Dead Men Don't Crochet

by Hechtman, Betty

  “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, an
d 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.

  “All I can say is thank heavens for Beasley’s child care. It’s really part of the preschool teacher program. They take in faculty kids to let the students practice on them.”

  I filled her in on everything that was going on. She sparked on Barry and Jeffrey’s appearance.

  “How can you fault the guy for showing up and saying all that sweet stuff?” she said, mystified. “All he wants is a serious relationship. Do you know how hard that is to find? I never had that with my ex even when we were married.” Dinah helped me up as I finished with the cleanup. “I know, you need your space,” she said, understanding even if she didn’t agree. That was the cool thing about best friends: You might not always agree but you backed each other anyway.

  Morgan walked in the bookstore and I waved her over. As usual, she was wearing dance wear, this time with a skirt over it. She laid a bag from the craft store on the table.

  “If only I could have talked to the bald guy,” I said to Dinah as Morgan situated herself. “I would have liked to ask him why he was so angry at Drew and what he had in the shopping bag.”

  “Did you find out who he was at least?” Dinah had taken out some cotton worsted yarn and was starting another of her washcloths. This one had a cluster pattern, and she was doing it in a sea foam green that would go with her bathroom.

  “I asked Rayaad,” I said, refering to our main cashier. “She didn’t even know who I was talking about. It’s kind of hard to find him without knowing his name.”

  “Oh well, maybe you’ll see him again somewhere.”

  Morgan had laid out a selection of crochet hooks and some cream-colored bargain yarn.

  “Maybe you could show me how to crochet before the others come.” She was as bummed out as ever. Another audition hadn’t gone as she had hoped, and she was even more convinced if she were five pounds lighter she would have gotten the part. I suspected she was impatient to learn how to crochet because she thought it would burn calories.

  Dinah and I looked at each other and I shrugged. “I’m afraid it’s kind of like the blind leading the blind, but I can show you how to do the basics.” I did a slip knot in slow motion and made a bunch of loose chains as an example. Once Morgan had done the same, I showed her how to dip her hook under the two strands of yarn, then yarn over and pull it through. “Then you just put your hook through both loops, and voilà, you’ve done a single crochet.”

  Morgan seemed to have a knack for it. Even more surprising, considering how hard it had been for me, she could do it while talking. “Does the bald guy have something to do with the murder at the Cottage Shoppe?”

  When I nodded, she continued. “I was thinking about it. Whoever went up to Drew Brooks’s office last has to be the killer.” By now she had made a whole row of single stitches, and I showed her how to turn her work and begin another row.

  “Good thinking, Morgan,” I said, noting that she had gotten right to the heart of the matter. She might look waifish and like her head was off in the clouds, but she was obviously smart, too. Not a surprise. My son Samuel had always gravitated toward girls with brains.

  “So, who went up there?” Morgan said as she moved onto a third row. Her stitches were even and in the perfect place between too loose and knots.

  I had to think for a minute. “Well, there’s the bald guy. I know he went up to Drew’s office the first time we were there, and I have a feeling he went upstairs the day Drew was murdered, but I don’t know when. The saleswoman went up there for sure. She’s the one who screamed. And Kevin Brooks probably did to bring up the soup. There were a lot of people shopping. Any one of them could have gone up there, too.”

  “But certainly all those people didn’t want to kill him. Do you know anybody who had a reason?” Morgan asked.

  “Shei—” Dinah said, but I put my hand over her mouth before she could get out the la. None of us had noticed that Sheila had come up to the table as we were talking. She was looking through her craft bag and thankfully didn’t seem to have heard us. As always she was wearing her business suit since she came during a break from work. It struck me as funny that the gym required its employees to wear dressy black suits while all the members came in wearing tee shirts and stretchy pants.

  While I was getting the yarn for the shawls from the office, CeeCee and Adele had arrived. When I got back to the table, I introduced them to Morgan. Then CeeCee took the yarn I’d brought out and began to separate it by color.

  “I talked to the director of the Women’s Haven, and she’s very excited about the shawls,” CeeCee said. “She’d like to make some kind of an event when we give them out. I hesitated to give her an exact date since we really haven’t even started. I’m sure we’re all agreed we want to get them ready soon.”

  I mentioned that now that we had a new member the work would go faster.

  Adele looked at the practice swatch Morgan was making. “Who taught you how to crochet?”

  When Morgan indicated me, Adele burst out with a sputtery laugh. “Pink taught you to crochet? She just learned herself and already she’s giving lessons.” Adele got in another laugh at the absurdity and then offered to give Morgan a real lesson since she was a pro. To prove her point, she held out her arms to show off the black-and-white-striped warmers she’d made for them. Actually, they seemed like a good idea for May weather, though they were at odds with the rest of her outfit. I’d begun naming her outfits, and this one I called Queen of the Pampas. She wore black leather boots with rust-colored gaucho pan
ts and a black camisole. The arm warmers went from the base of her hand to slightly below her shoulders. She’d let her hair go back to light brown and had it in tiny pigtails. Adele didn’t know the meaning of the word subtle.

  Adele took Morgan to the end of the table, promising to teach her the right way to crochet. The rest of us started choosing yarn for our first shawl. At that moment Patricia rushed up out of breath, apologizing for being late. She took out a completed aqua shawl. It appeared to be made of mohair yarn, but she insisted it was synthetic and machine washable.

  Sheila looked at it. “What a beautiful shade of blue-green. But it looks almost—” CeeCee made a shush move with her fingers and angled her head toward Adele. Sheila didn’t finish the sentence, but I knew what she was going to say. Knitted. The shawl looked knitted.

  Patricia kept her voice low. “I know how you feel about you-know-what, but I’m so much more comfortable with a pair of needles and it is going to be hard for me to commit to being here all the time. And it is such an important project.”