Excerpt from Shotgun, Wedding, Bells (Kiki Lowenstein #11)

Excerpt from

SHOTGUN, WEDDING, BELLS

(Book #11 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series)

By Joanna Campbell Slan

Chapter 1

Detective Chandler Louis Detweiler took my hand and helped me up the last step of the gazebo. Standing side-by-side, we faced the minister, our friend Lorraine. I loved feeling of his shoulder against mine, strong and solid, a reminder of the way we intended to live our lives.

          "Not too bad for a wedding thrown together in forty-eight hours," he whispered in my ear.

He was right. I hadn't had much time to plan our wedding, although I had been planning to marry Chad Detweiler ever since I met him nearly three years ago. I kept telling myself that the ceremony was only a formality, but deep down, I wanted to wear a wedding band again. And even if the marriage didn't matter to us—to Detweiler and me—it mattered terribly to our two kids, and to the baby who would make his appearance less than a month from now.

          In fact, one could argue that we'd hurried to the chapel because of the bump in my belly. Initially I'd planned to start working on a ceremony immediately after Christmas, because business would slow down in my retail store. Detweiler and I had even talked about flying our whole family to Las Vegas, until my friend Clancy Whitehead shook her head and said, "Uh, you're eight months along. They don't allow people that pregnant on a plane."

          Oops.

          Who knew?

          So I'd tabled the whole project, noted it in my calendar for revisiting after December 25, and I would have put the idea out of my head, except for something Erik said.

          Have you ever noticed that when riding in the back seat of the car, kids come up with the darnedest things? After I picked five-year-old Erik and his sister, thirteen-year-old Anya, up from the house that my sisters share with my mother, he explained to me that because Detweiler and I weren't married, our son would be a "littermate."

          "A littermate?" I glanced back in the rearview mirror. Erik's solemn face stared at me. His chocolate brown eyes, his mocha-colored skin, and his red hair a testimony to his biracial beginnings. He might not be the child of my womb, but he's certainly the child of my heart. I adore that little boy.

          "I don't understand what you mean, sweetie," I said to him.

          Anya turned from her seat on the passenger side, she rolled her eyes and explained, "He means i-l-l-e-g-i-t-i-m-a-t-e."

          It took me a while to put those letters into a world. When I did, I almost drove off the road. "Uh, Erik, honey? Who was talking to you about the baby being a ...littermate?"

          "Grandma Collins," he said.

          "That figures."

          My mother. That paragon of parenthood.

          I gritted my teeth. That did it. My Mom moved one step closer to an apartment in assisted living. In fact, the only problem with putting her there immediately was financial. Because she'd only recently transferred her assets to my sister, Amanda, any facility that accepted her could access her savings. My sister had been begging my mother for years to transfer her money into Amanda's name. My mother would respond by getting angry and saying, "I'm perfectly capable of handling my own finances. How do I know you won't steal me blind?"

          Over the past year, Mom's physical and mental health had declined dramatically. The three of us siblings—Catharine, Amanda and I—talked at least once a week about what to do next. Not only was Mom meaner than a water moccasin with a sunburned belly, she'd also fallen twice. My sister Catherine ran out for a carton of milk and came back to a fire in the kitchen. Mom had turned on the oven and forgotten about it.

          A peculiar smell emanated from my mother's room. Amanda took her out for lunch, while Catherine and I investigated. We found a small pumpkin shoved in the back of her closet. Since Halloween was nearly three months ago, the pumpkin had not fared well.

          In the area of personal hygiene, Mom was also slipping, fast.

          But this calling my child "illegitmate" marked a new low, even for her.

          I told myself to shrug it off. To consider the source. But Anya turned her denim blue eyes on me and said, "She's right, Mom."

          "Don't worry," I said. "Detweiler and I still have plenty of time to tie the knot."

          Two hours later, the contractions started.

~To Be Continued~

Shotgun, Wedding, Bells will be available for pre-order early January 2015.

Excerpt from Handmade, Holiday, Homicide

Book #10 in the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series

 

by Joanna Campbell Slan

 

 

 

Chapter 1

 

People think that being pregnant is all about your growing belly, but the truth is, it also messes with your head. It's like for every inch my waistband expands, I lose ten points of my IQ. Maybe it's because I don't get much sleep anymore. My skin itches, the baby pokes me with his feet, and the indigestion causes a burning in my throat. Don't even get me started on the hormones. Whatever the scientific reason for my brain fog, I'm just not as sharp as usual.

My fiancé Detective Chad Detweiler and I were lying in bed talking one night a couple of weeks before Christmas, when he said, "I've been thinking about baby names."

"Oh, you have?"

"Yes, in fact, I've been giving it a lot of thought. I think we ought to name our son Helmut Detweiler."

Thank goodness it was dark. I could feel my mouth flop open. I couldn't believe what he was saying. "Name our son what?"

"Helmut Englebert Detweiler. That's a good, strong German name."

I couldn't even respond; I was that stunned.

Detweiler continued, "We could call him Mutt for short."

I gasped.

"Mutt Detweiler. It has a certain ring to it," he said.

The bed started shaking.

Detweiler was laughing.

"You!" I pummeled him with my fists. "You had me going."

"Yeah," he said, chuckling. "You believed me!"

I sighed. "Wow. For a minute there, I was really worried."

Detweiler rolled over and raised himself on his elbows so he could stare down at me. "You shouldn't have been. You know I can't name our kid without your approval."

"And you guessed I wouldn't be in favor of Mutt."

"Yeah, I guessed."

I raised my head to meet his lips and kissed him. "Well, you guessed right."

Chapter 2

Wednesday, December 1

 

"My fingers are crossed," I whispered, holding up my right hand, while Ester grabbed my left. I leaned over my friend to tell her granddaughter, "Good luck, Caitlyn!"

All eyes watched the front of the room, as the representative from the St. Louis Art Museum stepped to the podium.

"Now the moment we've all been waiting for. I'm pleased to announce the winner of this year's Demski Award, including a four-year scholarship to Indiana University in Bloomington, Indiana," he said, smoothing his red and navy silk tie nervously. A volunteer handed him an envelope, and I sneaked another peek at Caitlyn. Like her grandmother, Ester Field, she has a round face and vivid blue eyes. Caitlyn was biting her lower lip in anticipation, and I couldn't blame her. This scholarship meant the world to her. It also meant a pile of money, as it would trade the winner's piece of art for a four year, all expenses paid scholarship.

Caitlyn had inherited her grandmother's love of crafting. In fact, it was Ester who started the Crafting Cuties twenty years ago, two years before Caitlyn was born. Since then the number of members had dwindled to four regulars, but even so, the CC enjoyed themselves. They got together once a month to work on projects and to share craft ideas. Okay, some of their end products were corny, but many were very nice. The women offered each other a great support network. Caitlyn had grown up at her grandmother's knee, trying her hand at all sorts of crafts.

Eventually, she'd settled on sculpting.

To the left of us was Caitlyn's entry for the Demski Award, the highest honor you could achieve as an art student in the metro-St. Louis area. On a three-foot high plinth sat the sculpture of a girl walking beside a lion as her one hand rested on its mane. How Caitlyn had pulled off such a remarkable piece was beyond all my imaginings. Ester told me that her granddaughter had spent day after day at the St. Louis Zoo watching the lions, studying them, and sketching them as they moved around their enclosure. I wouldn't doubt it. A lot of student work is derivative, and frankly, it looks second generation, but Caitlyn's "Girl with a Lion" fairly vibrated with life. She had managed to capture both the majesty of the king of beasts, and the innocence of the young woman.

Rising above us on its column, the statue was truly breath-taking.  Since I'm short, I found myself staring up into the jaws of the lion, admiring the sharp teeth and the curl of his tongue. The details impressed me, from the furled edges of his lips as they bordered his mouth to the way his heels hovered over the platform. Lions are digitigrades or toewalkers, so the backs of their feet never touch the ground. Caitlyn had taken such care with his mane and the tuft of his tail that you could make out the individual strands of hair. Unthinkingly, I leaned in, trying to see her work more closely.

"Please stand back, ma'am," said a guard wearing a navy blue uniform.

"Sorry." I stepped away from the artwork and turned my full attention to the presentation. The small meeting room was packed with people, all waiting to hear who had won the scholarship. The work of six students was represented, but Caitlyn's was the only three-dimensional piece of art. That alone made it a winner in my book, but honestly, I couldn't imagine that the judges weren't impressed by her effort.

 The presenter jammed his finger under the flap of the envelope. No one made a sound. Even Eudora, Ester's sister, was quiet for once. That's really saying something, because Eudora needs to be the center of attention. When I tried to teach the Crafting Cuties about Zentangle, Eudora had refused to shut up. I had to talk over her to give my instructions.

But that had been the least of the problems that Eudora had caused. When I asked her to be careful and move away from the display table, Eudora laughed. Two seconds later, she dumped a large plastic cup of cola all over my work, carelessly pouring her favorite beverage over my pen and ink drawings.

I glanced over to see what Eudora was up to. She sat perfectly still in her motorized scooter on the outskirts of the crowd. When the gentleman stepped to the podium, the group had taken two steps forward, closer to the front of the room. Everyone wanted to hear what he had to say, and even with a microphone in front of them, sometimes people forget to talk into it.

I studied Eudora for a minute and noted the surly tilt of her chin. Given how nasty she was, it was hard to believe that Ester and Caitlyn were part of the same family. Like her sister and her grand-niece, Eudora had a round face, but her eyes were a cross between green and blue. But none of Eudora's features could be thought of as kind, because as far as I could tell, she didn't have a kind bone in her body. Thinking back, I couldn't remember hearing her say one kind word to anybody.

Fortunately, Eudora seemed to have realized this was Caitlyn's time to shine, because for once, her lips were sealed. She sat there pouting on the padded seat of her motorized scooter and stared straight ahead.

The ripping of paper took my attention back to the man on the podium. He'd jammed his finger under the flap of the envelope. Now he extracted a notecard and scanned the message. Clearing his throat, the presenter said, "I'm pleased to announce that this year's Demski Art Scholarship goes to—"

I squeezed Ester's hand.

"Caitlyn Robinson!"

"Oh! Oh! Oh!" Caitlyn threw her hand over her mouth. Tears sprang from her eyes as she turned to Ester. "Bubbie, can you believe it? Thank you, thank you for encouraging me. I would have never tried for this without you!"

The two women, old and young, grabbed each other in a happy embrace.

Over the hubbub of the crowd, I heard a motor rev.

What idiot chose to vacuum the carpet? I wondered.

"Congratulations, Caitlyn," said another young artist, a young woman coming up from behind to give Caitlyn a hug.

The motor revved again. This time louder.

"Way to go, Caitlyn!" said a spotty-faced boy as he clapped the winner on the back.

Caitlyn blushed a deep crimson. "Thanks, Eitan."

"Stop it, ma'am," said a deep voice behind us.

I didn't care to turn around and look at the mischief maker. Instead, all my energy was focused on Caitlyn as she graciously accepted one congratulations after another. To my joy, the losers all seemed happy for the girl. Most of them even admitted that she was by far the most worthy candidate for the Demski.

"Can you believe it?" Ester wiped her eyes with a shaking hand. "My grandbaby's work will be here in the art museum for everyone to see and enjoy. Best of all, she'll be able to go away to college. She's been wanting to go to U of I ever since I took her down to Brown County to see all the artists. I hate to have her so far away, but she'll get a good education there. Maybe even be able to make a living doing what she loves."

"It's unbelievable," I agreed, thinking back and remembering the beautiful album Ester had made of the trip she and her granddaughter had taken together. "That statue is fantastic. I took a few good photos of it. I can't wait to show my fri—"

But my sentence was interrupted by a loud crash.

All of us turned toward the noise.

"Ahh!" screamed a woman.

The crowd parted.

On the floor, in a million pieces, was Caitlyn's statue.

Right beside the mess sat Eudora Field. She had both hands on the steering wheel of her scooter, and she wore a great big grin on her face.

 

< > < > < >

 

Pre-order your copy today! Go to http://www.tinyurl.com/HandmadeHH for a December 15, 2014 release.

Kiki Lowenstein and the Penny Pincher (Part 3)

By Joanna Campbell Slan

Editor’s Note: In Parts 1 and 2, Kiki Lowenstein, owner of Time in a Bottle, has been teaching a two-session class called “The Double-Dip.” This week, her customers brought in one of their favorite dessert recipes, a photo of the dessert, and the recipe to use in an 8- by 8-inch cookbook album. There's a bit of friction in the group because Iona Lippman and Lisa Ferguson both claim to make an outstanding red velvet cake—and now Iona's recipe has gone missing! To make matters worse, Kiki's customers have also challenged her come up with thrifty ways to scrapbook. Kiki has her hands full with this group. You can read Part 1 here http://tinyurl.com/pennypinchpart1 and Part 2 here http://tinyurl.com/pennyp2

Iona threw up her hands and kept screaming. "Where's my red velvet cake recipe? Who took it? Someone stole it from me!"

"Calm down," I said, making placating motions with my hands. "It has to be around here somewhere, Iona. You know how things get covered up by papers. Or they get swept off the table inadvertently. Let's not go accusing anyone of mischief."

With that bold pronouncement of my faith in human beings, and scrapbookers in particular, I put myself in a ticklish spot. The burden of finding her recipe card now rested squarely on my shoulders.
For the next 30 minutes, we tore the class area apart. All of the classmates participated in the treasure hunt. We went through piles of paper, one sheet at time. We looked in the copier. We opened the paper bags I had taped to each cropper's work space. I even got down on my hands and knees and crawled around on the floor. When the recipe card didn't show up, I expanded our search area. When I bought Time in a Bottle, we didn't have enough space for our classes. The display shelves took up all the available room. To make enough space for our sessions, I'd put those same display shelves on wheels so they could be rolled to one side. Now, I rolled the shelves this way and that, scouring the store for the missing 3- by 5-inch card.

"You don't understand," said Iona, with a hitch in her voice. "That recipe has been in my family for generations. We've passed it down from mother to daughter. I can't go home without it. I just can't!"
She started howling with misery, while her friend Avery Ailes patted her consolingly on the shoulder.
Clancy sidled over to me and whispered in my ear, "You can’t win. You realize that, don't you? If you search each of our customers for the card, you're admitting someone probably took it. If you don't, you're letting someone walk away with Iona's recipe. Either way, people are going to be mad at you. They'll talk about this, and they'll take it out on the store."

My friend was right. And I had no idea what to do next.

"How about if I share a few thrifty ideas for albums?" I said, in an overly perky voice. "Let's give ourselves time to think. Maybe the recipe will show up. In fact, I'll even offer a sweetener. The person who finds the recipe will get a $50 gift certificate to the store."

Yes, it was a lot of money, but I was desperate to save my store's reputation. The potential bribe worked. The women all took their seats and listened intently.

"We all know how expensive albums can be," I said. "And normally I'd be the last person discouraging you from buying a pricey album to showcase your prized family photos."
At that, my customers chuckled.

The sound relaxed me just a little, and I continued, "Sometimes you aren't scrapbooking to create an heirloom. In the immortal words of that wise woman Cyndi Lauper, 'Girls just want to have fun,' right? Having fun doesn't necessarily mean you need an expensive binder for your layouts.”

"There are a lot of other ways you can collect and display your photos.” I described and displayed many examples. “A child's board book—use sandpaper to scuff up the shiny pages. That'll make gluing new paper over them much easier. Catalogs and magazines—glue together 4 or 5 thin pages, cover these with nice paper, and decorate them. Paper bags—stack four lunch bags on top of each other, alternating the open side. Fold them in half. Open them up to reveal the fold line. Stitch them together at the fold line. Fabric—Cut pieces of pre-washed cotton fabric in a 12- by 12-inch size or larger. Stack them and sew them together down one of the edges. Cover that edge with bias binding. Glue your photos directly onto the material. Toilet paper roll cones—flatten them, stack them, and punch holes in one of the short ends. Thread them together with ribbon or a metal ring clip. Each cone can act as a page or a pocket. Ring binders—buy a package of 8- by 11-inch page protectors and treat the ring binders like you would any other album. Drink coasters—punch a hole in them and attach them to each other pearl necklace-style with twine, or ribbon or metal rings. Either cover the coasters with paper or paint them with gesso."

I paused to see how my ideas were going over. My customers were frantically taking notes. The samples I'd put together were being examined with great enthusiasm. Maybe the entire evening wasn't going to be a bust after all.

But how was I going to find that missing recipe? Right then, the front door swung open.

"Don't look now, but the cavalry has finally arrived," said Clancy, and in walked my fiancé, Detective Chad Detweiler.

Editor’s note: Be sure to check out the final installment of this short story in the winter issue of Chicagoland Scrapbooker and on this blog. Can Detective Detweiler figure out who swiped Iona’s family recipe? And can he do it without making all the scrapbookers mad at Kiki? What makes that recipe so fabulous anyway? We have a fabulous red velvet cake recipe to share with you!

Joanna Campbell Slan is the author of the Kiki Lowenstein Mystery Series, featuring a scrapbooking mom. To see a list of all of Joanna’s books and short stories, go to http://tinyurl.com/JoannaSlan. Follow her on Facebook for more great crafting ideas at www.facebook.com/JoannaCampbellSlan.

Kiki Lowenstein and the Bad Day (Final Installment)

Note: I asked my Facebook peeps to suggest starting sentences for a Kiki Lowenstein short story. There were so many terrific ideas that I have decided to try to incorporate more than one –and write a progressive short story. You'll be reading this as I create it! Wish me luck!

Note: This short story comes before Ready, Scrap, Shoot—and Kiki is six weeks pregnant.

Summary: In last four weeks’ installments—Kiki walked into Time in the Bottle only to discover papers scattered everywhere. Detective Chad Detweiler arrived to pronounce the store “safe,” but Kiki’s still wondering what’s up. Her co-worker Margit has shown up and reminded Kiki that she needs a great idea for May to boost their sales. As she’s pondering what to do, Teresa Alvarez stops in to drop off a gift for Kiki. Teresa is planning to become a US citizen on May 5, but her joy is diminished because her cousin Juanita cannot afford the increased fees for citizenship applications. Seeking to change the subject, Kiki opens her present, which includes white chocolate tamales and several cascarones, the brightly colored eggs used to celebrate the arrival of Spring. When Juanita leaves, Kiki is still stuck with her original problem. She needs to create a special event and use up all the shredded paper found in the backroom. Plus, now she’s pondering how to raise money to help Teresa’s sister Juanita, who wants to apply for citizenship.

By the way, you can read Installments #1, 2, 3 and 4 by going to older posts on this blog.

          Detweiler came by as I was leaving work. His dad had asked him to drive over to the farm because he needed help with his new computer, and of course, he was willing to go with my blessing. I stood there, hugging him, just looking into his eyes and wondering what he sees.*

           My daughter Anya called to ask if she could spend the night at her grandmother’s house because she wanted to watch The Game of Thrones on Sheila’s big screen TV.

          “That leaves you and me, girlfriend,” I told Gracie, my Great Dane.

          Since he’s moved in, Detweiler has done most of the cooking, so I shouldn’t have been surprised to find that all we had in the refrigerator were six uncooked eggs, a potato, a few broccoli florets, and an onion. He’s such a fresh-freak that he buys whatever he’s cooking on his way to the house. I’m a last minute, if-it-slows-down-I’ll-eat-it, sort of girl.

          Studying the eggs, I thought about the cascarones. After washing a craft knife, I opened one end of the shells and dumped the yolks and whites into a bowl. Next I rinsed the eggshells out and set them aside to dry in the Styrofoam egg carton.

          Then I made myself a frittata and went to bed.

          I ate the leftovers the next day for breakfast. I just knew that this day was going to be different; I could feel it in my heart! ** I still hadn’t conjured up a great idea for our store, but I was in a pretty good mood when Gracie and I arrived at Time in a Bottle. All that changed in the blink of an eye when I discovered yet another pile of shredded paper. 

“Woof!” Gracie shot across the backroom floor, jerking her leash out of my hands.

“What on earth?” I ran after her, noting as I did that the entire floor was covered with torn papers.

“Woof! Woof!” She danced and pranced on her hind legs, pawing at the metal shelf units. From the top shelf, a gray head with bright brown eyes peered at us. A squirrel! And he was not happy we’d invaded his territory.

I went over to the desk in Dodie’s office and called Critter Control. Once I explained the problem, they promised to send a man over right away. “Do not engage the rodent, ma’am. Leave him to us.”

“You aren’t going to kill it, are you?” I rubbed my baby bump as tears prickled behind my eyes. Gosh, but hormones make me weepy.

The dispatcher assured me that they had a catch and release program.

After convincing Gracie that a dog yummy was a far, far better treat than raw squirrel on the run, I walked her to the front of the store and turned on my computer. Drat. Now I had more shredded paper to contend with, a bill coming for squirrel removal, and no idea how to entertain my scrapbookers.

So I piddled around on the Internet, deciding to look up the history of cascarones. There I learned that the idea is thought to have been brought from Asia by Marco Polo. The trinkets were filled with perfume and to have one broken over your head is supposed to be “good luck.” Typically these activities are enjoyed at Easter.

But every custom can be revised to fit the times, can’t it? I wondered to myself. By the time I let Barney, the Critter Control guy, into our backroom, I had the inkling of a plan.

#

“Wow! A Cinco de Mayo party! What a brilliant crop idea!” said Bonnie Gossage, my dear pal and sometimes legal counselor.

“Actually, this is the pre-party,” I admitted. “We’re going to fill the empty eggshells with homemade confetti.”

I’d enlisted the help of five of my best customers for this job. They sat next to me at my work table awaiting instructions. Over the past few weeks, I’d begged everyone to empty their eggs gently, rinse out the shells, and drop them off at the store in their egg cartons. Eventually I collected twenty-five dozen eggshells. Detweiler and I colored them at home and let them dry. I gathered a variety of punches and a stack of papers, the same papers that had once been damaged by the squirrel. (For cleanliness sake, I’d simply cut off the yucky parts, sprayed them with Lysol, and ta-da! Clean, fresh paper. Or so I hoped!)

Bonnie, Julie Essler, Angie Folger, Jennifer Moore, and Lisa Brunswick had agreed to help me punch the papers into bits of confetti. Once we had a nice pile of bits, we spooned the confetti into our eggs and passed them along to a card table where Anya and Nicci Moore, Jennifer’s daughter, smoothed and glued bits of tissue paper over the open ends.

Into ten of the eggs, I carefully inserted a lottery ticket. Into another ten, there were coupons for discounts and five received gift certificates.

All in all, the assembly took about three hours, probably because we were having so much fun.

“See you all tomorrow!” I said as I escorted my friends to the front door.

#

What a grand time we had the next night! Twenty-four customers paid $25 a person to come to our special crop. In exchange for their money, they received supplies for a “make and take” scrapbook project, and five cascarones each. They could purchase additional cascarones for a dollar each. I’d priced out the “make and take” projects so that they wouldn’t cost a lot, but there are always expenses and overhead that must be considered, so I thought that giving a portion to Teresa was still fair.

Of course, the $25 fee also included a great meal! I made chocolate tamales for all our guests, Teresa brought two pots of her special Mexican rice, and Clancy made the fixings for tacos. For drinks, I bought margarita flavored Crystal Lite and iced tea. I ate until I thought my tummy would burst.

At the start of the crop, I had announced that half our proceeds would go to pay for Juanita’s citizenship application. An hour into the evening, we’d sold all the cascarones! We had more than enough for Juanita’s application, so I was able to announce that Time in a Bottle was also donating an additional $100 to Juanita to help with her expenses.

“But remember, everyone. You have to promise not to smash your egg until midnight,” I told them. Every hour that went by, the anticipation grew. My customers were eager to see if they’d won a gift certificate or a lottery ticket. I’ll admit it was almost as much fun as Christmas because each woman had a white bowl heaped high with the brightly colored eggshells.

I’d set six alarm clocks to go off at the stroke of midnight. Clang-clang-clang! What a clatter they made.

My customers began to giggle as they slapped their eggshells onto their own foreheads and later onto the heads of their neighbors.

Of course, Clancy and I got into the act, too. I slapped a blue egg against the crown of her head. Brightly colored confetti and a lottery ticket floated down.

“Woohooo!” she yelled. “My turn!”

And with great glee she smashed an egg against my head. To my shock, a cold gooey trickle slid down my forehead and dripped off my face.

“What?” I jumped up from my chair. “Clancy! How could you!”

She stuck her tongue out at me. “Got you back for that April Fool’s joke!”

Two dozen cameras clicked at once. My customers had been in on the prank!

Argh. But I had to laugh. This crop had started with a very, very bad day—and it was ending with a fun night. Egg-sactly what I’d hoped for!

--The End--

Thanks to:

*Dru Ann Love

**Pamela Hargraves

Kiki Lowenstein and the Bad Day (Part IV)

Note: I asked my Facebook peeps to suggest starting sentences for a Kiki Lowenstein short story. There were so many terrific ideas that I have decided to try to incorporate more than one –and write a progressive short story. You'll be reading this as I create it! Wish me luck!

Note: This short story comes before Ready, Scrap, Shoot—and Kiki is six weeks pregnant.

In last three weeks’ installments—Kiki walked into Time in the Bottle only to discover papers scattered everywhere. Detective Chad Detweiler arrived to pronounce the store “safe,” but Kiki’s still wondering what’s up. Her co-worker Margit has shown up and reminded Kiki that she needs a great idea for May to boost their sales. As she’s pondering what to do, Teresa Alvarez stops in to drop off a gift for Kiki. Teresa is planning to become a US citizen on May 5, but her joy is diminished because her cousin Juanita cannot afford the increased fees for citizenship applications. Seeking to change the subject, Kiki opens her present.

By the way, you can read Installments #1, 2, and 3 by going to older posts on this blog.

            I was stumped. I’d never heard of cascarones, and as I turned the delicate tissue paper covered egg around and around in my hand, I wasn’t sure what to make of it. Obviously, this gift required a bit of explanation. Pulling up a stool, I sat down. Teresa took another stool to sit beside me.

            She gently took my toy away from me. “Each spring in my little town in Mexico, we start to save eggshells. As we cook, we only open one end, rather than crush them.”

            With a finger, she traced the larger portion of the oval. Now that I was looking more carefully, I could see that it was covered with tissue paper and not solid. It was as if someone had done a repair job to the egg!

            “I see,” I said, taking it from her and marveling at the patch job. “This certainly is pretty. If you put them in a glass bowl on a table, they would make a wonderful centerpiece.”

            “Si, and we do that. But we have another use for them.” Once again, she took the egg from me.

            With a lightning strike, she smashed the egg into my forehead! I was so taken aback that I nearly fell off my stool. More shocking was the glitter and confetti that rained down over my nose! Of course, I’d anticipated a shower of gooey egg yolks and whites. This was dry. Ticklish. And startling.

            “Oh!” I gasped.

            She giggled. “Forgive me, but it’s the best way to explain. They are much fun. Especially so if you are not familiar with them. The children, they love them so much. But the grownups think they are fun, too.”

            As the confetti drifted down over my hands and lap, I started laughing. “Well! Thank you for teaching me something new.”

            After Teresa left, I went back to my work. When I took a bathroom break, I stuck my head in to check on Margit. She didn’t hear me approach; she was muttering darkly as she stared at our sales figures. “Kiki, I do not know what we will do. We need a special event for May. And that paper! It is ruined, I think. With it goes our profits.”

            As I lingered in the doorway, Clancy came in through the backdoor. She tilted her head to stare at me. “You’re covered in glitter.”

            I explained about the cascarones.

            “I wish I could have seen the expression on your face when Teresa smashed one on your head,” said Clancy.

            I bit back a laugh. Clancy was irked with me. For April Fool’s Day, I had tricked her into believing someone had poured ink all over our cash register. She’d thrown a hissy fit in front of two customers—and once she learned it was a gag, she’d been even more angry. Usually, she’s a great sport, but she takes herself a bit too seriously sometimes, and this (IMHO) was one of them.

            Margit shook her head. “Ja, that would have been funny.”

            But she didn’t sound amused.

            “What’s wrong?” Clancy asked.

            That gave Margit permission to complain about the shredded paper, the need for more sales, and the state of the ozone. About halfway through, I walked away. In general, my philosophy is (as Mert says) that one can never have too many friends. * But when your friends are nothing but grumps, well, they can go soak their heads. I started for the refrigerator and then remembered that I could no longer turn to my most necessary scrapbook supply, a six-pack of Diet Dr Pepper. ** Now that I was pregnant, I’d sworn off any artificial sweeteners. I reminded myself that my friends were one of life’s greatest blessings. Why, just last week, it was cold, dark and pouring rain when I suddenly heard a “Pow!” as my worn rear tire exploded. Since the highway was deserted, I’d phoned Clancy and she’d come to my rescue.*** And the week before, I’d had a terrifying dream that the doctor told me I was having twins! **** When I told Margit how scary that was, she’d put an arm around me and given me a hug.

            Soon I would be feeling my baby kick inside my swollen belly. ***** And this child would be born into a wonderful circle of friends.

            But why did they all have to be so grumpy? How come it was always MY responsibility to come up with a way to make money for our store? But then I shook off my bad mood. After all, I had nothing to complain about, especially compared to Teresa’s sister, Juanita. Now being deported, THAT was a problem.

            I sighed and sat down at my work table. There had to be a way I could fix everything. Okay, ALMOST everything. All I needed was to think…

TO BE CONTINUED…

 Special thanks to--

*Christy Egan

**Elizabeth B. Jensen

***Lynn Tondro Bisset

****Ginny Kiernan Dahlberg

*****Ellen McCaffrey

Kiki Lowenstein and the Bad Day (Part III)

 Note: I asked my Facebook peeps to suggest starting sentences for a Kiki Lowenstein short story. There were so many terrific ideas that I have decided to try to incorporate more than one –and write a progressive short story. You'll be reading this as I create it! Wish me luck!

Note: This short story comes before Ready, Scrap, Shoot—and Kiki is six weeks pregnant.

In last two weeks’ installments—Kiki walked into Time in the Bottle only to discover papers scattered everywhere. Detective Chad Detweiler arrived to pronounce the store “safe,” but Kiki’s still wondering what’s up. Her co-worker Margit has shown up and reminded Kiki that she needs a great idea for a crop in May. As she’s pondering what to do, Teresa Alvarez stops in to drop off a gift for Kiki. Teresa is planning to become a US citizen on May 5.

“Yes, do open the gift,” said Teresa, but her smile faltered just a little.  Her lovely brown eyes swam with tears. As always, she dressed simply in inexpensive jeans and a colorful knit blouse. But large gold hoops swayed in her ears and a silk flower caught her hair so that it was pinned up over one ear. Her distinctive fragrance was vanilla, so warm and wholesome that I couldn’t help but breath deeply and enjoy it.

            “What’s wrong?” I asked.

            “It is nothing.” She brushed away my question with a tiny gesture of her hand.

            As tempting as it was to open the bag and dive right into the gift, I hesitated. “Come on, Teresa. What’s up? Come on over and sit down. Would you like a Coke?”

            “A Diet Dr Pepper?”

            I laughed, “You know that we stock those, although I’m envious because I’m drinking water these days. Have a seat at my work table.”

            After we’d had a sip of our drinks, I tried to steer us back to the topic at hand. “So what’s bothering you, Teresa? I know it’s been a long road to citizenship. You’re almost there, and we’re all very happy for you.”

            “Si, but my sister Juanita planned to apply with me, and she can’t. The cost of the application has gone up. So much! It is now $680! And if it is denied, she cannot get it back. Instead, she thinks she will only renew her green card. That will cost her $450 and those are almost never turned down. She says she cannot afford to gamble so much. I say, but you could be sent back to Mexico! Yes, she says but if she goes, at least she will go take a little money with her to her family. Her husband has diabetes and has not worked in two years.”

            I had no idea it cost even to apply for citizenship, so I sat there feeling stunned and sad. My own sister Amanda had recently re-entered my life. I counted her a great blessing. She and I had both grown up in the years we’d been semi-estranged. We realized that we’d harbored mistaken impressions of each other’s life. Of course, my mother had been particularly unhelpful in reuniting us.

I blinked and my mind flashed on a vision of my cute cop-of-a-boyfriend, Chad Detweiler.* I remembered something he’d said just two mornings ago, “I only have five socks here.** But knowing you, you’ll take that odd one and make something wonderful with it. That’s what I love about you, Kiki. You always make lemons into lemonade.”

“That’s me. Trouble follows me everywhere, so I’ve gotten a lot of practice at turning frowns into smile,” I’d said as I stood on tiptoe to kiss him. *** As I looked into his eyes, I could feel that he was just as in love with me as I was with him. ****

“Good old Mom. Even if it was a dark and stormy night, she’d find a way to be happy about it.***** These days, she’s a regular Suzy Sunshine,” my daughter Anya had chimed in and we all laughed.

“Yes, I do think I’m all that!” I’d yelled as I slammed the door and started my shower. ****** I could hear Chad and Anya giggling on the other side, and it pleased me to no end.

            But a soft hiccup from Teresa brought me back to the here and now as she shed a few more tears. I patted her hand, a totally useless gesture, but what else could I do?

            “And my sister? She is expecting. It makes me so sad because my children will not grow up with hers if she is sent back.”

            Call me hormonal, because I am, but I burst into tears at that.

            “You better open the bag,” she said as she wiped her face. “Because you need to cheer up. I did not mean to upset you, Kiki.  Your little baby will suffer if you worry too much, my friend.”

            “Okay.” I never needed much coaxing to tear open a present. This time I lifted one crumpled sheet of tissue paper after another out and set them carefully on my work table. They formed a happy rainbow at my elbow. Near the bottom of the bag, I found a small tinfoil packet that I unwrapped carefully. Inside were a dozen white chocolate tamales.” I squealed with delight. “Love these!”

            “I know you do! There is more.” She clapped her hands together in shared delight.

            I lifted out more crumpled pieces until I found a Styrofoam egg carton taped shut.

            “Open it!” Teresa laughed.

            I did. Inside where a dozen brightly colored eggs.

            “Hard-boiled?” I asked.

            “No! Cascarones!”

MORE TO COME and thanks to my co-authors--

*Elizabeth B. Jensen

**Bette Jaker Barr

***Stephanie Craig

****Sue Payne

*****Mary Schlumpf

******Vera Lynn

Kiki Lowenstein and the Bad Day (Part 2)

Note: I asked my Facebook peeps to suggest starting sentences for a Kiki Lowenstein short story. There were so many terrific ideas that I have decided to try to incorporate more than one -- and write a progressive short story. You'll be reading this as I create it! Wish me luck!

Note: This short story comes before Ready, Scrap, Shoot—and Kiki is six weeks pregnant.

In last week’s installment—Kiki walked into Time in the Bottle only to discover papers scattered everywhere. Detective Chad Detweiler arrived to pronounce the store “safe,” but Kiki’s still wondering what’s up. Now her friend Margit has shown up for work.

Margit Eichen, my co-worker, blinked at me from behind her sparkling cats’ eye glasses and solemnly looked around at the strewn papers. “What a mess!”

“You’ve got that right,” I said as I ushered Gracie into her doggy play pen. “How about if you open and I’ll clean this up. I have a feeling some of these are ruined. If so, I need to know how badly.”

Margit nodded. “Maybe you can do something with the ruined pieces, ja?”

“Right,” I said, trying to maintain a positive attitude. Between saying prayers for my unborn child and listening to my snoring oversized dog, I haven’t been sleeping well lately. Even with a full eight hours of shut-eye, this situation would be perplexing. As tired as I felt, I really wasn’t prepared to take on this unexpected challenge. *

A few of the papers looked fine, but many had suspiciously shredded edges, almost as if they’d been ripped as they sat in their thin plastic bindings. I sorted the papers into two groups. Because our culprit had chosen to destroy rainbow packs, I stared down at a damaged and an undamaged pile of bright yellow, bright blue, bright red, bright orange and bright green papers.

Hmmm. I knew from experience that if I let my subconscious work on the problem, it would come up with a solution, so I turned my attention to a project that Margit had accepted for me: a customized baby album. Since the child’s gender was unknown, the parents had requested that I create the album in shades of yellow and white. Starting it would be easy. The hardest part about doing a baby’s scrapbook is where does one stop? With the birth? The baptism or naming ceremony? You had to draw a line somewhere!**

There was also another new custom project set aside for me to tackle. These photos screamed to be put on a layout. But what paper? What design? I’m usually creative, but this one stumped me. ***Riffling through the pictures, I saw one image after another of a wedding ceremony held deep in a forest. I thought to myself, “What a perfect setting for a wedding!”****  

But most of the wedding-themed papers we sell are white or cream and very formal--and that would overwhelm these pictures. This bride wore a simple tunic-like dress and a sheer veil pinned to her auburn hair with a wreath of flowers. Her groom’s shirt, jacket and slacks were white linen, while his tie repeated the greens and browns of the scenery. It got me thinking about my own wedding. Would Detweiler ever officially propose? I mean, we’d talked about getting married. But in my romantic heart, I was hoping for him to go down on bended knee and ask.

My face must have given away my longings, because when Margit walked past me on her way to the restroom, she said, “Too many thoughts, ja?”

“Ja,” I agreed and I started pacing. I looked over at Gracie in her playpen. Those expressive brown eyes begged for a dog biscuit, so I fed her one and shared with her my “to do” list.  “First things first. I need an idea for an upcoming crop.”

When she didn’t respond, I rubbed Gracie’s big head. “You know, girlfriend, for the first time in a very long time, everything is finally going right in my life, except that I worry about how Time in a Bottle will run while I’m on maternity leave.” *****

Of course that was many months away, so again, I forced myself to tackle things one at a time. We needed a crop idea for the first week in May. Something new. Everyone does May baskets and May Day celebrations. I want us to go boldly where no scrapbook store has gone before!

Right then the door minder rang, so I trotted out front to greet our customer. Teresa Alvarez gave me a huge one-armed hug as I approached her because in her other hand, she carried a big bright pink shopping bag. “I have a special gift for you,” she said shyly. Teresa’s family came here illegally, and we’ve been cheering her on as she navigates the tricky waters to citizenship. “This is to celebrate. On May 5, I become US citizen!”

“Hurrah!” I cheered. “But what’s in the bag? Is it for me? Really? Can I open it now?”

 MORE TO COME...

Thanks to:

*Karen M. Rushton 

**Barbara Tobey

***De-Anne Trasker

****Stella Carsten
*****Mary Patricia Kennedy

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