Excerpt from Cara Mia Delgatto and the Thanksgiving Gift

Cara Mia Delgatto and the Thanksgiving Gift

Chapter 1

The first day of November

The Treasure Chest in Downtown Stuart, Florida

 

"Another beautiful fall day here in southeast Florida," said MJ Austin, my friend and full-time employee. She poured herself a fresh cup of coffee, the fragrances of vanilla and cinnamon mingled in the air. When I gestured with my empty cup, she poured me a warm-up.

While she had the pot in her hand, MJ cocked her head at Skye's cup. "Want some?"

"No, thanks. I'm drinking Yerba Mate," Skye said.

"Sorry I asked," said MJ. "That stuff is just plain nasty."

They are such a study in contrasts. While Skye's curls tumble down around her shoulders, MJ wears her hair pulled off of her face. They are both gorgeous women, both blonde, and very different from each other. I've been blessed to welcome them into my life. Doubly-blessed that they're my co-workers at the store.

"Granted, Yerba Mate isn't as tasty as coffee, but I like it," said Skye. "It gives me extra energy. I need it when I'm working an extra shift over at Pumpernickel's Deli."

"I hope you aren't racing over to the deli right away," I said. "We need to discuss the upcoming holiday. Specifically, how we can leverage Thanksgiving as a way to boost our sales."

The Treasure Chest is a décor and more shop, specializing in upcycled, recycled, and repurposed items. Most of our items have a sort of beach vibe to them.

There are two stumbling blocks on the road to our success.

One, we need to keep finding ways to turn trash into treasure. I don't have a lot of money to spend with vendors. I also don't have the time to wait for them to check my credit and process my order. That means we have to be come up with our own merchandise—and that takes a lot of creativity.

Two, we need to get people through the door. Once they see what we're offering, they're sure to make a purchase. That purchase will become one of many, if we do our job right.

"My shift doesn't start for another half an hour, so we're cool."

"I'm all ears," said MJ.

"Good. I made up an agenda." From the pocket of my Lilly Pulitzer skirt, I pulled out a list I'd printed neatly on a sheet from a legal pad of paper. "Item #1, thank you for coming."

That set my pals to snickering. We were sitting in the back room of my little store, The Treasure Chest, around a table that had become our natural gathering spot. Even though I'd officially called a meeting, the chances had been high Skye and MJ would have shown up anyway. Skye lives upstairs, on the second floor, in the apartment right next to mine. Effortlessly, our schedules have become synchronized. Most morning, we bump into each other on our way down the stairs.

MJ has a bungalow on the other side of town. I haven't seen it, but my fingers are crossed that one day she'll issue an invitation. She seems to have a sixth sense about when to show up at the store. Even on the days that she isn't scheduled, she often manages to pop in and see what's up.

"Please note that our response to Item #1 was we're happy to attend your meeting. We want this place to succeed almost as much as you do," said MJ.

"I couldn't have said it better." Skye gave MJ a high five.

"Then, let's move right along to Item #2. How are we going to keep this ship afloat over the holidays? Specifically, how are we going to fill our shelves—and what can we offer that's unique for Thanksgiving?"

 

Chapter 2

 

            The expectant faces now turned solemn.

"Unique for Thanksgiving?" Skye parroted my question. "You mean what can we offer that's just for the holiday? A one-time product?"

"Not exactly. I'm thinking we need merchandise that we can point to as being the perfect gift for a Thanksgiving hostess. Or something unique to put on the Thanksgiving table. Otherwise, we don't have anything new to promote. Seems to me that we have to keep changing up what we offer so we keep capturing the buying public's attention. We need to give them a reason to walk through our front door."

Right then, my rescue pup Jack started whining. I opened his crate and cuddled him under one arm. Jack and I met as a man threw the Chihuahua out of a moving truck. The dog has come a long way since then, growing in confidence even as his broken leg healed up. But once in a while, when he hears stress in my voice, he whimpers. I can't blame him.

"You're right," said MJ. "Back when XXX owned The Treasure Chest, she'd put a new display in the window and surround it with pumpkins and Indian corn. It wasn't much, but it always brought more foot traffic. The idea is to lure the customers in. They change the menu over at the deli, don't they?"

Skye nodded. "We're serving pumpkin bread, pumpkin pie, cider, bratwursts, butternut squash casserole, and other seasonal dishes. Cara, you're right. Folks love the new selections at the deli. It's a change of pace, I guess. That's all. But it's enough to give us servers something to brag about. A talking point, is what our boss called it."

"So what do we have to offer?"

Everyone was stumped. MJ played with one of her fake diamond earrings, twirling it around and around in her ear. Skye stared off into space while she rubbed the fabric of her black pants between her thumb and forefinger.

            "Don't everyone chime in at once," I said.

            They didn't.

            The silence went longer than I expected.

"Anyone? Anyone?" I tried channeling Ben Stein as the teacher in Ferris Buehler's Day Off, but I didn't get a response.

"Give us a day to think about it," said MJ. "Rome wasn't built in a day. You're springing this on us, and I need time to process."

She sounded a bit testy, but I knew why. MJ is supposed to be my retail guru, because she's worked in retail her whole life. But this slipped past her. Her lack of diligence disappointed me, and she knew it. In addition to twirling her earrings, she began tapping her toe on the floor impatiently. Like a fox that gets startled by an approaching dog, she wanted to run and hide in her burrow.

"Right," I said, as I folded the paper and put it back into my pocket. "That makes sense. Is twenty-four hours long enough?"

"Sure," said Skye.

"I guess," said MJ.

 

Chapter 3

 

            I needed to change the mood. No way did I want my friends going out and greeting the public with frowns on their faces. "Tell me everybody, what are you doing for Thanksgiving? Any special plans?"

            My voice sounded light and cheery because I felt happy about the upcoming holiday. My son Tommy is down the highway, attending University of Miami. He'd promised to come to Stuart for the weekend break.

            "I like it here, but it's not home," he'd complained. "I miss St. Louis. The leaves, Mom! Remember how cool they were? All the colors?"

            When my friends didn't volunteer their plans, I told them about Tommy's upcoming visit and then I added what he'd said about the leaves.

            "The drive to Kansas City had this dip, and you could see colors like a painter had mixed on his palette. Bittersweet, orange, fiery red, maroon, brown, gold. Tommy and I would make the drive just to get to that spot. It made our hearts sing. The maple in our front yard started turning first. He and I would rake up leaves and jump in them. When we were tired, we'd go inside and drink apple cider." I brushed a tear from my face. The memories cheered me and saddened me. That was my old life. Things had changed. Was it wrong of me to miss the sweet parts even as I enjoyed my new home?

            "We do have trees that change here," said Skye. "Sugar maples, sweet gum, and live oak, to name a few, but most of those are north of here."

            "But nothing changes here! You can't tell one season from another!" I said.

            "That's not true, Cara." Skye's voice was gentle but firm. "There are a lot of seasonal changes. You just don't know what to look for. Not yet at least."

"What would you do back home?" asked MJ. "What would make your son feel less homesick for St. Louis?"

"I always decorated our front yard for the holidays. I'd buy a bale of hay and spread it around in the front yard. I'd add cornstalks. Maybe even a scarecrow. Tommy used to make fun of me for doing it, but maybe it mattered more than I realized."

"What did you do for Thanksgiving day proper?" asked Skye. "I know you had a restaurant. Did you have to work all day?"

"Not always. We had a lottery system. Employees and staff would toss their names in a hat. Dad would draw the slips of paper out in front of everyone so it was totally above board. A couple of holidays, we were able to eat together as a family."

MJ stared at me. Her emotions were unreadable. She's like that. I've never met a woman who can project so much sensuality and then turn so cold and inscrutable. "How did you celebrate when you were all together?"

"Well," I thought back, "our last Thanksgiving, I made dinner for my family. Turkey, stuffing, and all the trimmings. We kept the same menu every year. I've got it in my cell phone. We decided that if everyone couldn't come, we'd have the same meal the next day and pretend it was Thanksgiving as if it didn't happen the day before. Kind of silly, but we loved it."

"The same food every year," repeated Skye.

"Absolutely. The menu never changed. A couple of years, Poppy flew up to join us. He looked at the spread on the table and said how happy he was that we kept with tradition. So I couldn't change the menu, even if I wanted to. See, Dad was in charge of the menu at the restaurant, but at home, Mom used to—" My voice cracked. I choked back tears. I'd been so busy at the store that I'd forgotten that this would be my first Thanksgiving without my parents.

My eyes filled with tears, but through the blurry lens I could see MJ and Skye exchange glances. Skye hopped up from her chair and poured a glass of water. She slid it in front of me with the practiced movement of a woman who'd been waiting tables for years.

"So we'll finally get to meet your son?" MJ sounded pleased. "I bet he's gorgeous."

Skye's voice sparkled with delight as she said, "That will be so nice. I know you've missed him. He'll have tons to tell you about his roommate, his classes, and—"

"His love life," said MJ.

I frowned at her. "My son just turned eighteen. I'm hoping he hasn't had much experience in the love life department."

"And at eighteen, you were…?" MJ's eyes pinned me down.

"Pregnant with him. That's exactly why I hope he's being smarter than I was. Don't get me wrong. I love my kid to pieces, and I'm glad I had him, but eighteen is awfully young to be a parent." I wanted to change the subject, so I asked, "What are you doing for Thanksgiving, MJ?"

"Opening cans of turkey Fancy Feast for all my cats." Her expression was unreadable.

"You can't do that. Come eat with us. Tommy and Poppy and I would love to have you. You can't eat alone at Thanksgiving!"

Some days I worried about MJ. She'd come from a family that didn't believe in celebrating holidays. While she was honest, loyal, and in possession of a kind heart, she could be a bit prickly now and again. I attributed that to her being lonely. The very idea of her being all alone on Thanksgiving—except for the fur babies—made me sick.

"Kidding," she said, almost too quickly. "Just joking around with you, Cara. Actually an old boyfriend invited me to join him at the Biltmore in Coral Gables for their Thanksgiving buffet. It's to die for. Elegant tables with white damask clothes, silver serving dishes, a carving station, Champagne, and music, in a room with dark wood paneling, tropical palms, and Spanish mosaics. I can hardly wait."

Now that sounded more like it. I turned my attention to Skye. "What are your plans?"

Her smile flickered like a bad florescent bulb. On, off, on, off, and on. "I always work Thanksgiving Day at Pumpernickels. The tips are fantastic."

"But when do you eat your Thanksgiving meal? Surely they schedule servers in shifts," I said.

She hesitated. "I usually work a double. But don't worry. The boss sets out turkey and trimmings for the servers. Okay, one year I didn't get any because we were so busy, but usually I load up a plate. I've even been known to take home leftovers."

She rubbed her tummy appreciatively.

"What time do you get off?" I asked. "We can adjust the time of our meal so you can join us."

"That's very kind of you, but no, please don't," she said, shaking her head. "I actually prefer eating with the other servers. It's a sort of bonding experience. I wouldn't miss it for the world."

Right. My gut told me that both my friends were lying.

 

< > < > < >

 

Are Cara Mia's friends telling the truth about how they'll spend Thanksgiving? Will the holidays of Cara's remembrance over-shadow the present day? Or will Cara adjust to her new home and make this Thanksgiving a day of thanks?

 

Read more at http://tinyurl.com/CMDThanksGift

Or go to

http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/B00PSJ6QTC/ref=s9_simh_gw_p351_d4_i3?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=desktop-1&pf_rd_r=03WXFMQDTYDHWC92C6DV&pf_rd_t=36701&pf_rd_p=1970559082&pf_rd_i=desktop

 

This short story includes four recipes for Thanksgiving!

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.

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

Ten Things I've Learned about Glue and Making Miniatures

1. The glue gun is not my friend. When it comes to miniatures, the glue is too thick and too lumpy. It can make a real mess.
2. A glue stick is perfect for gluing down fabric. I would have never guessed this!
3. You can use superglue on wood. Who knew? I always thought it was for gluing plastic and metal. Okay, it can soak in quickly, so you might have to put on more than you'd expect, but it works pretty well.
4. By adding a little water to superglue, it will "grab" right away. I use a small syringe, fill it with water, and squirt a drop on one of the two surfaces. The superglue goes on the other surface.
5. But water turns superglue white. So you need to be careful about how and where you use it.
6. Tacky glue doesn't dry rigid. White glue or wood glue does. 
7. You can mix tacky glue and white glue for a hold that's fast and more secure.
8. Wood glue is actually stronger than wood when it dries.
9. You can't stain over glue, so you should stain your pieces first, and then glue them together.
10. If you superglue your fingers together, don't panic and rip them apart. You'll tear off a patch of skin. 

Yup, that's my list. As every crafter knows, you have to own a lot of different glues to get the job done. I hope this list will help you make the right decision, one you can stick with!

Giving in to my Inner Scrounger

My Beta Babes and I went out to eat at Pasta House in St. Louis.

I tried to behave, really I did. We had a great lunch and fun talking with each other.

But I started lusting after the plastic butter tubs. And the margarine containers. I kept imagining ways I could use them.

Then I said to myself, "What will they think of me if I start collecting trash?"

I decided, "I don't care. That's who I am. That's what I do. Either they like me for myself or not."

So I asked the person next to me for her empty margarine containers. She kindly handed them over. Soon everyone was handing me empty plastic containers. I filled my purse with them. One of the husbands tried to give me the rest of the full tubs in front of his place. (Bless his heart. He was so sweet. I had to explain that the butter wasn't the point.)

I carefully cleaned them in my hotel room, packed them in a box, and had them mailed to me with a bunch of other supplies.

Last night I began putting together a kitchen cabinet from a kit. As usual, I modified the kit a lot. The way they were constructing the sink was silly. It wouldn't look good!

Then I remembered my margarine containers.

One of them worked perfectly.

I am so glad I gave in to my inner creative scrounger. Yes, I was a bit embarrassed by my greed for garbage. But if I hadn't have asked, I wouldn't have had the butter tubs for my project. I also wouldn't have saved those tubs from the recycling bin.

And I wouldn't have been true to myself. I would have pretended to be someone I'm not. I'm not too proud to ask for what I need.

How about you? What crafting supply do you find impossible to resist? When have you embarrassed yourself for the sake of a craft?

Guns, Culture, and the American Way

Culture involves at least three components: what people think, what they do, and the material products they produce. Thus, mental processes, beliefs, knowledge, and values are parts of culture. Culture also has several properties: it is shared, learned, symbolic, transmitted cross generationally, adaptive, and integrated.

   --  John H. Bodley, Cultural Anthropology: Tribes, States, and the Global System, 3rd ed. 1999

I would add that culture is also about what we value and what we find acceptable. Somehow, our national culture has decided that violence is an acceptable way to settle a dispute.

About ten years ago, my son Michael and I were watching a movie together. It's called The Valet, and it used subtitles because it was a French film. The story involves a car parker, a valet, who falls for a pretty young thing who is beholden to an older, wealthy man.

At the dramatic high point, the valet storms up to the older man as he sits in his expensive car. The old guy (OG) opens the car down and gets out. Now the valet and OG are face-to-face.

"Here it comes," I said. "Boom. He's going to whip out his gun and shoot that old man."

"Yeah," said Michael. "Make my day."

Only...

He didn't. The valet yelled at OG, shook a finger in his face, and finally slapped him.

It felt strangely unsatisfying. Later Michael and I talked about it. We could have both sworn that violence would ensue.

Why?

Because that's how we've been taught that problems will be "solved."

So it's not about the gun. At least, not entirely. The gun is just a means to an end. It's about our mindset, our willingness to believe that might makes right. That bad guys should die. That the good guy will triumph, even if he has to take another man's life.

And what does that say about me? About us?

Because I'm also to blame here. I have my characters use guns in my books. That means I am definitely part of the problem!

It says we need to hit the reset button. We need a national commitment to rethink who we are and how we solve problems.

Do you agree?

My Son, the Endangered Species

Last month, my son Michael and I went to dinner together at a very nice restaurant in Hobe Sound, Florida. We were sitting at a high-top table, waiting for our food to arrive, when a man came over and said to Michael, “May I ask you a question?”

Michael is 25, wears a beard, and on this particular evening, he was dressed in sandals, jeans, and a gray hoody.

The man wore a black leather jacket, an earring in one ear, jeans, and tennis shoes. The portion of his skin that showed was covered in tattoos. He looked to be in his mid-sixties. At one time, he was probably a really great looking guy, judging from his bone structure. However, like a lot of Floridians, he’d baked himself in the sun too long, so his skin was wrinkled and textured like a Coach purse.

“Sure,” said Michael, with a shrug.

“What’s with the hoody?” asked the man.

Michael gave me one of those looks that translates into “huh?” I smiled at him encouragingly. He’s my baby boy, no matter how big he gets, and I love him.

“I like them,” said Michael. “I just like them.”

“Oh,” said the man. “Just so you know, if I see you at my house in that hoody, I will shoot you.”

Really? I nearly fell off my chair. I could not believe what I was hearing. Fortunately, I know the restaurant owners, and I knew they would intervene if I asked for help. But I didn't want to make a scene. Once he had said his piece, the man wandered off.

I sat there thinking of all the things I should have said.

So here’s my point—and I do have one.

If you think that the shootings of Treyvon Martin and Michael Brown were all about race, you are wrong.

And if you think because you are white (like I am and like my son is) that you are safe, you are wrong.

There’s something really pathetic about people who feel threatened by young men in hoodies. 

There’s something really sick about people who think they can just shoot people because they don’t like what they’re wearing. As long as one boy is endangered by this sort of madness, none of our children are safe.

Love, Crafts, and the Fine Art of Dumpster Diving

Two days ago, I noticed a big red Dumpster behind our apartment complex. It looked to be empty.

That's interesting, I thought.

Yesterday evening, my husband and I were walking Jax when I noticed the Dumpster had been filled to the brim. Looks to me like the apartment management evicted someone, sending their furniture packing as well. A red sofa extended above pieces of wood, paper, and articles you'd have to examine closely to identify.

That made me sad. Once upon a time, a bank threatened to evict my mother, my sisters, and me. I don't think that any of us will ever forget that bleak period in our lives.

Then it made me wonder. Was there any good that could come out of this ugly situation? While I was pondering this, thinking deep thoughts, David and Jax kept walking. "Honey?" called my husband. "Come on. Leave it alone."

He knows me too well.

Because by then, I'd decided to investigate. I climbed up on the ledge surrounding the big red trash container. I'm short so I couldn't look deep inside, but I did see a piece of board sticking out. A big piece of wood.

Big enough to serve as a base for my dollhouse and the potting shed.

Big enough and sturdy enough that I wouldn't have to go to Home Depot and buy a piece of plywood and pay for them to cut it to size.

Big and free.

Even freer after I tugged it out.

David, I must confess, was mortified. He started walking in the other direction with body language that clearly stated, "I don't know that woman!"

I tugged and tugged. I had to reach in and move a couple of other boards around. Luckily for me, I've kept up with my tetanus shots, because that big piece of wood had nails sticking out. But once I began to extricate it (classy word for trash-picking, eh?), I was determined that it would be MINE.

David didn't offer to help. Instead, he said, "Oh, honey..." in that tone of voice that means, "I love you, but right now, I would cheerfully pretend we aren't married."

So I dragged it home. I do mean drag, because it's heavy. I put it in the spare bedroom. I waited until today when David's at work. I hauled it out. Knocked down the nails. Pried off a half dozen small squares of excess wood that served as braces. Put it up on our kitchen island. And started making plans. BIG plans for my dollhouse.

The way I see it, I saved something from the landfill, I saved money, and I'm moving ahead with my crafts. Next time I walk past that Dumpster, I might just vault over the side and poke around a little more.

Have you ever been Dumpster Diving?

An Invitation to Meet Me in St. Louis!

On Thursday, September 25, 2014, from 6 to 9 p.m., I'll be hosting a special celebration in St. Louis--and you're invited!

Who: Joanna and her friends

What: A book signing party with book swag and refreshments

When: From 6 to 9 p.m., Thursday, Sept. 25, 2014

Where: The Jane Allen Recital Hall in the Steinway Piano Gallery, 12033 Dorsett Road, Maryland Heights, MO 63043

How: Main Street Books of St. Charles will be on hand to sell books. 

Here's a list of my author friends who'll be attending:

Eileen Dreyer

Claudia Shelton

Lynn Cahoon

Michelle Sharp

Sharon Hopkins

Judge Bill Hopkins

Ellen Parker

Gena Ellis

Kelly Cochran

Candace Carrabus

Remember--signed books make great holiday gifts. You can mail them at the discounted media rate.

I hope to see you there!

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.

Kit Bashing -- A Dollhouse Furniture Bargain

"Kit bashing" is a term miniaturists use, and one that every crafter should get to know. You "bash a kit" when you take creative liberties with a project, putting your own spin on it.

I love kit bashing.

Curiously, I've noticed a big difference between miniaturists and scrapbookers. When I took scrapbook classes, a lot of the participants wanted their finished products to look EXACTLY like the teacher's sample. But miniaturists want to do their own "thang." In fact, in the Fred Cobbs' class I recently took, not one single person copied Fred's model! We all made minor adjustments.

For me, the best part of kit bashing is that you have most of the raw materials at hand. So often when you start a project, you discover you don't have enough wood or paper or some item that's absolutely necessary. When you kit bash, you have the basics--and that's your point of departure.

You can "bash" as little or as much as you like.

Recently I bought the Greenleaf Dollhouse Furniture kit.

 http://www.hayneedle.com/product/6roomfurniturekitset1inchscale.cfm

A lot of dollhouse furniture for the price!

It's advertised as being 47 pieces of furniture, all in one-inch to a foot scale. Although if you read the reviews, the scale is a bit...iffy. I did read the reviews, so I pretty much knew what I was getting into, although the people at Greenleaf could be more helpful by providing clearer photos and measurements for each piece.

Many of the pieces have no back, just a front. None have hinges and as far as I can tell, none of the doors open. Some of the design is pretty weird. A big much-ish. But that was fine by me. I didn't want to have to build everything from scratch. I could start with their project and make it mine!

The space between the front and back legs on the side is totally empty on their version. Notice there are no hinges for the door.

What did I bash?

1. I sawed the top off of the curio cabinet. I also added side panels to the open spaces along the bottom legs to make it more realistic. Then I added a paper clay gargoyle head. I also left off the front doors (for now at least) and some of the trim.

Here's my version (although it needs a coat of polyester shine! Right now the paint is too flat.):

2. The sink in the bathroom was far too big for my bathroom. But the hamper was about the right size--except it had no back and the doors didn't open. So I turned it around 360 degrees. The front is now the back. I added a shelf inside and a door on the front. (Again, I need hinges! My kingdom for hinges!)

And here's my version:

The door isn't really crooked, but when I left it open so you could glimpse the shelf inside, it skews the photo. To make the kick-plate I traced the back onto a second piece of wood and cut it out. The door was trial, error, and sanding. This size works perfectly in my bathroom. I'm now waiting on the sink (white air dry clay molded over a measuring spoon) to dry so I can add the wash basin on the top. I wanted it to be one of those trendy sinks that sits on TOP of the cabinet rather than being sunk into the wood.

These might actually be the only two pieces I use, although I am definitely using the mirrors and frames. Given the cost of dollhouse furniture, I think the kit is a bargain. I paid about $44 with shipping for 47 pieces. That's less than a buck a piece. If I just use the curio, two mirrors, and the sink, that's only $11 per piece. See? I'm definitely getting my money's worth!

How about you? Have you ever kit-bashed? Were you pleased with the results? Would you do it again?