I changed into my around-the-house outfit. It was another reason I liked living alone. No one looked askance at my gray sweatpants that felt warm and snuggly on the chilly night or my pink and green fuzzy socks. I’d topped the outfit with an ancient periwinkle blue long-sleeve tee shirt. There were a few holes in it, but it was so soft from endless washing that I didn’t care.
I popped some leftover noodle pudding in the oven, took out the paper sack and spread the contents on my dining room table. The three copper and green hanging fixtures bathed the items in bright light.
I folded out the filet crochet piece first and looked it over. It was made of two rows of loosely shaped square panels. Whoever made it was obviously an accomplished crocheter. The stitches were even and well done. A lot of time had probably gone into making it, too. But why put all that time into such an odd piece? And what was it for? Though it was sort of shaped like a scarf, I didn’t think it was meant to be worn. And if someone tried to hang it on a wall, the middle would droop. It wasn’t even that attractive, although I did like the colors of the thread, particularly the aqua.
I wondered if the panels that had nonsensical images were deliberate or mistakes. I ran my finger over the two panels with big rings. One ring looked like a donut that was all hole, and the other had a bar across the middle. Another panel depicted a cylinder on stilts attached to a trapezoid; this seemed too planned to be a mistake. Even the recognizable things were strange. Why would somebody stick a bath-powder box, an oddly shaped house, a sitting cat, something that resembled the Arc de Triomphe, a walking cat and a vase of flowers together in one piece?
And what about the last panel? It was twice the size of the others and was a solid aqua rectangle with a window in the middle. What could it mean?
I was getting dizzy trying to figure it out. I reread the note to see if maybe there was something I’d missed when Adele had read it out loud. I looked inside the bag and saw that something white had gotten stuck on the side. I pulled it out and took it to the light. It was a piece of paper, dated at the top, and appeared to have been torn from a book. The position of the date and the kind of paper made me think it was a diary entry. I sat down in one of the chairs and looked at the handwriting. My handwriting always went every which way and had gotten worse as I got older. This was done in fountain pen with clear, even letters. It was dated December 20, twenty-three years ago. The same year Samuel was born.
There was no salutation. It just began.
The island is decorated for Christmas. All the colorful lights brighten up the short, cold days, but it doesn’t help me feel any less sad. I hate to have to say good-bye even for a short time. I know things will work out and we will be back together again for keeps. Tomorrow I go back as if nothing has changed. I know I am doing the right thing.
“Nicely vague,” I said out loud. “A few specific details like who she was and who she was talking about might have helped.” The only effect of my solo conversation was that the two dogs came in and looked around to see if I had company. I was going to have to watch the talking out loud once my parents arrived. It might make me come across as a widow who spent too much time alone.
While I waited for my food to heat, I reread the note that had come in the bag. I even read it out loud thinking hearing it might offer some new meaning, but nothing new struck me. And it still ended with a cliff-hanger.
“What’s the rest of the story?” I said, letting the paper fall back on the table. “And why couldn’t you have just taken another minute to add your name.”
Oh, dear, I was doing it again. Did all this talking out loud to myself mean that I was lonely?
The buttery smell coming from the oven made my mouth water, so I took out my noodle pudding, but then my thoughts returned to the puzzle.
The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation, my own personal go-to book, said everything has clues, you just had to know how to pick them out. After reading over the note and the diary entry countless times, I started to think the crochet piece was some kind of code for the secret the note writer was planning to disclose. But no matter how long I looked at all those panels, they didn’t make any more sense.
Sometimes a fresh point of view helped, so I called Dinah. Besides, I thought, I need to talk to a real person.
CHAPTER 3
“LYONS RESIDENCE,” A TINY VOICE SAID. “ASHLEY-Angela speaking.”
It was hard not to laugh at how serious she sounded, but I knew if I did I would hurt her feelings. Was this really the same wild child from a few months ago?
I was the only one who knew the truth about why Ashley-Angela and her brother E. Conner, four-year-old fraternal twins, were staying with Dinah. Everyone else assumed they were her grandkids on an extended visit. But they weren’t even really related to her, unless you counted that they were her children’s half siblings.
Dinah’s ex-husband, Jeremy, was their father and the new ex-Mrs. Lyons was their mother. She’d dropped out of sight, and Dinah had taken the kids in while Jeremy adjusted to a new job out of state. It was only supposed to be for a few weeks, but that was months ago.
Dinah was somewhere in her fifties. She wouldn’t divulge exactly where even to me, her best friend. She was convinced that people judged you when they knew your age. I couldn’t imagine anyone thinking she was old. She was practically bursting with energy, and she was always up for an adventure.
“Hello,” Dinah said taking the phone. I complimented her on Ashley-Angela’s phone manners, and I could hear the pride in her voice when she thanked me. No matter how much Dinah said she couldn’t wait for their father to come pick them up, I knew she’d gotten attached to them.
“There was something else in the bag. It seems like a diary entry.” Then I described how I’d been staring at the crochet piece and finally decided it was somehow the key to the secret mentioned in the aborted note.
“Read me the diary piece,” Dinah said.
My noodle pudding was getting cold and I took a bite. Dinah heard me chewing and wanted to know what I was eating. When I mentioned I had enough to share, she sighed.
“I love your California Noodle Pudding,” she said. “It is times like this I wish I wasn’t tied down.”
I promised to save her a piece and then took out the diary entry and started to read. I heard Dinah say “uh-huh” when I read the part about saying good-bye.
“It’s obvious she was having an affair and was upset about having to say good-bye. She said something about them being together eventually. Maybe that didn’t happen and that’s what she wanted to change.” Dinah stopped for a moment. “Hmm, it mentioned an island. I wonder what island it is.”
“There’s Balboa Island near Newport Beach, there’s the Hawaiian Islands. And there’s always Alcatraz,” I said with a laugh.
“But the entry doesn’t even indicate a state. It could be Bainbridge Island near Seattle, or St. Thomas in the Caribbean.”
“If the secret has something to do with an affair on an island, you’d sure never guess it by the crochet piece. I’ve been staring at it until my eyes are blurry and I still don’t get what a lot of the images are, let alone what they mean,” I said.
“Maybe the best thing to do is just wait and see if someone comes looking for it. It also might be the only thing to do,” Dinah suggested.
“I suppose you’re right. It’s odd, though, the way it was left on our table and the way the note breaks off—why just stop writing like that in the middle?”
“I can answer that one,” Dinah said. “Ever since Ashley-Angela and E. Conner have come to stay with me, I do things like that all the time. It’s called getting interrupted. I have to be really careful with comments on students’ papers and remember to go back and finish what I started. Telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning,’ and telling someone, ‘Your paper has a powerful beginning but the rest doesn’t make sense,’ are a little different.” Dinah punctuated her comment with a chuckle. “What did the note say again?”
/>
I pulled it out of the bag and read it to Dinah: “I did something a long time ago that I now regret and would like to make right. I’m not sure everyone involved will agree. I’m leaving the enclosed for safekeeping with you. If I don’t come back for them, I trust you will know what to do. Please—”
“Hmm,” I said, looking at the diary entry and the note side by side. “The note seems different after reading the diary entry. Obviously whatever she did a long time ago is what she was talking about in the diary entry. Whatever she wants to fix probably has to do with the person she said good-bye to.”
“The diary page says something about the note writer getting back together with someone. Maybe they didn’t and she wants to make that happen now,” Dinah said. “The most obvious scenario is the writer had an affair with some guy on an island and maybe they were both married and the plan was they would go home and get divorces and then live happily ever after—but it didn’t happen. And now all these years later, the writer still wants her happily ever after.”
I pushed my plate of food away and held up the crochet piece. “All that makes sense, but what do all these weird images have to do with it?”
“Who knows? Maybe they represent lyrics to—” Dinah’s voice came in and out, and I could tell she was looking away from the phone. I heard kids’ noises and Dinah sighed. “See what I mean about getting interrupted? The end of that thought is lyrics to their song.” She sighed again. “I promised to read them a story. Why don’t you bring the bag to the crochet group. Maybe with all of our brains storming together we’ll come up with something.”
I agreed to bring it and then told Dinah about my impending houseguests. She laughed.
“Batten down the hatches! Liza Aronson is coming to town.”
I WENT INTO THE BOOKSTORE EARLY THE NEXT morning. Mrs. Shedd generally did her work when the store was closed, so I was surprised to see her sitting in her office. But there was no mistaking her hair. Although she was in her late sixties, she didn’t have even a lock of gray hair. The dark blond color was all natural, and the page-boy style reminded me of an old shampoo commercial. Her clothes were kind of old-school, too. She didn’t wear pants, she wore trousers along with feminine big-collared blouses. Everybody called her Mrs. Shedd. I had only recently learned her first name was Pamela. She was leaning back in her desk chair and waved me in as I passed.
“Tell me again about the couple who came in. Did they seem happy with the way the bookstore looked? Did they make any comments about the arrangement?” Mrs. Shedd sounded unusually nervous. “You know, Molly, the way the bookstore looks on TV is really important. It’s national television. Millions of viewers. This is the ultimate event for our little place. It will put us on the map, and we could become a tourist stop or at least the place in the Valley to visit for your book needs,” she said in an excited voice.
I nodded to show I was listening as she began to talk about how impressed Mr. Royal would be if he knew. I continued nodding and hoped my disbelief that he existed didn’t show. “So be sure and offer any assistance to anyone involved with the show,” Mrs. Shedd finished.
After assuring her I would do my best, I went back onto the bookstore floor. We’d just opened so there were barely any customers. Bob, our main barista, was brewing fresh coffee, and the pungent fragrance mixed with the sweet scent of his homemade butterscotch oatmeal cookie bars cooling on the counter. It was too much to resist; I went into the café, grabbed a cup of fresh coffee and some hot cookie bars and then headed back into the main store.
A man had come in and was standing at the front counter talking to Rayaad. When she saw me, she waved me over. The man’s slightly long gray-streaked hair, intelligent face and rimless glasses made me think he might be a college professor. But the manicured nails and designer tennis whites complete with a sweater made me think not.
The man nodded to me and held out his hand. “Hunter Katz.”
I balanced the cookie bars and coffee mug in one hand and shook his.
“I’m the executive vice president of Rhead Productions. We produce Making Amends. I don’t usually get involved with locations or the details of any of our shows, but since this is my neighborhood . . .” He pointed toward the view of the hills and Santa Monica Mountains dotted with homes, implying one of them was his. “So I thought I’d drop by and make sure the ball has started rolling.”
I mentioned meeting the set designers the previous day, and then I asked him the question I’d thought of after they’d left. Why were they filming at the bookstore?
Hunter laughed. “That’s because someone in the bookstore is the subject of the show. They’re the one someone is making amends with.”
“Oh really. Who is it?” I asked.
He winked. “Sorry, but the whole emotional arc of the show is based on it being a surprise.” He handed me his card. “If there are any problems with the setups or anything, give my office a call. Like I said, I don’t usually get involved with the nitty-gritty of any of our shows, but since it’s my local bookstore, I have a personal interest in things going smoothly.”
Which really meant he didn’t want anything to go wrong. Oh dear, the pressure was on. Let’s just say that some of my author events have had a certain unpredictable quality to them, like the time a cooking demonstration led to the fire department showing up. I put on a confident smile and told him I was sure everything would go perfectly. “So, I guess you’re CeeCee Collins’s boss.”
“I’ve never quite thought of it in those terms, but yes,” he said, preparing to depart. “You have some kind of crochet group here that makes things for charity, don’t you?”
“Yes,” I said tentatively, wondering why he was asking. “Does that have something to do with the show?”
He took a step backward while still looking at me and winked. “Sorry, I can’t give out that information.” Then with a wave, he was gone.
A busy morning already and it wasn’t even ten yet. I headed to the event area to do setup for the crochet group. The morning sun poured in the window that faced Ventura Boulevard. A city maintenance worker was giving a shot of water to the giraffe topiary that stood guard by the window. The ivy was finally beginning to cover the metal frame and mossy stuff in the middle.
Someone had decided a while back that the Valley communities along Ventura Boulevard should each have some kind of identity. Because we were located in Tarzana, there was the obvious Tarzan connection, and hence, we got the designation of Safari Walk. What that amounted to was a street sign announcing it, garbage cans with animal cutouts, an occasional sidewalk square made of red tiles with a big rock on it and topiary animals sprinkled down the boulevard.
Turning my back on the ivy giraffe and his keeper, I began to prepare for the group. I pulled out the long table and unfolded the legs. Dinah came in before I finished setting up the chairs. Actually, I heard the tinkle of her long earrings before I saw her. As usual, she had several scarves twined around her neck, but no kids with her.
“Thank heavens for preschool,” she said when I asked. “They’ve started going every day.” She dropped her craft bag on a chair and undid her sweater coat. She picked up one of my cookie bars and took a nibble, then said she was going for her own treats.
While she was gone, I took out the filet crochet piece and the note and diary entry.
“Wow, it’s different than I remember it,” Dinah said, glancing toward my display as she returned with a latte and more cookie bars. She set down her café purchases and gave all her attention to the stitched item. “I see what you mean. Who knows what most of this stuff is supposed to be? Cancel what I said about song lyrics.” She pointed at the aqua rectangle with the window in the middle. “It’s as if she decided to mix abstract things with recognizable ones. Like that.” Dinah pointed at the man with the bow and arrow.
Dinah took a sip of her latte and with a thoughtful look picked up the diary entry. She read it over several times, frequently glancing back toward the p
anel piece. Her eyes suddenly brightened. “I think I’ve found a connection.” She pointed to December 20 on the paper and then to the bow-and-arrow figure. “The zodiac sign for that date is Sagittarius.” She stared at me, apparently waiting for some kind of reaction. When it didn’t come, she continued. “Don’t you get it? You know, the ram is for Aries, the lion for Leo and the archer for Sagittarius.”
“Oh,” I said, letting it sink in. “You’re right. Wow, that’s impressive.”
“What’s impressive, dear?” CeeCee moved past me, pulling her craft case on wheels to the head of the table and positioning it next to her chair. The production company had hired a stylist to work with her when the show took off, and the new look suited her well. Gone were the reddish blond bubble hairstyle and the jewel-colored velour warm-up suits she’d worn before. Now her hair was a soft brown with natural-looking highlights. The soft bangs knocked years off her face, her outfit—slacks, shirt and long vest—hid any hint of extra curves.
Before I could answer her question, CeeCee had spied my last cookie bar. “Does that belong to anyone?” she said, reaching for it. When I told her it was hers, she closed her eyes and savored the flavor.
By Hook or by Crook Page 3