3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (2 page)

From behind me I heard a loud
harrumph
.

“Must go,” said Lyndella, removing her crocheted lace from my hands. “We’ll talk later.”

“Insufferable!” said Lucille after the door closed behind Lyndella. “How do you expect me to live with that woman for a day, let alone a month?”

“You’ll just have to make the best of it. You’ve had plenty of practice living with someone you don’t like.”

“Thanks to you.”

An old argument. When Lucille first came to live with us, Nick was forced to double-up with Alex in order to give Lucille a room. Whenever my mother arrived for a visit, she and Lucille became reluctant roomies. Lucille and Mama got along as well as Mephisto and Mama’s corpulent Persian kitty Catherine the Great got along. In other words, they fought like cats and dogs.

I suppose that’s to be expected when a blazing Bolshevik is forced to shack up with a self-proclaimed descendant of Russian royalty. Given that Mama makes a habit of extended stays whenever she’s between husbands, Lord only knows how they’ve kept from murdering each other to this point, not to mention how I’ve managed to maintain my sanity.

“Would it kill you to be civil?” I asked Lucille.

“These places are nothing but dumping grounds run by mercy killers.”

“Give it a rest, Lucille. Sunnyside has an excellent reputation. No one is going to murder you in your sleep.”

“And if you’re wrong? It will be no skin off your teeth, but I’ll be dead. I demand you take me home at once!”

“That’s not going to happen. Not until you’re permanently out of that wheelchair and capable of managing entirely on your own. You can barely brush your teeth right now, let alone dress yourself. You’re just going to have to tough it out.”

“I’ll sign myself out.”

“And go where?”

“To one of my sisters.”

The
sisters
in question—no blood relations—were the dozen other members of the Daughters of the October Revolution, all like-minded, octogenarian communists who followed my mother-in-law, their Fearless Leader, like lemmings. However, had any of them wanted Lucille on a permanent basis, I would have gladly provided a means of transportation to deliver her. Lucille’s
sisters
might love their Fearless Leader, but much to my dismay, none had come forward to offer Lucille a home after she lost hers. So much for the communal spirit of communism.

“I’ll stay only if you bring Manifesto here,” said Lucille.

Who but my mother-in-law would name a pet after a communist treatise? As previously mentioned, the rest of us had dubbed him Mephisto the Devil Dog. Lucille cared more about that dog than she did her own grandsons, whom she never referred to by name. They were always
those boys
.

And no, I didn’t name them after dead Russian czars out of spite. The boys were named for my grandfathers—Alexander Periwinkle and Nicholas Sudberry. “Sunnyside won’t allow you to have Mephisto here,” I said.

And yes, I said
that
intentionally. So sue me. I’m not perfect. And I’d reached my limit.

“Manifesto! His name is Manifesto!” She pounded the arm of the wheelchair, again not producing the impact she intended. “And you’re lying. I hear dogs barking.”

“Their owners are permanent residents, capable of caring for their pets. You’re here for rehab and not even capable of caring for yourself at this point, let alone a dog.”

“I’ll manage.”

“I’ll ask if I can bring him for a visit, but he won’t be allowed to stay.”

Lucille folded her arms over her sagging boobs and jutted out her chin. “We’ll see about that.”

Yes, we would. I didn’t bother to respond, though. Why bother? Besides, we were interrupted by a knock, followed by the door opening.

“Mrs. Pollack?” Shirley Hallstead, Sunnyside’s director, stepped into the room and nodded hello to me. I’d met her previously when I scoped out the facility for Lucille and made arrangements for her month-long stay. “All settled in?” she asked Lucille.

“I’m not staying.”

Shirley turned to me. “What’s going on?”

“She’s staying,” I said.

“I see.” She turned back to Lucille. “Your reaction is normal, but we here at Sunnyside will do everything within our means to make you as comfortable as possible and facilitate a speedy recovery.”

She sounded as though she were parroting from the
Assisted Living Director’s Manual
,
Chapter One: Dealing With Problematic New Arrivals
. However, even though her words conveyed kindness, Shirley Hallstead’s body language suggested otherwise. From her not-a-hair-out-of-place jet black waves to her double-breasted cherry-red power suit, down to her four-inch designer stilettos, the fifty-something Shirley Hallstead reminded me more of a cutthroat executive than a benevolent assisted living center director.

I do believe Lucille may have met her match.

“Let’s get some light in here,” said Shirley. She stepped around Lucille’s bed and yanked the curtain divider back to the wall.

“Lovely,” said Lucille, her tone thick with sarcasm. Not from the sunshine now spilling across to her side of the room but from what the drawn-back curtain revealed.

Holy crafts overload
!

No denying Lyndella Wegner’s love of the handmade. Every square inch of vertical space held crafts, some framed, some taped or pinned to the walls—needlework, string art, quilling, scherenschnitte, stenciling, calligraphy, quilted and appliquéd wall hangings. An enormous ivy plant hung from a macraméd plant holder in the far corner of the room. Stained glass sun-catchers dangled in front of the windows. Fabric yo-yo dresser scarves covered a bureau and nightstand. On them stood an assortment of painted ceramic and polymer clay figurines, mosaic and decoupage covered boxes, and a variety of soft-sculptured dolls in various sizes. An intricately patterned appliquéd quilt was draped over Lyndella’s bed, a crocheted afghan folded at the foot. A latch-hook rug covered part of the floor.

However, the
pièces de résistance
were the lint reproductions hanging on the wall above her headboard. “She wasn’t kidding about doing it all.” I stepped closer to inspect a three-foot-tall, two-dimensional rendition of
David
. Sure enough, Lyndella had recreated Michelangelo’s masterpiece, down to every anatomical detail, completely in dryer lint and minus any censoring of a certain body part. “I don’t know whether I’m impressed or horrified.”

Thank goodness Lucille couldn’t see these from the vantage point of her wheelchair. I’d never hear the end of it.

“Picasso had his Blue Period,” said Shirley. “And Lyndella has her
Blue
Period.” She indicated the polymer figurines. I took a closer look. Many were reproductions of ancient fertility gods, complete with oversized members.

“I think she creates these just to drive me crazy,” said Shirley. “And this lint kick of hers? Heaven knows where she came up with that, but she insisted the laundry save every scrap of dryer lint for her. She spent weeks sorting and bagging colors, then months working on those—” She paused for a moment to clear her throat. “Pictures. Thankfully, she became bored with lint after awhile and moved on to
smaller
pursuits.”

I examined the rest of the lint paintings, half a dozen in all and each replicas of some of the most graphically anatomical and erotic art of the ancient world, including a series of paintings from the bath houses of Pompeii.

“As you can see, Lyndella doesn’t do anything in moderation,” continued Shirley. “She’s our very own X-rated Martha Stewart.”

“With a personality to match,” muttered Lucille.

My mother-in-law knew who Martha Stewart was? Lucille considered television too low-brow a form of entertainment for someone of her intellect. Did she secretly indulge a daytime TV addiction when no one else was home? Maybe I should ask Zack to set up a granny cam to catch the hypocrite in action, considering how she mocked what I did for a living.

Shelving that idea to explore later, I pulled out my camera and started capturing Lyndella’s handiwork.

Shirley stepped between the camera lens and a quilted wall hanging I’d focused on. “What are you doing?”

I quickly explained my idea of a feature article for
American Woman
.

“Absolutely not,” she said.

“Don’t worry. I won’t use any of the racier pieces.”

“You won’t use any of them. Period. I don’t want my facility looking like Kitsch Central. You’ll irreparably harm my reputation.”

Her
facility?
Her
reputation? If Lyndella and some of the other residents agreed to an interview, I didn’t see where Shirley Hallstead had any veto power. I was about to tell her so when the door swung open.

An extremely thin girl in her late teens shuffled into the room. She kept her head down, watching her feet as she methodically placed one in front of the other, as if making a concerted effort to keep from tripping herself. Her Minnie Mouse print scrubs hung over a nearly skeletal frame that screamed anorexia.

“About time you got here,” said Shirley.

The girl mumbled a nearly inaudible apology, something to do with a Mrs. Grafton and a missing shoe, but she stopped mid-excuse when Shirley grabbed her by one thin arm and spun her around to face Lucille.

“This is Reggie Koltzner. She’s one of our aides and will be taking you on a tour of the facility.”

“I don’t need a tour,” said Lucille. “I told you I’m not staying.”

“Your doctors say otherwise.” Shirley again addressed Reggie, ignoring Lucille’s very loud harrumph of protest. “When you’re done with the tour, take her to physical therapy. She’s got a ten o’clock appointment with Alvarez. Don’t be late.”

“Yes, ma’am.” Reggie pulled on the wheelchair handles, but Lucille didn’t budge.

Shirley shook her head and sighed loudly. “The brake, Reggie?”

Reggie bent and fumbled with the brake release, then wheeled a very pissed Lucille from the room.

“Damn vo-techs,” said Shirley. “Can you believe this is what they’re turning out? Our tax dollars at work.”

If she expected a nod of agreement from me, she wasn’t getting one. I’d suffered my share of bullies over the years, first as a child and later in the workplace. Reggie Koltzner had my sympathies. “Maybe she needs a mentor,” I suggested.

“A mentor? The last thing I need is tying up one of my nurses to hand-hold an incompetent aide. That girl’s already on probation after the stunt she pulled last week. One more strike and she’s out of here.”

“Stunt?”

Shirley waved my question away. “Sorry. Patient confidentiality. But nothing you need to worry about as far as your mother-in-law is concerned.”

Her assurance aside, I wondered about the wisdom of leaving Lucille in Reggie’s obviously less-than-competent hands but reasoned Shirley wouldn’t risk Lucille’s well-being. She’d be crazy to set herself up for a lawsuit. Whatever the
stunt
, I doubted it had anything to do with patient safety.

I took my leave of Shirley Hallstead with the excuse of having to get to work. We walked out of Lucille’s room together; Shirley turned left toward her office, and I headed right for the exit. As I passed the front desk, though, I stopped. “Which way to the needlecraft class?” I asked the receptionist.

“Down that hall, through the double doors,” she said, indicating the direction with a wave of her pen. “It’s the second room on your left.”

“Thanks.” Shirley’s objections aside, if I checked out the class for an article, I was on Trimedia’s dime. All in the name of research. I wouldn’t have to give up half a day’s pay for picking up Lucille at the hospital and transporting her to Sunnyside this morning. I’d used up my few personal and sick days for the calendar year way back in February when my not-so-dearly departed husband left Las Vegas in a pine box.

The door was propped open, so I stood in the hall and surveyed the room, a space at least three times the size of a normal classroom and divided up for different purposes. One corner was dedicated to drawing and painting, another to sculpture and pottery. Four large worktables with chairs filled the center of the room.

At the opposite end of the room two dozen elderly women, ranging in age between early retirement all the way up to ancient, congregated around four more tables and worked on a variety of needlework projects. Three women hunched over whirring sewing machines positioned along the far wall.

I spied Lyndella Wegner holding court amid a group of three other women. Both her mouth and her hands worked at warp speed. I don’t think I could crochet that fast if my life depended on it, and I was more than half her age.

“May I help you?” A very pregnant woman with a riot of strawberry blonde curls and a face full of freckles waddled toward me from the side of the room. When she stood about three feet away, she stopped and stared. Her jaw dropped; her eyes grew wide. “Anastasia Periwinkle?”

I stared back, wondering how this woman knew me.

“You don’t recognize me, do you?”

I shook my head. “Afraid not.”

She spread her arms wide. “It’s me. Kara Kennedy.”

Kara Kennedy
? I knew that name. Then it hit me. Kara Kennedy. Oh. My. God.

_________________________

fabric yo-yos

Did you have visions of a colorful rounded plastic spool, a piece of twisted string, and tricks like
Around the World
and
Walk the Dog
when Anastasia mentioned Lyndella’s yo-yo cardigan sweater? Rest assured, Lyndella wasn’t wearing dozens of toys hot glued to her sweater. Instead, her cardigan was embellished with fabric yo-yos.

These yo-yos are circles of fabric gathered into rosettes. They’re an ideal way to use up scraps of fabric left over from other projects. The fabric yo-yo is incredibly versatile and can be used as either a decorative embellishment or sewn together to create both wearables and home décor accents. Anastasia will share a variety of yo-yo projects throughout the pages of this book. For now, here’s how to make a basic yo-yo.