The Trouble with Murder. Kathy Krevat
to know,” I said. I told her all about the chicks and the unfortunate poop incident.
“That’s such a meet cute!” she said. “You can tell your grandchildren that story where you fell in love with his chicks first.”
“I think if there’s poop involved, it’s the exact opposite of a meet cute,” I said. “And I really don’t have time to date right now.”
“You know, it’s really a little like Romeo and Juliet, except with your cat and chickens,” she said. “Joss is a Montague and you’re the Cat-ulets.” She giggled at her own joke.
“And you know how they ended up.” I tossed chunks of chicken in the pan. “Hey, did you head out of town on purpose so I couldn’t drag you to my Power Moms trade show?”
“Oh yeah,” she said unapologetically. “It’s the only reason I chose today to drive to freakin’ Ventura. Just to get away from your cult.”
I laughed. The Sunnyside Power Moms, or SPMs for short, was a group of home business owners who worked together to network and support each other. Our leader, Twila Jenkins, got the idea to start the group when the third mom came up to her at the Sunnyside Elementary School playground to invite her to a party at her house. One of those “parties” where the host/salesperson puts out lovely hors d’oeuvres and lots of wine so that her guests, i.e., sales targets, will feel more inclined to buy thirty dollar candles and forty-five dollar candle holders.
Twila had invited me to join after learning about my cat food business.
“You’ll come around,” I said. “The first step was when you suggested your friend Fawn become an SPM. You’re one step closer to becoming One of Us. One of Us.” I chanted that in a low tone a few times until she interrupted me.
“Not a chance,” she said. “Hey! You should manufacture some kind of scandal. That’ll get people interested in your little coven.”
I rolled my eyes, even though she couldn’t see me. “Be nice or I’ll sign you up to host a candle party at your house.”
She gasped dramatically. “A fate worse than death.”
Chapter 2
A fate worse than death.
I couldn’t help but remember Lani’s words when I was attacked by a gang of rabid soccer moms waiting outside the activity center in Twila’s gated community. Twila had given the gate code to everyone, but she’d given only me the key code to the building. I was totally on time, but that wasn’t enough for these over-achievers.
With everyone waiting by my shoulder, I fumbled a few times as I entered it, and finally got it right. Each digit played a musical note and then the door buzzed.
“Sounds like Beethoven’s Fifth,” one of the moms said. “Bump-bump-bump-buzz,” she repeated, blaring out the last note.
I laughed, probably from nerves, and we went inside, ready to set up. It was a good thing I’d taken a nap and picked up an extra-large coffee to prepare for the trade show.
We’d all pitched in to rent the banquet hall, a large round room with windows looking out over the golf course. Somehow because of my experience at farmers’ markets, I’d been put in charge of assigning all the booths—a thankless task—and creating the SPM Scavenger Hunt—another thankless task. Guests who visited each of our booths and got a stamp inked on the form could win a grand prize of a basket full of goodies from all the vendors.
I wasn’t sure how the evening would play out so I’d left Trouble at home. Bronx Innis stopped me as I was unloading boxes. “I need electrical tape!” she said. She had a mobile pet grooming business, and had come up with the idea of a puppy petting booth for the trade show. “There are extension cords running right through my space.”
“I have a roll in my car,” I reassured her. My farmers’ market experience was paying off. “I’ll bring it over.”
Then Daria Valdez grabbed my arm. I fumbled my box and nearly dumped my cans of assorted Meowio Batali food.
“Sorry,” she said, “But my booth can NOT be near Mona’s.” Her face was red with anger. Then she took a deep breath and spoke more calmly. “We have competing products, so it makes more sense to keep us far apart.”
Daria was a BeesWax Party consultant, marketing the overpriced candles Lani and I laughed about, and Mona Hayworth ran Spicy Parties selling massage oils, lingerie, and other “adult” products.
Mona strolled over, and I realized the real problem. In keeping with her risqué goods, she was wearing a black satin robe that was more suited for the Playboy Mansion than a family trade show.
Before Mona could say anything, Gina Pace rushed in front of her. “Why am I all the way in the back?” she asked, flipping her blond ponytail over her shoulder. “I’ll get no traffic at all.” Gina ran, literally, the Mommy and Me exercise classes where moms with babies in joggers dashed all over Sunnyside, losing their pregnancy weight at record speed.
I decided to tackle the easy one first. “You are right beside the raffle ticket box and free refreshments,” I told Gina. “Everyone will walk by.”
“Oh. Okay, fine,” she said, and jogged back toward her booth, knees high, totally ignoring the Daria-Mona drama.
I turned to the woman who looked so much like Sofia Vergara she could be her slightly older stunt double. “Mona, is there something…less revealing you can wear from your product line?” When she slammed her eyebrows together, I added, “You look absolutely gorgeous, but there are bound to be children here, and we don’t want to offend any potential customers.”
Since I was the youngest in the group by far, I had to walk a fine line. I may have just stepped over it.
She pursed her lips as if considering, and then gave us both an elaborate shrug. “I’ll see what I can do.” She pushed her hair over her shoulder and turned around, in the sexy walk of a classic Hollywood movie star. Or Jessica Rabbit.
“I’m sure she won’t be pushing her candles tonight,” I reassured Daria when she was out of earshot. “Not wearing something like that.”
She scowled after her, her dark eyes flashing. “She’ll be pushing—” She cut herself off with a short shake of her head. “I’ll deal.”
I sighed and walked to my own table, while Twila arrived with a large box, and plopped it on the table right beside mine. “Isn’t this exciting?” she said before going back outside for another box. With her freckles and curly red hair cut asymmetrically, she made me think of a 1920’s flapper girl.
Twila was the SoCal Puzzle Lady. Soon she was setting up children’s wooden puzzles of farm animals, organizing jigsaw puzzles by number of pieces, and stacking 3D metal brainteasers, probably according to how crazy someone gets trying to solve them. She even put up a backdrop—a wall-sized crossword puzzle.
“Have you done this before?” I asked her, as she carefully placed an Einstein bust on a table.
“A few times,” she said.
No wonder she knew to avoid table placement responsibility.
“Do you know who was responsible for the gate?” she asked. “It wasn’t propped open, and I can’t remember who volunteered.”
“Sorry, I don’t.”
She shrugged. “I took care of it.”
I started arranging my newest product line, a butcher block full of knives and a set of kitchen utensils with cute cat paw prints engraved on them. They were an expensive investment, but had become a nice addition to my cat food income. I put the knife set on the table behind me, out of reach of curious children.
Sharon Merritt, owner of Chaos Commando, a closet organization company whose brochure photos of perfectly organized closets always made me envious, stopped