By Hook or by Crook

by Hechtman, Betty

  Since I wasn’t sure how to answer him, I did the politician thing with him, too, and simply didn’t say anything. But Mason was not one to let it go that easy. “Your mother liked me,” he said as though if he racked up enough points, he’d win the prize, which oddly enough, in this case, was me.

  I couldn’t help but smile. “Don’t you know in the rules of relationships that is the kiss of death?”

  He chuckled softly. “If I’d known that, I would have worn my motorcycle jacket and told your mother she looked old enough to be your grandmother.”

  “Well, thanks for the yarn and going to all the trouble to get it to me.” I made a move toward my car, but he put his hand on my arm.

  “A bag of yarn ought to at least get me a cup of coffee.”

  “Why not? I’m just going home to rehearsal central. Time is getting short and they’re in overdrive.”

  “Great,” he said. We walked to my car and I put the yarn in the trunk. “We could go to Mulligan’s,” he said, pointing vaguely in the direction of the all-night coffee shop a few blocks down on Ventura. “Or my place. You probably don’t know this, but I grind my own beans.”

  “Mulligan’s would be fine.” I closed the trunk. Since it was a short distance, we decided to walk. We crossed Ventura and moved in the direction of the coffee shop. I glanced across the street. Most of the stores and restaurants were dark. Then I noticed something odd. When I looked toward the second floor, the lights appeared to be on at the Lance Wells Dance Studio. There was some kind of coating on the window so you couldn’t see in, but I could tell the interior was illuminated.

  Mason noticed me staring and followed my gaze. I explained it was the dance studio. “I wonder why the lights are on now?”

  Mason linked his arm through mine. “It’s after eleven. It’s probably just the cleaning crew. Don’t worry about it.” Then he changed the subject. “You probably missed the news since you were working. They did a little bit on me and Rome O’Brien leaving the courthouse.” He didn’t have to explain the case. Everyone knew about the actress’s DUI, leaving the scene of an accident, having an expired driver’s license and the cherry on the sundae: slapping the cop who arrested her.

  There was a tone of pride to Mason’s voice as he told the outcome of her trial. “Everybody was saying jail time for sure, and none of that serving eighty-three minutes and getting released, either. Once she slapped the cop, she kissed that option good-bye. They were talking months, but I got her off.”

  “But maybe she should have gone to jail,” I offered. “It sounds like she did everything to deserve it.”

  “That’s not for me to judge. My job is to present the best case for my clients,” Mason said. “And I did. And to make up for it I’m on the board of directors of every charity,” he added with a grin.

  While he was talking, I kept my eyes on the dance studio and suddenly I had an idea. “Can I get a rain check on the coffee?”

  “It’s the lawyer thing, isn’t it?” Even in the darkness I could see his expression had deflated. “I’m sorry I’m not a white knight like Greenberg. But just remember who you called when you thought you were going to be arrested.”

  I told him it wasn’t that. I had just remembered something I had to do. As we retraced our steps, he saw me looking up at the dance studio window.

  “Does it have anything to do with that?”

  I tried not answering, but Mason didn’t go for it and continued cross-examining me.

  I finally took the fifth.

  “As your lawyer, I’m advising you not to do anything unlawful, and I’m suggesting a cup of coffee is a better option.” When I politely declined, Mason walked me back to my car.

  He told me to stay out of trouble—but if I got in any to be sure and call. Then he leaned in and kissed me. It wasn’t just a kiss; it was an extremely persuasive argument not to go. I understood why he won most—but not all—of his cases. I didn’t change my mind.

  “I’m glad you’re not a prosecuter,” he said as I got in my car.

  CHAPTER 22

  “WHY DO YOU NEED A MOP?” DINAH SAID WHEN she sleepily answered the phone. “Another emergency at the bookstore?”

  “I have a plan. Are you in?” I asked.

  “Am I ever not? Where are you?” she said.

  When I told her I was parked in front of her house, she had the front door open before I got out of the car.

  She was wide awake by now. She pointed to the pile of essays she’d been grading on the couch. Apparently they had bored her to sleep.

  While I explained the plan, we raided her cleaning closet. A few minutes later we were heading out the door, each with a pail filled with a bottle of spray cleaner and rags, along with a mop and a story. We were dance-floor cleaner specialists.

  “What cleaning crew is going to turn down help?” I said as we started toward Ventura. Dinah’s house was just a couple of blocks away from the dance studio, so even with our supplies, we walked. “Besides, it’s not like there’s anything valuable they have to worry about up there except maybe some dance charts.”

  “Why are we doing this again?” Dinah asked. I kept glancing around, noticing that the street seemed very parked up. Everyone around here had a garage and a driveway; there were usually almost no cars on the street at night.

  “If I can get a look at the crochet piece that Matt Wells talked about, then I can cancel dance night at the bookstore—even though it does sound like a good idea. But it’s so last-minute, and Mrs. Shedd particularly mentioned that we shouldn’t schedule anything before the bookstore’s TV debut.”

  Figuring the cleaning crew would come in through the back entrance, we went up the stairs from the parking lot side. There, a glass door opened into a hallway that ran between the corporate offices and the dance studio. I pushed on the door, and my heart rate sped up a few notches when it opened. Dinah clutched my arm with her free hand while hanging onto the mop and pail with her other.

  Just as I was about to walk in, a man stepped out of the corner, blocking us. He was about thirty, built like a fireplug and wore an ill-fitting dark suit. He finished off the look with buzz-cut hair and a sour expression.

  “What do you want?” he demanded.

  The shock of seeing someone so menacing made my voice disappear into my throat. I choked out, “Cleaning crew,” and feebly held up my pail.

  “Nobody told me anything about a cleaning crew,” he said in a deep gruff voice. He looked us over a few times. I was just waiting for him to toss us out, which he looked like he could do with ease. When he shook his head with something that looked like regret, I prepared for the worst.

  “It must be tough times for you, huh?” he said as he checked us out again. “A couple of old babes like you working two jobs.”

  At first I didn’t know what he was talking about, but then I looked down at my outfit and over at Dinah’s. Our clothes weren’t exactly cleaning-crew wear. All I’d thought about were some props, not wardrobe. I had on my usual khaki pants and a black sweater over a white shirt. Dinah wore black slacks, a turtleneck and a corduroy blazer with a burnt orange scarf swirled around her neck. Her earrings almost brushed her shoulders.

  Since he seemed sympathetic, I nodded with a wistful touch of sadness. “I just left my other job. And now this. It’s been a long day. . . .” All of which was actually true. I had a hard time with outright lies, but I could live with omissions.

  He glanced down the hall as if considering whether he should confer with someone else. “If you have to ask somebody to get an okay, could you do it?” I said, trying to sound like I meant it. “We really need to get going on this so we can get in a little sleep before we have to go to our day jobs.” Dinah poked me sharply. Yeah, I was taking a chance, but I was betting that offering him the option would make him not take it. And I was right.

  A moment later, he shrugged and gestured for us to go on in. “You two remind me of my aunts. Just stick to the offices, okay?”

&n
bsp; “That works for me,” I said as we started down the hall. I could feel his eyes on my back as I reached for a door handle and prayed it didn’t lead to a closet.

  “Whew.” I sighed when I saw the inside of an office. Dinah came in and shut the door behind us.

  “We better move quickly before he changes his mind,” I said. The walls were lined with photos. Some were of Lance Wells Sr. in various movie roles. There was one of him cutting the ribbon on the Lance Wells Dance Studio we were standing in. Then there were photos of other dance studios with captions indicating their location: Dallas, Chicago, Buffalo, among others.

  A large desk dominated the room, but there was an emptiness about it. The desktop was too neat, the chair pushed in with finality. There were photos on the front, including a wedding photo of Mary Beth and Lance Jr. She looked as though she’d just won a prize; he looked a little drunk. Another photo showed Mary Beth and Matt laughing and poised to dance on the round porch at the house in Catalina. Obviously, this was Mary Beth’s desk, and probably Lance Jr.’s before that and Lance Sr. before that.

  Recalling the need for speed, I quickly began opening drawers. In a bottom drawer I found several balls of number 10 thread in white and ecru, along with some size 7 steel hooks. There was a partially completed chart on a piece of graph paper. Attached to it was the cutout of a photocopy of a photograph.

  “That’s how she did it all,” I said, reminding Dinah of all the filet pictures on the wall in the Catalina house. “She took a photo and blew up the size on a copy machine, then drew around it on the graph paper, and then she had a chart of meshes and open spaces to do the filet crochet.” I looked at the black-and-white image in the copy. It was a little girl with pigtails. “I wonder who she is.” I held it out so Dinah could see.

  We were so intent on examining the copy, we didn’t hear a door open.

  “What are you doing here?” an angry male voice demanded.

  When I turned I was looking directly into Hal Klinger’s face. Gone was the benignly dull demeanor he’d had at our first meeting. He stood taller now and had a much more domineering expression.

  I hadn’t noticed the other door before. It was ajar behind him and led directly to the studio. Something was going on in there, but he was blocking my view. I could hear the hum of conversation and a whirring noise and then silence, followed by a clank. Whatever it was, it didn’t sound like dancing.

  At that moment the security guard, still looking like a fireplug in a suit, pushed the door open wider as he came in behind Hal—and I finally saw what was going on. The whirring was the sound of cards being shuffled, and the clank came from poker chips being anted up. I couldn’t see how many tables there were, but they all seemed full. A row of people lined the wall. Were they all waiting for their turn to play?

  “You have a poker room here?” I said, noticing a snack bar as well.

  “None of your business,” Hal said, snapping the door shut. He looked at the open drawer with the contents on the desk. “I should call the cops and report a robbery in progress.”

  I heard Dinah gasp, and I grabbed her hand, squeezing it in reassurance. The fireplug started explaining our cleaning-crew story until Hal told him to zip it.

  I looked Hal right in his beady eyes and said, “I don’t think you want to call the cops.” I pointed over his shoulder. “Which do you think they would be more interested in—two women with small balls of crochet thread or an illegal card room?”

  Dinah was leaning against the desk, no doubt recovering from the adrenaline rush all this had caused, and I felt her nudge me. When I looked she was giving me a thumbs-up.

  Hal snorted, clearly not happy with the situation. “Okay, suppose we call it even. I let you go and you keep your mouths shut or my friend in the suit, Grant, will pay you a visit.”

  It sounded like a good deal to me.

  Grant put a beefy hand around my arm and Dinah’s. He almost lifted us off the ground as he dragged us down the hall. With a shove we were out the door, and I heard the click of a lock. The cool darkness of the parking lot was a relief. Despite my bravado, I’d been barely breathing; I took a deep swallow of air.

  “Hey, we forgot the pails and mops,” Dinah said, finally regaining her voice. We looked at each other and shook our heads. We weren’t going back. Instead, we walked the distance to Dinah’s house in record time and collapsed on her couch.

  “What was that?” Dinah said.

  “Good question.” I leaned back and tried to sort things out. Pieces began to come together and I sat upright. “What if Mary Beth didn’t mean the building on Catalina, but the word casino. Maybe she found out about Hal’s side operation. I bet Roseanne doesn’t know, or Matt. It’s Hal’s own little cash cow.” I had taken out my little notebook and wrote down casino = card room?

  “And Hal killed her to keep her quiet and his business going,” Dinah said.

  “It’s certainly a motive. Too bad I didn’t ask Hal if he knew what Mary Beth’s favorite candy was.”

  Dinah laughed. “That would have been a tough segue.”

  CHAPTER 23

  I HAD NO CHOICE BUT TO GO AHEAD WITH DANCE night at the bookstore if I wanted to see the crochet piece Matt Wells had. I hoped it was worth the trouble. Mrs. Shedd was in the dark about the plan. Adele still hadn’t told on me. She liked the idea of the dance theme too much.

  As I got ready to leave for the bookstore, the She La Las rushed into my current bedroom to get into their costumes. They even had a professional makeup artist to do their faces. They were running a full dress rehearsal for my son Peter. Even though his area at William Morris was television and he had nothing to do with personal appearances, my mother wanted his input anyway.

  There was a vibe of excitement. My father had rented a small spotlight and arranged some chairs for the miniaudience—the other two husbands were coming, too. Samuel was dressed in a vintage tux and had a keyboard and some electronic device that he’d programmed to sound like a whole band.

  Of course, my mother had ordered in food and pleaded with me to make my California Noodle Pudding. This struck me as a funny turn of events: a mother asking her daughter to make her favorite food. I had complied and it was on the counter in all its buttery noodly richness. Noodle pudding is supposed to be a side dish, but I thought it was great for breakfast or by itself as a meal. With all the eggs, butter and sour cream it was kind of rich, but I liked to think the cottage cheese kind of diluted it. I called my version California Noodle Pudding. Along with the standard ingredients, I added almonds and apricot bits. I don’t know why they called it pudding, anyway. It was nothing like that chocolate or vanilla creamy stuff.

  I had also taken care of the dogs and shut them in the crochet room with my fingers crossed. Dogs didn’t play with yarn, did they? It was either that or take the chance they’d trip up the She La Las during their famous dance number.

  As I was about to go out the kitchen door, the doorbell rang. My father answered and I heard voices. I recognized Peter’s voice and went to say a quick hello. He wasn’t alone.

  Mason smiled and waved, and I did a double take. I’d never seen him dressed in anything other than gorgeous suits or elegant casual wear. Not tonight. He was all bad boy, wearing an old beat-up motorcycle jacket over beat-up jeans. He had on boots with spurs and was carrying a helmet. He pointed outside with a naughty grin.

  A huge motorcycle was parked at the curb.

  I would have loved to stay to see what was going to happen, but I had to go.

  ADELE HAD GOTTEN BACK TO THE BOOKSTORE before me and she’d been busy.

  “What’s all this?” I said as I walked toward the event area.

  “You have no sense of pizzaz,” Adele groaned. “I just gave the place a little dance-party vibe.” Bunches of balloons were tied to bookcases. Bob was setting up a table with punch and cookies for sale. The lights had been turned down, and battery-operated candles surrounded the event area. “Pink, couldn’t you have dressed up
a little?”

  Adele certainly had. I didn’t know where she’d gotten her ideas from, and I didn’t really want to think about it. She had on a long, purple-sequined dress and a purple turban-style hat emblazoned with a sequined A. Her face looked like a porcelain doll’s or a Kabuki mask. Her foundation was thick and almost white, and she had on false eyelashes and bright red lipstick applied to give her a Betty Boop bow-shaped mouth.

  At that moment the diet book author came through, looking around at the setup. “What’s all this?” she asked in a not too pleasant voice.

  “We’ve made it into a dance evening,” Adele said before I could speak.

  “No, no,” Grey Fairchild said, standing by the punch and cookie table. “That doesn’t go with my diet plan.” She was tall and thin as a capital I, and there was a stiffness about her that made me wonder what her dancing ability was like.