Free Paper, Scissors, Death by Joanna Campbell Slan Page A

stuck with me.”
    “No, baby. We’re stuck with each other.”
    At that moment, Gracie bounded up to us and planted her muddy front paws in the middle of my chest.
    “Aw, Gracie. What have you done?”
    Anya giggled. “And Gracie’s stuck with both of us, right?”
    “Right.”

“We grow accustomed to our troubles,” said Dodie in Yiddish. She translated the proverb for me as she turned off the television. A real news junkie, she started each day with the St. Louis Post-Dispatch and the New York Times . While working in her office, she kept one eye on the television or her ear tuned to the radio.
    “Good job at the bridal shower Saturday,” Dodie continued. “You ruined the gift box, and Mrs. Witherow suggested that I take it out of your wages. Even so, I’m betting we do a lot of business with the Ladue ladies now they’ve had a taste of your work. When we were loading up, a couple of them said they’re coming in to talk with you today.”
    Mrs. Witherow thought the box should come out of my wages? Crud. Welcome to the world of the poor and powerless. The less you have, the more you owe everybody around you. When we were rich, the freebies flowed fast and furiously. Now, when I needed the help, the stream of complimentary goodies had dried up.
    Life was not fair. No wonder the poor couldn’t get ahead, and the rich stayed furlongs out front.
    I took a deep breath. “Dodie, what do you know about Roxanne Baker?”
    Dodie gave me a long, thoughtful look. “Not a whole lot. Used to come in all the time and splash the cash. Haven’t seen her in a while.”
    “Um, did you ever see any pictures of her … and George?”
    “I don’t gossip about my customers.” Dodie pointedly examined her watch.
    I took the hint.
    No sooner had I counted the change drawer and flipped the window sign to OPEN, than Sally O’Brien burst through the front door of Time in a Bottle, chattering a mile a minute. Right behind her was Markie Dorring. Both women had packs of photos in their hands.
    “What a fantastic idea! Candid photos? Our shower albums will have photos from all of us? And you loaded them so fast! We were only out of the room for a minute.” The two women took turns talking, their excitement bubbling over.
    A minute? Their luncheon seemed to take ages, but then I was cold and hungry in the basement, setting up make ’n’ takes, and watching my bee stings swell to ugly proportions. Were rich people always this oblivious?
    Instead of dwelling on the remark, I said, “Yes. Candid photos are super. Now you’ll have pictures of yourselves as well as each other. You don’t want to be missing in action from your own life.”
    Sell the sizzle, I reminded myself. This was my livelihood. I need to keep them coming back for more.
    Dodie came out of her office and greeted the women. She left me to the mundane chores of getting the store ready for another day while she answered their questions.
    “You got my reminder message last night? Still got the card with the room code and site name?” Sitting at the powerful computer and professional-quality monitor, she walked the women through the selection process. While our customers oohed and aahed over the downloaded images, I worked on page layouts, being careful to leave spaces for their yet-to-come photos. Dodie had promised Mrs. Witherow a twelve-page album for each guest with fully designed pages capable of holding up to twenty-eight photos. For an additional fee, Dodie would also make available extra album pages that I would design.
    The women wanted to see the strap-bound albums Mrs. Witherow had selected. “The Tiffany blue and cream covers match the color scheme Merrilee selected for her wedding. The covers can be personalized, if you wish, with a title embossed in gold,” I explained.
    The women were impressed. I assured them I’d get the albums done as soon as possible. “Of course, since we already have a theme, the garden party, the pages will go together