1 Assault with a Deadly Glue Gun (14 page)

"I HAVE WORK To do," I told Mama after Fogarty and Harley left.
"I'll be in my studio."

"What about this mess?"

"It's not going anywhere"

"Really, Anastasia. I brought you up better than that."

"Mama, I have work to do. Work that can't wait. This can." I
glanced at the foyer and the ambrosia glop staining my hardwood
floors a garish shade of Halloween orange. "Although it would be
great if you could clean up that," I said. "You'll find the Murphy's
Oil Soap, a bucket, and a sponge in the basement"

She didn't look thrilled, but she didn't argue with me as I
grabbed my bags of supplies and headed for the back door.

Now more than ever, I couldn't afford to lose my job, but the
last thing in the world I wanted to do at that moment was work on
crafts projects. Especially bridal crafts, considering the recent lessthan-happily-ever-after ending of my own trip down the aisle. Someone should definitely update all those male-penned fairy
tales.

The modern version had better warn Cinderella that Prince
Charming might have a secret, serious gambling addiction that
could leave her and the little princelings up a moat without a paddle. Forget about the ball. Maybe instead of turning a pumpkin
into a coach, her fairy godmother should change the huge veggie
into a trust fund that the prince can't get his hands on. Just in case
happily ever after isn't.

Which it certainly wasn't for me. Thanks to Karl, I now had to
find some way to earn more money. Even if Batswin and Robbins
were successful in nabbing Ricardo, I still needed to pay off all that
credit card debt, the past-due bills, and the home equity loan.

And then there was college for the boys.

I unlocked the studio door, dumped my bags of newly purchased materials on the counter, and pulled out a pad of paper
and a pencil. The bridal crafts could wait. Starring as the celebrity
whiner of my own pity party wasn't going to get me out of the
mess Karl had plunged me into. Short of winning the lottery-not
that I had an extra George Washington to waste on such a longshot solution-I needed to come up with a creative way out of my
financial quagmire.

I began jotting down a list of possible moonlighting jobs that
would pay more than minimum wage and didn't require me to
paste on a phony, perky smile and ask, "Do you want fries with
that?"

Within a few minutes, I had listed several possibilities. I knew
people who knew people. I could call in a few favors and maybe
get hired as a crafts expert on one of the local morning programs. I doubted Trimedia would object. Publicity whores that they were,
they'd love the exposure-especially if it didn't cost them anything.

I could put together a proposal for a series of crafts books. The
advance would knock a story or two off the Leaning Tower of
Debt, and the royalties would help with college tuitions.

I scowled at the next item on my list. If neither the TV nor
book deals panned out, I could always teach in the evenings and
on the weekends. Bernadette McPhearson served on the board of
the Methodist Home, and one of my other neighbors managed the
local A.C. Moore. Both women were constantly after me to teach
classes.

Been there, done that. After ten years of captivity in a junior
high school art room, I had sworn I would never teach again. But
that was before Karl's clandestine affair with Lady Un-Lucky.
Teaching was definitely preferable to the only other idea on my
list.

I glanced down at the remaining item on the page and wrinkled my nose. If I really got desperate, I could mass produce my
own crafts and sell them to gift shops and at bazaars and fairs. The
thought literally made me queasy. I enjoyed designing projects and
making them once, not the mindlessness of assembly line crafting.

Which was probably why I was sitting making lists instead of
tackling those three dozen birdseed roses-for the second timethanks to Batswin and Robbins.

Of course, all of these money-making enterprises hinged on
me not being charged with murder, which necessitated compiling
another list. I tore off the first sheet of paper and set it aside. No
way could I quietly sit back and leave my destiny in the hands of that undynamic detective duo. I labeled the top of the page Who
Killed Marlys? and listed the three most likely candidates:

Vittorio Versailles?

Hugo Reynolds-Alsopp?

Naomi Dreyfus?

Not that I thought either Naomi or Hugo were killers. My
money was on Vittorio.

Or Emil Pachette?

Marlys had a date with him Monday night. Had he met her at
the office instead of her meeting him in the city? I added his name
to the list.

Or maybe none of my suspects had glue gunned Marlys to
death. Maybe her killer was one of the many other people she had
stepped on, dissed, or screwed in her quest to conquer the celebrity world of New York fashion.

Someone from her distant past, even. Was the killer an old acquaintance who had held a grudge for years, perhaps going as far
back as high school, his or her hate simmering just below the boiling point until the perfect opportunity presented itself?

Placing that thought on hold, I started another sheet: Who Do
the Police Think Killed Marlys? My name topped the list. Followed
by Erica's.

If I couldn't find the killer, I'd have to find some way to keep
the police from charging either of us. Erica had an alibi and a witness, but what did I have? Just my word that I didn't kill Marlys.
Meanwhile, I suspected Batswin and Robbins were in the process
of building enough of a case against me to prove otherwise.

All of this supposition was producing nothing more than a
whopper of a headache. I tossed the pad and pencil aside, closed my eyes, and massaged my temples. Enough procrastinating. My
birdseed roses wouldn't sprout by themselves, and since I lacked
the necessary magic wand, I couldn't bibbidi-bobbidi-boo them
into existence, either.

I tried to focus my attention where it belonged-at least for the
next few hours. I couldn't let go of my problems, though. As I
snipped, sewed, and glued satin roses and rhinestone tennies, I
continued to ruminate over money and murder.

THE BRIDE WORE TENNIES

Oh, those aching tootsies! Most brides, if given the choice,
would opt for a foot massage rather than the honeymoon
suite at the Plaza once the reception ends. Just ask any of
your married friends. But why suffer the blisters in the first
place? After posing for the wedding photos, remove those
torturous stilettos and slip into a pair of handmade bridal
tennies to boogie the night away.

And if you want a unique gift for your bridesmaids,
have tennies dyed to match their gowns. Trim with coordinating or matching colored laces and trims.

Materials: one pair of white canvas tennis shoes; an assortment of lace appliques; pearl, sequin, and rhinestone
trims; satin ribbon roses; 21 yds.13/4-inch-wide lace; white
craft gem glue; scissors.

Directions: Remove shoelaces from tennis shoes. Arrange
appliques and trims on front and sides of shoes as desired,
with one shoe being the mirror image of the other. Glue appliques and trims in place. Allow glue to dry thoroughly. Cut lace in half. Thread a piece of lace through eyelets of each
shoe.

BIRDSEED ROSES

Rice is out; birdseed is in when it comes to showering the
bride and groom in an environmentally friendly way. Use
elegant satin roses to store the showering seed, and your
guests will have a beautiful memento of the day to take
home with them.

Materials: satin fabric in white or to match the wedding
colors (one yard of 45-inch-wide fabric will make 77
roses); matching sewing thread; 6-inch lengths of 18-gauge
stem wire; green floral tape; silk rose leaves, one or more
per flower; pinking shears; sewing machine

Directions: Using the pinking shears, cut a 4 x 5-inch
piece of satin for each rose. With right sides together, machine baste 4-inch sides of satin together with 1/4-inch seam
allowance. Turn right side out. Hand gather lower edge of
tube, wrapping thread ends tightly around gathers to form
the base of rose. Insert stem wire through bottom, bending
the end inside the rose into a loop to keep it from slipping
out. Wrap the base and stem of the rose with floral tape,
adding leaves as you wrap. Fill each rose with a teaspoon of
birdseed. Tuck in the top edge of satin about 11/2 inches to
keep the birdseed contained. A flick of the wrist will release
the birdseed to shower the bride and groom.

I was just finishing up the first pair of tennies when I heard
Mama clomping up the outside stairs.

"You never told me why you came home so early," she said as
she opened the door and entered.

"Long story." I grabbed two matching lace appliques and positioned them over the toes of the second pair of tennies, adjusting
the angle first in one direction, then the other. "I had a lot of work
to do and decided I'd be more productive at home. Less interruptions. Of course, I had no idea I'd walk into Chaos Central."

"Well, I'm glad you're home early." She shrugged out of her
coat and tossed it on a chair.

Her cheeks glowed from the cold; her eyes twinkled with excitement. "I had the most marvelous inspiration this morning as I
showered. You know how I always get my best ideas in the shower,
don't you?"

"Hmm?" I glanced up to find her waving a handful of colorful,
glossy brochures in the air between us. I stifled a groan but
couldn't manage to hide my frown. Mama's ideas never came
cheap.

"Don't pout, Anastasia. Trust me. You're going to love this."

"Love what?"

"A cruise. Just the two of us. A week basking in the Caribbean.
Mother and daughter healing time."

I stopped work on the second pair of tennies. "Sounds lovely,
Mama, but I can't afford it."

"Nonsense. Cruises are quite affordable."

"Peanut butter and jelly sandwiches are no longer affordable."

"What are you talking about? Surely Karl left you with plenty."

It was time to spring the bad news on her. "Karl left me with
plenty, all right. Plenty of debt."

Her brows pinched together. "I don't understand."

No way would Mama be satisfied with the Reader's Digest condensed version. She'd insist on the entire epic, warts and all.

I sighed. "Sit down, Mama."

LIKE EVERYONE ELSE, MAMA loved Karl. At least, she had up until
a moment ago. Mama always admired the way Karl had broken
free of Lucille's communist stranglehold and created the American
dream for his wife and kids. Only her version of that dreamalong with mine-hadn't involved an affair gone bad with Lady
Not-So-Lucky.

She reacted to the news in much the same way as Lucille had,
except instead of blaming me, she turned her wrath on my
mother-in-law. "This is all her fault."

"That's pretty convoluted reasoning. I don't think you can
blame Lucille for her son's gambling addiction."

"She raised him, didn't she?"

"If you can call it that." Lucille had ignored Karl from the time
he was old enough to fend for himself. Her political agenda came
first, last, and always before her son.

"Precisely my point. And what kind of mother names her son
after Karl Marx, for God's sake?" Her voice rose three octaves. "Karl Marx Pollack. To saddle a child with a name like that! Nothing short of child abuse, as far as I'm concerned. Between that and
all her other shenanigans-"

"Shenanigans?"

"Of course" She flailed her arms in true drama queen style as
her voice climbed another octave. Never let it be said that Mama
didn't love her soapbox. "If she'd spent more time with her son
and less time trying to overthrow our government-"

"Let's not go there. It won't change the past, and it certainly
won't erase the debt hanging over my head"

Worry swept away the defiance in her posture and settled over
her face. "How bad is it?"

I quoted her a sum.

Mama blanched. "Before or after you collect on the life insurance?"