cliffhanger at the end!”—Monica Ferris, author of Knitting Bones

  “You’ll love Kiki Lowenstein! A spunky, down-on-her luck widow with a young daughter to raise, she’s not going to let a murderer get away with, well … murder!”—Shirley Damsgaard, author of Witch Way to Murder

  “A page turner, who-done-it, filled with colorful characters and scrapbooking tips. The plot line races along as Kiki, a personable if unlikely heroine, struggles to take care of both herself and her daughter while dealing with death, betrayal, and injustices. Along the way the story is filled with insightful glimpses into the heart of a true scrapbooker and a touch of romance.”—Rebecca Ludens, Scrapbooking Guide for [http://About.com] About.com

  “Joanna Slan’s Paper, Scissors, Death should be required reading for any scrapbooker who loves to dive into a good mystery. Liberally spiced with plenty of local St. Louis flavor, and generously sprinkled with insider’s insights into the world of scrapbooking, Paper, Scissors, Death is rich with details … If you like mysteries, quirky characters, and scrapbooking, you will love this book.”—Angie Pedersen, The Scrappy Marketer, [http://ScrapbookMarketing.com] ScrapbookMarketing.com

  “What a treat to find a plucky new heroine in Kiki Lowenstein, who dispenses advice on scrapbooking along with solving her faithless husband’s death in Joanna Slan’s debut novel, Paper, Scissors, Death. This is an author to watch!”—Eleanor Sullivan, author of Twice Dead

  “A rare gem … [and] creative scrapbooking tips are woven expertly throughout!”—Jess Lourey, author of June Bug

  “Sign me up for Tough Tamales U. Paper, Scissors, Death is a fun and charming read with a scrappy heroine.”—Terri Thayer, author of Wild Goose Chase

  “Ms. Slan’s debut mystery has a bit of a cliffhanger at the end, sure to keep readers coming back for the next book. Pick this one up if you love scrapbooking or cozies.”—Fresh Fiction

  “Fun to read, with laugh-out-loud humor along with tensions and true friendships.”—Mysterious Women

  OTHER BOOKS BY JOANNA CAMPBELL SLAN

  Paper, Scissors, Death

  Cut, Crop & Die: A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery © 2009 by Joanna Campbell Slan. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever, including Internet usage, without written permission from Midnight Ink except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  First Edition

  First Printing, 2009

  Book design and format by Donna Burch

  Cover design by Kevin R. Brown

  Cover images: Flowers © PhotoDisc, Bee © iStockphoto

  Editing by Connie Hill

  Midnight Ink, an imprint of Llewellyn Publications

  Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

  Campbell-Slan, Joanna.

  Cut, crop & die : a Kiki Lowenstein scrap-n-craft mystery / by Joanna

  Campbell Slan.—1st ed.

  p. cm.

  ISBN 978-0-7387-1251-2

  eISBN : 97-8-073-87125-1

  1. Scrapbooks—Fiction. 2. Scrapbooking—Fiction. I. Title. II. Title: Cut, crop and die.

  PS3603.A4845C87 2009

  813’.6—dc22 2009003846

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Midnight Ink

  Llewellyn Publications 2143 Wooddale Drive, Dept. 978-0-7387-1251-2

  Woodbury, MN 55125-2989 USA [http://www.midnightinkbooks.com] www.midnightinkbooks.com

  Printed in the United States of America

  DEDICATION

  For my gorgeous and talented son, Michael Harrison Slan. I’m going to miss you, sweetheart, while you’re off at college. Please call me! Love, Mom.

  ONE

  “ALL WE’RE MISSING IS a corpse.” I hadn’t realized I was thinking out loud until Mert Chambers, my best friend, stopped in her tracks. She turned and nearly crashed into me. We were both carrying heavy cardboard boxes of supplies, so our inept maneuver had a Keystone Cop clumsiness.

  “Why, Kiki Lowenstein, I can’t believe you said that! I think all these flowers are beautiful,” said Mert, as we continued our trek down the short flight of stairs into a church basement. She smiled at the big pots of day lilies we’d purchased to give away as door prizes.

  “It’s the smell,” I explained. “When my eyes are closed, all I see are caskets and corpses. Plus, I haven’t been in a church since my father died.” The slightly dank basement brought back horrible memories.

  That said, I had to admit we’d been lucky Mert was able to find us a place so close to the Missouri Botanical Garden and willing to let us hold a crop—a scrapbooking event—in their basement for a small donation.

  Our boss, Dodie Goldfader, wagged a finger at me. “Knock it off with the morbid talk. We can’t risk customers hearing you.”

  Dodie owns Time in a Bottle, nicknamed TinaB by those in the know. At six feet tall, she towers over Mert and me and walks like that cartoon version of the Abominable Snowman.

  After shushing me, Dodie glanced pointedly over her shoulder. Women were filing in, towing their picnic coolers and Cropper Hoppers, rolling suitcases full of papercrafting materials. “The shuttle bus from the Botanical Garden has arrived!” Dodie sang out with delight. “Ladies, did you enjoy your tours?”

  Women nodded and chattered happily. They staked out places at long tables covered with white butcher paper to create a clean sur
face. Some opened their supplies and started to work on pages immediately. Others shared the photos they’d just taken by handing around their digital cameras. Many of our guests had never seen the Jenkins Daylily Garden in full flower. The women were chatting happily about the glorious sight of all 1,350 different varieties of Hemerocallis (Greek for “beauty for a day”) spreading their luxe petals toward the sun.

  Nicknamed “Shaw’s Garden” after Henry Shaw, the English-man who in 1859 opened his personal place of refuge to the public, the Missouri Botanical Garden is considered one of the three great gardens of the world. It’s the oldest continuously operating display conservatory in the United States. Part of my prep for this outing was spending an entire day roaming the grounds last week. I familiarized myself with what was blooming, taking photos to help me design page layouts, some of the best work I’d ever done.

  I should have been in a great mood, but I wasn’t.

  Dodie pulled me aside and whispered, “This is a prime money-making event for us. Don’t you dare spoil it! I’ve worked all year to be included in the Crop Around Missouri Program. When these scrappers think special events, I want Time in a Bottle to be the first name that pops into their heads.”

  “I know, I know. Sorry.” I grumbled. I’d had a rough morning with my pre-teen daughter. Lately I couldn’t do anything right. Her hormones must be going bonkers because Anya had become increasingly moody. I was trying to stay calm, but geez, she was wearing me down.

  And yes, I was sleep-deprived. Everyone associated with TinaB—Mert, Dodie, our new hire Bama, and I—had baked dozens of goodies for this gathering. I personally had contributed three dozen Snickerdoodles. We’d all delivered our treats to Mert’s house the night before. Because she’s such an early riser and because she had room in her truck, Mert offered to bring over our food, pick up more groceries, and with the help of her son, set up tables before the rest of us showed up.

  That freed Dodie and me to concentrate on paper, supplies, and tools. Bama was in charge of working with the caterer. Scrapbookers are a hungry group, so relying on the caterer for the more complicated food items such as breakfast sandwiches, quiches, and crepes, would keep our costs down. In an effort to be “green,” we’d also arranged to rent glasses and plates rather than produce more paper waste.

  Mert had seen Dodie corner me. She figured I’d been chastised. She came over and worked beside me. In a cheery voice she preached, “You know, they call it the present ’cause every day is a gift.”

  “Thank you, Dr. Phil-lis.” She was right—but then, isn’t she always? It’s a quality both endearing and exasperating.

  Despite the hormonal harpy living in my house, life was good, and so was business. Since coming to work at TinaB, I’d “grown” a small but dedicated following of customers. If things went well, this outing would bring more scrappers into the fold. My notepad listed the names of nearly fifty patrons—many new to our business. I’d designed papercraft kits—“make and takes”—for each of our guests to turn into dazzling pages.

  That’s my job—I’m a professional scrapbooker. Ever since my husband, George, was killed last fall, my former hobby has supported me and my eleven-year-old daughter, Anya. Although we don’t live in the style to which we had been accustomed, we are getting by. Before George died, I used to be Dodie Goldfader’s best customer. And until recently, I used to be her best employee. That was another reason I was grouchy. She’d gone and hired Bama Vess without consulting me. Okay. So TinaB was a sole proprietorship, and Dodie was the owner. It still rankled. To add insult to injury, Bama didn’t seem to want to be friends. She simply did her work and went home.

  That hurt.

  Thank goodness for Mert.

  Before my personal series of unfortunate events, I had employed Mert as my housecleaner. Now I work part-time in her dogsitting business. I’m comfortable with the change of roles. Mert’s a thick and thin friend, the type who stands by you no matter what. She was working the crop because Dodie needed the extra help.

  As Mert flitted around, she garnered plenty of admiring glances. She likes to “display the merchandise.” Her halter top was florid orange with red, tangerine, and pink bangles around the neckline. Her shiny chintz Capri pants were of a matching colorful print.

  My attire sure could be more daring. I wore a pair of khaki slacks from Target with a shirred cream short-sleeved blouse I’d rescued from Goodwill. I looked okay … but a safe okay, just this side of drab.

  Not that my employer cares. From behind, it’s tough to tell whether Dodie is animal, vegetable, or mineral. She’s hairy, lumpy and shaped like a rock formation. But she’s also a great person to work for and despite her terse manner, she’s a sweetheart.

  Dodie asked, “Where’s Bama?”

  Scrapbookers were flooding in and setting up their supplies. But Bama was nowhere to be found. That suited me down to the ground.

  “Shoot,” Mert said when we had talked the day before. “You’re jealous. You liked being the one and only star at the store. You’ve got your panties in a wad because you have to share the limelight!”

  “Not so. I’m being protective of my employer. There’s something not right about that woman. Bama never looks me in the eye. I swear, what is she hiding? And she weaves like a drunk.”

  That was my public complaint. My private beef was Bama had an art degree and I had … bupkis. Everything I’d learned about scrapbooking came from trial and error, studying magazines, and educating myself about products and techniques. Seemed to me, in a twisted sort of way, Bama earned her stripes too easily. Even so, I knew I wasn’t being fair.

  Mert had it right: I was jealous. I admit. I’m insecure. I was scared I’d lose my job. I’ve only ever been good at two things in life: scrapbooking and getting pregnant. For the first time in my thirty-three years, I was gainfully employed, responsible for my own welfare, and getting compliments. If I was overly protective of my new life, I had reason to be.

  Dodie interrupted my thoughts. “I told Bama to be here no later than ten. The tours of the Botanical Garden should have ended. The last shuttle bus is due any minute. Where is she? These women are going to want to eat quickly and start on our special projects!”

  She was right. I’d seen them eying the food on the serving table. They were being polite and waiting for us to give them the “go ahead,” but we needed to get this show on the road. Bama was running late with the more substantial hot offerings.

  Right on cue, Bama’s dramatic voice echoed down the hall. “Set up warming trays along the far table.” She waved a chart at workers who followed. A phalanx of young people with polo shirts bearing the name “The Catering Company” filed in carrying oversized metal pans. Our final shuttle bus must have arrived at the same time as the caterers because a handful of our guests had been pressed into service. Scrapbookers were balancing aluminum tins of food on the tops of their Cropper Hoppers and carrying coolers marked with The Catering Company’s logo.

  I’ll give her this: Bama sure knew how to make an entrance. She also knew how to dress. Today pencil-thin black jeans scrunched over the top of pointy-toed boots. A sparkling brooch of jet-black beads gathered the simple neckline on her T-shirt into an asymmetrical shape, forming a sort of jaunty, impromptu V-neck. She couldn’t have projected an artistic image better if she’d slapped a black beret on the crown of her head and spoken with a French accent.

  As Bama directed food placement, she steadied herself by keeping one hand on the edge of the tables or against the wall. What was it? Drugs? Booze? A part of me was dying to know while another part was ashamed of my mean-spiritedness.

  The noise and activity level rose along with the sensuous aroma of bacon and cheese. The caterers finished lighting the Sterno and headed out of the building. I felt a rush of happy excitement. My efforts were about to pay off. I’m not bragging when I say that I had a bit of a reputation around town. My work has been published in all the big scrapbook magazines. The page kits I’d cr
eated for this outing represented my best efforts. Dodie had lobbied hard for membership in the Crop Around Missouri Program (CAMP), a coalition of area independent retailers. Since independents don’t have the buying power or ad budget of big chains, we have to find other ways to keep our customers happy. So the store owners created CAMP to pool their resources. They all put aside their differences … all of them, that is, except Ellen Harmon, owner of Memories First. Ellen seemed determined to cause dissension and trouble. Worse yet, Dodie and I had noticed whatever classes we offered, Ellen copied immediately—at a lower price.

  Standing up and waving for attention, Ellen started the crop five minutes early. “Welcome everyone! Let me talk, then you can eat!” The women fell silent watching her expectantly. Dodie and I exchanged shocked glances. This was our crop. It was customary for the hosting store to start the festivities. Ellen had just robbed Dodie of the privilege of greeting the crowd.

  Everyone’s eyes were on Ellen as she announced, “As all of you know, the most prestigious contest in scrapbooking is the Scrapbook Stars competition held by Saving Memories magazine. Thousands of scrapbookers enter each year.” Ellen paused to give her words full effect. “We are delighted to announce that one of our Memories First Design Team members has been named a Scrapbook Star! Let’s hear it for … Yvonne Gaynor!”

  A cheer erupted from the crowd, and Yvonne stood to acknowledge the applause.

  Ellen hadn’t finished. “Yvonne’s winning pages are on the magazine website. She’ll be teaching exclusively for my store, Memories First. Class space is available on a first-come, first-serve basis.” Here Ellen paused to stare directly at me. “Yvonne is a unique talent in an industry full of copycats.”

  I bit my tongue as I felt my face turn red. Boy, that was rich. Calling me a copycat? What colossal nerve!

  Shake it off, I warned myself. You don’t want these women to know how upset you are!

  Ellen gestured at the serving tables. “Now … we have lots of yummy food and fun pages for you. Yvonne, why don’t you lead the way to our brunch?”

  There we stood, Dodie, Mert, Bama, and I, feeling like uninvited kids sneaking peeks at a popular girl’s birthday party. We’d organized this whole event—and for what? For Ellen Harmon to take over? For her to call me a copycat and slip in an advertisement for her store? None of us spoke up because—how could we? Anything we’d say would make us come off like poor sports.