Cut, Crop & Die by Joanna Campbell Slan Read Free Book Online Page A

coming events?
    We pulled into the drive-up, and Anya leaned over me to yell into the squawk box, “A sausage egg McMuffin, two hash browns, and a large orange juice.” This was the kid who seemed on the path to anorexia last month? The cashier named an amount that shocked me.
    I dug around in my purse, but Anya tapped my arm. “I’ve got it, Mom. Nana gave me money for kicking around. Want anything?”
    I ordered a breakfast burrito and a large coffee.
    Anya seemed rather pleased with herself as she counted out the money for the cashier. Yet another sign—my baby was growing up.
    After we finished our breakfast in the fast food parking lot, I dropped her off and let myself into the store. Gracie followed docilely on her lead while Guy wrapped his leash around both of us as he did laps. Taking hobbled baby steps, I moved toward the stockroom. I unhooked Gracie and plopped Guy into a doggie play pen before calling my mother-in-law to thank her again for the flowers.
    Sheila brushed away my words of gratitude. “Anya’s eyes were red and crusty last time she spent the night. Cottonwood is in full bloom.”
    “Yes, several of our customers are sneezing and wheezing.”
    “I made an appointment for her with Andersoll, Weaver, and Sealander, the best allergy partners in town. Ralphie Andersoll and I go way back. I can’t wait for him to see my gorgeous grandbaby. God knows, I’ve been clucking over photos of his motley brood for decades. What do scrapbookers do when they have ugly kids?”
    No way was I going to touch that comment.
    She continued, “Unfortunately, I’m scheduled to play in a four-some for a charity match at the club the day of Anya’s appointment. You’ll have to take her to their office after science camp on Thursday,” Sheila said.
    I hesitated. If these docs were the best, the office visit alone would be formidable. On the other hand, I was fortunate Sheila could wrangle a spot on their schedule for my child. I swallowed hard. “Thanks so much for making the appointment. I’ll be glad to take her.”
    As if sensing my concern, she added, “They’ll send me the bill. The paperwork’s already filled out.”
    A huge wave of relief swept through me. “Sheila … I can’t thank you enough.”
    “If my son had been alive, or hadn’t been so dumb about whom he trusted, you wouldn’t have to worry about this.” She stopped herself.
    I understood why. Neither Sheila nor I wanted to think about the financial shenanigans that ruined my late husband’s business.
    The auditors were still sifting through the wreckage and trying to track down hidden accounts in the Cayman Islands.
    I hung up the phone and stared thoughtfully at the dogs. In one way, she was right. George’s bad judgment set in motion a string of life-changing events. But I am a grown woman, and it rankled I couldn’t provide for my daughter. I take that back—I could only provide the barest of necessities. I gritted my teeth and vowed to work harder at bringing additional business to the store.
    Dodie struggled through the back door with a box of supplies left over from the ill-fated CAMP crop. She brushed aside my offer to help. The plum-colored crescents under her eyes and her brusque manner underscored her bad mood. The woman I’d always considered a pillar of strength crumbled before my eyes. Her voice was flat as she spoke. “I’ve had a dozen calls at home from women who want their money back. Despite the rain checks. Plus, the other stores want to meet with me to discuss what we need to do next. That’s code for ‘how to toss us out of the program,’ sunshine. This was all because of Yvonne Gaynor.”
    Then Dodie mumbled something in Yiddish.
    “Pardon?”
    “From a fool one has grief,” she translated.
    Now I knew exactly how upset she was. Dodie trotted out her pithy “old country” sayings when she was stressed.
    I shook my head. “They can’t blame us.”
    “They keep repeating the same thing over and