Dead Men Don't Crochet cm-2

by Betty Hechtman

  “Of course, since the new show, dear,” CeeCee continued, “I’ve been getting a lot more attention. I have a whole new generation of fans.” She acknowledged the women with a regal smile and a gesture that was something like a wave. Their eyes widened as they giggled and moved closer. When they reached us, one of them held out a skein of kelly green merino wool and asked for CeeCee to autograph the label. I thought it was kind of strange, but CeeCee didn’t seem to have a problem with it and just happened to have a permanent marker handy.

  “You knit, then,” one of the women said to CeeCee after noting her cart full of yarn.

  “No, dear. I crochet,” CeeCee answered in her sweet, high-pitched voice. There were no hysterics like Adele would have pulled. In her sugary voice, CeeCee just pointed out the virtues of crochet. The women listened with interest, and apparently she gave a convincing sales pitch because they rushed off to the display of hooks. Both came back with a package of assorted sizes and wanted CeeCee to sign those, too. When they left, CeeCee picked up our conversation as if nothing had happened. But then she was used to being stopped by strangers.

  “You were saying you thought the piece of something hanging on the drawer meant something,” CeeCee said.

  “Yes, but I don’t know what. And I’m worried about Sheila.” I told her how Detective Heather had overheard Sheila when she was saying that Drew Brooks was going to pay her what he owed her or else.

  “Oh dear. And then her fingerprints being on the murder weapon . . . Do you think that detective is going to try to pin it on her?” CeeCee’s expression grew serious. “I feel terrible bringing this up, but did it ever occur to you that she might really have done it?”

  “Maybe for a moment, but we’re talking about Sheila. Shy, nervous Sheila,” I said as we moved closer to the checkout counter.

  “Of course, you must be right. She couldn’t have done it. I’m glad I didn’t go up there with the rest of you. Imagining that man with his face in the soup is bad enough. I’ve been in my share of detective dramas, but ‘the body’ always got up when the shot was done.”

  CHAPTER 7

  BY LATE AFTERNOON I WAS BACK AT THE BOOKSTORE. I inhaled the welcoming scent of paper, bookbinding and coffee as I walked in. It took two trips to bring in the bags of yarn. When I saw how many balls of yarn it took to make a shawl, I knew we had a lot of work ahead. After stowing the bags in the office, I turned my mind to the evening event and the preparations still to be made.

  As I walked past the children’s area, I couldn’t miss the life-size cardboard cutout of Koo Koo the Clown. It had a display shelf holding a supply of the book Koo Koo Goes to the Dentist. The author’s real name was William Bearly, and this was the seventh in the Koo Koo series. Adele was clearing off cups from the small table. She’d gotten her wish and handled an author—in this case, an author dressed as a clown—all on her own, though most of her “handling” had probably entailed helping him walk through the crowd of toddlers so he wouldn’t trip on them with his huge red shoes, and then having to serve the juice and cookies. Adele didn’t particularly like children or their books, but this event was a step up from just reading them stories or running activities. The kids had all left, and Koo Koo was scarfing down the last of the cookies with several juice chasers.

  I moved on to the event area without stopping and glanced out the big window. There wasn’t much action on Ventura, just two boys with backpacks playing with a hacky-sack ball as they walked toward the bus stop.

  The sweet smell of something chocolate perfumed the air. Bob, our main barista, must have just taken out a batch of cookies in the café attached to the bookstore. What bookstore, or any kind of store, these days didn’t have some kind of food and drink service? Even the Cottage Shoppe had Kevin’s soup. Our angle was the smell of Bob’s cookies. They acted like a magnet pulling people into the café. Whenever we had an evening event, he always made sure he baked something extra aromatic.

  I put a sign in the window facing out. There hadn’t been room for the full title. All I could fit was Potty Training. The full title was Potty Training: A Beginner’s Guide to Container Gardening. The author, Poppy Roeback, hosted an indoor gardening show on PBS and promised to demonstrate planting a patio salad garden. I expected a mess.

  Adele came my way as Koo Koo flapped his way to the door. I was on the floor unrolling plastic around the bottom of the demonstration table. In anticipation of Poppy’s rather excited approach to handling dirt, I’d set up a separate table to hold copies of her book.

  “How did it go?” I asked, holding on to the table and pulling myself off the floor.

  “I don’t know, Pink; you be the judge. Let’s see, I sold all the copies of the book except for the ones on the display, which I’m pretty sure will move by tomorrow. Oh, and Koo Koo asked me out on a date. Have any of your authors ever asked you out?”

  I started arranging books while I processed the information. Her success was a bit of a surprise, and I hated to admit that I felt a twinge of upset. What if Adele’s event did better than mine?

  Adele stood a little taller with self-importance. “Oh, and Detective Gilmore called. Since I was the one who did CPR on the victim, she wanted to know what position he was in before I tried to save him.” Adele by nature had a loud voice, but as she recounted her first-aid efforts, she seemed to ramp it up even more, causing a couple at a nearby display to look up. “She thinks I’m an important witness. She asked a lot of questions about you and if you knew the victim, and of course, she wanted to know about Sheila.”

  “Like what about Sheila?” I asked as I finished with the signing table.

  “Like if she was prone to outbursts of anger and if I’d seen her the whole time we were in the store. I just told the truth. Pink, you’ll be happy to know I didn’t say anything to implicate you in the crime. All I said was that you were trying to help Sheila get the money owed her. She wanted to know if I’d seen Drew Brooks after Sheila went up to his office. I had to tell the truth. I didn’t see him. Did you?”

  “Don’t tell me that now you think Sheila did it, too.” It was worrisome that our own group had doubts about Sheila’s innocence.

  “I don’t think so, but she could have. Didn’t she say she was mad enough to have done it? Add that to the fact that she was upstairs alone with him and her fingerprints are on the murder weapon.” Adele had settled on the edge of the table and was fiddling with her skirt. Her outfit would be perfect to wear if she went out with Koo Koo. She reminded me of a snow cone. Her gauzy skirt had strips of yellow that morphed into orange, red and finally a grapey purple. She had teamed it with a lime green peasant blouse.

  “That’s why I have to find out who really did it.” I said it under my breath, but Adele heard it anyway and rolled her eyes.

  “Well, I guess Sheila can relax then, since Nancy Marple Holmes is on the case.”

  Let Adele make her comments, I thought. I had, after all, already solved one murder.

  “CeeCee and I got the yarn for the shawls,” I said. I guess I knew what I was doing. I’m not proud of it, but between her gloating about the book signing, and making fun of my investigative abilities, I wanted a little revenge annoyance. She went off like a firecracker. How could we have gone without her since she was at least cohead of the group?

  Adele insisted on seeing what we’d gotten immediately. There wasn’t a choice but to follow her as she took off toward the office. Once there she started rummaging through the large white plastic bags. She just kind of grunted until she looked inside the small one that had the things I’d bought for myself. She pulled out the tiny hooks and ball of ecru thread.

  “Even you would know this wouldn’t work for shawls,” she said, waiting for an explanation.

  It seemed like a perfect time to bring up what I’d seen on Drew’s desk handle. I asked her if she’d noticed anything.

  “I was too busy trying to save Drew’s life. And if he hadn’t been dead, I would have.” She started to
walk away but turned back to add, “My book event was so successful I bet Mrs. Shedd lets me do another one. I bet she lets me handle Milton Mindell. After all he is a kid’s author.”

  I forced my mouth not to fall open. Mrs. Shedd wouldn’t. She couldn’t give Milton Mindell to Adele. I’d been the one who had convinced him to do his first signing at Shedd & Royal. I’d been the one who had run his appearances so well, he kept coming back. And I’d be the one to look bad if Adele messed things up. All the bookstores in the area wanted to get him away from us. And why not? He wrote a new book every three months, and kids ate up the combination of horror and humor. And when the kids came to one of his events they bought his new book, his old ones and other people’s books, too. A book event with Milton was like money in the bank.

  All his good points came with a few drawbacks. Milton was a handful to deal with. His events were more like productions, and he insisted everything had to be his way. But I had managed just fine. And if I ran his upcoming appearance, it would be fine, too. After all the work I’d done it wouldn’t be fair to hand it over to Adele. But I kept the emotion out of my face and told Adele not to get her hopes up.

  “We’ll see,” Adele said, walking away in a huff.

  When I’d finished with the setup for the gardening event, I headed to the café for a red eye to recharge me for the night. The coffee with a shot of espresso always did the trick.

  Patricia Bradford blocked my path. “Molly,” she gushed. “I want you to meet Benjamin.” He was nice-looking in a bland-brown-hair-and-even-features kind of way, and there was a definite warmth in his smile as he reached out to shake my hand. Patricia pulled him away before his hand made contact. “I want to show Benjamin where my book signing is going to be.” She led him toward the event area, explaining that, of course, there would be more chairs for her appearance.

  My confusion must have shown in my face.

  “Mrs. Shedd didn’t tell you, did she? She took one look at the new edition of Patricia’s Perfect Hints and set up a date for my signing. It’s next Friday. Please go to the office immediately and mark it on your calendar.”

  Benjamin patted her hand. “Honey, I think you’re a little frazzled. I’m sure you didn’t mean that to sound as demanding as it came across. You’ve said nothing but nice things about Molly, and I’m sure she’ll put it on the calendar.” He turned toward me and nodded. “By the way, Patricia told me about your group making shawls for the Women’s Haven. I guess she told you it’s my pet charity. I want to thank you.” Despite the bland looks, his dark eyes were sincere and he had some charisma.

  Patricia hugged him. “You’re so right, hon. I am frazzled.” She hugged me next. “Of course, Benjamin is right. I know you’ll take care of everything.”

  Benjamin walked toward some people looking at magazines and began introducing himself, while Patricia stayed close to me. “The whole thing at the Cottage Shoppe has left me feeling permanently upset. I can’t seem to get that picture of Drew Brooks out of my mind. And then all the questions by the police.” Patricia looked at me and sighed. “You realize you must have seen whoever did it.”

  “We could have walked right by them,” I said. We both shuddered at the thought. I again brought up the bald man with the Harrods bag.

  Patricia thought a moment. “Maybe I do remember him.” She looked up and saw Benjamin pointing toward the door. “We’ll talk about it again. We have to get to a fund-raiser at the country club,” she said and then followed her husband to the exit.

  I finally got my red eye and added two of the just-baked chocolate cookies, which would have to suffice for dinner. I settled into one of the easy chairs by the window in the café and sipped my coffee. Bob took out a batch of carrot spice bars, and their sweet cinnamon scent mixed nicely with the pungent smell of fresh coffee. He brought one over and said my “dinner” needed some vegetables. It was a relief not to have to worry about anybody else’s meal. Morgan had her own stash of food, however low calorie, and took care of her own eating—or not eating. I’d already fed Blondie and Cosmo during a pit stop on the way back from the yarn store.

  When I returned to the event area, a crowd had already started to fill in the chairs. Who knew so many people were into container gardening? My gaze stopped on two figures toward the back. They were a particular surprise.

  “I didn’t expect to see you here,” I said, stopping next to Barry and his son Jeffrey. More than not expect, I didn’t want him here. What happened to the idea of some space in our relationship? It wasn’t enough he kept stopping by whenever he felt like it to take care of his dog—now he was frequenting bookstore events, too?

  “I thought some plants might be, ah, nice on the patio. You know, they say dealing with nature is good for your soul.”

  Jeffrey was looking at his father as if he were nuts. While Barry tried to come up with more reasons why they were there, Jeffrey pulled out a page from his school paper and handed it to me proudly. It was a review of the drama club’s production of Carousel, and it mentioned that Columbia Greenberg was outstanding as Curly. Barry groaned with frustration as I congratulated Jeffrey and handed back the article. I knew he kept hoping Jeffrey/Columbia would forget about wanting to be an actor and join the Junior Forensics Club.

  “Well, enjoy the program,” I said with a just a little roll of my eyes. “I expect to see your patio full of plants.”

  I walked away, but Barry caught up with me and pulled me into the space between the bookcases in the travel section.

  He held both my hands and tried to look me in the eye, but I avoided his gaze.

  “Barry, I’m working,” I said, trying to pull away, but he had a tight grasp, probably from hanging on to all those suspects that tried to run off.

  “Okay, maybe I’m not as interested in starting a container garden as I implied. But I needed to see you. How about we all get some dinner later?” When I didn’t respond right away, he clenched and unclenched his jaw a few times, a sure sign he was upset.

  “Look, babe, I spent my afternoon telling a woman with two small kids that her husband had been killed. I need something positive to balance it off.” He was usually able to maintain a benign expression, but this time he looked drained.

  I was a little stunned. Barry generally didn’t give away that many details about his job. Sometimes he looked more haggard and I knew he’d dealt with something particularly awful. And on the occasion when some case had worked out well, he seemed to have a sense of satisfaction. But it was usually reading between the lines on my part. Barry’s comments tonight were enough to get my full attention. I touched his shoulder.

  “Can we talk about this later?” I said gently. I was on the lookout for Poppy. She wasn’t there yet, and it always made me nervous when authors cut it close.

  He moved so his face was in front of me. “Please just give me a minute. This is important. You’re important. I can’t begin to tell you what it does for me to see you. It’s like I rejoin a world where people are happy and dogs play ball, and people plant lettuce in their kitchen. I like what I do, but sometimes I just hit empty. When I see you, it’s like hitting the refill button.” He grinned. “You even help me not to be so upset about Jeffrey calling himself Columbia.”

  It was hard not to be touched by what he said, particularly since I did care for him. But it was all about timing. Poppy Roeback was just coming in the door, pulling a wagon full of supplies. And there was someone else. Someone tall, bald and wearing a designer suit.

  I couldn’t take my eyes off of him. Was he the man from the Cottage Shoppe? The one who’d been so angry? True, bald seemed to be in these days, and frankly I can’t say I blamed men for going that way. If I had to choose between a bald spot surrounded by a fringe of hair that made you look insipid, or all-bald-by-choice that gave off a certain macho vibe, I’d go for the naked head. I strained to see better, which didn’t please Barry, particularly when he turned and realized I was looking at another man just as he had poured
out his heart.

  “He’s the one. I’m sure he’s the one,” I said, pulling away and moving toward the front.

  “The one, who?” Barry said in close pursuit.

  Poppy Roeback saw me and pulled her wagon in front of me. “Molly, I’m all set,” she said, pointing at the bags of dirt and stack of pots along with some flats of plants.

  When I looked up again, the bald man was gone.

  CHAPTER 8

  I WAS STILL PICKING UP BALLS OF DIRT THE NEXT morning. No matter how much plastic I’d put down, the dirt had rolled farther. I was under the table trying to clean up as the crochet group began to arrive.

  “Hey, there,” Dinah called, peeking under the table. “What are you doing?”

  I explained that Poppy had gotten more enthusiastic during her book signing than she was on her PBS show. She had rolled the containers out into the crowd and demonstrated planting tomatoes with a trellis that could grow even in a sunny spot in a kitchen. She’d been using plants that already had fruit since she wanted the crowd to get the real idea, and some tomatoes had broken loose, and of course, somebody had stepped on them. She’d also used some special ball-shaped clumps of dirt that expanded when you added water, and some had fallen out of the pots.

  “Sorry I missed it. Sounds like fun,” Dinah said, picking up a gigantic dirt ball. Now that she had unloaded about her ex, she wasn’t avoiding me anymore. What a relief!

  “Jeremy called before I left. He’s going to be delayed coming back from San Diego. I want to see him get a good job, but his kids are wearing me out.” She did look tired around the eyes, and the spikes in her gelled hair seemed to be drooping again. “Those kids are out of control. Believe me, if they were staying longer, I’d have a thing or two to say.”

  I could just imagine. Dinah was not sentimental and gushy about little kids. She’d been known to make caviar and cream cheese sandwiches for her own kids when she ran out of jelly. Even when they were small, Dinah’s children had manners and were nice to be around. They had interesting things to say and knew the world didn’t revolve around them. I was guessing E. Conner and Ashley-Angela thought it did.