A Stitch in Crime

by Betty Hechtman

  No problem getting Adele to talk to me now. She didn’t resist when I led her to the corner of the room. The rest of the group went back to their seats, and Sheila took a few deep breaths and resumed helping them.

  I quickly told Adele what I’d overheard and mentioned seeing the woman at the doorway. When Adele rolled her eyes in disbelief, I called Sheila over to back up my story.

  “Now you’re pulling Sheila into your investigations?” Adele said, giving us both a hopeless look. “You overheard who?” As I began the second telling of the story, even though I’d been there and heard what Spenser’s companion had said, it sounded ridiculous. Why would anybody want to shoot Adele unless it was the fashion police? As I tried to explain who everyone was and what I thought they might have done, it got too convoluted and I gave up. “Never mind,” I said walking away. “You’re on your own.”

  There’s nothing like a little yelling with a few screams thrown in to attract a crowd. As I exited, I walked into a bunch of people who were straining to look in the doorway. Dinah pushed her way through the onlookers with her aquamarine scarf flying in the breeze. The woman with the turquoise earrings rushed past her and stopped next to me.

  “Was that part of the mystery weekend?” She glanced around. “Is there another body somewhere we’re supposed to find?”

  How many ways could I tell that woman there was no mystery game? I repeated that the weekend activities didn’t include a mystery game. She was one of Dinah’s writers, and my friend urged her to rejoin the others.

  I waved to the onlookers and said everything was fine and they should go back to their workshops. Dinah glanced toward her people clustered on the path and stepped closer to me.

  “We were on our way to the deck by the social hall for another outdoor writing exercise. What happened?” She turned away and called out to her writers to go on ahead and to pick out a tree and describe it. “Okay, tell me everything, and don’t leave out any details.”

  I started with what I’d found out about Izabelle.

  “So, Izabelle was a twin,” Dinah said, her eyes sparkling with interest. “A twin who didn’t like being a twin. No doubt that was why she made herself over. That would end her being a mirror image of someone. Izabelle probably isn’t her real name, either.”

  I moved on to what I’d overheard, along with possibly saving Adele’s life.

  “Hmm, so Mr. Futterman’s charm was as fake as mine,” she said. “If he thinks he’s going to keep me around to pump more information from—” She stopped. “All I talked about was Adele stepping into Izabelle’s shoes.” Dinah stopped and seemed worried. “I hope it isn’t something I said that made them want to shoot Adele.”

  “What did you tell him?” I asked.

  “Maybe I did say something about Adele thinking Izabelle had stolen her work.”

  I shrugged it off. “It doesn’t matter. Adele wouldn’t listen to me when I tried to warn her.”

  “What about calling Sergeant French and telling him about the threat?”

  “I couldn’t even explain it to Adele without realizing how ridiculous it sounds. So, no, I’m not going to call Sergeant French. He already thinks I’m nuts.”

  Dinah squeezed my hand in support and then went on to catch up with her writers. By then the onlookers had realized there was nothing to see and the path was deserted. The air was silvery with the morning haze and the light was flat. I didn’t even have my shadow as company as I walked down the path away from the low building housing the crochet and knitting meeting rooms.

  I clutched the rhinestone clipboard to my chest and hung my head. That last little fiasco wasn’t helping my image as the person in charge. I thought coming up with the emergency drill excuse was pretty creative, though, and people seemed to buy it. At least the workshops all seemed to be a success. I sighed. But time was running out to figure out who killed Izabelle. There was just lunch, the afternoon sessions, and the last night party. After breakfast the next morning everyone would start to scatter, and Sergeant French would probably give up and say an unknown person may have been on the beach with Izabelle.

  I walked up the hill to the Lodge building. Even the smell of pine trees and the air fresh off the ocean didn’t cheer me up. Somebody was going to get away with murder if I didn’t get going.

  The housekeepers had finished their duties and were rolling their cart down the first-floor hall as I came in. The building was quiet as I walked up the stairs and down the hall toward my room. When I got inside, I sat down on the bed and checked my cell phone, which was now fully charged. I’d been in a hurry when I dropped it off and hadn’t checked my voice mail, but now I had time. Three calls from Barry, starting late last night and ending early this morning. He’d sounded more and more upset with each message. I punched in his number and held my breath.

  “Greenberg,” he answered in his all-business voice. As soon as he heard it was me, his voice softened only as long as it took to say my name, then it went right to agitated.

  “Where were you?” he demanded. “Or should I say who were you with?”

  “I was snug in my bed alone,” I said, rolling my eyes. “My phone’s battery ran down and I didn’t realize it until this morning.”

  There was silence on his end and I knew he was evaluating what I’d said. One of the drawbacks of being involved with a cop is that he’s used to dealing with people who don’t always tell the truth. By now I knew what he was waiting for. Would I gush forth with too many details? Like saying I’d had my phone where I couldn’t see it and therefore had missed its flashing screen before it shut down, and talking about what time I went to bed and what time I’d gotten up and how quiet the room was, since I was all alone? Too many details spelled cover-up to him.

  Two could play that game, so I just said nothing until he finally spoke, apparently accepting my excuse as being true.

  “Babe, I just want you to know I had nothing to do with your new residents.”

  “Whoa,” I said, “what are you talking about?”

  “The two cats.”

  I asked the obvious question. “What two cats?”

  The story unfolded that when Barry had stopped by the first time to let the dogs out and make sure everything was okay, there had been two cats sleeping on a lounge chair in the backyard. But when he’d come by late last night, the cats had been inside and there were some cat bowls, cat food, a cat box and even some cat toys on the floor in my crochet room, which, according to Barry, seemed to have become cat central. And as far as he could tell, all my yarn was okay, but then who could tell, since it always seemed to be all over the place?

  “Cats? What kind of cats?” I said as visions of a yarn nightmare danced through my mind.

  “They look like the regular kind to me. One of them is black and white and the other is kind of gray. I’m guessing they have something to do with the stuff accumulating in your front hall. Did I mention there were some chairs along with the cartons?”

  “You mentioned cat bowls and cat food separately. Is there some cat food in the cat bowls and some water? You said a cat box, too, right?”

  “Don’t worry. Everybody seems to have lots of whatever they need.”

  “I’ll have to deal with everything when I get back.” A little weariness crept into my voice and Barry picked up on it immediately.

  “Not much fun without me, is it?” he said in a teasing voice.

  “No,” I said, and meant it.

  Barry laughed. “So Mason isn’t keeping you amused?” He sounded all too happy when I mentioned Mason was gone for the day to his family event. I didn’t say anything about Izabelle’s death or my investigation. I should have figured that was the same as giving too many details when you were trying to cover up a lie. It was like a red flag to Barry.

  “Okay, Molly, let’s put all the cards on the table,” Barry said at last. “What’s going on with your crochet instructor’s death?”

  I tried to say nothing, but Barry used his who
le arsenal of investigating tricks, from “You’ll feel better if you tell me the whole story” to saying that maybe he could help straighten things out.

  The funny thing was, it did feel good to tell him the whole story, at first, anyway. He listened patiently as I gave him all the details. Almost all the details. I left out tackling Adele.

  “Now what in that makes you so sure someone killed the woman?” he asked in an understanding voice, which surprised me. When I’d gotten involved in investigating other murders, he’d been far more disturbed and irrational. Maybe because those were in his jurisdiction, or maybe because he was trying a new tactic to deal with me—being reasonable.

  “Molly, it sounds like Sergeant French and his people have it covered.” He still sounded calm. “You were so worried about being in charge this weekend. Wouldn’t it be better if you spent your time on the retreat and trust the cop to do his job?”

  Not a chance.

  CHAPTER 21

  I WAS DETERMINED TO JUGGLE HANDLING THE RETREAT and checking out my list of suspects. After all the fuss to get her more of Izabelle’s supplies for the workshops, Adele had complained there was too much clutter and insisted I take back one carton. I opened the door to Izabelle’s room and took it inside. A copy of A Subtle Touch of Crochet fell out of the box. When I picked it up, I thumbed through it and stopped when I got to the doll picture. I saw what those women meant—the face didn’t look like any doll I’d ever seen. Before I could really study the picture, I heard some fumbling at the door. I had every right to be in there since Zak Landers had given me the okay, but still instinct kicked in and I slipped into the closet, leaving the door open a crack.

  It took a few more moments of fumbling and then I heard the door open, followed by nervous whispers.

  “We have to hurry. My boss will have a fit if we get caught.” I recognized Spenser’s female companion as she slipped in. He held up some kind of device and said something about being surprised that it really worked.

  “If all else fails, I might have a future as a burglar,” he said with a grin. She glared at him in response.

  “It’s in there,” he said, pointing at the closet. I just had time to move behind the clothes before the closet door swung open. Spenser leaned in and began moving things along the clothes rod. I flattened myself against the back wall as he took a hanger containing a jacket.

  “Hold it up,” she ordered, and he complied. The dark space was filled with flashes of light. Between seeing spots from the brightness, I caught a glimpse of her single-lens reflex camera. If I hadn’t been hiding, I would have hit my forehead with my hand. So that was the kind of shooting they had in mind for Adele!

  “Got it,” she said, and headed for the door as he rehung the jacket.

  “It’s a lot easier exiting by the door than by the window,” Spenser said, following her out.

  I waited a few moments and then stepped out into the room. All was quiet. The jacket was in the middle of the clothes rod, and I took it into the light to see what the fuss was about. The body was cream-colored denim and the sleeves were crocheted in coral yarn. Another strip of coral crochet ran down the front and around the neckline. I checked the inside for a label and found one of the kind I’d seen advertised in craft magazines. It said “An Izabelle Landers Original Design.” The style reminded me of a baseball jacket.

  After Spenser’s comment, I opened the window and stuck my head out. In the daylight his means of escape the other night was obvious. The balcony almost touched the back stairs.

  When we met after the morning sessions ended, Dinah got a good laugh about the real meaning of shoot and was curious about the jacket.

  “I could go undercover again and see what I could find out about it,” Dinah offered, but I told her to put it on hold for now. I also told her how glad I was I hadn’t decided to call Sergeant French about the threat against Adele. Talk about embarrassing! We had stopped by the entrance to the dining hall. Dinah seemed supercharged with energy.

  “I know this weekend has been tough for you, but my students are a teacher’s dream. How am I ever going to go back to my restless freshmen at Beasley Community College?” She went on some more about not having to waste time arguing about what was or wasn’t acceptable to wear in class and being respectful of others. I didn’t mean to, but I kind of tuned out as she went back to raving about her group, and I didn’t come back into focus until she said she’d been thinking about what I’d said about Izabelle being a twin.

  “Remember that first e-mail we saw from Tom? He was reacting to something she had said she was going to do. It probably had something to do with her twin. I was thinking,” Dinah said, glancing into the interior of the large dining hall, “what if her twin was here, and whatever she planned to do, she planned to do this weekend?”

  I told her I’d been thinking along the same lines, and we began surveying the people coming out of the food line, picking out those from our group and checking them for resemblance to Izabelle. But after a moment I rocked my head in a hopeless gesture. “How can we tell? It’s pretty obvious that after all that work Izabelle had done, they’re no longer identical.”

  “Look for height and build,” Dinah said, studying Jeen. She fit the bill, but so did a lot of others—Miss Lavender Pants, the woman in the safari jacket, even the one who kept thinking it was a mystery weekend. I was about to give up when I noticed a head of long, prematurely gray hair come into view.

  “I have an idea,” I said, but when I turned to Dinah, her students were beckoning her to their table. Her whole demeanor brightened as she went to join them. I was on my own.

  “Excuse me,” I said to the gray-haired woman. She looked up from her plate of macaroni and cheese and smiled. I asked her how she was enjoying the crochet workshop to break the ice, and then worked back to where I wanted to go.

  “You mentioned something about the doll model in Izabelle Landers’ book.” She brightened with recognition almost immediately.

  “It was quite something, wasn’t it?” she said. “Personally, I find those dolls a little too wax museum for my taste, but to each their own.”

  “So you think the doll was made to resemble a real person?” I said, and she nodded.

  “Just a guess, but since it was in her book, probably the author as a child. Personally, I’ll take a Madame Alexander doll any day over one of those.”

  I thanked her and said I hoped she enjoyed her lunch. While I mentally went over what she had just said, I had a sudden desire to get another look at that doll. I slipped out of the dining hall, greeting people as they came in.

  Outside, the sky was white. Even though it was midday, the light looked the same as it had in the early morning. I walked up the main path toward the meeting room that housed the crochet group. Since they were gathering again in the afternoon, Adele would have left everything as is. And the door was unlocked as well.

  The table was littered with yarn and hooks. Izabelle’s sample flowers and lacy trims were in the center of the table along with several copies of the book. I felt a surge of excitement as I fluttered through the pages, looking for the doll model.

  I looked at it through new eyes now. Was this how Izabelle had looked as a child?

  “I’m glad to catch up with you,” Bennett said, coming through the open door. “The actors need a few props, and I wondered if you could snag them.” When he described what they needed, they sounded like the kinds of things Commander Blaine had brought, and I suggested asking him. It was the first time I’d really had a chance to talk to Bennett alone. I apologized for the bumps that had started off the retreat.

  “It was too bad about the Landers woman, but hardly your fault, any more than the fog.” He smiled and I got a dose of his charisma. Like Dinah, he was enthusiastic about his group. “Even in this short time, it’s been fun watching them come out of their shells. I guess there’s a ham hiding in all of us,” he said. He thanked me, and with a wave said his group was saving him a seat in the d
ining hall.

  I glanced at the book in my hands and hoped my idea would work.

  Adele was in full crochet diva mode when I came back to the dining hall. She held up a purple pouch purse she’d just completed and was showing off the chartreuse flowers she was going to add. The women and one man around her all oohed and aahed. Adele didn’t seem happy when I interrupted.

  “Adele, I have to use your car,” I said softly. She instantly made a negative face and shook her head. “It’s important,” I persisted. She still didn’t budge. “Okay, how about this—it might permanently get Sergeant French off your back.”

  That got through to Adele. At first she’d seemed to like the attention she got from being a person of interest or, as she called it, an important witness, but after the third time Sergeant French had tried to get her to admit that she’d been on the beach with Izabelle, she had complained to me and wanted to know if I was the one who told him she’d been bragging about what a great campfire maker she was.

  “I’ll have to see your license,” she said finally. “And what kind of driving record do you have? Any accidents?” Even though I assured her I’d had no bad accidents and yes, I would show her my license, she kept on, telling me I needed to be aware of her car’s little idiosyncrasies. There was something about how you had to turn the key to lock the door, and not slamming on the brakes or revving the engine. It was too much to absorb, but I was sure I’d do fine. What did she think, that I was some kind of teenage hot-rodder?

  “Where are you going?” she demanded. “And how long will you be gone?” I mentioned the Del Monte Mall, and she threw me an exasperated groan. “Shopping, Pink?”

  “Not shopping,” I protested. “I have to take care of something that has to do with Izabelle Landers. Are you going to let me use your car or not?”

  Adele finally handed me the keys. “But I’m in charge while you’re gone, right?”