3 Revenge of the Crafty Corpse (9 page)

“And the rest?”

She frowned at the hundreds of crafts covering nearly every horizontal and vertical surface. “Ms. Hallstead told me to toss them in the Dumpster out back.”

I couldn’t let that happen, not to such exemplary craftsmanship, even X-rated ones. “Don’t do that. Bring them to the arts and crafts room, okay?”

Reggie shrugged again. “Sure. Less lugging for me.”

_____

My first class of the morning consisted of pottery and sculpture. Four men and two women hunched over the six potter’s wheels while a dozen other men and women worked with polymer clay, fashioning everything from chess pieces to earrings. I sat at my desk, reading the directions for firing the kiln, something I hadn’t done since my sophomore year of college. Baking polymer clay in a standard kitchen oven was much more my speed.

My mind kept wandering, though. I needed to figure out a way to clear Lucille. To do that, I had to learn more about Lyndella and why everyone hated her so much. I got that she was a hard-to-
please, know-it-all pain in the ass, but that hardly seemed like
justification for murder. What had Lyndella Wegner done that
caused
someone to strangle her?

In order to find out more about Lyndella, I needed to make friends with the Sunnyside residents, and the best way to do that was to give them something they needed—money. Not mine, of course. I didn’t have any to give.

Trimedia would never agree to pay them for interviews, though. I saw no point in even asking, not for a crafts spread. I was a bottom feeder in the magazine’s pecking order and worked with an almost non-existent budget. Most of my supplies came gratis from manufacturers hoping for free publicity for their products. The bean counters expected me to make do with very little beyond that.

I closed the kiln manual and circulated around the room, checking on the progress of my students. With few exceptions their skill and craftsmanship amazed me. These were incredibly talented senior citizens.

That’s when inspiration struck. Why not organize a gallery showing? Not an exhibit in the Sunnyside lobby but a real exhibit in a real gallery where people bought artwork and crafts.

I crossed the room to the pottery area. Murray had just finished throwing a perfectly formed hourglass-shaped vase. He grabbed a needle tool and with a steady hand deftly trimmed the top edge.

Not bad for a guy in his eighties. I never could master that trimming technique when I took my one and only mandatory class in pottery. My hands would shake too much, causing at best a lopsided cut or more often, a total cave-in and collapse of the wet clay.

“You’re very good at that,” I told Murray. “The vase is perfectly symmetrical. And the walls are so incredibly thin! Have you been throwing pots for a long time?”

He shrugged. “Long enough to know what I’m doing.”

“I took a pottery course in college, but I was a total failure at it. I guess I lacked the necessary hand/eye coordination.”

“Always been good with my hands. And my eyes.”

“What did you do before you retired?”

Murray scowled. “Why do you want to know?”

Now it was my turn to shrug. “I was wondering if you worked at something that required precise and intricate skills. Like a surgeon or a violin maker.”

Murray greeted my suggestions with a snort. “I fixed things for a living.”

“You were a repairman?”

“Yeah, a repairman.”

I moved the conversation along to my main reason for chatting with him. “What do you do with all your completed pottery pieces?”

Another shrug. “Keep a few. Give most away.”

“Ever think of selling them?”

That caught his attention. “For money?”

“What else?”

“You really think people would pay for my pots?”

“Absolutely. I was thinking about what you and the others said yesterday about money, and I think we should set up a show to sell your work.”

“Here? Who’s gonna come here to buy stuff ?”

“Not here. In an art gallery.”

“We get to keep all the money?”

“Minus the gallery commission.”

He thought about that for a moment, then nodded. “Okay. Sounds good.”

And with that Murray dipped his head and went back to work on his vase, sculpting on the first of a series of three-dimensional petals. However, I noticed that gruff Murray, man of few words, now had a smile on his face. I’d made my first friend.

Flush with the success of winning over Murray, I headed for my polymer clay sculptors and presented my idea to them.

Estelle, the woman who’d led everyone in that rousing rendition of
Ding Dong, the Bitch is Dead
, asked, “What about Shirley?”

“What about her?”

“She has to approve all Sunnyside-sponsored activities,” said a woman who’d introduced herself earlier as Pearl.

“Why?”

“Cause she says so,” said Estelle.

“She’ll only agree if the money goes to one of her pet charities, not to us,” said a woman named Martha.

“For the publicity,” muttered Dirk from across the room where he worked on a still life acrylic painting at one of the easels. I had learned yesterday that some of my students spent as much time as possible in the arts and crafts room, no matter what class was scheduled or whether or not an instructor was present. “The woman’s a damn publicity whore.”

I’d come to that same conclusion after viewing the numerous photos plastered across Shirley’s office walls. Publicity for Shirley at the expense of Sunnyside’s residents didn’t sit well with me. I didn’t see where Shirley Hallstead had any say in what the Sunnyside residents did with their artwork and crafts.

These men and women needed extra cash, and at the appropriate venue their work would bring them that extra cash. What right did Shirley have to deny them an exhibition of their work? She was the director of an assisted living facility, not a prison warden.

The more I learned about Shirley “Control Freak” Hallstead, the less I liked her. “Leave Shirley to me,” I told my students. “Meanwhile, I’d like each of you to start rounding up your best pieces.”

_____

Shortly after I’d had the same discussion with my next class, the needlework women from Friday, minus Lyndella, Reggie tripped into the room. Literally. The top box of the two cardboard cartons she carried tumbled from her arms onto the floor. Fabric yo-yos spilled across the room.

“I … I’m so … sorry!” She trembled inside her Winnie the Pooh scrubs, her scrawny arms still clutching the one remaining carton to her chest.

The poor kid looked like she expected a horse whipping. I took the remaining carton from her and set it down on a table. “No problem. Fabric doesn’t break.”

She cowered in front of me. I placed my hand on her forearm. “Reggie, it’s okay. Really.”

What the hell had happened to this kid? The mother in me knew something was seriously wrong. Now that we stood toe-to-toe I took a good look at her for the first time. I noted chewed fingernails, patches of thinning hair, and sparse eyelashes. Coupled with her anorexic frame, I didn’t need a degree in psychology to tell me this kid abused herself. If I pulled up the legs of her pants, I was convinced I’d find evidence of cutting.

Given all the diplomas hanging on Shirley Hallstead’s wall, how could she not see that this child needed help? Or did she see and not give a damn?

Reggie dropped to her hands and knees. “I’ll pick everything up.”

“There are more cartons, right?”

She nodded as she scooped up handfuls of yo-yos and deposited them back in the box. “Lots.”

“I’ll finish here. Why don’t you get the rest of the cartons? Do you need help with them?”

She paused mid-scoop and thought for a moment. “No, this is m … my fault. I’ll pick these up, then get the rest of the boxes for you.”

I decided to let her do as she wanted. I grabbed the carton from the table and headed back to my desk to sort through Lyndella’s treasures.

“Whatcha got there?” asked Mabel as I passed the table where she and several other women worked on various embroidery projects.

“Some of Lyndella’s crafts.”

“Why would you want those here?”

“Shirley planned to toss them out. I didn’t want that to happen.”

“You should let her trash them,” said Mabel. “We don’t need any reminders of that hussy and her pornographic crafts around here.”

I placed the box on my desk and walked over to Mabel’s table. “Maybe you can help me,” I said. “I’m trying to understand why everyone hated Lyndella so much.”

“Why?” asked Mabel.

“Because right now my mother-in-law is the prime suspect in her death, and I know she didn’t kill Lyndella Wegner.”

“You think one of us did?” asked a woman working on a Bargello pillow.

“I’m not accusing anyone. I’m merely trying to understand why you all hated her.”

“Because she spread her legs for every man living at Sunnyside,” said Mabel.

eight

“None of us stood
a chance with Lyndella Wegner around,” said a woman knitting a baby sweater.

Maybe Lucille hadn’t been dreaming. “You’re telling me Lyndella had sex with all the male residents living at Sunnyside?”

“Every last one of them,” said Mabel. “She’d pounce the moment new blood crossed the threshold. A one-woman Welcoming Committee.”

“Hardly give them time to unpack,” added Bargello Lady.

I really needed to find a way to remember all these women’s names. Maybe I could plead a mild case of aphasia and ask them all to wear name tags.

“Worse than that,” said a blonde woman working on a fisherman knit sweater, “she went after our husbands.”

Mabel patted her hand. “Tell her what happened to George, Sally.”

Sally set her knitting down and folded her hands on the little bit of lap that stuck out beneath her expansive girth. Her eyes filled with tears. “We had a good marriage. Fifty-two years. Then George and I moved to Sunnyside and that Lyndella Wegner started filling my George’s head with all sorts of X-rated nonsense, telling him she could make him feel like a teenager again.”

Sally’s floodgates gave way at that point. I placed my hand on her plump shoulder, unsure what else to do as she sobbed.

“She killed him,” said Bargello Lady. “Lyndella killed Sally’s husband.”

“How?” I asked.

“Those damn little blue pills,” said Sally between gulping sobs.

“Viagra?”

“Lyndella talked George into getting a prescription,” said Mabel,
“but Sally—”

“We hadn’t had sex in years,” said Sally. She pulled a tissue from her pocket, dabbed at her eyes, and blew her nose. “It hurt. Lyndella knew this would happen. She lured George into her bed, and he had a massive heart attack.”

“I’m sorry,” I said.

“Now you know,” said Mabel. “We didn’t kill that whore, but we’ll throw a party for the person who did.”

At that moment Reggie reentered the room. She carried another couple of cartons, the top one shifting precariously. The needlework women stopped talking the moment they saw her and resumed their stitching. I hurried to meet Reggie and grabbed the top carton before it fell.

With a loud
oomph
, Reggie placed the remaining box on the nearest table. “Do you want her books, too?” she asked.

“Shouldn’t they go to the library?”

“I suppose.”

She didn’t seem too happy with my answer, probably because the library was situated farther from Lyndella’s room than the arts and crafts room. “Why don’t you bring them here?” I suggested. “I’ll sort through them.”

“Okay.” Reggie headed back for another armload of boxes.

As soon as she left the room, I returned to my group of needlework women. “One thing puzzles me,” I said.

“What’s that?” asked Mabel.

I hesitated, unsure how to broach such a delicate question without
offending anyone.

“Spit it out,” said Mabel. “None of us is getting any younger.”

I inhaled a deep breath, then took the plunge. “A woman of Lyndella’s advanced years, how did she … I mean, I didn’t think it was even possible—”

“For her to have sex?” asked the baby sweater knitter.

I nodded.

“Hormones,” said Mabel. “The rest of us were too scared of cancer,
especially after that women’s health study came out a few years back. Those of us who’d been on HRT got off it at that point. Not Lyndella.”

“No hormone replacement therapy means no libido for many women,” said Sally. “You dry up in more ways than one.”

“Try explaining that to the Viagra generation,” said Mabel. “Those randy lotharios want a hell of a lot more than hand-holding and cuddling nowadays.”

“And they got what they wanted from Lyndella,” said Bargello Lady. “Any time, night or day.”

Holy TMI! But I’d asked, and these women certainly weren’t shy about dishing all the lascivious details. I had to admit, though, part of me was totally fascinated by the late Lyndella Wegner. In a macabre sort of way.

By the end of the needlework class, Reggie had deposited fifteen extra-large cartons in the room, eight filled with Lyndella’s crafts and seven containing an assortment of craft books, fiction, and loose-leaf binders. I decided the arts and crafts room should have a library of its own.

After walking Mephisto, I took the remainder of my lunch break to sort and shelve the craft books while scarfing down a cup of store-brand cherry yogurt I’d brought from home. Maybe the yogurt would balance out the Cloris-fueled calories I’d gobbled up Friday.

A set of built-in bookcases ran the length of the room under the windows. I straightened out the various items on one section of shelves to make room. Then I separated Lyndella’s books, placing the craft titles on the shelves and stacking the fiction and the loose-leaf binders on a table.

After sorting the books, I picked up one of the binders and began flipping through the pages, which turned out to be a crafts journal. The pages contained notes, drawings, and photos for many of Lyndella’s craft projects. What a treasure trove for a crafts editor! I placed all the binders back into cartons and moved the cartons to the floor near my desk to study them more at length later.

Lyndella’s taste in fiction matched her taste in artwork. I suppose her collection of erotic novels shouldn’t have surprised me, but I still had difficulty wrapping my head around a ruffles and lace-bedecked, ninety-eight-year-old woman reading the Marquis de Sade.

I wondered if I should bring the novels to the library but quickly decided against doing so. What if some resident’s grandchild pulled Anne Rice’s
The Sleeping Beauty Trilogy
off a shelf and began reading? I didn’t want to be responsible for introducing a ten year old to the world of BDSM. So I began placing the novels back into one of the cartons. Although I hated to trash any books, Lyndella’s fiction collection probably belonged in the Dumpster.

The question remained what to do with Lyndella’s various craft projects. I decided to discuss the subject with my next class of crafters—after I told them about my gallery idea. First, though, I quickly cut up squares of colored construction paper.

“For those of you who haven’t met me yet,” I said after they’d all entered the room and seated themselves at various tables, “my name is Anastasia Pollack. I’m the craft editor at
American Woman
magazine, and I’ll be filling in on weekends for the next few months while Kara Kennedy is out on maternity leave.”

I then passed around the colored paper, markers, and safety pins I’d found in the supply closet. “Unfortunately, I’m really terrible with names,” I continued. “So I’d appreciate it if you’d make yourselves name tags until I get to know all of you better.”

“Getting old like us, huh?” said a tall, thin woman with ginger- colored hair pulled back into a low ponytail. She laughed. “Hate to tell you, dearie, but it only gets worse the older you get.”

The others chuckled and nodded in agreement. I laughed along with them, although on the inside I worried. With all I juggled and all the stress, my brain had already begun to turn to mush. I hated to think what it might be like fifteen or twenty years from now.

“Construction paper?” said a woman with red-framed glasses and a thick head of obviously dyed, midnight-black hair that hugged her head like a helmet. When she turned up her nose and pushed aside the supplies I’d passed out, not a hair moved, thanks to a thick coating of hairspray. “We’re not in kindergarten. You want name tags? We’ll make name tags we’ll be proud to wear. Right, girls?”

Everyone agreed. I should have known. These were my paper crafters and scrapbookers. Much like their younger counterparts I’d come across over the years, they had a near obsessive love for their particular craft of choice. They set about pulling supplies off shelves and from the closets—rubber stamps and pads, decorative papers, paper punches, specialty scissors, stickers, and assorted trims.

Like the classes before them, they needed no help from me, so as they worked, I told them about my gallery idea. Everyone loved the idea, but once again someone brought up Shirley Hallstead.

“You’ll have to clear it with her,” said a woman I assumed was named Barbara from the
BAR
she’d so far rubber stamped onto her name tag.

“So I’ve been told,” I said. Then I brought up the subject of Lyn
della’s crafts. “Shirley told Reggie to throw them out. That seems like such a waste. Anyone have a suggestion as to what to do with them?”

“Do as Shirley said.”

“Use them for target practice.”

“Burn ’em.”

“Smash them to smithereens.”

Wow
! I’ve known people who weren’t well-liked by others. My own mother-in-law headed the list. But the anger these women felt toward Lyndella Wegner bordered on rage. After what my last class had told me, I suppose I couldn’t blame them for not wanting any reminders of the woman hanging around Sunnyside.

“There’s an enormous assortment of fabric yo-yos,” I continued. “Would any of you want them to decorate your card and scrapbooking projects?”

“Did Lyndella make them?” asked the woman who’d suggested burning Lyndella’s crafts.

“Most likely. They came from her room.”

“Hell no,” she said. The others nodded in agreement.

I certainly wasn’t going to toss a perfectly good crop of yo-yos. If no one at Sunnyside wanted them, I’d take them home with me. I hadn’t featured any yo-yo crafts in the magazine in several years. With hundreds of pre-made yo-yos at my disposal, now seemed as good a time as any for a fresh batch of yo-yo projects.

_________________________

lyndella’s yo-yo embellished cardigan

What’s old is new. Give retro life to an old cardigan by adding a decorative yoke of coordinating yo-yos.

Materials

cardigan sweater

basic yo-yo supplies to sew approximately 20–30 coordinating
yo-yos made from 5" circle template

equal number of coordinating or contrasting 7/8" buttons

straight pins

invisible thread or fabric glue

Directions

The number of yo-yos needed will depend on the size of
the sweater. Make the yo-yos following the Basic Yo-yo
directions (pp. 18–20). Stitch a button over the center hole of each yo-yo.

Lay the sweater flat, front side up. Place the yo-yos along
the neckline of the front of the sweater, overlapping the yo-yos slightly. Pin in place. Turn the sweater over. Continue placing and pinning yo-yos along the back neckline.

Using invisible thread, slipstitch the yo-yos onto the sweater or attach with a small amount of fabric glue at the middle back of each yo-yo. Note: if using glue, slide a piece of waxed paper inside the sweater so you don’t accidently glue the front to the back.

_________________________

The remainder of my classes were much like the earlier ones. Everyone loved the idea of a gallery show; no one wanted anything to do with crafts or supplies that had belonged to the late Lyndella Wegner. Since the craft books all had her name written on the inside cover, I suspected they’d remain where they sat on the shelf, gathering dust for years to come.

After my last class, I carried the boxes of yo-yos and notebooks to my car, having to make one trip for each of the cartons due to the weight of the notebooks. The triple digit temperature had turned the asphalt parking lot spongy, and heat waves radiated from the cement sidewalks. By the time I’d finished, I had just enough room left in the Hyundai for me and Mephisto. The cartons of crafts would have to wait until tomorrow.

Because the elderly are always cold, Sunnyside’s air conditioning didn’t cool enough to satisfy me. I spent a good deal of the day fanning myself. (Not to mention offering all sorts of inducements and bribes to the menopause gods to target someone else. I was so not ready for that stage of my life and prayed I was merely reacting to the warmth of Sunnyside and not experiencing my first hot flashes.) Meanwhile, many of the residents walked around in long sleeves and sweaters.

Still, Sunnyside felt like Siberia compared to the wall of heat that hit me each time I stepped outside the building. By the time I headed back for Mephisto, I felt like I’d spent an hour in a sauna. While wearing a parka. I needed to wring out my entire body.

I found both Lucille and Mephisto deep in siesta mode, each loudly snoring away on the bed. I decided to duck into the bathroom, hoping Reggie hadn’t thought to clean out Lyndella’s toiletries when she bagged her belongings. Sure enough, the medicine cabinet held a tube of vaginal estrogen cream and a package of hormone replacement patches, both prescriptions in Lyndella’s name and from separate mail-order pharmacies, one located in Canada, the other in Mexico. The meds, along with a certain battery-operated device filling up the remainder of the shelf, left no doubt about the tales I’d heard today.

I closed the cabinet, walked back into the bedroom, and grabbed Mephisto’s leash from Lucille’s dresser. He woke as soon as I clipped the leash to his collar but instead of growling at me, he wagged his tail.

In all the years I’d known him, Mephisto had never wagged his tail at me. He must have had one s’mothering of a day at Sunnyside.

“Let’s go, you big lummox.”

He lumbered off the bed as Lucille continued to snore. Instead of waking her and running the risk of a leash tug-a-war, I jotted a quick note, to inform her no one had dognapped her precious pooch.

As I stepped from Lucille’s room, I heard yelling coming from the direction of Shirley’s office. “What! How dare you disobey me? When I tell you to do something, you do it. I don’t give a damn what anyone else says. Do you understand me?”

I couldn’t hear a reply. Either Shirley was reaming out someone over the phone, or the subject of her wrath hadn’t answered her. A few members of the staff lurked in the hallway, obviously eavesdropping. Shirley should learn to close her office door and lower her voice.