Paper, Scissors, Death

Praise for
Paper, Scissors, Death

“
Paper, Scissors, Death
is not only an engaging mystery—it also gave this die-hard non-scrapbooker some idea why scrapbooking fans find their hobby so addictive.”

—Donna Andrews, Agatha and Anthony award-winning author of the
Meg Langslow
and
Turing Hopper
series

“Charming, funny and very enjoyable! Slan combines mystery, romance, suspense, and humor in this wonderful debut, and her scrapbooking heroine Kiki Lowenstein is a real cut-up.”

—J. A. Konrath, author of
Whiskey Sour

“
Paper, Scissors, Death
is charming, clever, witty, and exciting—with a cliff hanger 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

“
Paper, Scissors, Death
is 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 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,
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

“Joanna Campbell Slan’s debut novel is 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

Paper, Scissors, Death: A Kiki Lowenstein Scrap-N-Craft Mystery
© 2008 by Joanna Campbell Slan.

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Mom, I told you on the way to chemo and radiation that this book was for you. You hung in there and survived. Now I’m proud to put it in your hands. I hope you like it.

Love, Jonie

Two days before Thanksgiving, a man doesn’t think about dying. And if he did, he certainly wouldn’t pick the Ritz-Carlton in downtown Clayton, an exclusive suburb of St. Louis, as a venue. The shimmering fountain out front, an elegant cigar room, and two four-diamond restaurants all reminded guests that life was very much worth living.

But on this clear November day, with small puffs of clouds like fuzzy cotton balls on a cerulean sky, George Lowenstein’s life was ending. The agony that gripped him wasn’t indigestion from his meal at Antonio’s. It wasn’t a sore muscle from his most recent round of golf at the St. Louis Country Club.

His vision blurred, his hands shook, and his gut twisted in pain.

Leaning back on a Frette pillow case, George moaned, “I don’t feel so good. I feel dizzy. Sick to my stomach. Call 911.”

His companion only smiled at him. But it was a grin tinged with malice, and it hurt George more than the spasm in his chest.

That’s when George Lowenstein knew he was dying.

A wave of fury accompanied the next twisting grip of pain. In response, George clawed at the expensive Egyptian cotton sheets. He tried to lift his arm, to move to the phone, but a pressing wall of agony kept him pinned against the headboard. A rage swept through him. Why hadn’t he seen this coming? He thought of all the people who counted on him—and hated himself for not being more prepared.

From outside the room came the lonely rattle of a maid’s cart. For one shining second, George thought help was on the way. He opened his mouth to scream, to yell for help. A piece of silken fabric was stuffed down his throat, smothering his cry.

In the hallway, a Hispanic woman wearing a black dress with a white collar and white apron checked a clipboard. The small laminated sign with its perky “Do Not Disturb” message on George’s door encouraged her to move along. The last thing she wanted was for a guest to complain. Not when she was so close to having enough money to go back to Toluca. Her pen hesitated before touching sheets of paper covered in scribbles. She tucked a stray lock of hair into the bun resting on her neck. She’d have to come back later. The maid leaned on her cart to rub her ankle and then straightened.

She pushed her supply cart down the hall corridor, its wonky wheel squeaking all the way.