Be Still My Beading Heart Read online

  “We’ll drive by in a little while and pick you up. Look for us, because I bet you don’t want me coming in there to get you,” Tessa shouted as her daughter sped toward the record shop. “And don’t buy any Duran Duran albums; I’ve got them all at home.”

  Ashley cringed with embarrassment.

  “Tessa, you don’t want to shout that out loud,” I advised her. It was true, she probably did have all of those albums. And if she didn’t, then I did.

  We looked down the street, and Ashley was nowhere in sight. She’d been moving quickly, trying to make a fast escape before we embarrassed her further.

  As we entered Aztec Beads, we saw Rosie’s daughter Tracy behind the front counter. Tracy was pretty and young, but frail, her dark eyes lacking the vibrancy you’d expect of someone fresh out of college. She should be ready to take on the world, but instead looked like she’d rather hide from it.

  Tessa and I stood by the counter with our boxes of beads, trying to figure out what to do next. The place was packed. Some were beadmakers like us, milling around trying to find a place to put their beads and doing some shopping, because it was too hard to be at a bead sale without looking around for something new.

  The place was also packed with beads: revolving racks of sparkling crystals in every imaginable shape and hue, vials of tiny Japanese seed beads in a rainbow of colors carefully arranged in clear plastic cubbies, thick strands of ethnic beads from all over the world, and dozens of trays of gems and pearls. All the other bits and pieces needed to make jewelry jammed the shelves and tables around the shop. It was a beader’s paradise.

  Next to the shop was the gallery where this weekend’s show would be. The classroom was at the back of the shop.

  “Tracy?” I said, trying to get her attention. She seemed to have tuned out the chaos around her. “We’ve got our beads. Is Judy from JOWL here, so she can check us in?”

  Tracy pointed through the crowd. “I think she’s in the classroom doing inventories for some of the artists,” she said, more loudly than usual to make sure her soft voice carried over the din of the crowd.

  Just then, Rosie broke through the crowd, hustling up to the counter by the window where Tracy stood. Rosie was a fireplug of a woman; her dark hair, complete lack of a neck, and right now the intense look of anger on her red face made her look like a very serious fireplug. This wasn’t a woman you wanted to mess with. She meant business, and as far as I could tell, with all of the people buzzing around her shop, her business was doing very well.

  “Tracy! Did you call the police about those two thugs trespassing on my property?” Rosie demanded, pointing her stubby finger toward the window at a young man and woman on the sidewalk.

  “Is that Misty and Nick?” I asked Tessa in a whisper.

  Tessa nodded.

  The couple had spread out a colorful batik cloth on the sidewalk and had pulled out all sorts of glass beads and pretty woven bracelets. I wasn’t sure what made these two people “thugs,” because every time I’d chatted with them they’d been sweet. Maybe down on their luck, but they seemed like good people. Misty, the young woman, was wearing an old red flannel shirt and faded jeans. Her hands darted from item to item as she laid out the bracelets with care, the cuffs of her shirt pulled back to reveal a tiny geometric tattoo around her right wrist. Her partner, Nick, pulled off his hooded black sweatshirt and settled down cross-legged on the ground next to the cloth, his knees poking through the holes in his jeans.

  Nick opened his backpack to start working on some new bracelets, engaging customers with a charming smile as they came by. From what Tessa had told me, Nick and Misty had no permanent place to call their own, and they apparently did a lot of couch-surfing.

  Several people stopped to look at what they were selling, and while they didn’t make any sales in the short time we watched them, it did seem like they had enough interest in their jewelry that they’d have some buyers eventually. I could nearly see the smoke rising from the top of Rosie’s head as she flailed her arms around and shouted at Tracy.

  Tracy tried to reason with her mother. “I don’t think we can do anything, Mama. They are not on our property. It’s the sidewalk, it belongs to the ci—”

  “This is ridiculous. Nobody has any balls in this city,” Rosie said, punctuating each word with a thump on the counter with her fleshy fist. Tracy winced each time Rosie’s hand made contact. “I will deal with this—and you—later!”

  Rosie turned to leave and saw us standing there, having just witnessed her outburst. She grimaced, just a little. It was enough to remind us she was human and had just embarrassed herself with her temper tantrum. Then we watched as Rosie’s stout body wedged its way back through the crowd and out of sight.

  Tracy looked woefully out the window. She didn’t know what to do. This couple couldn’t be much older than she was. Tracy clearly didn’t agree with her mother, but didn’t seem to be able to stand up to her. I supposed Rosie didn’t like the couple cutting into her potential profits, but really, were there going to be that many fewer beads sold in the shop because a couple of kids were trying to make a few bucks to make ends meet?

  “Let me help you find Judy,” Tracy said, composing herself as she tucked her long dark hair behind her ears. We followed Tracy through the shop and into the classroom at the back of the building, where she pointed out Judy to us.

  Judy was standing right in the middle of the room, and as people approached her, she spun around to greet them, like a middle-aged whirling dervish. She wore a tiger-stripe bead on a long chain, nearly whacking nearby people as she turned. While Judy’s necklace was pretty, the rest of her needed a makeover. If Val ever met her, she’d be trying to convince Judy to let her give her a complete overhaul. Val was always looking for frumpy women to “fix,” and Judy was a prime candidate, with her gaudy oversized jungle-print top.

  Judy was the hardest working volunteer I’d ever met, and an extremely talented jewelry designer. This weekend of events was her brainchild. Everyone who wanted to be part of this exhibition had to apply to the Jewelers of Washington League. I agreed with Val, JOWL wasn’t a good acronym. It spelled something I, and everyone else I knew, didn’t want, especially when we looked in the mirror and saw our faces gradually drooping every day. But the idea for the bead-related weekend was brilliant. Artists applied to exhibit their jewelry at the event, and for those who were accepted, it was a terrific way to gain exposure and meet new clients, both professional designers and hobbyists. Unfortunately, with only one person to check in all the beadmakers, it took forever to get Judy’s attention.

  “Oh, hi, Tessa,” Judy said, with a squeaky voice. She grabbed Tessa’s hand with hers and gave it a thorough shaking.

  “And you must be Jax. Nice to meetcha,” Judy said, looking up over the top of her bifocals from her clipboard. Fortunately, she didn’t try to shake my hand because I had a tentative hold on a stack of boxes; I wasn’t sure if I could manage even a head bob without everything tumbling to the floor.

  Judy was too enthusiastic for me, especially since I’d only had one cup of coffee today. She was pleased that there were so many people here to set up for the gallery show. She was the sole juror for this event; its success depended on her ability to choose the right artists to sell their beads and to decide who had appealing workshop projects. Rosie was counting on the success of this event to bring in loads of new customers, who would buy the supplies needed to complete each of the workshop’s projects.

  “Okay. Let’s see, where’s the clipboard? Oh, ha! Right here in my hand,” said Judy, trying to laugh at herself. We weren’t really laughing with her—or at all. We did smile with gritted teeth, but mostly because we were feeling impatient. Thin curly wisps of hair were stuck to Judy’s forehead. Either she was always moist around the edges or she was having a “personal heat wave,” as we sometimes said about women of a certain age—the age we were rapidly
approaching.

  “Jax, those are super earrings. Did you make those?” Judy said, reaching over and pulling one of them toward her so she could examine it more closely. My head followed along so she wouldn’t rip the earring right out of my ear. At this proximity, I could see a million tiny droplets of sweat across her brow.

  Ew.

  As Judy released the earring, I pulled away as fast as I could.

  “I did.” I figured if I kept my responses short, maybe Tessa and I could get out of here before we turned another year older.

  “Right, I’ve got Jax,” said Judy, putting a giant checkmark next to my name. “Oh, Jax, we don’t have a studio name for you.”

  I’d never thought about an official studio name before. I’d always just used my name, Jax O’Connell, Jacqueline if I was feeling especially formal or fancy.

  “Ladybug Beads,” I said, knowing immediately what the name should be. It was a spontaneous decision, but it seemed like a good choice: I named my studio after my car.

  I’d bought the car when I was getting ready to leave Miami. I’d gotten a huge final paycheck when I left my job at Clorox—they paid me for all of the vacation time I hadn’t used. Since I’d never taken a vacation, it was a sizable sum. I took a chunk of money out of my bank account and bought a new car, having decided I didn’t need the beat-up old Honda Civic anymore. I went to the VW dealership and bought my dream car: a brand-new red Volkswagen Beetle with a black ragtop, which I christened “The Ladybug” with a bottle of Diet Coke at the side of the road during my move to the Pacific Northwest.

  Judy looked up from her clipboard and focused on Tessa. “Aha! Now, let’s see. Fremont Fire. Got it,” Judy said, adding another checkmark on her list next to Tessa’s name.

  “We brought Dylan’s beads. He’s White Mountain Design,” Tessa said.

  “Okay. And a big fat checkmark for him,” Judy said. “Let me show you the exhibit area. You can set up your sample necklace on the pedestal, and then your beads for the projects can go directly below it, so customers can select what they want to buy for the weekend’s classes.”

  The gallery was beautiful, with its deep burgundy walls and matte silver exhibition pedestals. The jewelry and beads were going to be displayed on top of each of the waist-high columns. A broad window opened onto the gallery, allowing passersby to look in at the displays. Glass jewelry needs to be lit properly in order to show off its shine and transparency, and Rosie had done a brilliant job of making sure the lighting was perfect for the exhibit.

  “You’ve each got a display bust to put your necklace on.” Judy was speaking so quickly she sounded like a tape recorder put on fast-forward. The faster she talked, the squeakier she was. “We have some other forms available if you need them—for instance, if you have a bracelet to display. I may make some adjustments to the displays, and, of course, we’ll make sure everything stays safe and secure.

  “Jax, here is your pedestal.” Judy patted the top of it and wiped off some invisible dust, leaving a trail of moisture behind. “And Tessa, you and White Mountain, your pedestals are right over there,” she continued, pointing to the opposite wall.

  “I’m glad you’re doing this weekend of workshops,” I said.

  “You mean Weekend of Education, Enlightenment and Design?” Judy sounded proud of the clever name she’d given the weekend’s events.

  “WEED?”

  “Yes. I thought it was super. You know—our knowledge grows and spreads like weeds? I thought about WED, but I didn’t want anyone to think this was a wedding-oriented event.”

  Instead, I thought, people will think this is a pot-smoking event. Great.

  “Okie dokie!” said Judy, as she went off to find the next person on her list. Then she was gone, swallowed up by the crowd of people milling around in the shop.

  “Judy needs to work on her acronyms,” I said to Tessa.

  “What, you don’t like JOWL or WEED?”

  “I can say without a doubt that both are terrible, but I bet you can’t do better.”

  “I’m up to the challenge. How about New Ideas in Beads?

  “NIB? Not good.”

  “Beadmakers United, Teaching Together”

  “BUTT? The worst!”

  “Okay, okay…so maybe it’s not that easy.”

  Sample Chapters of A Bead in the Hand, Book Two in the Glass Bead Mystery Series

  ONE

  THE WEEKEND GOT OFF to a bad start when I stepped on Gumdrop. It went from bad to tragic when I held a woman in my arms and knew there was no way I could save her. She was already dead.

  • • •

  I was standing on my tallest stool, reaching to grab the last tray of beads from the top shelf in the guest room closet.

  “Almost…got…it,” I said to my cat Gumdrop, who was watching me from the bed.

  Finally, I hooked my fingernails on the edge of the tray and pulled it slowly off the shelf, careful not to spill the contents of the shallow box. In preparation for an upcoming sale, I had placed each bead into its own separate spot in the grid of compartments in the tray. I took a slow step down one of the rungs of the stool, then another. Relieved that I was almost down, I took my final step toward the floor and realized—too late—I’d stepped on Gumdrop. The ear-piercing screech of a pissed-off cat threw me off balance—that, of course, and the fact that I was not stepping on the floor, but instead on the body of a cat who was attempting to flee. I tried to regain my balance, but it was a lost cause. With one last futile leap, I tried to stick a perfect 10-point landing, gymnast-style, holding the tray above my head. I saw myself falling in slow motion, the tray of glass beads still in my hands, as I plunged to the floor. The beads left the tray and went flying through the air. It was bad enough that they were falling, and possibly breaking, but it was a real insult that they were pelting down on my head like hail.

  “Dammit, Gummie, why are you always in the way?” I yelled at Gumdrop, who had run from the room as fast as his fat body could carry him. I’d find him later, likely jammed under a pillow on the sofa, to sleep off the scary experience.

  “Ouch,” I added to no one but myself, feeling for lumps on my head.

  Searching the Oriental carpet in my office-cum-guestroom, I tried to find all of the beads that had been flung from the tray by my not-so-graceful fall. When I squeezed under the bed, a swirl of cat hair drifted past me. I made a mental note to run the vacuum cleaner under here the next time I tackled the housekeeping in my half of the duplex.

  After examining each bead, I replaced it into its cubby in the tray. These were glass beads, ones I had made myself in a torch by melting different colors of glass together. Fortunately, all the beads seemed to have made it, having been cooled properly overnight after I’d completed each one. I’d found twenty-three of the beads, but there was one empty spot left in the tray. Where had that bead gone? Under the desk? No. Still in the closet? No. In the carpet’s fringe? No.

  The doorbell rang. Brushing Gumdrop’s hair off my jeans, I trotted to the door. I needed to get out the duct tape and give myself a once-over to get rid of the fluff, but didn’t bother. I didn’t want Val to have to wait. A quick glimpse in the mirror confirmed that my mop of light brown hair was sticking out in every direction, as usual. Then I noticed something strange—a large blue bead, wedged tightly in my cleavage. The missing bead. What a relief to spare Val from seeing that. It spared me, too, from getting teased by her for weeks to follow.

  I pulled open the front door.

  “Eh uh en geh de doo ohen,” my neighbor Val said, while holding a green glass pitcher of margaritas in one hand, two stemmed glasses with a bowl of guacamole teetering on top of them in the other, and a bag of Tostitos held in her teeth.

  “What?” I said, grabbing the bag of tortilla chips from her mouth.

  “I said, ‘I couldn’t get the door open.’ So I used
my elbow to ring the bell. Glad you didn’t take much longer, Jax, because I was about to drop this pitcher of margs and that would have been a true tragedy.”

  “I’ve already dropped enough glass things for today. I just dropped an entire tray of beads. None of them broke, fortunately. I need that inventory for the Bead Fun sale in Portland.”

  Val set down the glasses on the kitchen table. “Salt?” she asked. “For the rims of the glasses?”

  “Sorry, I only have table salt.”

  “Jax, honey, when are you going to learn how to properly stock your pantry? Really, you can’t always rely on me to bring you snacks and drinks.”

  “It’s worked for me so far,” I said, shrugging.

  “Here, let’s open these chips, and we’ll just suck the salt off them before drinking our margaritas, okay?”

  “Sounds good.” I admit I let Val take care of me. It makes her feel good to think she is taking care of an artist who is able to make pretty things but needs a lot of help with just about everything else—especially eating, drinking, and shopping for clothes.

  I’ve lived next door to Val for nearly three years now, and they have been some of the best in my life. Val is enormous in every way—big red hair, pushing 6 feet tall, big bones (I say with the utmost tact), and big jewelry—the glitzier, the better. She’s a hairdresser, and I am constantly surprised that any new client who comes into the salon doesn’t turn and run. She’s beautiful, but somewhat scary until you get to know her.

  She and I live in a Craftsman bungalow in Seattle that my Great-Aunt Rita split down the middle a dozen years ago to create a duplex. I live in the right half, and Val and her series of good-for-nothing boyfriends live in the left half.

  After Great-Aunt Rita died, the house became mine, and I decided to move away from the golden sunshine and giant insects of Miami. My mom and dad still live there, and are constantly bugging me to move home before I die from mildew poisoning due to the damp weather in the beautiful Pacific Northwest. It’s gorgeous here, but a different kind of beauty than Miami. In fact, it’s the opposite of Miami in every way imaginable: wet, cold, rocky beaches, fewer Cubans (which unfortunately means fewer Cuban restaurants), gray skies instead of blue skies, better coffee, and better drivers.