Excerpt from Kicked to the Curb (Book #2 in the Cara Mia Delgatto Mystery Series)

By Joanna Campbell Slan

From the press packet —

The Treasure Chest Philosophy: Even the humblest items (aka “trash”), despite their origins or their prior usage, have value.

Chapter 1

Mid-January

7:45 a.m. on Thursday

The Treasure Chest in downtown Stuart, Florida

~Cara~

“We’ve got a problem,” said Detective Lou Murray, of the Stuart Police Department. His bulk filled the threshold of the back door to my store, The Treasure Chest. With the bright sun behind him, I couldn’t see his expression, but the tone of his voice was ominous.

             “What’s up, Lou?”

The big cop has gotten into the habit of dropping by most mornings. He claims this is part of an initiative to make police presence more visual in our picturesque downtown.

But I know better.

Lou is head over heels in love with Skye Blue, my friend and part-time employee. She’s also my tenant, renting one of the two apartments upstairs, while I live in the other, its mirror-image twin. I glanced over to see that Skye was busy in the sink, bonking around a couple of mugs and the water carafe for the coffee maker.

Drying her hands, Skye hugged me. “How’d you sleep?”

            I did a so-so motion with my fingers.

            “Cara? I need ten minutes of your time,” said Lou. As he spoke, he only glanced at me. He kept looking out the window of my back door.

“Right now? My dog needs to go outside, and I haven’t had my morning jolt of java. I am not fully human until I have my coffee.”

“Right now,” said Lou, firmly. “I need you to look at a car parked behind your grandfather’s gas station.”

“Let me guess. Today’s the day they start jackhammering that old pavement around the Gas E Bait, right? And the car is in the way? Just tow it,” I said. “That’ll teach the owner a lesson.”

“Not that simple.” Lou frowned as he ran a hand through his cropped hair.

Chapter 2

~Cara~

“I’ll take Jack,” said Skye, reaching for my rescue pup and tucking the white Chihuahua under her arm. She, Lou, and I had made it to the back stoop when MJ Austin pulled up in her pink Cadillac.

            “Morning,” said MJ. She is a full-time employee of The Treasure Chest, a real find because she used to work for the previous owner.

 “Good morning,” I said to her. “Lou wants me to take a gander at the car parked behind Poppy’s gas station.”

“Shouldn’t be there,” said MJ.

“Right,” Lou muttered.

We had just crossed the alley that separates the parking spaces behind my store from the parking spaces behind the gas station when a truck pulled up, a black Ford F150. A tall man in an orange tee shirt stepped out of it. Sunlight glinted gold on his hair, a long surfer cut that brushed his collar. His eyes were a mystery behind his Wayfarer sunglasses. He glanced at us and then toward the parked Toyota.

 “And you are?” Lou asked the newcomer.

“Jason Robbins. Project manager for Fill Up and Go corporate.”

 “Detective Lou Murray and this is Cara Mia Delgatto,” said Lou, flashing his badge. Skye and MJ hung back a few paces.

 “You’re exactly as your grandfather described you,” Jason said to me. He smelled of sandalwood and soap as he shook my hand.

“Cara, have you ever seen this car before?” Lou asked, as he used his hand to shade his eyes against the morning sun. “Take your time looking it over. But don’t touch it.”

I stared at a rusty Toyota with balding tires.

“Why don’t you just run the plates?” I wondered.

“Answer my question, please,” said Lou.

The vehicle looked familiar. I took two steps to the left, blinked in the glare of the sunlight, and looked closer. The giveaway was a dog-earred paper sign sitting in the back window. It said SHORELINE NEWS.

“I’m pretty sure that car belongs to Kathy Simmons. She’s a reporter for the Shoreline News. Her roommate has been calling the store for three days. She says Kathy’s been missing. Is that true?”

 Lou didn’t answer my question. Instead, he frowned. “Anything else that helps you identify the owner?”

I moved even with the rear passenger door. A rotten breeze had kicked up from the ocean. A lot of dead fish must have rolled up with the tide.

Cupping my hands over my face to block out the bright light, I stared inside the car. A plastic food storage container rested on the back passenger seat. Next to it was a white shopping bag.

"That's definitely one of my new shopping bags," I called over my shoulder to Lou. Skye and MJ stood a few feet away from him. MJ had her arms crossed over her chest. Skye was shuffling her feet. Neither looked happy.

I continued, "Kathy bought a picture from me the night of our media event. I put her purchase inside a bag like that one. MJ packed up leftovers for Kathy to take home. The container looked like the one on the seat. It was late at night and raining when I walked Kathy to her car, so I didn’t get a really good look, but I’m almost positive this is her vehicle.”

“Let me make sure I’ve got this straight,” said Lou, and his frown deepened. “Four days ago, Kathy Simmons attended your media event.”

“Right. We invited all members of the local media to come and preview our Old Florida Photo Gallery exhibit. Served them food. Gave them press packets. Let them wander around the store. Answered their questions. Kathy Simmons came on behalf of the Shoreline News. Her editor came too, but he left early.”

“Had you ever met her before?”

“No.”

“Tell me about the event,” said Lou.

“It started at seven in the evening and ended at eight. A dozen reporters came. I gave a little spiel about our mission to recycle things and be creative with found objects. I showed them old black and white photos we’d framed and mounted in refurbished frames. The three of us—MJ, Skye, and I—played hostess.”

“What was Kathy Simmons wearing?”

That was easy. “A weird vinyl raincoat printed like newspapers. Oh, and a headscarf. Before we went outside, she pulled the scarf out of her pocket to cover her hair. It was raining on Monday night.”

“What else can you tell me?” he asked in a serious tone. “What happened immediately before you two walked to her car?”

“What do you mean?” I couldn’t hide my surprise.

“Is it true there was an altercation?”

“W-w-what?  How do you know that?” My mouth went dry.

Skye was studying the pavement. Her shoulders slumped in defeat.

“Let me summarize,” said Lou. “You had an event for reporters. Kathy Simmons came. You two had words. You walked her to her car—and now she’s been missing for three days. Is that right? Today her car shows up in a space behind your grandfather’s gas station.”

 “U-u-uh,” I stuttered, trying to think of what to say.

Skye shook her head sadly. She mouthed one word at me, “Sorry.”

MJ rolled her eyes. “Cara, quit answering his questions and call a lawyer.”

 “Y-y-you can’t seriously be suggesting that I had anything to do with Kathy’s disappearance!” I looked from Lou to the Toyota and back to him. “You’ve found her car. She has to be around here somewhere.”

“Maybe,” said Lou.

 Jason crossed his arms over his chest and studied me solemnly.

“Ladies, go back to your store,” said Lou. “Cara, I’ll talk to you later.”

“Why? First you drag me out here. Then you accuse me. Now you want me to go inside and wait? I am not your puppet, Lou.”

There it was, the terrible temper that’s gotten me in trouble my whole life. I should have turned around and left Lou to it. But after the grilling he’d given me, the last thing I wanted was to follow his suggestion.

Lou reached inside the pocket of his navy blue blazer for a pair of latex gloves. “Have it your way.”

The detective moved closer to the trunk. The top was slightly ajar; the locking mechanism hadn’t caught.

Pulling an ink pen from his pocket, Lou tucked it under the hood of the trunk and lifted. It opened with a squeal of surrender. A foul stench rolled out.   

Involuntarily, Lou took a step backwards. When he moved, I could see inside the trunk.

Kathy Simmons stared at me with dull, dead eyes.

To buy your copy of Kicked to the Curb, go to http://tinyurl.com/kttcurb  Or visit Joanna's page on Amazon http://tinyurl.com/JoannaSlan

Murder at the Breakers--Excerpt and Contest

Note: My friend Alyssa Maxwell has a new mystery, Murder at the Breakers. Thanks to her generosity we have an except below--and one lucky person will win an autographed copy.

Enjoy ~

Your friend, Joanna

 

 

 

 

Midnight approached. At twenty minutes to twelve, liveried footmen and hired waiters began moving like a silent army through the Great Hall, wielding trays filled with glasses of Uncle Cornelius’s finest champagne. In the confusion, I lost sight of Neily. I spotted Grace’s rich, bejeweled coif across the room, but only briefly. Then she, too, disappeared from view, though she might merely have been obscured by the crowd. If the two were up to something, Aunt Alice would have to catch them at it herself. I had more pressing concerns.

Aunt Alice herself fueled my unease when she appeared at my shoulder. “We’re nearly ready to toast Gertrude and I can’t find Cornelius anywhere. Did you see which way he went?”

Oh, no. I’d been so concerned with Neily, Reggie, and Katie, I’d let Uncle Cornelius slip away. With less than twenty minutes now before midnight, surely he’d return any moment. But if he didn’t . . .

Brady might just then be making his way up one of the service staircases. Should I try to warn him that Uncle Cornelius was nowhere to be found? But how could I do that when I had no idea which room marked Brady’s destination? I thought back to what he’d told me that morning. He wished to return something he’d taken . . . borrowed . . . stolen . . .  something to do with railroad business. Then it had to have come from either of two places: Uncle Cornelius’s office, or his bedroom, both on the second floor.

I might have gone running up the grand staircase to search for Brady, but the second-floor rooms all opened onto a gallery that looked down over the Great Hall. I couldn’t risk being seen and followed, especially by a family member.

Aunt Alice gave me the perfect excuse to leave the Great Hall and devise a plan. “Emmaline, be an angel and check the billiard room. Tell that husband of mine if he doesn’t come at once he’ll spoil Gertrude’s night.”

I set off at nearly a run, my haste raising numerous eyebrows. Several men occupied the billiard room, but Uncle Cornelius wasn’t one of them. Instead of seeking him elsewhere on the first floor, I slipped quickly out through the double doors onto the rear piazza and then down the steps onto the lawn. The day’s rain had left the grass sodden, and moisture instantly soaked through my embroidered dancing slippers. They’d be ruined, but I hadn’t time to lament the fact. Toes squelching, I circled the side of the house, looking up as I neared the front. The second story was dark except . . . there! A beam of light passed across the windows of Uncle Cornelius’s bedroom. Brady must be inside.

I was about to hoist my skirts, scamper around to the front door, steal inside and up the service stairs when the light suddenly went out. I waited, staring into the darkness, my ears pricked. “Brady,” I whispered—stupidly, for at that distance and through the closed balcony door he could not have heard me. A minute or two passed. I decided my best course was indeed to run inside, but just then a sharp thwack from above rooted me to the spot. Two or three more clunks followed. Moments later, the balcony door swung open and sounds of a scuffle burst from inside the room.

“What? You!” a man’s voice exclaimed.

“Brady?” I cried out hoarsely, too frightened now for discretion.

There came a grunt, more scuffling, another thwack—louder and sharper now, like a gunshot piercing the quiet—and then the thud of something or someone hitting the stone balustrade. My heart pounding, I scrambled backward to get a better view, and as I looked up again, a dark silhouette tumbled over the railing and plummeted to the ground at my feet.

**

I cried out, then pressed both hands to my mouth. My heart pummeled inside my chest, and I stood motionless, breathless, staring down at the black heap before me, my brain thrashing to make sense of what had just happened.

With trembling fingers I lifted my hems from the wet ground and tiptoed closer, afraid to look, unable to turn away. The night closed around me like a fist, blocking out the house, the lawns, the nearby drive crowded with sleek horses and posh carriages. The music and lively hum of voices drifting from the piazza doorway faded. The crickets were silenced. I heard only the distant rumble of the ocean striking the cliffs at the base of the property.

A haze swam before my eyes, and through it I could make out scant details about the figure sprawled facedown on the ground: the formal tailcoat and tapering black trousers, the buffed dress shoes, the dark but graying hair. A notion rose like bile to choke me.

“Uncle Cornelius? Oh, God. Oh, no . . .”

 

*  *  *

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Kiki Lowenstein and the Penny Pincher, Part I

Kiki Lowenstein and Penny Pincher: Part I

By Joanna Campbell Slan

 

Editor’s Note: The Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series features a scrapbooking mom whose creativity isn’t limited to papercrafts. Part I of Kiki Lowenstein and the Penny Pincher first appeared in the Spring 2014 issue of Chicagoland Scrapbooker. Now we're sharing it with you!

“I saw this online and bought it for the store. I thought it appropriate,” said my friend Clancy Whitehead, as she handed me a wrapped present. In her tailored brown slacks, ivory silk blouse, and camel-colored cardigan, Clancy was the picture of elegance.

Meanwhile, I’m still wearing my maternity pants with the elastic panels. Although I tell myself that eventually the weight will come off, it’ll probably take forever. I’ve been a little down lately, feeling a touch of the post-partum blues. That’s probably one reason that Clancy bought me a gift.

My low mood is silly, because I have so much to be thankful for. My name is Kiki Lowenstein, and I own Time in a Bottle, a scrapbooking and crafts store in St. Louis. I’m the mother of three adorable kids, including three-week-old Tyler George, whom we call “Ty.” And my other half is a hunky cop, Detective Chad Detweiler.

Life is good, mainly.

Tonight starts the first of our Double-Dip Classes. Like the old Doublemint Gum commercials, we’re offering not one but two fantastic learning experiences. I’m excited about the projects I have planned for our scrapbookers. But I’m also a tad worried, because Iona Lippman has signed up for both classes, since she can be a bit rough around the edges.

“Go on,” prompted Clancy. “Open the gift.”

After my fingers carefully pried apart the pink polka dot tissue paper, I discovered an adorable sign nestled inside: “All our guests please us. Some by their coming, and some by their going.”

“Iona is definitely a ‘goer,’” said Clancy. “You can’t please her, Kiki. She’ll always find something to complain about. That’s who she is. So just relax about the classes tonight and try to have fun. Don’t let her ruin the evening.”

“Thank you,” I told my friend, “for everything.”

“You’ve got all your prep done?” she asked. “Anything I can do?”

“I’m fine,” I said. “First we’re doing the Keepsake Recipe Album. The assignment was for each scrapbooker to bring in a recipe that her family enjoys. A main dish. She should also have a photo of the food. Of course, if that’s not possible, we’ll work with just the recipe and leave a place on the scrapbook page for the photo. I assume all of them have been in to choose their albums?”

“Yes. Iona came in Friday. She doesn’t like the 8- by 8-inch size. She also didn’t like the color of the album cover.” Clancy pulled up a chair across from my big desk. Resting her face on her hands, she shrugged. “I told her you might have suggestions for customizing the cover.”

“I do.”

“What’s the second class?” asked Clancy.

“It’s called Tips from Interior Designers,” I said, withdrawing my handout from the bottom desk drawer. “Many interior designers use a 60-30-10 rule when working with colors. The dominant shade should cover 60 percent of the page, then two other colors would be 30 and 10 percent. I’m also showing the scrapbookers how they can ‘translate’ a photo of an interior design into a scrapbook page layout.”

“Fascinating idea,” said Clancy. “I’m glad I’m staying for the evening.”

“I am too,” I said.

As it happened, Clancy was a lifesaver. Two hours later, after listening to Iona complain non-stop about her album, I was happy to have someone there with a positive attitude.

“Not only do I hate everything about this album,” she said, “I don’t want a recipe book full of main courses. My specialty is dessert.”

I gritted my teeth. “Good. Since Valentine’s Day is next week, your assignment is to bring your favorite dessert and its recipe.”

“I’ll bring red velvet cake,” said Lisa Ferguson.

“No way!” shouted Iona. “I have my great-great-grandmother’s special red velvet cake recipe. It’s been passed down from the oldest daughter to oldest daughter. No one outside the family has ever seen it.”

“Whoa!” I spread my hands in what I hope was a placating gesture. “You can both bring your red velvet recipes. Since these are your personal cookbooks, duplication won’t be a problem.”

“There won’t be any duplication,” sniffed Iona, as she tugged her sleeves over her hands. Her fingers were chaffed and red from the cold. “My family recipe is simply the best. It’s never been copied. Not even close.”

“Suit yourself,” said Lisa, as she adjusted her cowl neck sweater. The weather had been unseasonably bitter. Most of my customers wore boots and gloves. Lisa was no exception. She’d arrived bundled up in a parka.

By contrast, Iona had worn a lightweight wool coat and kept her bare hands shoved deeply into her pockets.

The two women couldn’t have been more different. Iona bragged about every aspect of her life from her husband’s upcoming retirement plans to her own free time for crafting. Lisa had said nearly nothing. I knew she’d come straight from work, and she kept checking the time because her babysitter had to leave promptly at nine.

“Now that we have the matter of next week’s recipes settled,” I said, “Let’s turn our attention to Part Two of our Double-Dip. If you’d open your page kits, you’ll see I’ve already chosen your embellishments and paper for this cute scrapbook page. Clancy is passing around a copy of HGTV Magazine with a picture of the room that inspired this page.”

“That does it,” snarled Iona. “Kiki, every layout you do involves expensive embellishments.”

“She’s right,” added another customer, Avery Ailes. “I love scrapbooking but, gosh, it’s so expensive. I’ve priced these embellishments. They aren’t cheap.”

Clancy shot me a look over the heads of our customers. I could read my friend’s thoughts as easily as if she’d spoken to me: “Great…now what?”

--

 

Part II will appear in the Summer 2014 issue of Chicagoland Scrapbooker. Later this summer, we'll also post it here on this blog, so be sure to become a "follower" of the blog. To find out where to pick up your copy go to Chicagoland Scrapbooker  (www.ChicagolandScrapbooker.com)

What You Can Do With a Ruined Tee Shirt

I have no idea how my red top wound up in the wash with all my white and cream clothes. None. Worse luck, I added a cup of bleach to the mix and let the whole mess sit for a couple of hours.

Not surprisingly, this cream top picked up a hint of red (much diluted) here and there.

Rit Dye Remover is expensive, and the top was not. However, I'd been wanting to try Zentangle on fabric, so this seemed like a perfect opportunity.

Supplies:

One piece of cardstock
A fabric pen in black

Method:

1. I didn't need to iron my top, because I'd hung it up to dry, but your fabric should be smooth.
2. Slip the card between the fabric layers so the ink doesn't soak through.
3. Choose a steady, flat surface so you don't have any wobble.

4. Start drawing.

5. Stand back and admire. Notice that I chose a very simple pattern. Less is more in my book. But this still needed something.

6. Let sit 24 hours.

7. Wear and collect compliments. (You're such a thrifty Craft-anista!)

Note: I used fabric markers that I bought online. I've been told that you can also use Sharpies. I suggest that after you let the fabric sit for 24 hours, you iron it on the WRONG side to help heat set the ink. Then wash it inside out in cold water.

Okay, anyone willing to try this? Tell me what you're going to rescue by adding a tangle!

Excerpt from A HALLOWEEN CLOSE CALL...

A Halloween Close Call

A Kiki Lowenstein Novella

By Joanna Campbell Slan

 

The entire novella will be free from Oct. 29 through Oct. 31 (Tuesday through Thursday). On those days ONLY, you'll be able to "purchase" the novella at no cost. You can get your copy FREE on those days only by going to http://tinyurl.com/HalloweenCC

 

Author's Note: In the timeline of Kiki Lowenstein's life, this comes after Group, Photo, Grave (Book #8) and immediately before Killer, Paper, Cut (Book #9).

 

Chapter 1

Two and a half weeks before Halloween…

A suburb of St. Louis MO

 

"If it’s spooky or scary, count me out," I said, shaking my head no for emphasis.

Detective Chad Detweiler grinned at me before planting a quick kiss on my lips. "Even if I’m there to hold your hand?"

My honey and I were meeting with our friends, Clancy Whitehead and Johnny Chambers, to discuss how we would celebrate Halloween.

"But I thought Halloween was your favorite holiday!" Clancy shook her head at me. She's one of my favorite people, my co-worker at Time in a Bottle, the scrapbook and craft store that I now own.

"It is my fave holiday. I love the colors. Orange. Purple. Neon green. Black. And all the darling images."

"And the candy," said Detweiler, laughingly.
"There's that, too," I admitted. "But the scary stuff? Not so much."

What an interesting picture we must have made. All four of us were very different. Leaning against the doorsill in my office was the oh-so-classic Clancy, a dead-ringer for Jackie Kennedy, right down to the dark auburn bob. Sitting on the corner of my big desk was Johnny, who has Bad Boy written all over him, with that sort of Cool Hand Luke. And then there was my wonderful Knight in Shining Armor, Detective Chad Detweiler, with his long legs and amazing green-gold eyes. And me? Well, I look like a demented beach ball because I'm seven months pregnant with a head full of curly, dishwater blond hair. I was sitting at my desk in the big black leather chair, and Detweiler was standing next to me.

To underscore how adamant I was, I crossed my arms. Or tried to. I couldn't exactly fit my arms over my baby bump. Right now, Alfred Hitchcock and I were sharing a profile. "I love Halloween, but I draw the line at being frightened out of my mind. I get enough crummy surprises in my daily life, thank you."

No matter how hard I try—even when issuing a warning about scary stuff—I can’t look stern for long. Especially not when I'm around my friends.

"Wooo, tough talk from the little lady." Johnny winked at me, and I giggled

"Kiki, when you draw a line, it's usually to start a new craft project," said Clancy, with a chuckle. "How about if I give you a giant eraser and you start over? Don't be so negative, girlfriend. It wouldn't be Halloween if we didn't do something at least mildly woo-woo."

"She's right, Kiki. Clancy and I want to have a little fun this Halloween," added Johnny. "And we'd like to do something fun with the two of you."

"How about we sit at home and carve pumpkins?" I asked. “I need to get my jack-o-lanterns done.”

"That's so…you." Detweiler took my hand and kissed my fingers. I turned and stared into those amazing Heineken bottle green eyes of his.

My name is Kiki Lowenstein, and I’m the original Mrs. Nice Guy. I like butterflies and rainbows, puppies and kittens, sugar and spice, sweet smelling flowers, chocolate, and paper. Lots and lots of paper.

Vitamin C, otherwise known as “cute,” is a life enhancing supplement. All of us need our daily quota. You can never have too much “cute” in your life.

Well, that’s my story, and I’m sticking to it.

"So the woman who stared down a murderer is a great big ‘fraidy cat." Johnny smirked at me.

"Ah, but remember, dear friend, cats have nine lives," I said. "There's a reason for that, Johnny. Cats know when to run away and when to fight another day."

"No fighting," said Detweiler. "Just loving. Come here, you."

He pulled me to my feet and hugged me. Safe in the shelter of his arms, I relaxed by listening to the soft lub-lub-lub of his heart. All was well in our world.

Our baby was due on January 15^th. My daughter Anya was thirteen going on thirty and so excited about Halloween she couldn't talk about anything else. And our family had been enlarged by the addition of Erik, a child from Detweiler's first marriage (sort of), and Brawny, the nanny who came along with the boy. (It's a long story. Trust me!)

Life was good. Really good, as life always is when you're surrounded by family and friends.

"Tell me," said Johnny. "What's got your tail feathers in such a twist, little birdie?"

"It's that crop," said Clancy, shaking her head. "That's all Kiki's been thinking about."

"What's so special about this one? You do one of them, crop-thingies, two times a week, don't you? It's like a quilting party, but y'all work on your scrapbooks, right?" Johnny scratched his head.

"Sort of," I said. "But this one's a really big deal. It's a special pre-Halloween crop to raise money for diabetes."

"That's good," said Johnny. "Really good. What a purely awful disease."

"Right," said Detweiler, "but she's driving herself crazy working and working too hard. That's why I suggested that we do something fun."

I nodded. “But I'm not interested in being jumped at, touched, or grabbed in the dark by people I didn’t know. Especially if they’re dressed like Frankenstein or the Mummy or even Count Dracula. Ugh."

"But dressing in a costume has a certain appeal," said Clancy.

"Some," I admitted.

"Just think," said Johnny. "You could dress up like Annie Oakley. Especially since you're such an expert with a gun."

I don’t like being teased, especially about the fact that I shot my husband's murderer in the head. It hadn't been pretty. It hadn't been empowering. I didn’t get a rush like I did when I heard Dirty Harry say, "Make my day." No, all I felt was sad.

To get through the experience, I reminded myself that it had been necessary. Otherwise Johnny and I wouldn’t be standing here today. I didn't like thinking about it, and Johnny was getting on my nerves.

Detweiler sensed this and put one hand on my shoulder in solidarity.

"I did what I had to do so we could survive," I said, trying to keep the irritation out of my voice. "This is different. You all are talking about getting your wits scared out of you as a form of recreation. If that’s your idea of a good time, have at it, go ahead, love you to bits, but I’m taking a pass."

"Down girl! Don't get all het up," said Johnny.

"It's the stress talking," said Clancy. "She's been working like a fiend on that charity crop."

"True," I said.

"All the more reason to plan something fun," said Johnny.

"Also true."

"As much as I hate to cut this short, I also need to get to work," said Detweiler. "Kiki, if you don’t want to visit a haunted house, we’ll find another way to have enjoy the holiday. No problem, babe."

Yeah, but it would be a problem. I was being a real party pooper, and I knew it.

 

Chapter 2

 

Clancy was right. The Halloween Crafting Spook-tacular, our charity crop for diabetes, was driving me nuts.

With off-site crops, there were a lot of moving parts that have to align for us to have a good time. Since this was a fundraiser, the moving parts had to thought out carefully. We couldn’t afford to waste a cent. The event had to make a splash, or people wouldn't shell out their coins to come. It had to appeal to scrapbookers, cardmarkers, and papercrafters of all ilk. The location had to be a "wow." The entertainment doubly so. The "make and take" portion—the actual crafts we'd be teaching our guests—had to be unique, simple to do, but cool enough that they wouldn't bore our regular store clientele to tears. And last, but definitely not least…we had to have food. Really, really good food.

After considering all our options, there was really only one place worthy of kicking off our big event, and that was the Lemp Mansion. The mansion has a history of misery second to none.

          In 1876, beer baron William J. Lemp and his wife Julia moved in, turning the thirty-three room house into a showplace. Lemp also decided to use his home as his office, taking advantage of a tunnel extending from the house to the caves under St. Louis. These naturally occurring storage shelters provided the refrigeration so vitally important to the brewing process.

Thanks to a series of shrewd business decisions made by William, the Falstaff brand expanded from a local brew to a label enjoyed around the world. Although the Lemps were thriving financially, unbeknownst to William and Julia, their fourth son, Frederick, had significant health problems. When Frederick died from complications, William shot himself in despair.

William J. Lemp, Jr. ("Billy") took over the family business. He and his wife Lillian, nicknamed the "Lavender Lady," moved into the Lemp Mansion. An acrimonious divorce followed. Billy was granted only visitation rights to see his son, William III. Two years later, Prohibition dealt a harsh blow to the business, and Billy was forced to sell first the trademark name, and then the brewery.

Meanwhile, after suffering her own marital problems, Billy's sister shot herself. Two years later, Billy shot himself in his office inside the mansion. And two decades later, the last Lemp to live in the mansion, Charles, shot his dog and then himself in the head.

In 1980, Life magazine named the Lemp Mansion one of the nine most haunted houses in the country. Since then both the Discovery and the Travel Channel have given the Lemp Mansion a nod for being terrifying.

Since I'm such a Chicken Little, I decided that we'd visit the Lemp Mansion while it was still daylight, walk one block to The Old Social Hall, an event space that had once been exactly as its name implied. There we would have an actress, Faye Edorra, pose as the Lavender Lady herself and entertain us with ghost stories.

          You can't have a crop without food. It's simply not done. Although my dear friend Cara Mia Delgatto had moved to Florida, I still relied on her family restaurant for most of our catering needs. Recently a young woman named Angela Orsini had been promoted to the post of catering manager. Angela and I had worked up a fun menu for the charity crop. The Old Social Hall had a kitchen, so we were good to go. We would crop in one room and then adjourn to a second room to eat. That would keep food and drink away from paper products, preventing the predictable problems of spillage.

          Once those details were in place, I turned my attention to the crafting portion of our crop. Here at Time in a Bottle, we've garnered a bit of a reputation for coming up with unique, totally superb "make-and-take" sessions. The name evolved from the idea that you could "make" something and "take" it home with you after the event. But we took the concept one step further. All of our make-and-take sessions also taught our customers a new skill or technique. And all of them were original. After attending one of our crops, people actually talked about our sessions for weeks, making them one of our best marketing tools.

After our impromptu "how do you solve a problem like Halloween?" meeting broke up, and I went back to planning the creative portion of the event.

In fact, I was hunched over a project at my worktable when a finger tapped me on the shoulder. The gesture so startled me so much that I nearly fell off my stool.

"A little jumpy? Good thing I didn't yell, 'Boo!'" Laurel Wilkins, another co-worker and friend, pulled up a stool so she could join me. "Are you doing anything special for Halloween? Besides our Halloween Crafting Spook-tacular? Something that involves costumes?"

"Um, we were just talking about that earlier," I said. "Why?"

"Well," she looked down at the tabletop and drew a circle with the tip of her finger. "I actually have a guy I've been wanting all of you to meet."

This was big news. Usually Laurel is very quiet about her personal life. In fact, Clancy and I have discussed the fact that we know very little about her. I mean, she's sweet and wonderful, and she looks like a movie star, but Laurel never talks about her history or what she does outside of work.

I glanced around and saw Clancy standing by a display unit taking inventory. A slight tilt of her head told me that she was listening in to our conversation. This was an opportunity not to be missed to know Laurel better.

"We talked about visiting a haunted house. There are so many of them popping up." Now that Laurel wanted to join us, I had to agree to do something. Anything! So I floated the idea, although I suggested it reluctantly.

"Who's we?" Laurel's ears perked up.

"Detweiler, Clancy, Johnny, and me. But I have to be honest. I hate being scared half out of my wits. Besides, I'd like to do something that would include Anya and Erik," I said. "Although since he’s only five, I'm not sure how he'd feel about something so spooky. I suppose I could leave him home with Brawny, but that doesn't seem right."

Bronwyn Macavity is the nanny who came to us with Erik. Her salary is taken care of by Erik's aunt. She's been a real godsend because she drives the kids around and cooks for us, as well as serving as a 24/7 babysitter. But she's also part of the family. At least, that's the way Detweiler and I see it. We like to include her as much as possible.

Laurel nodded. "I wouldn’t want to exclude Erik or Brawny. So it has to be something sort of family oriented. I know you are trying hard to make Erik feel comfortable. He’s been through so much already."

"Look, I don’t want to be a party pooper. You all could go to a haunted house. Take Anya along with. I’ll stay home with Erik and Brawny."

Of course, I didn’t mean a word of that. I would hate to be left out, but it did seem like giving everyone else permission to go without me was the gracious thing to do.

"I understand how you feel, Kiki," said Laurel, patting me on the shoulder. "I like costumes, but I don't like things that are too gruesome. Don’t worry. We’ll think of something fun to do. I just hate to let the holiday go by without having a little Halloween-type get together."

Clancy came over from her spot by the display unit. "Look, Kiki, we wouldn’t enjoy ourselves if you didn’t come with us. We've all been working hard. Too hard. We’ll make another plan. I’ve never been overly fond of haunted houses either. Some of them are okay, but I was in one where this hand reached out and grabbed—"

 

A Halloween Close Call: A Kiki Lowenstein Novella © 2010 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 the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

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