Dead Men Don't Crochet

by Hechtman, Betty

  I’d have to talk to Mrs. Shedd, I thought. Then I stopped myself. Was the potential for disaster the only reason I was so uncomfortable with the idea of Adele handling the event? Or was I afraid that little by little Adele might take away pieces of my job? Bingo. Okay, I never claimed to be a saint.

  “I don’t know why Mrs. Shedd didn’t agree,” Adele said. I tried not to be obvious about my relief. Thankfully, Mrs. Shedd had some sense. But only some.

  “But she said I could work with you on it.” Adele gave my arm a friendly punch. “So I guess we’re partners, then.” It didn’t matter that I looked dismayed, Adele wasn’t paying any attention. She just went on, saying that Patricia Bradford had dropped off a box of books along with signage for her event. I noticed Adele made sure to mention that the Patricia’s Hints program was all mine to handle.

  We didn’t generally carry self-published books like Patricia’s because they were a hard sell, but Mrs. Shedd made an exception for Patricia, who never left anything to chance. Normally, I made signs for author events, but Patricia preferred to make her own, more elaborate ones with more flattering copy. Adele said this time she had described herself as “the first lady of hints.”

  “So, what did you buy?” Adele said, abruptly changing the subject. “You said you went over to the Cottage Shoppe to check out the specials.” Her comment jogged my memory, and I thought of the doll and truck Dinah had bought. Then I realized we’d left the bag on the chair in the refreshment area of the store. Since Dinah had a class to teach, I offered to get it. Adele insisted on coming with me.

  The store was considerably quieter than it had been earlier. In fact there were almost no customers for us to blend in with. Kevin was talking to Dorothy. She looked as though she couldn’t wait for her workday to end. Who could blame her?

  When I glanced in the dining room, I saw the package still on the chair. I picked it up and was heading toward the door, anxious to make a hasty exit, but Adele had gone off to look around. I stopped in the entrance hall to wait for her. Kevin and Dorothy were still talking. I like to think of it as curiosity, though some might call it nosiness, but I leaned a little closer to try to hear. I swallowed hard when I got the jest of it.

  Kevin was saying he’d seen someone on the stairs earlier. Because of the overhang all he had seen were a pair of legs in black slacks. It couldn’t have been Dinah, because she was wearing rust-colored denims, and it couldn’t have been me, because, as usual, I was wearing khaki pants.

  Could somebody else have been looking around upstairs, too?

  CHAPTER 11

  THE MAY GLOOM HAD FINALLY WORN OFF AS Adele and I headed back to the bookstore. With the sun burning through the clouds, the air had warmed considerably, and I peeled off my black knit hoodie. Once we got inside, she went off to the children’s department and I headed back to the office.

  I worked on the newsletter and made sure the calendar in it was up-to-date before printing out copies to leave by the door. I had included a little article about the Tarzana Hookers’ hugs of comfort project and mentioned how the director of the Women’s Haven was very excited to be giving shawls to the residents. I also put a little note in saying new members of the crochet group were always welcome. More than welcome. We needed them if we were going to get all those shawls made.

  After I had put out the newsletters, I cashiered a bit to give Rayaad a break and then helped some shoppers find books. By the time I was heading for home, I was thinking of a nice long bubble bath and an evening of soothing crochet. I really wanted to get a good part of my first shawl done, and while I was working I could think over everything I’d seen and heard at the Cottage Shoppe.

  Someone must be having a party, I thought as I turned onto my block and noted the number of cars parked on the street. I was glad I wasn’t invited. The bubble bath beckoned, and I was contemplating maybe an ice-cream dinner. I pulled into the carport and walked into the yard. It was empty for a change. No Barry and his dog. Ah, peace at last, peace at last. For a moment, anyway.

  Who knew the party was at my house?

  I pushed open the kitchen door and there was greeted by the instant noise of multiple conversations and people. Morgan and Samuel were in one corner of the kitchen having some kind of heated discussion over a bowl of lettuce and a bottle of vinegar. Barry and Jeffrey were by the pantry, unloading dog food and assorted treats from a grocery bag. Cosmo was watching at their feet. Barry had been bringing over so much dog stuff, it was taking up all the shelf space. My terrier mix was sitting in the other room, observing everything at a safe distance. Then Peter walked in from the other room along with Mason Fields. When my older son saw me, he marched over scowling. He wanted to know why Samuel’s girlfriend was staying with me and why Barry had a key and was acting like he lived here.

  “It’s only been a few weeks since I’ve been over,” Peter said, gesturing toward the dog food unloading zone. “Who’s the kid and where’d that dog come from?” As if on cue, Cosmo dropped his saliva-covered ball on Peter’s zillion-dollar Enrico Fabrizio shoe. “Mother, this house is like a circus.” Since Charlie’s death, Peter thought it was his job to be the man of the family. Sometimes he took the job too seriously.

  “Let’s see,” I said, watching as he glowered at everyone, particularly Barry. “Your brother’s girlfriend needed a place to stay for a while, and I have lots of room. And Cosmo, Barry and Jeffrey are all part of the same thing.” I explained that Jeffrey was Barry’s son and they had wanted to get a dog, but couldn’t unless they had sort of a cosigner.

  “Mother, you didn’t?” Peter was already throwing up his hands in a hopeless gesture as I explained that Cosmo had started as a frequent visitor but had now become more of a permanent guest. The little black mutt dropped the ball at Peter’s feet again. He leaned down and ruffled the dog’s fur before tossing the ball out the back door into the yard. Cosmo charged after it. To my surprise, Blondie followed him out.

  “He’s kind of cute. Couldn’t you just have said he was yours once he started living here?”

  “No. He’s really Barry and Jeffrey’s dog, and sometime soon they’ll be taking him back with them,” I said.

  “Sure,” Peter said with disbelief. “I think the more likely move is the cop and kid are going to try and come here to stay with their dog, Mother,” he said, stretching the word into two syllables of disapproval.

  Whatever happened to the concept of growing up and being able to do what you wanted? It wasn’t bad enough that I had had to deal with my mother’s withering opinions of anyone I dated when I was a teen. Now I had Peter, and he certainly didn’t give me any slack.

  Mason had discreetly stayed out of earshot during Peter’s fuss about Barry, Jeffrey and the dog. As soon as he saw we were done, he came toward me with an amused smile.

  “So, I finally get to see the famous Pink Manor. Certainly a lively place.”

  He explained he and Peter had come from a meeting about a reality show deal they were putting together at some production company in Sherman Oaks. Peter had brought him over because he was worried I was mixed up in another murder and needed someone to tell me how to deal with the police. Personally, I thought the visit had more to do with Peter’s efforts as matchmaker than his concern about me being a suspect. Particularly since I wasn’t a suspect. However, I was glad Peter had brought him over since I did have something I wanted to talk to him about.

  From across the room, as though he had lawyer radar, Barry glanced up, locked eyes with Mason and clenched his jaw. Barry knew how to keep his face impassive, but the jaw thing was his one tell when he was really upset.

  I don’t think Barry would have liked Mason even if he didn’t see him as competition. Mason had a reputation for keeping his celebrity clients out of jail. He knew how to find the reasonable doubt in cases detectives like Barry built. He was high profile and showed up on the news all the time, coming out of the courthouse. He was also on the board of directors of almost every charity. H
e claimed, in his usual joking manner, he had to do something to make up for being a lawyer. He was divorced and clearly could have his pick of women of any age group even though he was in his fifties. Why not, he had the big three going for him: successful, good-looking and available. Actually, there was also a fourth. He was a total nonjerk. I suspected his interest in me had more to do with the fact that I kept putting him off than anything else. You know, people always want what they can’t have.

  I did like him. He had a sense of humor about himself and an ability to take care of things without making a big deal out of it, like the way he had helped my younger son line up some gigs playing keyboards at some local bars. So I wasn’t saying never about Mason, just not right now.

  “I’m glad you’re here. I wanted to talk to you about something.” I stepped toward the open door and the relative quiet of the backyard. Mason straightened at my comment and got an expectant expression on his face. I was afraid when he heard what I wanted to talk to him about he was going to be disappointed.

  I didn’t have to see Barry’s eyes to know that he probably had a stare so piercing it could burn a hole in a rock.

  “So talk,” Mason said when we got outside. He had on a dark suit—blue that was almost black—and a creamy white shirt made out of a soft, silky cotton. He wore no tie and his shirt was open, showing a frizzle of chest hair that, like the hair on his head, was mostly dark brown with a little gray. A few strands of hair always seemed to fall across his forehead, giving him an earnest, hardworking sort of look. He stretched one arm and leaned his hand against the house, which placed him at an intimate distance from me.

  “No matter what Peter might have said, I’m not about to be arrested. I’m not a suspect, person of interest or anything like that. Well, maybe a witness.” I started to explain the whole scene with Drew’s face in a bowl, but he’d already heard it. It was serious and all since Drew was dead, but saying the whole thing out loud sounded ridiculous and funny.

  “I’m glad to hear you’re not a suspect, but you know if you ever are arrested or need a cup of sugar or just a friendly ear, I’m just a phone call away.”

  I thanked him but told him I wanted to talk to him about somebody else and I began to tell the whole story about Sheila.

  “Detective Hea—I mean Gilmore heard Sheila say some threatening things about Drew, and then Sheila was at the shop when the whole soup incident happened.”

  Mason nodded but didn’t seem particularly concerned until I mentioned the row of paperweights on the desk and how Sheila had said her fingerprints were on the paperweight that had hit Drew on the head.

  “How did she know which one hit him, if she didn’t do it?”

  “You have to know Sheila,” I began, then told him about her finger tapping and how she’d tried to appear calmer and started tapping the paperweights and worked her way through all of them.

  Mason pulled out a card. “If they start accusing her or anything, tell her not to say anything and to call me.”

  I gave him a thank-you hug. “And there’s another small problem.”

  He waved for me to bring it on.

  “She doesn’t have any money.”

  Mason shrugged. “No problem. I’d do it as a favor for you. But then you would owe me, wouldn’t you,” he said with a teasing twinkle. “How about dinner as payment?”

  “No problem,” I said and offered to pay up right away. Of course, I invited everyone else to stay, too. I don’t think that was what he had in mind.

  CHAPTER 12

  “HOW DID YOU FEED THEM ALL?” DINAH ASKED. We were the first ones at the crochet group and had taken out our shawls to work on. Dinah wanted all the details of my impromptu dinner party.

  I’d been working on my shawl at home, and even though it was just simple rows of single crochet and double crochet with a space, I kept losing stitches. I hadn’t noticed at first and had just kept going, but then began to see there was a certain incline to the edges. I counted the stitches and realized I’d lost ten somewhere along the line. If I continued this way, instead of being a long rectangle the shawl would be shaped like an arrow. I was just glad Adele wasn’t there to see it or I’d never hear the end of it. I unraveled row after row until I’d reached one that had the right number of stitches.

  Dinah had found a babysitter for the kids. Although she seemed more relaxed, I noticed she kept taking out her cell phone as if she was going to make a call, then reconsidering and putting it down on the table.

  “In answer to how I fed everyone, I sent Samuel and Morgan and their argument to the store. I have a gas grill in the backyard, and I told Barry and Mason they were cooking. I had to get them some tee shirts left over from some promotion Charlie did since they both had on nice clothes. They looked pretty funny in suit pants and green tees that said ‘Wally the Wonder Worm.’ ”

  “I thought you said Barry couldn’t cook,” Dinah said, spreading out her work and the ball of forest green yarn. She had tried to convince us to let her make a shawl by joining all the washcloths, but we talked her into following the same pattern as the rest of us. Despite everything she was dealing with, she was still farther along than I was. After hearing about my lost-stitch problem, she kept counting hers every few rows and was relieved to see she still had the correct amount.

  “What man can’t barbecue? Or would admit it, anyway?” I said. “Besides it was just hot dogs and hamburgers.”

  “Barry and Mason barbecued together?” Dinah said. “How did that go?”

  “Not so well.” I laughed at the remembrance. “They argued about when something was done, what rare looked like and whether or not the hot dogs should just be heated or should look all scorched and covered with black. Luckily I had a lot of condiments. You stick it on a bun and pour on enough catsup and mustard and it tastes fine, no matter what.”

  “What about Morgan? Did she eat?”

  “I think so. I heard her mumbling about losing some weight and then all the dance roles would roll in.” I looked at Dinah and winced. “Did I really just say that?” Dinah nodded with a laugh and I shrugged. “Whatever. Thank heavens it isn’t my problem.” I had done another row and counted stitches. I was back at the right amount.

  “Do you think Samuel wanted her to stay with you because of her eating problem? Maybe he thought you could fix it,” Dinah said.

  “I hope not, because that kind of problem is out of my league. I’m better at things like going shopping together at the mall or teaching her how to crochet, not fixing her life.”

  “Tell me the rest about Barry and Mason,” Dinah said.

  “How do you know there is a rest?”

  “I need there to be a rest. It’s almost the end of the semester at Beasley and the last chance for my freshmen to shape up.” She shook her head with hopelessness. The community college gave everybody a chance and then left it to instructors like Dinah to weed out the kids who couldn’t cut it. Some years were harder than others, and I gathered this one was a prize winner in the not-ready-for-college department. “I need some diversion from thinking about my students and the fact that I am still taking care of my ex’s kids and he still isn’t back. If there isn’t something good, make it up.”

  It wasn’t that hard to come up with more, and I didn’t have to invent any of it. I told her Barry had made a point of fixing a lamp in front of Mason and turning it off and on numerous times to demonstrate that it now worked. “Barry also kept acting very territorial, showing he knew where everything was and implying he belonged there. Then Mason made a point of loading the dishwasher.” I chuckled at the memory of Barry’s shocked expression. I hesitated, and Dinah knew I was holding something back.

  “C’mon,” she urged, putting down her crocheting to listen.

  I explained I had told Mason to help himself to something to drink. I was busy gathering stuff for the table and didn’t notice at first that Barry was standing behind Mason as he surveyed the drink offerings in the refrigerator.

&
nbsp; “Why don’t you have a beer,” Barry had suggested, gesturing toward the four amber bottles of Hefeweizen on the second self. I knew what Barry was doing and I should have just closed my eyes and left it alone when Mason took one of the bottles.

  It was ridiculous to think of it as Charlie’s beer, but I couldn’t seem to help it.

  “You don’t want to drink that,” I had said, taking the bottle out of Mason’s hand. “It’s really old and probably flat and has beer cooties. I should throw it out.” Despite my words, I had put the bottle back in the refrigerator.

  Mason had been clever enough to figure out whatever was going on had nothing to do with beer and took a Perrier instead.

  When I finished the story, Dinah rolled her eyes. “Do you still have that beer?” she asked, shaking her head.