Paper, Scissors, Death (18 page)

The Father’s Day page was a big hit. We had a full house with newcomers. Since newbies need a lot of time and attention, I try to keep our class number under a dozen. In any group, you get visual learners who catch on quickly, and folks who need their hands held, literally speaking. Occasionally, I’ll get a person who really, truly can’t manipulate the paper or the tools. It’s a struggle not to yank the stuff right out of her mitts and do it myself. But I’m learning. See, it’s not about how good the teacher is. It’s about how good the student feels. And nobody feels good when you do things for them. Besides, the best way to learn is by making mistakes. I know because I’ve made plenty of them. I’ve inadvertently cut photos in the wrong place. I’ve dropped pieces of paper and had them stick to the sole of my shoe, which left me to re-cut them. I’ve spilled glue on my layouts. I’ve gotten water on photos. And those are just the highlights. Whoo-wee, do I know how to make a mess of a page.

But here’s my biggest tip: it’s just paper. Unless you are working with irreplaceable family pictures, you can always start over.

A lot of mistakes lead you to new techniques or unexpected opportunities to be creative. I hate to tell you how many of my best pages happened when I had to work around a problem. Necessity is the mother of invention, but boo-boos are the parents of out-of-the-box thinking. Nothing like a real goof-up to stretch your mind, to lead you where no papercrafter has ever gone before.

True to her word, Tisha came to the Newbie-Do-Be-Do. She finished the Father’s Day page quickly and started on her Disney World pages. I showed her how she could use the Father’s Day page design with her Disney paper and get an entirely different look. I explained how she could flip the design, or rotate it, and change the look yet again.

Scrapbookers often tell me they run out of ideas or get blocked creatively. What they don’t realize is every page they make does not have to be a new layout. All you need is to make a few changes, and voilà! It’s like when I was growing up. I’d buy a dress pattern and sew it over and over using different material. Not only did I save money by reusing the pattern, but I got faster and faster because I knew what I was doing. It’s the same with scrapbooking.

My goal as a scrapbook teacher is to give people permission to be creative. When you think about it, if you aren’t creative, you aren’t alive. Your body re-creates itself every seven years. When that stops, you’re dead. Creativity is the fountain of youth, keeping your brain engaged and your spirits elevated. Without a creative outlet to absorb all my mental energy in the months after George died, I would have fallen into the dark crevasse of depression and not made it out.

Mert stopped by the crop to pick up Paris. The pick-up and drop-off service is one of the many reasons Mert’s dog-sitting business is growing. I dressed Paris in her pink nightie and slippers and sent along a note card fashioned from leftover paper. It explained to the Pomeranian’s “Mama” that Paris had been the guest of honor at a pajama party. This was the sort of silliness that made Going to the Dogs more memorable than other local kennels.

I gave my students a ten-minute break so they could finish up the pizza and use the restroom while I talked to Mert.

“So that no-good Roxanne has gone to meet her maker.”

I nodded.

“They’ll be partying like all git-out down in H-E-double-you-know-where. You reckon you’ll ever get the straight scoop about what she had to do with George’s death?”

“I don’t know. I’ve got the name of her favorite waitress over at Antonio’s. I’m going there as soon as I can to ask who ate lunch with him the day he died.”

“Where’s that hunky cop friend of your’n?”

I told her about Detweiler’s visit to Illinois.

“You be careful going home, hear? Thank goodness Roger got them lights up over at your place.”

I couldn’t bear to tell Mert about needing to have the outside lights taken down. Instead, I asked her to thank Roger and promised to bake banana bread over the weekend.

“I’ll tell him.” She lowered her voice. “Hey, you don’t suppose Roxanne’s being shot has anything to do with your house getting robbed?”

“I think she might have wanted to show somebody the images on her camera. Maybe there’s a picture there that shouldn’t be.” I sighed. “But if so, I can’t tell which one it is.”

Mert nodded and gave me one more warning before taking her leave. “Keep your wits about you, okay? Stay out of trouble. Call me if you need anything.”

I phoned Anya while Dodie showed the ladies the other newbie page kits. My daughter answered on the first ring with a giggle. “Mom, I can’t believe the Domino’s guy was standing on the doorstep when Gran and I pulled up. It was awesome. I wasn’t going to eat, but it all smelled so good. Even Gran had a couple of pieces. You’re the best. I love you. You rock.”

I told her she had Dodie to thank, and she did exactly that, bringing a blush of pleasure to the woman’s face. With a huge grin on her face, Dodie handed the phone back to me. I gave Anya a goodnight kiss over the phone and told her I loved her.

“Do you have soccer practice tomorrow? Your grandmother will drop you off. I’ll be there at five to pick you up, honey.”

After I hung up, I said, “Dodie, you are something. You really saved the day.”

She waved a hand in the air dismissively. “Shoot. It was nothing. Tell you the truth, I kinda enjoyed putting one over on old Sheila. She’s such a pain in the—,” and she paused. “What on earth?”

Dodie pointed to the front of the store. A uniformed policeman was knocking on the glass. Behind him stood a man and a woman. They were bathed in the bright security light as moths and bugs swam up and down the night air currents. Dodie strode past me and unlocked the door. “What’s up, officer?”

“Richmond Heights police, ma’am, we’re looking for a Kiki Lowenstein. Is she here?” said the uniformed cop. Both his hands rested on his heavy black belt.

I stepped forward, keeping my voice down as I said, “That’s me.” I didn’t want to alert the ladies in the crop area to a problem. The most likely reason for the police visit was that my car had been vandalized. Having a ragtop in this part of town wasn’t a great idea. There was no need to get everyone upset and remind them the fringes of this neighborhood were dicey. Our parking lot was well-lit, but stuff happens, right?

But I did a double-take. The two plainclothes people showed us detective badges from Chesterfield. That was odd. Why would two Chesterfield detectives drive all the way down Highway 40 to our little store? It didn’t make sense.

“You’re Kiki Lowenstein?” The woman was a solid gal who looked like an ex-Marine. She had a certain toughness to her face and a commanding presence to her stance.

“Yes, I am. What’s wrong?” I’d just gotten off the phone with my daughter, or I would have been even more worried. Knowing Anya was safe gave me a false sense of bravado. Gracie was still in the back room. I’d taken her for a long walk before the crop started. Since she and I were both out of the house, this visit could only mean my car or my house had been broken into. The provenance of the police still didn’t make sense, but who knew about jurisdiction? “Is my car okay? Has my house been broken into again?”

The male detective and Lady Marine exchanged indecipherable glances. “Your car’s fine as far as we know. Your house was broken into?” asked the man.

“Yes, my house was burglarized a few days ago. Did you find my computer?”

“Computer?”

“Yes, it was stolen. If you found it, that would be really good news. I can’t afford a replacement.”

Lady Marine did a slow-mo, “Mrs. Lowenstein, you are under arrest for the murder of Roxanne Baker.” She frisked me faster than I could blink.

Next thing I knew, I was wearing handcuffs.

Evidently the Chesterfield jail was full because the two detectives drove me to the St. Louis County Jail in Clayton.

The man took my elbow gently and guided me, waiting to be sure I had my balance as I climbed out of the unmarked car. His partner, Lady Marine, came up to his shoulder and radiated all the personal charm of a junkyard dog with a bad case of worms.

We stepped onto the elevator. “Turn around. Face the back,” said Lady Marine. I did as I was told, my knees quaking. What were they planning to do while my back was turned? Make out?

The elevator stopped and we got off in a short hallway where I was relieved of my purse, watch, and the shoelaces to my Keds. The clerk behind the low counter took an inventory of my belongings and had me sign a document. Lady Marine handled my Canon digital with distaste. I guessed she wasn’t a scrapbooker.

“No photos,” she grunted.

So much for scrapbooking my adventure. Then again, as
St. Louis Post-Dispatch
columnist Bill McClellan once quipped, “Nobody looks good in a mug shot.”

The detectives walked me through a variety of questions, the first one being, “Have you ever been here before?” Finally we got to the fingerprinting. I expected that to be familiar since I often use rubber stamps and ink on my pages. I was wrong. St. Louis County has gone to electronic fingerprinting.

Lady Marine led me into a room about thirty feet long by twenty feet wide. Bathrooms were on one side and holding cells on the other. A large metal ring attached to the wall was the obvious place for police to restrain manacled prisoners. I glanced up at the silver circle and shuddered.

I was lucky. Lady Marine unlocked me. My wrists felt chafed and sore. I vowed never to wear bracelets again as long as I lived.

A part of me completely dissociated from the entire experience. I put all my efforts into mental drivel while being processed for my stint in jail. It was the only way I could maintain a semblance of composure—to see this as a giant scrapbook adventure.

“What evidence could you possibly have?” I asked. “I didn’t do it. And out there somewhere is someone who did.”

Lady Marine didn’t respond, but I guessed she was thinking, “That’s what they all say.”

“Are you charging me? Do I need an attorney?”

“We can hold you for twenty-four hours without charging you.”

A county corrections officer took over.

“See that red line?” He pointed to a painted line running around the interior of the room.

“Yes, sir.”

“Don’t cross it. Long as you behave, you can stay here in open seating. You have a problem, raise your hand and I’ll come talk with you.”

I didn’t dare ask him to share his definition of “behave.” I was pretty sure it meant “shut up and sit tight.”

“Open seating?” I repeated. This sounded strangely like first available seating in a restaurant or even the cattle call that loaded passengers onto Southwest Airlines flights. I must have misheard the man. His head was nearly bald with his burr haircut. To compensate, he sported a bumper crop of gray hair sprouting from his ear canals, giving the impression he wore a fuzzy pair of earmuffs. Probably very handy in the winter.

“As long as you behave yourself, you don’t have to go in a cell,” he repeated with a marked absence of emotion. He didn’t much care whether I behaved or not. Either way, he could handle the situation.

Open seating meant I could find a spot on one of the many benches scattered around the room. The area reminded me of a Greyhound Bus station I once “visited” in my college days. Talk about your huddled masses yearning to be free. The smell of sweat, fear, and unwashed bodies assaulted my nose. A man with a three-day growth of beard sat on a nearby bench and chanted quietly, “I didn’t do it. I didn’t do it.” A scary woman with eye shadow the color of an Easter egg paced back and forth muttering, “That son of a sea cow. When I get a hold of him, he’ll pay.” The back of her skirt swept the floor behind her. Long, sparkling earrings dangled amid a mass of upswept hair. Her attire was more suitable for a cocktail party than a prison break, but maybe she, too, had been caught off guard by her visit.

A couple of people slept fitfully, their heads thrown back and mouths gaping as they snoozed. I didn’t know why they were here, and I prayed I wouldn’t find out. One smelled distinctly of pee. A line of people waited for the phones, and I noticed none of my fellow inmates had any shoelaces or belts, which left one man to struggle mightily with his sweatpants.

Trying not to make eye contact, I wandered to an empty bench. Worst case scenario, I told myself, twenty-four hours and I’d be free. At least Anya didn’t have to know about this. She was with Sheila. On my way to the detectives’ car, Dodie had promised to take Gracie and give my mother-in-law a call. I also asked Dodie to call Detweiler and gave her his number. So far, though, the cavalry wasn’t kicking up dust as they galloped over the hill.

Did I really believe he’d come rescue me? Obviously, I’d watched a few too many westerns.

Well, he’d warned me he might be out of range.

Then it struck me: could he have known about this? I flashed back to him saying, “I have a job to do.”

The timing of his out-of-town visit sure was suspicious. I knew cops used intimidation to get people to talk. Was it possible Detweiler didn’t believe me? Was he working with the Chesterfield detectives to secure my confession? Otherwise, how could the Chesterfield police have so conveniently overlooked the fact I had an alibi for the night Roxanne was killed?

That was it. It had to be.

Detweiler set me up.

Chalk up another failure in my dismal track record with men.

The adrenaline of being arrested began to wear off. My eyes grew heavy. I felt weary. The armrests of my bench made it impossible to get comfortable. After a while, I listed to one side. As I tucked my head down, I caught a whiff of body odor. Mine.

The benches were notoriously unforgiving. First my arm went numb, then my hip. I tried the other side with equally painful results.

Hours passed. I busied myself creating scrapbook pages in my mind. It was the only way to keep my brain off my surroundings.

A corrections officer passed out brown paper bags. Mine opened to a squished, garlicky bologna and cheese. The sandwich was very dry. I ate a few bites, and the masticated food stuck to my teeth. I drank from the water fountain and tried again to get comfortable on my bench.

Surely, any moment, Sheila would take pity on me and hire an attorney. Having her daughter-in-law in the county slammer wasn’t the type of gossip she’d want bandied about by her friends at the Bellerive Country Club. I thought about calling Mert, but I figured Dodie would tell her the news. I didn’t want to stand in line by the phones or draw any attention to myself. I was too scared. That little red line didn’t seem like much of a deterrent to me.

Then it dawned on me that if Sheila didn’t send an attorney, Mert wouldn’t be able to. She didn’t have the money. Maybe Dodie would loan it to my friend.

Could there be enough trumped-up evidence for the police to charge me? I remembered an old Alfred Hitchcock movie where Henry Fonda played an innocent man accused of a crime. What was the film’s name?
The Wrong Man
? I’d heard it was a true story. I groaned. Great. I was starring in my own version of
The Wrong Woman
.

I tried to conjure up a reason why I was suddenly a suspect again. I didn’t own a gun. There wasn’t a trail of money leading to my door. I had an alibi, sort of. Surely by now the police had a record of my stay at Jellystone. I had threatened Roxanne, but couldn’t they cut me slack? One little smart-alecky remark, and boom, here I was in jail?

In my life small mistakes cost me dearly.

But Anya wasn’t a mistake.

What if Sheila told her where I was? Surely she wouldn’t do that. What would Anya think of her mother, the jail bird? Would she hate me? Be embarrassed? Never speak to me again?

Maybe Mert was sick of me, too. Maybe Dodie was tired of having a problem employee. Maybe my boss decided not to call my best friend.

I saw my father’s face. I heard him call me a loser. I thought of my mother. I saw her laugh as my father called me names. No wonder my mother didn’t want anything to do with me. Just look how I turned out: broke and in jail. My sister Amanda would have a field day at my expense. She’d never let me forget this. We’d never gotten along. Catherine, my other sister, was God knows where. I couldn’t blame her for not leaving me a forwarding address.

I thought and thought and thought. I dug up every bad and sad thing in my life. I chased those miseries around like a blue jay takes after a sparrow.

Finally, my mind tired of thinking. I gave in to depression, a formless miasma of pain. I started to cry. Only a little. The tears trickled over the bridge of my nose. When I was a kid, crying only made my dad get meaner. I’d learned the hard way to be the quietest crier imaginable. And that’s what I did.

I cried. Very, very quietly. But I cried.