“That’s the blanket you made,” I said to CeeCee.
“Dear, you’re right.” CeeCee looked closely at the picture. It was something to see one of our blankets actually providing a little comfort.
Camille stood up. “I am so proud of working with you all. This is so different than just planning charity dinners and having to make sure I don’t wear the same dress twice. This is real. It is direct to a person in need. Thank you.”
Adele rolled her eyes. Maybe Camille was laying it on a little thick, but after all her years of living like a princess the experience of tangibly helping someone in need had to be new to her, and in its own way, probably wonderful.
“Pink, give us an update. Have you found out Mary Beth Wells’s secret or who killed her? You’ve had enough time.”
“Actually, I’d like your opinion,” I said, bringing out the original panel piece.
“More about the mystery,” Camille said in an excited whisper. “I can’t wait to e-mail my kids about this. They think I’m such a joke—that all I do is get dressed up to have lunch with a bunch of women. I want them to know I’m doing something real.” Camille put up her hands. “It used to be you wanted to make your parents proud. Now, you have to impress your kids.”
I remembered the photo Dinah had shown me of Camille in the background the day we found the bag. Okay, she was sitting there and her name sounded sort of like a flower. It seemed like the perfect time to ask her about it.
I pulled out the print Dinah had made and slid it in front of Camille. “Do you want to tell me about this?”
Camille kept her face down as she stared at the photo. Trying to help her along, I pointed out Mary Beth. “I thought you didn’t know her. But it’s obvious you’re looking right at her.”
CeeCee’s eyes grew wide with horror, and she started waving at me from across the table. I knew she was trying to stop me, but I wouldn’t look up. Finally, CeeCee came around the table and snatched the picture away.
“Molly, what are you trying to say? That Camille had anything to do with what happened to Mary Beth Wells. Don’t be ridiculous.”
Camille glanced at the print now in CeeCee’s hand. “So that’s Mary Beth Wells. I only talked to her on the phone.” Camille didn’t seem offended. If anything, she seemed kind of excited that someone thought she was a murder suspect.
I pointed to the panel of the vase of flowers and said that someone had mentioned a woman who was connected with Mary Beth had a name that sounded like a flower. “I think this panel might refer to that woman, but Dinah and I can’t figure out what kind of flowers they are supposed to be. I wanted to see what the rest of you think.”
“Let me look, Pink,” Adele said, taking the piece and studying it intently. A moment later she shrugged and pushed it away. “I don’t know, maybe snapdragons.”
“It can’t be snapdragons. It has to be a flower that also sounds like a name,” I said.
Sheila suggested they looked like sad tulips.
Ali pulled it toward her. “A flower that is also a name. There are lots: Rose, Daisy—Camille sounds almost like a flower,” she said, nodding at Camille.
“I think it looks like an iris,” CeeCee said finally.
“Iris,” Ali repeated with a laugh. “How could I forget to mention Iris? That’s my mother’s name.”
“It is?” I said, forgetting the crochet piece for the moment and giving her all my attention.
“I guess when I introduced her the other night I just said she was my mother.” Ali rolled her eyes. “What was I thinking?”
As I looked at her, an idea began to roll around in my mind. In all my thinking about a baby being involved in the secret, I’d forgotten one thing: The baby wouldn’t be a baby anymore. The baby would be a twenty-something adult. And there was a twenty-something adult before me with a mother whose name matched the flowers in the filet panel. Could it be that part of the puzzle had been right in front of me all the time? I was almost afraid to ask, but finally I swallowed and spoke.
“How old are you?” I said. She looked at me oddly, and I realized my question must have seemed out of place. I quickly said something about her being about my son’s age and wondered if they’d gone to school together. “He’s twenty-three and went to Wilbur Avenue Elementary.”
“Me, too, on both counts,” she said. She thought about it for a minute and asked if his name was Samuel. When I said yes, she made a comment about having a crush on him in second grade.
So she was the same age the baby would be, and her mother’s name was the same as the flowers in the crochet piece. My next question would tip the scale.
“When’s your birthday?” I asked, holding my breath.
“Pink, what’s with all the questions?” Adele interrupted. “We’re here to crochet.” I wanted to tell Adele to put a sock in it. But it was too late; Ali was already gathering up her things.
“Oh no, I’m late for my dentist’s appointment.” She was gone in a flash.
Sheila shook her head. “Doesn’t she see the pattern? She gets here late and has to leave early because she’s late somewhere else.”
“Ladies, Ali will have to work out her own time issues. Meanwhile, we’re wasting ours,” CeeCee said. “Adele, show them your bookmark.” Adele displayed the one she’d just finished. Even though she’d ruined my questioning, I couldn’t help but be impressed. Her work was beautiful. The bookmark was white filet with a checkerboard pattern. She explained how she’d sprayed it with starch and attached it to a piece of cardboard to block it. CeeCee took out a handful of bookmarks she’d made and showed them off. She went on talking about what a hit they’d be at the next library sale. I wasn’t listening. All I could think of was that I had to talk to Ali’s mother.
CHAPTER 25
IRIS STEWART RAN THE CACTUS AND SUCCULENT nursery out of her house. It was on one of the big plots of land north of the 101 Freeway. I’d passed it often, though I had never stopped there before. A sign across the front fence beckoned customers: Exotic Cacti and Succulents Nursery. Check us out.
I parked on the street and walked up the driveway. The whole front yard was devoted to cacti and succulents of different sizes and shapes. Most were in pots or some other transportable container, but quite a few were in the ground as part of the landscape. It was a far cry from the lush lawn of the next-door neighbor.
The house was an old one-story white stucco from the time when Tarzana was out in the sticks. Bougainvillea made a roof over the patio across the front. As I reached the house, the front door opened and a man walked out.
“Hi,” he said in a friendly tone. He introduced himself as Paul Stewart and explained he was just the advance man. His wife would be out shortly. Although I’d never met him before and had nothing to compare with, his appearance made me think he’d been sick—very sick. His hair was lackluster and his complexion too pale, but mostly it was the way his shirt collar seemed too big for his neck.
As he went back inside, I noticed there was some effort in his walk. Iris almost passed him in the doorway. I had barely noticed her when Ali introduced me to her at the bookstore. Not that saying, “This is my mother,” exactly qualified as an introduction.
She was a tall, pretty woman, with shiny brown hair pulled back in a ponytail. She was wearing jeans and a tee shirt with a green plaid flannel shirt on top and had some gardening gloves stuffed in her pocket.
“Are you looking for anything in particular?” she asked in a pleasant voice. When she got closer a flash of recognition crossed her face. “You’re Molly from the bookstore. Ali just loves being in the crochet group.” She laughed. “Though knowing my daughter, she is probably not too punctual.”
We made a little small talk, and I told her how much we all liked Ali. “She’s so much fun, and she’s stretched our ideas about crochet.” I pointed toward the crocheted cactus sitting on the patio table.
“She’s a good kid,” Iris said. “Things have been a little rough around here, and
she moved back home to help me.”
I took a deep breath and prepared to proceed. I had no authority to demand information. My best bet was to try friendly conversation.
“I’m thinking of landscaping part of my yard with succulents. I saw something I like at the home of an acquaintance of mine. She said she got her plants here. I don’t know if you remember her—Mary Beth Wells?” I watched Iris’s face to gauge her reaction to the name. There was a flicker that was quickly replaced by confusion.
“She must have gotten them somewhere else. I don’t recall the name,” Iris said too quickly to be believable.
I persisted. “I’m sure this is where she said she got them. Maybe you don’t remember her. She was tall with golden blond hair.”
But Iris dismissed the comment and gestured toward the front yard. “Why don’t you look around at what I have and maybe you’ll see what you’re looking for.” She followed me as I began to walk through the rows of plants.
A car pulled into the driveway and two teenage girls got out. They waved and headed inside.
“Are those Ali’s sisters?” I asked.
When she said they were, I commented that they were quite a bit younger than Ali.
“And your point is?” Iris replied with the beginning of an edge in her voice.
“No point, just an observation.” I stopped at a pot filled with low-growing fleshy rosettes that had a reddish color. “I think this is it. Mary Beth had one in a pot in her house on Catalina.” Glad that I was wearing sunglasses, I again watched Iris for her reaction. She showed none.
“I hear it’s very nice there.” Iris picked up the pot. “Did you want to get sempervivum?”
Another car drove into the driveway. This time Ali got out. As soon as she saw me, she came to join us. “You came to the right place. My mother’s plants are the best.”
But her willingness to talk left a lot to be desired. So far I’d gotten nothing but the name of the plant I was holding. Sure, it was obvious Iris knew Mary Beth, but as long as she denied it what could I do?
“I forgot to ask you earlier,” I said to Ali, trying another tactic. “We have a thing at the bookstore for people’s birthdays. We send out discount coupons. If you tell me yours, I can add it to my file.”
“That’s so nice,” Ali said. She sounded so genuine I felt bad about deceiving her and decided right then to actually start a birthday-discount program. “My birthday is December 19,” she said. “I’m just barely a Sagittarius.”
Ali’s birthdate was in sync with the diary entry. I decided to push the envelope and ask one more question. “Were you born here in Tarzana?”
“Actually, I was born on Catalina.”
Iris appeared more uncomfortable but said nothing. Ali spoke for her. “Ali is just my nickname. It’s short for Catalina. Get it—Cat-ali-na?”
“I’m sure you’re in a hurry,” Iris said, taking the pot and heading for the patio. “Let me just write this up.” She looked for me to follow her, but Ali intervened.
“While you write it up, I want to show Molly the afghan I’m making.”
Before Iris could stop her, Ali had taken me inside. It was dark after the bright sun of the front yard. Paul was sitting in a recliner watching television. Ali led me to a small bedroom that looked out on the backyard. While I was trying to think of something brilliant to ask her, Ali brought out her work. It was beautiful. She’d made multiple creamy off-white squares, each with the pattern of an angel in the center. She was in the process of joining all the squares.
“It’s for my mom and the most traditional thing I’ve ever made,” Ali said, holding some of the squares together so I could see how the completed project would look.
“You have to bring that to show the group,” I said.
As we were walking back through the living room, I noticed a glass-fronted frame hanging on the wall. When I stepped closer, I smiled and took it down. Ali gave me an odd look as we went outside.
I stepped up to Iris and held out the frame. “I know you know Mary Beth, and no doubt quite well since she made this for you.” Confused, Ali turned to Iris, who reached out and angrily grabbed the frame from me, muttering something about how she’d forgotten all about it. Behind the glass was a filet picture of a cactus in a pot with a tiny MB embedded in the bottom of the cactus. The wishing well in the panel piece was signed the very same way, I was sure it was Mary Beth’s artistic signature.
“I think you better take your succulent shopping somewhere else,” Iris said, giving me a shove as she held my arm and walked me to the gate.
CHAPTER 26
“SHE THREW YOU OUT?” MASON SAID. FOR SOME reason he found that amusing, then he apologized. “I know this is serious, but I can’t imagine you pushing the Stewart woman so far she’d toss you out.”
“Believe me, I did and she did. I caught her in a lie and I showed her.”
Mason and I were on the way to a dinner for the Entertainment Fund for Kids Kamp USA. I’d called him shortly after my run-in with Iris and asked him if he could get some background information on Iris Stewart and anything more on Matt Wells. He’d dangled getting it in exchange for my going to the dinner with him.
“If you come it’ll be fun instead of a duty,” he’d said. How could I turn down a compliment like that? Besides, I really wanted the information. After a brief stop at home to change, I drove to Mason’s and waited while he fed Spike and took him for a walk. Then we drove into the city in his car. I hadn’t been over the hill for awhile.
In the old days, it was a long trip because of the poor roads. Now it was a long trip because of the traffic.
“You can tell me now,” I said, referring to the information I’d asked for.
“Patience, patience,” Mason said, steering his car through a twisty canyon.
“What? Are you afraid if you tell me now, I’ll jump out of the car?” I asked, laughing.
“It would be a long walk home,” Mason teased. “Does this make me your assistant?” Mason chuckled. “I haven’t had so much fun in a long time. First, I get to be a bad boy and antagonize my girlfriend’s mother, and then I get to be her secret information source.”
Girlfriend? I swallowed. Then I just let it go. Why make an issue out of a word I wasn’t sure applied. I was having fun, too.
“I think I might just have to wait until the way home to share what I found out. Or even better, save it for drinks at my place.” Mason was joking, but he was also seriously trying to lure me into his house.
“The ride home is as far as I’m going to go,” I said. My voice was light, but there was just a touch of seriousness and he knew what I meant: Not yet.
We pulled into the driveway of the Beverly Hilton, and a valet whisked the car away.
Mason took my arm and led me down the walkway to the main ballroom. As we entered, we passed through the area set aside for the silent auction tables.
The ballroom was filled with well-dressed people mingling over cocktails. Among the crowd I noticed several familiar faces, people I hadn’t seen since Charlie’s funeral. I met the gaze of one man and started to smile, but he quickly looked away. I’d lost my status when Charlie died—but apparently not permanently. I almost laughed when the same person looked back and saw who I was with. He and his wife came over and gushed about how nice it was to see me again. Ah, the awkwardness of being a widow.
Mason grabbed my hand. “Let’s get a drink.”
We changed direction and squeezed around a clump of people. I felt someone touch my arm.
“Welcome to my world,” Camille said. “Hunnie, look who’s here.” She nudged her husband and he turned toward me.
“It’s the bookstore lady,” he said with barely a glance. But when he saw who I was with, his demeanor changed. Clearly, being with Mason made me somebody who mattered, at least to these people.
Mason picked up on what was happening. “Don’t take it personally,” Nodding toward Hunter and Camille, who were standing by their
table greeting all who approached, he said, “Let me give you a refresher course in the politics of power.” He pointed out a couple and explained the guy was a William Morris agent like my son. He and his girlfriend were moving around. They’d stop, say a few words and move on. They were working the room. Then Mason pointed to Camille and Hunter. Sure enough, they stayed put and a continuing line of people came up to them.
“There’s lots of congratulating,” Mason said. “It’s been a long haul for him, but Hunter finally got the brass ring. Next week, he’s officially being made president of Rhead Productions. Everybody wants to be on his good side.”
Statuswise, Mason seemed to be somewhere in the middle. Some people approached him, and some people he approached. After we got our drinks, he continued socializing while I went to check out the silent auction. It was the usual things: a walk-on part on a sitcom, signed scripts of popular shows and a lot of spa days and golf vacations. One item surprised me: a small crocheted scarf donated by Camille. The uneven stitches and wavy edges showed it was very much a beginner’s first project. And yet the list of bidders had already filled the page. Yes, there was plenty of power politics going on.
By Hook or by Crook Page 21