The front door of the store jingled open and Rachel Helmstetter came in. She thrust a flyer at me. “Here. What do you think?”
I took the bright white piece of paper, turned it around so I could read it without standing on my head, and started reading.
“Insurance might restore your financial losses, but who will restore your privacy? Once your customers have seen what you really look like, will they ever return? You can trust Rynwood Shredding to take care of your confidential documents with the utmost security. Call now to arrange for a free estimate. Annual, monthly, and on- demand contracts available.”
Below the text was a large photo of a man sitting in the middle of a ransacked office. Drawers were pulled out, bookshelves toppled, chairs lying on their sides. The man sat behind a desk, and, above the waist at least, he was naked.
“So, what do you think?” Rachel asked.
“It’s clever.” I scanned it again and tapped the photo. “Memorable, too. You won’t forget it easily.”
She blew out a breath. “Really? That’s great. You’re the first person I’ve shown it to. But since you’re the one who got me started, I figured it was only right.”
Excellent. In addition to lighting the spark that changed Debra’s life, I’d also managed to alter Rachel’s. I made a mental note: Put duct tape over my mouth and let Glenn and Debra say everything that needed to be said.
I started to hand the flyer back, but Rachel waved her hands, making “stop” motions at me. “Keep it. If I’m really going to try and take Sam’s place, I need to get used to handing out sales information.”
Ever so slowly, the sun showed itself above the horizon and light dawned. “You’re going to be partners with Brian Keller? How’s he doing, anyway?”
“Okay.” She moved her left arm and made a wincing face. “Anyway, we’re going to try it for a few months. See how it goes. Brian’s the operations guy. Sam . . .” She looked away, looked up at the ceiling, pulled in a gasping breath, and started over. “Sam was the sales guy. The idea guy. If I can do half of what Sam did, we might be able to make it work.”
She was fiddling with her scarf, and the filter that usually kept my mouth from saying things my brain thought up suddenly stopped working. I blurted out a question I had no idea I’d ever had the courage to ask. “Rachel, how many scarves did Sam own?”
“Scarves?” She plucked at the orange one around her neck. “This was his Thanksgiving scarf. He had a gold one for Christmas, a red one for Valentine’s Day, and a green one for St. Patrick’s Day. And a black one for the winter solstice.” She smoothed her husband’s scarf. “He liked plaids for every day. Said they added spice to his weekdays.”
That answered that question, but brought up another one. Why, with the plethora of Sam’s scarves, hadn’t I remembered that he regularly wore them? Chalk it up to yet more evidence that Beth Isn’t Paying Enough Attention to Her Surroundings.
“Why do you want to know?” Rachel asked.
I shrugged. “Just wondered.” True enough, but it was time for a diversion. “If you can come up with ideas like this”—I rustled her flyer—“you’ll be just as good a marketer as Sam was. He never sent anything around downtown that I can think of.” My brain suddenly kicked into high gear. “And I don’t remember that he ever used his contacts to help him network.”
Rachel frowned. “He was on Rotary and did the Toastmasters thing. He worked hard for the chamber of commerce, and you know he was active in the PTA.”
“That’s not what I mean.” Judging from the hollow feeling of the store, we had a total of zero customers. Even so, I lowered my voice. “Sam was born and raised in Rynwood and figured he knew everybody without even trying. Which, for the most part, was true. But there are lots of new people in town.”
“I suppose.” Rachel sounded puzzled. “But the business was growing almost as fast as their business plan projected, so he didn’t need to work super hard at marketing.”
“That was Sam,” I said. “You’ll need a different approach.”
“That’s what this is all about.” Rachel gestured at the flyer still clutched in my hand. “And I have some other ideas.” Her voice drooped. “But I don’t know if any of them will work.”
“Half of all marketing dollars are wasted,” I said. “It’s just that no one knows which half.”
Her smile came and went. “Maybe trying to run Sam’s business is a bad idea. Maybe I should . . .” Her eyes took on that faraway look I’d seen so often on my mother’s face after Dad died.
“Ask your friends to help,” I suggested.
She shook her head. “They’ve already done too much. Cooked dinners, lunches, even breakfasts. Watched the kids. Watched me.” This time her smile wasn’t a smile at all.
“I can help,” I said. “I’d like to.”
“My freezer’s packed full of casseroles already, but thanks.”
I squinched my face. Casseroles weren’t a food group I cared for. Whenever my mother had pulled the orange pot from the cupboard I knew I’d have to fill up on bread and butter. And I still didn’t care for the color orange. “Not that kind of help.” I rattled the flyer. “This kind of help.”
Her mouth made a small round
And maybe, just maybe, find a little peace for Rachel, too.
Chapter 14
“What does Sabatini’s Pizza have that’s worth shredding?” Marina pulled a handful of her hair up to its full length, then let it drop. Since her thick, overly full locks didn’t behave like normal hair, the hunk stuck in midair, making her look as if she’d just taken off a winter hat in dry air.
“Maybe he really is mobbed up,” I said. “Maybe they’re paying him to get rid of the evidence for a massive fraud perpetuated by . . .” I thought fast. “. . . by the costume industry. All these years we’ve thought of clowns as friendly creatures, but Sabatini’s has been storing proof of a dastardly plot to take over the country.”
Marina nodded. “I knew there was something off about clowns.”
It was Friday night, the kids were with Richard, and Marina and I were seated at her kitchen table, scrutinizing Rynwood Shredding’s client list. Rachel had hemmed and hawed when I’d first asked for a copy, but my argument that I could target downtown businesses better if I understood the client base convinced her. Which was good, because I didn’t have a backup plan and would have had to keep repeating argument number one over and over until I wore her down.
“Mr. Sabatini goes on the list.” Marina picked up her purple felt pen and wrote on a pink piece of paper.
Letting her write the names with the pen and paper of her choosing was the only way she’d agreed to tonight’s list-making endeavors.
“I thought we were looking for a PTA connection, someone who knew about the meeting,” I said. “Joe isn’t married and he doesn’t have any children.”
“Not that we know about,” Marina said darkly.
“If you’re not going to be serious I’m going to take my lists and go home.” And a dark, lonely house it would be with the kids at Richard’s.
“Promise?” Marina clasped her hands together.
“Yes.”
“Well, phooey.” She sighed heavily, then brightened and scribbled on the pink paper.
I tried, unsuccessfully, to read her loopy handwriting upside down. “What’s that?”
“Oh, just a name we should consider.”
She was shooting for a casual, innocent tone. It didn’t work. Marina was often casual, but she was rarely innocent. Matter of fact, the only time she’d been completely innocent was the Saturday night my house had been toilet-papered. Sunday morning I woke up to rain and soggy toilet paper over shrubbery, around porch columns, and
