CeeCee took out a ball of bright yellow thread. “All this talking about filet crochet gave me an idea. Why don’t we make bookmarks for the upcoming library sales? It would give those of us who haven’t done filet work a chance to try it, and we could still keep up with the blankets.” CeeCee stopped and swallowed. “When I tell you all what happened with the blankets we made, you’ll realize how important they really are.
“I took the three blankets to the West Valley Police Station. A sergeant came out from the back to thank me and tell me about a call they’d had. There had been an awful situation where a man had killed his wife and one of the children had found her. The girl was seven and deeply traumatized. The officers who picked her up felt terrible for her and helpless to soothe her. But they had one of our blankets and wrapped it around her. Of course, it couldn’t make up for what she’d been through, but they said there was something in the way she hung onto it as she rocked back and forth that made it clear it gave her some kind of comfort. It gave the officer some comfort, too, because they didn’t feel so helpless.”
As CeeCee relayed the touching story, we all kept our eyes fixated on our crocheting, unable to look up. I saw Sheila wipe back a tear.
At the end of the meeting, I assured CeeCee I was well on the road to finding the owner of the items. I then turned to Dinah. “I’m going to see if that Yarnie’s place is open. I just want to find out who the bag belongs to and get it back to them. Want to come along?”
“I’ve always wanted to look in that store.” Dinah sighed in regret. “But I can’t go. I have a test to put together.”
I promised to keep her appraised of what was going on, and we parted company. On my way out of the store, I told Rayaad I was going to lunch. I certainly hoped Adele was right about finding the owner through the unusual thread. I wanted the whole thing off my plate.
I parked in front of Yarnie’s a few minutes later and went inside. It was a tiny store, three of its walls lined with yarn-filled shelves. In the middle of the store stood a small table surrounded by several chairs. Only one was filled: A woman who I figured was the owner sat taking skeins of yarn out of boxes and arranging them on the table.
“Are you the owner?” I asked.
She looked up and smiled. “My name is Dawn Yarnell, but everbody calls me Yarnie, hence the name of the store. Can I help you?”
I took out the filet piece and laid it on the table in front of her. “I’m looking for the person who made this, and a friend of mine thought you might be able to help.” I mentioned the group at the bookstore.
“You’re a Tarzana Hooker? Your leader comes in here a lot. Adele something. Quite an imaginative dresser, isn’t she?” Yarnie said.
I nodded in agreement as the store owner picked up the piece and examined it. She seemed to focus on the panel of the odd vertical rectangle with the window in the middle.
“Adele has a good eye.” She left the piece, went into a back room and returned with an orb of thread the exact aqua of the panel. “This is the last ball of Fiji aquamarine number 10 I have. It was discontinued, and I bought out their entire supply.
“I keep records of who buys what.” She paused a moment. “You can just leave it with me, and I’ll check my records and give the owner a call.”
I couldn’t really blame her for being protective of her customers, but I wanted to meet the person face-to-face. When I said I’d really feel better if I took it back to the person myself, Yarnie didn’t budge. I thought of The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation and what it would suggest under the circumstances. It usually advised being creative and not being afraid to stretch the truth, but I realized that in this situation, the best weapon in my arsenal was the truth.
“Do you know who CeeCee Collins is?” I began. Yarnie nodded and even mentioned the show. It was an easy segue into the package being left for CeeCee to deal with. And it was amazing what a celebrity name would do. “I promised CeeCee I would give it directly to the owner,” I said finally.
Yarnie considered what I’d said and then opened her laptop and fired it up. She typed something in and shook her head. “I’m afraid a whole list of names comes up.” She turned the computer toward me and I saw she was right.
Undaunted, I examined the piece again. “What about one of these other colors? If you look up who bought one of them it might narrow it down.”
“Good thinking. I’ve never actually done it in reverse like this.” She held the piece close and looked at the panel with the bath-powder box. “I think this is arctic blue 14.” She got a sample to be sure and then typed it in the computer.
She came up with another list, and we checked back and forth and found there were only two people who’d bought both colors.
“It’s not her,” she said, pointing at the first name. “She moved to Napa three months ago.” She pointed to the second in the list.
Mary Beth Wells.
Yarnie seemed to hesitate then finally wrote down the pertinent information on a piece of paper shaped like a ball of yarn. “Do you know who she is?”
I shrugged and she continued. “Well, you must have heard of Lance Wells?”
Of course, who hadn’t? He was before my time more or less, but Lance Wells was the premier dancing actor in all those tuxedo-and-evening-gown musicals. There was a nationwide chain of dance studios named after him. I’d just passed the one in Tarzana the other day and noticed how busy it was. Thanks to Dancing with the Stars and the shows it had spawned, everybody wanted to learn all the couples’ dances.
“Mary Beth was married to Lance Wells Jr.,” Yarnie said. “I think he died about six months ago.”
“Then you know her pretty well?” I said. The shop owner gave me a noncommital shrug. “Do you have any idea what all this means?” I asked, pointing to the motifs in the panels.
“She said she likes filet crochet because it’s like drawing. This is the first time I’ve seen anything she’s made. Mostly, she just buys supplies when she comes in. She said she likes all the colors I have.” Yarnie stared at the panel piece for a long time. “This is really an odd item. It’s not the kind of thing I expected her to make. Filet isn’t that popular. Mostly what you see are nameplates or trim on something.” She reached for the phone and punched in some numbers. “First thing I’m going to ask her is what all this is.” She paused and I could hear the phone ringing through the receiver. Finally, someone answered and Yarnie spoke, but it was obvious she’d reached a wrong number.
She checked her computer again and saw it was the number she’d dialed. “Oh no, I must have transposed some of the numbers.” She appeared apologetic. “I’m a little dyslexic.” She looked at the screen. “I think the address is right. I know I’ve mailed her sale notices and they haven’t come back.”
“I’ll go there and if nobody’s home, I’ll leave a note in the mailbox,” I said. That seemed to set okay with her, and she gave me the address and even searched out driving directions from the Internet for me.
I was glad to have the directions. Although the house was in Tarzana, it was up in the hills where the streets reminded me of spider veins. They were squiggly and branched off each other in multiple directions. After much confusion, I finally found her street, which was so steep I was afraid the car would start slipping back down the hill. Where the street ended and the signs for the Santa Monica Mountains Conservancy began, I saw the address on the curb. There was a wrought-iron mailbox in front and a solid blue-green gate across the driveway. I turned the car around and parked on the street, making sure to curb my wheels.
I climbed out of the car and stood on the sidewalk. A large house was a short distance below me, and from there a row of minimansions cascaded down the hillside. When I looked up, the whole San Fernando Valley spread before me and I suddenly felt like the queen of the world. I got caught up in the view. It was a clear day, and the San Gabriel Mountains appeared so stark, it was as if they’d been outlined in black marker. The top of Mount Wilson was dusted with snow, a
nd farther east, I caught sight of Mount Baldy completely slathered in white. A plane at eye level was heading toward Van Nuys Airport to land. The grid of streets spread before me, and I could pick out landmarks and see how lush the Valley was, its treetops like tiny green cotton balls.
But I wasn’t here for sightseeing so I began walking back toward the mailbox, noticing an intercom on a stand just before the gate. I had the bag under my arm and pressed the button next to the speaker. A moment later I heard a voice say something, and I launched into explaining my mission. But all I got out was my name before I was interrupted.
A woman’s voice crackled out of the speaker, but I couldn’t make out what she was saying. It sounded almost like gibberish, but I thought she repeated my name.
“Yes, yes, I’m—” There was no time to finish again as the gate made a noise and began to slide open. I walked through quickly and stood at the end of a long driveway that curved and disappeared. The laurel trees on either side were old and gnarled and made a canopy with their knife-shaped leaves. The treetops blocked out the light, making it dark and shadowy. My heart rate kicked up as I began to wonder what I was walking into.
The house didn’t come into view until after I’d rounded the curve. It was an old Spanish style—two stories with creamy stucco, lots of arched windows and a red-tile roof. My breath caught as a deer darted in front of me and disappeared down into the brush on the hillside.
I reached the other end of the driveway and walked up the path toward the house. A red-tiled patio ran along the front with an overhang for shade created by the second-floor balcony. It took my breath away just imagining what the view must be like from up there. It was probably even better at night with all the lights.
The large wood door opened, and a woman in jeans and a red blouse came out. She seemed distracted and was looking past me.
“Mary Beth Wells?” I said. I took the bag out from under my arm. Her eyes focused on it, then she nodded and grabbed my arm.
She was saying something in Spanish and I couldn’t understand her. She waved at the driveway and seemed to be looking for something, then dragged me inside.
The inside of the house was dark. I glanced around quickly, taking in the giant pots of mother-in-law tongues on the shiny dark wood floor. I only got a quick glance as we passed the living room. There was a light-colored sofa with a bright Native American blanket draped over the arm. By now, the woman was even more agitated; she gestured for me to hurry.
I followed her upstairs, where I was hit by a smell so bad I gasped. Just then, the woman pushed me in the doorway of what appeared to be the master bedroom. She finally seemed to remember English. “Fix her. She sick. When I got here. She like this.”
I heard the sound of a doorbell coming through the intercom receiver on the wall. The housekeeper—at least I assumed she was the housekeeper—frantically rushed to press the buttons.
I stayed back but could see there was a woman in the bed who didn’t appear to be moving. Pillows were propped up against the dark wood headboard, but she had fallen forward such that her face was obscured by her dark blond hair, which was spread out over the white chenille coverlet. A large stain marred the blanket.
As I took in the scene, I heard the whine of a siren and the rumble of a truck motor. Then flashing lights came through the window, and I understood why I’d been let in so quickly. The housekeeper must have called 911 and assumed I was the EMTs. No wonder she’d looked at me so oddly. She must have thought I had medical gear in the paper sack.
Even though I was across the room I had a feeling the person in the bed was beyond anybody’s ability to fix. Because of my extensive reading of The Average Joe’s Guide to Criminal Investigation, I automatically started checking out the surroundings carefully. The light next to the bed was still on, and a book appeared to have fallen on the floor. There was a carafe of water, still full, on the bedside table as well. Something next to the carafe caught my eye, and I actually took a step closer to get a better look. It was a clear plastic box of what appeared to be little apples. Several were missing.
The sounds of footsteps and voices jarred me from my observations. The housekeeper began to scream and the footsteps grew louder. Two men in dark blue uniforms rushed past me. That was when I realized what the things in the box were. Marzipan. I’d seen the almond-paste candy formed into all kinds of fruits and flowers before. As far as I was concerned, the taste never lived up to the presentation.
This seemed like a good time to leave. As I reached the top of the stairs, two firefighters came up and rushed past me. No one seemed to notice me as I headed down the staircase and toward the door. It seemed a safe guess that the woman in the bed was Mary Beth Wells. I hoped the paramedics would be able to revive her. In any case, it didn’t seem likely she’d be up for discussing a crochet piece.
I got outside and walked quickly past the ambulance and small fire truck. I picked up speed, but when I went around the curve of the driveway I caught sight of the solid blue-green gate. It was closed.
I knew most of those electric gates had some kind of electric eye that made them open when you got close. As I approached it, sure enough, it began to open, but since I was walking and the gate was timed for a car, I worried it wouldn’t stay open long enough. I began to run. Clutching the bag, I picked up speed. The slight downhill slope of the road only made me go faster.
The gate was still in the process of opening as I flew through it. It was only then that I saw the police cruiser pulled into the driveway waiting to come in. I had too much momentum to stop and went running past the black-and-white. Oh no. The doors flew open, and the two patrol officers jumped out and yelled at me to freeze.
I guess running out of there kind of gave the wrong impression.
CHAPTER 6
I SUPPOSE I SHOULD BE GRATEFUL FOR SMALL favors. The officers didn’t handcuff me—they just gave me a lift back up the driveway. Riding in the backseat of a cruiser was not exactly my favorite mode of transportation. The seat was hard plastic and had a residue of bad odors, and there were no window openers or door handles, which made me feel more than a little trapped.
They pulled around the ambulance and fire truck and parked on the grass. I guess if you’re cops you can do stuff like that. One of the uniforms opened the back door and escorted me to a bench on the lawn. Just to make sure I stayed put, he sat with me while his partner went into the house. My stomach fluttered when I saw the name on the badge.
Officer James turned toward me and studied my face. “Have I picked you up before?”
“Not exactly,” I said, hoping he wouldn’t pursue it. He’d been first on the scene of the very first crime I’d been involved with.
His eyes lit up with recognition, and then he appeared concerned. “You aren’t going to throw up, are you?”
Ah, so he did remember. I had rambled on and on that time, telling him I was afraid if I stopped talking I might throw up.
I assured him I had changed since then, and the conversation ended except for him asking me for fingerprint and hair samples and telling me I had to wait to talk to the detective. Since Barry was somewhere on the East Coast interrogating a witness, I knew it wouldn’t be him.
The one positive about waiting was I got a chance to really look at the view. It was better than thinking about why I was there, I decided, as I continued to clutch my purse and the paper sack. I knew there were houses below, but they were out of sight and I had an unobstructed panoramic view of the Valley. It was breathtaking, though I didn’t need any help having my breath taken. I couldn’t help it. Even though I was perfectly innocent, my heart was pounding in anticipation—and not in a good way. It was getting cold, too.
A blue Crown Victoria pulled up the driveway and stopped. By now the ambulance and fire truck had left. The fading sunlight reflected off the windshield and I couldn’t see who was inside. But I had that old sinking feeling in my stomach when I saw who got out. Detective Heather Gilmore didn’t look happy
to see me, either.
We had a bit of history. More like a very short story. She wanted Barry Greenberg and I had him. I guessed her biological clock was getting into the red zone and she wanted to get married, so she’d zeroed in on him.
Usually, she dressed in a well-fitting suit. But this time she was wearing jeans and a white turtleneck with a safari-style jacket over it. Something looked wrong, and I realized she must have gotten the call when she was off duty. Judging by the one hand with red polish and the other hand with none, she’d been in the midst of a manicure. Then I noticed the wet white blond hair sticking out below the scarf she had tied over her head. She must have been getting her hair done, too.
I noticed a thick belt around her hips when her jacket opened, revealing her badge and gun. Did she wear it to the beauty shop?
My companion patrol officer went over to talk to her out of my earshot. Detective Heather was glaring at me the whole time he spoke. Of course, I called her Detective Heather only in my head and to my friends since it sounded a little too much like calling her Detective Barbie Doll.
By Hook or by Crook Page 6